#Slow Jam Myriad

[ervona]

Day 6: In Bloom / Blood for @tes-summer-fest

Somewhere in the mists of hopefully still Molag Amur, a boy had lost control of his guar. It was his fault, having ridden too far away from the lake, but he’d been meaning to turn around when it had knocked him off with never-before-seen force and started running away. He followed it still within sight, somewhat slowed down by his armor, but he would have to get used to it if he were ever to become a knight. At this point his absence was sure to be noticed, and Ser—

What was that? His guar let out a frightening cry. Alas, he wasn’t the first to reach it, though he had run so close and out of breath. There was an unfamiliar robed figure, a swipe of too-sharp claws, a sickly light, stains in the ash. He reached for his sword, heavy and slipping with sweat, when the sunken face came into sight and he screamed.

Help wouldn’t come, for he had ridden too far away. He could only pray to the ancestors now. His shaking legs tripped him up as he tried to run, the armor pinned him down beneath the looming wormlike snout and bloodied claws. Uncertain was which one of them was shrieking louder. Another flash of light caught his eye before he slipped on a rock and out of consciousness. 

When he came to, he was struck by the scent of flowers and a throbbing in his head. Was he taken to the Moonshadow? No, merely his bed, with a vase of fresh willow anther and stoneflowers for good health and peaceful sleep, he remembered from his lessons in a bid to pull himself into the waking world. He was back home, alive, though he could hardly move.

Ama who was sat at his bedside stirred before him, as he was tucked in too-warm blankets up to his neck and only managed a few blinks. She shouted at a servant to bring something and pulled closer, her long braid dragging itself like a snake, her face paler than usual.

“Mavus! Oh, finally. Are you hungry, dearest?” There’d been a bump on his head where she kissed him gently, and when he raised himself up on his elbows to sit upright, he could see peeking from under his nightshirt dark bruises in bloom. 

“Aha-gh,” he coughed, and Ama handed him a cup from the nightstand. The cold splash of water was needed but unpleasant, through half-shut eyes he could see a large tray with food coming in.

“You’d think I asked for it tomorrow,” her voice took on a chilling tone when she grabbed it, placing it on her lap in view of Mavus. “Now get out, I’ll ring the bell if I need anything.”

The servant closed the door hurriedly, making him flinch from the noise. Ama took a bowl of steaming crab stew and pointed the spoon towards him as if he were a little scrib. 

“Sup it slowly, I don’t want you to feel ill.”

It hurt to swallow it even slowly, his throat torn by crying out for help. Still unsure what had transpired, he only wished to feel relief for being alive. He must’ve been staring at Ama, for she craned her neck as if expecting a question, brow pinched in worry.

“What happened to me? I was…” Reaching into his last memory got a sob out of him, nearly stew all over him. The gruesome display, the creature that had savaged his guar so and almost him as well, was hiding in the shapeless mash of the bowl.

“Brought in down from Nabia by boat. We had the Temple healer treat you there and then, but you were more terrified than hurt. Thank the Three.” Ama offered him a comberry jam tartlet from the tray, to which he shook his head. “Ser Dren told me everything already, you don’t have to retell it, unless that would help you.”

What if he’d told her that Mavus was a terrible squire who’d wandered off and almost got himself killed? His voice escaped him, and he wanted to tell Ama so badly that he hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t been thinking, but his mouth was as dry as those ashen wastes he was crossing ever still in his mind, repeating and haunted by a myriad of misshapen monsters.

“The guar—” was all he could muster before gurgling hot tears, his face burning. 

“We’ll buy you a new one. A better one!”

“No, no, I saw it…”

Ama nodded knowingly, diverting the subject. “They went to scour the area, you know. Whatever was out there is nothing to fear anymore.”

“Can you read me a story?” he asked, muffled in her wide sleeve. All he wanted was for it to go away, but loomed over him, ravenous soul-sickness. Ama was eager to do so, laid down beside him and took a book from the other nightstand, The Song of the Alchemists, and her sing-songy voice rocked him to sleep once again, but kept the terrors away if only for now.

In the wee hours–and he knew so for it was all quiet but the nightly bugs outside–Mavus arose slowly, gripping the frame of his bed in case his legs gave out again. Ama was no doubt up in her room, finally able to sleep herself, and he didn’t know if Ser Dren had visited again. He’d dreamed of the day, and in his dream a warm light pulled him ever closer. Ama, he’d thought, but it must have been Cardama who had protected him in that waking nightmare.

He knew the way to give tribute to the ancestors–sort of–but Ama didn’t like him handling the hearth on his own, even though he wouldn’t be hurt. He threw one of the blankets over himself like a cloak and gathered what he could from his surroundings. Cold jam tartlets that sat out the night, and a handful of flowers from his bedside that filled the room with sweetness.

Descending in silence to where the family shrine encircled a still-living hearth, he paused to look around the hall. Darkest darkness was calling him, and within it lurked terrible things. His only way away was the fire, weak but welcoming and enveloping him with the strength he needed to cross the threshold. Laying down what he’d carried in his makeshift cloak, he took a deep breath. First he offered a tartlet that burned slowly, then a stoneflower, and his heart’s wish.

The fire roared scarlet, and he wasn’t afraid one bit. “Cardama, is that you?” he whispered, face so close to the embers that he could swim in them. To his astonishment, she answered.

“Indeed it is, scrib,” the fire crackled, “but do not accustom yourself to calling upon me as you did now. It is my duty to watch over you, and from that us spirits are weary enough.”

“I won’t keep you for long. Just wanted to thank you and give something in return.”

“Something in return? Then listen well, for all I ask—protect the helpless, as I have you.”

“I’m going to be a knight, so I’ll help everyone in need,” he hesitated for a moment, with his embarrassment in mind. Would a true knight just give up and flee from a monster as he had?

The embers huffed. “Do you think of who brought your cakes, who harvested the comberry and wickwheat, who planted the seeds, when you offer them to me? As a knight, would you lift your sword to strike at the bracers that hold them prisoner and spirit them away from this place?”

“They’re not prisoners, they work for Ama. I… think she wouldn’t be happy with that.”

With his words, the fire sputtered and went silent. Had he displeased his ancestor? He felt a chill on the back of his neck, as if a dreadful curse crept upon him, but he didn’t understand.

“Hear me now, not because you are of my blood, but if it flows from out of a good heart,” she finally whispered back to him, not through the fire, through the very air itself. “Do not fear to wander, if your cause is just. Perhaps you could do right by what I gave my life for.”

“I don’t understand, Cardama. You want me to die?”

The air around him laughed, somehow, and ash blew into his face just right to remind him of his lowest moment. He could not cry in the presence of his guardian, but wasn’t that always?

“Live, wander and wonder, and think upon my words, Mavus-la. Three blessings to you.” 

In the silent hours before dawn when he liked to go out on the balcony to look at the fields in spring, he curled his legs up to his chest next to the still lightly crackling hearth. There was still time to make it spotless. He took a bite from one of the leftover tartlets, strangely warm but more bitter than usual. 

[youronlybean]

Trick or treat! >:)

My favourite scene from chapter 2 of Home Sweet Safehouse :D

One relatively quiet afternoon, Ze was disturbed from his project brainstorming by music blaring loudly.

He wandered into the kitchen, where the sound of upbeat pop music was coming from. Ze thought the music was a little outdated, but Chilled seemed to be really feeling it. He was shaking his butt back and forth like that meme of the turtle under the faucet. His arms were doing some sort of wild circular motion whilst attempting to butter a slice of toast. It was… interesting, to say the least.

Ze cleared his throat. “Whatcha got there, Chilled?”

Chilled whipped around and pointed the butter-covered knife at him. The butter slowly slid off and hit the floor.

“Crappy speaker, iPod, and a need to move,” Chilled answered, placing the knife back down on the countertop. He grabbed a piece of kitchen paper from beside the sink and picked up the fallen butter, all while funkily shaking his limbs.

“Pfft,” Ze couldn’t repress a snort, watching as Chilled attempted to place the butter back in the fridge as he flailed around.

“Look, I know I’m not a great dancer, but sometimes you gotta feel the beat, man.” He took out a jar of jam that Ze didn’t know they had. As he began to spread the jam, the song playing ended switched to a rock song - Ze thought it might have been KISS or something, but he wasn’t sure.

“No, you’re doing great,” he snickered. A blob of jam went flying and Chilled spat out a curse as it landed on a cabinet.

“Try it, it’s therapeutic,” he suggested, once again moving to clean up his mess. He danced over and back and Ze struggled to repress his giggles.

“What you’re doing looks like torture,” he shook his head, snickering as Chilled executed a strange manoeuvre that ended with one of his arms bent uncomfortably behind his head and knocked his hat to the floor.

“Well I’m having fun, so there,” Chilled declared proudly. He re-donned his hat and continued on his quest for a jam sandwich as he jammed to the music.

Ze moved over to the coffee maker, fetching a mug from the cupboard. He turned the machine on and began to tap his fingers on the countertop as it churned out his drink, not unnoticed by Chilled, who was still grooving all around the kitchen.

“C’mon, Mr. Viking! You know you want to move it move it!” Chilled beckoned him forwards, and Ze shook his head as the last drops of coffee fell into the mug.

“I’m good,” he decided, taking a sip of hot coffee before deciding that he really ought to let it cool for a bit.

“Take my hand, I shall take thee away,” Chilled offered out his right hand.

“How romantic,” Ze noted, giving him a teasing sort of look.

“That’s- It’s not-” Chilled’s face, red as a tomato, shifted through a myriad of expressions - embarrassment, panic, and finally landing on determination, grabbing Ze’s hand and pulling him away from the coffee maker. “Y’know what? I’m the king of romance!”

Chilled, for a man almost twice Ze’s size, scurried with surprising speed over to where his phone and the speaker were. As Chilled fiddled around with the buttons, a slow song began to play, and Chilled headed back to Ze.

“Dance now, or else!” he declared, once again offering his hand. Ze found himself internally squirming, and wondering if it would be more awkward and embarrassing to accept or to decline.

Ignoring what felt like a pit of hot magma in his stomach, Ze took the hand on offer and was pulled closer. Chilled’s left hand found its way to Ze’s shoulder, and Ze’s right hand moved down to Chilled’s waist. Fortunately, they weren’t too close, so Ze managed to maintain coherent thought and attempted to follow Chilled’s footwork.

Or what was technically footwork, despite the terrible inaccuracies and wobbly stumbling.

For the first few minutes they drifted more-or-less smoothly across the kitchen, occasionally treading on each other’s toes and going one way when they should have been going the other. The dancing turned into more of a combat after a while, and Ze felt a strong sense of determination to win.

He knocked Chilled’s knee with his. Chilled aimed a small kick at his ankle. Ze steered them into the table. Chilled took long strides that Ze could barely follow. Ze attempted to trip him up and finally, Chilled dragged him down as well, all the way to the floor.

Ze muttered a curse as they hit the tile, making sure he didn’t land on Chilled despite the spontaneity of the fall. This resulted in him smacking a table leg with his forearm, which he was sure would bruise sooner or later.

Chilled let out a snicker, which soon evolved into hearty belly-laughs. As Ze sat up he watched Chilled wipe tears of laughter from his face and adjust his glasses. They locked eyes and Chilled barked out a laugh at the sight of Ze’s (still a bit startled) face.

“Oh, thank you,” he sighed eventually, face red from giggles and eyes wet with tears. “Thank you, Ze. That was the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

“That was- You had fun?” Ze blinked confusedly, wondering how Chilled had deemed such a disaster to be fun at all. “I mean, I'm glad… even if we fell.”

“Are you kidding? That was the best part! It was like something out of a movie!” Chilled’s arms flew up into the sky (happy muppet pose - Ze internally chuckled). He looked genuinely thrilled by the outcome and was still beaming like nothing could possibly be wrong in the world, cheeks still a rosy pink.

Now, Ze didn’t know a whole lot about Chilled to begin with, but one of the things he had learned through living with the guy for a bit was that Chilled loved movies. It felt almost like an honour, to be referred to as similar to something Chilled held quite dear to his heart.

Which sounded sickeningly sweet, and suddenly Ze felt like throwing up.

[the-sycophant]

The Glaring Guest

The sliver of an open window was the only reprieve from a myriad of conflicting scents that clouded the entirety of the office. It was nearly suffocating, her head thrumming nice and slow to the pace set by her heart. It was a familiar array, disgustingly so, but the interesting view outside stifled that which was tearing through what meager patience she had.

Coffee, earthy and dark, accompanied the biscuits that were decorated gingerly with bright red fruits and colourful sugars. Cheeses of various acridity and region, crusty breads with herbed butters and sweet jams. Meat. Meat as greasy as the fingers that picked at the plates and just as thick as them too. Those fingers also held a pungent cigar, pinched between raw, bruised knuckles as the owner ashed it amidst the sampling of delicacies.

"The forests along the mountainside have been untouched for decades. Heretics still linger, as they do. Vermin, the lot of them. Even after our many attempts to quash their brood entirely...gods knows our men are spread thin these days. Who knows what sort of void nonsense could still be lurking—"

Mr. Barbinoux had been dealing with someone for weeks  — some investor or entrepreneur or other — attempting to entice them with a business proposal and that some sort of occultist treasure horde lay deep within the mountainside. This bit she had heard several times over, but she let him speak even as her attention waned.

How gracious of her.

"Marlowe, my dear? What say you to that?"

A huff, delicate manicured fingers twisting at the satin ribbon tied at her breast as her neck craned away from the study of the unfamiliar airship with its unfamiliar workers. "What? Like some common mercenary?" It held little bite, iced blue eyes now too focused on the glistening river of oil and crumbs running down the highlander's chin and throat. Staining his collar, his skin. "And for some...filthy apostate, no less." 

She nudged herself off the frame, feet silent on the warm fur of the hide rug as she swayed toward him, playful. "You've sent so many men into those woods," a sweet coo as she sat herself on one tree-trunk sized thigh, pressing the corner of the unused silk napkin to the corner of his too used mouth. "And I know I have a weakness for the needy, a mighty weakness," Marlowe's attention turned to his clothes, tapping a finger against one leather shank button of the man's vest, making circles as it strained desperately against the wool, "but are my skills not inadequate for how pathetic it all seems? Surely whatever it is your new friend is searching for needs a true professional?" She gave the stubbly line of his jaw a soft little kiss, an equally soft little tongue flicking out against his skin, "Sukhtau, perhaps?" Particularly indulgent with his flesh, that tongue moved down his throat, languidly lapping at the mess he made for himself.

"Qestir?" A snort. "Now now, Marlowe my dear," Mr. Barbinoux mumbled between the wet smacking of his lips, suckling noisily at the rings on his fingers to catch any remnants of flavour left from his meal. His chin tilted up as one thick arm came 'round her waist, only tugging her back when he felt teeth. "My sweet flower, you know I wish to please the family, help unburden you with that nasty debt of yours," and as he continued on as she listened her very best, she did, trying not to get too distracted with his attention as he kneaded into her side. Soiling her dress while he was at it too, the pretty thing that it was - ivory cotton full of layered lace trim and light as a feather, scandalous in how fine the threading was, only just hiding her barely there figure.

Fucking prick. She liked this dress.

She adjusted his necktie needlessly as he explained how much good the venture would do, how simple it would be to complete, how much it would please him and that she would get a new bauble. Those grimy fingers ruffled amidst the fabric, trying to find purchase on skin, callouses catching against ribboned stockings and the strap of a garter. It was ignored, his explanation and insistent groping, and she remained unhelpful to his advances and attempts in cajoling her.

Marlowe turned away from his touch to her cheek, denying them both. "Take me to Ishgard, then." A simple counter offer she knew he would easily accept, more so that she knew he had a trip on the books some weeks ahead. It mattered little to him as to why she wanted to go, she was sure. He only cared in that she did what he wanted in the end. She was the same.

"Excellent! Excellent. They will be most pleased, I can assure you. Now then, what is it our new friends desire?"

Content with sitting on his lap and feeding him in-between his chatter, she popped a piece of fruit into his mouth. He let her. "Gold."

"Surely not?"

A hum of approval, deep and delighted, nearly a purr. "Of course not, you smart man. No, they wished very much for someone to believe it was gold, so strongly in fact that their wants to be believed overshadowed everything else. I would not at all be surprised if one felt me fishing around inside their heads," she nearly sang in melodic amusement, intrigued with the idea despite the threat of it. "I find it very odd the amount of people coming in here wanting the exact same thing, don't you?" 

But it was her turn to be ignored now, instead for favour of additional treats. Was she not good enough? Did she not dote on him as he wished? The docile part she played faltered, the concernment of his disregard stacking upon her foul mood from being awake so far into the day. Her pretty face twisted into something less so, the speed in which she gripped those nails into his chin making him sputter various bits of food at her cheek. He gave a hiss of displeasure when she squeezed. "Don't you?" She hissed back through teeth clickity click clicking together in a brief animalistic chitter.  "Someone knows something." Marlowe insisted nastily as she picked out a biscuit with her free hand before offering it to him, pinching at his jaw until it opened. "Imagine if they instead wanted to slip in the middle of the night to slit your throat. This group you are meddling with—"

He batted away at her hand after a bite, and she obliged sourly as he wiped his cheek, then hers. "I doubt it," a grunt as she moved to straddle his lap, knees barely able to squeeze around either side of his hips as her slender arms circled about his neck. He chewed, swallowed. "But you'd be all the more happy for it, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, Hugo, you know I'd miss you terribly. All the good parts of you, at least." She pressed her breasts to his, agreeable now that his attention was where it should be. "And so many good parts you have! Practically a saint! Gods, what would we ever do without you?"

"Enough of that, and stop this Hugo nonsense." His disgust was exceptionally pleasing, her grin triumphant and annoyingly smug, but she said nothing further. "You will attend to the group going into the mountainside—"

She nodded with sweet 'yes sir's just the way he liked, allowing his explanation but not retaining it. The logistics of this little adventure could be left to someone else, and she'd just play stupid later to get out of being burdened with directing a group of some hired thugs. Gods forbid she do a smidge of work.

They'd figure it all out.

"And take our guest out with you. You may have the day with him."

Her attention finally turned to the strongest scent in the room, a wheezing and bleeding thing curled up on the floorboards. It was Mr. Barbinoux's own hands that had done the deed this time, and what a pitiful display of power and status it was too. She wasn't quite sure who he was trying to impress with the way he had his other lackeys hold their guest down whilst he did it, taking three of them to contain the now brutalized man on the floor. Vile. Weak.

But oh! How she ached just to press her lips to this battered man and taste his suffering, lick his wounds all better and make him feel so good for feeling so bad. The way he looked at her when she stepped beside him was so intoxicatingly livid, so full of defiant fury that she felt her heart and loyalty flutter. She wanted him to succeed in whatever it was he was sneaking around for, for whatever game he was playing. How exciting. "The entire day! Oh, you do love me don't you?" she chirped pleasantly, pressing her foot against the man's cheek, stockings soaking up blood as she turned his face with painted toes. He didn't even give her a grunt. Then again, he didn't cry out either when taking his beating.

Her head canted. He was a handsome thing, wasn't he? Even with his face all swollen and bruised - perhaps more so. She'd be punished severely for taking a taste of him, but she could imagine how his boiling blood would accompany the ache sizzling her insides. She couldn't be punished for that, could she? A girl was allowed to daydream and want. And she wanted.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," just as sweet a coo for him now, eager to see how this would all play out as she smiled down at him in adoration. "I'll take good care of you. Now let's go get you all nice and pretty!"

[ceaselesslyborne]

Recent Reads

1. The Disaster Tourist: ⭐️⭐️⭐️

An interesting and thought provoking plot that introduced and explored a range of perspectives on what, I hope, is the no-longer-shadowy world of disaster tourism. I was impressed with the simplicity and ease with which the protagonist and reader were quickly immersed in vividly precarious world. It was both strange and disturbingly real. It was somewhat predictable, but there were a number of well developed characters considering the length of the story, and though I’m not normally a fan of ambiguity, it made a pleasant change to confront a protagonist whose fate/motivations/character are never explicitly revealed or judged. The reader is left to draw their own conclusions, to evaluate their own opinions.

2. Redhead by the Side of the Road: ⭐️⭐️⭐️

A slow one, but poignant and, for me, definitely one that resonated personally. A powerful, bittersweet, but ultimately hopeful ending, which honestly... I needed. The characters made the novel, and though I don’t think this book is for everyone, I found warmth and humour and understanding in Tyler’s words that make me want to read more of her work.

3. Things we Say in the Dark: ⭐️⭐️⭐️

A really fun seasonal read with a unique and compelling and clever structure. I genuinely can’t choose a favourite story/section; I found the collection to be very cohesive and consistently strong. Logan is a skilled writer easily able to inspire fear, dread, anxiety, disgust, and a host of other heart-pounding sensations. I chose to rate it as I did purely because I felt the tropes and tone were too familiar, though I suspect this has more to do with me becoming slightly desensitised and needing to increase the diversity of my reading choices - or at least switch more frequently between genres. That being said, I really want to read more of Logan’s books!

4. The Death of Vivek Oji: ⭐️⭐️

Struggling to articulate exactly why, but this just... didn’t sit well with me. There was some wonderful explorations of themes such as loyalty, honesty, identity, and family, but it was heavy. Bleak. I understand that stories like this are important, necessary, and that we cannot always have happy or even hopeful endings, but I’ve read too many similar tragedies. There was no payoff for the emotional investment, and it’s difficult to invest in the first place when you know the fate of the protagonist from the beginning, and the protagonist seems... content with that fate? Maybe I just read this at the wrong time. (Pro tip: don’t read sad books when you’re sad!)

5. Ghosted: ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Some wonderful character development throughout, and definitely made a significant emotional impact. I do feel that the story drew on slightly longer than necessary, but the reader was kept guessing and I was happy enough to follow the clues and reflect on the myriad relationships and characters offered.

6. White Ivy: ⭐️⭐️

I was disappointed by this book, which had such a promising premise, and started so strongly! Yang is, no doubt, a skilled writer, but it was challenging to persist with a story in which none of the characters seemed to have any notable, let alone likeable, traits. The pacing felt off, and I found myself wanting to skim through most of the book whilst other significant moments seemed to be passed over without making the impact they could have. Though it wasn’t a bad read, it didn’t feel like anything new or remarkable.

7. Earthlings: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Ok, so this book is definitely not for everyone, and anyone picking it up expecting another Convenience Store Woman is... in for a shock™️! Please research content/trigger warnings before reading! Heartbreaking and heartwarming and disturbing and, yes, gross, this will satisfy your need for something strange. It was a good palette cleanser (or warper) after some underwhelming and sluggish recent reads, and left me with a not-unpleasant out of body sensation wondering wtf I’d just read. Simply put, this was my jam.

8. Our Wives Under the Sea: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

First, a very unrelated note: I read and finished this in the course on one stormy, muggy night which definitely set The Mood™️. I’m not quite sure how to discuss this book. Armfield has captured the sea itself: something vast and unfathomable, changeable, consuming, incomprehensible, and primordial. Dreamy and viscerally, elementally haunting, Our Wives is surreal, horror adjacent, but hits in a very tangible way. I personally loved the style, and the dual perspective and relatively short chapters made what could have been a slow read a very easy one. Through a fantastical lens, Armfield invites us to explore ideas about relationships, communication, trauma, and grief, loss, and reality. A lot is up for interpretation, and I think you could find something new in this book with every re-read.

9. Becoming My Sister: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Okay, so on the scale of ‘normal’ to ‘introduced to V. C. Andrews at a wildly inappropriate age by a mother who clearly had no memory of the book she’d just given her daughter, and no way to anticipate the oncoming obsession’, it’s pretty clear where I fall. Personally I’ve never been disappointed by an Andrews book, and this one was no exception. The writing is witty and thrilling and subtly eerie, and Andrews is absolutely fantastic at drawing the reader into the grip of twisted, claustrophobic family dynamics. Her characters are lifelike, haunted and haunting. She has a singular understanding of the pain and beauty of girlhood, womanhood, and coming of age. I would almost describe this as a ‘guilty pleasure’ read but honestly I’m not sorry. No shame.

10. Ghosts: ⭐️⭐️

Such a promising premise, and so many elements I can usually connect with, but... I think this is just a story I’m tired of reading. It was vague/disconnected and judgemental in a way that reduced the impact of the book overall, at least for me. There was little to humanise or identify in the protagonist (or indeed most of the characters), and I felt the most interesting aspects of the book were not given the focus they deserved, both of which meant key emotional moments fell flat for me. I think for the right person, at the right time, this is a beautiful and moving story; that person just wasn’t me.

[myflowertree1]

Celebrate the Bond of Love: Rakhi Delivery in Mumbai

The festival of Raksha Bandhan, celebrated with immense joy and fervor across India, holds a special significance for brothers and sisters. It's a day to cherish the bond of love and protection shared between siblings. One of the quintessential elements of this auspicious occasion is the tying of the rakhi, a sacred thread symbolizing the sister's love and prayers for her brother's well-being. With the advent of technology and e-commerce, the tradition of Rakhi delivery has evolved, making it easier for siblings to express their love even when miles apart. In a bustling city like Mumbai, where the pace of life never seems to slow down, online Rakhi delivery services have become a convenient and reliable way for siblings to celebrate this special day.

Mumbai, often referred to as the "City of Dreams," is known for its fast-paced lifestyle and diverse culture. With its vibrant streets, iconic landmarks, and bustling markets, the city exudes a charm like no other. However, amidst the hustle and bustle of daily life, finding the time to shop for Rakhi and send it to your beloved brother can be a challenge. This is where online rakhi delivery in mumbai services come to the rescue. Whether you're living in the heart of South Mumbai or the suburbs of Thane, these services ensure that your Rakhi reaches your brother's doorstep on time, no matter where he is in the city.

With a myriad of options available online, choosing the perfect Rakhi for your brother has never been easier. From traditional to contemporary designs, you'll find a wide array of Rakhis to suit every taste and preference. Whether your brother prefers a simple thread Rakhi or a more elaborate designer one, online platforms offer a plethora of choices to make this occasion truly special. Simply browse through the collection, select the Rakhi that resonates with your brother's personality, and proceed to checkout. With just a few clicks, you can place your order and have the Rakhi delivered to your brother's doorstep in Mumbai.

One of the key advantages of opting for online Rakhi delivery in Mumbai is the convenience it offers. No longer do you have to navigate through crowded markets or brave the traffic jams to find the perfect Rakhi. With online shopping, you can browse through a wide selection of Rakhis from the comfort of your home or office. Whether you're a busy professional or a homemaker with a packed schedule, online Rakhi delivery services allow you to send your love to your brother with ease.

Moreover, online platforms often offer additional perks such as same-day or express delivery, ensuring that your Rakhi reaches your brother on time, even if you've left it to the last minute. Additionally, many websites also provide the option to add personalized messages or gifts along with the Rakhi, adding a heartfelt touch to your gesture.

In conclusion, the tradition of Rakhi delivery in Mumbai has evolved with the times, thanks to the convenience of online shopping. Whether you're separated by distance or simply looking for a hassle-free way to celebrate Raksha Bandhan, online Rakhi delivery services make it easier than ever to express your love and affection for your brother. So this Raksha Bandhan, let the bond of love transcend boundaries as you send a beautiful Rakhi to your brother in Mumbai, reminding him of the special place he holds in your heart.

[pluckksocial]

Pink Guava All Year Round: 7 Tips for Proper Storage & Preservation

In the world of fruits, few can match the exquisite sweetness and vibrant hue of pink guavas. These tropical delights are not just a seasonal treat; with the right storage and preservation techniques, you can enjoy the goodness of pink guavas all year round. In this comprehensive guide, we'll unveil seven tips to ensure that the succulence and flavor of pink guavas remain intact, providing you with a year-long supply of this tropical paradise. Whether you're a seasoned fruit enthusiast or a newcomer to the world of pink guavas, these tips are tailored for everyone seeking a prolonged taste of tropical bliss.

Understanding the Allure of Pink Guavas

Before we delve into the preservation tips, let's appreciate what makes pink guavas truly special. Renowned for their delectable sweetness, fragrant aroma, and a burst of tropical flavor, pink guavas are rich in vitamin C, dietary fiber, and antioxidants. Their versatility in culinary applications, from snacks to smoothies, makes them a prized addition to any diet.

Tip 1: Selecting the Perfect Pink Guavas

The preservation journey begins with choosing the right guavas. Opt for fruits that are firm yet yield slightly to gentle pressure, ensuring they are ripe and ready for storage. Look for a uniform pink color and a fragrant aroma, indicators of optimal ripeness.

Tip 2: Washing and Drying Techniques

Properly washing and drying pink guavas is crucial for preventing premature spoilage. Gently rinse the fruits under cool, running water, pat them dry with a clean cloth, and ensure they are completely moisture-free before storage. This minimizes the risk of mold or bacterial growth.

Tip 3: Refrigeration for Prolonged Freshness

Refrigeration is a game-changer when it comes to extending the shelf life of pink guavas. Store them in the refrigerator's crisper drawer, preferably in a perforated plastic bag to maintain the right humidity level. This slows down the ripening process and ensures prolonged freshness.

Tip 4: Freezing for Long-Term Enjoyment

Freezing pink guavas is an excellent way to preserve their goodness for an extended period. Clean, peel, and slice the guavas before freezing them individually on a baking sheet. Once frozen, transfer the slices to airtight containers or freezer bags for convenient long-term storage.

Tip 5: Dehydrating for Snacking Success

Dehydrating pink guavas transforms them into delicious, shelf-stable snacks. Slice the guavas thinly, arrange them on dehydrator trays, and let the magic happen. The result is a chewy, naturally sweet treat that can be enjoyed anytime, anywhere.

Tip 6: Creating Guava Puree for Versatile Use

Transform pink guavas into a versatile puree that can be used in a myriad of recipes. Blend peeled and deseeded guava chunks until smooth, then portion the puree into airtight containers or ice cube trays for easy portioning and storage.

Tip 7: Crafting Homemade Guava Jam or Jelly

Preserve the essence of pink guavas by crafting homemade jam or jelly. Combine guava chunks with sugar and pectin, cook until the mixture reaches a gel-like consistency, and transfer it into sterilized jars for a delightful spread that captures the tropical allure.

In conclusion, the enchanting world of pink guavas doesn't have to be confined to a fleeting season. By employing these seven tips for proper storage and preservation, you can relish the tropical sweetness of pink guavas all year round. Whether you prefer them fresh, frozen, dehydrated, in puree form, or transformed into delightful jams and jellies, these tips cater to every taste and preference.

Visit Pluckk to explore premium-quality pink guavas and embark on a journey of year-long tropical indulgence.

[jurgensclark-blog1]

Savor the Flavors of South African Cuisine: Exploring the Delicious Diversity of Traditional Dishes

Savor the Flavors of South African Cuisine: Exploring the Delicious Diversity of Traditional Dishes South African cuisine is a beautiful blend of various flavors, cooking techniques, and cultural influences. The diversity of traditional dishes in this country reflects its rich history and vibrant communities. From hearty stews to savory snacks, South African cuisine offers a delightful culinary experience. Let's take a closer look at some of the most popular dishes and ingredients in South Africa. 1. Bobotie Bobotie is a South African dish that originated from the Cape Malay community. It is a baked dish made with spiced minced meat, onions, bread, milk, and eggs, topped with a golden crust of egg. The flavors of bobotie are influenced by Indonesian and Indian cuisines, resulting in a unique and fragrant taste. 2. Biltong Biltong is a popular South African snack made with cured and dried meat. It is often made using beef, but other meats like game, ostrich, or even fish can be used. The meat is thinly sliced, marinated in a mixture of spices, vinegar, and salt, and then air-dried. Biltong is a flavorful and protein-rich snack that is perfect for a quick energy boost. 3. Potjiekos Potjiekos is a traditional South African stew that is cooked in a three-legged cast-iron pot called a "potjie". The pot is placed over an open fire, and various ingredients such as meat, vegetables, and spices are added in layers. The stew is slow-cooked for several hours, allowing the flavors to meld together and create a rich and comforting dish. 4. Bunny Chow Bunny Chow is a popular street food in South Africa, particularly in Durban. It consists of a hollowed-out loaf of bread filled with a spicy curry. The curry can be made with chicken, lamb, or vegetables, and it is often served with a side of pickles or sambals. Bunny Chow is a filling and flavorful dish that is perfect for on-the-go eating. 5. Malva Pudding Malva Pudding is a traditional South African dessert that is similar to a sticky toffee pudding. It is a sweet and sticky sponge cake made with apricot jam and served with a hot custard or vanilla sauce. The warm and comforting flavors of Malva Pudding make it a popular choice for dessert, especially during the colder months. Conclusion South African cuisine offers a myriad of flavors and textures that are sure to tantalize your taste buds. From the fragrant spices in bobotie to the rich and comforting potjiekos, each dish reflects the country's diverse culture and culinary heritage. Whether you're a meat lover or a vegetarian, South African cuisine has something to offer for everyone. So, go ahead and explore the delicious diversity of traditional dishes from South Africa and enjoy a culinary journey like no other. FAQs: Q: What are some common ingredients used in South African cuisine? A: Some common ingredients used in South African cuisine include spices like curry powder, turmeric, and cumin, as well as vegetables like potatoes, tomatoes, and onions. Meat, particularly beef and game, is also widely used in traditional dishes. Q: Is South African cuisine suitable for vegetarians? A: Yes, South African cuisine has a variety of vegetarian dishes available. Vegetarians can enjoy dishes like vegetable curry, samp and beans, or chakalaka, which is a spicy vegetable relish. It's always a good idea to inform the restaurant or cook about your dietary preferences to ensure your meal is prepared accordingly. Read the full article

[dynimest]

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[slowjamgoddessalicialacy]

(Slow Jam Myriad)

[musings-of-a-rose]

Not sure if your still taking prompts but could you do a Steven X Reader in the hospital?

Emergency Contact

Pairing: Steven Grant x f!reader (nickname: Poppet)

Word Count: 1320+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: I wasn’t sure if you meant a hospital or the psych hospital from the show, so I just made it a regular hospital. I really could’ve continued this in a way but wasn’t sure if that’s what you’d want!

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Main Masterlist

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“I’m on my way.”

Steven hangs up the phone and waves to his manager as he heads towards the exit.

“Have to go. Emergency.”

“Can’t it wait until after your shift? This will earn you a mark on your record!” She yells after him as he walks out the door.

He can’t bring himself to care about marks or his mediocre job with the call he just received. You were in the hospital. You were injured. He has to get to you. 

Splurging on an Uber, he spits out the name of the hospital to the driver and he takes off, arriving much too slow for Steven’s liking. It wasn’t the driver’s fault - London traffic is terrible and he’s worried.

Pulling up to the hospital, Steven tosses some money at the driver, apologizing for his rough demeanor as he runs into the hospital. His eyes quickly scan the room, looking for admissions. A scowling woman sits under the sign, obviously displeased with her lot in life. Steven runs up to her, choking out a quick greeting before asking for you.

“Slow down sir. Can you repeat that name?”

He does, growing more annoyed with each slow click of the keyboard as she types it out, confirming the spelling from Steven. What feels like an eternity later, she looks up at him.

“Room 421-B.”

“Thank you!”

Steven runs towards the elevators, hearing the woman from admissions yelling behind him. “Sir! Please walk, sir!”

Steven jams his finger against the elevator call button, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as the lights above slowly move up, bringing the elevator with it. The ping sounds and the doors open, people flooding out as Steven tries to fight his way in, being shoved and grumbled at. Finally he’s inside and he jams the 4 button, the doors slowly closing and bringing him up.

The elevator stops and the doors open, Steven barely waiting for them to open before he’s squeezing his body between the cold panels, eyes scanning the signs on the wall for the rooms numbers. Taking off to the right, his walk turns into a borderline jog as his eyes scan the signs on each of the rooms. 

“419…420…421!”

He stops, nearly slipping on the floor with the abruptness of his full stop. Scrambling inside the room, his eyes see an empty bed and then a curtain divider pulled halfway around the other to divide the room. Steven walks up to it and yanks it back, his eyes raking over her body.

“Steven?” She calls his name, his abrupt appearance surprising her.

“Poppet? Are you ok?” He hesitates to move to her, but she beckons him over, lifting her arm, a wire following it. 

“I’ll be alright-”

“What happened?” He stands by her bed, looking her up and down for signs of injury, noticing a myriad of scrapes and cuts, and long bandages wrapped around her ribs.

“They just need to keep me overnight for observation. Make sure there’s no internal bleeding-”

“Pop-” Steven looks at her, gently taking her hand in his and encasing it between his warm palms. “-what happened, lov?”

She takes a deep breath. “Well…I was walking to get some lunch a few blocks away. You know, that cafe I love? Anyway I passed by this woman getting mugged-”

“Oh no they mugged you too? Are you alright?”

“No, Steven. I mean yes, I’m fine but he didn’t mug me. I yelled after him and he wouldn’t let up. So…” She makes a little punch in the air and Steven’s eye grew wide.

“You physically assaulted him?”

“Well, yes! It was citizen defense!”

“You could’ve been ‘urt, lov!”

“Why are you like this? You taught me how to defend myself!”

“I- no I didn’t!”

“You did. It was several months ago. You just, walked in and told me I needed to know how to defend myself.”

“I don’t know how to fight though.”

She nods. “That’s what I said. You seemed…different. Said you were having an off day. Anyway, we spent weeks in the gym, you teaching me how to throw punches and…you don’t remember?” She pauses in her explanation when she sees the look on his face.

“If you got lessons somewhere, it’s fine, Poppet.”

“But I didn’t? It was you.”

Steven finally notices the bandage on her head and he smiles warmly at her. “Alright, Pop. I taught you how to fight then. Did they ‘urt you? Did you hit your head?” He shifts his body to sit on the edge of the bed, still holding her hand. 

“I’m ok. He got a couple jabs in my ribs but I got him good. They arrested him… I’m sorry, Steven. I didn’t think they’d call you at work-”

“Hey, hey. I’m your emergency contact. That’s what they’re supposed to do.”

She nods, looking down at his large hand over hers, his thumb rubbing circles into her skin.

“Steven?”

“Yes?”

“Would you…would you stay with me?”

His eyes soften. He could never say no to her. “Of course, Poppet.”

She scoots over and his eyes grow wide, round and slightly terrified as she pats the bed next to her. 

“Oh come on, Steven. I won’t bite.”

He swallows hard, breathing heavier before he nods. “Right. I’ll just…scoot on up ‘ere, then.”

He sits on the bed and stretches his legs out, slowly leaning back against the raised bed. She turns to her side, cuddling right into his side, her arm with the monitor attached to her finger wraps around him and he swears he feels her hum, taking in a deep breath of him as she cuddles into him. He hesitates a few moments before lowering his arm around her, very conscious of the slit in the back of her hospital gown so as to avoid touching her skin directly. The last thing he’d want to do is make her uncomfortable. 

A few minutes pass and he swears she can hear his heart beat out of his chest. He’d always had a crush on her - she listened to everything he said, asking questions and actually looking up the resources he recommends. She always sought him out, even sneaking him into the artifacts room when something interesting would cross her desk. They’d been friends almost instantly, but if Steven were honest with himself, he wants more. There’s no way that she could feel-

“Steven?” His name is whispered from her lips and she doesn’t look at him, patiently waiting for him to reply.

“Yes, lov?” His response is a whisper, matching her tone.

“I don’t want to be friends.”

Of course she doesn’t. He’s an idiot to even think-

She sits up, turning her body towards him, her face startingly close to his.

“No longer friends?” He asks, trying to keep the pain in his voice to a minimum. 

She shakes her head, her eyes landing on his lips before finding his gaze. 

“I-”

And suddenly, his world stops. She brings her lips to his, kissing him softly before bringing her hand up to cup his cheek, the plastic from the monitor on her finger cold against his rapidly heating skin. She pulls back, her face inches from his, their noses still touching as she watches him, his eyes slowly opening to meet hers.

“Not…not friends?”

She giggles as her head shakes. “I want you, Steven. I want to be with you, listen to that big brain of yours, feel you, have you. All of you. If…if that’s what you-”

His hand palms the back of her head as he pulls her close to him, their noses bumping as he turns his head to deepen the kiss. His hand slides down her back, forgetting about the opening and his fingers dust across the exposed skin through the slit in her gown and she gasps under his touch. 

“Oh Poppet. I don’t think you realize how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”

—----

General Taglist:

@frankie-catfish-morales @chaoticgeminate @janebby @astoryisaloveaffair @balekanemohafe @softpedropascal @greeneyedblondie44 @hoeforthefictional @marvelousmermaid @hauntedmama @giuliarogers-blog @icanbeyourjedi @diaryofkali @sunnshineeexoxo @livingmydreams13 @adventures-of-a-noodle @sara-alonso  @theewokingdead @punkerthanpascal @giggly-otter @f0rever15elf @phandoz @dirtytissuebox @jadore-andor @gallowsjoker @lovesbiggerthanpride  @sarahmilesbendrix @booksarekindaneat @mrsudontknowme @swol-bear @charlispersonallyhell @xoxabs88xox @amneris21 @gooddaykate @alindeluce @avengers-fixation @paintballkid711 @harriedandharassed   @ladykatakuri @marrianena  

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Moon Knight Taglist:

@AHookedHerosPureStar 

[basicjetsetter]

The Fall of Deus

♡ Pairing: Mob!Peter Parker x BlackFemale!Reader

♧ Setting: The Terrace Room in The Plaza Hotel, New York

♤ Warnings: Heavy Suspense, Language, Adult Themes, Violence, Gambling, Drinking

♢ Word Count: 6.5k

☆ A/N: No joke, this took me about two years to conceptualize. Two freaking years. But I can 100% say it was worth it to write every word. This is by far one of my most creative works and I love that I get to finally share it with you all. Please hit like if you enjoy it, leave me a lil’ comment and a reblog if you love it. Happy reading!

You couldn’t help but notice and admire how pretty the sky appeared when it was tinged in the auroral haze of an autumn morning and backdropped by the twinkling glass panes of New York’s notorious skyscrapers. Though autumn’s end isn’t for a couple of weeks, the lukewarm season allowed Manhattan a preview of winter’s frigid air. The city's constant roar hummed down to a distant lullaby as you walked up the steps and in through the doors of the Metropolitan Detention Center.

It’s an impressively modern building, one you’ve become intimately familiar with in the past couple of years. Everything inside screams order, from the plain white, bleach-scented linoleum floors to the rows upon rows of caged boxes containing a range of one-time offenders, serial criminals, and constant jailbirds. The first time you ever entered the establishment, it struck you just how much the atmosphere felt devoid and depraved, almost as if hope and happiness got stopped, frisked, and turned away at the door. You never liked staying more than necessary.

None of the four guards stationed along the main lobby walls paid you any attention as you marched up to the reception desk. Their inattention didn’t spawn out of contempt but out of fear. They knew who you were here for.

The receptionist, on the other hand, wouldn’t care if the Queen of England herself hop-scotched through the front entrance, bowed, and bestowed him the coveted Royal Crown on a jewel-encrusted platter.

He certainly never took an interest in your frequent visits. The first time you set foot into this building, a bright-eyed attorney anxious to speak with her first client, the oaf of a man merely grunted at your carefully constructed introductions and waved you off like a pesky fly. On a typical day, your exchange of words consisted of him curtly asking you to state your business while he half-listened to your response and stabbed at his keyboard with blunt fingers. Detaching his gaze from the monitor might have required exhaustion of his half-assed energy.

Today wasn’t unlike any other day. Phillips told you your client's location, even though you both knew the area by heart. Third floor. Cell Block E. Number 7. Always Number 7. Lucky Number 7.

Most of your ordinary clients got shipped to this facility and locked up with the rest of the inmates until you picked up their case. Unlike this particular client you planned on springing today, those other men lacked the say-so to determine their cell. None of them came close to his status. They didn’t have the power nor the money to hire a personal attorney, and none of their crimes could ever match those of the calculated, cunning man who controlled all New York's avenues and boulevards.

In the streets, he’s known as Deus. Depending on how close you are in his circle, he's either Parker or Pete. The name in the system is Peter Benjamin Parker. Your fiancé.

| Last Evening  |

“Stop fidgeting with your collar, Peter.”

“This fucking bowtie keeps… shit… it keeps choking me.” He growled out his frustration. “I’m going to fire that damn stylist.”

You threw him an exasperated glare as he ripped off the accessory. “Maybe if you hadn’t told him to pick any old bowtie, you wouldn’t be whining so much.”

“Remind me again why you're forcing me to wear this, anyway?” He paused for effect, placing his hand under his chin like Rodin’s The Thinker, and then snapped his fingers in dramatic realization. “Oh, right! Because Stark is a pretentious asshole, who thinks tuxedos are mandatory at all events thrown in his honor.”

Peter may hate the idea of wearing a formal tuxedo for the whole night, but you were going to enjoy every last minute of him in that attire, mainly because he resembles a model who stepped right off the page of a GQ cover. The low-lighting in this limousine certainly did its best to heighten your mood, highlighting the sharp angles of Peter’s clenched jaw. You’d have to remember to send Pepper a Thank You basket for planning the event as Black Tie.

“Can you at least pretend to get along with Tony tonight?” To see if his jaw could tighten any further, you coyly add, “He is the new Governor of New York, after all.”

Mission accomplished. Peter leaned his head back against the headrest and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, the light that glinted off of his platinum Rolex creating a scattered array of lights against the black leather seats. You pried your eyes off the extension of his neck as he spoke. “Great,” he huffed. “That’s exactly what I need right now. A gloating Stark who’s now legally duty-bound to hound my ass. One more thing to think about.”

As the limo pulled up to a slow halt in front of the Plaza Hotel, you grabbed one of Peter’s hands and held it until his eyes met yours. You gave him a reassuring smile and said, “Everything’s going to be alright, baby.”

The driver opened the door before Peter could speak and held out his gloved hand for you. You’ve been to the Plaza Hotel on many occasions, mostly business, and yet the sight of the château-styled building at night, with its myriad of lit windows and its luxurious lobby never ceased to leave you breathless. The view effectually took your gaze away from Peter’s tux, but not for long. The moment he stepped out of the limo, bathed in the golden light of the building, you felt transfixed all over again.

Peter discreetly tipped the driver and then turned to face you, clearly not as impressed with the Plaza Hotel as you were. He placed his warm hands on the swells of your hips and pulled you in front of him. His eyes appraised you, from your stiletto heels to your tight-fitted, off the shoulder evening dress, traveling up to your chunky Senegalese twists elegantly laid over your shoulder. He let out a low whistle and said, “If looks could kill…”

You straightened his collar and opened up the top button of his gingham dress shirt for both your sakes, then swiftly leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. “You’re not too shabby yourself, Mr. Parker.”

He wolfishly grinned as you quickly detached yourself from his borderline caressing hold. You knew he’d want more than a short kiss, but you couldn’t afford to get sidetracked tonight.

“Behave,” you chided.

“And if I don’t, future Mrs. Parker?” he prodded, a huskiness in his tone that sent a delicious shiver through you. His steps slowly brought him closer and closer to where you stood, and you weren’t sure if you’d have the will power to move away again. One proper kiss wouldn’t hurt…

A disembodied voice groaned in your ear. “Book a room!”

Peter chuckled unabashedly. “Sorry, Ned.” Though he tried to appear unaffected, Peter made an effort to clear his throat and tugged at his collar. “You ready on your end?”

“Yeah. Mic’s clear. Computer’s up and running. I’m all set. Can’t say the same for you two.”

You glance accusingly at Peter, who waggled his eyebrows at you. “We’re ready. Sorry about that. You know how Peter gets when I wear twists.”

Ned verbally shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I still refuse to sit on my couch, by the way, even after washing it four times! You owe me a new couch, dude. For my trauma.”

Peter half-heartedly grinned at the ground and said, “Dude, if we pull this off, I’ll buy you a whole new furniture set.” The one half of his grin faded away, replaced with a grim line of determination and sobriety. “Where’s he at?”

A few clicks rang through your ear-piece, then Ned replied, “Not far. About twenty minutes away, on Queens Boulevard in Elmhurst. Might be a while before he reaches the Plaza, though. There’s a jam on the bridge.”

“Cool, thanks. Keep us updated.” Peter didn’t want you to catch his expression, but you didn’t need to directly see it to realize he’s in business mode, cold and calculated, little to no warmth or playfulness left in his brown eyes.

Copying your move, he took your hand and held it until you both stared at each other. Briefly, with your eyes locked in place, he searched for any sliver of doubt, giving you one last option to ditch and save face while he executes the plan solo. You did not doubt that he and Ned could somehow pull it off without so much as a hiccup. Odds always work in Peter’s favor. For the past three years that you’ve known him, he’s never lost a gamble. Tonight, though, the gamble must include you, a new piece to his complicated game—a variable. If anything were to head south, the last thing Peter would want is to implicate you.

You understood the risks: the potential loss of your career, your squeaky clean record, and possibly your life. You wouldn’t be here, with him of all people, if you didn’t trust the plan. So you didn’t sway, letting your eyes confirm where you stood on the matter. I’m sticking with you. This exchange passed in absolute silence, ending with a small nod and a lingering kiss to your palm.

It’s always surprising to see Peter without a trace of humor or good-nature in his eyes. It took you a while to acclimate to his night and day demeanor and even longer to trust which emotions were real and which served a purpose. As he slides a cocky smile back onto his face, one that graces every part of his features, and holds out his arm for you, you knew. He’s in his element.

The game’s begun.

♢ ♤ ♡ ♧

Not even five seconds into the Terrace Room and your jaw hit the floor. Pepper sure knows how to out-do herself.

The room displayed the same historic French charm as the outside façade, but much more grand, decorated with multiple crystalline chandeliers, large stone semicircular archways, and classical art adorning the ceilings. Somehow, Pepper’s touch of cream-colored table cloths, bouquets of immaculate white peonies, golden napkins, and floating candle holders added the perfect ambiance for Tony’s celebration.

True to his fashion.

The Man of the Hour is currently giving his speech at the head table as the Ma��tre D’ checks your reservation and prompts a server to escort you and Peter to your table. It’s located not too far away from Tony's, near a stone wall and a divider separating the other tables. You weren’t entirely familiar with the three people who were already seated, but they graciously offered quiet nods of welcome. Peter grabbed your chair for you and smoothly pushed you in before taking his seat next to you while you strained to catch the last bits of Tony’s speech.

“… and I can truly say that without you, my amazing colleagues, friends, and organizers present tonight, this win would not have been possible. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And um, yeah. Thank you, all.” Tony lifted his champagne flute into the air with a flourish and a winning grin. Peter rolled his eyes. “Here’s to an awesome four years as New York’s new Governor.”

Everyone stood up to give him a round of applause, Peter’s claps more grudging than encouraging, but you were glad he put in some effort. When he looked your way, you flashed him a loving smile and mouthed Thank you. He rolled his eyes again, playfully this time, and quirked his mouth up in an amused grin.

Live music picked up as soon as Tony took his seat, soft jazz that blended well with the onslaught of muffled chatter and clinks of silverware against glass plates. Servers incrementally brought out the main course of roasted beef filet dressed in tomato tarragon sauce and a side of arugula salad. Peter stifled a chuckle as he heard your stomach growl when a server placed the plate of food in front of you.

As another server leaned in to pour you a glass of wine, you held out a hand and gave him a polite smile. “No, thank you. May I just have some water, please?”

The young man nodded, but Peter piped up before he could head off. “Got anything stronger back there? Bacardi? Whiskey? Rum?”

“We have Vodka, sir,” the server stuttered out.

“Excellent. I’ll take a whole bottle of that,” Peter grinned and pressed a couple of $100 bills into the man’s palm. Peter’s effect on people never got tiring to witness. He and the server appear to be around the same age, somewhere near the 25-year mark, yet Peter's vibe reduced the server to stutters. You’d say the tux assisted with his air of importance, but you’ve seen Peter have that same effect on businessmen while wearing a shirt that read “I lost an electron. Are you positive?” and plaid pajama bottoms.

The server vigorously nodded. “Right away, sir.”

“Don’t drink too much,” you cautioned in a tone low enough for only Peter’s ears. “You know how you get, and I don’t want Tony to have an excuse to place cuffs on you.”

Peter scoffed and mumbled around a bite of salad, “If I looked at him wrong, Tony would cuff me.”

“Now that’s a little presumptuous, ain’t it, Petey?”

You jumped up from your seat and wrapped Tony up in a hug he warmly returned. “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you, Governor Stark.”

Tony waved a hand, yet a big smile remained plastered on his face. “Ah, come on. It was bound to happen. Policy is the new name of the game, but I’ll sure miss that courtroom. You missy, on the other hand, deserve all the praise in the world. Best and youngest attorney in the whole state. Mentored by yours truly.” He trailed off, glancing in Peter’s general direction. “Though I question why you waste your talents on the likes of him.”

Now sitting ramrod straight in his chair, Peter slanted his eyes toward yours as you silently pleaded with him to be cordial. Once he brought his eyes back to Tony, he jerked up his chin in recognition. “Stark.”

Tony nodded at Peter. “Baby-faced Criminal.”

“Hey, now!” Pepper swooped in, pulling Tony back a little so she could see you better. “Just look at you! Always a beauty in everything you wear,” she gushed, then put on a stern face for Tony and Peter. “No roughhousing, tonight, boys. I mean it.”

“I was just making a valid critique on my star pupil's decision to become the Personal Attorney to a well-known arms dealer, is all,” Tony defended. He threw up his hands and drew up an innocent expression that might have worked had it not looked so derisive.

Pepper, pursing her lips, nodded sagely. “Right. Okay. So you were being an ass?”

“Pep!” Tony protested incredulously. Peter didn’t even try to hide his triumphant smirk.

You rolled your eyes in defeat. Oil and water can never mix, no matter how hard you try. No, Tony did not take the news of you becoming Peter’s PA well, and he’s made sure to rake you over the coals bout it every time the chance arises. You’ve been Peter’s attorney coming up on two years, and there’s not a sign from either of them that the grudge will ever be let go, not even for your sake, though they do try when threatened.

“I want you two to say something nice to each other and then let the rest of the night go on in peace. Go ahead,” Pepper ordered, indicating for Tony to go first.

Tony took in an excessive amount of air, then puffed it out. “Alright, Parker. Um… I like how you ostensibly don’t know the rules to a Black Tie Event.” He ended with a gesture to Peter’s lack of a bowtie. The poor thing lies in a mangled heap on the floor of the limousine.

Peter ticked up his eyebrow. “I like how the stick up your ass seems to reach new heights every time we speak, Stark.”

Pepper sighed and grabbed Tony’s arm. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but I’ll take what I can get. Come on, you. There are many more guests to greet.” She tugged him along, throwing you an apologetic smile over her slim shoulder as they walked away.

Almost out of earshot, you could hear Tony say, “He calls himself Deus, for Christ's sake!”

They left you two in heated silence. Peter refused to meet your glare, instead choosing to chug down the freshly set out champagne flute filled with Vodka. He immediately flushed as he poured himself another glass full.

“Peter—” you started.

“Don’t say it. I tried, alright?” He slumped against the back of his seat, then shot you a surly frown. “You didn’t even mention our engagement to him. Again.”

You looked down at your untouched food, suddenly not hungry.

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Were you ever going to tell him?”

An anchor of guilt plummeted to the pit of your stomach, chasing away the desire to eat anything for the next few hours. Your answer came out sounding whittled and nearly swallowed by the music. “Pepper knows.”

“And that tells me all I need to know,” said Peter, pushing away from the table and taking the bottle of Vodka with him.

You tried to stamp down the rise of startled panic by clearing your throat and evenly asking, “Where are you going?” A high octave managed to slip in on the last word.

“To socialize. Play some cards. Place a few bets. Criminal stuff. You want in?” He didn’t wait for you to answer, moving further and further away as a wave of hot anger replaced your shame. “Oh, my bad. Sorry. I forgot you probably don’t want your mentor seeing you ruin your perfect image with, what was it? The likes of me?”

He swaggered off, not a mere hint of his hurt evident in his show of arrogance.

You gingerly sat back in your seat, careful to ignore the inquiring stares from those who caught most of the argument. Your nails came close to puncturing your palms, and if your jaw clamped any tighter, it would snap. An annoying, persistent inner voice chimed out, He’s right, you know. It was probably Ned.

You understood Peter enough to know that Tony not being clued in on your engagement wounded him. He told everyone in his life about you—told Aunt May the second you finally agreed to go on that first date with him, nearly shouted to all the rooftops in Queens “SHE SAID YES!” when he proposed three months ago. Yet here you are, dragging your heels on telling Tony, one of the most influential people in your life, that you’re marrying the love of your life. He wouldn’t understand. Or, rather, he would, and he’d abhor your decision.

You’re not sure you could ever explain to Tony how Peter is your favorite star in the night sky. A big, glowing ball of light you spend hours upon hours admiring and appreciating. One that just burns brighter than all the rest.

Your engagement ring sparkled at you, winking as you moved it side to side and marveled at the simple yet elegant details of the inlaid sapphires and diamonds. Peter told you he picked it out a week before the proposal, but you knew he carried it around in his pocket for months, biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity. When he asked, you couldn’t say yes fast enough. At that moment, Tony and his aversion to Peter never crossed your mind, but it’s lingered ever since.

Guilt returned as a salve for your anger.

“Trouble in paradise?” asked a woman sitting at your table, a slight accent in her voice. She appears to be young, almost too young to be at this function. The glimmer in her eye and the hitch in her smile denoted a wise person. Goddess braids sat on top of her head like a crown, and she’s wearing a simple black dress with pearl studs that nicely accentuates her dark brown skin.

You uncurled your hands and blew out a held-in breath, kindly smiling back. “Something like that.”

She held out a hand. “Shuri Udaku.”

That name came with an inkling of recognition, but you couldn’t quite place it. You shook hands with the young woman, giving her your name. When you momentarily looked at your clasped hands, your eyes dropped down to catch the jewelry on her wrist. They weren’t pearls like her earrings. They were onyx and emblazoned with ivory symbols on each bead: Kimoyo beads, a technological revolution currently sweeping the nation, manufactured only by one woman. The realization hit you hard. “Hold on a second. The Shuri Udaku? Founder of Vibranium Tech, Shuri Udaku?”

“The one and only,” she answered, her smile growing wider.

This confirmation launched you into a field of questions and acknowledgments. It turns out she knows of your work as New York’s youngest attorney, but you know a bit more about her line of work because Peter always voiced his interest in her growing business. On the surface, Vibranium Tech is like any other technology company, issuing out new and improved ways of communication and medical treatment. In the underground, there’s been rumors of her interest in creating weapons—technological weapons unlike any the arms dealing business has seen before.

You didn’t want to bring up that facet of knowledge just yet. The normal conversation worked wonders on you, loosening your tense muscles and clamped jaw, all of them singing sweet relief once your body naturally released the tension.

“So, did I hear Tony correctly when he said your partner is the Deus?”

You winced and found yourself searching the room for a glimpse of your fiancé. He’s commandeered a table in the back of the venue, showing off his black and gold deck of playing cards to a group of interested guests itching to play a hand.

“Yeah, that would be him.”

“That’s so badass,” Shuri mused, leaning in conspiratorially. “Is he like the mob bosses in TV shows and movies? Like does he have henchmen? Bad-temper? High-speed car chases with the police?”

You genuinely laughed. “Not exactly. Henchmen, kind of. Bad temper is rare. And he’d never shut up about having a high-speed car chase with the police. No, he’s a little more lowkey than all that.”

Long ago, back when you were innocent to the life Peter led, you assumed that that’s precisely what it entailed—an exhilarating life of high stakes, exorbitant amounts of money, strong-armed goons, and reckless shoot-outs. That might be the case for a few bosses, but not Peter. He’s too strategic, and the ins-and-outs of his trade are too complicated to pin on just one person.

“Well, I, um…” she stopped, considered her words. You unconsciously drew in closer. “I may have a business offer for him.”

You kept your smile on, but it felt more commercial-like than friendly. “What type of offer?”

Shuri gulped down a generous amount of her red wine, then darted her eyes side to side before speaking lowly. “Would he be interested in high powered weapons?”

You raised your eyebrows but kept up your cool front. “Depends. In exchange for what?”

“Protection.”

A voice in your ear announced, “He’s here.”

You ignored it, focusing on Shuri. “From who?”

Shuri peeked around again to make sure no one paid any attention to your private conversation, but her examination stopped at the entrance. “From him.”

You cautiously slid your eyes to the main entrance, heart hammering a thunderous rhythm in your chest.

Brock Rumlow. Peter's rival and leader of a group named the Scorpions. A peddler/enforcer for the East Coast's largest mob: Hydra. Of course he’d try to pressure Shuri for the weapons.

He didn’t come dressed according to the occasion, opting for his usual tight-fitted black Tee and gray tactical pants. The visible half of his tattoo, a scorpion’s tail curling out from the cuff of his shirt, stood out against his tan skin. Two other men stood behind him, wearing almost identical clothes to Rumlow and sporting the same scorpion tattoo on their right bicep, not exactly hiding that they carried concealed weapons. All the voices in the room hollowed out to stiff silence, and even the band took its cue to halt. Your eyes found Tony in time to see his jaw tick for the briefest moment, and then he slid right back into a restrained version of his good cheer.

“Hey, hey! This is still a party, people,” Tony called out, addressing the guests. “Eat, talk, have a good time.” He signaled to the band to pick up the music, then crossed the room to chat with Rumlow. You’ve never seen him so keyed up.

You touched Shuri’s hand comfortingly, not taking your eyes off Rumlow. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She deflated gratefully. “Thank you.”

You nodded, already out of your seat and rushing to the back of the room, stopping short once you arrived at Peter’s table. He’s thoroughly invested in this round of poker, glancing back and forth from his cards to the nervous twitches of the five men and one woman at the table. You recognized four of them: Judge Nicholas Fury, Lieutenant Steve Rogers, Manhattan’s Chief of Police Sam Wilson, and District Attorney Natasha Romanoff. Sweat is perspiring on Steve’s forehead, Sam’s leg can’t stop bouncing up and down, and even Natasha, a woman known for keeping her cool while in the line of fire, is chewing on her lower lip. Fury's not fazed. He just seems tapped out.

From what you can estimate, about six hundred dollars lies in the middle of the table.

Sam and Steve speak at the same time. “I’m out.”

The other men followed suit, muttering their defeat. Fury dropped his cards down on the table facedown.

Peter wickedly grinned, zeroing in on Natasha. “Got any last words?”

Natasha squinted her eyes at his taunt. “Kiss my ass, Parker.” She put her cards down face up, showing her hand, and quirked up an eyebrow that dared him to top that: three Queens and a pair of twos. Full House.

Peter laid down his hand. Four 3’s and an ace. Four of a Kind.

A chorus of fucks circled the group as Peter cleared the table of the crumpled bills. Two new bottles of opened Vodka sit on the table as well, along with seven shot-glasses. Steve’s glass remains untouched, but the others look like they’ve drained two shots each.

“Bucky’s gonna kill me for losing so much money,” Steve muttered, twirling around his wedding band.

Sam sadly shook his head. “Dammit, man. I thought we had him this time, too.” He eyed Peter with suspicion. “What you got, kid? X-Ray vision?”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, causing a few curls to escape its sleek style. “Nah, jus’ luck.”

“Yeah, well, here’s to hoping your luck runs out,” said Fury, raising his shot glass and slamming it back.

You inched closer to Peter’s side. He reeked of alcohol, and his eyes are glazed over. You wonder how he’s even capable of sitting up, let alone playing people out of their money.

“Peter,” you whispered, putting your hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensed, but he didn’t shake you off. “Rumlow’s here.”

The remaining people at the table began to disperse in a collective gripe of loss. Peter didn’t say anything, only jerked his head in acknowledgment.

Your hand itched to slap him back into reality. “Peter, baby, listen. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry. I should have told Tony about our engagement.” Desperation sapped into your words. “It was stupid and childish not to, and as soon as I get the chance, I’ll tell him. But for the love of God, this is not the time to—”

“Well, well, well! Look who we got here! Deus, in the flesh!” boomed a disturbingly baritone voice. Rumlow, shadowed by his two men, plopped down in one of the empty chairs, sitting right across from Peter. He glanced at Peter first, then languorously landed his gaze on you. “And who’s this pretty lady you got here?”

“My fiancée,” answered Peter monotonously. He said it as if the words synonymously meant: just some chick. A dull kind of ache slashed through your chest as you dropped your hand back down to your side and took two steps away from him.

Rumlow pretended to miss the interaction, appearing to be in deep thought, and then clapped his hands once. “Oh! The attorney. I don’t believe I ever formally introduced myself.” He offered his large hand to you, grinning with his whole teeth on display. “Name’s Brock Rumlow.”

You reluctantly let him take your outstretched hand. His skin is blazing hot, to the point where your hand nearly felt suffocated. He brought it to his lips for a small kiss that twisted your stomach in knots. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rumlow.”

Rumlow winked. “Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart. And call me Brock.”

“Fuck do you want, Rumlow?” Peter bit out, picking the cards up off the table and shuffling them.

“Ooh,” tsked Rumlow. He made sure to lay another grin on you just to irk Peter. “Come on, Parker. Can’t a guy just enjoy some company once in a while? It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong.” He watched Peter’s movements, the cards haphazardly sliding back and forth from one hand to the next. “Playing cards, huh? You up for a quick game?”

You butt in with a pressed laugh. “Actually, we were just leaving.” Drunk Peter is overly confident. If Rumlow found that out, you knew he’d take Peter for everything he’s worth.

“So soon?” Rumlow glanced down at his watch. “It’s not even ten yet. What’s the rush?”

Peter cut you off. “No rush. I’m staying. You play Draw Poker?”

“ ‘Course I play Draw Poker, but that seems too simple for you, Parker. Don’t you wanna make it hard for me? A little Texas Hold ’em?”

“Draw Poker,” said Peter, splitting the deck against the table and flexing the cards enough to have them rapidly collapse into place. “Take it or leave it.”

A dark, mischievous smile brewed on Rumlow’s face as he watched Peter fumble with the deck and, at some point, entirely losing his grip. You discreetly watched him size up his opponent, dismayed to find that he likes the assessment. Hair is stubbornly falling into Peter’s eyes, eyes that anyone a mile away could point out are bleary and bloodshot. The flush from earlier deepened on his neck and flashed scarlet across his face—an easy target for a skilled player.

“Deal me in.”

The first game played out exactly as you feared it would. Rumlow and Peter agreed on a $100 ante to get the ball rolling, both pulling out a single bill from their pocket and placing it in the middle of the table, then they settled for a pot-limit. Though Peter’s shuffling skills lacked his usual finesse, he expertly dealt each of them a hand of five cards.

You leaned against the back wall with your arms crossed over your chest and watched the game unfold. Rumlow processes his hands at the speed of a bullet, snapping his eyes to his cards once he’s drawn, and immediately discards the ones he doesn’t like when it’s his turn. Other than the minutest crinkle in the corner of his left eye, you couldn’t tell when he felt confident or when he bluffed. He gave nothing away, not even an involuntary scratch to his five o’clock shadow. He was so in the zone he began to partake in the Vodka bottle close to his side of the table, swigging straight from the mouth.

On the other hand, Peter moved as if a millisecond was the equivalent length of ten years, scanning his cards more than several times with pursed lips, looking up at Rumlow, scanning his cards again, once, twice, three times, then reluctantly discarding some. He frequently shoves a hand through his hair to keep it out of his eyesight, but the same unruly strands find their way back to impede his vision. He scratches the shell of his ear when he’s about to draw, and Rumlow’s picked up the tell.

Rumlow never even had to do more than call. The confident drunk in Peter always raised.

The pot increased to about $1400 before Peter folded his hand.

As Rumlow collected his winnings, he suggestively lifted his eyebrows at Peter. “Care for round 2?”

Confident drunk Peter never backs down, even when he’s the dumbass who can’t remember that he’s brought fists to a gunfight.

You step back up to the table and put a restrictive hand on Peter’s wrist to keep him from picking up the cards. “Enough, Peter. You’re done. Let’s go home.”

“No, I’m not done,” he said, snatching his arm away from your touch. “Go talk to Tony or somethin’. I’ve got this.”

Rumlow caught your bewildered stare and shrugged his broad shoulders, a gesture that didn’t match his cocky smile. He has Peter right where he wants him, and there’s nothing you can do to stop him because Peter is a willing participant running on alcohol and no critical judgment.

You should have left right then and there, but your feet stayed rooted to the floor. You couldn’t leave Peter like this. Sighing, you pulled up a chair to the table and sat beside Peter.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on him,” said Rumlow, putting on a smile too sardonic to be comforting. Too artificial to be genuine.

His lie didn’t surprise you. The hole Peter dug himself did.

The second round went similarly to the first. Flash decisions from Rumlow and molasses-like contemplation from Peter. This time, though, the ante came up to $200. As far as you knew, Peter is only carrying about $2500 in his pockets.

By the time the fourth round started, Peter’s Rolex lies on the table. The ante is up to $1000. Somehow the pot-limit became no-limit.

By the fifth round, Peter made paperless bets. Ante is $10,000. Rumlow knew Peter’s pockets went deep, and he’d keep at it until he struck gold.

Nothing you said stopped him. Peter hadn’t won a single hand. He’s desperate for at least one good hand; he’s got something to prove.

Rumlow kept drinking with each win.

By the seventh round, a crowd is around the table, watching in horrified interest as Peter raises the bet to one million dollars. The most significant amount you’ve ever seen him bet. So far, he’s held this hand for three draws.

Peter’s hair lost all semblance of its previous style, hanging over his forehead in disarray. He’s hunched over in his chair, his jacket’s off, and he’s rolled up his dress shirt’s sleeves to his elbows. His group’s signature tattoo stands out stark against his inner wrist: a roughly sketched spider.

Rumlow, eyes now as bloodshot as Peter’s and face just as flushed under his tan skin, asks, “Think you got something, Parker?”

“Do you?” Peter countered.

“I just might.” Rumlow ran a finger against his bottom lip, then smiled at his hand. “Why don’t you say we make this last Showdown a little more interesting, eh?”

A terrible queasiness wrapped around your gut.

Peter listened intently, his silence Rumlow’s indication to continue.

“$10 million. And the best trading routes. Including foreign connections. I want everything you got.”

You turned to Peter, placing your hand on top of his until he finally looked at you. Your eyes begged him to listen to you for once tonight. “Please don’t do this.”

His reply sounded tortured. “But I can. I have to.”

“Is winning really worth losing everything?” you asked, your voice cracking.

Rumlow chuckled ominously. “Oh, that’s not everything, sweetheart. We both know what’s left.” He gave you a meaningful stare.

Your eyes widened in disgust.

Peter snapped his gaze to Rumlow. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“No, but I want her. Imagine having New York’s best attorney in my arsenal. How many charges has she saved your sorry ass from, Parker? Five? All felonies, right? You lucky son of a bitch.” Rumlow’s smile is sinister. “Not that lucky tonight, huh?”

Peter spoke through gritted teeth. “Back off, Rumlow.”

“To have Deus wrapped around her finger, she must be pretty damn good. Is she, Parker?” goaded Rumlow, ignoring Peter’s warning. “Is she any good?”

Instinct controlled your hands as they seized Peter’s cards before he launched himself over the table and landed an ear-splitting blow to Rumlow’s jaw. Rumlow must’ve known the punch was coming. Still, he hadn’t expected the impact to be that forceful because his eyes blinked in astonishment. The two men behind Rumlow didn’t react fast enough, missing Peter as he stood above Rumlow, grabbed the handgun hidden in the waist of his pants and pressed the muzzle deep into Rumlow’s temple, finger on the trigger.

Rumlow shifted his eyes up to Peter. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Peter’s voice is lethally calm. “Say one more goddamn word about her and you’re dead.”

“Put that gun down, Parker!”

Tony. Shit.

Peter squared his jaw, never taking his eyes off of Rumlow. About six off-duty policemen and the venue’s guards have their weapons trained on Peter.

“I said put the gun down! Now!” Tony had pushed his way through the crowd, Sam and Steve right behind him. You didn’t notice until now how quiet the room became, everyone holding in a collective breath.

“Put it down, son,” Steve gently ordered. He spied Rumlow’s men, their hands tightened on their guns, and shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

Peter didn’t move a muscle. His chest rapidly rises and falls with each breath.

Sam, holding a pair of cuffs in his hand, tried getting through to him. “It’s over. Drop the gun, kid.”

A slow grin spread across Rumlow’s face.

“Peter,” you spoke softly.

His red-rimmed eyes met yours.

“Everything’s gonna be alright. Just put the gun down, okay? Please.”

Two heartbeats passed before his grip on the gun slackened, and he begrudgingly lowered his arm.

Steve and Sam seized on the opportunity. Steve disarmed Peter while Sam restrained Peter’s arms behind his back and tightened the cuffs around his wrists.

Rumlow massaged his injured jaw. “Guess that means I win, Parker.”

Sam yanked Peter back before he could charge at Rumlow. When Peter looked your way, he saw you still held his cards. “I’m still in play.”

“Wait,” you protested. Sam began to guide Peter up to the entrance. “Peter, I can’t—”

He nodded his head furiously, talking over his shoulder as Sam lead him away. “Yes, you can. You know you can, baby. Play the hand.”

You stared helplessly at Peter’s retreating form. It was all on you.

Rumlow watched, unperturbed; his cards still held tight in the hand that wasn’t nursing his jaw.

Slowly, you lowered yourself down into Peter’s chair, sitting directly across from Rumlow’s smirking face. Tony stared at you incredulously. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him rendered speechless. The room’s chatter never recovered, either. All eyes stay glued towards the standoff.

The game is in your hands. Exactly as planned.

[sweetdreamsofgelato]

Henry Cavill & Co. Master List

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Reader Requests: Music-Themed Drabbles

“Tupelo Honey” by Dusty Springfield (Henry x Reader (You); E for Everyone, hurt/comfort, fluff with mildly spicy undertones)

⭐️Characters⭐️

Walter Marshall

Kissing Prompt #7: “I’ve missed you” (T for mild angst)

⭐️ AU!RPF (AU!Real Person Fiction) ⭐️

Ebb and Flow (Bookshop AU!Henry Cavill x Reader (you); E for Everyone; pining; fluff; FEELS; mild adult language)

⭐️ RPF (Real Person Fiction) ⭐️

Henry Cavill Imagines (🌶 indicates 18+)

Henry slips during an interview that he is secretly married and has a daughter (E for everyone)

Henry Cavill  x Reader Requests and Prompts (🌶 indicates 18+)

Master Chef (E for Everyone; fluff)

Lost and Found (E for Everyone; unmitigated snark)

The Cat’s Meow (T/M; fluff; allusions to smut (nothing explicit) )

Pins and Needles (E for Everyone; fluff; mild angst/anxiety; descriptions of medical procedures)

Shared Histories (E for Everyone; fluff; maybe mild angst; very gentle references to death)

Play Date (E for Everyone; Fluff; mentions of drinking; general snark)

Kissing Prompt (T/M: Heavy Kissing, but nothing explicit)

Stormy Nights (T/M: Anxiety; Smut Adjacent (nothing explicit); Fluff)

Midnight Snack (E for Everyone: Fluff; Angst; Brief Kissing; Existential Crisis if you squint)

Fireside (E for Everyone: Fluff)

Henry Cavill x Reader Drabbles and One Shots (🌶 indicates 18+)

Intrusive Thoughts (T/M; fluff with mildly spicy undertones; gentle references to body image issues/body dysmorphia)

Tis the Season (T/M; Snarky humour; light smattering of spice; nothing explicit)

Unexpected Visitor (Silly Fluff; T/M for language and mild sexual innuendo)

Sharing is Caring (T/M for sexual innuendo, but nothing explicit)

Kiss Me, Mr Cavill (E for Everyone; Fluff; Mild Angst; Kal)

🌶 Lock and Key (M: 18+ SMUT; PWP; Adult language and situations)

Game Night (E for Everyone: Fluff)

Morning Light (E for Everyone: Fluff; Mild Angst)

Henry Cavill x Reader Multi-part (🌶 indicates 18+)

Wedding Knells (Angst; Fluff; Romance; SMUT; Adult language and situations, mentions of drinking) (Completed)

[Part 1]; [🌶Part 2]; [🌶Part 3] 

In the Pursuit of Happiness (Angst; Fluff; Humour; Romance; Slow Burn/Eventual smut; Adult Language and Situations (UPDATED: 5 APRIL 2021)

[Ch 1]; [Ch 2]; [Ch 3]; [Ch 4]; [Ch 5]

Midsummer Misadventures (Humour, Romance, Slow Burn/Eventual smut; Adult Language and Situations) (UPDATED: 2 MAY 2022)

[Ch 1]; [Ch 2]; [Ch 3]; [Ch 4]; [CH 5]; [CH 6]; [CH 7]

       Bonus Material/Cutting Room Floor:

       The Plan (anon prompt)

       Hair Raising

[adurowrites]

A Percy Weasley Snippet

The lecture hall was quiet, but not perfectly silent. Percy could hear the scratching of quill on parchment, the creak of wooden chairs, and every now and again, a hard exhale as someone met a question they weren’t prepared to answer. 

There were twenty test-takers in the room, Percy included. One proctor sat at the front of the room, the other took slow laps about the room, sometimes muttering revealing charms to ensure no one was cheating. The soft footfalls paused somewhere in the back of the room. To the left, a witch coughed, hoarse and rough and momentarily distracting. Some of the test-takers had put silencing bubbles around their desks, wanting absolute quiet to focus on the exam. Percy preferred the ambient noise of the room. It made him think of Hogwarts, of taking his NEWTs in the Great Hall with the rest of his year. 

For as much as he hadn’t been particularly popular, or even well-liked, Percy had enjoyed his time at Hogwarts. He’d gotten along well-enough with his housemates, but he had found true camaraderie in the Ravenclaws of his year. He’d often wondered why the Hat hadn’t put him in Ravenclaw. He’d asked for it at his Sorting, even though he’d be breaking a family tradition and the thought of disappointing his parents terrified him. But it was the logical choice, and so he’d politely asked to be sorted into Ravenclaw. Apparently it was that request, and his bravery to buck tradition, that had the Hat put him into Gryffindor instead. 

But he was too studious for most of his house, and he’d spent most of his time studying with the Ravenclaws. There wasn’t much conversation, just quiet focus and the sense of belonging. Percy had missed that comfortable atmosphere as he’d been studying for the barrister’s exam. His flat, as cozy as it was, had the tendency to make him feel lonely. He enjoyed peace and quiet, but he also enjoyed company. Rather than sit alone, he’d done most of his studying in the Ministry library, keeping company with the various interns, undersecretaries, and paralegals.

He came to the end of the exam and glanced at the clock. There were four hours allowed for completion, and he’d hoped to save an hour and a half for review. He was behind by fifteen minutes. He grimaced and turned back to the start of the test. 

Just before the three-hour mark, a wizard got up and strode towards the proctor at the front. He handed his parchment over and left with a self-satisfied smile. A witch followed a few minutes later, looking a bit disgruntled. Percy figured she had wanted to be the first to complete the exam. He used play such games with his classmates at Hogwarts. Who was the first to finish? Who could write a paper the fastest? He used to think that finishing first was a sign of intelligence. But as he’d gotten older, he’d realized that taking his time with his work was a sign of maturity and wisdom. After all, the quality of the work was far more important than winning a silly race. 

So Percy stayed in his seat and reviewed his answers with the time remaining. There were only a few others that stayed to the end with him, although they appeared to have lingered out of necessity rather than patience. One witch looked disheveled, her hands twisting at her hair, and another wizard appeared damp with sweat. Or tears, Percy couldn’t tell. They filtered out into the hall where the other test-takers were waiting. The two who had finished first were arguing over a couple of questions, and they’d created quite a debate. 

Percy didn’t join. Instead he grabbed his portfolio from the locker and checked it for any messages. The Ministry knew he was taking his test today, but there were still a couple of work-related messages that had appeared inside - questions about the Minister’s meeting with the court, a few requests for paperwork, and a couple of messages wishing him luck, including one from Minister Fudge himself. 

Percy felt a flush of pleasure at the notice. (Yes, his name was spelled wrong, but Fudge was notoriously bad at names.) The personal note meant that Fudge was indeed considering him for position of Assistant. Now, all Percy needed, was just to have passed the bar. 

He took a seat on the benches along the wall and responded to what questions he could while he waited for the proctors to tally the scores. it only took half-an-hour, and then the door to the lecture hall opened. There was a rush and a minor traffic jam as the other test-takers raced inside. The results would be posted on the blackboard, and Percy felt a wave of nervousness. What if he hadn’t passed? What if the Minister had wished him well, only for Percy to have to re-take it? There was no harm in retaking the exam, of course. Plenty of barristers and government officials did. But Percy had never failed a test in his life.

....Divination didn’t count. 

He got up, hands clutching his portfolio to his chest and slowly walked into the room. He logically understood that he hadn’t failed. He logically knew he’d done well, very well in fact. But what if he’d somehow mixed up his answers? What if he’d forgotten to put his name on the test? What if - ?

The other wizards and witches were crowded around the parchment posted on the board. Some of them were celebrating. Some of them were swearing. All of them turned as he approached, and he saw a myriad of emotions cross their faces as they looked at him. Some were openly envious. Others looked impressed. Some gave him congratulatory smiles. 

“There he is!” the proctor said, stepping forward, his hand outstretched. “It’s not every year we have someone achieve a perfect score. Congratulations, Mr. Weasley.”

Percy automatically shook his hand, his eyes going to the parchment, and there it was. His name at the top, and beside it, a 500, a perfect score. He felt a relieved, incredulous, proud smile spread over his face. 

“With that score, you’ll have your pick of law firms,” the proctor said. “Might you consider Bolgers and Fawcett?” A card was slipped into his hand.

“He’s not going into law,” one of the test-takers said. “He’s in government. Senior Assistant to the Secretary.”

“I know,” said the proctor. He gave Percy a sly sort of smile. “Just in case you’re looking for something more lucrative.”

Bolgers and Fawcett was one of the wealthiest, most powerful law firms in the Wizarding UK. Percy knew the starting salary was easily triple what he was making now. 

He shook his head. “I’m quite satisfied with my current position, thank you.”

“Not if you’re taking the bar,” the proctor said. “You’ve got your sights set a bit higher. Well, when you tire of life as a public servant, let us know.”

“Thank you.”

The proctor left and Percy accepted more congratulations from the test-takers, some given more graciously than others. He responded with his own, and then once he was able, he slipped away, back to the Ministry. He still had work to do. 

He did divert by the Ministry’s owlry to jot down a quick message. I passed the barrister’s. A perfect score!

At another time he might have written more. He might have written about how rare a perfect score was, and that less than a hundred people had ever achieved a perfect 500 in the history of the exam. He might have written about the proctor trying to poach him for Bolgers and Fawcett, or about the test-takers recognizing him. But he knew by now that such additions would only be taken as arrogance. It seemed unfair to him, that only his boastings were considered prideful. In truth, Percy may have been boastful as a child, but he’d been forced to speak out about his achievements because no one else seemed to recognize them, or understand how significant they were. He’d grown up insisting on his own merit, celebrating his own accomplishments, and because of it, he’d been labeled prideful. He’d tried to be quieter about it lately, but it seemed even small comments on his success was enough to considered bragging. 

“Where shall I send it, sir?” the postmaster asked.

“The Bur -,” Percy cut himself off. He remembered the last time he shared such news with his parents. They ignored the message. They were unimpressed. No, worse than unimpressed. They were disapproving. 

His siblings had been happy for him though - they’d gotten him a gift for his office. And his parents had seemed apologetic over Christmas. He could try to reach out again, see if the fences had been mended. 

But if they hadn’t... Percy swallowed hard. It had hurt, when no one knew about his promotion, when his mother and father had kept it secret, like they were ashamed of him. It had felt like he’d done something wrong. It had felt like he didn’t belong. If it happened again... Percy didn’t think he could bear it. 

“Charles Weasley,” Percy said instead. “The Dragon’s Repast, Romania.”

“Very good, sir.”

Percy left, feeling slightly easier at his decision. Charlie wouldn’t ignore the missive. Charlie wouldn’t disapprove. Percy could imagine him, getting the owl and reading the message, and letting out a big whoop of joy for him. Charlie might even tell his friends about it - how his younger brother had gotten a perfect score on the bar exam. And the next time he came to visit, he’d insist on taking Percy out to celebrate. 

Percy nodded. That was enough. As long as he had Charlie, it would be enough. 

-----

(So, I have more head-canon about Percy, but it doesn’t really fit into my fic. I thought I’d plot a bit here on tumblr because I didn’t think it was hefty enough for Ao3, and it was just meant to be a little drabble, a tidbit, a snippet. But it doubled in length and then turned a little angsty at the end. So I may have to put it up on Ao3. 

For those folks confused, this is my interpretation of Percy Weasley from my fanfic series The Code, found on Ao3 and FFN. It’s not really about Percy, but Draco Malfoy and Bill Weasley.)

[faunusrights]

if it’s a gentleman’s sport then why am i, ruby rose, so good at it? - snooker au

i straight up started writing this at like 11:45pm on my phone directly onto tumblr before i passed out for the night. is this garbage. yes. do i care. no. this is a part of the snooker au i’ve joked about before, which is a winter/ruby Sports Anime-Esque adventure into one of my favourite niche sports, up there with professional air hockey and rally. snooker is good! you should check it out! it’s like pool but more confusing, and you have to wear a waistcoat whilst you play it. i don’t make the rules, i merely enforce them.

///

“I never thought I’d say this,” Blake says out of nowhere, and their eyes are going sort of wide with the realisation, catching on the golden lights of the hall and glimmering a soft amber, “but I actually think I’m compelled by this horseshit.”

Weiss sighs so hard that it sounds more like a wheeze, but Ruby’s already overjoyed, turning towards Blake and Weiss with her cue held overhead, readying a cheer. “I knew it! I told you! Snooker is so good, right?”

Weiss had known coming to Patch’s single snooker hall to watch Ruby practise had been a bad idea for myriad reasons, the chief of which was that Ruby is almost certainly on a crash-course with Weiss’s older sister as she climbs the precarious ranks at an almost flippant pace, but the second was that the last thing she needs is for her datemate to find literally anything interesting in a sport about knocking balls together. Tragically, Weiss has always been somewhat adjacent to snooker given its status as the Gentleman’s Sport and its broad appeal in Atlas, and she’d hoped vaguely supporting her sister’s career whilst also strategically moving herself to Vale meant Weiss would never have to interact with it or any of its players again. Alas...

“It’s deceptively simple,” Blake muses aloud, and Yang tuts from where she’s stood at the opposite end of the snooker table, waiting for Ruby to take her turn.

“Yeah, and deceptively slow when your opponent needs to take five minutes to brag about it between shots. Chop chop, Ruby, we’re not hanging around here all day.”

Ruby pouts, making a show of rounding the table to eye up her angles. “But it’s so fun to talk about! It’s, like, ASMR the sport! And what with all the strategy and the thinking ahead, it’s like... it’s like... ball chess!”

Weiss facepalms. “Maidens have mercy.”

“I’m not wrong,” Ruby insists. “It’s exactly like chess. Ball chess.”

“It is a lot like chess,” Yang admits, and Weiss is glad she looks about as glum about it as Weiss feels. Blake, unfortunately, still looks horribly captivated. What a disaster.

“Ball chess,” Weiss repeats, and it hurts her to even say. “My sister would tie your spine in a knot for that one.”

Ruby snorts, but she finally leans over the table, eyeing up the distant black that Yang had missed. It’s a long pot — Yang had tried to get the cue ball to safety and had failed that endeavour, too, managing the distance but not the snooker — but Ruby doesn’t even hesitate before lining herself up, eyes focusing between her target and her goal before striking true, the cue ball sailing smooth down the table... before it catches the angle just so, the black knocked into the corner pocket with such ease she may as well have picked up the damn thing and dropped it in herself. The cue bounces off the foot cushion before rolling to a calculated stop for an angle on the next red, and Ruby nods appreciatively before turning back to Weiss with a grin, Yang quick to replace the black onto its spot at the bottom of the table.

“Yeah, but she’s gonna have to be nice to me. Way I see it, we’ll first meet in the hall during, like, semi-finals or whatever. Gotta have manners, Weiss.”

“She’ll obliterate you,” Weiss fires back, because she might not care for snooker but she’s Winter’s number one fan hell or high water, and that means tossing out the threats. “As soon as you miss, she’ll clear the table and wipe the floor with you.”

Yang makes a wriggly hand gesture at that. “I dunno. Your sister’s pretty fucking methodical, but I’ve yet to see anyone put Ruby in a position she can’t cheese her way out of. I don’t think you can actually, like, snooker her in a way that matters.”

“It’s trajectories,” Ruby cuts in as she lines up her next shot on the red — there’s only two remaining after this, and Yang’s score is lagging dangerously behind with Ruby’s determined focus to keep herself centred on the black. “Even then, you just have to get fancy with your curves. A snooker is just when your shot isn’t a hundred-percent chance, but I can do a lot with ninety.”

At that, she sinks the red, the cue ball puttering its way back around to give her another straight shot on the black to the opposite corner pocket. Yang’s already losing the will to live, it seems. Weiss can’t blame her. Blake, however, seems more interested than ever. “So, Winter’s methodical and you’re... what, spontaneous?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ruby answers, shaking her head. “It’s more like... since we’re calling this ball chess—“ (“No we’re not,” Weiss interjects to no avail) “—it’s more like Winter’s one of those chess players who knows all the strats, right? Like, uh, Queen’s Gambit or Fool’s Mate or whatever the shit they’re called. So long as every move goes to plan, she’s pretty much unstoppable. Me? I’m like one of those kids who gets a Rubik’s Cube and then completely ignores all the instructions. Like, I totally mess it up before I solve it anyway.”

“Which Ruby has done before,” Yang adds solemnly, and Ruby grins.

“Which I have done before! So, with Winter, as long as she doesn’t miss the pot or fuck up her safety, it’s her game. But I like the unexpected! I like being jammed into a new situation and figuring it out from there. It means I adapt a whole lot better then I fuck up and miss my shot, or the cue doesn’t end up where I planned.”

Blake nods, doing that thing where they sit up straight and cross their arms because they’re getting really quite engaged with the matter, and Weiss hasn’t yet found the inner strength to tell them it makes them look like a carbon copy of their father. “Polar opposites, then?”

“I guess,” Ruby shrugs. “Like, if you give her an inch she’ll take the mile, but if she screws up, she’s gonna have to work hard to put me somewhere I can’t crawl out of again.”

This is why Ruby’s nickname in these halls is The Escape Artist, and it’s the entire reason Weiss absolutely does not, in any capacity, want Ruby and Winter to play against each other. It’ll either be a match that’ll end in as few frames as physically possible, or a match that goes on until Weiss crumbles into fucking dust, and the odds are so 50/50 that she doesn’t like the look of either of them.

It would help if Ruby stopped being so fucking good at snooker, potting the black again with such ease that it’s like breathing at this point. Yang hisses between her teeth, and Ruby raises a brow as she stands up again.

“It’s ungentlemanly conduct to quit a game before you gotta do snookers,” Ruby points out, and Yang scowls.

“Ruby, I have done the maths, and there is not a chance in hell I’m winning now. The day I manage to get points off you missing is the day hell opens up and swallows me whole,” Yang says, though she doesn’t move to quit just yet, still holding onto her cue despite the knowledge it’s no good to her now. “Just clear the table so we can go and get lunch.”

“We could do that,” Ruby agrees. And then, she swings her head around to look at Weiss with an obnoxious grin. “Unless...”

“Ruby Rose,” Weiss snarls, “if you intentionally miss this final red just to keep this game on life support, I will end you.”

[giomagnetism]

wips that went nowhere 4/? in which this in its entirety is mostly out of date and almost certainly will be entirely obsolete by Splatoon 3, but i still like it so, perish!

Agent Three lives in a penthouse.

This is a fact known only to Agent Four, who comes over to use the tv for video games, and Cuttlegear’s Agency, who bribed—er, rather lent it to them as a means of moving them closer to Headquarters.

It is also known to an inexplicable number of Octolings.

It isn’t a remarkable building, all things considered: modest and situated a fifteen minutes’ monorail ride from the heart of downtown, considered prime real estate by the rest of its residents who pay half their salary for a living room the size of a cubicle. Perhaps the most interesting thing about it is the number of plants crawling over its exterior, the product of an early and deeply misunderstood attempt at green-tech overhaul, and its age; it sits squat and square among taller, sleeker skyscrapers, as old-fashioned and stubborn as its crowning resident.

Most of this design philosophy is carried through to the penthouse proper. Its space is respectable but horrendously utilized, featuring overly-tall windows; impractically high ceilings, rendering something less like a second floor and more like a series of mezzanines; a maze of a floor plan; and a bright white paint job. But all this is typical of the average penthouse, and what is really conspicuous about it is the one assemblage of windows which have been blanketed entirely and perpetually with heavy layered curtains, obscuring one long stretch of the second floor from view.

It is behind these curtains that Agent Three is currently drowsing over a half-sanitized, totally unconscious Octoling.

Their name is Soda, and they are a five-foot-eight bluff of a person, built and tempered both in the vein of your favorite wrestling heel. Despite the circumstances, they are dressed in a black turtleneck and the loudest pair of floral bell bottoms this side of the 1970s. They are the least weird thing about this room.

If the rest of this building prided itself on being ordinary, its oddities and curiosities only visible when looked at sidelong, this room never got the memo. It spread the length of the curtained wall unbroken and lined with a series of tables and desks, twice the width of a hallway and walled on the opposing side with repurposed wood boards. Rusted metal bracings slanted up to meet the curtain rods at regular intervals, illuminated sparsely by exposed fluorescent tubes and vintage lamps jammed wherever one would fit, all wound back to a hulking terrarium at the end of the room where seven miniature Zapfish sulked.

All this was to say nothing of the décor, if it could be called that: nearest the entrance was also the most normal, barring the thick metal sliding door: an office chair sprawled abandoned before the main base of operations, an old oak table strewn with papers and framed with conventional office amenities. At the far end, a generator was crammed beneath the Zapfishes’ terrarium, but there the expectation ground to a forcible halt.

The bulk of the room was occupied by sets of equipment which would not look out of place in a mad scientist’s lab. Spindly machines and a haphazard arrangement of monitors sprawled alongside a jungle of wires against the wood; below them squatted a deep cabinet covered in—among other devices—an arrangement of needles and vials full of a greenish phosphorescent goop. Another longer, narrower table opposes them, the resting place of a hastily-discarded dark blue CQ-80 and pocket notebook. Here, in a cheap padded chair, is where Soda dozes.

Just beyond was the infirmary bed where the Octoling lay: a little scuffed but competently outfitted, the heart-monitor reporting a stable, if slow, pulse; its head jammed up against the myriad of other devices.

[kazeofthemagun]

@yetremains A meeting in a strange world

The crowd spilling down the street out the various industrial buildings proved simple enough to blend into. Nobody seemed to pay attention to someone like him, as odd as he looked compared to most humans - of formidable height, with a tattooed face, clad in a black cape that helped hide his golden arm. No, this place was different. It almost felt like Wonderland - full of indescribable creatures, so myriad that the concept of ‘normal’ no longer existed. He took a sharp left and entered a quieter side alley.

It had been a few days since a warp gone wrong brought him here. At first, he thought the world to be just another one of Chaos' conquered kingdoms, but soon enough, he realized there was something different about it. First of all, he could not warp back out the same way he came in. The dark, Chaotic energy in the air he could still feel quite well - but the flavor of it was off.

At the moment, however, he was more concerned about the flavors of whatever was inside the vending machine. Eh, it was not as though he could be poisoned easily.

The concept of a 'vending machine' was one he initially learned of on Earth. How convenient the knowledge turned out to be.

The Windarian crouched, selecting a random packaged food item from the list and excavating a coin from his pocket. He inserted it with a click, and waited. Eyes of cold blue tracked the slow and steady movement of a twisting piece of metal as it prepared to release his purchase. Any second now.

...Any moment. Truly, this piece of junk made him wait. He had no time to waste. He was the Hunter of Chaos. He needed to hunt. Always. Give him the chips, damnation.

It took him a considerable while to realize the thing had, indeed, jammed. An anger bubbled within, concealed behind the warrior's usual, expressionless facade. Maroon brows furrowed.

And just like that, the heavy Weapon-arm shot out from underneath his dark garment, punching a hole straight through the center of the glass window. He retrieved three packets, and promptly disappeared them alongside the Magun beneath his cape - like some magician’s trick.

His head turned ever-so-slightly, just enough to side-glare at a woman who had entered the alley. Judging him, was she? He cared little. All that concerned him was the food he has acquired and, after a short break, returning to his quest.

He opened one pack of snacks and began to chew mechanically. Maintaining eye contact all the while, of course. It was a little contest of wills. And who with a willpower greater than a vagrant summoner reduced to eating chips by the back door of a run-down pub on a dystopian world? There were worse things he has had to endure. And he endured them all the same.

Don't like what you are seeing? Leave. It was quite straightforward, really.