#Stylish Napkins

[taffertydesigns]

Selecting the Perfect Napkins for an Elegant Afternoon Tea Experience

Afternoon tea is a cherished tradition that calls for attention to detail, elegance, and refined presentation. Among the essential elements that contribute to the overall charm of this delightful affair are the napkins. In this blog post, we explore the best napkin choices that will add a touch of sophistication and grace to your afternoon tea gatherings. When selecting napkins for afternoon…

[double-dare-designs]

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Let your heart be light

Next year all our troubles, will be out of sight”

Songwriters: Ralph Blane / Hugh Martin

https://www.zazzle.com/z/q803s480?rf=238828267405258083

[yourcrazyboyokris]

We should be making more houses out of sticks and hay and stuff

I mean it’s better and more stable and I can check it out once it’s done also did I mention pigs will be very comfortable in stick huts

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

fairest city food culture

This is a supplementary post to continue off of this larger TWST food culture compilation post (as that one is getting super long as is). Here, I'll cover all the new food-related lore dropped about the Shaftlands and specifically about Fairest City, which features in the Tapis Rouge event.

Shaftlands

Macarons are one of the Shaftlands' signature sweets. Cream and raspberry, as well as lychee, are the popular flavors at the moment.

Macarons can be frozen so recipients can eat them fresh.

There are people who collect the stylish boxes that macarons come in.

According to Vil, mixing flavored syrups with carbonated liquids is common in the Shaftlands.

Stewed foods are the Shaftlands' specialty. This is because there are many stories about the Fairest Queen preparing many foods in a pot.

Apples are the most popular fruit in the Shaftlands. They are used for drinks, desserts, jams, and even savory meal items.

Fairest City

There are few food stands in Fairest City. This is because eating on the streets is seen as bad manners.

There is a strong cafe culture.

Fairest City is famous for its cuisine and sweets. Their sweets in particular are well developed due to the city's cafe culture.

Sweets with a pleasant appearance are popular. The most famous of patisseries make sweets which are like pieces of art.

Some sweets featured in famous patisseries include tarts, chocolate, mousse, macarons, brioche, roll cakes, financiers, mille-feuilles, and cakes shaped like apples with apple sauce inside, caramel apples, etc.

A specialty of Fairest City is "cream puff rings", which are cream puffs in ring shapes. They are meant to resemble wheels on rail cars, since Fairest City is located near mines. It is said that the cream puff rings (which is filled with a thick, high-calorie cream) were originally given to hard-working miners to restore their energy.

Luxury stores may offer amenities in addition to providing their services or helping customers shop. For example, staff may offer VIP clients drinks or chocolates.

Fairest City’s hotels have swanky restaurants built into them for guests to dine in. The fanciest of eating establishments are five star restaurants that have full sets of cutlery and napkins which you unfold and place in your lap.

Fancy dining establishments offer food à la carte (ordered by the plate) and prix fixe style (picking your courses from a predetermined selection).

There is a drink called “Diabolo Menthe” served in Fairest City. It is a spearmint flavored syrup mixed with a slightly carbonated liquid. Very refreshing! (This is most likely a reference to the potion that the Evil Queen drinks to transform into an old woman.)

Eric Venue, Vil’s famous movie star father, uses a five-star restaurant to cater buffets for his movie shoots for every 6 hours of work. They also have snacks and drinks on demand (“craft services”), which includes coffee, milk, tea, juice, chocolate, fruits, and pancakes and waffles. Lots of light foods!

Many dishes at high-class eateries are French. For example, hors d’oeuvres might include escargot (snails), foie gras de canard (duck foie gras), and terrine a la campagne (country-style terrine). Courses are also named in French (viande and poisson courses, etc.).

Some dishes served include boeuf bourguignon (a beef and red wine stew) filet mignon de porc aux pruneaux (a pork filet with dried plum; it is made with pig heart, bouillon, and sauce), and flounder poêlé (flounder with an herb sauce). The beef bourguignon is a favorite dish in the five-star hotel restaurant that caters for Eric Venue.

Pork, especially the heart, is prized meat in Fairest City. Many of its dishes are pork-based. There is a story about how the Fairest Queen needed a heart for one of her potions and had her huntsman hunt as a tribute to her; the filet mignon de porc aux pruneaux dish was born from this legend.

The restaurant that caters for Eric Venue has a specialty dessert called tart fine pomme. It is a thin tart with slices apples. The restaurant uses the highest quality of apples (from Harveston), which are grown in a special soil, for their dishes and drinks.

[drnikolatesla]

The Lifestyle of Nikola Tesla

Nikola Tesla was a very tall and skinny man, standing over six feet and weighing around one hundred and forty pounds. He had light blue-gray eyes, which was considered odd because he was of Serbian descent who were typically known to have darker eyes. Tesla, probably joking, said to a reporter that his eyes used to be dark, but using his mind so much had made them many shades lighter. The inventor was known to be very elegant, stylish, meticulous in his grooming, clothing, and regimented in his daily activities.

Tesla never married and remained a celibate and a bachelor his entire life. Tesla was solely committed to the principles of science above all else, and for this reason, he denied the love and companionship of a female counterpart. He chose to lead a solitary life, hoping only that this sacrifice to work would make his name live on through many centuries still to come.

One of his few hobbies other than work was feeding birds. Tesla’s respect for birds began when he was a child growing up in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He and his local friends made a sport out of catching live birds, and when Tesla himself caught a couple of keepers, he and his friend found themselves getting attacked by a murder of crows. The revolt forced the boys to release the birds and take cover. In America, he made it a specialty of his to treat sick pigeons, which seems odd because he was quite the germaphobe. He would feed them every day on his daily walks and would also take in wounded pigeons and nurse them back to health at his hotel in New York. He seemed to have had a better connection with birds than with most people. In 1917, he was awarded the Edison Medal, and upon receiving the award, the inventor could not be found. He was later found feeding pigeons near a local library and was persuaded back to the ceremony to give his speech.

Tesla suffered from an obsessive compulsive disorder, and because of this, he developed some very strange idiosyncrasies and phobias, such as having a strong dislike against earrings, pearls, peaches, and touching other people's hair. He counted the steps in his walks and calculated the cubical contents of soup plates, coffee cups, and pieces of food. All repeated acts or operations he performed had to be divisible by three.

While living in New York, Tesla kept his laboratories absolutely clean and pure, refused to touch other people, would wear gloves while shaking hands, and insisted upon personally cleaning his own plates and silverware at restaurants with his requested 18 napkins. This cleanliness was all intentional because, as a child, he almost died from cholera, which raged in the region of his hometown Lika due to contaminated water. Many found Tesla’s actions strange, but to him, it was a very important measure to protect his health.

In another way to keep his body clean and pure, Tesla invented an electrical apparatus that could give the human body a dry bath by passing millions of volts of electricity through it (similar to his demonstrations in the early 1890s where he passed electricity through his own body). His oscillator was a small, drum-like object about two feet long by one foot wide and could apply half a million volts of electricity through his body. The large amount of electricity would affect the germs without destroying the cells of the tissues of the body. Though his oscillator seemed like a fountain of youth, Tesla maintained his conventional ideas of health. He bathed daily, believed in plenty of exercise, and would walk eight or ten miles every day. He said that he never would take a cab or other conveyance and relied on his leg power for transportation.

His diet was a crucial part of his daily routine to remain healthy and to prolong the length of his life. He was very fussy and particular about his food: he ate very little, but what he did eat had to be the very best. He wasn’t a complete vegetarian; he ate meat, just not very occasionally (perhaps once or twice a year). He did believe though that humankind should move towards a vegetarian diet, not just because eating meat the way we do is “barbarous,” as he said, but because he believed the vegetarian diet is more beneficial to the human body.

In his later years, he never smoked, drank tea, coffee, alcoholic beverages, or consumed any other stimulant. Since he saw life through the lens of his mechanistic theory of life, he took great care of his body as if it were a machine properly maintaining its best efficiency.

As for sleep, Tesla reported that he was a poor sleeper and had very unusual resting patterns. He claimed to only sleep a few hours each day and would oftentimes practice polyphasic sleep where he would take short naps for restoration instead of sleeping for a long period of time.

Unfortunately for Tesla and his clean and healthy lifestyle, in 1937, at the age of 81, he was hit by a taxicab during one of his regular walks. It is likely he was jaywalking because he admittedly was known to do so. He broke three ribs and seriously injured his back. Tesla would be bedridden for months while refusing to see a doctor, and on top of this would catch pneumonia, which would plague his health for the last 5 years of his life. I believe this accident and sickness would play a major role in the rapid decline of his health, both mentally and physically, and his goal of living past a century would never be realized.

Nikola Tesla had a unique and eccentric lifestyle and was known for his intense work habits, often spending long hours in his laboratory. So much so that his friends would seriously worry about his health. Financial difficulties were a recurring theme in his life, and he died in relative obscurity. Despite these challenges, Tesla's legacy is marked by his groundbreaking contributions to the field of electrical engineering.

[aloysiavirgata]

(if you are accepting prompts!) what iffffff you wrote a soft gentle little fic in which Scully has a spectacularly unlovely head cold and after some grouching Mulder looks after her? There are so many moments of peril on x files that sometimes it’s nice when the enemy is just a simple rhinovirus, lol.

He doesn’t even attempt to make it himself. Calls ahead to Loeb’s with his order, which he accepts from a stylish young Mexican man whose name tag reads Pierre.

“A sheynem dank,” Mulder says, echoing the grandmother who called Samantha a shaineh maideleh.

Pierre nods. “Bitte, baby,” he says. “De nada.”

***

Mulder clomps up her stairs with Puritan determination. He feels that since he did not cook the food himself he must exert some other effort for it. His soul is at eternal war with itself.

He doesn’t knock; lets himself in with the Home Depot key Scully had made for him around the time that Tooms wanted into her pants for all the wrong reasons. It sticks a little still, even after so many years. He’s rarely had to use it - when aren’t they together?

A hacking noise from her bedroom, something wet being coughed. Spat.

Mulder helps himself to a bowl, a plate, a spoon.

“I’b arbed,” she rasps from down the hall. “I’b a Federal Agent.”

“Don’t shoot,” Mulder calls back, hunting down a napkin. “I am a poor boy from a poor family.” Her mother wears Revlon and his wears Guerlain.

He tips some soup and two of the matzo balls into a bowl, wedges one of the challah rolls next to it. He puts the leftovers in the fridge.

Mulder carries the plate down the hall, the nearly-full bowl sloshing dangerously atop.

He enters Scully’s bedroom. She’s been upgrading over the past couple of years, replacing her IKEA basics with good secondhand finds in cherry and walnut. The candle she’s lit smells like white flowers with thick, creamy petals.

Scully is tucked into bed like an Austen heroine, all delicate pallor and genteel unhappiness. Her nose is pink-tipped and raw, hair in a ponytail. She’s wearing a gray sweatshirt instead of her usual pajamas.

Mulder sets the food down on her nightstand, next to a vase of dried roses and her Yaqui slide holster. A speed loader. There’s a well-framed Monet print over the bed.

Pat Conroy’s Beach Music is open face down on her lap, surrounded by crumpled tissues. She doesn’t look happy to see him, her purple-shadowed eyes narrowing a bit.

“Go away,” she says. Sneezes.

“Brought you some soup,” he says, unnecessarily. Points at it, also unnecessarily.

“Bulder,” she sniffs. “Go hobe. I don’t like being fussed over. I hab a cold, dot Ebola.”

“Too bad,” he says. “I’m going to. Do you have Vick’s Vapor Rub? You really should have Vick’s Vapor Rub.”

She closes her eyes. Pinches the bridge of her nose, centering herself. “It’s dot your fault I’b sick,” she says, looking back over at him after a moment.

“I dragged you into the woods again. You fell down a hole full of corpses! You’ve been in remission for like…twenty minutes.” He jabs the spoon at her.

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t get a cold frob being in the woods. Or frob being chilly. You get a cold frob a virus.”

He feigns outrage. “Excuse me, but are you contradicting noted excellent mother-slash-world-class-epidemiologist Doctor Teena Mulder MD?”

This sends Scully into a flurry of coughing. She swats at him in annoyance. “Ugh,” she says at last. “You see why I can’t hab you here, you’re a lousy durse.”

Mulder takes her hand, pale as a kid glove. He shoves the spoon into it, squeezes her fingers about the handle. “Eat the soup or I’m calling your mom. I’m calling BILL.”

She narrows her eyes again. “You wouldn’t.”

“I think you’re well aware that I’m capable of being overly dramatic when the wind is southerly and the fancy strikes.” He holds the plate before her like an offering to a goddess.

Scully considers him. “You did get us out ob the teabwork sebidar,” she observes. “Techdically.”

“I did,” he agrees.

“You bade be sing,” she adds. Reproachful.

He grins. “The angels all were singing out of tune, And hoarse with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, Or curb a runaway young star or two.”

Scully looks at the spoon in her hand for the first time, as though wondering how it got there.

“Byron,” she says, a little smile. She picks up the roll, examines it. Peers at the soup. Sneezes again. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

“Caroline Lamb,”Mulder replies. He doesn’t point out that Caroline Lamb had been Byron’s lover, that she’d sent him a clipping of her pubic hair in the mail. He certainly doesn’t think of the juncture between Scully’s thighs at all, whether it matches the drapes, whether it tastes like kettle corn and Vineyard whitecaps in July. Lobster rolls and saltwater taffy.

He’d meant it, about the sleeping bag. He wishes there had been a sleeping bag and he is so, so grateful there was no sleeping bag.

Scully sniffles again, defeated. “You got be batzo ball soup?”

He thumbs an escaped tendril of hair back from the sweep of her extraordinary cheekbone.

“I did,” he murmurs back. He sets the plate down between them. He peels the roll open, yeasty and fragrant, and dunks it into the golden broth.

He raises it to her mouth.

Scully sucks at it, draws it past her lips. She bites. Chews, swallows. She holds his eyes with hers. She catches an escaped droplet with her tongue.

“Good,” she mumbles. Watches him dip the dry part back into the bowl. “Thank you.”

He feeds her another bite. Her mouth opens like a snapdragon, like an oyster in the tide. She drops her gaze this time. Her guard.

They complete the entire roll this way, and one matzo ball. Silent, slurpy. Scully’s lids droop, her lashes brushing her cheeks.

“Sleepy,” she mumbles, curling onto her side. Her paperback falls to the floor.

Mulder returns the food to the night table. He strokes her hair until she’s out cold, snoring a little. He curls into the bed as well, his nose to hers. He touches her philtrum with his pointer finger. He traces the tender pink whelk of her ear.

They sleep for hours until she coughs awake, gasping, her thin chest heaving. Mulder rubs circles between her scapulae.

“Go hobe,” she says, knees drawn, leaning against his chest. “You deed to sleep.”

He puts his arms around her, drops a kiss on her tangled head. “Okay,” he agrees.

She’s out again in moments. He holds her upright until he drifts off as well.

They sleep until morning. He feeds her soup for breakfast, calls into work with a case of Ebola.

[bebe-writes-stuff]

Baji x Reader - Part 2 with smut

Go read part 1

You groan, slamming your head onto the wall in front of you, as you reminisced about what happened last night,

"Regarding your last letter. Yeah, I'd love to go out with you. <3"

And that's what brought you here, trying to pick an outfit, for your date with Baji. You were simply losing your mind, should you wear a cool outfit, or a cute preppy one. You pulled out your phone, quickly scrolling down in your contacts to find your best friend, Emma.

"Oh, hey Y/n! What's up?"

You heard her cute voice, which calmed you a little,

"Uhhhh, help me please, Em."

You whined in a childish tone

"Oh-no, what did you do this time?"

She already sounded disappointed

"NOTHING!...I have a date and I'm not sure what to wear...please help me."

"Pfft, are you serious? You always look good though, I never thought you'd have the I-don't-know-what-to-wear type problem. Hmm, just wear whatever makes you comfortable, where are you going?"

"The mall, I heard there's a haunted house there. I wanted to check it out."

"Yeah, so just wear something comfortable."

You both kept chatting, as you put on and took off clothes. But then, there it was at the back of your closet. It was a short, white, dress you had bought a couple weeks ago. It was one of those neat and classy dresses. That hugged your body and it curves beautifully. You ran a hand down your body as you stared in the mirror.

"Damnn, who is that babe."

You finished off the look with a few stylish accessories, a new pair of sneakers, and finally a cute small handbag with a few mandatory things: deodorant, perfume, lip-gloss, napkins, earbuds, and some snacks for you and Baji. It was perfect. You did a little twirl in the mirror, before you heard the small ringtone of a notification on your phone.

Baji : Hey? I'm here, are you ready yet, beautiful?"

You smiled, already knowing he was here, because of the sound of his bike's engine. Peeking out your window, you saw him, he was leaning on his bike staring at his phone, waiting for you to respond, you guessed. You quickly snatched your phone as you sprinted downstairs and right out the front door.

"Hey Keisuke! Sorry if I kept you waiting, I was getting ready."

You said as you stood in front of him, catching your breath. Baji's eyes widened. He never really stared at girls, he knew they were pretty, but you, you exemplified a novel vision of absolute beauty. He got flustered, what does he do, a hug, a kiss maybe. His brain was going all over the place, his hand shot out...a handshake.

"Oh, a handshake. I mean, that's good too, haha."

You laugh nervously as you grasp his hand and shake it. Wow, he was strong, you could tell. The way he seems so big, compared to you, he could probably just engulf you fully with his presence.

"S-should we get going?"

He wanted the ground to split open, and swallow him whole. First, the handshake, and now, he stuttered.

"Sure, Let's go!"

You said, enthusiastically, hopping into the bike after him, wrapping your arms around him. He swallowed hard, as he felt the way you gently wrapped your hands around his midsection. No one was ever soft with him the way you were. His heart was racing. The ride was nice and peaceful. You rested your head on his back, while running your hand up and down his chest.

"Keisuke, you're so warm. Hmm, I just wanna stay in your arms."

You dozed off but you were brought back when Baji parked his bike, He gave you a helping hand off the bike.

"I already paid for the tickets online, we just need to make it in line first."

He quickly added as you jumped off his bike

Cute.

He thought.

You were both shocked when you already saw how many people were in the line,

"Woah, and here I thought, we were going first."

You muttered, quickly taking a spot in the line, Baji next to you. No one said anything as you and Baji waited patiently for your turn. Baji glanced down at your hand, it looked so soft, you had a few rings around your fingers. He quickly wiped his hand on his pants before courage kicked in, and he grabbed your hand nonchalantly. You peered towards him, staring at him for a little before he noticed and looked at you.

"What's up-"

You cut him off when you stood on the tippy toes before landing a tender peck on his lips he wasn't expecting which made his face explode with red. you grinned at his adorable reaction, little did you know what Baji had in mind.

"Ohhhh, it's our turn! c'mon let's go Keisuke!"

You were jumping with excitement, you've never been to a haunted house before. You went through a door, that seemed like a door for a dungeon, it was super dark inside. You grabbed his arm,

"Baji, you here?"

"Yeah, where are you though?"

Your heart dropped,

"What do you mean, I'm literally holding your arm-"

The light suddenly turned on, making you flinch and rub your eyes. You turn and look to your side, and a scream of pure horror leaves your throat. The person you thought was Baji, was instead, a very tall man, his face was wrapped with bloody bandages and a black clock around his body. You instantly felt regret, you wanted to leave, you couldn't do this. You took a few steps back, stumbling over something. You looked down, only for your blood to go cold. It was a person's head. However, before you fully fell, a strong pair of hands caught you.

"PFFT-C'mon Y/n, I thought you were brave. It's all fake anyway."

He laughed as he kicked the fake human head away, tears threatened to fall from the corners of your eyes, as you gripped onto Baji, shaking.

"Hey, don't worry, you're safe. I wouldn't let any of those ugly, busted up fuckers touch you. Okay?"

You quickly nodded, sniffling, and holding onto his arm for dear life. Baji would be straight up lying if he said he didn't enjoy you like this. Holding onto him for dear, being all over him. He was in heaven, now he understood why most couples choose to see horror movies. But he'd also be lying if he didn't admit that all of the adrenaline from the haunted house and you being basically attached to him didn't affect his dick. He'd always thought he had good control over his urges but you continue to prove him wrong, your soft skin, your scent, they way your hands reach and grab anything on him so you don't fall, it all went to his dick, that was, oh so painfully hard. He was glad it was dark, or else how would you react.

"Keisuke, please, I wanna get out of here. This was actually a mistake."

You were out of breath as you tried to talk, Baji was smirking as he held you close to his chest, he felt how fast your heart was racing. It continued to feed his twisted pleasure, you were so small, like a prey.

"Shhh, it's okay. We're almost there, pretty."

He whispered. A chill ran down your spine, not expecting him to be so close to your ears but at the same time, you didn't realize how Baji was basically caging you in his arms. You felt your mind go mushy as you started to realize what's going around you with Baji. Suddenly, you felt a gust of fresh air that brought you out of your trance. You were breathing hard.

"Woah, you were seriously scared of that, it wasn't even that scary. Also, you didn't have to kick that poor lady, she was only doing her job."

He was holding back laughter, your reactions were super funny. You kicked and punched anyone that popped out at you and Baji, he totally recorded the whole thing.

"SHE DIDN'T HAVE TO POP OUT FROM UNDER THE SINK LIKE THAT, she had it coming."

You sighed before you cringed when you pulled out your phone and opened the camera app. You looked messy and sweaty.

"OH.MY.GOSH. I'll be right back, I need to go fix this mess!"

You were gonna run to the nearest bathroom before you felt Baji grab your wrist,

"Wait don't, you look...good."

"Wha-"

He cupped your face, moving his thumb against your bottom lip. There it came again, that sudden heat that only Baji sparked inside you. You got closer to him, reaching up to kiss him. He pulled you even closer. He was rough, it only made you melt even further into his touch. It was a deep kiss, that made you both forget how both of you were still in the middle of the mall.

"Here, let's go in here."

You whispered, pulling him into a photo booth and closing the curtains. You were both moving fast and risky, considering you both were still at the mall, but neither of you could resist the other, considering the constant tension building up between you two. He sat on the small bench and you straddled his waist, feeling his hard-on under you. You pulled him in by the collar, his breath fanning your lips as you sunk your lips into his, melting in his arms. Moaning when you felt his hips moving up and down, thrusting at your clothed pussy. You felt his hand hike up your dress, exposing your wet panties.

"Thought it was just me, but after seeing how wet that pussy is, you want me just as I want you."

You whimpered at his word of choice, he was blunt, so honest it turned you on even more, you were wet, wet for him, and the need of wanting to get full with cock only grew and grew until you were shamelessly humping his dick through his pants, just like a needy little slut, like a bitch in heat, waiting to be stuffed full of cock and cum.

"You're so fucking needy, I could tell you to do anything right now, and you wouldn't say no, right? You're my good little slut aren't you?"

tears formed in the corners of your eyes and your mouth slowly fell open as you felt his fingers pushing your panties to the side, the only thing keeping your dignity protected. Feeling his fingers pump in and out of your pussy, tightening every time you heard how wet and gushy your cunt became when he kept pumping, harder, and harder, and harder. You were holding back, and no way he was gonna let that happen. You threw your head back when you felt the fast and small circles directly on that throbbing little clit. You gasped at the wave of pleasure and euphoria that shot through you body, that had you shaking on Baji's lap,

"That's it, yeah, feel that orgasm baby."

After coming down from your high, and taking some deep breaths, you sunk down to your knees. You caught Baji off guard when you started pulling down his pants,

"I can't be the only one feeling good, that be selfish, right?"

You looked up at him with your pretty doe-eyes. Excitement ran through your veins when you saw the way his length shot up waiting for your dearest attention.

"Ngh, yeah, just like that. Oh fuck, yeah, just keep moving your hands like that, FUUUCK."

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and pressed your cheek right up against his rock hard cock.

"You use your mouth, and don't get messy. Don't you dare drop a spec of cum out of the dirty little mouth."

You nodded obediently, as you parted your lips, taking his hard red tip tight into your mouth as your hands continued with their up and down motion. Twisting your head and taking more and more of him until he was reaching the back of your throat making you gag on his dick. Forcing your head down as he started thrusting deeper and deeper into your throat,

"Ahhh, fucking hell, your mouth feels so damn good. Fuck, this mouth is mine, you hear me? All of you is mine, you're mine. O-oh shit, I'm close. Don't you fucking dare drop anything, ugh, fuck, fuck!"

He tugged your hair harshly as you felt the spurts and ropes of cum that covered your throat as you swallowed every drop. Finally, you gasped for air once he let his iron grip of your hair, his hand patting your head and brushing your hair back,

"God, I love you so fucking much."

[petermorwood]

I'm curious about the eating pick, how would you compare using it to using a fork?

It's a lot more fiddly - stab not scoop - and having used both a pick and a two-tine fork it surprises me that the three-tine fork with less space for things to fall through (or maybe even something like a modern spork) wasn't an immediate next step, rather than taking more than a century to arrive and then, AFAIK, only for fruit.

Medieval food was mostly eaten with knife-spoon-fingers, and the pick (again AFAIK) was used more like a carving-fork, to hold large pieces in place so they could be cut to spoon- or finger-size, than to convey those pieces to the mouth.

The well-researched "Wolf Hall" series shows Tudor table etiquette, eating with a spoon and with right-hand fingers kept clean by using the napkin worn on left shoulder or forearm.

Earlier table manners were similar; there's plenty of reference to hand-washing, napkins and so on.

IMO “The Private Life of Henry VIII” (1933) is probably to blame for the pop-history notion of “historical” dining involving whole chickens pulled apart with both hands and bones thrown over shoulders or onto the floor.

This link is to the full scene on YouTube, where the dialogue proves that it’s being done partly for comedy, and partly to show how nervous Henry made his court.

People in the Middle Ages didn't cut their food with daggers; yes, they'd have worn baselards or rondels or ballock knives because those were part of everyday costume (including women, there's pictorial evidence for it), but they wouldn't have used them at the dinner-table any more than they'd have used a sword.

I wonder sometimes if those who claim daggers were table cutlery know how big a medieval / Renaissance dagger could be, or how out-of-place it would look at a dinner table.

There's plenty of evidence for picks and small eating-knives as personal possessions. Here’s a 14th-century painting and a modern reconstruction of the thing on the belt.

...and another painting, “The Peasant Dance” by Breughel, showing both a big fighting-knife (Messer) and - worn by the red-hosed dancer in the middle - an eating-knife and maybe pick.

The armed man is also showing off (look at his hat!) that he owns a pewter or maybe even silver spoon...

Eating-knife and pick, collectively called "by-tools", could also be slotted into the scabbard of something bigger, such as that Messer in the Breughel painting as recreated by Tod Cutler...

...or a dagger like these Swiss ones...

...whose scabbard ornamentation with human figures proves how they were worn...

- horizontally (usually across the small of the back) so their decoration was right-way-up for proper admiration.

By-tools could be part of even larger weapons, a sword or Kriegsmesser (war-knife) like this one, which belonged to Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I:

Besides holding down or picking up food, a pick had other functions for which a knife with edges wouldn’t work as well such as an auger to drill holes in leather, or a fid or marlinspike for splicing rope or laces.

By the mid-1500s, people on the cutting edge (hah!) of fashion started to carry the ornate version of that little eating-knife-and-pick sheath; they had a “dining trousse”, personal table cutlery with its own separate case or scabbard, and a REALLY stylish trousse might even include the latest toy, a fork.

But that was often regarded as a pointless (hah!) affectation, because after all, everyone had fingers...

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!

This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.

Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.

Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.

Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.

Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .

You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.

It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win. 

You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.

"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.

You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.

She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.

"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."

This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.

"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.

She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so. 

"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.

You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)

"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.

She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.

"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.

"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."

She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more. 

"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."

That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.

"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."

You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.

"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.

"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."

"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."

At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from. 

"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."

Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)

As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'

By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.

It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.

You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)

Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.

You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.

“I don’t presume this is one of yours.” You’d know that voice anywhere.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.

You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.

“No, not quite,” you reply.

She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.

“Moira.”

You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.

“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."

You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.

"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."

Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.

She hums in acknowledgement.

The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.

“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.

Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.

“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”

She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.

“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.

You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.

This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.

She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.

And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.

“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.

You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.

Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.) 

“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.

“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through. 

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.

“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”

Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.

“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”

Will it ever. 

“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.

“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”

She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.

Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”

At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.

Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.

Looking forward to it.

As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.

But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.

You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her. 

It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.

You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.

You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.

Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.

Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.

The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.

Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.

And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)

Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.

“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”

It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some. 

The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.

When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.

You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.

“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.

Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.

“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”

Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.

“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”

Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.) 

The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.” 

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.” 

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July. 

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you. 

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own. 

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another. 

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.) 

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it. 

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind. 

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh. 

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.” 

Bingo. 

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires. 

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.  

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that. 

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner? 

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place. 

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira. 

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages. 

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all. 

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them. 

[mj-ackerman]

SxF Light Novel: Family Portrait Translation Short Novel: Family (Temporary)

Read Mission 4: Portrait of the Forger Family!? Here. DO NOT REPOST

At a certain restaurant in Berlint, the capital of Ostania. Lily, a waitress at this restaurant, which is popular for its not-too-luxury, yet stylish, chef-created cuisine that uses plenty of carefully selected ingredients and its comfortable atmosphere, was in the midst of her marriage hunting activities. 

“......But I think marriage isn’t really that good, is it?”

After being rejected by her blind date partner again, Lily pouted and ranted to her colleague Rose while setting up the tables before the store opened. 

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to admit that you got dumped again, aren’t you? You have to take things seriously or else you’ll be left behind, you know.”

“I-I didn’t get dumped! We just didn’t have the same values! You’re just making fun of me just because you have a soon-to-be-husband boyfriend!”

Lily said, pissed and let out a sigh. 

“Geez, I’m gonna stop looking for a marriage partner! I’m fine with being alone! I can live all by myself!”

Lily crumpled the napkin she was folding in sorrow and frustration, only to be scolded by the older Rose again by saying “Hey!”. On top of that, she also lectured her on how she needed to get a little more grip of reality, at which Lily puffed out her cheeks as she complained. 

“But, looking at the families coming here, they don’t look happy at all.”

“Yeah….well, you’re right, that’s actually true.”

“You know, like that couple for example, they’re scolding their kids but they have terrible table manners themselves.”

As Lily gave an example of a customer she seen at the restaurant while refolding a napkin, Rose grimaced, “Oh, I hate that.” Then she added, “Now that you’ve mentioned it, there’s also that newlyweds who were fighting in front of their food. I wish they’d do that kind of thing at their home instead.” 

She set a single flower vase in the middle of the table as she cited a certain customer.

Lily, who was energized by this, added, 

“Say, do you remember the old couple whose husband complained about everything?”

“The guy who said, the food was tepid, or the service was slow, or the pictures on the wall looked old-fashioned and the tablecloths were wrinkled, and so on, right? While her husband was complaining to the manager, the wife looked like she wanted to just disappear from this place. I bet her husband is like that all the time at home.”

“That’s so suffocating, isn’t it?”

As if imagining it, Rose wrinkled her eyebrows deeply. Not only that, she also shuddered with disgust. 

“Well, marriage doesn't always equals happiness, after all.”

“You’re right.”

After that, the two of them continued to talk about the unhappy marriages of their customers, and at the end, Lily’s shoulders slumped. 

“Ohhh….if we look at it like that, marriage is the graveyard of life. Maybe that’s the reality of it.”

“Oh, but, then, how about that family?”

Rose said as she turned the silver spoon around. 

“That family?”

“You know, that family that you said the husband is just your type?”

“Ah! The Ho-Ho-Ho something!”

“The Forgers. Aren’t they the ones who always make sure to make a reservation before coming here to the restaurant?”

At Rose’s words, Lily nodded and said,

“Oh, that’s right, the Forgers.”

The Forger family consists of a father, mother and daughter. They are a family that anyone can recognize as someone from the upper class within a day, but they don’t take it personally at all. They’re friendly, courteous, and kind to everyone in the restaurant. 

The tall, smiling, soft-looking Mr. Forger was quite handsome and he was exactly Lily’s type, but his wife, who looked plain at first glance, but if you looked at her closely, she had a well-defined face and an outstanding figure, was very kind to Lily, who made a mistake in serving the wrong dish, and was even considerate of her feelings as she was very worried at Lily for her mistake, at that she easily concluded that she was no match to her and raised the white flag in her heart. She remembers it well. 

“A handsome husband with a beautiful wife, and on top of that, their child is very cute too.”

Lily sighed as she smoothed out the wrinkles on a nearby tablecloth. 

Their daughter must have been around four years old? Even Lily, who is far from motherhood, gets a tingling feeling as she recalls the child's slightly slurred speech and her childish antics. 

“Actually, I saw that family not too long ago at the city zoo.”

“Oh, that time you went on a date with the twelfth guy? You were rejected spectacularly by that one, right?”

“Don’t remind me! At that time, the husband was watching the giraffe with his daughter on his shoulders. The daughter was so excited that she imitated the movement of the giraffe’s head and wobbled around a lot. At that, the husband scolded her with a wry smile, saying “Hey, that’s dangerous,” but he held her tightly so she wouldn’t fall off while his wife was looking at the two of them with a smile on her face.”

It was like a scene from a happy family movie. She remembered that she felt like crying, partly because she had not had a good conversation with her blind date partner.

Oh, they look happy. Ah, that’s nice. It was a sight that she could honestly think like that. 

As Lily was being sentimental, Rose recalled,

“I heard that her husband is a doctor.”

“That’s right! Ah, I’m getting more and more jealous now…Anyway, why do you know that?”

“I overheard their conversation while I was bringing them their food. By the way, his wife is a city hall employee and their daughter is a student at Eden College. They’re a perfect family, aren’t they?”

“Eh? That kid? That little kid is a student at a very p-p-prestigious school!? That kid sure is smart! Anyway, how come you know that much? Are you a spy?”

Lily literally rolled her tongue at her colleague’s ability to gather information. 

“What are you talking about? There’s only so much fun you can have as a waitress.”

Rose, having finished setting the table, scruffily replied,

“Oh, by the way, I see that you have an appointment with the Forgers today.”

“Yea-....a doctor husband, a hard working wife who works at the city hall and a daughter who is a student at Eden huh….”

They’re truly a picture perfect happy family. She’s sure they live in a beautiful home and spend their days filled with love and peace. 

Imagining their dazzling appearances, she squeezed her eyes shut. They were too bright for Lily’s eyes. 

“Oh right, it seems like they also have a big dog. You’re a dog person, right?”

“A big dog too!?”

As she saw Lily, who almost collapse on the spot due to her jealousy, Rose teasingly asked, 

“So? It makes you want to get married now, doesn't it?

Lily clutched the hem of her apron with both hands and declared with tears in her eyes, 

“Rose! I’ve made up my mind! I’m going to keep looking for a marriage partner even if it kills me!”

----However, the girls didn’t know. That the ideal family that they thought was a normal picture perfect happy family was actually a fake family made up of complete strangers. And the Forger family itself also had no way of knowing that their pseudo-family had contributed to raising the marriage rate in Ostania.

[touchmetouchmetouchme]

The Damn Lipstick Kiss || Austin!Elvis x Reader

Pairing: Austin!Elvis x f!reader

Words count: 864… really short, sorry. (But it's just a sneak peak, and a short blurb.)

Summary: You and this stranger had these little interactions every Friday, at the same club. It was almost religious the way you two were committed to it, but Elvis was dying to have more. And you'd have been lying if you said you weren't, too.

Warnings: mentions of sex, swearing. Sexual tension, idk??? Maybe the next chapter, if I do write it, will probably include explicit smut.

A/N: Just saying this is more like a blurb that happened after I read a couple of Elvis and Austin!Elvis fanfiction, I really have to watch the film. And I do plan to write more about this universe because I really enjoy the ideas I had. And also, English is not my first language so I'm really sorry if there's any mistakes, or sentences and expressions that don't make much sense, you can always tell and I'll fix it. I'm still perfecting my English soo… and sorry if my writing sucks haha

From the balcony of the bar you had the privileged view of the entry of the club, even though you were well-hidden to anyone who entered the place. It was your little secret place and it gave you such an advantage over your favourite raven stranger, who wouldn't see you and couldn't do any of his tricks, like start kissing your neck before announcing himself. Which happened once and you almost hit him because you thought it was some random creep assaulting you.

It was odd, what you two had. These little provocative interactions on Fridays, but it was so fun and entertaining. Even though you both didn't pass from kisses on the neck and touches in inappropriate places, nothing too rough. But you loved to see him squirm with the little things you did. So did him.

You were normally the one to provoke and tease, but he found the perfect thing to provoke you about. 

His name.

You were dying to know his name, maybe because you couldn't figure it out by yourself, since no name you thought fit him properly.

And when you asked his name, he only said, "I'll tell ya, darlin. But only if ya kiss me." And just left. 

Just. Fucking. Left.

The only thing you could think about all week before Friday came, was him. And how to provoke him more than he did. 

And after thinking, you found the perfect thing. The thing that he wanted just as much as you wanted to know his name.

Your kiss.

While you leisurely drank your drink, He arrived. The perfect black hair falling a bit on his face, the stylish clothes and the so-sure-of-himself walk. 

His eyes brushed the room, looking for you. You grinned while he sat on a table, his back facing you. Perfect.

You finished your drink in one go, before walking to him, quietly and slowly. Even though the music of the place did a good job hiding the sound of your heels on the floor.

When you got pretty close to him, you leaned down, your breath in his neck, where you kissed softly. Your hands went to his shoulders, where you brushed and caressed as your lips mistreated his throat.

"Y/N." He let out, almost a moan; making you grin in his skin. 

One of your hands went to the pocket of your jacket, taking out a napkin and you kissed it, leaving a mark of your red lipstick. 

"What is it, love?" You asked, faking innocence. And then you bit his skin lightly, finally gaining a groan of him.

His hand went up to your hand on his upper arm, which he squeezed tightly. "Y/N." He repeated, almost like your name was a prayer. He turned his head, making eye contact with you.

You stood up, going to his front, so he could see you entirely. You gently settled the napkin on his lap before giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

You bit your lip as he looked at you curiously, his gaze dropping to your lips as you flashed him with a flirtatious smile.

Some bigger boldness flashed in your body and you couldn't but grip his chin gently, making him slowly look up to your eyes, your faces just a few inches away. 

Your smile grew even bigger when you saw him swallow hard as his gaze roamed over your body. Your hands slipped to his jaw and neck from his chin, caressing his cheek with your thumb. You leaned in just a little bit, and he did it too, lips so close that they almost touched.

He stared right into your eyes, the look on his face begging you for so many things at the same time. 

Then his mouth did it, "Please."

Please for you to touch him properly, please for you to kiss him, please for you to fuck him that night. And, God, you wanted it so fucking bad.

But you didn't. 

Instead, you placed a soft peck on his forehead, tapped on the napkin on his lap, almost touching his crotch and turned heel.

Just walked away, giving him the perfect view of your hips swinging in the rhythm of the music of the club.

And when you were almost at the exit door when you glanced at his table again soon enough to catch him reading the napkin. He sighed after saying what you presumed it was a 'fuck' and rested his back on the chair, breathing heavily. 

You giggled while pushing the door, seeing his look come to you again and you sent him a wink right before leaving the place.

He glanced at the napkin that was on his lap once more. Which said: "A kiss from a pretty girl." With that damn lipstick kiss on it.

He took it in his hands, staring at it. Then he flipped it, only to find the rest of the note. "Now, what's your name, stranger?"

He bit his bottom lip and exhaled slowly, driving himself to the image of you, the perfect sexy you. The one that could drive him mad with just a touch.

 He couldn't wait for next Friday.

[double-dare-designs]

Fall Season

div style="text-align:center;line-height:150%"> Autumn and Thanksgiving by Lioness Designs

[roselyn-writing]

Ice Goddess and her Icy Warrior Chapter 11

A/N: it’s been a while since I didn’t update this fanfic! But! Here I am! 😄

“Returning home”

Kuai Liang woke up to the voice of people laughing and talking together. He just remembered that he isn’t in the Lin Kuei temple anymore, but he is in Aliyaa’s dark palace.

He wanted to go back to sleep; however, his head is throbbing from a migraine. He is annoyed by this migraine that kept pulsing in his head.

He knew if he continued to force himself to sleep. It would hurt even more, so, he got up from the bed. He found some clean clothes of a Virginian design. He wore them, although the fact that it is not his taste in clothing or anything.

Then he goes to rinse his face and comb his hair. He saw a big interior mirror he moved toward it to see himself.

He looked neat and stylish, although, he is old and a tough Grandmaster. He smiled at himself, for being tough and stylish.

He joined the others in the main hall. there, they appear to be eating breakfast. He greeted them.

“Good morning,” Kuai greeted.

“Good morning to you too,” Aliyaa greeted back.

“Morning, Luv~” Selviya greeted back.

The others greeted him too. Kuai chose a seat near his love, Selviya Levsloky.

The food table is long and big, it is filled with the most delicious foods of all cuisine. Arabian, British, French, etc.

Kuai is hungry he couldn’t decide what plate he chooses to eat from, but one plate caught his eye and that is french toast. It is a delicious plate that made his mouth-watering.

Selviya noticed this and she grabbed the french toast for him. putting the plate in front of him.

“Wellness,” Aliyaa said.

Kuai took the fork and the knife. He started to cut the toast like a gentleman, A man with manners of eating.

He took a bite after he cut a piece of the toast, and he hummed in a satisfied tone. enjoy the taste of the french toast, such a delicacy, He thought to himself.

the french toast is soft and mushy. He wished he could munch on it forever, but good things never last as he thought to himself.

Moments later, Hadi came with a tea tray in his hands, he gently put it in the center of the table. In everyone’s reach.

Eevie quietly took a cup of tea, she started to pour the hot beverage onto her cup, then she added the milk and sugar, and stirred it up with a teaspoon.

After sipping his coffee, Arouj took a napkin and wipe the corners of his mouth. Arouj had just finished eating breakfast.

“So! How are you and your clan?” Arouj asked, with a smile on his face.

“So far, everything is good,” Kuai answered.

“I’m just wondering; why are you here guys?” Scylla pondered, “Shouldn’t you be doing “stuff”.

“We are here to investigate something,” Kuai replied, He can’t possibly think of something intimate while he is on a mission.

“That’s understandable,” Aliyaa encouraged.

While hearing everyone talking and giggling with Kuai. Derek deliberately made a shrill sound with his fork, as he scratched his fork on his plate.

“Ugh! Stop it!” Eevie muttered while covering her ears.

“Sorry.” He blankly apologized.

Kuai knew that Derek is annoyed at him for being with his daughter Selviya. In his mind’s eye, Kuai wonders, Selviya isn’t his daughter from this world, she is from another world. Another time, where he is dead and couldn’t watch her grow. So, Being annoyed at him is pretty pointless.

Aliyaa knew that the atmosphere is getting worse between these two. She quickly changed the subject.

“How’s everyone Kuai?” Aliyaa asked, with a smile on her face.

“They are fine,” Kuai told, as he pours himself a cup of tea. He couldn’t resist the smell of the tea.

All this time Selviya is quiet, either she is eating or drinking tea. She is worried that Derek is trying to harm Kuai. She doesn’t wanna see them fighting or hurting each other. She cares about them both.

In the middle of talking, Aliyaa’s mirror made a vibrant sound. Alarming everyone in the room.

Aliyaa quickly got up from her seat to look at her mirror. What the mirror shows made everyone's blood run cold.

A group of cyborgs gathering around in an unknown HQ. Among them is a yellow one and a red one, There is also a new face joining them. a demonic creature wearing a grey ninja attire with yellow veins on his skin, and his hair is grey and flowing. Kuai immediately recognized him, It is Smoke.

“Smoke!” Kuai called in utter disbelief.

“Holy moly!” Selviya called while looking at the mirror in fear.

“Quick guys! I think you don’t have much time before they reach the Lin Kuei base” Hadi urged the two cryomancers.

“On it!” Kuai affirmed.

With a flick of her finger, Aliyaa created a portal for them to reach the Lin Kuei base. At any moment the attack will take place.

Luckily, they were able to alarm the others before the Lin Kuei cyborgs assault.

Older Kuai and younger Kuai were able to create a spiky ice fence that will hold the cyborgs from attacking. So Selviya can use her powers to eliminate them all easily.

Frost rushed to escort all the trainees and Lin Kuei out. She is ready to use her cryogenic powers if needed, she stayed guarding the gate from the cyborgs and helps others to escape. In a safe dungeon underground.

With her magic wand in hand, Selviya called the power of the celestials and stars to guide her hand in victory. the Crystal Silvernium shines brighter as Selviya ascends her celestial form.

Adorned with a beautiful blue gown that shines brighter than the stars themselves.

Although the cyborgs destroyed the icy fence.

but that gave Selviya the time she needs to transform and save everyone.

The cyborgs managed to wreak the temple’s gate. But they couldn’t fight Selviya as she easily blinded them all with her holy light magic.

“Celestial blessing!” Selviya commanded the crystal Silvernium.

With her power amplifying with crystal Silvernium power to shine a powerful beam that wiped the cyborgs. Finally, their souls rested in peace.

Cyrax and Sektor aren’t done yet. In the shadows lurks Smoke. Looking at the five people in pure hatred. He will kill them all, He will have his revenge on Lin Kuei and Subzero who abandoned him to his death. He will take pleasure in skinning them alive.

After Selviya’s light beam ended, she returned to her human form as the celestial gowns disappeared from her body, leaving her with her human attire.

Cyrax attacked Bi han, Sektor targeted Kuai and Young Smoke, and Kuai was ordered to rescue the others while Selviya stayed to fight the revenant smoke.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sneered the revenant Smoke at Selviya, as he fired a smoke bomb at her.

She dodged it easily as she aimed an ice sphere at his legs, freezing his legs in spot. She cartwheeled in front of him and kicked him in the face.

“Your salvation!” Selviya answered.

Selviya kicked him with a force that he rolled over and fell face-first on the ground. He groaned in pain. The kick made him see stars, as he barely stand up. He felt pity for himself because a kick from a woman makes him dizzy.

He rushed toward her with his kunai poised to strike her in a vulnerable place. Her knees for an example.

The revenant used his smoke abilities to vanish in a cloud of smoke; as he easily dodged her ice attacks. He appear behind her up in the air as he tackled her from behind.

both rolled on top of each other. But the revenant easily pinned her down and started to choke her.

She panicked and wailed. Then she started to scratch his hand with her painfully long nails. She succeeds in this as he lets go of her throat to see his bleeding hand. She exploited this moment to kick him in the face again. Then she cartwheeled away from him.

“You are strong. Woman,” the revenant praised. He will admit it: the woman is very attractive and expert at fighting.

“Thanks! You’re not bad yourself,” she replied to him.

In his dark state of mind and heart, Smoke feels pure hatred for his ex-friends, for the lin-kuei. He would do anything to harm them and make them bleed for what they did to him. His first reaction is to kill this woman. He knew that she is Kuai’s lover and he will have this as the best revenge.

He will kill her and vanish into the shadows. Then Kuai will come and discover her lifeless body in this bloody place, then Kuai would mourn her and would go crazy for her. This is the best revenge he has in mind.

Selviya knows that the revenant can’t be reasoned with. They are doomed to be hateful of the people they know. Because they thought that they are “abandoned” to their death.

Selviya must make him unconscious so that she can restore him; if Raiden failed in doing so, she won’t.

Selviya quickly rushed towards him before he can jump; she easily slid through his widening legs and kicked him in the balls.

He groans in pain as he holds his sack in an attempt to lessen the pain. Selviya rolled to the side and got up to hold her wand to restore him to life.

“Purification!” She said loudly.

A holy beam of light struck him he yelled in pain and horror. He thought that he was dead and dusted away due to this amount of power.

But, no. Moments later he woke up and saw his hands, he can’t believe it. Is he alive? For real? or is it just a dream he longed for?

“Welcome back to life Tomas Vrbada!” She greeted him with a smile, as she lend a hand to him.

He cried in happiness; He is indeed alive. After all these years, he has been a slave to evil and darkness. Now, he is free and alive.

“Thank you… ” He croaked. “I’m forever indebted to you,”

“Nope!” She said with a smile. “You don’t owe me anything!”

He smiled at her. She is beautiful, and kind. She is everything he dreams of.

“Kuai is so lucky to have her,” Smoke thought in his mind.

No matter what he feels or thinks; He can’t let her know. Even if Selviya doesn’t want anything in return. He vows to protect her.

Grandmaster Kuai Liang with the help of his brother Bi Han. was able to behead Sektor then he knocked Cyrax unconscious.

He rushed to check on his love. Is she alive or dead, he was afraid, a lot of thoughts raced through his mind. He can’t bare to lose her.

He promised to protect her no matter what. Luckily, He saw Selviya helping human smoke.

“Smoke!” Kuai called, he was running toward them.

With a big smile and teary eyes, he hugged his best friend. He had lost hope in restoring him, but Selviya didn’t.

“Kuai!” Smoke uttered as he hugged his lifetime best friend.

For long moments they hugged each other. They didn’t see each other in decades, of course, it would be more than a short hug.

Then they break the hug and talked with each other. This sight warmed Selviya’s heart, she promised that she will bring him happiness. It is all she cares about.

Young Smoke was scared when he saw his other self is old and tormented; the same said for Cyrax, who was holding the hand of his cyborg self.

Both were traumatized. Although they didn’t go through what their older selves had been through. It is a miracle that they didn’t. They only pitied themselves.

“Care to explain?” Stated the newly restored smoke.

“It is a long story,” Kuai answered with a smile.

But the happy moments didn’t last. Because young Hanzo and other Raiden came.

“Thank you so much for protecting my warriors,” the other Raiden said, with a smile on his face.

Young Hanzo, Young Kuai, Other Bi han, Young Smoke, and Cyrax were sad because it is time to say goodbye to Selviya and Grandmaster Kuai Liang, their saviors. They can’t forget their stay here. But everything is gotta come to an end.

“You’re welcome,” Grandmaster Kuai uttered.

“Goodbye, guys! We will miss you!” Selviya expressed, She will miss them greatly.

“Thank you for everything,” Young Hanzo said

The other men nodded in agreement.

“You’re welcome!” Both Selviya and Kuai said.

“Goodbye!” Young Kuai spoke.

“Goodbye!” Selviya and Kuai replied.

they waved goodbye to each other before leaving for their world.

The other Raiden said nothing; he only gave a satisfied smile. Then in a flash, they all disappeared.

Selviya hold her wand, she rushed toward the cyborg Cyrax. She must do it before he gains consciousness.

Selviya raised her starlight wand. The wand started to shine then Selviya muttered. “Purification!”

A ray of light flashed from the wand. As it covered the cyborg with a holy light. It started to restore every human aspect in him. The metallic structure began to melt off as it give way for his flesh and skin to grow back. His organs started to breathe, his heart started to beat humanly, and everything about him is turning human now. During this whole process, Cyrax was unconscious. He is being reborn again. As he was a human being.

Smoke and Kuai stared in awe at what was happening to Cyrax; he is being reborn. By the hand of a celestial girl.

Selviya finished restoring Cyrax. Both Kuai and Smoke rushed to see Cyrax. He is human again. Although he is younger than him. He was a cyborg for decades! As for Smoke, he was a revenant he didn’t age either. Only Kuai and his brother aged.

Kuai and Smoke carried the unconscious Cyrax to a sofa. There he slept peacefully.

“It is over, finally!” Kuai muttered in happiness as he wiped the tears of joy.

Selviya only smiled; she didn’t say anything.

“Yes, it is.” Smoke nodded.

Selviya had one final thing to do today. And that is rebuilding the temple again.

Selviya used Crystal Silvernium. She raised high above her head and commanded it to rebuild the destroyed temple.

A colorful ray emerged from the crystal as it rebuilt everything in a blink of an eye. Both men are impressed with such power.

“Let’s go check on the others!” Selviya suggested.

The other men nodded and then went toward the others. They announced that the cyber initiative is done and they won the battle.

“That’s great!” Frost exclaimed, “Thank you Grandmaster and Selviya!”

“Frost! You did good too,” Selviya replied.

“We all did great,” Bi han summed up.

Cyrax finally woke up. He is surprised he is seeing new faces and they all look real to him.

“Kuai Liang? Bi Han? Smoke?” Cyrax questioned, “You guys are alive?”

“Yes, we are,” Grandmaster Kuai answered.

Tomas and Bi han nodded at him, Cyrax looks at his hand, he is alive again. He smiled, not believing what he is seeing.

“Welcome back to life, Cyrax!” All said to him.

“Happy to be back alive again!” Cyrax expressed with tears in his eyes.

He looked at Selviya, “Thank you,”.

“No need to thank me,” she responded.

[kookyberry]

"Vase Hacks: Creative Ways to Repurpose and Revitalize"

Vases are much more than mere vessels for holding flowers. With a dash of creativity and a sprinkle of imagination, these versatile objects can be transformed into captivating decor pieces. In this blog post, we'll explore a collection of ingenious vase hacks that will breathe new life into your old vases. Get ready to unleash your artistic side and give those dormant vases a chance to shine!

1. Terrarium Magic:

Turn your vase into a miniature garden by creating a stunning terrarium. Start by layering small rocks at the bottom for drainage, then add a layer of activated charcoal to keep the soil fresh. Finally, top it off with a mix of potting soil and your favorite plants. Succulents, air plants, and mosses are excellent choices for low-maintenance terrariums. Place your creation in a well-lit spot and watch as your vase transforms into a mesmerizing green oasis.

2. Illuminating Beauty:

Give your vase a luminous makeover by turning it into a unique lamp. Purchase a lamp kit from your local hardware store and follow the instructions to safely wire the socket and attach the bulb. Fill the vase with decorative items like seashells, marbles, or colorful beads. Then, simply insert the socket through the vase opening, and voila! You now have a stunning DIY lamp that will add a warm and cozy ambiance to any room.

3. Seasonal Sensations:

Celebrate the changing seasons by transforming your vase into a seasonal centerpiece. Fill it with an assortment of seasonal items such as pinecones, colorful leaves, or delicate spring blossoms. For a festive touch, add some miniature ornaments during the holiday season. This simple hack allows you to effortlessly infuse the spirit of each season into your home decor.

4. Artsy Brush Holders:

Give your artistic tools a stylish and organized home by repurposing a vase as a brush holder. Whether you're a painter, a makeup artist, or simply enjoy the occasional craft project, a vase can make the perfect storage solution. Fill it with glass beads, pebbles, or even colored sand to keep your brushes upright and easily accessible. This practical hack will not only keep your workspace tidy but also add a touch of elegance to your creative endeavors.

5. Delightful Dining Accents:

Elevate your dining experience by using vases as unconventional table accents. Fill tall, slender vases with water, add floating candles, and scatter some flower petals for a romantic ambiance during dinner parties. Alternatively, use shorter vases to display cutlery or napkins creatively. The possibilities are endless, and these simple hacks will undoubtedly impress your guests and make mealtime an extraordinary affair.

Conclusion:

With these creative vase hacks, you can breathe new life into your old vases and unlock their hidden potential. From transforming them into lush terrariums to repurposing them as functional decor pieces, the versatility of vases knows no bounds. So, don't let those forgotten vases gather dust in the corner; instead, let your imagination run wild and explore the endless possibilities that await. Get ready to revitalize your space with these simple yet ingenious ideas and let your vases shine in all their newfound glory!

Check out this kooky face vase!

[aesterblaster]

Actually- further elaboration/explanations on this bc I've been looking for writing inspo LMAO

Incredibly neat and perfect crew

Aryu's handwriting is just yet another stylish component to his aesthetic! He even got into calligraphy for a while. It distracts him from the horror of having to write his old fashioned name on each assignment.

Kaiser picked out his signature when he was 10. What can he say, he signs a lot of checks. It's like a nobrainer for him and you already know all his notes, whether it be a detailed analysis on a soccer player or written on a napkin are evenly spaced and frustratingly small.

Oliver prides himself on being spatialy aware, and that translates well to his writing. He gets easily bored by reading and writing and doesn't do it often but hand him a pen and his skills haven't degraded at all. His writing errs on the large side but is still very neat.

Nagi's handwriting is *almost* perfect. It drifts to the right though. Other than that, his handwriting is similar his sports skills because even though he never really tries to write neatly the characters just end up fitting in every box.

Kunigami is now technically ambidextreous but his dominant hand writes much neater than his previously non dominant hand. It gently curves and swoops just a bit, but not enough for you to claim it's not neat. His signature in english is just a neat print of his name.

Chigiri actually kind of tries to write neatly. Sloppy writing is a pet peeve of his and when he was younger, he tried his best to stay within the lines. When he was in the hospital for his acl injury sometimes he had little to do but doodle, read or practice his handwriting.

Loopy and pretty cursive possy

Lorenzo like Kaiser, signs a lot of checks. He also grew up with cursive as a big patt of his life, everytime he got a birthday card lovingly stuffed with some bills it was in cursive. And every teacher he liked, including Snuffy, knew it. So it only made sense that his writing began to follow similar patterns.

Noa learned english when cursive was popular and seen as neccesary. Never one to slack off when learning a language, he also learned cursive. He liked the way the words looped together and quickly learned shorthand. Although it's pretty, you probably won't be able to read it.

Reo is rich rich. Like his parents made him learn some latin rich. And cursive also exists in Latin. He picked up some writing habits from it that never quite went away. He can still write Catallus 8 from memory, words looping and leaning into one another as if for support.

Tabito loves fancy writing. He learned Kanji first because of the area he lived in and had a deepseated insecurity of being looked down on for it. So he makes sure to learn the most "proper" forms of writing in any language he learns as well as in his mother tounge. Sometimes he finds himself erasing and rewriting characters over and over, which makes him prefer pencil to pen.

Completely illegable, you need dental records to identify these words club

Sendou's handwriting was never the best. But who cares! He wanted to become a big soccer star anyway not get good marks in school, so he never improved upon it. Every paper he turned in would come back marked with question marks but he didn't particularly care. He thinks it's just another charming part of his character.

Bachira likes writing left to right in japanese way more than up and down, but this form suffers from a severe lack of quality. Some characters are illegable. Others are too large and overpower the "less important ones". Especially since he has a tendancy to write with his hand tilted all weirdly.

Rin never got his handwriting together and although all his notes look neat to him, anyone else would have to squint to read it. The letters and characters are always unbarably small and hard to decipher from one another. Rin is honestly a bit shy to show his writing to others because of this.

Raichi never concidered writing very important. Even when he was much younger he picked up on it later than his classmates, making spelling mistakes that embarassed his parents. He still makes plently of mistakes making his handwriting suffer more from grammar mistakes than any immediant messiness.

Crushed but legible bloc (the c got edited out on accident)

Lavinho's writing used to be much worse, his teachers forced him to get it together though. Even though he focused more on honing his sports skills than school, chasing football fame, he knew communicating with people is important. If anything his handwriting is better now because he used to be embarassed that people could barely read it.

Isagi's writing is wordy. Always. He never conciders how much space he needs and before he knows it he's almost filled the page and has to crush in his last few sentences. Without fail it starts our neat and then gets more rushed as time goes on, character having justtt enough space for you to distinguish them from one another.

Shidou gets suprisingly good grades. He's one of those kids who you wouldn't think takes school seriously then turns out to be a sponge of information. He loved learning as a kid and writing was no different. He spent an obessive amount of time perfecting his name and he's pretty proud of his handwriting and all it's quirks.

Sae used to have horrendous handwriting, similar to Rin. But he took his advisors advice when he told the rising star to get his writing together, especially his english. He worked at it and it got better, but he can't deny he still dislikes writing for long periods as it gives him cramps and hurts his wrist. So he naturally prefers shorthand.

Hiori, like Tabito, learned Kanjj and then standard Japanese writing. Unlike him, he has no shame about it. He likes learning languages and writing in general, so even though his handwriting has grammar mistakes here and there it isn't unforgivable thanks to hours of practice. A bit messy, yes, but not indecipherable.

[thedarlinglimited]

It's The begining of the New Year for Me and my daughter Lily🦄; there are new adventures to embark on and new reasons to smile and new winter adventures await!🐻‍❄️

Our style at this moment is inspired by the super vintage, candy-colored ode to winter The Grand Budapest Hotel.

For anyone who isn't familiar with the pink and peculiar film of Wes Anderson then I'll explain in a pastel pink Mendls bakery box tied with a ribbon. The quirky caper of comedic errors and stylish silliness takes place against a beautiful backdrop of a wintry hotel wonderful that's as visually stunning as it is incredibly vintage.

The vibes at the Jean Gorges Tin building at the soul street seaport have the same vibe. Walking distance from Michaeli's bakery ( the sweet apple raisin babka that almost tastes like rustic stollen pastry is incredible) and nestled amongst the most stylish ships is the most incredible ode to vintage visuals that I have ever seen in NYC. Maybe it's the glowing art deco globe lights that dot the golden ceilings almost like golden clusters of grapes or maybe it's the attention to detail that's so Impeccable there isn't a napkin holder that doesn't reference a richly vintage European era of cafe society...but this building is cinema at its best.

To chill in such a lush building one needs to wear something statement making. Lil and I chose candy pink. To match the vintage candy shoppe all pink and gold and white and magical. My pink vintage trench by French brand apostrophe is vintage and a gift from one of my best friends. My light pink sweater, also vintage, and glasses-warby Parker are also a reference to mid-century sophistication that is as polished as it is Parisian. My daughter Lil also wore all pink and to usher in a sweet new year we had candy and coffee and marveled in the magic of the place.

We definitely recommend visiting the south st seaport and if your feeling really grand wear a conversation piece something vintage something and something unexpected.