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muchosbesitos · 10 days

Text

tengo tu foto

pairing: photographer! fem reader x miguel o’hara

contents: angst w no comfort, longing (is anyone rly surprised by this point), and some suggestiveness (nuffin tew crazy)

synopsis: you were booked for a wedding shoot, not expecting to see your ex boyfriend there.

author’s note: inspired by this :3 anyways i incorporated one of the themes from the movie hehe >w<

word count: 7k (i may have gone overboard on the yapping, sorry)

"Can I open my eyes now?"

"No. Ten un poquito de paciencia que ya mero acabo," Miguel tuts from a distance, the sound of wrapping paper scuffling together following. Despite the fact that you'd told him he didn't need to get anything for your birthday, that just spending time with him would be enough, he still insisted on doing so. Even after taking you out to a restaurant of your choosing, not even batting an eye when the waiter brought the check over. (have a little patience that i'm almost done)

"I know you said you didn't want anything but I stopped by that antique store in Queens and found the thing you've been wanting," he told you, stepping close to remove your hands from your eyes. You blinked a couple times to get used to the light in the room, looking down at the gift bag in his hands. Well, at least it wasn't anything too extravagant by the size of it. Or at least you hoped that it wasn't.

"Thank you, but you didn't have to do this. Your comp-"

"Before you say that my company would've been enough, you see me almost every day. Allow me to indulge in you a bit," he cut you off before you had the chance to finish speaking, giving you an innocent enough smile. "Just open it."

You took the gift bag from him, placing it down on your dinner table before starting to take out the sheets of wrapping paper. Even with that, you were trying to be meticulous enough not to rip it. At the bottom of the bag, you could see a white box peeking through. You took the box out with care, your eyes widening when you caught a glimpse of the words printed by the side. It was a vintage black Polaroid camera and a sleek leather photo album.

"Do you like it?" All you could do was nod, going over and wrapping your arms around him. You'd mentioned wanting this camera in passing a couple times, but you weren't expecting to actually get it. It should've been a nearly impossible task given that polaroids had ceased to have any usage with attachable phone printers, the quality of those unmatched. And yet you found yourself wanting this one after watching a movie, imagining all the different scenarios you wanted to use the camera for.

You basically opened the camera in record time, holding into in your hands for a couple seconds just to make sure you weren't dreaming. After the initial excitement passed, you examined the camera to see the different functions that it had and where you could put the film cartridge. You messed around with a couple of the buttons before the back of the camera eventually opened up, an illustration of how to set the cartridge etched inside.

As much as you didn't want to admit it, you'd been so focused on even just trying to acquire the camera that you didn't bother to research exactly just how it is that it worked. You reached over for the box, the manual falling down on the table. You'd barely managed to open it before Miguel grabbed it from your hands, putting it to the side. "We can figure this out by ourselves. It can't possibly be that difficult," he stated, sitting down at the table next to you.

He'd almost wished he hadn't said those words so soon.

The two of you sat there for a couple minutes, trying to figure out how exactly it was that the camera functions worked. You were grateful enough that you had boxes of cartridges to go through, considering that you'd almost went through one in testing this whole thing out. "Go see if that one worked," Miguel pointed over to the one processing on the table, his focus on the camera almost admirable. "This would go by a whole lot easier if you weren't so reluctant to use the manual."

"I refuse. I promise it'll work this time."

"It's almost like manuals were included in the box for situations like this," you muttered under your breath, noticing the subtle scoff he let out.

If the two of you were in any other situation, you might've found this a bit humorous. The two of you struggling with a simple enough camera while he dealt with complicated tech at a super fancy genetics facility and you dealt with cameras that had much more to them. "It did not work," you grumbled, only seeing your reflection peering back at you through the black photograph. If you squinted enough, at least you could see the silhouette of both of your figures. That counted as progress, right?

"Maybe it might be time to reconsider using the manual?" You suggested, your voice raising up a couple octaves as you tried to coax him into the idea.

"We don't need a manual. I'm a genius and you're an expert in cameras. We should be able to figure this out."

He twisted the lens of the camera onto the symbol with the home on it, deciding to test it out since it was the only one left. Miguel pointed at the fruit bowl that the two of you had been using as a practice model, clicking on the button. The whirr of the camera followed, the photograph coming out almost immediately. You slipped it out when it was halfway through, setting it down on the table to wait for it to process. "How's it going at the photography studio? Is your boss still being stingy?"

"It's gotten absurd. I had a client come in this last Monday and he immediately swept in to tell him that I don't have any experience," you couldn't help but feel annoyance when thinking back to the scenario, knowing pretty well that your portfolio was just as good as any of the other interns'. If not, even better.

"How are you supposed to get any experience if he's not giving it to you?"

You gave a small shrug in response, that being the same question that you asked yourself repeatedly. Every opportunity to advance at the studio had been ripped away from you, yet you couldn't bring yourself to quit. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was just that you'd gotten complacent staying in the same position for a couple years now. "Obviously you didn't ask for my opinion, but I think you should quit if he continues like this," Miguel offered quietly, his hand coming up to your shoulder.

"I'll think about it," you told him after a couple seconds of silence, contemplating his words. You knew he was right, deep down you did know. But what if other companies saw you as the mediocre photographer that this company did? The thought was just too much to handle. You looked over at the photograph once it was finished processing, noticing that the fruit bowl had been perfectly captured. "It worked!" You sounded a little too excited, handing over the photograph for him to examine his work.

"Now, let's take one together," is what you said about two minutes ago.

He ended up sitting down on a chair, one of your arms wrapped around him as the two of you looked into the camera. "How much longer? My cheeks are starting to hurt," you asked him through the smile you were trying so hard to maintain. "Hold on, I'm just trying to find the button," he muttered, the subtle scratch of his nail hitting the camera as he searched for the button. You'd barely heard the click from the button, immediately blinded by the flash shooting directly at the both of you.

Was this how your clients felt? Maybe you'd stop getting on their ass for capturing a majority of their photos with their eyes closed. Realistically you knew you wouldn't though. Seriously, how hard was it for them to keep their eyes open for four seconds? Miguel blinked slowly, putting the camera down on the table. "Pretty sure I just burned my retinas with that one," he muttered, taking the photo out and setting it on a placemat for it to develop. "Ditto."

"Hey, can I keep the photo? I'm thinking of putting it in my wallet," he asked once you were done adorning the blank space with stars and little hearts. You handed the photo over to him when he was done pulling out his wallet, noticing how gentle he was at handling the photo so it wouldn't bend. An array of photos were inside of his wallet, most of them Gabriella. One from when she was a baby to one where she was holding up a diploma for her kinder graduation.

"Te ves tan hermosa. I swear, that camera doesn't do you enough justice," he mused, looking down at the photograph that adorned the back of his wallet. Though he wouldn't be able to deny that the way you smiled in the picture was an image that would stay engrained in his brain for as long as he lived. "Thank you for getting it for me regardless. I know it wasn't much of an easy task," you responded, watching as he went over to fridge. (you look so beautiful)

"Gabriella and I baked you a cake. Well, more like she put the ingredients and mixed it and I just did the heavy work," he told you, bringing the plate with the cake over. You looked over, seeing the cake sprinkled with an ungodly amount of sprinkles and the writing on the frosting a bit crooked. Yet the fact that they'd both taken the time made you heart swell. "It's the prettiest cake I've ever seen. Tell her I said thank you," you gave him a smile, stepping up so he could lean over and light the candles up on the cake.

"Don't smush my head into the cake," you warned him, hovering slightly above the cake. His laughter echoed throughout the apartment, standing across from you with the camera pointed towards you. "Not sure how I would manage that but noted," he responded, putting the camera up to his eye and angling it. "You'd find a way," you muttered, blowing out the candles. You wafted the smoke fumes coming up, starting to take out the candles. "Que lo parta, que lo parta," Miguel chanted in the background when you went to cut the cake.

"Thank you. You've just left me with dessert for the rest of the week," you called out from the kitchen, setting the remaining cake in the fridge. You grabbed your plate from the table, going over to the couch where he'd sat down. "What movie did you end up picking out?" You asked, already expecting it to be some kind of sci-fi movie. Maybe thriller if you were lucky. "Some old romance movie, supposed to be good. La La Land," he answered, taking a bite from his cake. You wiped some of the frosting with your thumb, licking it off afterwards.

"No new movies out in theaters?"

"Well, it's not that. They're just hard to enjoy with all the AI writing and all the CGI. It just doesn't feel like I'm actually watching a movie with real actors, y'know?" If you had to guess, you'd probably say that he was right. Majority of the behind the scenes shots that you've seen for recent movies have just shown robots on set, only around two people actually present. It all just felt so.. emotionless. A repeat of the same movie over and over again just with different characters.

His thumb drew lazy circles on your thigh while Sebastian and Mia were seated at the movie theatre. "I wanted to run something by you, see what you thought about it," he started off, already looking at you when you turned to face him. You really hoped this wasn't the start of a break up speech. "Gabriella's really important to me, as I'm sure you're aware. And now that we're starting to get serious, I'd like for you to meet her," were not the words you were expecting from that sentence, but you weren't upset at them.

The thought of meeting his little girl was something that intrigued you and scared you shitless at the same time. What if she thought you were making some futile attempt to replace her mom? What if she ran you out of the house throwing eggs at you? You took a deep breath, trying to think of the positives. Miguel had done nothing but describe her as well-behaved, there would be no reason for her to act up. You'd just have to reassure her that you wanted to love her, not replace her mother in any form. "I'd love to meet her."

"This defeats the purpose of the movie, y'know?" He pointed out when you sat on his lap, your legs on either sides of his. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your nails gently raking against the curls on the nape of his neck. "Is that a complaint that I'm hearing, Mr. O'Hara?" You whispered against his lips, his chest rumbling as he laughed. "Not at all," he sounded breathless as he spoke, his hands coming down to rest on your hips. He let out a small groan when you leaned in, the taste of frosting lingering on his lips.

You'd barely registered the sound of his phone buzzing in the background, only breaking away from the kiss when he did. He pulled it out of his pocket, letting out a small groan. "It's my ex wife. Just give me a second," he whispered, placing the phone up to his ear. You could make out a couple words from her frantic yelling, nothing that would give you a clue to what was going on though. "I'm not processing the information any better with you yelling in my ear," Miguel sounded much different with his ex wife, a tone he'd never used with you.

After receiving a couple more pieces of context based on what Miguel was telling Dana to do, you were able to decipher that Gabriella was currently running a fever along with a cold. "I'll come by to pick her up along with some medicine, okay?" He'd simply stated after Dana spent around two minutes talking to him. "Yes and groceries too," he added, albeit a bit reluctantly before hanging up the phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a small resigned sigh. He'd even called off work tomorrow to spend a lazy morning with you.

"I have to go," he pressed a quick kiss to your lips, tapping on the side of your thigh. You got off him, standing up to walk him out the door. "Stay safe. Call me when you get home," you told him before he left, standing on your tippy toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. "I will, I promise. I'll text you the details for next week, okay?" He called out, starting to head down the sidewalk. You waited until he wasn't visible anymore to go back inside, starting to clean up a couple smudges of frosting on the table.

You ended up watching the rest of the movie in the comfort of your couch, lying to yourself about the tears in your eyes. He'd mentioned the movie being somewhat of a romance but he'd forgotten to disclose the important detail- that it was a tragic romance. Just the fact that they had everything that they could've wanted except for each other just made it all the more painful to watch. In order to distract yourself, you pulled your phone out to see if Miguel had texted you. After all, it'd been about thirty minutes since he left.

Maybe he'd forgotten. You tried to assure yourself that maybe it was the last thing on mind given that Gabriella was sick, that he was capable of taking care of himself. There wasn't any way he'd willingly break the promise that he made to you, right? You even tried turning off your phone and toggling with the data button on it to see if was just that your phone hadn't received the message. But upon turning your phone on, you only saw the same three notifications on your screen from a couple hours back.

You'd call him tomorrow. Check up on Gabriella and him on the process. The thought of him ghosting you came to mind, though it didn't last for very long. He'd been very upfront when it came to telling you the things that displeased him in the relationship. He wouldn't just up and leave without an explanation. Plus, the two of you were doing great and he wouldn't have suggested meeting Gabriella if he wanted to break up. Things were good. You just had to keep repeating that until all the worries in your head disappeared.

Things were good.

So why is it that a week later every single one of your phone calls was getting straight to voicemail?

"Hey Miguel, I know that you're busy with work and whatnot but can you just call me back so I know you're not dead?" You were pacing in the middle of your living room, feeling yourself slowly start to unravel with every automated response that you received. "Okay, well I love you. Please just call me back whenever you have the time," you ended the call, staring at the blank screen before testing your luck again for what seemed to be the 70th time.

"This is Miguel O'Hara speaking. Please state your reason for calling and I'll try to get back to you," you practically spoke with the machine, having memorized it after the nth time of hearing it. It was pointless to leave another message, the deep part of your subconscious was aware of that. And yet, you couldn't help yourself. "Hey, Miguel. I'm sorry about all the calls. Can you just tell me if I did something wrong or something instead of ignoring me? Please," you sounded pathetic to your own ears.

You waited until the designated two days passed by until you called the police department in your precinct, inquiring about any missing reports for Miguel. "Look I don't know how many times you want me to check the damn system but for the fourth time, there's no missing persons report filed for a Miguel O'Hara," the officer sounded agitated on the line, though rightfully so. You'd asked him for the fourth time before he snapped. You hung up, trying other PD's and hospitals. Only to get no results.

Maybe it was a stupid way to cope with the fact that he wanted nothing to do with you anymore. But you couldn't help but call him just to be able to hear his voice on the ringtone, even if he did sound apathetic when speaking. That was until a couple weeks passed by, "Number is disconnected or no longer in service," was the response that you'd received instead of the voicemail that you'd gotten so used to. "No, come on," you muttered to yourself, trying to assure yourself it was a mistake. But upon calling again, you quickly realized that it was not.

Even as the years passed by, you found yourself unable to move on from him. It'd gotten to the point where your friends had to step in, staging an emergency intervention under the pretense of going out for drinks one night. As much as you understood their point and their reasons for believing that you were slightly delusional, you still refused to let him go. His clothes still lingered in the back of your closet, the fresh scent of his cologne still present when you pressed your face against it.

You had no idea what happened to him, and that was partially what kept you from moving on. There was no type of closure, no logical reason for him to leave you or any problems in between the two of you. So you stuck to your selfish, hopeless dream. The dream that one day you'd wake up for work and he'd be knocking on the other side of the door, cup of coffee in hand with a croissant bag in the other. Maybe it was the fact that he'd made you feel loved in a relationship. The person that understood you just by your tics and facial expressions.

"Maybe he just.. doesn't want to make this harder for you," your friend hesitated when you'd picked up a newspaper on your way out the subway. Miguel's face had been on the front of the cover, looking as stoic as ever. Even as he was getting an award for a groundbreaking experiment. As a photographer, you could tell that the lighting wasn't flattering on his skin, the color palette washing him out. But still, you tried to push that thought to the side as the reminder that he was still living out there peacefully without you lingered.

"He'll come back," you muttered, though the words didn't sound believable anymore. You could tell your friend wanted to say something else by the skeptical look on their face, but they simply just offered a hug. "Look, when you're ready to move on, I'll be here to help you," they whispered, rubbing your back. The two of you got a couple sideway glances from the others walking down the street, but you couldn't help but want this hug to last longer. You needed some kind of warmth in your life.

The one good thing that had come out of this situation though was that you finally decided to take his advice and quit your job. You'd spent weeks going from studio to studio, rejection getting thrown in your face a couple times. Each rejection started stinging less and less, simply becoming another name on your list. Though a majority of the studios that rejected you was due to a lack of space, giving you plenty of connections to reach out to though. After a while of submitting job applications, a couple of them managed to land.

Which is how you came to work at the studio you're working at now. While it was slightly painful to do, the copious amounts of ass kissing that you did to your superiors helped you move up the ranks rather quickly. Well that and the diversity in your portfolio, the main point that your employer made sure to highlight. The way that you were able to capture objects and people, capturing them in a way that made the subject interesting no matter what it was. It was nothing mediocre. You knew that now.

Along with the job, the studio offered a couple refresher courses that you took full advantage of. While your skill wasn't bad by any means, you were still determined to get better at it. The courses went over from a range of subjects such as color contrasts, the rule of thirds, and different editing programs that didn't mess with the quality of the photos.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your gaze immediately going to the necklace adorning your neck. You've been trying to talk yourself into finally taking it off for the last couple months, trying to convince yourself that it was necessary to move on. Your alarm clock blared in the background as a reminder that you were about to late for work, but you stayed still. But taking the necklace off would mean that you'd accepted he wouldn't be coming back. Is that something you'd be willing to do?

You brought your hands to the nape of your neck, reaching for the clasp. Just take it off. It would be simple. Stuffing it in the back of your bathroom drawer, never having to look at it again. Never having to be reminded of the nice memories associated with it. You dropped your hand from the clasp, letting out a small groan. "I'll do it tomorrow," it was the same thing you told yourself in the mirror every day, knowing pretty damn well that you weren't going to actually do it.

Even the meaningless distractions and the amount of clothing that you'd bought for yourself after acquiring an actual paying position at the studio did nothing to fix the empty void. Everything just felt so gray, so static. You'd found yourself missing the most minute things of your routine with Miguel, from brushing your teeth together at the sink after he'd just spent the night to the subtle scratch of his stubble after a couple days of not shaving. You missed having someone to talk to about whatever crossed your mind with little fear of judgement. You missed him.

No number of heels or jewelry that you'd splurge on would heal that.

You checked your watch on your way up the elevator, practically hearing the ticking of it as you were reminded you were late. Probably shouldn't have stopped at that new café that just opened up on the corner of your house. Though the taste of the buttery croissant melting in your mouth almost made any complaints coming your way worth it. You stuffed the last piece in your mouth before approaching your office, wiping away any crumbs that lingered on your shirt.

"I have a meeting scheduled here for... Xina?" You read off the calendar on your tablet, looking up for some kind of confirmation. What you hadn't expected to see was Miguel standing there by her side, his hands stuffed in his pockets. A ticked off expression on his face to top off the cake that this morning was turning out to be.

"You're late," the same tone that he'd used with Dana all those years ago, one of agitation and frustration was now the one that he'd used with you. For the amount of times that you spent criticizing the woman over her decisions, you wouldn't have expected for you to get treated the same way.

You really wanted to be annoyed, demand for an explanation. You'd planned out this moment in your head for years, after all. But upon standing in front of him once more, you felt your mouth dry up. It didn't help that he looked more devastatingly handsome than the last time you saw him. His hair had grown a bit, slight curls forming at the nape of his neck. While he wasn't weak by any means when the two of you were together, his muscles were practically close to ripping the stitching in his black button down top.

The gold Virgencita necklace he had did nothing to help out your case. It was only accentuated by the dark fabric. On his wrist, you could notice a couple beaded bracelets. Each with their own sentence in them, ranging from 'best dad' to 'te quiero mucho.' Well that was if you weren't misreading them while they were upside down. Surely the work of his daughter. Though the thing that had caught your attention the most was the gold band around his ring finger, a sign of his commitment to the woman next to him.

You really needed to stop staring before they got any weird vibes from you. You could do that. You could separate your personal feelings from your work.

"It's just a few minutes, Miguel," the woman next to him spoke, the harshness in his glare losing all intensity when she reached over to hold his hand. He let out a small sigh, almost forcing himself to calm down before nodding slightly. You shook both of their hands, willing yourself not to clasp Miguel's fingers within your own. To feel the slight roughness of his calluses that you'd grown used to. That wasn't something you could do anymore.

"Before we started, would any of you all like something to drink? We have tea, water, and some coffee. Though I wouldn't recommend the coffee," you could play the role of a stranger too, a forced smile making its way onto your face. You felt it falter a couple times but you were quick to school your expression back to normal before anyone could notice.

"No, thank you," Xina responded, placing her hands on the table to scoot her chair in. You caught a glimpse of the diamond ring adorning her finger, if that was even a proper name for it. You had an idea Miguel was rich, but you'd never expect him to be THAT rich. The lights reflected off the diamond, a rainbow hue present on the table.

"I'm alright, thanks," Miguel didn't even bother to look at you while he spoke, his attention solely on the woman next to him. His hand reached out to where hers sat, holding it tenderly. His thumb rubbing small circles on the back of her hand. The same way that he used to do to you.

"Excuse me, miss. Do you happen to have any snacks?" The little girl by his side chimed in, the same little girl you'd seen on those photographs from long ago. Well, now she wasn't exactly too little. She did, however, resemble every bit of Miguel. Even more so now than in the photos you had the pleasure of seeing before.

"Mija, if you eat snacks now you won't be hungry for when we go out to eat later."

"I'll still be hungry, I promise!" Even you knew that it was false, but Miguel found himself being unable to deny the little girl anything. He pulled his wallet out, glimpses of those photos from years ago still visible. Tinted yellow from the time that'd passed by. You couldn't help but peer inside as discreetly as you could, hoping to catch a glimpse of the polaroid in the back. He hastily shut his wallet when he caught you staring at it, shoving it deep into the pocket of his jeans.

Something to confirm that you hadn't just imagined the time that you spent together with him all those years ago. The only photos you saw in his wallet though were those of Gabriella and one of him with his fiancée, surely celebrating their engagement by the pose in the picture. Xina sticking her hand out to the camera, a flashing smile on her face as she looked over at the camera. You couldn't help but feel a pang in your chest when you glanced over at Miguel in that photo, his eyes only locked on her.

A look of adoration that you'd only imagined in fairytales. The way that he looked at her like she was the only woman that mattered in the world. You were snapped out of your trance when you heard his wallet thud shut, looking over at Gabriella when she walked over to Miguel instead. He had a five dollar bill sticking out of his hand, keeping it in his grasp while he finished speaking, "Alright, go get yourself a light snack. And get the nice lady something if she wants."

Nice lady.

That's what you were reduced to now? Just as the lady that treated him with basic manners?

"I will, thank you!" Gabriella yelled out from the hall, practically dashing out the door the second he handed her the money. You pushed any lingering thoughts aside, excusing yourself from the table before going after Gabriella. You found her skipping in the hallway on the way to the vending machine, humming a song to herself on the way.

"I didn't actually have to get anything. I just wanted to talk to you," now that came as a surprise. As far as you knew, Gabriella only knew that Miguel was dating someone in the past.

"Me? Why me?"

She reached for the pocket on the front of her overall, taking out a polaroid. You didn't have to look at it to know what it was. And yet you did, a small smile present on your face at the sight of how happy you and Miguel looked once. The words at the bottom had faded away, leaving grey markings in their wake. "I found it in the trash. I thought I should keep it," she told you, your eyes widening slightly. He wouldn't do that, not after he said he'd value it. But what reason would Gabriella have to lie?

"My dad acted strange for a while. He stopped reading me bedtime stories and putting smiley faces on my food," the little girl sounded melancholy as she spoke, reaching up to put the bill in the machine. Now that sounded more like the Miguel that you were accustomed to, not the man that was currently in your office. "But he used to talk nicely about you. How I'd love to spend time with you and get to know you. I'm sorry that we didn't get to that."

"Hey, there's nothing to be sorry for. Sometimes things just happen, y'know?" Even if you yourself knew nothing of what exactly happened, you decided to test that out to reassure her. She gave a small nod in response, pressing a button on the machine before a bag of chips dropped down.

"Thought you weren't hungry."

"Well, I lied to him and it'd be pretty obvious if I showed up empty handed." Smart kid.

"I don't know if we should stick with this photographer. I caught her staring at my wallet a couple seconds too long," you heard Miguel through the thin walls complain to his wife, that same tone of annoyance lingering in his voice. He really couldn't tolerate you, huh.

"She was probably just looking at the photos you have in there, don't stress out about it too much. She's the best we'll find with this time crunch."

The conversation came to a halt when you and Gabriella stepped into the room, the crinkling of chips a stark comparison to the quietness. You went over to your bookcase, grabbing your planning binder before going back to your seat across from them. You flipped over to a clean page, playing with the end of your pen as you tried to distract yourself from the reality of the situation. The same ex who'd practically disappeared from the face of the earth was now facing you. Requiring your services.

"We were wondering if we could establish something like a photo booth where the guests could go to take photos rather than it just being a quinceañera situation," Miguel spoke up, looking directly at you. You were hoping to catch a glimpse of something, just the slightest bit of something that would tell you that you weren't just a stranger to him. Maybe not longing but some sort of recognition? But you received nothing. Not even a form of silent acknowledgment that you were still wearing the damn necklace.

"Alright, we can do that," you scribbled down the notes, just the request making you recall the countless complaints that you've had to deal with about a couple of your interns. That the guests couldn't even get a spoonful in without having some fear that a camera would instantly flash in their eyes. "And how would you like the arrangement to be for the both of you? Photos straight out of the chapel and throughout the ceremony or just the photo booth?"

"Well for the two of us, we'd like some photos of us outside of the chapel." Alright, all you had to do was arrange the photo booth before you made your way over to the church to take their photographs. That sounded manageable. You annotated the time that the ceremony and reception would start, writing down a couple possibilities for the time required. You were getting paid by the hour, after all.

"I'd prefer if you could make it something low light. My eyes get sensitive with bright lights," Miguel spoke up, waiting for you to write down the notes before leaning back in his chair. You'd never heard him complain about something like that when you used him as the muse for your photos, but a lot of things were different about him now. You didn't know him anymore. A fact that you had to resign to yourself to.

"How'd the two of you meet, if you don't mind me asking?" It was clear that they mind the question. Silence lingered in the room, both of their stares equally judging. Think. Think. Think. What would be a reasonable excuse for letting your nosiness get in the way of remaining professional?

"I was just wondering since we could set up the booth with something reminiscent of that moment. A couple coffee shaped figures if it was a coffee shop. Books if it was a library. Like a cute little easter egg," you almost had to commend yourself for coming up with that lie so fast. You looked over at Gabriella, seeing her give you a thumbs up on the middle of her trying to watch a YouTube video. Okay, maybe the situation had been salvaged.

"We used to be friends, though we hadn't contacted each other in a while. Before she came into my life as my fiancée, my life just felt very empty. She brought me purpose and a reason to come back home every night," you gripped the pen in your hands as he spoke, almost surprised that the glass didn't shatter. Empty? Empty? Were you just a piece of chopped liver? Maybe you'd gone crazy for real this time around and just imagined yourself dating him. Yeah.

Just coincidentally dated someone who looked exactly like him. You'd be lucky if you didn't go mad by the end of this meeting if your thoughts continued to stray in this direction. You could've sworn you heard a slight crack in the pen you were holding, forcibly loosening your grip on it even though it was the only thing anchoring you down. Just take a couple deep breaths. Go to your happy place. Wait no. That wouldn't work if your happy place was in a beach in the Bahamas with Miguel, right?

Nope. Definitely not.

"Well he comes home most of the time, but y'know how it is with geneticists," Xina remarked, her gaze going over to the pen in your hand before going back up to your face.

"You have no idea," you found yourself muttering, unable to stop the words from coming out. You didn't even have to look over at Gabriella this time to know that she was subtly giving you a thumbs down.

"I'm sorry?"

"Forget it, just a stupid comment." Though she seemed skeptical towards the comment, she decided to leave it be for now.

The rest of the meeting flowed very smoothly, a majority of the conversation staying on work related topics. The other portions had been Xina talking about just how lucky she was to get you as a photographer, how thankful she was for Miguel. "He's just been so supportive throughout this whole process, letting me take reigns of the planning," she'd told you, her face gleaming as she spoke of him. An expression similar to contentment washed over Miguel's face as he watched speak, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Alright, that'll be all. Thank you for coming to meet with me today," you told the both of them once the plans had been set into stone. You rose up from your seat, the three of them following suit.

"Thank you, it was very nice to meet you," Xina extended her hand out towards you, a polite smile on her face. You shook her hand, returning the pleasantries with as much cheerfulness as you could muster. Which wasn't that much, now that you think about it. But she hadn't noticed anything too strange about your expression so that was slightly reassuring. She and Gabriella left the room, leaving you and Miguel together.

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. O'Hara. My apologies for being late," to which he simply gave a curt nod before making his way to the exit. You went to fix your binder and pens, looking up only when you hadn't heard the click of the door.

Before he had the chance to step out, he stopped and stood by the doorstep to turn around and look at you. You were stuck in between wanting to bask in his presence for just a little bit longer and wanting him to leave. Why couldn't he just leave with the new family he was forming and leave you out of it? He looked like he was trying to see if he recognized you, his brows furrowed slightly in concentration. "I'm sorry if this comes off as a weird question, but have we met before? You seem familiar."

You almost wanted to laugh at the situation. How funny it was that the man you'd swore was the one you were probably gonna end up getting married to was the same one who didn't recognize you now? The same one that spent hours on his knees, devoting himself to worshipping and memorizing every feature of your body. That loved every aspect of yourself, even the aspects that you once thought were unlovable.

While seeing him now was the epitome of painful, knowing that he hadn't even bothered to consider you while he'd gone off to start a new life, this was what you needed to move on. The hope that you once had of him coming home, holding you close to his chest with countless apologies slowly dwindled down throughout this meet before extinguishing completely. You had slowly come to accept how stupid it was to wait for him.

It would've been easy to say yes, to tell him that you were his ex-girlfriend. But the image of the small smiles that he shot at Xina throughout the meeting still stuck in your head, making you consider that decision longer than you should've. You looked up from your notes, realizing that he was still waiting for your answer. After some hesitation, you eventually decided on, "No, I don't believe we've met before. You have me confused with someone else."

tag list 🫶🏼: @yougavemeyourheartyouknow @lazyjellyfish300 @pxtched @nympholove @ifiwasaguybrickedup @nixinluv02 @lizaistewdelulu @swiftiegirliepop @1800-get-alife @cl3stevu @hardlystrictlystarwars @1dk-anym0r3

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melodeebarnes · 6 months

Text

"Of course, I noticed"

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: It's your first Christmas with the Avengers, and you're nervous. Not everyone is big on the idea of a new teammate. They haven't been very good at remembering to include you. However, someone you least expected remembered.

Notes from Author: This is my first thing to write on here, and first written out fanfic ever. So, not sure how I feel about this. I started writing this at 2AM. So, we'll see.

*No mention of y/n*

It's currently 7:45AM, and you've just finished up wrapping the present you picked out for Wanda. You want to make sure everything is perfect.

It's you're first Christmas living in the compound and what happens today could determine how everyone thinks about you. You may be overreacting a bit...but what if you're not? Either way, your nerves are at their peak.

You take a deep breath, and grab all of the gifts you bought for everyone. You head down to the main living area, which holds the biggest Christmas tree in the compound. You delicately place each present underneath it, next to the other ones.

You follow the aroma of fresh hot coffee into the kitchen. You pass Wanda, who's flipping a pancake, humming to the Christmas music sounding from F.R.I.D.A.Y.

You grab your favorite mug, and quickly turn, eager for the first sip of coffee. Thankfully you got here just in time, as there isn't much left. You pour the rest of the steamy hot goodness into your cup.

You quickly doll in up, a little bit of cream, and a little bit of sugar. Just the way you like it. You take the first sip, and it's perfec-

"You've got to be kidding me." Bucky groans, causing everyone to turn their attention to him. Though, his eyes seem to be on you. "You just HAD to take the last of the coffee?"

Bucky. He's the person you knew you'd have the most trouble with today. He has never been fond of you. You thought he just needed some time to warm up to you, but even after months he still hates you. He made up his mind about you the first day, and won't change it.

"I'm sorry, there wasn't much left." You explain.

He scoffs, "So you think you can just come in here and take it? You have no right to-"

"Hey! What's the rule?" Wanda interrupts, immediately shutting him up. "No arguing on Christmas morning," she reminds.

He huffs out a sigh, glaring at you. "Whatever." He mutters.

"Here, I'll make another pot." Steve offers, being the peacemaker, he is. He looks back at you, giving a friendly smile.

Everyone sits down, eating their breakfast. There's a bit of banter between the group, but you just sit and listen. They're clearly more familiar with each other than they are with you.

They haven't made much effort to get to know you on a personal level, so you chose not to force it.

Tony walks in into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of bacon from the plate. "Alright, now that I'm here we can start the real meaning of the gracious holiday."

You follow behind everyone to the black velvet couches and sit in the in the empty spot on the corner. Natasha passes out everyone's gifts to their recipient.

As you watch each gift get passed out, you notice how few of gifts you have, compared to everyone else. You have two gifts, one from Steve, and one with no name.

"Sorry, we're not used to you being here for Christmas." Bruce shrugs.

"Oh, no. It's fine. I totally understand" You try to hide the disappointment behind a smile, but there's no hiding the sadness' in your eyes. Though, no one cares enough to notice.

You try to brush it off and open the gifts you do have. Inside the gift from Steve is new training gloves. Your old ones were already beginning to wear out, your thankful to have new ones.

"Thank you, Steve."

"My pleaser." He smiles, warmly.

The second gift with no name, is a small box with a poorly tied bow. You sigh at the lack of effort. When you open it, you see a necklace with a diamond incrusted butterfly charm. It's the same one you saw at an antique store you went to when everyone was out shopping on a day off.

You figured no one was paying attention, but clearly someone was. "Wait, who is this from?" You ask, gently holding up the necklace.

Everyone either shrugs, or looks around looking for an answer to the same question.

"Well whoever it was, thank you so much." You're unable to stop smiling. You admire the beauty of the necklace.

A few hours later, you're back up in your room. You decided to leave the celebration early because you felt left out. It just seemed like it'd be best for everyone.

However, the sound of a knock, echos off your door.

"Who is it?" You raise your voice, in order for them to hear you. When there's no answer, you sigh getting up. You slowly open to door, to see Bucky standing on the other side, hands in pockets, and eyes avoiding yours.

"Uhm...may I help you?" You ask, confused.

"I just came to tell you, we're doing our annual Christmas movie night, in case you wanted to join." He mutters, looking off to the side.

"Trust me, no one wants me there."

"That's not tru-" He cuts himself off.

You furrow your brow, "What?" you ask.

"Did you not like the gift?" He asks, now looking at your neck, still bare with no jewelry.

"No, I loved it I just-" you got yourself off, suddenly putting the puzzle pieces together. "Wait, that was from you?" You question, taken aback.

"Uhm..yeah." He mutters.

"Why didn't you put a name on it?" You feel confused. Why would, Bucky, of all people be the one to get you the meaningful gift.

"Well, usually everyone can tell by the wrapping." He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I'm not the best at it, but I swear I try."

"Well, that is what matters." You laugh. "Wait, but how did you know?"

"When we were all out shopping, I saw the way your face lit up when you saw the necklace." He explains. "So, I assumed it'd be the perfect gift for you."

"I can't believe you noticed that."

"Of course, I noticed." He smiles at you for the first time ever.

You can't lie, seeing him smile did abrupt a few stray butterflies in your stomach. "Thank you, it must've cost a fortune."

He shakes his head. "The price isn't what matters. It's the thought that goes into the gift."

"I never thought I'd hear that coming out of your mouth." You laugh.

"Yeah, and if you tell anyone I'm gonna have to kill you." He jokes.

"Can't ruin your big bad wolf reputation, right?"

"Hey, it's white wolf." He corrects.

You put your hands up in defense. "My apologies."

"Wait, so why aren't you wearing the necklace?" He asks.

"I'm not great at putting on necklaces, and I didn't want to break or mess it up." You explain.

He nods in understanding, "Would you like me to help?" He asks.

"Sure, I would love your help." You smile, opening the door wide, inviting him inside.

He hesitantly walks in, immediately spotting the gift sitting in the poorly wrapped box. You smile, delicately taking it out and handing it to him. You turn around, watching him through the mirror.

He uses his flesh hand to gently brushes your hair out of the way, sending shivers down your spine. He brings the beautiful necklace in front of you, and you lift your hair up out while he clasps the chain.

You let your hair fall, but you both stand silently looking in the mirror. Suddenly he ends the silence by clearing his throat.

"It's beautiful, Bucky. Thank you."

"Call me Buck." He smiles, again.

"Really? But I thought you hated me."

"I don't hate you. Sometimes I'm just not great with new recruits, and I don't handle it the proper way." He looks away, embarrassed by the way he's been acting. "And I'm sorry for treating you so poorly these past few months."

"It's okay." You smile.

"Now come on, lets go down for movie night." He begins to walk out.

"But they probably don't want me there." You say.

"If they have anything to say, they'll have to deal with me." He warns. "Between me and you, they're all a little if not extremely scared of me." He laughs.

"Well then, this should be good." You smile, and follow him out.

#bucky barnes #bucky #bucky fanfic #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x y/n

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19burstraat · 7 months

Text

ketterdam dashboard simulator

goedmedbridge420

who up boeking they canal

10,345 notes

drydens follow

I can't believe some of you log on here and thirstpost about barrel vagrants. it makes me so sick. these men are the very pits of society and have never honoured ghezen a day in their lives. there are so many other young men who make their living in a reverent way. have some dignity.

#ghezen #inghezenssight #ghezenhonouring #churchofghezen #handofghezen

2 notes

kooperomno1fan

lionsroar12 follow

omg HOW is kaz brekker winning this he's SO problematic he's not even good for the economy he killed members of his own gang and kidnapped councilman van eck's son

dregsundrained

cranky coz your gang fell apart aren't you

17,860 notes

oskervoexchange follow

guys is this a mandela effect or what bc I SWEAR this painting used to be in the university district art museum, I literally saw it this week??? but I went today and it was GONE?????? there wasn't even a plaque?? guys pls I'm so confused why is everyone acting like this is normal for ketterdam? do priceless antiques just VANISH? am I being gaslit?

450 notes

stadhall-clerking

guys I'm so sorry I've been MIA :( I found out that my landlord was using my rent on the staves rather than fixing my black mould problem so I pushed him out the window and told the stadwatch he must have fallen and died because he wasn't honouring ghezen and got away with it. anyway I think maybe the black mould explains the dirtyhands/sturmhond fic I was writing sorry :( but I WILL finish my fairy queen of istamere meta post once I've moved into my new lodging

670 notes

dregsconfessions follow

SUBMISSION: sometimes I lie awake thinking about the time I fell down an entire flight of stairs at the slat when kaz was at the bottom, and he just stared at me (still lying on the floor), and then asked if I'd changed the beer kegs at the silver six yet. GIRL NO?!?!?!

#submission #dregs #dirtyhands #admin comment: laughed so loud my upstairs neighbour threatened to shoot me

546 notes

dregsconfessions follow

ADMIN NOTE: if the razorgulls don't fucking stop sending anon hate to this blog we'll tell dirtyhands n he'll send you your own IP address back

#see what happens you hack job seagulls

500 notes

kerchtourismboard

it's us, the real kerch tourism board, here to tell you what we're putting in the new summer season pamphlet. we got 1) three pages all about kaz brekker that end up being more of an advertisement than a deterrent 2) list of slipperiest spots in the barrel where you will fall over and get a concussion when ur drunk 3) top 10 ways to get your wallet stolen by a child in broad daylight 4) paintings of the komedie brute 5) advert for sten's stockpot 6) map of public toilets

570 notes

kerchtourismboardreal follow

we are not affiliated with any degenerate impersonator accounts who claim to be us. we are the only real kerch tourism account.

23 notes

kerchtourismboard-real follow

grafcanal smells like piss and you should bite everyone you see wearing the mister crimson costume

450 notes

stensstockpot follow

it's all 'fuck sten's stockpot' and 'I got food poisoning from the special at sten's stockpot' until you realise you don't have the money for cilla's fry, and then you come CRAWLING back to the loving arms of sten's stockpot and our special. you fucking traitors. you'll be back! you'll all be back

canaljumpings follow

what's in the special sten's stockpot

stensstockpot follow

it's a surprise ;)

bertskerch follow

nah I thought this was the real stens lmao

stensstockpot follow

bert smit you still have 45 kruge to pay on your tab and if you don't cough up we'll send our debtors to break your legs

230 notes

exchangingbabey follow

my grisha girlfriend who still wears a kefta and says things like 'nikolai lantsov is a bastard': ugh they're still debating whether or not the council of tides should be able to control kerch shipping, I hate inter-country politics

me: I think I hauve the queen's lady

4500 notes

(insp) (insp)

#I wasted a full hour making this #six of crows #crooked kingdom #soc duology #kaz brekker #ketterdam #soc #grishaverse #shadow and bone #my post #dashboard simulator

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suicide-bullet · 4 months

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reader comforts johnnie, when he is crying.

female reader, fluff as fuck

the warm water, dripped down her soft, yet calloused hands, as she scrubbed at the white plate. "i fucking hate doing this shit." she complained, hating the feeling of the soggy pieces of food touching her bare skin. she couldn't wait to get back into her warm, fluffy sheets, and cuddle her boyfriend. after she had finished the dishes, she quickly fed her sphynx cat, angus, of whom johnnie was allergic to. he didn't mind though, not at all. as long as it made her happy. although angus clearly doesn't shed his fur, making his allergies quite alright, if you asked y/n.

"good boy." she mumbled, scratching the underneath of his chin. she stood up, her knees cracking, before she walked over to her and johnnies shared bedroom. her, now cold, hands pressed against the door handle, opening it quietly. upon walking into the room, she noticed it was pitch black, all that could be heard were light sobs. her heart melted, her hands shaking. "johnnie?" she called out into pure darkness. his heart dropped at her voice, wiping his smudged eye shadow.

y/n walked up to his side of the bed, switching on the small, antique lamp. "oh, baby." she frowned. he looked fucking shattered. his makeup was smudged over his face, his nose and cheeks red. she cupped his cheeks, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose, before wrapping her arms around him. he melted into her touch, his surprisingly cold hands pulled her on top of him.

he opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. "you don't have to tell me now, only when you're ready." y/n spoke softly, reassuring him. "you're not embarrassed?" johnnie questioned, afraid to make direct eye contact with her. "embarrassed of what, you? no. you're allowed to have feelings, johnnie. you shouldn't feel embarrassed, you're human." she answered, running her hands through his hair.

"but boys dont cry." he said, looking up at her. she smiled, "did you just quote the cure, johnnie?" he cracked a smile, making her heart explode. "no- yes- maybe." he laughed. "you're so silly." she giggled, straddling the raven-haired man. she twirled his hair around her pointer finger, admiring the man below her. she placed a kiss on his forehead, moving to his temple, then to his cheek, then to his nose, to his jawline, and finally, to his lips. "you're so handsome. my handsome boy."

"yeah?" he replied, tilting his head slightly to the side. "oh yeah. my favourite lady." she joked, he rolled his eyes sassily. "you are so a part of the sassy man apocalypse." she smiled, flicking his forehead. "ouch!" he shouted, catching the small girl off guard. "did that actually hurt?" y/n asked. "yes, a lot." he spoke sarcastically.

"awh, sorry. c'mere." she awed, grabbing his forehead and planting a fat kiss on it. "do i get kisses now?" he questioned. y/n hummed, "maybe, why were you upset?" johnnie looked up at her, his hands on her hips, rubbing up and down her waist. "i'm just- tired, you know? i feel as if i'm not doing enough." he admitted.

"johnnie, you're doing more than enough. for everyone. you've been working your fucking ass off, for weeks. you need a break sometimes, and that's okay. i love you, and i always will. and you'll always be enough for me." y/n reassured, holding his hands in hers. "fuck, you're so perfect. jesus. i love you" johnnie smiled, crimson spread across her cheekbones.

"now, let's do face masks!" she exclaimed, pulling him up by his hands and dragging him to the bathroom. he hated face masks, but he loved her. so it didn't really matter. y/n placed two clips in his hair, moving it out of the way. "not my forehead." he groaned, she rolled her eyes. "shut up." she groaned back, dragging out the up. she dipped her brush into the bright pink, peel off face mask, before dragging the cold cream across his skin. "shit, that's fucking cold."

"you're such a drama queen, oh my fuck." y/n commented, continuing to paint his face with the pink face mask. "it's actually cold, baby." he spoke, the pet name melting her heart. "you're shitting my dick, it's not even- oh!" she started, but was soon cut off to johnnie wiping the mask on her face. "ugh. johnnie. why would you do that? i'm gonna break out now. fuck."

"it's fine, you'll still look beautiful." he smiled, grabbing her face. she rolled her eyes, a smile still planted on her face. "yeah?" she mimicked his words from earlier.

"oh yeah, my pretty girl."

#johnnie guilbert x reader #johnnie guilbert #punk #emo boy #fluff #sid vicious #jake webber #jake webber x reader #sam and colby #colby brock #colby brock x reader #sam golbach #tara yummy

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after-witch · 8 months

Text

Horrorfest: To Make me Fret or Make Me Frown [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: To Make Me Fret or Make Me Frown [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: You bought a life-size puppet in terrible condition and restored it. But now it doesn't want to let you go.

For Horrorfest request:

Might be cheesy, but Scaramouche haunted puppet for horrorfest? Maybe reader inherits an uncannily lifelike doll, or finds him as an antique?

Word count: 1156

notes: yandere, puppet shenanigans

“He’s creepy,” your friend says. Her nose crinkles and she puts a hand up as if she can ward away whatever haunting abominations she imagines must be inside the doll, waiting to slither through her nostrils. “And weird,” she continues. “And broken.”

The doll has colorful blue hair and most of his strings are missing; one of his eyes is missing its pupil and an arm is cracked, a jagged wound that goes all the way to the fingers. If the doll were to be lifted, the damaged pinky on that arm would probably come right off--maybe the forefinger, too. He’s dirty and wearing only some cast-off shirt, itself probably too damaged to be sold by the secondhand store.

Your friend moves on, eager to head to the second floor where all the nice, expensive secondhand goods are kept, often behind glass cases so they don’t get damaged by looky-loos.

But you stay where you are.

Because the moment you took one look at the damaged life-size puppet propped up at the back of the store, in the same pricetag-less limbo as piles of tupperware with no lid, ripped books and ugly dolls missing arms, and your heart swelled.

“He’s perfect.”

The pinky on the damaged arm did come off before you even left the store, but you were able to salvage the original forefinger. The pinky, sadly, couldn’t be repaired--but you made a new one using the original as a mold and unless you’re staring quite intensely (which to be fair, you often do, when working on the puppet) you wouldn't be able to tell that it’s not original to the hand.

“I’d like to keep all your original parts as much as I can,” you murmur in the direction of the puppet, currently propped up on a chair you’d dragged into your workroom for the sole purpose of letting him have somewhere to sit while you worked. “You really are exquisite, you know? I can’t believe someone let you get into such rough shape.”

You sigh, lamenting the treatment of such a unique piece of craftsmanship, and place the finishing touches on the puppet’s repaired eye. The pupil needed to be filled in with new material but you went ahead and refreshed the iris of both eyes to make them look newer.

“Good as new, see?” You hold up both repaired eyes to the puppet, but realize your mistake when you’re greeted with a prim looking puppet with two black holes where his eyes should be.

“Oops.” You carefully slide the eyes back into the socket, fiddling with your finger until they slot right into place. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking. There!” You grab the magnifying mirror from your desk and hold it up in front of the puppet. “Now, see? Much better.”

It took a few months of work, but the puppet was just about restored, in your view. You’d even bought a new outfit for him, a simple white blouse with ruffles and plain trousers. It wasn’t exactly what you imagined he might have worn originally, but that was fine.

“I’m glad I found you,” you say, to the puppet--and to yourself. “I’ve had a really nice time working on you!” You hum to yourself and start tidying up your work bench. “Now all that’s left is attaching your new strings, and I can have you picked up.” You smile, to yourself, to the puppet, to no one in particular. “I can’t believe that antique shop gave you away for free--they had no idea they were sitting on such a rare item!”

But you, who repaired dolls and the like for a living, immediately knew what the puppet was worth; and who to contact as soon as you were able to get it home, as you knew a friend with an antique shop that took special requests, and he had a particularly wealthy customer who was dying for one of these rare life-sized pieces.

The puppet with freshly painted eyes stares back at you and says nothing.

Something is sitting on your chest. Something heavy and cool to the touch.

Sleep paralysis? It wouldn’t be the first time. You did sleep on your back, after all, and your nights were sometimes restless.

But you open your eyes without trouble, and the sensation does not go away. It takes a few moments, blinking in the dark, to realize who (no--what) is sitting on you.

It’s the puppet.

Freshly painted eyes stare down at you, a face framed by the carefully sewn-in hair. In the dark, you can’t see the wood grains of his skin or the repair marks that you’d buffed until smooth. All you can see is his human shape, the gleam of glass eyes.

“What--” you say, before a wooden finger presses to your lips.

“You were going to sell me.” It’s the puppet--the puppet is speaking.

You nod, terrified, every nerve in your body inflamed.

This can’t be happening, and yet it is.

“Why?”

Your lips are dry and you stutter out an answer, hoping to wake up from this dream at any moment. But the more time goes on, the more you realize that you’re living in reality. An awful one, but reality all the same.

“I-I needed the money, you… you’re worth a lot.”

There’s a sound that comes from the puppet’s wooden throat, but you can’t quite place it.

“You can’t sell me,” he says, simply. If you weren’t sure that you’d lost your mind, you might say that he sounds upset. Not just angry, but--hurt.

“I-I won’t.” You swallow. “Just um. Get off me and I can…”

“No.” The glass eyes bore down on you, and you wish your eyes weren’t becoming accustomed to the dark. It was better not to see the cool stillness in them, unmoving, unblinking.

It’s then that you notice the strings.

Not on the puppet--but on you.

The strings are wrapped around your wrists, tight, pinching into the skin. When you look up you see he’s attached them not to a marionette control bar, but to his own fingers. To himself.

He raises his repaired pinky and your wrist goes along with it--too fast and harsh, nearly flopping over your face.

”Ah.” He regards your flopped appendage with curiosity, before simply lifting it himself and placing it back on your chest. “Well. I’ll have plenty of time to figure that out.”

He leans forward, pressing his weight down on you, until his face was close enough that you could spot your own work; spot the little fine details in the paint, the grooves of his wooden flesh, the way his hair fell in a certain manner thanks to the placement of your carefully created knots.

Oh, you thought, as his face came closer to yours, as he kissed you with puppet eyes wide open and wooden lips stiff.

The paint on his lips needed to be touched up.

#yandere scaramouche #yandere genshin impact #yandere #afterwitch writes #aw horrorfest #scaramouche with abandonment issues but in puppet form! dun dun dun

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lciesdepravity · 7 months

Text

Sold Out Series

Sana Arc Chapter 1-1: Everything has a price

"For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction"

"Karma is a bitch"

"Everything has a price..."

Such statements proved true ever since the beginning of time, and continues to remain true to this day.

We learn it every single moment of our miserable lives - hell, it's even taught to us in school.

And yet here she was.

Sana should've listened to her Science teacher more.

Shame.

When she was first offered the job, she thought it was just another fashion line ambassador deal.

Heck, she was even excited for it. The other members started to get requested to be ambassadors of other luxury brands too, so she figured it was only a matter of time before she got picked as well.

Never in her life could she have expected this.

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It started after the press event.

"Ooof~ Yatta! Mmm~ Finally finished!" The young idol plopped unceremoniously in the backseat, melting into the plush cushions as she takes off her sleek black heels and massages her feet.

"Ugh, that took longer than it should. Can we go home now Oppa?"

"Mian, Sana-shi. The brand CEO is requesting your presence at their hotel's grand ballroom for the after-party, so your night's not over just yet. You know how uppity the higher-ups get about company relations and shit."

That prompted an annoyed scoff and a groan from the idol, but work is work. The manager at least had the decency to look at Sana with pity before driving off.

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Last sched for the day. Sana Fighting! After one final check of her appearance and fixing her hair a bit, Sana steeled herself and put on her most practiced idol smile. She confidently strutted down the hallway and was ushered in.

The after-party was everything you'd expect from a luxury brand and more. The clinking of champagne glasses, the miniaturized posh slop they call food, the fake smiles and empty compliments as everyone 'socialized' with each other. More like leech off each other.

Boring.

The idol rolled her eyes (mentally of course - she was anything but professional after all), and smiled as everyone greeted her. Here we go.

Sana's whole night consisted of greeting sheep - *ahem* PR people, accepting their business cards, a few empty promises here and there, take a picture. Rinse and repeat. Maybe a snack and a drink in between. Basically, she was on autopilot for majority of the event, until a depressed looking woman approached her and bowed.

"Ms. Minatozaki, our CEO requests your presence at the suite. He personally wants to thank and welcome you as our new ambassador."

Not really given a choice, the idol was ushered up to an elevator that led to the suite.

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*Ding*

The sleek metal doors of the elevator slid closed as Sana bade the secretary goodbye. She looked around in awe, marveling at the sheer opulence of the suite. Marbled floors, chandeliers, pristine furniture and antique vases. Expensive. Ugh, I better not break anything. Even with our money, I don't think I can cover for anything in here!

She continued down the hallway until she reached the living room, where she sees an old man in his bathrobe looking out the glass door of the balcony, wine in his hand.

"*Ehem* E-excuse me sir. Y-you wanted to see me?"

"Ah! Sana. Welcome. Please sit. Would you like a drink?"

The old man offered her a glass as she sat down. Sana offered a smile, but politely shook her head.

"I'm sorry sir. I still have schedules for tomorrow, so I can't really drink much tonight. Thank you though."

"I see... Welp, more for me then."

The CEO took a sip as he sat beside the young woman. He stared at her for a bit, his eyes focusing on her necklace.

"Y'know, that necklace of ours really does fit you... Exquisite. I'm happy we got you as an ambassador for our brand. I look forward to working with you more in the future."

"M-me too sir. Thank you for the opportunity." He extends his hand and she shakes it.

Mistake.

His index finger rubs against her palms creepily as he scoots closer to her. She had to fight the urge not to withdraw her hand in disgust, she had to be professional after all. Lucky for her, the CEO let go of her hand. Euck, Gross... What's with this old man?

She tries to scoot away discreetly, but the old man just kept coming near. The young idol keeps shuffling until she felt the end of the couch. Shit... She was trapped.

Sana shivered in disgust as the old man placed his hands on her knees, slowly inching up her thighs as he goes in for a kiss.

*Slap*

The faint stinging in her hand persisted as the slap resonated all around the room. Her heart was pounding - her breaths heavy. Hastily, the young idol got up and gathered her things, leaving the old man to his misery.

*Click*

To her horror, the door was locked.

The old man let out a dry laugh as he moved to refill his empty glass.

"You didn't think our deal with your company was that simple did you?"

With a sip and a condescending smile he looked at the frozen idol.

"That diamond necklace around your neck, that costs hundreds of millions of dollars my dear. We're one of the richest brands in all the world, what makes you think I couldn't just buy you just like that?"

Sana's eyes widened. She felt so sick, her stomach was turning. "T-they didn't-"

"'Fraid so my dear. Your company sold you out to me for a whole damn week."

His grin spread across his face as he watches the young idol blanch at his words in shock.

"T-that's... N-no! I'm not just some whore for you to play around with. I didn't consent to this! Let me out this instant or I'll sue!"

Frantically, she reached for her phone, opening the camera app and taking a video. Ha! This is my evidence. Take that you old geezer.

Her heart dropped as the CEO's smile got even wider.

"Fiesty. Heh~ Go ahead and film... you do that. Meanwhile, I'll be using every single one of my connections to destroy you and your little group. One word from me, and all your sponsorships, all your brand deals - even that of your members... Poof~" To accentuate his point, he held out this phone, hovering his finger over the call button.

She froze.

I-if it's only me, then I can take it. But the members... We worked so hard to get this far... Damnit! Why is this happening to me?

Minutes pass, and all Sana wants to do is cry. Her fists were clenched tight, lips bitten in frustration as her mind raced, thinking of what she should do.

She was interrupted when the old man spoke once again.

"If you're done thinking it over, get your dumb ass over here so I can use you. I'm not getting any younger here. Or should I just call my secretary and cancel everything now?"

She looked at him scathingly with fiery eyes as she walked over to him, her clenched fists shaking in anger. The old man didn't bat an eye. Instead he leaned back, staring at her with those condescending eyes.

"Well? Take that fucking dress off." Sana bit her lips as she hesitated, but the old man just looked at her impatiently. Slowly she stripped, unzipping the back of her dress and letting it fall to the ground. She gave it a light kick as her hands moved to cover her intimate parts, but the sight of her creamy skin was more than enough.

Excited, the CEO got up and cupped her cheeks, tilting it to face him as he looked at her eyes. Rebellious... Defiant... Just the way I like it.

"I'm gonna enjoy breaking you, kpop bitch."

He pushed her on the couch and started his assault. Her eyes shut tight as his tongue snaked along her milky porcelain neck - up, down, over the collarbone and even up to her ears.

*Sniff* "Mmm~ you smell so good Sana. Hmmm~ your scent is driving me crazy." The old man gave her a long wanton sniff that sent chills up her spine.

Fuck... This is so disgusting.... Endure Sana. For the girls... For the fans... For yourself. You have to endure.

Seeing the idol's eyes shut tight, the old man got more brazen. He took both of Sana's wrists and pinned them above her head, exposing Sana's clean shaven armpits. He gave her pits a series of needy sniffs, his breath tickling her a bit.

*Sniff* *sniff* "Ahhhh... You smell so... mmm~ divine." Her sweaty scent was enough to drive the old man into a frenzy. Like a mad dog, he licked the sweat off her pits wantonly, relishing in feeling her shudder against his tongue.

Meanwhile, his free hand groped her ample breasts, kneading them like dough. When he sensed the clip in front, he hurriedly removed her bra and threw it away, revealing her jiggly soft supple mounds...

He gulped. "They're mesmerizing..." Without preamble, the old man dove in and while looking at Sana's face, feasted on her breasts like a newborn baby. He squished them together and teasingly gave her pink dusky nipples a lick, enjoying the way the buds roll off his tongue.

He watched as Sana's expression change with every lick... with every suckle... with every squeeze. He watched as her brows scrunch together, her lips bitten red as she resisted his ministrations. He didn't stop until each bud was fully erect and shiny, thoroughly coated with his spit.

"*Slurp* *pop* Mmm~ yummy... Now, sit up and let me sit behind you."

Not really giving her a chance to resist, he pulled her up and smoothly slid behind her, cradling her between his legs. Much to his dismay, the young woman's eyes were still closed, her face not betraying any emotion. Annoying.

Eager to break her stoic facade, the old man reached between her legs, slipping his hand inside her lacy black panties. Dry... Mmm~ not for long.

With a practiced ease, his hand nimbly removed the young star's panties, unhooking it from one of her legs where one of her heels came off.

"Shaved huh? Shame, I like it hairy."

*Smack!*

Out of nowhere, his hand came down, delivering a light slap to Sana's clit. The Japanese idol bit her lip, a small gasp escaping her as she fought hard to stifle her moans. She didn't want to give in to him, not now, not ever.

*Smack!*

Another slap. Dead center against her core. The old CEO's dominant side took control as he taunted, "Mmm, you like this, don't you, slut? You like this old man slapping your wet pulsing cunt?"

*Smack!*

His hand came down again, this time with more force, causing the young woman's pussy to squelch audibly. His old wrinkly fingers traced the sensitive skin, exploring every inch with a mix of roughness and precision.

All the while, the old fuck buried his nose deep in the poor idol's neck and sniffed her once again, licking and sucking on her pulse point as he humps her plump ass.

*Sniff* "Mmm~ fuck, I can't get enough of your scent. Uhh~ you're worth every fucking penny I paid." His lips brushed against Sana's ear as he whispered naughty things.

*Smack!*

"Ahn~ mmmppph-" A small moan escaped her lips, which she promptly covered with one of her hands. Her face was a flushed mess, and she was panting like a bitch in heat.

W-What is happening? Mmm~ How is he so good at this... No! Sana, fight it! You're not getting horny because of this old pervert. Fight it!

"Yes, hold those moans for me my dear," He whispered into the idol's ear, his warm breath sending tingles down her body. "I like the challenge. I will break that infamous composure of yours, Sana." With a gentle bite to the girl's earlobe, his words pushed her further to the edge.

Each whisper was accompanied by another firm slap to the Japanese pussy, causing her moans to grow louder. Her hips were bucking slightly, and her body was writhing beneath the old man's magic touch. With each passing moment, her pussy gets wetter and sloppier.

Seeing his effect on the poor girl, he smirked. Not long now... just a bit more and she's mine...

With his free hand, he reached up and cupped Sana's perky breasts, her fingers teasingly circling the hardened peaks of her taut, erect nipples.

"Mmm, look at these gorgeous nipples, baby... So pink and so tender for me." He whispered huskily. He pinches each nipple and pulls.

"Fuck, S-stop it," She whimpered, her hips now bucking wildly, thrusting against his hand. Her body trembled with anticipation, craving release.

"That's it. Give in to the pleasure my dear. Let go for me."

As the old man continued to slap her cunt, the wet, lewd sounds filled the air, mixing with Sana's increasingly uninhibited cries.

She couldn't help but respond, her voice trembling with need. "Oh, fuck, D-don't stop... Harder please..."

The old man smirked, his slapping growing more intense, each stroke driving Sana closer to the edge. "You want it harder, huh? You're such a dirty fucking slut. Beg for it. Beg for my hand to pound your wet cunt."

F-fuck! I can't hold it anymore... Uhhh!

Sana's breath hitched as she finally gave in, her voice pleading, begging him. "Please, sir! Pound me! Pound my slutty cunt! I need it so fucking bad!"

*Smack!*

With a victorious grin, the old man slapped her pussy once more. "Who do you belong to? Huh? Tell me who's bitch you are!"

*Smack!*

With her back arching, she screamed, "Yours! I-I'm daddy's little kpop bitch begging to cum. Please make me cum daddy! Daddy! Uhhhh~"

*Smack!* *Smack!* *Smack!*

The old man's hand moved with reckless abandon, the wet slapping sounds echoing across the entire room. Sana's moans filled the air as she surrendered completely to the overwhelming pleasure building within her. She couldn't hold back any longer, her voice reaching a crescendo of pleasure. "Yes, fuck! Gonna cum! Cumming for you, Daddy! Oh, fuck!"

Upon, hearing her say that, the old man unceremoniously plunged his middle and ring fingers deep into her sweltering cunt. "Yes fucking cum, you slut. Point those toes of yours while cumming. Cum for me, drench my hand while I finger fuck your uptight cunt into submission."

His fingers skillfully hit her g-spot repeatedly, his palms still slapping her clit with each pass.

S-shit! This old man's too good! He's gonna make me cum. This old man's gonna make me cum! Fuck cummingcummingcummingAaaaahhh~!

With a primal scream, Sana's back arched, her legs spreading even wider, her legs quivered uncontrollably, her toes curling and pointing as the immense pleasure surged through every inch of her body.

With a loud squelching sound, her pussy released a torrent of pleasure, drenching the floor below. Sana's eyes rolled back, her body convulsing with sheer ecstasy as he fingered her into oblivion.

Spurt after spurt. Stream after stream she squirted. It took awhile for her orgasm to finally die down. Even then, she was still twitching as the old pervert continued to tease and flick her cunt occasionally.

Not giving her the time to rest, the horny old man took Sana and inverted her on the couch - her legs resting on the backrest whilst her head dangles off the edge.

He hurriedly tossed his robe aside, freeing his throbbing cock and presenting it to a still recovering Sana.

"Open your mouth and stick your tongue out."

His voice was stern, commanding. He took his cock and slapped it against Sana's face and tongue several times, smearing her face with precum and spit.

That is, until he decided the foreplay was enough. In one fell swoop, he fed her throat his cock, not stopping until he bottomed out.

"Glurk! Mmmmpphh~!"

Sana gagged, but the old man just kept pushing. She slapped his thighs, asking for mercy but there's none to be found. Her eyes bulged, tears spilling from the sides as she took his cock fully.

"That's right bitch. Fucking take it! Ahhrgh!"

Not giving her time to adjust, he intensified his thrusts, grabbing her feet and using them as handles. He planted his feet on each side of her head, essentially squatting on her face for every thrust. The sounds of his balls hitting her nose echoed across the room.

The old fuck growled, his voice deep and guttural as he praised Sana's cock-sucking abilities.

"That's it *pound* fuck! fucking take it! *pound* put that kpop mouth of yours to good use! *pound*" he said, his thrusts becoming even more forceful as he spoke.

Holy fuck, he's fucking my face so hard. She thought, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. She loved the feeling of him taking control, of him using her for his pleasure. It made her feel so dirty and so desired all at once.

With each powerful thrust, a line of thick drool stretched from his cock to her mouth, his huge balls slapping her nose repeatedly. Sana's saliva mixed with the precum dripping from him, creating a slippery mess as he relentlessly skull fucked her.

"Mhmm, gawk, glurgh,"

Sana's moans grew louder and more desperate, her arousal and submission evident in every sound that escaped her lips. The forceful thrusts of his cock made her drool uncontrollably, strands of spit dripping down her chin, soaking her face, and coating her hair.

"Mmmm, glurk, gulck.. Daddy, pleashh... guck-ahh... harder... *slurp*"

The old fucker's eyes burned with raw desire as he took in the sight of Sana's saliva-slicked face, her eyes glazed with lust. He wanted to push her limits, to see just how far she would go to please him. With a growl, he reached behind and tightened his grip on her hair, pulling her head back even further, causing her mouth to stretch wider.

"You want it rough, bitch? You want me to fuck your face until you're a drooling mess?"

Sana's body trembled with anticipation, her voice filled with need. "Yes, Daddy," she gasped, her voice laced with desire. "I want it rough. Make me your obedient cum dump."

Who was he to deny her request? Not when she was looking at him with those hazy lust filled eyes. Nay, impossible to deny.

His thrusts became even more forceful, his cock slamming into her mouth, jackhammering her head into the couch so hard her head bounced off the couch with each thrust.

Her eyes watered from the overwhelming sensations, her mascara running in dark rivulets down her cheeks, her lipstick long gone. Her once pristine face and hair smeared with her frothy saliva - and yet she asked for more.

"*Gulck* *gluck* Ohh... *glock* Y-yes, Daddy... *gawk* Fuck me... *gawk* harder!

In no time at all, the old geezer neared his climax, his thrusts grew quicker and more desperate. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, the need to release his pent-up desire growing stronger with each passing second. With one final deep thrust, he erupted, his cum shooting down Sana's throat.

"Ahh... fuck... cumming! fill that slutty mouth... Take it all bitch!"

Sana's muffled cries of pleasure mixed with the sound of his cum splattering against her throat. Her tongue worked tirelessly, collecting every drop she could as she eagerly swallowed his load.

Oh fuck, he's cumming! God it's too much she thought, feeling the hot jets of his seed shooting down her throat. The taste was intense, a mixture of saltiness and musk that coated her senses. "Gleugh," she gagged, feeling the sheer volume of his cum filling her mouth.

For a whole minute, his hot seed flowed continuously, filling her mouth and dripping up her inverted face. The thick ropes of cum covered her eyes, blocking her vision, while the rest streamed down her face, leaving trails of sticky warmth in its wake. Her hair became a canvas for the pearly liquid, as it clung to the strands, marking her with its unmistakable essence.

Coughing and gagging as the sheer volume overwhelmed her, Sana fought to swallow as much as she could. The old fuck came with such force that his cum still overflowed from her mouth, droplets cascading down her chin and onto her chest. She was a mess, a cum-drenched masterpiece, and yet, a smile played on her lips, a testament to her insatiable desire for pleasure.

As he finally finished, he pulled out of her mouth, and Sana gasped for air, her body still trembling with pleasure. She licked her lips, savoring the remnants of his cum, relishing in the mixture of their combined flavors. Her tongue swirled around, collecting every last trace of his cum.

But the old man wasn't done yet. With a firm grip on her hair, the old man guided her mouth towards his throbbing cock. He tilted her head back, exposing her open, willing mouth. A wicked glint danced in his eyes as he unleashed a torrent of warm piss, aiming it directly into her waiting mouth. The Japanese idol's lips parted, allowing the golden stream to enter, and she swallowed obediently, taking in his salty offering. The taste mingled with the remnants of his cum, creating a perverse cocktail that both excited and humiliated her.

Sana's eyes widened in shock and arousal as she gulped down his piss, feeling the degrading warmth slide down her throat. She obediently swallowed every drop, her body trembling with a mixture of humiliation and twisted pleasure. As the last drops of his piss trickled into her mouth, Sana swallowed it all, her body consumed by a mix of pleasure and humiliation.

She looked up at him, her face still glistening with his cum and her mouth tainted with his piss. A wicked smile played on her lips as she whispered, "Thank you, Daddy. I'm your filthy little cum dump."

The old fuck's eyes burn with a primal hunger as he watches Sana, still catching her breath from the mind-numbing skull fucking, her lips glistening with his essence. With a commanding presence, he grabs her by the waist and flips her over, positioning her on the couch in a prone position.

"Not done yet bitch. I took a pill so we'll be here all night long. Now, ass up." *Spank!*

Next Chapter: 1-2 Sana Arc; Free Use (TBC)

#sana smut #twice smut

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romegemsandart · 2 years

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Black Akar Bahar Bracelet, Black Coral Root, Black Magic Resistance, Mystical Bracelet, Handmade Bangle

Size about : 60 - 70 mm (This bracelet can be resize by heating process)

Twig Width about : 11,0 - 5,5 mm

Weight about : 32,3 grams

Origin : Maluku - Indonesia Ocean

What is the root of the bahar? The root of the bahar is derived from the word "root" (Indonesian) and the word "bahar" (Arabic) which means sea. Thus, literally "root bahar" means the root of the sea. Perhaps we will think if the "root bracelet" is a bracelet made from the roots of plants that live in the sea.

Beneficial : Comprehensive research on the benefits that can be derived from the use of root bahar in the medical world. Various benefits of roots bahar for body health that is often exposed to various circles based solely on personal experience of each. One of the benefits that is often expressed by wearing a root bracelet is the vitality of the body better. This marine root comes from the ocean that contains a variety of natural compounds, including radium emitting radioactive for the arrangement of ions and more regular energy in the body.

Metaphysical Properties : Akar Bahar is a mystical item that aims for health and spiritual Benefit. this amulet has been used for amulet by Javanese people for health, protection from witchcraft, black Magic and evil spirit. Its helps to ensure you make a decent living to be worn on left hand for external usage i.e. feared by enemies etc.

#Brahma Akar Bahar #Brahma Black Coral #Handmade Root Bangle #Antique Bracelet #Natural Finishing #artists on tumblr #art #crafts #handmade #black coral #red coral #couples bracelet #vintage bracelet #handmade jewelry #akar bahar #coraljewelry #coral root #product design #wedding gift

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severusskywalker · 10 months

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I’m looking for some more podcasts to listen to.

I’ve recalling liked The Magnus Archives, Welcome to Night Vale, Malevolent, Wolf 359, and a couple others, and I’m looking for more. I like ones with overarching plots, if that makes sense? Any recommendations? Thanks!

Edit: A few more I have enjoyed/finished (including from the list below, as I listen to them!)

Archive 81

Auricle

The Deep Vault

The Scarab Archives

Vigil

The Technomacy Project

What Will Be Here

Re: Dracula

Stellar Firma

Out of Place

I Am In Eskew

Ars Paradoxica

The Antique Shop

And now the ever increasing recommendations, so they are all in one place… please feel free to keep recommending ones too, I love growing recs lists! (Now alphabetized!)

Aftershocks

Alice isn’t Dead

A Voice From Darkness

Camp Here and There

Captain Skyjacks

Case 66

Critical Role

Cryptids

Dames & Dragons/LegendLark

Darkest Night

Death by Dying

Derelict

Desert Skies

Desperado!

Deviser

Dimension 20

Don’t Mind Cruxmont

Dungeons & Daddies

Either

Ethics Town

Find Us Alive

From Caulk and Candles

Ghost Wax

Girl in Space

Greater Boston-the vignettes

Hello from the Hallowoods

Interstitial AP

Just Roll With It

Kakos Industries

Keep it Steady

Last Call at the Bluebell Cafe

Life With Althaar

Limetown

Mabel

Midnight Burger

Midst

Mirrors

Mission to Zyxx

Mockery Manor

Monstrous Agonies

Murray Mysteries

Neighborly

Newts!

Not Quite Dead

Old Gods of Appalachia

Oz 9

Paralyzed

Potterless

Red Valley

Revolution

Riley Hopkins and their Amazing Friends

Rusty Quill Gaming

Sayer

Second Star to the Left

Seren

Somewhere, Ohio

Spines

Spirit Box Radio

Spirits Podcast

Steal the Stars

S-town

Strange Case of Starship Iris

The Adventure Zone

The Amelia Project

The Black Tapes

The Bright Sessions

The Cellar Letters

The Deca Tapes

The Invictus Stream

The Left Right Game

The Liberty Podcast

The Milkman of St Gaff’s

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality

The Newest Olympian

The Night Post

The Pasitheaa Powder

The Penumbra Podcast

The Sheridan Tapes

The Silt Verses

The SPC Foundation Database

The Storage Papers

The White Vault

Time:Bomb

Unwell Podcast

Vast Horizon

We’re Alive

Within the Wires

Woe.begone

Wooden Overcoats

#the magnus archives #welcome to night vale #wtnv #malevolent #wolf 359 #podcasts #podcast #podcast recommendations #podcast recs

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pocket-watcher · 1 month

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The following is a collab between myself and the amazing @blissful23 !

Ding-Dong

The doorbell sounded and Suzie looked up from styling her long, blonde hair in the mirror. This always happens when she’s just getting ready to go out! She had readjusted the shirt she had “borrowed” from her roommate, as it was slightly too tight, checked her eyeliner was even for the 50th time, and was just finishing her lipstick with a satisfied pop.

She sighed frustratedly, stood up, and made her way to the source of the offending sound. Opening the front door, she was greeted by a man she’d never seen before. Dark hair and - oh God - a curled moustache framed a sharp featured face, adorned with a rather ostentatious top hat. Finely attired in a black suit, jacket resplendent with coattails, he gave a slight bow in greeting. It took all her willpower not to outright laugh in the face of this antiquity standing before her.

“Good day ma’am, it’s a fine afternoon, is it not?”

She stood, arms crossed in exaggerated frustration, staring back at him.

“How can I help you… Sir?”

She put the extra emphasis on that last word, wishing him to know quite pointedly that she was being interrupted. He smiled in return - whether it was sincere or strained in response to her standoffishness, she couldn’t tell.

“Well, you see my dear, I’m selling these very fine pocketwatches.”

With exaggerated flourish, he swept his coat open, revealing a dazzling array of pocketwatches hanging on the inside of it. He held it in place, and as if by magic - more likely the momentum of him opening his coat, she thought to herself - each of the pocketwatches begun swinging in unison. Probably a bit of showmanship designed to wow a potential customer, but still, it was fascinating to watch as they swung back and forth, back… and forth… back…

Suzie shook her head, dispelling a sudden onset of light-headedness, and redressed her gaze to The Salesman. He pulled his coat closed and smiled once more. A little less sure of her cold reception to him initially, she spoke again.

“Those are very lovely, but… I have no real need of a pocketwatch.” She said, gesturing to her phone.

“Ah, but my dear, you didn’t even take notice of our finest model!”

She bristled inwardly at being addressed as “my dear” again, and fixed her gaze to the pocketwatch he was now dangling in front of her face. It was silver, hooked by a long thin strap. The outer shell had some sort of pattern cut out of it to reveal the clock face behind, but with the shell popped open she couldn’t quite tell what was meant to be on the front. The spindling hands on the clock ticked away excitedly.

“Look at this gorgeous embedded crystal, and how it changes in the light! Let me swing it so you can see how it changes colour in the light…”

As he began swinging it from side to side, her jaw almost instantly fell agape at the sight of it, finding herself unable to draw her soft, blue eyes away from it.

"So many colours! Which colour do you prefer?"

It was so hard to decide. So many splendid, beautiful colours to pick from. She tried to follow them as they shifted moment to moment. It was hard to think of a favourite. So hard to think… was all Suzie’s mind could muster for the moment, her thoughts, plans for the day, all of them fading away, replaced by her fascination with the tantalising kaleidoscope dancing before her eyes.

"I, uhh.... c-colours..."

The Salesman smiled wide. It wasn’t always this easy, but they all ended up this way eventually.

"Yes, pretty colours... and as each one shines, your worries and cares fade just that little bit more..."

Not having to think and just being able to enjoy the colours did sound nice to Suzie. Joyous, even; and she allowed herself a little giggle at the suggestion. She tried to help him how wonderful that sounded, but her mind was already so devoid of thought, all she could utter was:

"Hee-hee… colours...!"

Knowing he had her right where he wanted her, The Salesman followed on with his scheme.

“Can you hear the ticking? No? Maybe you should invite me inside where it’s quieter so you can really focus in on the sound…”

Had she heard the ticking? She wasn’t sure. Probably best to listen to him. A dull, errant thought in the back of Suzie’s near-blank mind warned that this was a bad idea, but was immediately overruled by the obedient thrall she found herself in.

"Uhhh… Won't you... nghh... won't you... please come in..."

“My dear, I thought you’d never ask…”

—

As he stepped through the doorway, another voice could be heard deeper inside.

“Suzie? You haven’t seen my top, have you? The low-cut one with the ruffles - oh.”

Suzie’s roommate Miranda - a stunning redhead - entered the room. Always a favourite, those, The Salesman thought to himself. She stopped upon seeing him eyeing her.

“Uh… hello. And you are?” Miranda asked, curiously, confused at the way Suzie stood there smiling blankly at her.

“He’s… He sells… pocketwatches…” Suzie answered for the strange man.

“Yes, and I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Would you like to take a look, my dear?”

“No, thank you. We,” Miranda looked sternly at Suzie, “are actually running late. So if you’ll excuse us…”

Suzie didn’t move, however. As Miranda went to grab her arm she simply smiled up at her.

“But… They’re so pretty…” She said, as if she struggled with every word.

The Salesman pulled out the watch. “See for yourself.”

Miranda looked at him, exacerbated, before huffing, turning back to Suzie in confusion.

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

"But they’re so pretty..." Suzie whined. “Just take a closer look. You know you want to…”

Miranda looked. She couldn’t see anything special about this pocketwatch. Though, truth be told, she was struggling to take in any of the details as she tried to follow it with her hazel eyes. If only this guy would stop swinging it in front of her… back… and forth… and…

“What, are you trying to hypnotise me into buying one or something?” She laughed. But, then, she thought…

Looking at her usually headstrong friend standing quietly with her eyes tracking the watch’s every movement, everything seemed to click into place.

“Aha… w-wait. You’re not… You’re not actually trying to… right…?”

Miranda was getting nervous, hiding it behind laughter. No. Of course he wasn’t. Hypnosis wasn’t real.

“My God, you are trying to hypnotise… me, aren’t you? And what have you done to Suzie? I’ve had enough of this, please leave.”

The Salesman frowned at this, placing his watch back inside of his jacket. She was going to be tougher. Luckily, he liked a challenge. Reaching into his jacket once more, his fingers brushed along the watches until he found… yes. Perfect.

“But my dear, you haven’t seen our Timepiece de Resistance…” He pulled out a small golden watch. Its chain was more detailed than the other, with a texture almost like woven vines. The numbers were roman numerals. Or were they? Miranda couldn’t tell.

Shit. She’d been staring at it, hadn’t she?

Miranda covered her eyes and turned away,

“We call it that because it’s the Timepiece that causes all your resistance to melt away…”

His voice was deep in her brain now. It was so… so tempting to look back at him. And Suzie’s pleasant hums of approval weren’t helping.

“No, I won’t… you’re not going to… hypno… hypnotise… me…” Miranda managed, looking up to see Suzie had walked over to her.

“Go on… just a little look… it would feel so good, Miranda…” Suzie spoke softly, almost dreamlike.

Then another thought hit her. If Suzie could sneak up on her, this guy could be anywhere! She had to check for certain if he was still between them and the door.

She looked up at him and her attention was captured by the watch once more.

“Get… get out…” Miranda said as firmly as she could manage.

“Please calm down… You don’t need to be so on edge, so angry… Maybe you didn’t get enough sleep last night…”

Her eyes started to droop. All this fighting was exhausting. The only easy thing right now was keeping her eyes on that watch.

“No, I… I don’t need to… sleep… I’m completely…” She tried to stifle a yawn “… Awake…”

“We both know that’s not true, my dear… Look at you. You’re struggling to stay awake. You can barely keep your eyes open…”

Her hands, once balled into fists, were now relaxed and hung limply by her side. Miranda found herself struggling to keep her eyes open.

“No… I’m not - yawn - sleepy…”

The man approached her, guiding her over to the couch, where Suzie had, at some point, also had found herself.

“There’s no need to fight it anymore… You want to give in to it… You want to surrender to slumber…”

“Surrender… to slumber…” Miranda felt a smile grow on her own face as she repeated after him, her weary eyelids now stuck at half-mast.

“That’s it…” He looked at his pocket watch. Another job well done.

“Well, ladies, it appears I may have lost track of time.” He chuckled, leading the girls to giggle mindlessly… although, they weren’t quite sure why they were laughing. But Master was so funny, wasn’t he?

“I’ll just leave this here.” The Salesman said as he placed a business card on the coffee table in front of them. “In case you know anyone else who might appreciate my services, hm?”

He watched as Suzies head slowly slumped onto Miranda’s shoulders, both girls blissfully asleep. He straightened his hat, closed the door behind him, and moved onto the next house.

#if you enjoyed please go and follow blissful23!#blissful23 #there are so many other amazing stories to discover so go check them out!!#also #this is my first collab!#hypnosis #hypnok1nk #mind control #brainwashing #watcher's stories #watcher writes

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flurry-of-stars · 2 months

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𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈- 𝕴𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, fluff. 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 7.8k (A/N: I genuinely was not expecting such a huge response to the first part of this fic. Literally, all the comments and tags have made my week ♡♡♡ ) ⋆｡°✩𝕿𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉⋆｡°✩ 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ An elegant melody fills your ears, your body trembling in response as the tune tickles your brain in a way nothing else can. Your shoulders seem to relax as each precisely, passionately played note soothes you down to the depths of your soul. The purrs of the old tabby on the other side of the table seem to grow louder, making the table tremble softly as he sleeps. You close your eyes for a moment, laying your head back, gold and black ballpoint pen gently laid on the dining table as you take the time to appreciate the song echoing through the small cottage fully, the scent of peppermint tea and the variety of flowers in the nearby vase teases your sense of smell. But something was missing from the melody. Of course, you were no musical expert. In your personal opinion, the cello was played immaculately. Elegantly. If allowed, you would sit here all day, warm cup of tea in hand listening to it being played. You can picture yourself lying in the grass, listening to the rustling branches overhead as the wind carries the melody. But something was missing. And for the life of you, you couldn’t put your finger on what that something was. Your eyes flutter open as you hear the piece coming to a graceful end. Scooting out of your chair, you head through the cozy candlelit cottage, and down towards the living room. There was no television. No radio or game consoles. A fireplace crackles nearby, warming the room up to a pleasant degree.

There are dustless spots on the mantle where it looks like a few picture frames or other treasured items once sat, along with an old Russian Orthodox cross hanging above said fireplace. An antique piano is against the wall, closest to the archway leading into the room. There’s a window seat to your right, but the curtains are drawn today. The author sits in the middle of the room on a padded, upholstered cello chair, facing the entry way. The fire crackles to his right, illuminating his figure in a warm yellow hue, the deep mahogany sheen of his cello reflecting the soft glow as he draws out the last note, pleasantly tickling your brain once more. You carefully step into the room, waiting for him to finish. His eyes are closed, his long lashes gently resting against his pale cheeks, shadowing his already dark-rimmed eyes. You offer a very gentle applause, his eyes slowly opening to gaze up at you through his long lashes. You notice a strong emotion in his eyes for a moment, but it’s gone too soon for you to recognize what emotion it could have been, hidden beneath his strands of raven hair. “That was beautiful,” you compliment, standing a few feet from Fyodor. He turns his body, gently propping his cello up on the stand to his left as you speak, “How long have you been playing the cello?” You notice Fyodor clenching his jaw momentarily as he looks away, a flicker of uncertainty filling your heart. Then, in a surprisingly soft voice, “Since I was six. I wanted to play the cello as soon as I could.” Your eyes widen a little, “You did?” Fyodor still doesn’t meet your gaze, his eyes never leaving that of the cello at his side. He holds his bow as he nods softly, his voice much softer than you’re used to hearing from him, “I had a lot of time to dedicate to it as a child...” His fingers touch his bow softly and when he finally turns to look back at you, you see the warm nostalgia in his eyes. For a moment, it almost seems he wants to say something more.

But like a candle being puffed out, it’s gone in a millisecond. He gives you a stern look, his voice returning to that serious tone you’re used to, “Did you finish translating the chapters I gave you yet?” “Ah, I’m halfway done with chapter five…” Just like the second chapter, his writing had begun going on a long tangent again. It was already spanning on twenty translated pages, with many more left to go. On the positive, at least it was the male lead’s mother rambling on this time. That was some form of improvement, right? “I just needed to rest my wrist for a little while, carpal tunnel and all.” You held your wrist as if to demonstrate your point. Fyodor eyes you suspiciously but eventually, he huffs softly, “Very well then. But do not slack off too much. We have a deadline to meet.” You’re momentarily surprised. You’re almost tempted to ask why he allowed you to rest but out of fear of losing your break, you bite your lower lip, silencing yourself. Your gaze turns away from his as he focuses on tuning his cello. That’s when your eyes fall on the dusty white door against the far wall, almost hidden in the corner by the shadows cast by the looming fireplace and Fyodor along with his cello, only revealed now by him turning his body to the side. You could see the dust etched into the crevasses, in the complex door engraving that resembled a floral design. It is stunning that someone carved something so intricate and beautiful into a door. You chew the inside of your cheek as you squirm from foot to foot; that door looked important. Tucked away in the darkness like that, like a hidden treasure. You can feel the door practically calling to you, singing like a siren, begging you to just take a peek inside. Or maybe you were just overworked.

But it tickled that child-like curiosity in the back of your mind. You could feel a part of you practically giddy at the thought of what could be hiding inside that door.

What hidden secrets could it hold within? Was it filled from floor to roof with all of Fyodor’s other novels Vivian had told you about? Was it full of all his royalties from his previous books? What if it was the door to another world, full of wizards and dragons and–!

You shake your head, an amused huff leaving you; you were letting your imagination run too wild today. Maybe you shouldn’t have reread all those fantasy novels over the weekend. You sigh, walking towards the grand piano. Sliding out the dusty bench from beneath and patting away a fine layer of dust, you sit down, hoping to strike up some form of conversation with Fyodor. Your mind reels back to what Vivian had said.

He's been through a lot recently.

You stare at Fyodor as he tweaks the strings of his cello carefully, tuning it without sparing you a glance. And as you do so, you begin to take him in fully. The way his large cloak practically devours his lithe form. He looks so fragile. His pale complexion. He's as pale as you imagined a vampire would be.

His eyes look more tired than usual, the dark circles seeming to have darkened further this past week. You wondered if he was taking care of himself. Was he eating right? Sleeping well?

You had seen the Russian brew many pots of tea with nothing but the utmost of care and witnessed him enjoying each cup he drank. But you couldn't recall ever seeing him eat anything. ….He must be eating something, right?

“What do you like to eat?” You blurt out suddenly. Fyodor blinks, looking back at you with narrowed, confused eyes. You sit up straight, thinking of an excuse surprisingly fast, “Sorry, I feel a bit peckish but I'm unsure what I feel like so…”

You gaze at the cream-coloured floral patterned wallpaper, grimacing, a wave of embarrassment flooding through you. You can still feel Fyodor's eyes on you as if he was trying to peer into your being and pull out the true intentions behind your words.

Maybe you should just go back to–

“There is some fresh fruit in the refrigerator,” Fyodor's voice makes you look up. He's turned away again, back to fiddling with the strings of his cello, “If that does not suffice, there should be half a loaf of bread and some cheese you can have.”

Maybe it was just because you were so used to Fyodor scowling and scolding you, but even this simple gesture felt really pleasant. You nod, standing up and straightening out the folds of your embroidered skirt.

“Ah…thank you,” you take a few seconds to compose yourself. The carpet muffles your footsteps as you move out of the living room, and back towards the kitchen.

The old tabby is sitting up, licking his paws as you step into the small, open-plan kitchen. He looks up at you, fading blue eyes cautious but fascinated as you move towards the one item in this entire cottage that couldn't be any less Fyodor if it tried.

The pastel pink fridge. It looks fairly new too, possibly only a year old. It was an anomaly amongst the smell of old books and the soft burning of candles. Even Fyodor’s work phone looked like it needed a senior’s discount card. But maybe there was more to Fyodor than you first thought.

Maybe he was the type of guy who loved cats and pastel pink. Perhaps he had an all-pink outfit that he was just dying to show off to you. You giggle softly at the thought, images of your stern boss dressed all in pink, scolding you for not completing your translating making you almost burst out laughing. As you open the fridge, your amusement quickly dies.

It's almost barren. Considering your fridge is only home to a two-day-old Chinese takeaway box, a half-eaten block of cheese you found on special and some bottles of water, that’s saying something. The bright red apples catch your eye first. There's also a tub of margarine, an almost empty bottle of milk, a punnet of blackberries and not a half, but a quarter loaf of bread and a few slices of cheese. Now you seriously had your doubts that Fyodor was eating much. This looked like it wouldn’t feed a mouse, let alone a grown man. But this would make do for the moment. Taking out the last of the bread, margarine and cheese, you make two simple cheese sandwiches. Placing them on a plate, you move on to washing a pair of apples and some blackberries. Once you’ve sliced the apples and added them and a few washed blackberries to the plate, you serve them in the middle of the table, moving Fyodor’s draft and your translations into the leather bag he usually kept them in. You refill both teacups with the still-warm peppermint tea before calling out, “Mr. Dostoyevsky, can you come here for a moment please?” As you sit at your place at the table, you listen to the sound of Fyodor’s footsteps as he approaches, his steps surprisingly light on the wood floor of the hallway and kitchen. His tired eyes lift in surprise as he takes in the sight before him. His gaze turns cautious, “What is this?” “It’s lunch,” you offer him a small smile, picking up your warm cup of tea. The tabby cat purrs, brushing against Fyodor’s arm the moment he steps close to the table. “I figured since I’m eating, I’d make you something too.” Fyodor scoffs, his eyes narrowing. His jaw clenches tightly, as though he is holding back the words he wants to say. You hear him inhale through his nose, his eyes closing for a moment. Then, he opens them, shaking his head. His Russian accent comes through much thicker as he mumbles, “You didn't need to do this.”

“I wanted to.” You say quickly once more without stopping to think. Your teacup clinks against the saucer as you place it down, backtracking quickly as Fyodor looks at you with a raised brow, one hand patting the top of the tabby’s head absentmindedly. “What I mean is I figured you would be hungry soon as well. So I figured why not kill two birds with one stone?” Once again, Fyodor stares at you as if trying to pull the truth from your eyes. You begin to shift, feeling a little uncomfortable under his gaze before he sighs. He moves towards the table, the legs of his chair squeaking against the floor as he pulls it out, sitting down, “Thank you.” You smile softly, an ember of warmth flickering in your heart as you watch the author nibble away at an apple slice. It may not be an extremely nutritious meal, but at least he was eating something. You could feel your shoulders relaxing, “You’re welcome.” ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ “What about something like this?” Trixie spins around, showing off the beautiful emerald green dress she's selected for you. It’s short with a thin ribbon around the waist. Her smile is wide and bright as she twirls around a little, showing off the way the fabric sways, causing her teal jacket tied around her waist to sway with her movements, “I think it would look cute on you!” “Mmm,” you hum, clutching your coat tighter around your body. An earworm of a pop song is playing quietly over the speakers of the shopping centre. A few other customers around you, all going about their day as you eye the dress presented to you. Although the dress was cute, its price made you hesitate: "I'm just browsing today. Maybe next time when I get paid." "But think about it!" Trixie insists as she follows you towards the sweaters that you've been eyeing, which are half-price - what a steal. She sways the dress once again and says, "This dress, along with that little black coat I have at home, would look great on you. A little bow here and there, and you'd look absolutely darling!" You chuckle softly, smiling at Trixie's excitement. She was a fashion connoisseur, always encouraging you to splurge a little if you could. “I do think it would be an adorable outfit,” you begin to reply, that dangling price tag and those frightened numbers printed on it preventing you from agreeing. You shake your head, resisting temptation. You pull yourself away before your resistance crumbles any further, “But I need to spend my money on something else this fortnight.” Trixie pouts, frowning a little before she puts the dress back. Her smile quickly returns as you gather a few of the reduced sweaters you had been eyeing since walking in. As you approach the cash register to pay, Trixie questions, "Is it wise to spend all your money on Mr. Grumpy after only knowing him for a week?" You let out a chuckle at the nickname. "Mr Grumpy". It certainly suited him well, given how often he scowled and scolded you. As you pay for your items, you respond, "Maybe it's true that he comes across as a grump sometimes, but if I cook for him, I can also cook for myself. It's a win-win situation." You thank the cashier, grabbing your bag as you and Trixie leave the boutique. As you and Trixie walk through the crowded mall, she reminds you that you don't know what he likes. It's a typical busy weekend, so you both have to navigate around other customers and head towards the food court for lunch. You can't help but worry about the possibility of the groceries going to waste if he doesn't like what you serve him. You frown, your eyes trailing down to the cold white tiles beneath your ankle-high boots. That was something you were very nervous about. Especially since you lived on a diet of microwave meals and fast food. You attempted to bring up the discussion about his preferred foods again when you finished translating the fifth chapter. He had given you a side glance, telling you not to bother him while he was writing.

The next day, you both were back outside, despite how cold it was beginning to get. Throughout the period, Fyodor was engrossed in working on the drafts for the upcoming chapters. You could still hear the sound of his pen scratching on the paper in your mind.

Meanwhile, you struggled to translate with trembling hands and chattering teeth, yearning for the comfort of his cottage. You felt like he’d done that just to stop you from asking again. As you slowly look up, preparing to scan the food court to decide what to get, your eyes catch the bold letters of a familiar bookstore. You gasp, your eyes twinkling a little, and a smile breaks onto your face as you nudge Trixie. "Hey, you didn't tell me they opened a larger store." Trixie gives you a playful side-eye, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to spend your entire first paycheck on books. I thought I’d convince you to get a cute outfit first, some make-up or shoes for your new job–” She follows you as you begin making your way towards the store, an excited hop in your step. You hear her give an amused sigh as trails behind you, mumbling, “--But I guess we can say au revoir to your pay now.” "I just want to take a quick look," you insist, feeling irresistibly drawn to the store despite knowing how much money you've spent there before. You start walking faster, leaving Trixie trailing behind, until you finally step inside. The various smells and sights overwhelm you, sending waves of nostalgia through your body. It’s a lot busier compared to the smaller store you typically go to closer to your apartment. A few children are running around and playing between the isles as their mother tries to draw their attention in with a book, flipping between colourful pages as she tries to catch their eyes. You notice a small group of young women in one section, holding books and debating which ones they should get quite loudly as they flip through each book, fanning the pages with their fingers. Meanwhile, there's an older gentleman near the back who's struggling to read the blurb on the back of the book he's tugged off the shelf. He's patting his pockets for his glasses. You can hear more people between the other isles and for a moment, murmuring and giggling. Some even excitedly discuss the books they’ve found. You’re almost tempted to come back later. But the moment the smell of new books hits your nose, along with a hint of a coffee-inspired fragrance from the oil diffuser, you’re drawn back in. Maybe Trixie was right to not bring you here. You could already hear your debit card screaming for mercy in your purse. Speaking of, she sighs as she catches up to you, looking around with a click of her tongue. “Look at that. Books. Almost as many as you still have stored at my place.” She teases, making you nudge her with a grin. "I'm just here to browse," you insist, but your best friend gives you a sceptical glance. You scoff and reach into your bag, pulling out your purse and handing it to her with a smug smile to prove your point. She pockets it, but she still doesn’t seem to believe you, “I give it five minutes.” You scoff again, shaking your head as you begin to move about the store. You slip between other customers, making sure to not disturb anyone as your eyes scan every shelf, every book, new and old alike. This is like your own little piece of heaven on earth. Your own perfect paradise. Though your eyes do linger on the latest releases just a little longer. You move closer to the nearby bookshelf, your heart aching the moment your hands glide over one book in particular.

It looks like a short story for children, judging from the pastel sky and the cartoon unicorn on the cover. The stars in the unicorn’s mane glimmer faintly. On the front of the book there is a sticker that informs potential buyers that every dollar from each sale will be donated to a foundation for abused children. You are about to open the book when--

“You said you weren’t purchasing anything,” Trixie playfully comments, causing you to jerk your hand back as though the book had burnt you. She gives you a playful grin as you shrug. “There’s nothing wrong with admiring the covers!” You insist, grinning back at her as you slide into the next aisle, placing your hand over your aching heart.

As you round the corner, you were expecting to find the Young Adult section right ahead of you. However, to your surprise, you walked straight into the non-fiction aisle instead.

There were all sorts of books on display, from true crime to language books to history books. Although you have dabbled with non-fiction just as much as you have with fiction, you still have a preference for the latter. As you walk the aisle, you scan the shelves, keeping an eye out for any interesting covers when one does catch your eye. You’re passing by the cookbooks when you see a book with the title ‘Classic Russian Meals.’ At once, your promise is tossed out the window as you grab the cookbook, flipping through it swiftly. This…yes, this could be just what you need! Triumphantly, Trixie tells you "I knew you'd cave, bookworm." You plead with her, your eyebrows furrowed. “I have to make an exception for this.” You reply, closing the book and holding it tight to your chest. Trixie’s look becomes more curious as she listens to you. “This cookbook is just what I need." Trixie gives you an unsure look, but you know she’s never been able to resist your pleading. She sighs, reaching into her bag and passing you back your purse.

You grin widely as you hurry away to get in line to pay for it. She joins you a few moments later while you scan through the pages until it’s your turn. You hand the book to the owner, who smiles warmly and asks if you'd like a bag. "That will be $90," she says. You are taken aback as you hear the price. Ninety dollars? It's more than what you had budgeted for. You feel disappointed and disheartened as you realize that you won't be able to buy the book. It could have been a great boon to have, but unfortunately, you have to pass on it. You apologize and inform the seller, "I'm sorry but I can't afford--" Suddenly, a hand with freshly manicured and painted teal nails brushes past you as Trixie places her debit card on the reader. A small green tick appears on the tiny screen as she beams brightly, grabbing the heavy cookbook and passing it over to you. “No bag today, thank you.” You hold onto your new cookbook tightly as she leads you out of the store. You look up at her with gratitude, and say, "Trix, thank you so much for doing this for me. You really didn't have to." You give the book a tight hug, a warm smile on your face, although you feel a little guilty. Trix waves her hand dismissively, smiling kindly at you. She warmly replies, "You know you're like a sister to me." Then, she grins mischievously and adds, "And who knows, if you master that cookbook, maybe the words on the back of the book will come true~" You frown as you flip the book over to read the blurb. You scan each paragraph until you find it. It’s right at the bottom in bold, white letters, “The perfect gift for any wife!” You can’t help but grin in amusement as you teasingly bump your hip against Trixie’s. “Oh, ha ha. Very funny, Trix.”

She giggles and nudges you back. Her voice is playfully mischievous as she replies, “What? I happen to think Mrs. Grumpy suits you~" ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

There was one problem with your entire plan. You hadn’t taken into account transporting all of these groceries to Fyodor’s cottage. It was close to sundown when you caught the bus that would take you from the mall to the bus stop closest to the woods where Fyodor’s cottage was located. During the initial bus trip, you noticed that some people were giving you odd stares. Some young children who were below the age of four approached you to see if you had any sweets to share. Additionally, an older woman started to badger you about why you didn't take your husband along with you and ended up lecturing you about your lack of spouse. The bus driver sends you a worried glance as you leave the bus carrying an entire fortnight’s worth of groceries for two and a very thick, heavy cookbook, the heavy scent of diesel causing you to cough and shake as you begin your trek to the cottage. You hoist them along the familiar forest path you’ve taken many times now as the birds seem to stop singing the moment you enter. Perhaps even the little sparrows and drongos were shocked to witness you heaving several bags of shopping along by yourself. The trees rustle, causing a cascade of orange leaves to shower upon you. You felt like the tree was supporting you in your struggle. Or maybe it was mocking you. Either way, a few leaves weren’t going to get these bags to Fyodor’s. As you continue on your way, you catch a glimpse of the orange tabby cat as it disappears over the old, rickety fence and up a small flight of cobblestone steps, brushing against the legs of an old, heavy-set woman. “Oh, dear!” Her voice is thick with a heavy Russian accent. It’s thicker than Fyodor’s. She turns her head back inside of her home, calling out to someone else in Russian. A few moments later, a balding older man appears by her side. You’re a little surprised as they approach the rickety fence separating their small cottage from the cobblestone path, warm smiles on their aged faces, though the woman looks a bit more concerned for you. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be dragging all this uphill by yourself dearie.” She looks towards her husband as she fixes her glasses, nodding, “Dima, help her, will you? Where are you going with all these bags?”

You shift a little awkwardly, smiling politely as the elderly gentleman with a greying beard approaches you, preparing to take a few bags off your hands. You appreciate the help but you didn’t want to strain this poor old man with your heavy bags. So you give him the lighter bags, “Oh thank you so much, you didn’t have to,” you reply gratefully, handing over a few bags before adding, “To the heart of the forest. You know, that little cottage near the lake.” The elderly woman gasps in delight. “You’re taking them to Fedyka? Oh isn’t that lovely, Dima?” Her hazel eyes gleam with the joy of a mother hearing that her child has made a friend. Her husband, Dmitry, gives a huff of approval. He doesn’t seem like a very talkative man. She clasps her hands together, smiling widely at you. “I hope he isn’t making you do all the cooking dearie. You make sure he helps out a little okay?” Your smile relaxes a little as you giggle, fixing your grip on the last shopping bags you’re holding while clutching the cookbook closer to your chest, “Yes ma’am–” “Oh sweetheart, there’s no need for that,” she gives a hearty laugh as she straightens out her apron over the top of her dress, giving you a polite nod, “You can just call me Olya dearie. Now you tell Fedyka to come and pay us a visit! You can both come along! We would be more than happy to have you, wouldn’t we Mitya?” “Yes Olya.” Dmitry finally responds. He turns his light blue eyes towards you, nodding softly with a smile, “It would be lovely to have both of you around.” You squirm in place, smiling politely. While you were a translator and you knew how to translate written Russian, you still couldn’t understand it very well when it was spoken. More so, you still struggled to understand people whose accents were a bit thicker, like Dmitry’s. You give a small smile and nod, “Thank you.”

Suddenly, Olga looks at the sunset sky, then back to you two, “We’ll work something out. Now you two best be on your way; it’s almost nightfall. Take good care of her and Fedyka, won’t you darling?” You give a very polite bow as you continue on your path, Dmitry at your side. You smile happily as you hear the birds around you starting to sing again as they fly for their nests for the evening. Fyodor didn't mention his sweet neighbors. Dmitry was friendly but hard to understand when wound up, his accent coming through much heavier the more passionate he got. As you proceed along the cobblestone path, dusted with what was likely one of the last batches of Autumn leaves, he talks to you. A grin on his face is vibrant, despite his age. His voice is slightly raspy as he speaks poetically to you about the nature surrounding you both. You offer smiles and polite nods, not daring to mention that you have no idea what he’s saying outside of a few words here and there. He turned out to be more talkative than you initially expected. Passing through the white archway, you notice a pair of doves on the outdoor table, cooing loudly yet beautifully to one another. A bonded pair, it seemed.

Your heart warms at the sight as yours and Dmitry’s approach sends them fleeing the scene, white feathers standing out boldly against the vivid kaleidoscope of warm colors draped beautifully overhead. You approach the cottage door, placing the groceries you’re carrying down to rasp your knuckles against the wood delicately. You wait a few seconds, expecting Fyodor to open the door.

But he doesn’t. Huh. That’s odd. You look around, listening out for any movement when you hear an upset cat for a heartbeat. You gasp quietly. It must be the tabby. So, you knock a second time. Maybe Fyodor had just been wrapped up in his writing and didn’t hear you the first time. Maybe he even fell asleep on his draft. He did look quite exhausted when you were last here. You shift from foot to foot as you chew the inside of your cheek. You were starting to worry now. This wasn’t like Fyodor at all. You considered the possibility that he had gone somewhere. Fyodor seems like a homebody but surely there are people he visits from time to time? Or maybe he goes on walks to get ideas for his novels? You consider asking Dmitry if he knows where Fyodor could have gotten to, but you’re worried about stressing the elderly man. Nor do you want to let on that you have no idea where he could be.

You consider calling his phone but knowing him, it’s likely still sitting in his drawer on silent after Vivian called on Friday. “It’s a needless distraction.” You’re getting close to trying to find a back entrance. Or maybe trying to break in through a window. But as they say, the third times the charm right? You lift your hand, your knuckles rasping against the wood once, twice and then, the door finally opens with a loud creak. Your eyes widen in surprise; Fyodor looks like death. His bloodshot eyes turn up, meeting your gaze as you stand before him, hands clutching tight back around the bags of groceries. His arm seemed to hang by his side like it was weighted down by bricks, his hand barely keeping its grip on the door knob. It’s been a day. How does he keep looking worse and worse? He almost seemed to be leaning against the door frame as his messy hair clings to his face, his typically distant eyes look at you apathetically as they slowly scan you and Dmitry by your side.

His eyes seem to widen faintly at the sight of the elderly man with you. His lips turn upwards in a small smile that seems to lack energy, “My, my. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His dark eyes penetrate your gaze as you look up, offering a half-hearted smile as you lift the shopping bags off the ground, making them rustle faintly. “Your fridge was empty when I was here Friday, so I figured I’d fix that for you Mr Grumpy–” The name leaves your lips before you can stop it. “Mr. Grumpy…?” Fyodor repeats your words slowly as if taking the time to digest them. You freeze in place, clutching the shopping bags tighter as your heart drops. You swallow roughly as you try to think of a good response. You can’t tell how Fyodor feels about you calling him that as his brow quirks curiously but his eyes remain blank. You wanted to find a hole and bury yourself in it. You seemed to love testing fate and risking your employment, it seemed. Suddenly, a raspy chuckle comes from your right. Blinking in surprise, you turn towards Dmitry, noticing the amused grin on his face. His light blue eyes fill with amusement as he speaks to Fyodor in a warm tone, “Mr Grumpy! That name suits you when you go around scowling all the time, Fedyka! But my, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you. Not since–” “It has been a while yes,” Fyodor gently interrupts the older man as the tabby cat curls between Fyodor’s legs, stepping out of the cottage with an old meow. Dmitry chuckles, placing the shopping bags he’s holding down as he crouches, scratching the cat’s chin. "Итак, Господин Толстой наконец-то добрался до дома, не так ли ?" He scratches behind the tabby cat’s ear and under his chin as he speaks to him, scratching the elderly cat’s greying chin fur, "Уже давно пора. Я уверен, Федька скучал по тебе" You pause, frowning a little as your mind reels, trying to understand at least some of the words Dmitry had said. You purse your lips and slowly look towards Fyodor, a curious look in your eyes. “The cat’s name is Tolstoy?” You ask. Fyodor gives a muffled chuckle, a near-praising look in his bloodshot eyes. "That's correct," he confirms with a nod, his lips curling up into a small smirk. "You seem to be getting better at understanding spoken Russian. Maybe if you keep it up, we'll soon be able to have full conversations in Russian instead of English."

Your brow raises; did Fyodor just tease you? His smirk grows as he steps out of the cottage, walking closer to you, “Allow me.”

He reaches out, taking a few of the bags you’re holding. You slide the handles for a few of the bags into his fingertips when he suddenly murmurs, “--Experience the flavours of Russian cuisine–” You gasp, quickly pulling back. A small chuckle escapes Fyodor’s lips, his smirk growing. Though it doesn’t stretch as wide as you’re use to, “A Russian cookbook, hm? Now why would you have that Огонёк?”

You step back, holding the book to your chest like it was the most valuable treasure you owned. You could feel heat rising to your cheeks. Your secret surprise had been foiled. Dmitry chuckles again, replying for you, “You know what they say. The best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach! That’s how my Olya hooked me!” Fyodor chuckles, turning his gaze towards Dmitry. There’s a look of familiarity and a twinkle of warmth every time his gaze crosses the old man’s, “I believe she is just trying to make sure I don’t expire before I can finish my novel.”

Dmitry laughs a little harder at Fyodor’s words, a chilly breeze brushing past the three of you. Tolstoy gives a small, upset sounding mewl as he scurries back inside. Fyodor watches him as he steps aside, allowing access to his cottage to you and Dmitry, “Come. The wind is beginning to pick up. And I do believe it is time for dinner.”

You allow Dmitry to enter first before following behind him. You hear Fyodor almost whisper behind you in a tired tone, "You couldn’t have chosen better timing if you tried, Огонёк." ✩

“Are you certain you know what you’re doing?” “Yes.” Your response comes quite quickly. Fyodor gives a huff of amusement as he finishes tucking the last of the groceries away in the fridge. He knows you’re lying. Not just by the way your nose is scrunched up or by your annoyed tone. But because you’re holding the knife backwards. You're attempting to cut into a carrot with the dull side of the knife. He finds it amusing but fascinating. He closes the fridge door as he approaches you, watching as the knife slides off the sides of the carrot as you huff in annoyance. “Are you certain?” He asks again, his voice calm and curious, despite the amusement in his eyes. He reaches out, gingerly grasping the knife’s black handle. You look up at him, a look of stubborn annoyance on your face that reads ‘I can do it.’ He turns the blade around, the sharp end now facing the carrot as he places it back into your hand. His hand slowly curls around yours as he nods, his voice serious, “Curl in the fingers on your other hand or you risk not just cutting the carrot.” He watches as you do so before gently guiding your hand, his cold fingers wrapping around your warm hand, the blade slicing cleanly through the carrot with his guidance, removing the top. He guides you twice more before pulling back, satisfied that you can handle it from here. He moves back towards the pink carnation teapot, filling it with boiling water from the kettle, and dropping the tea infusion cage inside.

He turns his head faintly. He can hear Dmitry talking to Tolstoy in the living room along with the papers of his draft being shuffled and likely read, he assumed. He turns his gaze back to you. You were more observant than Fyodor had first predicted. That was good. For the sake of his novel at least. But he worried how far your observant eye had led you. Did you really just notice the lack of food in his fridge, or did you also take in the way he held himself like his body was forcefully being dragged down by invisible hands?

Did you notice how sloppy his handwriting was? How weakly he was holding his pen? Did you see the ink blots on the pages where he had held the pen too long?

He narrows his eyes, watching as you scoop up the carrot chunks, dropping them into the broth boiling on the stove top before you speak up, “That’s the carrots done. Now the chicken.” Fyodor continues to observe you as you go about slicing the chicken next, tossing the chunks into a small bowl. Although the pieces are much too thick, he doesn’t mention it. He would help correct the mistake soon. Instead, he asks in a serious voice, “Were you not taught the basics of cooking as a child?” He sees you bite the inside of your cheek. You’d taken offence to his question. Perhaps he should have worded it differently.

You’re quiet until you finish slicing the first chicken breast, “I was taught how to make instant noodles and coffee.” You reply, grabbing the next chicken breast. He watches the knife glide through it as you speak, “My father was normally far too busy to cook. So we lived on takeaway and instant noodles most of the time.” Fyodor blinks. You had no experience cooking? And yet you had gone out of your way, purchasing a cookbook and the ingredients just to feed him? He goes silent, processing this information. You were strange. A puzzle he couldn't decipher. He feels a sensation rising in his chest, that familiar warmth flickering in his heart, like a lighter trying to ignite but unable to get the full spark. “Let’s focus on making your first home-cooked meal edible then,” Fyodor replies as he steps closer to you. He slides open the cutlery drawer, grabbing a second knife to slice the chicken chunks into smaller, bite-sized pieces. He nods at you, “Make the rest of the pieces smaller too.” He sees you nod as you go about correcting your mistake, making the pieces more bite-sized and manageable. Once he’s sure you have that under control, he begins working on the onion. Cutting off the root and peeling the skin back, he begins cutting the onion when he hears your question, “What about you? You seem to know what you’re doing so I assume—” “Yes, I was taught how to cook growing up,” he replies softly but quickly, interrupting you, the sound of his knife tapping against the cutting board filling the silent spaces in between, “Mother and I always cooked together, from the moment I was old enough to help her.”

He feels a wave of nostalgia rushing through his tired body before it coils around his heart like a string of barbed wire, cutting so deeply into his heart he almost winces physically. He breathes in, deeply but silently as he keeps cutting the onion, sliding the pieces into a container nearby. He notices you finishing up with the chicken pieces before you pause, hands pressed against the countertop as you mumble, your tone sounding melancholic. “That sounds nice.” Silence seemed to fall over the room as you double-checked the cookbook, adding the necessary herbs and spices into the broth as he stepped back, giving you space to work. He knows you have to make mistakes to learn from them, but he feels a tug in his chest to guide you. He gives a silent huff before turning his attention to the teapot. Right. He’d almost forgotten to serve Dmitry some tea. After checking over your progress one last time, he gathers the hot pot of steaming black tea, along with two teacups on an antique silver tray before he heads for the living room. Dmitry is sitting on the window seat, near where Fyodor had set up a fold-out table to work on his novel for the afternoon. The last rays of the setting sun illuminate the older man’s form as he gives Fyodor a warm, fatherly smile. He puts Fyodor’s draft to the side so he can place the tray down on the table, “I apologise for the delay, my assistant needed me. Will you be joining us for dinner, Mitya?” “I would love to,” he replies while Fyodor begins filling the cups. “But I have a meal waiting for me at home. My Olya too.” He chuckles as he lifts the teacup, taking a slow sip. Fyodor turns, grabbing the upholstered chair from nearby.

He sits across from the elderly gentleman as a raspy chuckle rolls off his tongue. “I was starting to think we wouldn’t get the chance to sit like this again.” He looks up at Fyodor, teacup clinking against it’s saucer as he places it back down, his light blue eyes carefully looking Fyodor over for a few moments, his brow furrowing with worry, “But my, you’re looking a little worse for wear. Has your manuscript been keeping you that busy?” “You could say that,” Fyodor replies, sipping gently on his tea. The warm liquid soothes his aching body as he sighs softly, holding the teacup carefully. Dmitry keeps a close eye on the younger man, a look of sympathy on his face.

Fyodor knew he was starting to put the pieces together. The true reason for his exhaustion. Dmitry was a smart man after all. But rather than pressing, Dmitry nods towards the archway, his smile growing a little, “I have to say, Olya and I were surprised when we saw that young lady. I thought you would never need an assistant?” Fyodor scoffs slightly when he's reminded of his previous statement, causing Dmitry to chuckle. “This is a different situation.” He takes another sip of his tea before speaking once more. “She is merely here to help translate the book for an international audience. Nothing more.”

“But you’re writing a romance novel, yes? Haven’t you thought about asking for a woman’s opinion on love and romance? It may prove beneficial to your novel.” “No.” His reply is short and blunt as his teacup finds it’s place back on it’s saucer. “Because she is here just to help with translations. I do not need any help when it comes to writing my novel.”

He sits back, getting comfortable as Tolstoy begins circling his feet. “I have written enough novels to know what I am doing.” “Ah but our Fedyka has never been in love, has he?” His smile grows softer, his eyes glowing with warmth. “Writing about love is no easy task. Not when it is such a complex emotion. Writing the words is one thing, but experiencing it is something entirely different.” “Then I should come to you and Olya for help, shouldn’t I?” There’s a pause. Then, Dmitry starts to chuckle. He rises slowly from his chair, using the wall nearby for support as he stands, grinning in amusement at Fyodor. “I thought you knew what you were doing, Fedyka?”

A huff of amusement leaves Fyodor as he smiles faintly. Giving one last hearty laugh, Dmitry reaches over, patting Fyodor on the shoulder. “Don’t give the girl too much trouble, you hear?” He gives his shoulder a squeeze before he takes his leave. Fyodor stays in his seat, watching as Dmitry leaves, a hum on his lips. Tolstoy leaps onto his lap, purring, his hand instantly moving to scratch the cat’s chin. He hums quietly, eyes narrowing slightly as he dwells on Dmitry’s words, his eyes transfixed on the honey-coloured liquid in his cup. A complex emotion, huh... “Hey.” Your voice shakes him from his thoughts. He looks up at you, standing in the archway of the living room with a smile that causes that flicker of warmth to glow in his heart once more, “I need a hand with the soup. Um...do you mind?” He pauses. Then he offers a faint smile in return as he stands. Tolstoy gives an annoyed mewl as Fyodor walks towards you, following you towards the kitchen.

He was a little worried about how your first homecooked meal was turning out but a part of him had some faith in you. You just needed a helping hand.

⋆｡°✩𝕿𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘⋆｡°✩ * Огонёк: Little Light * "So, Mister Tolstoy has finally made it home, hasn't he? It's long overdue. I'm sure Fedyka missed you." Dividers: @/saradika

#bungou stray dogs #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #Flurry-of-writing

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