#big crown moulding

[zapatillasvansbaratas-outlet]

Traditional Kitchen (Houston)

[marinelethellec]

Kitchen - Traditional Kitchen

[ubreblanca]

San Francisco Bathroom Example of a small eclectic yellow tile dark wood floor and brown floor powder room design with furniture-like cabinets, dark wood cabinets, a one-piece toilet, copper countertops, a vessel sink and yellow walls

[pierregazly]

you were my best friend first ꨄ  charles leclerc

charles leclerc x reader

warnings: fluff, charles is the sappiest drunk, monaco 2024, mentions of drinking/being drunk [1k words]

request: 🫶🏻 Charles Leclerc + prompt 8!! Thank youuuu 🤍 ["you were my bestfriend, before you were anything else, love."]

The Monaco sun shined down on him, his head was tilted back, embracing the warmth that radiated against his skin. Soft sighs of triumph leaving his lips as beads of sweat began to gather against his forehead.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes followed his every move. He was exquisite in every way, and it was like he just knew it. The love that emitted from your heart for the Monegasque man was never-ending, all-consuming, and exactly the type of love you had always dreamt of, had always daydreamed about when you thought of the person that would once be that person for you.

Your eyes still shined bright with unshed tears, the sounds of the Monegasque anthem being sung from around you prompting one small bead of liquid to drip down your face. The pride racing through your body was indescribable. You could practically feel Charles’ happiness, his sheer relief, coursing through your own body.

Arthur’s arm was tossed over your shoulder, pulling your body against his side as he screeched the lyrics of the anthem into the open air, his own cheeks riddled with tears of pride for his big brother. Really, everyone around you had red cheeks, and a copious amount of shed tears.

This was the moment.

The moment everyone in Monaco had been yearning for since he qualified on pole, since they realized that this may finally be his chance. His family, his friends, his country-folk, his Monarchy, it was the moment every single person had been rooting for him for, for years.

It felt like forever while you waited for him to make his way down from the podium, being stopped by every person he passed kept him occupied, a toothy-smile so prominent on his features as his arms wrapped around almost every person who put their arm out to stop him in his path.

Once your eyes finally made contact with his, he rushed over, throwing his arms around your body and pulling you tight against him. You couldn’t decipher the words he was yelling into your ear, but the tone, the happiness, it was so obvious. 

“You did it, you did it!” He eagerly nodded his head down at you, pressing his lips messily against yours, the smile as he did so prompting the corners of your lips to tug up alongside his.

Charles pulled back to look down at you, his glassy eyes conveying words you knew he couldn’t say right now.

“Thank you for being here, mon coeur. I’m so… just thank you,” he said.

You smiled up at him, your words caught in your throat as you tried to keep the looming tears at bay. 

“I’ll always be here, Cha,” you said, a soft smile gracing your face as you continued to look up at him, feeling like the two of you were stuck in your own little world.

It didn’t take long for the festivities to begin. People graced the streets, singing songs of celebration, the clubs began opening their doors, the champagne had already been popped.

The gala dinner passed by quickly, the starstruck feeling of being so close to the Prince and Princess of Monaco was diminished by the drinks that continuously felt like they were being magically refilled in your hand. Charles’ arm hadn’t left your lower back, his body having begun to mould itself to you the longer the night progressed. 

“Are you still okay to go to the club, mon coeur?”

Quirking an eyebrow up at him in confusion, you nodded your head with a slight laugh.

“Cha… tonight’s about you. I will go anywhere you want me to, my love. Just take my hand and drag me along,” you said.

A grin replaced the soft look on his face, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head as he pulled your body tight against his again.

The music in the club was thunderous. There was no other way to describe the energy of the environment as anything other than triumphant. Everyone felt like this was a triumph for them, watching the person who had felt for years that Monaco could never love him back… to finally feel the love that he had always given so freely. 

Neither of you had realized how much you had drank until you were holding each other up, the Monaco flag held over your heads as someone; still unsure as to who, dragged the two of you along and out to an Uber. 

Charles giggled in your ear every time his feet flew out from underneath him, almost dragging the two of you down with every third step he took.

“Can’t believe you were really here to see me do it, baby,” he whispered in your ear, once the two of you were settled in the Uber and back on the road.

“M’good luck charm, mon coeur,” he nuzzled his head into your shoulder, prompting a shiver to shoot through your body.

“Oh Cha, wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You’re my best friend, my love,” you responded, a soft smile on your heated cheeks.

“You were my best friend, before you were anything else, mon coeur. Gonna talk about how I couldn’t have won Monaco without you during my wedding speech, mon coeur. Make everyone jealous, cause you’re so great and you’re all mine,” he rambled on, slurring his way through his multiple declarations of love for you.

Drunk or sober, the feelings that swam through your body had you nuzzling closer to the Monegasque as your apartment building came into view. You had loved him for years, had been the backbone of so many unfortunate weekend endings; had been there for every high and low in his Formula 1 career.

Every unhappy Sunday had led to this moment, Charles whispering declarations of love into your shoulder, as the banners and chants continued amongst the country. The raw, unfiltered love for the man beside you prompting drunken tears to fill your eyes.

He was Monaco’s hero, but he was your best friend first.

im so sorry it's taking me so long to get these out lol... i havent been in the biggest writing mood lately, but i finished a book tonight in two hours and decided i needed to finish this one. this one NEEDED to get written. love you all 💗

[lesbiankimdahyun]

Karina(g!p) meeting at a Halloween party(she’s dressed as a slutty vampire) and reader is dressed as an angel. They’ve been eyeing each other all night and eventually end up in the bathroom with reader bent over the sink and Karina fucking her from behind

happy halloween, anon!!

Corrupting an angel

2.6k words

CW: g!p, alcohol

[GP!Karina x F!Reader]

You could hear the steady pounding of bass from outside of the large brownstone apartment complex. There was no need to double check to make sure you had the right address— the music and shadows of partygoers in the fourth story windows confirmed you had arrived. 

You hesitated for a moment, but then your roommate Ryujin tugged at your arm and you followed her up to the door. She hit the buzzer so you two could be let in, finally out of the cold, late autumn air. 

As the two of you bounded up the steps, your nerves got the best of you. 

“Ryujin, promise me you won’t abandon me in there?” you asked.

Your short-haired friend laughed. “Of course not,” she said, turning to smile reassuringly at you. “Don’t worry too much, you’ve actually met some of the people here! And I’ll introduce you to anyone you don’t know.”

Ryujin was right— once inside, you realized you did recognize a few faces. Her closest friends Lia, Yeji, Yuna and Chaeryeong were already there. 

You couldn’t help but giggle at Lia’s costume. She was a big, bright red strawberry. She looked absolutely adorable, even when she accidentally bumped into people and walls. The rest were dressed as matching skeletons. 

The two of you made your way over to the group, and before either one of you could ask, Chaeryeong sighed. “We tried to get Lia to go in on the skeleton costumes with us,” she said, “but she insisted on being a goofy, oversized strawberry.” 

Lia rolled her eyes. She tried to cross her arms, but the costume was too bulky and she couldn’t. It only made her look cuter. 

“Hey! I didn’t know the costume was going to be this big! Can we drop it already?”

The rest of the group broke out into conversation, but you couldn’t really focus on it, distracted by the sights of the party. 

You’d forgotten to ask whose apartment this even was, but whoever was renting it, it looked stunning. The large space, complete with crown moulding, rounded arch hallways and exposed brick walls, was perfectly decorated for Halloween. Orange and purple string lights lined the perimeter of the ceiling, fake cobwebs were meticulously placed along the corners of windows, and there were jack-o-lanterns, real ones with tiny candles inside illuminating them, on the living room coffee table along with fake skull caps full of candy. Tall, skinny black candles lined bookshelves, a string of black paper bats shared wall space with fake, bloody claw marks running along them. 

Lia bumped into you suddenly, bringing you back to earth. 

“Sorry!” she said to you and the other girl she’d accidentally collided with. 

You glanced over to see the other girl pat Lia’s costume reassuringly. She was dressed as a vampire. Not the Nosferatu kind, though. You felt a wave of warmth rush over you. She was hot, stupidly hot, as was her costume. 

Your eyes wandered slowly over her deep red sequined corset and its revealingly low sweetheart neckline. A pair of black booty shorts covered hardly anything other than her ass, but the simple black cloak she wore over her corset helped a little. A pair of fishnets and knee high, lace up platform boots completed the look. The ends of her hair were dyed a similar deep red color, and her long acrylics were stunning– black coffin shaped nails for the occasion.

The vampire’s eyes only registered Lia for a fraction of a second. The next moment, they were on you. 

You swallowed hard, quickly looking back up to meet her eye. Her gaze was intense, and so was the brief onceover she gave you before she finally turned around and walked back to her friend group without saying a word. 

By the time you recovered from the vampire, the conversation happening around you had already picked back up. 

“I’ll be right back,” you said to Ryujin, excusing yourself. 

You made your way down the hall into the kitchen. Some of the drink options were Halloween themed, like the cauldrons full of spiked spider cider and dark purple witches brew punch, swirling with edible silver glitter. A few handles of hard liquor and mixers, as well as beer were available, but you weren’t really in the mood to taste your alcohol.

After pouring yourself a cup full of the witches brew punch, you paused for a moment to glance around at the rest of the people at the party. 

The attendees had gone all out in their costumes, too. Ryujin had warned you beforehand that anyone who wasn’t in costume wouldn’t be let in, so as much as you didn’t care for dressing up, you had to admit, the costume rule made for an even better party. You hoped some of the more impressive costumes would distract from your own. You’d felt confident in it before you left, but now felt exposed.

It was Ryujin who suggested you go as an angel when you fretted about finding a costume. “Keep it simple,” she had said. “It’s just one color.” 

“I don’t know,” you had said once you tried on the pieces she’d found for you. “This feels damn near like, genuinely sacrilegious.” 

The halo headband was cute. It was the rest of your costume that definitely wouldn’t be allowed in any real church: white thigh high stockings with chunky white heels, white satin shorts, a matching satin halter top with a white mesh bell sleeve shrug over it, and a small pair of angel wings. Those were white too, of course. 

Later, Ryujin, keeping her word, introduced you to a few of her other friends. All of them were pretty to begin with, but the fact that their costumes were a little tighter against their bodies made you unsure of where to look as you shyly said hi to a Wednesday Addams who went by Winter, a workout Barbie who introduced herself as NingNing, and a Spider-Girl named Giselle. 

You had seen a fourth girl with them earlier, that incredibly hot vampire, actually, but now she was nowhere to be seen. Ugh. You craned your neck to look for her, hoping to be introduced, but you couldn’t find her. 

Just as you and Ryujin had said bye to the other girls and turned around, you spotted her out of the corner of your eye, rejoining her friends. Damn.

You almost asked Ryujin to go back and introduce you. The punch was stronger than you thought it’d be, and you were beyond buzzed now, feeling a little more confident and sociable. You were watching the vampire flip her long, dark hair over one shoulder when Ryujin interrupted you.

“Hey, where did you get that punch?” Ryujin asked, flipping up her pirate’s eye patch for a moment to get a better look at it. “I gotta get rid of this shitty beer.” 

“I can go get you some,” you said. “I need a refill anyway.” 

In the kitchen, your back was turned to the rest of the party while you scooped up ladlefuls of punch for you and Ryujin. Suddenly you heard a voice behind you. 

“How’d an angel like you wind up in such a sinful party?” 

You were about to scoff at whoever had just spoken to you when you paused– it wasn’t a man’s voice. You were used to cocky, suggestive comments from men, but the voice that had just addressed you was feminine.

You turned around to see the girl you’d been glancing at all night long– the hot vampire. 

“Wh-what?” Shit. You forgot to think about what you were going to say before turning around. 

The vampire smirked, merely raising an eyebrow in response to your question. “Do I… know you?” she asked. 

You shook your head. “I’m Ryujin’s roommate. I’m Y/N.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the girl replied. “I’m Karina.”

“Karina,” you repeated with a little nod. “Nice to meet you, too. I like your costume,” you said. 

The vampire’s smirk grew bigger. “I know you do,” she said. “Unless that wasn’t you leering at me earlier tonight?” 

You blushed, eyes widening. “Oh, I- I’m sorry–”

Karina moved in, pressing herself against you lightly as she took your drink out of your hand and set it down on the countertop next to Ryujin’s. “It’s okay,” she said, taking your hand. “Can’t seem to keep my eyes off you, either.” 

The next thing you knew, you were being pushed up against the bathroom sink with Karina’s lips kissing a trail down the back of your neck. Ryujin and the rest of the party had completely faded from your brain. You were soaked now, clit throbbing in anticipation. 

The vampire looked up at you for a moment, making eye contact with you in the mirror before pulling your shorts and underwear down in one fell swoop. Your wings were the next to go, and she took a moment to admire you before continuing on. 

Karina palmed your ass with one hand while she used her other to slide her shorts down, freeing her hardening cock. 

She held your waist steady as she slipped it between your legs, rubbing her cock against your wet folds. 

“A condom..?” she breathed, reaching up past you toward the medicine cabinet behind the large bathroom mirror. 

“I-I’m on the pill,” you replied a little too eagerly. Karina let out an amused huff. 

“Well then,” she said, bending you over farther, “be a good little lamb for me.”

The pet name and the sensation of her sliding into you made your legs nearly give out. She let you take a few moments to adjust to her. You hadn’t even gotten a good look at her cock but the way you pulsed around her let you know she was plenty big. 

The vampire let out a soft moan. 

“That’s it, there you go,” she cooed in your ear as she slid deeper inside you. You whimpered and she rewarded you with a kiss against your neck. 

You felt every bit as good around her cock as she thought you would. Karina closed her eyes, lost for a moment in the pleasure she felt being sheathed inside your warm, wet pussy. 

When you could finally let her move inside you, she started gently, her hands gripping your waist to support you. You were absolutely soaked, and the sounds of her thrusting became even more lewd as your wetness added to them. 

“Fuck,” she groaned. The vampire picked up her pace and it left you nearly breathless, unable to do anything but take her pounding and let out small, humiliating repetitive cries with each stroke. 

Your added slick allowed her to fuck you at an even faster pace. She leaned down over you, making you bend over further for her. At this new angle, you fell apart while she split you open. 

Gone were your soft cries, replaced with more raw, desperate moans. She felt so good inside of you; it had been ages since you felt this full and sated. 

Karina laughed as your cries grew louder. “Does it feel that good, angel? So good you want everyone to know how much you like being fucked right now?”

You could only moan in response, too focused on keeping the vampire inside of you to worry about the rest of your surroundings. You arched your back as much as you could, trying to entice her more. 

It worked. “Jesus,” Karina murmured. “You look just as good as you feel…” her eyes closed for a moment, losing her pace. When she resumed though, you knew you were really in for it. 

Karina’s thrusts became harsher, deeper, but also sloppier. She panted in your ear; her breath on your neck made you shiver. 

“Gonna cum,” she grunted. “You feel too fucking good.”

“I-In me,” you pleaded, knowing you must’ve looked as desperate as you sounded. “You can cum in me.”

Karina looked up at your reflection, catching your eye in the mirror. “Yeah?” she asked. You gulped. Her eyes were wild with desire. You nodded, and when she grinned in response, it sent an excited chill down your spine. 

The vampire took off again, plowing into you at a brutal, desperate pace that thrilled you. 

“Fuck, oh fuck,” she cursed, and then her hips slammed against you the hardest they ever had. You gasped when you felt it— Karina spilling her load in you. She continued to fuck into you as she came, bringing you closer to reaching your own release. 

Hearing your pants and whines get breathier, Karina snaked one hand around in front of you to tease your clit. 

You cried out, eyes squeezing shut as her fingers and your body fumbled for a few moments, both of you trying to find just the right angle that would— 

“Right there,” you rasped, your cunt clenching around her cock. “I’m gonna cum,” you cried, head tilting back a bit. 

Karina tsked in response. While one hand continued to circle your soaked clit, she used her other to yank your hair, making you tilt your head back up to look at the two of you in the mirror. Her thrusting hips held you in place. 

“Look at me when you cum,” she murmured, and you fought to hold her gaze. The moment you locked eyes with her, it sent you over the edge and you came around her. 

A satisfied smile crossed her lips, and then she released her hold on you. 

Catching your breath, the two of you stayed still for a minute until she could finally pull out. 

Some of her load spilled out of you, splattering beneath you on the bathroom’s tiled floor. 

You were slightly disappointed you couldn’t keep her full load in you, but Karina watched with great satisfaction. She gave your ass an appreciative slap, then squeezed your cheek in her hand.

The air was thick with more sexual tension as the two of you began to clean yourselves and the rest of the space up. The vampire helped you back into your costume, making sure your clothing was still in pristine condition. 

You tried not to look, but couldn’t help yourself from sneaking a glance at Karina while she tucked her softening cock back into her shorts. 

“Are you ready?” the vampire’s voice made you look up quickly.

“Yeah,” you said, not moving. Your nerves had returned. The music from the party outside was still just as loud, as were the conversations and laughter of partygoers, but you were anxious to see who was on the other side of the door– who, and how many, had heard you. 

“Hey, relax,” Karina said, sensing your mood shift. “It’s my party, no one’s going to say anything.”

You looked up at her curiously. “Wait— so you live here?” 

Karina unlocked the bathroom door and opened it. She led you out quickly. 

“Yeah,” she said casually, keeping your attention on her and away from some of the people nearby who definitely knew what had just happened between the two of you in there. “It’s a four bedroom. Ryujin didn’t tell you?” 

“N-no,” you stammered. You were going to say more but she was already leading you back to the main party space. Her warm hand held yours securely, but not tightly, as you weaved through the blur of people. 

She dropped your hand shortly after. You looked down, wondering why, when a familiar voice called out. 

“YN!” Ryujin said, approaching the two of you. “There you are!” Your roommate beamed at you, clearly having forgotten about the drink she asked you to get her. Instead, she held two tiny shot glasses in each hand. “Yeji and I were about to do some shots. I see you’ve met Karina.” 

You blushed. “Uh, yeah,” was all you could manage. 

“You didn’t tell me your roommate was so pretty, Ryujin,” the vampire said, stepping away. “I’m glad you came.” She winked at you, making your blush deepen. “See you around, angel.” 

[punk-in-docs]

A song of brides and hounds: part III

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 4.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter - mainly violence and some gore, also Caracalla being a nasty little bitch -- enjoy!

The servant girls’ hands are kind.

They undress you softly, and handle you with such reverence. Strip from you the ruined stola and tend your wounds.

They wash your feet, ply your cuts with a herbal paste of yarrow and uva ursi, wrap you in bandages. They rub new sweet smelling oil onto your unwounded skin.

Pick off your old jewellery and finery to be discarded. Slip you out your shoes. Lay you bare. Stood before them in naught but your skin as they tend you.

One is wetting, oiling and combing your netted hair to silky serenity again. Another is cleaning the wound on your elbow. All traces of dirt - and your previous life along with it - slowly removed.

Stood you in a shallow golden tub of warm water that laps at your ankles. Milky with oils and soaps. They put rose petals in the water. You watch them swim and dip.

You beg for one of the girls to keep the fibulae broaches that held your now damned dress to your shoulders. Your very last essence of home. Venus was enshrined in those very broaches. They gave you hope. Carrying a small kind piece of goddess with you. Laying your devotion to the majesty of the ocean on your simple shoulders.

They guided you to rooms draped in blue and gold. Stars moulded on the ceiling with the ornate marble that drips from every wall and corner. Giving the false illusion of a night sky. The flat ceiling between them clouded with bursts and puffs of dark blue that indicated churning night clouds. Boundless skies. Endless seas.

It felt like showing all the maps of the world to a caged bird.

Soft feminine blues befit these chambers. Statues and devotion to goddesses crown the walls and doorways. Urns of large stemmed white flowers. One wall holds a table lined with a huge offering of fruits, dried and fresh. Some bread and cured meats and oiled small fish. And an amphora of wine and goblet for after your bathing.

The air in here is scented all floral herb and clean. Too clean. No hint of sea salt or dried weed that tumbles on the shore to bake in the sun. It’s unfamiliar.

The huge slab of the cushioned bed is draped with silks and gauzy canopy curtains the colour of dove feathers. You don’t want to look at it. You dread thinking what will happen in it tonight.

A large maw of balcony gapes at another side of the room. This shows you the wall of rain outside. The violent tumble of thunder that must be shaking the very hills and peoples of Rome.

You feel as if the sea is raging because you’ve been stolen from it. Now it seeks vengeance on the land. Lashing and storming mercilessly until you’re found. Back where you belong.

Unlikely. It will have to rage on.

You stand, undressed, unseeing. Uncaring for the wealth of the room you’ve been pulled into.

The maid behind you, Oriana, a sweet and silent blonde, is scooping your hair back from your neck to comb and ply it with vanilla and orchid oil. Dark sweet musk.

Geta had specifically requested it.

Your head servant is a maid called Aeliana.

She has an accent you can’t place. It’s pretty, her tone husky. She had wonderful raven hair spilling silky and free over her shoulders, eyes dark as cassia bark, almond shaped. Long lashes. The epitome of tranquil beauty.

The colour of her dress is different to the rest of them. Indicating her higher status. Rusty red and it readily compliments the natural darkness of her skin. She wore golden bangles threaded on each wrist, and her touch is cloud soft.

She has a scar that intersects down from the middle of her forehead, across her left eye and cheek and ends there. Skin twisted and healed shiny. An old wound. It makes her striking to look at.

Worse still; She catches you staring.

Lowers her eyes as she tended you. Layering the sticky wet herbal treatment to your wounded elbow.

“Does my appearance displease you, my lady?” She lapses into silence for a moment or two.

“If you’d prefer I could send for another handmaiden to come tend you-“ She asks. Not harshly. There’s a hint of shame to her tone.

You look to her. Fearful of offence.

“I am not displeased. Forgive me. To stare so openly is rude.” You mutter. Eyes falling to your feet again. You watch rose petals sway on the water. You swallow thickly.

If she’s amused at your asking her, a servant, for forgiveness, she doesn’t show it. She calmly counters;

“You are Empress Salacia of Rome. You are allowed to stare at whomever you wish.” She tells you plainly.

Your eyes water. You bite inside your lower lip before you respond.

Not yet I’m not. And I don’t want to be.

“How came you by the scar?” You ask. Knowing full well you won’t like the answer. She gently washed your shoulder with a cloth.

“The Emperor.” She tells frankly.

At your doe eyed expression of horror she elucidates.

“Not Emperor Geta. His brother, Caracalla. Emperor Geta’s temper may be foul and quick to boil. But, Caracalla he is… far crueler.” She explains.

Your mouth purses into a thin line.

Oriana has finished oiling your hair. Now she was styling it into waves. Decorated with ornaments of netted gold. Geta requested it down as opposed to the normal bridal style. Emperors have what they want.

“What was the reason…” You sought. Fearing the answer.

“I was too slow in bringing his wine one night.” She offers. Plucking a vial of oil from the side table and coming back to rub it into your bare arms.

You squeeze your eyes closed. Ignore the tickle of tears that threaten your scrunched eyelids.

This is the savage world you must inhabit now. Try to navigate with sharper hungrier teeth and deadlier instinct. You don’t feel ready. You must become lionhearted and fierce. Carry knives. Be ruthless.

You hear your mothers reverent voice in your head. Sweet sea child. You were not made that way.

“I am sorry for your pain. Aeliana. But I am grateful for your warning.” You decide.

She nods. “I thank the goddess’ for you. Empress.” She smiles at you.

Before going to the side to fetch your tunica recta, and the belt you’d wear on your waist in a knot of hercules. Which tradition dictated only Geta was allowed to undo.

Your husband.

You wince. Aueliana notices.

“Your majesty?” She seeks. Sensing your unease.

“I am nervous.” You tell her. You confide your worry in this woman with kind eyes and soft hands.

“It is expected of a bride to be nervous.” She awards you.

“I’m not a normal bride.” You confirm fearfully. She can see them shaking in your gaze. Threatening to breach your lash line.

She nods in understanding. You’re sure they all knew. The reason that placed you here. Spread like wildfire on dry plains through the servant halls.

“I know little of managing a husband. Of… starting a family.”

“If I may, your majesty. Your family is a noble one, yes?” She asks.

You nod. You lived in one of the richest houses in Corsica. You were never lacking in money or ribbons and new jewels. But at best you were a senators daughter. Not the ideal stock for an Emperors wife. Not the type to be governing one great nation.

“My grandmother is a well known seer in these parts. A healer. Purveyor of white magic. Many a time she has seen things that have yet to come to pass…” She explains as she wraps the belt around your waist. Speaking as she does.

“She foretold your arrival. Said the future of Rome would be written by rain and storm, when blood spills on the ancient serpent stone.”

Serpent. Synonymous with the Traitor. Two faced and shedding skin. Blood spilling, the death of your Brother. Rain on the rocks- this storm hammering down. You can’t believe it.

“What if Rome is your destiny?” She explains. Her voice kind and brave as the candles flicker and the storm rages on.

“Then I pray the goddess’ convey me the strength to survive it.”

“I will pray too.” She takes your hand. It feels like kinship.

They stepped you out of the tub and began to pat you dry with cloths and then dress you.

With each pass of their hands wiping the water from your skin, it removed you further and further from yourself.

Aeliana rubs a sweet balm like texture onto your pebbled nipples before she robes you. Said it was to increase your fertility. She also lines your eyes with burnt kohl.

They pulled your dress on around you. Let it fall into beautiful waves. You stood sedately and let them manoeuvre you.

Your skin positively draped with as much fragrant oil as it could take. Anointed with your new life as it drips off you in unbearable sweetness. Decorations not of your choosing put into your hair, on your ears, around your neck, on your arms. Strangled by someone else’s finery.

Slid fine golden sandals onto your feet. Aeliana brought a flame red veil and pinned it in place over your head. It floated down to your shoulders. Securing a crown of myrtle flowers over it.

It may have been gauzy fabric; rich and fine. But it felt like iron to you. Iron veil and a crown of thorns.

When they finish readying you, they bow and leave you alone to eat the fresh bread and fruits. Drink the sweet wine. Night closes in around you.

You didn’t ever picture the night before your wedding being like this. Alone and noiseless save for rain. You pictured the noise and gaiety of your sisters, dancing in their fine dresses. How they’d carry golden stalks of wheat to signify your prosperous marriage - how it would bear fruit. Be blessed by gods and fortune.

Your mother would bind your hands to the man you’d marry. To the man you’d love.

And you are here. Miserable in cold indifference. Clothed in perfumed oil and silence. With only your dour thoughts for company.

You pick at your offering of food. Feeling the milky eyes of those female deity marble statues watching you carefully. Judging. Maybe even disappointed.

When the doors next shudder open as the guards outside push them open, a divine older woman comes striding slowly, surely, into the room. Confidence woven into her steps like the very fine lavender purple cloth folded around her shoulders. A beautiful sage green palla. Her hair is dark and braided masterfully on her head. Shot through with bolts of silver.

You recognise her from coins. From statues. The Dowager Empress of Rome. Julia Domna.

She looks wise as Minerva. Goddess of education indeed. All of Rome had heard tale of not only her beauty, but her mind. Sharp as an arrowhead. A gentle mediator between her rabid sons.

Out of sheer politesse and nerves, you bolt out your seat and bow your head to her. Words shrivel on your tongue. Royalty is stood before you. Here you are plucked from the dungeons. You feel unworthy.

“Rise, my child.” She bids you. Holding out a hand laid with jewels on nearly every finger. Standing before you. Close enough to discern some of your beauty through the veil.

She examines you. Not unkindly. The way you’d expect a mother to examine the vessel that will carry her sons legacy. She’s discerning.

“Let me see my sons choice then…” she bids. Hands crossed in front of her, diplomatically, as she lets her deep set, serious eyes become acquainted with all of you.

Choice? Or chattel?

She walks around you. Eyes your hair. Your build. Your hips. The way you’ve been presented like a prized sacrificial swine before the crowds on Saturnalia.

And she doesn’t appear to find you lacking

“Goodness. You really are beautiful.” She says. It sounds mournful. Introspective. As if she didn’t intend on you hearing it.

“He’s made a fine choice.” She lauded

“Corsica, I hear you hail from?”

“Yes, Dowager.”

“I want to know one thing.” She says. Voice hard as newly forged steel. A shiver runs your spine. So she could be terrifying if she wishes.

“Are you a traitor against Rome?” She demands. “There are spies who would conspire to align themselves with this great house, under false guises, to murder my sons.” She speaks, crossly. Eyes aflame.

She has bite after all. Lions teeth and knows full well how to use them.

“I am no spy. I am not a murderer I have no guise. Like you. I only want to protect those whom I love.” You answer calmly. Placid easy waves. Gently now.

She smiles. Though something curious still lurks in her eyes.

“Then we are on the same page.” She awards slyly. You feel as if you’ve passed a test.

Her smile crooks on one side. Relieved.

She turns to the doors. The great sway of her earrings are big as chandeliers as she moves. Stunning gold. Bands of gold also cross her well formed upper arms. Every inch a woman of gentility and riches. She is perfumed with lavender. Oil made from dried plants fetched all the way from purple fields in Aquitania.

“My son grows impatient to see his bride. Come. Salacia. It is time.” She offers her arm to you.

Apparently your destiny lays in wait.

~

The wedding was a short and simple affair. The Dowager Empress led you to the grand rooms where they were to be held.

Grand, just like the rest of this humongous sprawling palace.

When you see Geta, he is clad in so much gold and armour. A blinding white cloak draped off his form. Armour golden. Carved with gods and victorious hero’s of battle. Golden laurel crown adorns his head. His smile at the sight of you makes you blush with attention.

You are suddenly grateful for the veil. It manages to hide you from every stranger in this room. You can make out Caracalla. Some other senators. Other guests you’ve no idea who.

The celebrant, a rather portly priest, ordered the evil spirits away. Asked for the fire spirits to bless you. He invoked Janus to watch over you from single people to a joined couple. New beginnings.

When it is time, he takes your hand and carefully threads an engagement ring on your finger. It is weighty, pure gold. An imitation of two dog heads joined together. A round sapphire cradled between their mouths. As if they’re fighting for it.

Remus and Romulus. It reminds you of him already.

You dare to meet his eyes as he does it. He looks ravenous. Umbra catching you where you stand. Swallows you whole. You don’t think you can get used to it yet.

“Wherever you go, there also go I, as your wife.” You speak.

The dowager Empress binds your hands together with blood red linen as the rest of the vows are read. The way his fingers turn and grip the inside of your forearm - firm pressing, hot like a brand - it makes you shiver.

Then comes the time for the marriage to be sealed with a kiss. Hands freed.

Your stomach is squirming unpleasantly as your stranger of a groom steps forwards to lift your veil. When he lifts the red gauze from your vision, you keep your eyes lowered until the last moment.

You feel the urging of his eyes. You could hear the fierce nature of his words as if he’d spoken.

Look at me. Salacia.

He looks entirely too boastful. His perfect little nymph. Caught and landed at last.

Hepulled you in by your waist. Locked his hand around your back. Gave you a kiss that was certainly gentler than before. Softness of his lips was maddening when the rest of him was all armour and metal. But you still felt the edge of his teeth on your lower lip. Bursting new pain from where it had split.

It was official. You had been dragged out a golden net cast in the sea. And now property of the Emperor of Rome.

You had no time to let your thoughts wander. There’s been quite the celebration planned for after. He walks beside you as congratulations ripple around you from nobles, senators, generals and high officials of the courts.

You ignore the way Caracalla sneers a particularly vile look your way when you pass him. Plotting.

You are lead to an opulent triclinium. Open to one huge side, guarded by pillars, which overlooked a garden where fountains trickled and plants bloom even in the storm that’s still brewing. Spitting rain on the landscape.

There are torches at the sides of the rooms, huge bowls boasting orange flames that lick at the walls, and freshly plucked flowers, still green branches and fronds sit in urns to the side. Filling the room with petals and heady nectar scent.

There’s a huge swarm of lectus’ in the centre of the room. Bronze laid with cushions. All pointing towards a huge table were bread and wine goblets awaited. You’re not used to how the room echoes. Unused to the sheer amount of people and formality that fills it.

The wine is poured freely by silent servants who sweep in and out. Some of them carrying plates as huge as carriage wheels. A whole roasted boar with grapes spilling out its mouth is brought in. Trays upon trays of cooked moray eels, cod and oiled anchovies. A whole platter of stewed nightingale birds, arranged around stalks of herbs and plums.

There’s fruit and bread the like of which you’ve not seen before. White bowls filled with cut purple figs and waxy oranges. Apples and yellow golden pears on tiered stands. Grapes and dried apricots heaped in dishes. It’s dazzling. So much wealth thrust before you.

You have a cup of sweet honey wine and take some of the unleavened bread. Watching as others around you gorge and toast with their goblets. Drinking strong wine and telling jokes and bawdy stories.

You feel disjointed from it all. You feel the Emperors eyes pass over you. The dowagers too. You are a source of mystery and intrigue.

Plucked from misfortune and placed here at the feet of gods.

You do feel when your new husband slides some pieces of fruit, or fresh breads onto your plate. A small bunch of sweet red grapes. His head may be cocked to conversation in this room. But his attention remains somewhat on you.

“Eat. Wife. I do not wish to force you.” He commands you. Prodding food and more wine in your direction.

Nursing his own cup and barking at the servants when he wanted more. You know his tongue must be stained with the taste by now. Sour purple. You wonder if you’ll taste it later in another of his animalistic kisses.

It feels like there is a boulder in your stomach. You swallow. You sip. You try to breathe. It all feels too restricted.

“Refill my wife’s cup.” Geta demands of the nearest servant. You flinch at his cutting commands.

You meet the servants eyes for a second and flicker them a smile. They look to the ground as they fill your cup. Their poor hands shake. You thank them. They don’t respond.

You’ve a feeling his plying you with wine has more than one ulterior motive. To make you loosen. Make you pliant. Make you slip down easier in his crushing grip.

“I have no appetite.” You admit weakly.

You can’t stomach the way the fat on the meat before you glistens. These poor stewed birds with clipped wings. The gutted boar. Glistening fat and dead meat. Same as the way of those poor flayed men in the coliseum.

Butchered animals. One and the same. The way blood sprayed out on the biscuit brown dirt under the sun. The way viscera glistened bright when spilled free from once living flesh. How these animals looked served on a platter. There’s no difference.

You take some grapes. Pick them from the vine. Bite into some apricots. The fruit rots on your palate. Fine sugary flesh and it bursts on your tongue like ripe putrefaction. You place it gently back on your plate.

“Do they not have fruit in Corsica?” He asks. It’s vaguely mocking.

“We had lemon trees in the gardens. An olive tree in the courtyard. Over 200 years old.” You state quietly. Not taking your eyes off the plate in front of you. You picked and prodded at it.

“You have more now. You are Empress. You have anything you want.” He impressed on you.

“I miss the ocean. The sun on the shoreline. My sisters.” You mutter.

“Don’t risk sounding ungrateful.” He threatens.

Geta followed the path of your reluctant hand with his eyes. He then scans across all of his guests. People of the senate. Rich merchants. Fellow royalty.

They come to snipe and drink wine and watch this new wedded spectacle.

“They are all dull.” Geta decided.

You wonder if the only source of amusement he could delight at was seeing people being beaten to black and blue paste in the coliseum. To have to see the spray of blood to feel something.

“They are intrigued. Their Emperor has placed a traitor in his marriage bed.” You comment.

Geta turned to you. “That sounds like treason to my ears.” A warning.

“Perhaps.” You answered. Boldly.

“But is it inaccurate? It is what they are all thinking.” You add. “You’ve wedded yourself to someone disloyal. Someone who is not their kind. They are curious.”

Geta scans his eyes over everyone again. Their laughter. The flow of wine. The way they stab and cut into food and fruit like they’re half starved. None of them quite meet your eyes.

Perhaps they don’t wish too.

His hand finds the meat of your thigh. Flesh firm and warm.

“They will believe what I tell them too. Wife. You only need worry about your loyal duty to me. Nothing else.” He makes clear.

You go back to pushing bits of fruit around your plate. Taking no more sustenance.

“No doubt you are unused to such finery.” Caracalla pipes up. Seeing you toy with your food. “I wonder what they eat in Corsica. Peasants sea food?”

You meet Caracalla’s eyes across the tables and mountains of rich food.

Getas eyes were dark. Fired by lust for you. That’s what you saw in them when he looked at you.

The same could not be said for Caracalla.

You saw nothing. Just darkness and his love of cruelty. Geta unnerved you. But it was Caracalla who scared you most. It was like gazing into a tomb. A bare skull eye socket. You’re certain nothing but darkness refracted back. Splintered twisted darkness. The purest distilled form of malice.

“Perhaps you are jealous, brother. The fact that I will have heirs meant for the future of the empire. And you will… not.” He snaps. Petulant.

“If she makes it that far.” Caracalla sneers. Daggering a smile right at you. A sneer that make you feel cold. He’s twirling a dagger in his other hand. Eyeing you with sick lustful interest.

He wants your goodness too. He wants it so he can spoil you for himself and ruin Getas legitimacy. By whatever means necessary. Geta has cruelly inserted you into this feud.

“And who’s to say the heir will be yours… who knows where her eyes will stray.” He jabs. Eyes widening as he leers.

Geta stabs into his food. Glaring at his smaller twin all the while. Eyes dark as shadow cloaked black jewels.

When some servants near you move from pouring wine, the sight of the persons impeded by them, slowed your world to a halt, ringing gongs in your ears when you caught sight of someone you recognized.

Macrinus.

The food in your mouth turns to ash which you can hardly stomach swallowing. Your gaze locked on the man as he lays content at your wedding feast. Drinking wine and roaring laughter with Caracalla. Garbed in robes of rich Aquarian blue trimmed with gold pattern.

Exactly the gracious easy way he had been when he dined with you and your father in his home.

His smile remains as he locks eyes with you. And raises his glass in a toast in your direction. You hear him drink to your new name with a blazing smirk aimed your way. “Empress.”

You mumble a pithy excuse. You don’t know if anyone hears you or if they’ll even look up from their plates when you get up and rush to leave.

Caracalla snorts as you race from the room on the verge of tears.

“She’s a flighty one. Your Empress. So full of tears.” Caracalla comments loudly. Cruelly. Turning his head to meet the acid stare of his brother - and the Dowager Empress as she lowers her goblet from her lips. Eyes cool as metal.

“Maybe if you shoved your cock into your broodmare, brother, as you doubtless plan to do this night. Maybe that would settle her down? Or maybe a good beating from the guards will see her right, make her see her place… maybe let a few of the guards bend her over a lectus and see to her first? Loosen her up a little for your uses.”

“Caracalla. Enough.” The dowager snaps. Lightning power in her voice. Tone fashioned from a fury storms could envy. Her dark eyes glow with it.

She turns to Geta and lays a gentle pacifying hand to his arm. “See to your bride, dear. She looked unwell.”

Geta sighs a snarl. Glaring at his brother as he does as mother suggested.

She watches him leave. Turns to her other son with barely concealed ire.

Caracalla snorts into his wine with the other guests. Making sneering, high handed remarks.

“Such marital bliss.” He mocks to the guests. Twirling his favourite silver dagger in his other hand. Laughing as he played with the dead meats on his plate with a sneer. His tooth winked golden in the light.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

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[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Clandestine.

You and Stewy know it’s wrong. So why, pray tell, does it feel so right?

Part Two. Part Three.

Pairing - Stewy Hosseini x female Roy reader

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - Cursing, allusions to sexual content

Word Count - 1.5k

Author's Note - in honour of stewy's beautiful appearance in episode 2, please enjoy this!! hoping and praying we get to see a hell of a lot more of him this season <3

Series Masterlist.

Masterlist. Requests.

You’re bored.

To the outside eye, life as a Roy is a dream. Money, cars, designer clothes, big fancy galas filled to the brim with millionaires. It sounds ideal.

It isn’t. Between family drama, backstabbing and betrayal, and directionless small talk, being the youngest Roy sibling is a stifling job. But someone has to do it. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Tonight, you find yourself at another Waystar Royco charity gala. The ballroom downtown sparkles with diamonds, champagne flowing and expensive perfume overwhelming. It’s another mandatory job on your list. Attend, smile, wave, make polite conversation, rinse rich men for their money and leave. Simple.

Or so you thought.

You arrived with Roman and Kendall, the both of them immediately separating and making their way to friends and business partners, leaving you stood alone. Fingertips brush the skin of your back that’s exposed by your dress, sending a shiver down your spine.

You smell him before he enters your eyeline. He smells like vanilla and sandalwood. He smells expensive. Not the faux, gawdy expensive like most men in the room, but genuinely luxurious. His cologne makes you dizzy. You reach out and hold onto the edge of the table in front of you before you lose your balance.

You feel him before you turn around. He’s warm, and broad, and the crisp white material of his dress shirt is pressing into you. You gasp quietly at his boldness, praying that no one sees the youngest Roy so close to a sworn enemy.

Stewy Hosseini.

Kendall’s third oldest friend. Both a rival and an asset to your family. One of the biggest assholes in New York City.

The man you’re hopelessly in love with.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You honestly hadn’t meant for it to go this far.

Originally, it was sex. Brilliant, mind blowing, earth shattering sex.

Until it wasn’t.

Now, it’s late night phone calls and clandestine meetings and holding hands and apartment hunting and kisses on the forehead. Now, it’s real. It’s become something undeniable.

They’d kill you if they knew.

They’d murder you both. You’d be shunned. Stewy would be dropped and cut from Waystar Royco like he never meant anything in the first place. Your inheritance would be taken away, all Roy privileges revoked.

Basically, it’d be hell. So why do you keep finding yourself considering it?

You’ve never been loved like this. So total, so complete, so all consuming. So unconditional. It’s no secret that the Roy siblings are strangers to love. But not anymore.

Now, you know love. You wake up to love and kiss him on the small patch of skin on his cheek where his beard won’t grow. You dance with love in the kitchen, allowing him to spin you around in your socks, catching you when you slip. You see love across the boardroom, communicating with him silently, having full conversations with just your eyes.

They can deny it all they want, but you know the truth. This is what love is supposed to be. They’re scared of it because it’s unfamiliar. It isn’t material. They’re terrified of love because they can’t touch it, or mould it, or manipulate it. They’re petrified.

You ran into love headfirst, unwittingly. Would you have slept with Stewy that night, well over a year ago, if you’d have known this is how it’d turn out? You’re not sure, honestly. But all you know is that no matter what they say when they inevitably find out, none of it matters. Love is real. And it is astounding.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“You with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs into your ear, warm breath raising the hairs on your neck.

“Yeah, baby,” you mutter back, attempting to keep a neutral expression on your face. “I’m here.”

“Where did you go, huh?”

His fingers journey down, brushing over your ass. He gives it a squeeze before stroking it up your hip, resting his hand on your waist.

“Just daydreaming,” you reply.

“About what?” he asks teasingly, caressing your skin in gentle motions. Back, forth. Back, forth. He’s making it hard to concentrate.

“You,” you whisper quietly. He hears you loud and clear. “Always you.”

He wants to kiss you. God, he wants to kiss you. He wants to grab your face and smash his lips to yours, consequences be damned. He wants to pick you up and twirl you around and scream “look at the woman I love!”.

Instead, his fingers tighten on your waist. He looks around carefully before leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to the spot just below your ear. Then, he moves to stand in front of you. To anyone else, it looks like two old friends having a conversation.

“You look so fuckin’ beautiful in that dress,” he tells you, his voice laced with sincerity and admiration. His eyes are raking up and down your frame. The heat of his gaze is making you warm.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Hosseini,” you tease. That’s an understatement. His suit fits him like a glove, perfectly tailored to all of his curves. It’s all crisp edges and careful lines. He’s wearing the cufflinks you got him for his birthday, the ones engraved with the both of your initials. The letters are small, tucked away on the underside. No one knows they’re there – your little secret.

Stewy winks at you and goes to take a step forward, but a hand on his arm stops him. A gorgeous woman with flowing brown hair and a silk gown appears at his side, smiling at you politely before turning to him.

“There’s a couple of guys over there asking where you are. They want to talk about the Williams deal.”

He gives you a look drenched in apology before allowing himself to be dragged away. He takes all of the warmth with him, leaving you stood in the ballroom, cold and alone.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You knew he was bringing a date. It’d been a point of discussion the night before.

“We have to keep up appearances, Stewy. It makes sense. I know it doesn’t mean anything, okay. I’m not worried,” you reassure him, carding your hands through his hair. He’s lying with his head in your lap on his couch, eyes closed and brows scrunched. You smooth your thumb over the crease in his forehead, before kissing the spot gently.

“I know. Fuck, I know,” he sighs defeatedly. The idea of having some random supermodel on his arm at the gala is killing him. What he wouldn’t do for it to be you.

“It’s only one night, baby,” you soothe gently. “I’ll come back here afterwards. It’ll be a couple of hours at most. You know people are going to talk if Stewy Hosseini, the most eligible bachelor of New York, turns up without a date.”

He chuckles heartily, and the vibrations settle in your bones.

“One night,” he agrees. “Just one night.”

With that, he sits up, cradling your face in his hands. He kisses you softly, carefully. He’s so tender with you. No one else in the world gets to see him like this. No one else gets to see him vulnerable. He likes it that way. You do too.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

There’s a pull between you and Stewy. It’s like a magnetic force, dragging you together no matter where you are, or what you’re doing. You feel it in the monotonous board meetings. You feel it at the family events he’s reluctantly invited to by Kendall. You feel it now, as you float around the ballroom, praying for the night to be over.

You allow your mind to drift away, dreaming of what awaits you later tonight. You can picture it perfectly. You and Stewy, curled up in bed, his penthouse bedroom illuminated by candlelight. Glasses of wine discarded on the night stand, sheets thrown across the mattress, legs tangled together. Skin pressed to skin, warmth seeping into your bones. Gentle melodies filling the room, the man underneath you humming softly into your ear. This is heaven, you’ll think. Bury us like this, please.

You can feel when his eyes are on you. Heat prickles over your skin, goosebumps rising. It’s become like a sixth sense, this silent communication between you. You catch his gaze and wink, and you swear you see him blush slightly. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and nods in the direction of the door. You get the hint, and follow him, trailingly behind subtly.

You reach the hallway and look around, but Stewy is nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, you feel a warm grip grab your hips, pressing you into the wall.

“Been waiting to get my hands on you all night,” he murmurs into your ear lowly.

He’s trailing his fingers up and down your sides. You can feel him, hot and hard behind you, groaning as he bites at your throat. He kisses the hinge of your jaw, and then your cheek. It’s forbidden and it’s sexy and it’s so gentle it makes your knees wobble.

“Come home with me,” he begs. “Let’s blow this off and get out of here.”

The offer is tempting. So, so tempting. But you know people would put the pieces together. Stewy leaves, you leave… suspicions arise. As easy as it would be to just say fuck it and tell everyone, you want to keep this a secret for a little longer. You want to stay in this little bubble of warmth and love and trust a little longer. You want to stay happy a little longer.

“We can’t,” you whine. “They’ll notice.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he replies. “You shouldn’t either.”

You want to disagree, but the way he’s moved his hand to sit at your throat while pressing himself into you is making it hard to think.

“Live a little, baby,” he teases, nipping at your ear.

“Fine! Fuck, fine. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

He grabs your hand, giddy smile etched on his face. He’s practically running with you to his car, dress flowing in the breeze behind you, heels clacking against the marble floors. You tumble into the backseats, his lips pressed to yours as you make your way home. Home.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your eyes blink open, sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains. You’re resting comfortably on Stewy’s chest, both of his strong arms wrapped around you. You yawn sleepily, wondering what’s awoken you.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Oh. That. You check the clock on the nightstand, realising that it’s only 7am. On a Saturday. Who’s knocking on the door at 7am on a Saturday morning?

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Fuck, is the noise getting louder? You nudge Stewy carefully, waking him.

“There’s someone banging on your door,” you whisper.

He groans and untangles his legs from yours. He throws on a pair of boxers, and moves to investigate the source of the knocking. You listen intently, curious to know who’s trying to gain Stewy’s attention so determinedly.

The door swings open.

“Ken?” Stewy questions, and you can almost hear the fear in his voice.

“Hey, man. Where the fuck is my sister?”

[blossomwritesthings]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧

pairing: chan x fem!reader (afab)

genre: sick!fic. idol!chan. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. reader pov. established relationship.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. mild thematic elements. this one isn't as angsty as some of my other skz sick!fics. reader is sick/feeling shitty (with her period). chan is an amazing and loving bf what can i say. slighttt mention of possession from chan (but in a cute way!!). pet names (affectionately). a LOT of fluff.

word count: 3.0k

summary: it's always at the most inconvenient of times that your body decides to gift you with your period- and this time around, it's during a moment when your boyfriend chan is busy in his studio. so surely, he won't have time to spare to comfort you, right??

a/n: i've already gotten quite a few requests to do chan next in my skz x sick!fics series, so here ya'll go haha! 😂 i think jisung is next up on the sick!fic queue, but we shall see..... 🫣 also, chan is literally the reason why i continue to live some days lmao he's such a big comfort and inspiration for me and i love him a lot and just want to protect him all of the time,, he's so precious to me ugh!!! 😩❤️

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ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). © ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

 You knew that you shouldn’t have been interrupting your boyfriend since he had been diligently working in his office for most of the night. As soon as he arrived home from a long day at the company, he proclaimed that a spark of inspiration had hit him, and he needed to get his ideas down. 

 So, he stole away to his small studio that was just off to the side of your shared bedroom. The apartment you guys lived in was nothing special to look at, but it held a functional space where Chan could have his studio, and that’s all that mattered. Even if your bedroom was a little smaller than what you would’ve liked, you could put up with such qualms if it meant the love of your life had a comfortable space to work in. Plus, it was always nice when he chose to work from home and not at the company. Being at home with him, even if you guys were in two separate rooms, was enough to keep you more than happy and content. 

 This is why, the moment your symptoms grew to become almost unbearable, the pain shooting up from deep in your abdomen, cheeks flushing every few minutes with heat, limbs growing a little weak and fatigued, you found yourself just outside the door of Chan’s studio, knocking on the wood softly. There was a moment of silence on his end, and a bit of shuffling before you heard him usher you in. 

 As you entered the room, you were immediately soothed by the chill atmosphere that encased his studio. The dim led-lights glowed across the crown moulding of the high ceiling, casting a cool glow of blue on everything in the room. There were fuzzy blankets and silky pillows strewn across the large black leather couch that Chan had shoved into the corner of the room - the couch you two had spent much time on throughout your relationship. 

 And then your eyes flitted over to your boyfriend’s desk, which was decked out in all of the newest and greatest technology; fit with large speakers, three monitors, and a handful of keyboards that you had no clue what he used for.

 Your boyfriend was so focused on the screens in front of him that he didn’t even turn around to greet you. He was sitting up, spine-straight in his plush desk chair, leaning over one of his many keyboards and picking out certain notes on the keys. A large set of headphones was placed just beside him on the desk, which you supposed he had just taken off upon your presence. 

 “What’s up, baby girl?” He asked, voice coming out husky and low from being unused. You two hadn’t spoken since you finished dinner together, which was several hours earlier that night. 

 With a glance at the large metal-lined clock that hung close to his desk, you read that it was close to midnight. No wonder why you were so tired. It had been a busy week at work, and you had decided to lounge around the apartment all that day since it was a Saturday. Chan had been gone at work, occupied with schedules all day until he managed to get home relatively early for him - which was around eight in the evening - so he could have dinner with you before going straight back to work again in his studio. 

 Without saying anything, you trailed over to him. With gentle hands, you pried his arms away from his keyboard. You felt his eyes flutter from being trained on the computer screens to scanning down the length of your face. Silently, you moved so that you were sitting atop his lap, straddling his waist with your legs. You wrapped two arms across his broad shoulders, nuzzling your nose into the crook of his neck. Catching his scent, which was of musky body wash and deep fern. 

 Chan let out a soft chuckle as he snaked one arm around your waist, holding you close to him as he used his other hand to get back to work. “What’s all of this about, darling?” He asked, his deep voice cascading close over your ear and sending a zap of energy to coarse through your entire body. 

 “It hurts, Chan…” You whispered, words barely heard over the catchy beat that was bleeding from the nearby speakers. 

 Your boyfriend’s entire body froze up just then, as he slowly brought you away from his neck and locked eyes with you. You saw concern dance there, darkening his pupils just slightly. “What hurts, sweetheart? Are you sick?” 

 Frantically, you shook your head. “N-No, I just… I have cramps.” You said in a meek voice. And finding it hard to hold his stare, your focus landed on the faintly glowing led lights that were strung around the room, washing your boyfriend’s skin in a kind of ocean-blue glimmer. 

 Then, you felt a few slim fingers move underneath your chin, tilting your head just slightly so that your gaze locked with Chan’s once more. “Is it that time of the month again, princess?” He rose a dark, perfectly-manicured eyebrow your way. 

 Slowly, your hands found their way into his hair, absently playing with the black curls there as you bit down on your bottom lip in a nervous habit you always did when you were feeling uncomfortable. “Y-Yeah, kinda. It started after dinner.” 

 Chan leaned into your form at your confession, pressing his mouth against yours in a tender kiss, plush lips fitting atop yours perfectly. “What can I do to help you, my love?” His voice came out gravelly as he gave you another handful of kisses. "What do you need from me right now, hmm?” 

 Never in your life had you had a man who cared so fucking much about you. And you knew that it wasn’t just out of obligation because you guys were dating. No, this man sitting right in front of you cared for you wholly and ardently because he wanted to. He took pleasure in it, and it filled him with so much happiness when he saw that you were happy. 

 “I… don’t know,” your voice trailed off into silence as your heart raced from his kisses. Chan yanked his head away from you, a tiny smirk cracking across his face at the sight of your pink-tinged cheeks. His dear kisses always did that to you- always stirred the vat of love that was hidden just beneath the surface of your veins.

 He swiped a thumb across your warm flesh, “Oh- is my baby blushing?” He laughed softly. You felt both of his hands come around your hips then, fingers squeezing at the skin that was exposed between your tank top and short shorts. 

 “No, it’s just a h-hot flash.” You mumbled in a tiny voice. But already, your face was giving you away - as a furious shade of crimson bloomed across both of your cheeks. 

 And all at once, Chan was standing up from his chair in one fluid movement, grasping onto your waist and yanking you close to him as he moved. You squealed in surprise at his sudden change in position. “Chan, what are you doing?” You asked around a hearty laugh, clutching on tightly to his shoulders as he trudged through his studio and towards the bedroom. 

 “Taking care of my girlfriend, that’s what,” he began as he neared your shared bed. He gingerly placed you down atop the downy mattress, taking a nearby woolly blanket and tucking it all around your body. “Now, you stay right here, and I’ll be back with all of the goods in no time at all.” 

 You dramatically rolled your eyes at that, “Don’t make a huge production out of it, babe. I get this every month, I'm used to it.” You called after him as he hurried to the bedroom door again. 

 Turning around to face you in the doorframe, he leveled you with a deep frown, “And you don’t make a big production out of me helping you, baby.” 

 You felt a satisfied smile erupt across your face just as he closed the door behind him. You turned onto your side, burrowing down into the blanket as your heart beat wildly. It galloped in the pit of your chest because of your boyfriend. 

 Because even though he had been so busy with work, even though he had been extremely focused and in the middle of a creative spell, he somehow managed to pull himself away from all of it to take care of you. To go out of his way and help to make you feel better. And if that wasn’t love, you didn’t know what was. 

 Sometime later, Chan was back in the bedroom, clad with a bag bursting with various items. He plopped down beside you, offering you a meek smile as he began to pull out the various things he had retrieved to… make you feel better. He plugged in the heating pad that you always used during the special time of the month, and turned it on, positioning it atop your lower stomach that was still covered in the large blanket. 

 You rifled through the bag of goods at your side, eyeing the huge bag of salty chips, a dark-chocolate bar, a box of toffee cookies, and a chilled bottle of green tea. Staring up at your boyfriend, you flashed him a cheeky grin. “All of this for me, babe? You didn’t have to… I would’ve been fine with just the chocolate.” 

 He leaned forward then, carding a few fingers through your hair gently and pushing the locks away from your face. “Of course, baby girl. Want to help you however I can…” He pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead, before yanking his lips away from your warmed skin and staring down at you with a serious expression painted across his face. “Have you taken any medicine yet? For the pain?” 

 Grabbing the hand that wasn’t currently playing in your hair, you threaded your fingers through his, marveling at the way that his large hands practically dwarfed yours in size. “Yeah, I took some as soon as I felt the pain come on.” 

 “Good girl,” your boyfriend said in a quiet tone. You pulled your attention from your intertwined fingers and noticed him staring down at you with a… peculiar look. 

 “What?” You asked, squeezing his fingers a little bit with your own. A sardonic kind of smirk widened across his lips. “Why are you smiling at me like that?” 

 “Because…” He began in a light, charming voice, “I know that you feel shitty right now, but I can’t help but think that you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world.” Your boyfriend pressed into you then, giving your lips a tentative kiss. “And you’re all mine…” 

 You whined against his mouth, “Don’t say things like that or you’ll literally be the cause for me breaking out into ugly sobs... you know how much I can't take sentimental stuff when I'm on my period.” 

 Chan laughed deeply, giving either of your cheeks warm kisses before moving away from you slightly. “Well, we can have none of that.” He shifted on the bed so that he was lying beside you. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close and into his side. 

 The heat that his body always seemed to radiate did something to your heart - soothed an ache that was throbbing deep in your bones, in your lower stomach. “What are you doing?” You tilted your head up so that you could see his face. His brows were furrowed in concentration as he turned on the flatscreen tv that was placed just in front of your bed. 

 “I’m picking out a comfort movie for us to watch.” 

 “Why? I thought you had to work to do - inspiration calling, and all of that.” 

 He stared down at you, pupils slanting just a tiny bit at your insinuation that he’d rather work at that moment than spend time with his one and only girlfriend. “Baby girl, you should know me enough by now to know that I’m never going to leave your side when you’re feeling even a little bit bad.” 

 “Is that a forever promise?” You rose an eyebrow at him. Forever promises were something that the two of you had come up with early on in your relationship. They were promises that you made each other only on occasion when you truly meant them and would do anything to keep them. It was a sweet, unique gesture that you two had started, and something deep inside of you always melted whenever Chan brought it up. 

 “Do you want it to be one?” The man looking down at you asked, a knowing light flooding into his dark-brown eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve already promised such a thing a long time ago…”

 You hit his chest playfully at that, a zap of energy running down the length of your spine at the hard muscle that your fists found there. “You’re so stupid,” you laughed, nuzzling into his side, the heat from the heating pad already beginning to soothe the aches that were radiating from deep inside of you. 

 “You never answered my question, princess.” 

 Your eyes found his against in the dim room. The only light that was switched on was a floor lamp that was shoved into a corner, near the tv. It cast a kind of ethereal glow against your boyfriend’s skin, shining against his midnight-black curly hair and darkening this sharp jawline in shadows. 

 You swallowed, once. “Okay, fine. I want that to be a forever promise.” You rolled your eyes at him, but in reality, you both knew that you weren’t annoyed to give the request in the least bit. Forever promises were reserved for very special occasions- when the two of you wanted to reiterate something. 

 And it seemed like Chan was very keen on doing so just then. 

 Placing a hand over his heart, he closed his eyes and canted his head to one side, speaking in a low, gravelly voice. “I, Bang Chan, solemnly swear with a forever promise, that from this moment onwards that I will never leave your side no matter how bad you’re feeling.” 

 It was stupid, really. The promise. 

 But still, it cast butterflies across your stomach. 

 It forced a big, idiotic grin to spread on your lips. 

 And then you were dragging Chan into you, offering him a soft kiss. “And I forever promise that I’ll do the same thing for you whenever you need it the most.” When you tore apart, he was mimicking your smile. 

 Just like that, you two settled down into the thick duvet coverlets of your bed, focusing on the comfort movie that Chan had chosen for the two of you to watch. It was some cheesy rom-com that you had already seen a dozen times, but he knew how much you loved it, and how watching it helped get your mind off of the pain that was flowing through your body. 

 Throughout the movie, your boyfriend would lean over and press fervent kisses atop your head, or squeeze your hip a little tighter with his fingers. He’d feed you the snacks that he had bought, laughing every time you let out a moan of delight from the way that the sugary and savoury foods filled your belly with both happiness and contentment. 

 And when the exhaustion began to take over your body, and your eyes started to feel heavy, you snuggled deep down into the blankets and covers, enjoying the soothing presence of your loving boyfriend right by your side. 

 With his gentle fingers playing through your locks, the movie faintly playing in the background, your tongue sweetened by the snacks, and the dim lighting throwing everything into a warm kind of glow of happiness, you were completely at peace at that moment. 

 “You tired, baby girl?” Chan asked, speaking after a long while of silence between the two of you as you focused on the movie. 

 Nodding your head slowly, a yawn escaped past your lips. “Yeah, kinda…” Your voice trailed off, as your breathing deepened somewhat, limbs growing loose from the sleep that was upon the forefront of your mind. 

 “I bet you're tired, you’ve had such a long week at work, and on top of that, you’re body’s now going through its monthly cycle,” your boyfriend said in a whisper, his tone radiating across your ears, reaching down to a part inside of you that needed to hear his soft words at that moment. “Go to sleep now, darling.” His fingers continued to message at your tender scalp, lulling you into a listless kind of state. 

 “Will you be here when I awake?” You mumbled, your face turned sideways so that your cheek was resting against his muscular chest. It rose and fell slowly with each deep breath that he took. 

 “Of course, baby. I’ll always be here when you awaken.” He replied in that rumbly voice of his, the baritone of it vibrating against your ear. Then, you felt him shift against you, pressing a warm kiss atop the crown of your messy-haired head. “I love you, always.” 

 And you fully turned onto your side then, hiding your meek smile with the fuzzy blanket that was draped across you. As you cozied up into your boyfriend, the heat that was radiating off of his body cast a magickal spell over you. 

 An ethereal, beautiful kind of sleeping spell. 

 As your eyes drooped closed, your heart slowed down, and you succumbed to the dark waves that had been lapping against the sides of your mind for so long. And soon, you were riding the clouds of dreamland, with the love of your life - the warm, strong, comforting, safe person with a warm body sitting just beside you in the quiet calm of the night. 

 Always your anchor, always your help, always your only eternal love. 

 Fin. 

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© ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

[radlymona]

I find it interesting that people that there's not an insignificant overlap of people who think Criston Cole lacks depth as a character and people who foam at the mouth at any change from the book no matter how much it sense makes for the adaptation.

Unlike the GoT's showrunners, I find it pretty clear that the HOTD writers really respect, are engaging with, and are even challenging GRRM's series. Like Criston is so obviously a nod to Book!Jaime's storyline about the loss of Romantic ideals and what it means to be a knight that has sworn to swerve and protect in such a violent world. And I think it's interesting that this lowborn knight who has come from a region despised by the rest of the realm is intially so honoured to serve the King, because it means that the gap between him and Them isn't as big as he once thought.

And of course those ideas are shattered as he realises just how big the gap between him and Them really is. A lot of people think he's not over Rhaenyra rejecting him, when in reality he takes it as a destruction of his fantasy of being the chilvarous white knight protecting the sweet but daring young princess. And I think he takes her rejection to mean that she's more akin to the prince who's seduced a serving wench and filled him with romantic promises, only to be left alone and shameful after their encounter.

Cole going to Alicent who understands just how much it hurts to play second-class fiddle to Them, is a way of seeking redemption and clinging onto his last shred of knightly ideals. The fact that he's drawn to the Faith as both the ideological opposites to Them and an institution so thoroughly intertwined with knighthood isn't an accident. Especially considering that in times of war, it's the Faith that tends to brutalised commonfolk. He's desperate to be the knight he's always dreamed about, but he can't. He's done too much already, and will do so much worse in the name of a tyrannical dynasty.

He'll excuse crowning Aegon and dividing the realm because Rhaenyra dared to "flout" the rules of their society. He believes that in his role as Kingmaker he can restore honour and purity a "defiled" dynasty, and as a Hand he will temper and mould the princes he knows deep down are far worse than Rhaenyra. Only Aemond once again shatters those delusions the moment he unleashes dragonfire on men Cole swore to lead and protect, but only sent to die. And that gap between him and Them is all too apparent once again. Only this time he's more than culpable in their atrocities.

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Damn,” Lance mutters to himself, craning his neck as he takes in the building in front of him. The tall, beautiful building. The expensive building, Lordie. They’ve come a long way since they were bunked up in their piece of shit studio apartment, 19 years old and stressed and completely unsure about what they were doing in life.

Lance snorts. Well. Maybe they haven’t changed that much.

Reminding himself how excited he is to see Hunk’s new place, he heads through the sleek glass doors, nodding at the doorman — an actual doorman, what the fuck — and hauling ass to make the elevator. He rides up to the twentieth floor, which seems to take a thousand years. That probably has less to do with the actual elevator and more to do with the fact that there are six other people in this elevator and five of them are wearing fancy suits, but whatever.

He steps out onto the quiet, carpeted hallway, looking for apartment 2014. He finds it quickly, peeking under the welcome mat like Hunk said, beyond relieved to see the silver key. He slides it through the lock, opening it easily, and pokes his head through the door.

“Dandelion?” he calls softly. He’s expecting the excited howling of Hunk’s big dumb cat, then the sound of his little paws clambering on the floor as he speeds down the hallway, but there’s nothing. Lance shrugs, stepping all the way into the apartment and locking the door behind him. Hunk must have taken Dandelion with him to see Shay.

Humming to himself, Lance heads for the kitchen. He ate before he got on the train, but that was almost two hours ago, and besides — Hunk’s fridge is always stocked. At best there will be leftovers of whatever genius Hunk has cooked up in the past couple days, and at worst there’ll be fifteen dollar exotic strawberries that Lance will steal shamelessly.

Hunk is so lucky to have Lance as a best friend, honestly.

Opening the fridge, however, is a massive disappointment. There’s not a single fancy schmancy ingredient in sight, and certainly no delicious leftovers. In fact the fridge is almost completely barren, only a carton of eggs, random condiments, and a bunch of veggies. The veggies make sense, but the fridge still feels off, somehow. But there are ingredients enough to make a killer sandwich, so Lance helps himself.

Ignoring the countless warnings Hunk has given him over the years to not eat and walk so he doesn’t get crumbs everywhere, Lance decides to give himself a tour of the apartment. It’s leagues better than anything either of them have every lived in before, which is nice. Lance is unbelievably proud of Hunk for his promotion — he deserves it and more. He most definitely deserves the sick view, 20 storeys in the air, the crown moulded ceilings, the general cleanliness. The sparseness of the place is definitely a little odd for Hunk, because he’s more of a knickknack guy, but he’s only been at this place for a couple months. Makes sense that he hasn’t unpacked yet.

Lance perks up at the sound of the key in the lock. It’s a little early, yet, almost a half hour before Hunk said he’d be here, but hey — the earlier the better! Lance has missed living near his best friend.

Quickly scarfing down his sandwich — he was so bullshitting before and if Hunk catches him red handed he’s going to die and he knows it — he sprints to the kitchen, hiding just behind the bend of the wall. He snickers quietly for himself, tense in wait. He’s going to scare the shit out of Hunk, and it’s going to be great.

“— yeah, yeah, I know, but I’ve got shit to do tonight, Shiro. I don’t have time.”

Lance freezes.

That’s not Hunk.

“What? No! I’m not sacrificing Survivor to go to some bar, dude! Why the hell would I trade chilling out with Kosmo on the couch and watching people be fools in the wilderness for dodging drunk people?”

Maybe Hunk brought a friend over, Lance thinks to himself. Hunk’s a friendly guy. It’s possible.

“Yeah, yeah.” The mystery man’s voice goes high pitched, mocking. “I have no friends and need to get out more, blah blah blah. hear you, Shiro.”

Lance’s heart pounds. So much for that theory. He peeks around the corner, expecting some dude in a ski mask and dressed in black, holding a gun and a duffel bag. Instead he sees a guy, dressed in a white t-shirt — a tight white tee, may Lance add — and basketball shorts, maybe a couple inches taller than Lance, sporting what Lance can only call an honest-to-God mullet.

Well, at least Lance got the duffel bag part right.

The man’s voice turns exasperated. “I am taking you seriously, Shiro. Promise. I’ll go — I’ll do something social tomorrow, okay?” The man turns slightly, so Lance has full view of his profile, and the arm holding up his phone.

The, uh, fairly toned arm.

“Yeah. I will. Love you, too.”

Oh no.

This intruder is hot.

The hot intruder hangs up, shoving his phone in his pocket. Then, faster than Lance can react (look, no one prepares you for a burglar that looks like a Greek god, okay? Lance is a little stupefied and he feels that it’s justified. This man’s jawline alone is affecting his heart worse than the fear that he’s gonna get murdered for witnessing a crime), the man turns into the kitchen.

Face to face with Lance.

For a moment neither of them say anything, completely frozen, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. And then the hot intruder blinks, says “Shit!” loudly enough to echo, and reaches for his pocket.

Lance, fearing the worst, screeches at the top of his lungs, and sprints for the bedroom, shoving past the intruder.

“Get out!” he screams, slamming and locking the door behind him. “Get out get out get out!”

“What the — you get out!” the intruder screams back. He slams into the door, banging on it as he juggles the handle. “Why are you here?”

“Dear God, please help me.” Lance isn’t much of a religious person, really, but all those boring years of Easter Mass growing up must have affected him in some way, because he’s halfway ready to start praying for real. Obviously, this man had quietly observed how smart and handsome and awesome Hunk looks, and assumed he’s a rich supergenius, and has now come to rob him blind as he’s out of the house. What this horrible criminal didn’t expect was Lance, here to visit his friend at his new place. And now that Lance has witnessed him, bare-faced and red-handed, he is going to murder Lance — to death — to cover his crime.

“I’m calling the police!” Lance screeches. He doesn’t have a whole lot of faith in the fuckers, but at this point they’re better than nothing. Maybe they’ll bring a forensic team to help solve the crime of Leandro Agustín Nuñez Carmen Esposita-McClain, far too young and beautiful to die, murdered tragically.

There’s a pause from the other side of the door, almost shocked.

“Why the fuck would you be calling the cops?” demands the man, half incredulous. “I’m calling the cops, you trespassing weirdo!”

Something like cold realization begins to build up in Lance’s gut. “I’m calling the cops because you’re trying to rob this apartment and maybe murder me?” he suggests.

“Rob the — murder you?” the man sputters. “This is my fucking apartment!”

Before he can talk himself out of it, Lance unlocks the door and yanks it open, face to face with Mr Tall, Mulleted, and Handsome.

“Do you,” he says nervously, face a little red, “happen to have a neighbour named Hunk Garrett?”

The man blinks at him. “Yeah. He’s across the hall. 2041.”

A long, agonizing moment of silence. Both of them just look at each other in pure bewilderment. (Well, Lance will admit that his bewilderment is not quite so pure. There might be some healthy admiration and lust swimming around there somewhere. This man is very attractive, and Lance has a thing for people who are angry with him. It’s a complex.)

“In my defense,” Lance says eventually, “I’m dyslexic.”

———

Luckily for Lance, Keith — the hot not-intruder — is very understanding of the entire ideal.

By that, Lance means he laughs himself to tears, right there on the hallway floor.

“There’s no way this is happening in real life,” Keith wheezes. “There’s no way you could fuck up this bad.”

Lance scowls. “Oh, piss off. I flipped two measly digits, and you’re the dumbass who keeps your house key under your welcome mat! Who even does that!”

It takes Keith several tries to calm himself down. The first few times he seems like he’s normal, but then he looks at Lance’s grouchy face and loses it all over again. The worst part is that he has a fucking gorgeous laugh, so Lance is having a really hard time staying angry.

“I’m —” Keith takes a deep, shuddering breath — “I’m sorry, dude. Lance. Really. I don’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just — I was just telling my brother that nothing happens here, you know? And then this.”

Lance softens, finally allowing himself a small smile. He offers a hand to Keith, who takes it and pulls himself up. “Yeah, I guess it’s kind of a one-in-a-lifetime thing, huh?”

Keith hums. “Yeah.”

Keith’s hand is calloused, along the heel and flex of his palm. His hand is also very warm, like Lance has his own personal hand-heater. But Lance is, if he’s being entirely honest, paying way more attention to his eyes — they’re the most peculiar shade of indigo, so dark that Lance thought they were black, at first. But no, the darkest shade of blue-purple Lance has ever seen. He has freckles too, though barely. Just a couple spattered on the bridge of his nose. And the —

The sound of the Swedish chef from the Muppets over trap music startles Lance out of his reverie — Hunk’s ringtone. He pulls away from Keith’s hand, from his very close personal space, God, and hurriedly answers.

“Yeah, Hunk?”

His voice cracks seven times. He’s not proud of it.

“Where are you, dude? You were supposed to get here earlier than me but I’ve been here for twenty minutes. Did you get lost?”

Lance looks at his watch, then curses loudly. Has he really been in Keith’s apartment for nearly an hour? Fuck!

“I didn’t get — I just lost track of time — I’m not — I’ll be right there,” he rushes out. “See you in five, okay?”

He hangs up before Hunk has the chance to respond, still cursing endlessly.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He grips his hair with one hand, other clenching his phone. He flicks his eyes back to Keith, who looks way more amused than he has any right to. “I have — I’ve gotta go. Now.”

“To the right apartment this time,” Keith surmises, grinning.

Lance flushes. “That would be correct, yes. I’m meeting my friend for dinner.”

“Hunk Garrett. Chef extraordinaire. You mentioned.”

Like a dumbass and before he can stop himself, Lance blurts: “You should come with me.”

Keith raises an amused eyebrow. “I’m not an expert in social cues or anything, but I don’t think you can invite me over to other people’s houses.” He chuckles. “Although you don’t seem to have a problem showing up to places randomly, huh?”

“Shut up!”Lance checks his watch again, then bites his lip. “I really have to go.” There’s nothing stopping him. He has no reason to stay, really. But for some reason he doesn’t want to go.

“Hey, give me your number,” Keith says after a moment.

“Why?” Lance asks on reflex. Very quickly he wants to smack himself for being a fool.

Keith smiles wryly. “Well, I dunno. Once I emotionally recover from you breaking and entering into my apartment, I might decide I want to press charges. Better get your number just in case.”

Lance laughs. He takes the offered phone, punching in his number and contact, putting a heart after his name after only a beat of hesitation.

“I’ll text you,” Keith says, walking Lance to the door. For the first time since he discovered Lance hiding in his kitchen, he looks slightly nervous. “If, um. If that’s okay.”

“I’d like that,” Lance says softly. Keith’s gentle look makes something hot brew in his belly, butterflies fluttering and making his arms and legs tingle. He’s had crushes before, and he’s absolutely no stranger to finding someone hot, but this feels…different. Almost —

“Lance?” For the second time, Hunk’s voice startles Lance out of making goo-goo eyes at Keith, poking his head out of his actual apartment, right across the door. “I thought I heard you out here — wait.” Hunk’s dark eyes narrow, and he looks Lance up and down. He holds his gaze for a second, then bursts out laughing. “Keith, pal,” he wheezes, “please tell me my dumbass best friend didn’t break into your house.”

Keith grins. “He did!”

“No fuckin’ way! Lance, dude, oh my God —”

“Easy and reasonable mistake! Fuck off!”

———

Hours later, cozy on Hunk’s couch, he gets a text from an unknown number.

from: unknown

i’ve decided i won’t press charges for breaking and entering.

Lance laughs, quickly adding the number to his contacts.

to: keith <3

thank you, oh merciful one.

Lance is left on read for long enough that he’s almost offended, but luckily a text pops in before he can get really mad.

from: keith <3

don’t get too relieved yet, lance.

from: keith <3

there are other charges i’m going to press.

A real stab of fear pierces Lance’s heart.

to: keith <3

u best be joking it was an ACCIDENT

to: keith <3

i have DYSLEXIA

to: keith <3

this is DYSLEXIPHOBIC

Before Lance can really work himself up, though, Keith finishes his thought.

from: keith <3

i have to report you for theft

from: keith <3

cus aside from sandwich ingredients, i think you stole my heart

Lance couldn’t stop his giggle if he tried. It’s besotted and stupid and halfway-drunk, Jesus. Lance is embarrassed for himself.

from: keith <3

oh my god that is the most embarrassing thing i’ve ever typed and sent

from: keith <3

i’m begging you to purge it from your memory

to: keith <3

i’ll make you a deal

Lance takes a deep breath, steeling himself before sending. It feels strange to be on the other end of a pickup line — Lance can’t say he minds.

to: keith <3

you go out with me, and i’ll never mention how embarrassing you are to another soul

from: keith <3

…

from: keith <3

i’ve only known you for a day, and i know you’re lying to me

Lance snorts. That’s a fair assumption. Lance was lying. He’s actually debating waking Hunk up to show him these texts instead of waiting until tomorrow morning, but Keith doesn’t need to know that.

from: keith <3

but, yeah. i’ll go out with you.

from: keith <3

…tomorrow?

Lance grins. He has a good feeling about this.

to: keith <3

see you then, hot not-intruder :)

———

based on this video

[datamodel-of-disaster]

Here's a bit of an odd (but hopefully not unwelcome) question: you've mentioned a couple of times your interest in interior decorating, but how do you *find* items for your house to fit a specific aesthetic? Where do you even look/how do you search for stuff? Or do you just look through shops and flea markets and hope to get lucky?

Ok, I love this question. (You may regret asking if you see the length of this reply 😅)

SO.

The simple answer is, I thrift a lot (on- and offline), I buy at estate sales and auctions, I rarely pass an interior design store without taking a look inside (even stores that are decidedly not my style at first sight), I read industry magazines, I save up for pieces by indie creators, and in some cases I make my own stuff (I can weld and upholster). So yeah, to an extent it's "luck".

The complicated answer is that it's about understanding my own aesthetic and optimising my search experience.

I know a lot of people who sort of know what they like, but also don't really know what they like. They'll be able to look at pictures of interiors and say "I like that" and "I hate that" but not really know how to articulate why. They might even have a label for the aesthetic they prefer, like "minimalist" or "clean and modern" or "cozy Scandinavian" or something like that, but still not really be able to articulate what that materially entails. (Yes, I know, I'm singling out a certain type of people here -I'll stop eyeing them once they stop doing this shit.)

Why is one room "good" to you and another not, even if they're both technically the same style? What makes a space work? What is the "invisible background" in the spaces you love -tall ceilings, exposed beams, greenery outside, natural light, latticed windows, crown moulding? A lot of times people think they like the interior but they really just like the house it's in, much like how you might think an outfit is stylish only because the person wearing it is hot.

Similarly… do you actually love the look of an interior or do you just love the lifestyle implied in it? Do you actually like empty surfaces or are you just tired of cleaning up your housemates' clutter? Do you love big open kitchen/dining room combos or do you just wish you had a social circle that did dinner parties? Do you really want a giant white couch or do you just dream of living in California? Similarly to ads that may be advertising a car but are selling you on the dream of freedom to travel, interiors are tied up with non-material desires and aspirations. And while that's not *bad* per se, it's very difficult to actively work towards an aesthetic if you can't tell apart that aesthetic from the underlying desires. After all, you want an interior that works for the space you actually have and the life you actually live.

The reason this is important is because the moment you understand what you are really after, you are no longer bound by names of designers, shops and styles. It stops mattering. You can find things you enjoy anywhere, from thrift shops to IKEA to antiques auctions to specialty warehouses to Etsy, without it needing to be tagged with the label of an aesthetic you're trying to fit in. A lot of the "but how will I even find anything"/"everything I love is too expensive" stress disappears like this.

Understanding how your preferred style and aesthetic actually works under the hood also gives you insight into what sort of things you *need* to make it work, what stuff adds depth and volume but can't carry the theme by itself, and what sort of things are "false friends" -stuff that seems like it "should" fit your aesthetic but actually hampers it in the space you're in. (As in: a big white sectional is not gonna give you California Cool in a cramped terrace house in Birmingham, rather the opposite.)

The second-best advice in interior designing is "buy what you love" -the genuinely best advice is "understand what you love". Because once you do, you'll find things you like everywhere.

There's also optimizing your search. This is one of the few things where website algorithms are actually your biggest friend. One of my favourite things is the "more like this" function on a lot of platforms. If you tidily keep and organize favourites on Etsy, the algorithm will typically present you with stuff that's genuinely similar to items you already like. Just using Instagram to follow artists and creators you like will curate your feed and expose you to other stuff that fits the look. Pinterest allows you to both passively and actively find similar looking items, which can expose you to items and designers you never knew existed.

Favouriting items on my most-used second hand platform (2dehands, a local Belgian thrifting platform) will actively put items that visually resemble those favourites on my front page. It's awesome, and you can "weaponize" it in your search.

For example, earlier this year I really wanted an Asian style lacquer cupboard. They can be quite expensive, and usually get picked up fast second hand. So for a week or two, I actively searched for and favourited *every* lacquer cupboard I found on 2dehands, including ones I didn't like, that had the wrong dimensions, or that were far too expensive for me. Fairly quickly, my front page was essentially all lacquer cupboards, including ones that weren't even advertised as such and that I would never have found through the textual search function. And lo and behold, I found the perfect one, and it was an absolute steal too.

Another way to optimise your search is to cast a wide net. I never pass a home décor store or antiques warehouse without taking a peak. I have bought items when I was on work trips, when I was visiting family, when I was on holiday. "Thrift stores near me" is my favourite search on google maps. And yes, sometimes that meant carrying a mahogany prayer chair on my back while walking 30 minutes to the train station in high heels and office clothes xD

A final tip is to sometimes just trust your gut and go for it. A couple of my favourite buys are ridiculous shit, like a chair shaped like high heel and a bronze statue of a robot giving cunnilingus to a woman. And the biggest interior design regrets I have are all items I didn't buy. (to this day I regularly think about the giant 5-panel hand-painted Chinese screen doors I passed up on and the Lucite dining chairs I couldn’t arrange transport for.) There is such a thing as "too cohesive" in interiors. Your home is not a catalog photo; sometimes, particularly if the item is unusual or unique, you gotta trust your affection for it without necessarily knowing how it fits in the picture. (In a way, your brain is also an algorithm subject to customisation through exposure. Learn to trust it! ^^)

It's important to note with all of this though… this is my hobby. I love spending time on it. I imagine if you're trying to curate an interior this way when you're new to it (especially if you're trying to get to a certain look all at once without any mistakes or misbuys) it's hella overwhelming and time-consuming. It's not for everyone. But even if you have no interest in turning your home decor into a hobby, the base principles still apply. If you understand what you're really after, it's much easier to identify things that would work in your space, anywhere you go, no matter how often you actually go looking.

(My own house is very much NOT perfect -a perpetual “blessed mess and work in progress”, in all honesty. But well. I AM out here giving advice, so feel free to check out some non-staged, very much non-magazine worthy pics of my home, below the cut.)

[obitohno]

˖⁺‧₊˚ jordy’s 2k celebration ˚₊‧⁺˖

choso x reader

in you, choso finds the cure to his demons.

requested by @tuzuis4thwife

gn! reader, fluff, angst (past), cuddling in bed, mentions of insomnia

reblogs are appreciated ~

it is the colour of ink that first greets you when you awake one morning.

head foggy with sleep, and eyes aching with exhaustion—so much so that you hurriedly blink them shut with the promise to refuse to open them again—blindly, you reach for the familiar head of hair, weaving your fingers between strands of hair that match the colour of the night sky.

after many a year living a constant battle of survival, choso had had to learn the skill of sleeping all over again. several months had passed before he deemed it safe enough to allow himself to slumber in your presence—the first time happened by accident, and when he’d shot awake just as quickly as he’d dozed off, wide eyed and breathless, you’d been just as alarmed as he had. another couple of months had flown by before he’d invited himself into the comforts of your bed, baring an awkward crook of his lips that conveyed very little of the true extent of his discomfort. paranoid about the possibility of you waking to change your mind and throw him out, he’d lain awake for most of the night, eyes red with unshed tears.

but now, a year on, he rests easily, cheek smooshed against the plump of your pillow that has long moulded to the weight of his head.

he’d come to bed late last night, disturbing you from your slumber with an apologetic brush of his lips to your shoulder when he’d settled behind you. itadori had come to visit the night before, woeful as he’d sobbed a tale about what sounded to be his third breakup of the month. choso had adopted his role as big brother, providing comfort in the form of a poorly concealed wince when itadori had clung to his shoulders and begged for the elder two help him drown his sorrows, and the two had stayed up until the late hours of the morning to do exactly that.

your eyes are blinking open again, flinching at the burn of the morning sun shining right across the bed from where it slithers in through the gap in the curtains. it casts a golden strip across the bridge of choso’s nose, elongating the shadow of his lashes down the curve of his cheek. his breath is slow, fanned along your throat each time that he exhales, and he must be dreaming, for his nose twitches along with the pinch of his brows. the sight warms your chest, and your smile is heavily laden with the withering tendrils of sleep, but still, you nuzzle closer, the tip of your nose pressing to his collarbone.

the movement breaks the gentle rise and fall of his ribs expanding, and there’s a yawn that warms your crown as it flutters over your hair. you’re already slipping on the brink of sleep once more, when his fingers brush along your temple, his lips ghosting along the length of your brow.

‘mornin’.’

© obitohno. all rights reserved. do not repost my works.

[bluberimufim]

A short display of Portuguese Christmas sweets[1]

[1] I don't think "sweets" is the best translation but idk how else to say it, what I mean is "pastries and cakes", basically

Hello! This is very late (but tbh we eat the same stuff on Christmas and New Year's so ig I'm not that late)!!

I wanted to do this because it seems to kinda be in line with my Halloween folklore post and I want to share more stuff with you all! This one I know a little more about because I eat these things every year, but I promise I'll get back into folklore next because that's what interests me most. Please be aware that half of this is from my personal experience and may not be 100% accurate to most other people.

Bolo Rei (trans: King Cake)

image source: https://lmalimentar.pt/lojaLM/bolos-congelados/318-bolo-rei-cozido-1-kg.html

This is like, the cake people think of when they think of Christmas. It's some basic dough filled with nuts and sugared fruits. Then, it has more sugared fruit on top (I've tried to find exactly what fruit it is but every recipe just says "fruit" despite it always being very specific colours and the only place I could find that listed what it supposedly was said it was pumpkin and I don't believe it). This cake is inspired by the image of a jewel-incrusted crown and was created to honour the Three Magi. It's said that it was inspired by the French Galette de Rois but I've also seen people say it's similar to Italian Panettone.

Bolo Rainha (trans: Queen Cake)

image source: https://www.receitasdeculinaria.tv/receita-do-bolo-rainha/

For the cool kids who don't like the fruit part of Bolo Rei - this one is literally just nuts. This is also supposed to look like a crown but I can't find any source saying what it's supposed to represent, so I think it's just Bolo Rei 2.0. This one wasn't that big of a thing when I was a kid but it's gained a lot of traction in the last 10 or so years.

Pão de Ló (trans: literally "Bread of Ló" / "Ló's Bread", I'll explain in a bit)

There are two versions of this one but I'm gonna talk about dry Pão de Ló first.

image source: https://www.receitasdatiaceu.com/recipe/pao-de-lo-tradicional/

This is my personal favourite - literally my favourite cake of all time. I have never met someone who does not have this as their favourite Christmas food. This is a type of sponge cake you eat on both Christmas and Easter, although it seems it was originally just for Easter. This is one of those you absolutely can't make at home unless you're literally crazy because it needs to be baked in a clay mould with sheets of paper and I've heard it requires 24 eggs per cake (tbh seems unrealistic but Portuguese pastry is like 80% eggs so it's not that outlandish, and I'm inclined to believe it bc I've tried like 3 different home-made recipes with normal amounts of eggs and it never tasted right). The origin of the name is basically impossible to find because every source I see claims a different story, but "Ló" seems to be the name of its original creator. Also, this cake was brought to Japan during the Discovery Period and it's allegedly the origin of a Japanese sponge cake named Kasutera.

Pão de Ló de Ovar (trans: Pão de Ló from Ovar)

image source: https://iberismos.com/pao-lo-um-doce-com-muita-historia-iberica/?lang=pt-pt

Kinda like regular Pão de Ló but wet on the inside - the liquid-y part is egg. Its origins seem to be in conventual sweets (like, from a convent), which are known for using lots of eggs. But just like with its dry variant, there are a few different stories about it. Sometimes people argue about which variant is better, but it's really not that divisive. In fact, all the foods in this post often coexist at the Christmas table despite some being similar to each other.

Sonhos (trans: Dreams)

image source: https://claradesousa.pt/receita/sonhos-de-natal/

These are much simpler than the cakes. It's basically just fried dough topped with sugar (I've heard that Brazilians call them "chuvinha" aka "little rain" because of this, and I think that's kinda funny because most Portuguese sweets have sugar on top). This is kinda like a "base" because there are other sweets similar to it but with carrot or pumpkin on the inside, and I don't think there's much reason to get into them here - also I don't usually eat them. You can eat them dry or with syrup made with sugar, cinnamon and lemon/orange.

Rabanadas (no clue how to translate this bc google suggests "french toast" and I refuse to accept that)

image source: https://www.pingodoce.pt/receitas/rabanadas/

This is a simple yet effective classic. It was originally made to utilize stale bread people had lying around (I've seen sources suggest it's because bread is sacred to Jesus even if it's stale and so it's bad to waste it). It's made with bread, honey or sugar, milk, and cinnamon, although I've seen people replace the milk and honey with condensed milk. It has been recorded since the 16th century, when it was used partially for medicinal purposes to help people regain their strength, especially after giving birth (which... thematically appropriate but it still surprised me when I found out).

I hope you had fun looking at all this tasty food - because I certainly did and this is my blog.

[serendipitouscrafts]

I have finally got my sewing machine into my sewing room/office at the new house.

I may be moving everything out of this room again soon though, in order to paint and lay down a rug.

I have big decorating plans, involving Palladian blue paint, curtains made from this fabric I stole from my dad’s basement, and perhaps learning how to install trim. The quarter round shoe moulding went missing when the floors were refinished, and I would like to replace it. And if the experience isn’t horrible, I may add some small crown moulding and picture rail so I can hang art without committing to drill into the plaster.

I think the only sewing I have worked on since last year is my hexi quilt, which is all hand pieced.

[cumbiazevran]

2, 4, 6 for Rowan 😌

HEAVY IS THE CROWN OF KIRKWALL'S COMMIEST JESTER, ORANA PLAY RÁFAGA**

2. a song I associate with my muse’s past

Ribs, Lorde

There's, of course, always a degree of family burden to Hawke, no matter the individual Hawke, but while store bought is fine, we have a whole mad scientist blorbo lab at home, and we're using it.

My Hawkes, or rather, the Aguilar, are moulded after the Latin American experience of forced disappearances and family severances during Dictatorships. Rowan's grandmother was a freedom fighter in Ferelden's war of independence, whose narrative story echoes the Abuelas de la Plaza de Mayo, with the disappearance of her son.

Rowan is, very much a recipient of that history, and there is nothing, nothing more jarring than having to grow up in a place of endless dormant violence that you will have to come to terms with, sooner or later, because you have no choice. Because History is an uninvited guest and it's here anyway, and the door must be answered.

History is a ghost bell reminding you of those truths you're not responsible for, but must bear anyway.

At first glance, Rowan is confident, courageous, witty, a good hearted buffoon with a good-listening pair of ears and very willing helping hands. Rowan was taught by papá to stick for the underdog and for what is right, and to ask questions, and to support each other. Because if you don't go and do it yourself, then who? You can't sit around and wait for salvation to come and the Maker to deliver you your happiness, when there is action you can take to support and love each other, despite the world's violence. We do not put our boot over others, we help others get out from under the boot.

Because when history comes, offer it a glass of wine and some sense of humour. It won't change history, but it'll change you.

Yet, for every action there is a reaction, and this "fuck around and find out" (funny answers only) jester is very much the responsible eldest regardless. The joke deflecting eldest, the wants-to-say-no-but-everyone-keeps-asking-these-big-if-i-fail-kill-me-debts, the beneath all that vigour there is terror, and loneliness, and grief, and the feeling of being lost, and the wish that just for one more time she wants to look back and ask her parents for help.

But they're both gone and Kirkwall is on fire, and the boot is rising up to stomp.

She can't let that happen.

We've all hit that point of adulthood where we realise we're growing. We're having "adult" fun, whatever that means, and we still pull a Barbie 2023 and start thinking about death in the middle of a good time. WHAT SONG IF NOT RIBS

4. a song lyric that describes my muse

A tombstone in your bed / Well my girl eats a wounded preacher / 'Tween two loaves of bread

She's My Man, Scissor sisters

6. a song that makes my muse want to dance

I could make her an entire playlist but aside from anything Ráfaga plays, it's gonna be Comerte Toda by Nene Malo

** Argentinian cumbia band. you have to imagine Rowan lying face down on Hightown's streets, rain falling down, them raising a thumbs up while this band plays in the background

[tekaihau]

January 2023: fridge door starts to spontaneously open. Not great, but not the end of the world as we can just put the tent my family got us for Christmas in front of the door and it’ll keep it shut

Some time around April, probably: put the tent away because we don’t need it out and hey, the fridge door stays closed again. All is well

July 2023: door starts opening again. To block it this time, we use a basket full of workout stuff. It means it’s a production every time you want to open the fridge, but hey. Small price to pay

August 2023: business as usual with the fridge door and heavy basket, but now the fridge and freezer are experiencing weird temperature fluctuations (melted ice cream, frozen milk). We tell our landlady and she orders us a new fridge. We independently measure the fridge and how much space it has, and she comes over three times to measure it herself. Also the kitchen light is falling out of the ceiling, but that’s neither here nor there.

September 2023: we learn that the new fridge is arriving on Friday, so we empty all our groceries into two big coolers/chilly bins my parents lend us, make sure the cat is secure, and wait.

Friday, 8 September: Old fridge is carted out and taken away somewhere. We sweep up a lifetime of dust and multiple teaspoons, presumably from the tenants before us, from behind where the old fridge was. New fridge arrives and does not fit in the little nook that we and my landlady measured ten billion times. She assures me that she’ll just call a guy she knows who will hack off a bit of crown moulding, making enough room (maybe??) for the fridge to slide in. He’ll be here sometime next week.

So now we have a refrigerator standing in the middle of our (small) kitchen, plugged into an extension cord, hoping that this carpenter can see us early next week and that by some miracle this fridge will fit into the space because apparently they no longer make small enough refrigerators for old kitchens anymore