#local housekeepers near me

[stanneshousekeeping]

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[maverick-maids-of-greater-austin]

Maverick Maids Of Greater Austin

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[frightwrite]

Orc Mercenary: Gurak

A little something from my old blog. Thought reposting it again would be alright since a lot folks seemed to like it.

NSFW

Female Reader x Male Orc

Business had been slow these past couple of weeks. Most of the usual customers hadn’t been appearing as often as they should and you had begun to assume most of them were either dead or had their nomadic adventures further away from your village. The village you resided in was known for supplying adventurers brave enough to explore the lands. Which you, being prominent in alchemy, found it convenient to work on your craft and bring in as much coin from the adventurers as possible.

That evening was the usual routine. Not a lot of folks traveled that far out to your store when it rained, so you spent most of your time keeping yourself busy. You did a bit of housekeeping. Dusting off the old relics, restocking your shelves with potions, and enchanting jewelry up until you got distracted. The bell had chimed signaling someone had entered your little storefront and you had said your usual greeting before looking up, astonished by the sight of him.

The being in your doorway was an orc and he was as intimidating as you have heard from local travelers.. Long tusks protruded from his mouth, a silver ring was dangling between his nostrils and dark tattoos adorned his deep green arms and chest. His black, braided hair had been soaked with the rain. He was well built, that much was evident with the way his leather armor further accented his muscles. But what had caught your attention was the large gash the orc was clutching on his side, dark blood dripping onto your polished wooden floor. 

“Excuse me,” His voice was hoarse as he spoke, “I heard you may have something for this.” He moved his arm away from his abdomen, revealing the deep gash just under the right side of his ribs.

A sickening feeling filled the pit of your stomach when you saw the wound. Blood oozed out of it, dripping onto your floor. You have seen many wounds during your time as the local alchemist, all of which have always made you feel squeamish. You hated the sight of blood. But this put all the other injuries to shame. 

“You’ll need a lot more than just one potion,” Motioning for him to follow you, you lead him to a side room in the store. You usually keep the extra potions in this room and a makeshift sink for your own personal needs. He seated himself on the small cot, glancing around the small room. You assumed he was looking at the various potions and enchantment scrolls sitting about that you had yet to tidy up.

“You’re a witch?” He managed to croak out while you walked over to assess his wound. You chuckled, moving away from the orc to search around the shelves for the ingredients you needed.

“I prefer the term alchemist,” You returned near him, with some herbal remedies along with a mixing bowl. You sat in silence as you crushed and ground the herbs, mixing some of them with a few drops from a potion bottle until it formed a sticky green paste. You scooped up a good amount of the paste on your fingers and turned to your patient. His dark eyes had been watching every move you’d make very intently. 

“I’m assuming that isn’t going to kill me,” He groaned and gave the paste in your cautious glance.

A playful chuckle resounded from your lips as you began to dab the ointment around his wound. “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now.” 

His face scrunched up in disdain as he let out a hiss from the sudden stinging sensation. You mumbled a quick apology as you continued your work. You had never had an orc as a customer before. Your usuals mostly consisted of human mercenaries and the occasional elven mage. Orcs were rarer in your parts. They kept to themselves in their strongholds and only ever left if it meant there was a blacksmithing or mercenary job for them in one of the major cities.

Taking the bandaids, you began to wrap the cloth around his abdomen, making sure it was tight enough. You stood back, admiring your handiwork with a satisfied hum. “The sealant will work on its own, no need for stitches or bloody needles.” 

“That’s it? No magic words or shiny spells,” The orc sat up to stretch out his arms, giving you a full view of his chiseled features. You blushed and scolded yourself. You shouldn’t be ogling over your new customer.

“I told you I’m an alchemist. If you wanted magic you could’ve asked one of the mages at the college.” You huffed gathering your items together. “You’re better suited for the road now. I won’t charge you anything since this was an emergency. Think of it as my good deed for the day.”

You walked back towards the front of the store, the orc following right behind you. He stopped in front of your desk, eyeing you closely while you scribbled some notes down on parchment paper. For a while you decided to ignore him, going about your business and shuffling around the front desk. But the longer you worked, the longer he stood there in awkward silence.

You paused to glance up at him, a brow raised in confusion. He smiled, shook his head, and said his goodbyes before leaving your store without another word. It was an odd way to end your encounter, but you shrugged it off. The next couple of days went by as usual. You sold some healing potions to a traveling mercenary and sold some ring enchantments to the local blacksmith. The third day was when the orc returned, this time his wounds had healed and only a faint scar remained. Which you had to admit seemed to suit him.

“Hello, Ms. Witch.” He greeted as he walked towards your counter, placing down a neatly folded blanket made of fur that was much larger than anything else you owned.

You rolled your eyes playfully at the new nickname he chose for you and reached out to touch the pelt. Your fingers brushing over the incredibly soft material.

“Woah, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything this soft.” You said in awe. “Is this for me?” You turned your attention to the orc who quickly nodded.

“It’s a gift for patching me up.” He nervously turned away from you and you could have sworn you saw a faint blush appear on his cheeks. “I thought since winter was approaching you might appreciate this.”

“I do, thank you.” You took the blanket and quickly went in the back to place it on a chair. You returned to the front counter with a small stove and a teapot that usually acted as your tiny, yet portable kitchen. You gathered some simple herbs around your counter’s cabinet to make some tea for your guest. 

You poured water into the pot, clicking the stove on to boil the water. As you created a mixture of chamomile and lavender, you briefly looked over Gurak’s wound. “How are you feeling? Did the wound heal up alright?”

Gurak nodded. “Yes, the wound is fine. It felt like my skin was being burnt off. Thought you really did intend to kill me but it stopped after a few days and I ended up with this scar.”

You snorted at his little jest and began to place the herbal mixture into the boiling water. You leaned over the counter to get a better look at the orc’s scar, humming in thought before leaning back. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up with such a nasty wound?”

“I wouldn’t want to bore you.” Gurak chuckled. He watched as you turned off the stove and placed two teacups in front of you. “I’m sure you’ve had more interesting patrons.”

You poured some tea into two cups, handing one to Gurak before blowing gently on your own. “I doubt I have. So far you’re the only customer that’s piqued my interest.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky? I suppose I could tell you my story.” The orc laughed to himself once more, swirling the contents of his teacup which was dwarfed by his large hand. “Unlike most orcs, I don’t belong to a stronghold. I work as a mercenary of sorts, I go where I am needed. Not many of my kind are in my line of business. Would much rather prefer to deal with our own kind. I left to find a better use for my skills, so I offered my services. I got hired for simple tasks, retrieving lost items, pest control, hired muscle for caravans. That sort of thing. Recently, I was hired to retrieve a man’s sword out of a bandit camp. Family heirloom. I’m sure you could tell how well that job went.” 

You listened intently as he spoke, only breaking eye contact every now and then to sip your tea. “I’m impressed. You managed to take on a group of bandits and only left with that gash in your stomach. I wouldn’t want to see what you did to them in return!”

Gurak beamed at your words which appeared to boost his ego. “I am honored you think so.” 

The bell on your front door rang causing you to flinch and turn your gaze away from Gurak’s. You weren’t even aware you had been staring at him. A dark elf stood in the doorway, your old friend Lilith. Her blood-red gaze shifted from Gurak to you, and a smirk slowly appeared on her face in realization.

“Am I interrupting something?” She inquired.

You quickly shook your head, setting your teacup down on the counter. Gurak did the same, giving you a wave before excusing himself. 

“Is it alright if I return?” He asked.

“Of course. I’ll be here.” You waved him off and you were left with your elven companion. You decided to busy yourself with cleaning up your tea set, avoiding eye contact with Lilith. You could feel her eyes burning into your back as you moved around your counter. After a while, you sighed and decided to humor her a little. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” She sang in an overly sweet tone. “Just never took you to be the type to fall for an orc. I always thought you’d end up with a tiefling, especially with that one kink of yours.”

You almost dropped the teacup you had been holding as she spoke. You spun on your heels to confront her. “I didn’t fall for anyone!”

Lilith grinned, the expression silently mocking you as she played with one of your many display jars. “Sure, sure. Believe what you want. But I can tell when love is blooming and there’s something between the two of you.” 

You snatched the jar from her, placing it on the opposite side of the counter. “I’m done talking about it. Now are you going to buy something, or did you just come here to annoy me?”

The elf rolled her eyes before going off to browse around your store for the item she had originally come to purchase. After she left with a few more words of encouragement, you were alone and decided to close the shop earlier since it seemed like no one else was going to show up. 

You saw Gurak the next morning. His face lit up when he saw you behind the counter in your usual spot. Your friend’s words went through your mind and you couldn’t help but feel elated at how happy the orc was to see you. 

“Gurak! I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.” You smiled at the orc as he walked up and leaned against your counter giving you a good view of his strong arms. 

“Well, I couldn’t leave my favorite witch alone today.”

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks from his comment and also the fact he must’ve picked up on you staring at him. You tried to focus on the potions you were sorting, trying to keep your mind off of the handsome orc in front of you and on the labels of each bottle. Gurak reached over the counter, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, which didn’t help your already flustered state. 

“I came to see if you needed any help around the shop today?” He asked. You took a moment to think it through, wondering what exactly an orc mercenary could do for your little potion shop. 

“Hm, nothing in particular…” You started, before seeing the eager look on his face slowly die down causing you to feel guilty at being the cause of that. “But, I think there were some shelves you could help me tighten down?”

Gurak perked up at your suggestion and he grinned, nodding excitedly. He quickly got to work once you helped him find the toolbox you kept in the back of the store. He started by assessing all the wooden shelves in your store before also taking into account the wooden display tables you have, which had seen better days. Despite you telling the large orc he didn’t have to worry about the tables he insisted, and if there’s something you recall about orcs is their stubbornness when it came to things they had their mindset on.

You went back to casually taking inventory of your potions, reading the labels, and marking them off of your checklist while also writing down ones that needed to be refilled. Every now and then you’d glance over at Gurak, watching as his eyes were fixated on the shelves he reworked. Or the way his hard muscles flexed with each movement he made, especially since the tight gray cotton shirt he was wearing instead of his usual leather armor showed the more defined tones of his abs. 

“Enjoying the view, Ms. Witch?” 

You flinched as Gurak’s voice snapped you out of your daydream, causing you to almost drop the frail glass bottle you held in your hand. After letting out a sigh of relief, you shot Gurak an accusatory look.

“You shouldn’t startle people like that you’ll give them a heart attack.” You scold.

Gurak gave you a sheepish grin as he approached your counter and leaned against it. He mimicked what he had done last time, brushing a strand of hair and delicately placing it behind your ear. 

The large orc chuckled as your face heated up again. “You seemed distracted, I thought it would be cute to tease you.”

“Is that why you show up to the shop so much? To tease me?” You instinctively leaned into his touch, reaching up to caress the hand against your cheek, quickly taking notice of how much larger Gurak’s hand was compared to your own. 

His expression softened as he brought his face closer to yours, his gaze briefly glancing down at your lips.

“Have you not noticed?” He muttered. You lifted a brow at his question, silently urging him to continue. “I have been trying to court you since I first met you. I thought I was being forward about it.”

You stared at him with wide eyes at the realization as you thought back to the little gestures of kindness or the lingering stares you and Gurak had shared. With the way he acted, you always thought he was just being overly friendly, but that wouldn’t explain the little moments between the both of you. 

“I wish you had told me sooner.” You let out a laugh, your hands finding their way to caress Gurak’s face. “If I had known I would’ve kissed you by now.”

The look on Gurak’s face turned to one of complete adoration as he relished the warmth from your hands against his cheeks. He turned to press a kiss against the palm of your hand, his gaze focused on the way you stared at him longingly. He brushed his lips against your wrist, pressing a gentle kiss into the palm of your hand before he caught himself. He stared into your eyes expectedly, waiting to see if you would push him away. You gave him a reassuring smile, making your way around the counter over to where he stood.

You jumped up, hoisting yourself against him by wrapping your arms around his neck. His arms instinctively went up to support you as he lifted you by your waist. Placing both hands on his cheeks, you pulled him into a kiss feeling the way he tensed up in surprise before relaxing. Gurak turned and sat you on the countertop deepening the kiss while you ran your hands through his hair, accidentally pulling on one of his braids. A deep moan rumbled from Gurak before he pulled away from the passionate kiss.

He chuckled, caressing your cheek while his large thumb brushed over your kiss-swollen lips. “Eager aren’t we, Miss witch?”

Letting out a pleased hum in response, you placed a chaste kiss against his thumb before gesturing toward the front door. “Lock up the front and meet me in the back.” 

Gurak perked up instantly at your instruction as he placed you back onto the floor. He swiftly got to work on closing the store for the day. You sauntered to the back, quickly moving potion bottles and ingredients away to make more space for the large orc. You started to undress, untying the woven knots that kept your work apron in place. Gurak entered the backroom just as you untied the last knot. You grinned, leaning back on the cot as you outstretched your arms to him. The cotton work shirt slides down to the crevices of your arms, showing just enough of your bare breasts to cause Gurak’s breath to hitch. You chuckled at his reaction, finally allowing the simple garment to fall onto the floor with a soft thud. 

“Are you going to keep me waiting longer, Gurak?” You called out to the orc, causing him to snap out of his daze.

He made quick work of his own shirt, tossing it somewhere alongside your discarded clothes. You finally got a full view of his well-built torso, every roll and chiseled perfection of his muscles reminding you of the near-perfect statues outside the mage tower. 

“Like what you see, Ms.Witch?” He asked, lifting a brow in mocking curiosity.

You were about to retaliate until Gurak’s arms pinned you against the cot. “Oh, impatient aren’t we?”

He chuckled as he leaned down to press firm kisses against your neck, his tusks adding a little more pressure. “You have no idea.” 

You grind your hips in an upwards motion, feeling the growing tent in his pants as he let out a deep groan. He wasted no time peppering kisses down your neck to your collarbone, into the valley of your breasts, and then taking one of your nipples into his mouth. He nipped and sucked on the sensitive nipple, using his free hand to fondle your other breast. His hand was large and calloused, easily engulfing your breast in his palm. Your hands wandered to the back of his head, your fingers tangling themselves in his dark braids as you let out quiet, breathy moans. He slowly traverses down your body, stopping at your thighs.

The teasing smile he gave you caused your cheeks to heat up as you wordlessly spread your legs for him. He hummed, pleased at the site of your arousal. His thumb rolled gentle circles into your clit, making you arch your back off of the cot slightly. Your moans encouraged him to use his free hand to trace your entrance, gathering the slick that was already starting to leak from you. He teased your sensitive folds, replacing his thumb with his tongue as he sucked your aching clit. His large finger slipped between your folds, causing you to let out a string of gasps and moans. His finger already felt like it filled out your cunt and you could only imagine how much bigger his cock would be.

He curled the finger inside of you, brushing up against the spot that caused you to roll your hips in an attempt to feel more of him. Gurak’s pleased moans sent pulses of pleasure into your clit, the sensation causing the knot in your stomach to tighten. You chanted his name over and over as you finally reached your climax, your hands tangled in his hair, grasping at the braids as you shivered from your orgasm. The finger that was inside you was replaced with his tongue as he licked up your juices, humming in contentment as the taste of you coated his tongue. Gurak pulled away, licking his lips as he gazed down at your limp form.

“Have I tired you out already?” He teased, earning him a tired scoff from you. His arousal was prominent now, his cock causing a very noticeable tent. You brought yourself up from your resting position, using your elbows to prop yourself as you tilted your head. You chuckled, spreading your legs open again fully on display for Gurak to see. The predatory look in his eyes sent an excited chill up your spine, yet you still managed to smirk up at him. 

“Hmm, I don’t know, I think I still got a little in me.” You answered back sweetly. His hands firmly held the sides of your hips, pulling you closer to him while he worked his cock out of his pants. He could easily manhandle you if he wanted to, but even with how impatient he was now Gurak still tried his best to have some restraint when handling you.

His erection was finally freed from its confines, and his large cock rested against your inner thigh as he positioned himself at your entrance. His thumb wandered down to rub your slick, his brows furrowing in worry. 

You leaned forward to pat his forearm. “Hey, you okay?”

“I might be too big for you.” Gurak’s gaze switched to you as a sheepish grin appeared on his face. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know you won’t, I trust you.” You shook your head, gyrating your hips to lightly grind against his cock. “Besides, I can take it.”

He sighed blissfully, gently leading you to lay back down as the head of his dick rubbed against your slit. He slowly pushed in, stretching you full as his cock buried itself deep in you. He waited a moment, experimentally pulling out just a little then slowly pushing back into you. He kept this slow pace up for a moment, grunting at the way your walls squeezed him. 

You moaned, rolling your hips impatiently. “More….keep going.”

He chuckled, his hand fondling your cheek lovingly before he switched his movements. His hips pulled away from you leaving only the tip of his cock in you. He suddenly thrust into you, causing a pleasure-filled cry to escape your lips. Gurak kept thrusting at a fast pace, intertwining your fingers with one of his hands while the other had his thumb brushing against your lips. You opened your mouth, sucking on the finger while his cock relentlessly slammed into you.

“Mmm, look at you, taking me so well.” Gurak’s voice was wavering, his sentences being cut short every now and then by his own grunts and moans. He rolled his hips a certain way, his cock brushing against a very sensitive spot.

You let out another cry, trying your best to speak. “R-right there…Gurak, please don’t stop..!”

“Shhh. I know, beautiful, I know.” He cooed, rubbing your cheek as the tears spilled from your eyes due to the pleasure. His pace quickened again due to your request, his dick hitting you in jus the right spot. Your back arched off of the bed as the knot in your stomach snapped once more. Your orgasm caused you to shake, your walls clenching around the thick cock still thrusting into you. 

Gurak’s pace became more sloppy as he moved both his hands to grip your waist. He pushed into you one last time before he came, his cum shooting deep into you. Some of it gushing out as he finally pulled out of you with a tired sigh. You were panting heavily while Gurak stared down at you. He pressed a firm kiss to your forehead as you tried to regain your strength. You felt a shift in the cot as he got up, moving around the small room before you felt his presence near you again. A warm cloth could be felt between your legs as he carefully cleaned you up, tossing the dirty rag onto the floor while he handed you the cup of water.

“Here, don’t strain yourself, love.” He muttered, helping you drink from the cup.

Gurak finally laid next to you after gently resting you against his chest. A satisfied hum came from you as he rubbed circles into your back. You started to giggle after a while, burying your face into his burly chest.

“What?” The sound of the orc’s confusion only caused your giggling fit to increase. 

“I still can’t believe you thought I’d pick up on your Orcish customs. Usually us humans just ask each other out for lunch and go on from there.” 

He snorted, playing with a strand of your hair. “Well Ms.Witch, despite my slip up you’ve still earned yourself a mate. Congratulations.”

You let out a loud laugh at his sarcasm, leaning up to press a loving kiss onto his lips. The way he looked at you was enough to make your heart skip a beat. “Lucky me.”

[More Monsters]

[possamble]

What are your headcanons about Marcille's mom if you have any? It's interesting that what drew Donato to her was cause she lived the history he studied, or that was said somewhere at least. She must've had an interesting life.

so this was going to be just a normal answer but then I realized I have a Lot of Things To Say. so here goes, a compilation of what we know for a fact from the canon, what I've extrapolated from the visual cues and details, and my theories based on all of that.

Things we know for a fact about Marcille's mother because they were explicitly stated in the manga and supplemental materials:

She was a court mage for a Tall-man kingdom at the southern part of the Northern Continent

Donato, a court historian, fell in love with her because she had lived through the history he was studying, and he courted her for 17 years (age 15 to 32) before getting married

She was a cheerful person who rarely showed extreme emotion and took things as they came

She always cooked a huge meal for Marcille on her birthdays

She remarried a gnome after Donato's death and a short distance away from Marcille's childhood home

Pipi, Marcille's pet bird, was actually older than Marcille and originally belonged to her mother (bird died at 62)

She was extremely heartbroken when Donato died and ultimately ended up instilling a deep fear of mortality in Marcille with her words

the only time she showed extreme emotion in front of her family was when Donato could no longer eat his favourite dish near the end of his life.

She scolded Marcille for being cruel to ants (implying she can have a stern side when needed)

Things that are explicitly shown but mostly through visual cues

She has a very distinctive style of dress always involving a ribbon choker (mirroring Marcille's habit of always wearing a matching choker with any of her outfits that don't cover her neck)

She was almost stereotypically good at housekeeping and traditionally "wifely" things (very frequently depicted wearing an apron or doing some domestic chore when not at work, seems to have been an avid cook).

She knits? (also, note the affectionate smile as she's looking at Donato and Marcille reading a book together in the full panel)

She was as excited for Marcille's milestones as Donato was.

She didn't tell Marcille much about elven food

(there are a couple things that this panel in particular implies:

She lived a good deal of her life (if not being born and raised) in a mainly elven country in the West, implied by her knowing enough of an elven region's cuisine to prefer Tall-man food over it

seems to have a pretty carefree and casual demeanour overall, if this is how she replied to Marcille asking her about it (sounds like she never gave her culinary preferences that much thought to begin with)

slightly related to number 2, it seems like she and Marcille had a fairly casual parent-child dynamic (especially in comparison to the Toudens' memory of their father)

(local elf tastes Italian food once and never goes back))

However, she seems a lot more... serious in most of the other times we see her? Almost like the very stereotypical archetype of a graceful elf.

Subsequent conclusions about her personality:

Usually pretty carefree and cheerful at home, has been a loving and attentive parent throughout Marcille's childhood (while not being so doting that she didn't discipline Marcille).

Slightly more conjectural theories on her personality:

Had a much more graceful and professional personality at work, which would explain the more serious portraits we see of her.

Given that both she and Donato had positions at the royal court, it seems a little odd that she'd go out of her way to do all the housework herself, so maybe she just enjoyed doing it?

Now taping all the evidence together and toeing the line between analysis and fanfiction:

It's clear that she loved Donato very much and was utterly devastated by losing him. But there's one thing that really stuck out to me in what little we see of her:

Doesn't she seem... angry? The way she's gritting her teeth, clutching the tablecloth, and how this is the first and only time we see her eyes opened that wide. In the following panel, you see her being quiet and dejected after her initial outburst. She's still crying very intensely, but her brows are furrowed, and she's not really responding to Donato's affection in her body language.

We're not told the details of how she felt about losing Donato other than that it upset her. But this, to me, implies that she was angry and resented that he was aging, that the end of his life was approaching. An "it's not fair" type of preemptive grief. And if this was the first and last time she cried like this in front of her family, she was either very good at coping in private... or very bad at letting herself feel unpleasant emotions until they become unavoidable and end up overwhelming her.

It's not too remarkable a detail on the surface. It's even reminiscent of what the audience has seen of Marcille. But... when it comes to the big picture, you'd think an elf who voluntarily chose to marry a tall-man and have a half-elf child would have been better prepared for this.

It kind of recontextualizes her cheerfulness to me.

"I'm sure everything's gonna be okay!" (or some variation thereof, depending on what translation you have).

And this is stated to contrast her extreme grief when finally confronting Donato's failing body and eventual death. But I'm wondering if... maybe this optimism was why she was so upset. What if she went into all of it thinking "everything's gonna be okay"? What if she was a little young by elven standards, and just followed her heart thinking that her own resilience would get her through anything?

Of course, only to get completely overwhelmed when she actually loses Donato. She turns into a completely different person. And that's heartbreaking on its own-- but what the audience sees is the effect it had on Marcille. Can you imagine being her, watching your invincible and upbeat mother suddenly lose all the light in her eyes in one go?

I've already made a huge post about how I think Marcille models her "work persona" off her mother, but another thing that stuck with me as I was looking for more details in the manga was this:

copy pasting from the other post i made about it lmao it's like... the second she resigns herself to lifelong pain and terror, there's another portrait of her mother facing her like this. with their heads bowed, in mirrored body language of resignation and despair and sorrow. Except it's posed like Marcille is still looking at her mother but her mother is looking away.

It took me a second to realize, but I think that it's a visual metaphor for the fact that Marcille's mother was the only long-lived role model she had-- and she failed to model healthy grief for her daughter. I don't say this as an accusation or to disparage her as a character, but just as a matter of fact. In her, Marcille was seeing herself older and losing a short-lived spouse or loved one of her own, and all she saw was hopelessness.

But her mother didn't mean to instill hopelessness and terror in her. She wasn't really thinking of how it would truly affect Marcille at all (at least, that's how I'm interpreting her looking down and away from Marcille in the metaphor), she was just sad. And she, in her own way, was trying to protect her daughter and help her prepare for future losses.

What she meant was "loss is inevitable, and you have to learn how to be in pain but live on anyway." What Marcille heard was "loss is inevitable, and you will be scared and hurt for the rest of your life."

Again. Marcille's mother doesn't feature explicitly in the story the way her father does -- but in so many ways, her shadow, her silhouette, her reflection is always hanging over Marcille.

All that to say... headcanon-wise (everything from here on is 100% without evidence lmao), I'd like to think that she matured and realized that she failed Marcille. I imagine her being regretful about it, wanting a chance to fix it but never finding a way to insert herself back into Marcille's life when Marcille is so so so busy becoming the most accomplished mage possible. I imagine her being herself again, now, so many years after her loss and after remarrying -- but with her cheerfulness tempered with a lot more wisdom and the pain of having gone through loss like that. I think the second Marcille actually tells her what happened in the dungeon, she'd want to go running to her daughter again -- if Marcille tells her the full truth instead of just being embarrassed she let things get that far. (oh, the tragedy of her wanting to be more like her mother and an accomplished adult who doesn't need to be babied... being embarrassed to actually tell her mother how much she fucked up...)

There's also the tension of her having remarried -- I know that there's at least a little bit of resentment that Marcille harbours about that, because she's childish like that at heart even if she makes an effort not to externalize it. I think that her mother would be aware of that, potentially adding to her sense of guilt and apprehension at trying to reappear/intrude on Marcille's life. I honestly don't think Marcille has met her stepfather -- or even considers him a stepfather rather than "mama's new husband" and kind of a total stranger. I think she and her mother actively don't talk about it in their correspondence, like an elephant in the room.

but, ultimately, I think her mother is on her side no matter what. Ancient magic? Dark necromancy? Sure, she'll feel guilty and like she was partially responsible for setting Marcille down such a painful path, but she wouldn't care. that's her daughter!! she would've moved back west and been petitioning for her at the court, buying a house right next to the Canaries barracks and visiting her every day that she wasn't on a mission. And if her husband had opinions on Marcille becoming a "dark arts user," he either gets over it or it's divorce with him. Yes, she might have had her optimism completely humbled by losing Donato like that -- but she's still headstrong and self-assured and she doesn't care what people think of her. It's her way or the highway and she's always going to be in Marcille's corner.

(She also needs a name lol. I went with Juno, just to be cute about "Marcille"s closest real life equivalent being Marcella, which is the female version of Marcellus, which in turn is a diminutive of Marcus, which was derived from Mars. Absolutely in love with Marcille potentially being named after Ares/Mars the fucking god of war btw)

[greencheekconure27]

Jack Point for the headcanon meme? 😁

(this one took time because I have so much thoughts about this guy)

Headcanon A: realistic

Jack and Elsie met as children back when he was part of the archbishop's household. (Bridget Maynard was a housekeeper there until her health started taking a turn for the worse.).They've been inseparable since, and when he got kicked out, Elsie decided to follow him.The latter actually makes Jack feel a bit guilty whenever things get rough. Jack is also the one that taught her to read.

Headcanon B: might not be realistic but hilarious

To everyone's surprise, he and Real Leonard Meryll get on like a house on fire. Leonard has a mischievous streak and actually enjoys Jack's sense of humour and Jack quickly catches on Leonard often uses his reputation as a bit of a stick in the mud to troll people. They're also both nerds.

He teams up with Phoebe and Leonard to help Phoebe get out of her engagement with Wilfred. Zany schemes ensue.

Headcanon C: heart- crushing and awful,but fun to inflict on friends

Angsty backstory time!

Jack always tells the archbishop of Canterbury story like a funny anecdote, but there's more to it: Jack was raised by relatives that only took him in out of obligation and who didn't bother hiding that they never wanted him. Soon he became too much of a handful for them and they "accidentally" "lost" him at a nearby town, leaving him to fend for himself.*Eventually he was taken in as an apprentice/ happily adopted by the archbishop's previous jester. When the man suddenly died right before a party a teenage Jack was pushed into filling in for him,still grieving and with no chance to mourn properly or even prepare an act. Oh he was funny, alright. Deep down he thinks that evening might've been the funniest he's ever been. Unfortunately the archbishop wasn't too keen on ruthless social satire, which resulted in a whipping and a dismissal.He's been more careful since, but that often makes him less funny than he would've been otherwise.

(*When they were kids, Elsie once asked him if he has family. He replied "None that want me" and that was all anyone ever got out of him on this subject)

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon reality and substitute my own

In one alternate universe, Jack Point decides to leave England after the events of Yeomen.He gets on random ship; said ship crashes near the coast of Illyria, where he finds a job as court jester to a local count and his children.

He comes up with a new stage persona for them, sharper and bolder than his previous ones, and starts going by "Feste". He grows to genuinely care for Olivia and the people in her household, and they, in turn, grow very fond of him (well.except for Malvolio) .He's happy there, in a way.

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [First Interlude]

What's this? Another update? So quickly? Well, this is a peculiar one. Bear with me 👉👈 it'll make sense soon enough.

Viktor x Fem!Reader------Gothic AU/Spooky Sea AU-----1.8K----SFW

> M A S T E R L I S T < ← Previous // Next →

Synopsis: Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say.

Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts.

Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: At the beginning, there was the keeper that built the beacon...

Tags: Strangers to Lovers| Slow Burn| Tragic Love| Dark Magic| Curses| Reincarnation| Sea Monsters & Mermaids| Dual Timelines

Taglist: @local-mr-frog @lunar-monster @bittercyder

This house forgets too quickly to your liking.

Green wallpaper changed into a boring white one, golden portraits of a broken family burned down in a makeshift fire outside the entrance, there where the smoke could fill your eyes with tears.

The clothes your mother used to wear, loose skirts and puffy sleeves to avoid much friction against her sensible skin burned all the same. Acrid smoke replaced the salty, yet sweet cadence of her essence.

Part of you hoped the same would occur to you, as you’re the last thing of your mother that is left. Even if it’s an amorph, broken shadow, one that would have probably horrified her.

Not belonging there, but neither here.  

A voice calls you from the relucent kitchen, pulling you out of the whirlpool of thoughts you'd been growing used to having ever since she came. Ever since she came and your mother left.

You don't feel your numb fingers from knitting all evening, but you have no choice, as there won’t be any trip to the city to buy clothes this year. Autumn is approaching, the days getting shorter as the wind picks up speed, wishing to take parts of the pitched roof as a souvenir to the end of the world.

Lady Luna Stell appears in your vision, and you can see her long fingers getting bruised and dried with the new chores of housekeeping. She hands you a rusty plater with lemon juice on a pitcher and a single, empty glass.

“Go to the lighthouse and give this to the keeper,” she says, cleaning herself into her stained apron. You stay there, frozen, a lump of fear settled in your stomach.

I can’t go, it’ll call me.

It always does.

The incessant, ruthless sway of the waves crashing against the rocks, echoed in the abyss of the cliff. They call you, and it breaks your heart to ignore them.

“What are you waiting for?” Luna says the disgust dripping from her voice makes you jump on your place, the lemon juice almost flowing over the pitcher’s rim. She scowls down at you. “I swear you’re a useless girl. At least you’re pretty enough to fool a man. You must consider yourself lucky.”

Luna knows the reason behind the strange aura surrounding you like a heavy cloak; the way the midwives first cooed happily at you while a baby, now growing with eeriness and a sense of doubt as you turn into an adult.

You look too much like her—like the madwoman who jumped off the cliff.

You turn away from her scrutiny, leaving behind the house that smells like overcooked meat and salty soup that nobody could eat at lunchtime. Perhaps another reason why Luna seems to be so on edge.

Or maybe the reason lies behind another destroyed fishing boat. All left behind with catch rotting in the sun and nobody on board. The words of your father, and you can only trust them, for you are forbidden to go near the sea.

The sky is clear today, a friendly breeze moving your hair against your face, the echo of your worn-out shoes against the rock, still uneven in the steps, still rough without the caress of feet going up and down, morphing it against its natural state to become it human-made.

You look up at the elongated shadow the lighthouse’s tower cast on it, like a giant that momentarily can hide the sun beneath white cement rock, so vibrant against the bright sunlight that its form is glued to behind your eyelids when you blink away.

The gate is open, the odor of oil painting stuck in your nostrils as you slip inside, looking at the tender garden starting to grow in crooked sprouts someone must attach little sticks to the stems to make them grow upward.

Not someone, but the keeper.

A black mouth welcomes you against the green and white of the gate, and you peek through it, looking neatly inside the lighthouse's ground floor.

Newly wallpaper in blue with wildflowers printed on it covering every wall—the same wallpaper your house used to be before becoming white and geometric; the old furniture all moved here. The squeaky chair you used to read fairytales in, the mattress your mother used to tuck all the way against the window to let the marine breeze in, even in winter.

In this space, everything is as it was used to; time stopping in the round walls of the tower, stopping it from slipping through the door as the only way from here is upward.

“Hello?” you say, your voice climbing the stairs before you are resolute to do it. Polished stairs made of red cedar support each of your feet without noisy complaints; the rail is thick enough to let your mind dare to see down once you're midway toward the beacon’s room.

“Hi?” you ask again, not without feeling stupid now that you are up here. A layer of sweat covering your face, sticky lemon juice falling all over the pitcher.

You’re almost expecting another earful from the keeper once he got to take the messy tray when you hear a grunt, the sound of a metallic object slipping, ricocheting over the wood to lay at your feet.

A golden gear the size of a lemon.

You observe the way it makes the sunlight reflect on the smooth surface, before rising your view to see where you could let the tray and pick up the gear.

The lighthouse keeper, however, is faster.

He stands up from his seated position against the beacon’s power wiring, and now it’s his time for the sun to frame him.

Honey-like eyes widen in surprise to see you standing there, some stains of oil against his pale skin that go down his arms that the rolled-up sleeves cannot cover. It could be the orangey hues of the upcoming dusk, but you can almost see his hair becoming aflame with the light pooling from the wide windows of this room that seems to be suspended in the air.

“Um, hi,” you hear yourself saying, cringing at the sound of your shaky voice resonating around the still space. “Hello. My moth… Mrs. Stell told me to bring you this,” you say, rising the plater slightly. “Where can I put it?”

There are no tables in the room.

From next to him, he retrieves a cane, his stance elegant as he walks toward you.

He’s much younger than you first thought he would be. Maybe a couple of years older than you, but no more than that. What is he doing here as a lightkeeper? You could almost picture him in a fancy suit in one of the so-many parties Luna and your father wanted to drag Adara and you.

For some childish reason, you feel your heart picking up a step as he stops close to you, so much so you can see the two tiny moles adorning his sculpted face; one under his left eye and over the right side of his lips.

Staring is rude, you chastise yourself.

The man points to the closed door behind him. “Good evening, Miss. You can leave it inside there,” he answers, his voice soft and with a cadence you’re sure people can hear once and then remember forever. “The door’s unlocked.”

He kneels carefully, and you can’t stop your eyes from following the movement. A hand grasping the cane as the other picks up the missing gear. The man must have felt your gaze because, after a blink, his golden eyes are settled on you.

He looks almost amused, eyebrows quirked.

You move away, heels quickly following each other as you made your way toward the room. The control panel room, you quickly recognize. With a table filled with books and wrinkled notebooks; a sofa cluttered with papers of machines and cursive calligraphy that flows like water, so easily.

You put the tray on the table, hands piling the books nearby to push them further onto the surface. You also accommodate the stray papers aside, not wanting that your mess of lemon juice get on the pages.

When you emerge from the room, Viktor is waiting for you, playing with an oil-stained rag between his hands.

“I apologize for my rude manners,” he says, his cheeks slightly pink as he extends a hand toward you. “I was caught off guard. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, your fingers sticky from the juice and the sudden sweat that accompanies your frantic heartbeat.

He looks awkwardly from his hand to yours, which is tucked against your stomach.

“Eh,” he says with a wry smile. “I’m Viktor.”

Sheepishly, your fingers graze his palm. And if he finds the texture uncomfortable, you can't see the disgust in his eyes. His hands are slightly cold despite being in constant movement, and you can only hope a hole can open under your feet.

You barely squeeze his fingers, even when he does. Your voice comes out like a trembling breath when you tell him your name.

His eyes squint in amused half-moons when his smile deepens. He tilts his head after a moment, letting go of your hand.

The carefree gestures throw you off guard. He doesn’t know about you, about what people in town say about your mother—about yourself. A desperate part of you wants to know if he's just pretending to like you to keep his job.

For your credit, he doesn’t swipe his hand clean on his rag. Instead, he gestures to the beacon.

“I’m afraid I have to resume work, Miss,” he says, his cane thumping against the floor even when he doesn’t move away. “But thank you for the water. I will return the tray and the dishes tomorrow.”

“I can retrieve them myself,” you hear yourself saying. Because that way you can know if he’s willing to tolerate your presence. You signal to the stairs. “I think it’s enough effort to climb up and down those to make you climb the ones toward my house, too.”

Viktor chuckles. “You’re very considerate, Miss,” he says. Just as your mind is already conjugating the way he will avoid you, he adds: “In that case, you can pass around here at any time. I will be here all day.”

You see the amusement in his eyes, and there’s no way your lips don’t curve upward. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Viktor.”

You turn around, toward the stairs, in case your face can unveil how flustered you feel—a strange kind of hope. Perhaps there could be someone who could make you company. And who could be more willing, than a man desperate enough to take the lonely job of a lighthouse keeper?

[lesvegas]

New Vegas - Now Under New Management!

With his investigation 'concluded', Auguste returns home for some much needed R&R, and has a chat with his father before making an important call.

Chapter 4: Laplace's Angel [ao3 link]

When dogs ‘cried’, they made these horrible whines that grate on the ears, whether they’re in pain or just feel they’re not being doted on enough. They can’t help it, though; unlike people, they’re only capable of making a few kinds of sounds with their animalistic vocal chords. I still never understood why their whining was called ‘crying’, though. People didn’t sound like that when they cried, did they?

Maybe it’d just been so long since I let myself cry that I just forgot what it sounded like. I certainly forgot how to do it.

When I left the Ultra-Luxe, I started walking alongside Cal, lighting a cigarette to ease my nerves while keeping my head held high. I ignored the crowd that parted for us and dismissed him when he asked again if I was alright, going straight into the Tops without him and being let right in. I didn’t realize he still had my gun until I saw someone else getting their weapons confiscated, but the last thing I wanted to do was go back outside. I’ll have him return it another time.

I did a phenomenal job at maintaining my composure until I got into the elevator. When I was finally in solitude for a moment, I choked again, quickly clasping my hand over my mouth to shut myself up. I held my breath as the elevator doors opened, glanced up and down the corridor to find myself alone, then made a run for my room, slamming the door shut behind me.

Surrounded by childish comforts, I only briefly wondered which of the three stupid teddy bears Dia had apparently given me, then approached my oversized plush bed and collapsed onto it, bundling up the silk sheets in my hands before bringing them to my face and weeping. Finally able to be at ease, I sobbed into the smooth fabric, my face already feeling hot and soaked with tears. Muffled, I whined like an injured animal between gasps, shaking and inconsolable.

A soft, polite knock rang loud throughout my room, startling me into near silence. It was quiet for a half a moment before I realized in a panic that someone might see me like this. “Don’topenthedoor-” I said, quickly sitting upright and rubbing my eyes on my sleeve, taking a deep breath. “Don’t. Open the door.” I repeated, firmly. “What do you want.”

“I’m home.” my father said from the other side. Of course, who else would it be? Housekeeping? “Someone was selling bird eggs in Freeside. And Brahmin bacon.” He continued when I didn’t respond. “I’m going to make breakfast. It will be ready in twenty minutes.”

I heard him walk away from the door. It didn’t sound like there was anyone out there with him, so there was really no reason not to go out and join him. I got up and went into my private bathroom, taking a face towel and drenching it in cold water before pressing it to my eyes. It only took maybe ten minutes of cold compress before it almost looked like I hadn’t been crying. I combed my hair and slipped out of my coat and tie, leaving them on my bed. I wasn’t going out anytime soon anyway.

By the time I opened the door, the suite already reeked of bacon. My father stood in our kitchenette, his back facing me as he stirred something. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d cooked something; we both lived off the local restaurants with a never-ending tab that had no limit. But I do remember that the last thing he made was something he always called ‘Eggs Nevada’. Stupid name for an odd but really good breakfast.

“Could you set the table, please, Auguste?” He asked as soon as he heard my door open. I wordlessly walked through the living area to the dining area, and approached him to see what he was making first. In a glass bowl on top of a metal pot he was whisking a yellow sauce–

“Did they have butter, too?” I asked, retrieving a pair of forks and knives from a drawer.

“Unfortunately, no. This is just what we had in the freezer.” He said. “The sauce would be the same either way.”

Butter made from Brahmin’s milk wasn’t expensive or even difficult to obtain, if you lived someplace where Brahmin ranches were abundant. But we didn’t have an abundance of ranches here, and the few sources of Brahmin butter were sold to the casinos specifically, not individuals. We could get anything slathered in the stuff if we ordered it, but we didn’t normally have much to just use on our own. Not that we really needed it.

With forks and knives on cloth napkins, I retrieved two glasses next, and the jug of apple-pear juice from the fridge, setting it in the middle of the small dining table. All set, I then approached the counter again to watch my father finish preparing the food.

With the butter sauce at the perfect consistency, he took it off the pot of boiling water and quickly poured it over the eggs; four of them, about the size of a golf ball each, on top of crispy greasy Brahmin bacon, on of thick slices of toasted bread, split between two plates. A heavy breakfast, and one of the only meals he could make better than the restaurants. If he made this specifically to cheer me up… I had to admit, it was already working.

I took both plates to the table while he turned the stove off and did some quick cleaning up. I sat on my side of the table; back facing the door, looking to the windows, in the chair that has always been my spot. I didn’t need to wait for him, but I did anyway, because it was ‘polite’, he once said. And I might as well pour the juice for us both.

The second he sat down, of course, I picked up my knife and gently stabbed the egg until it broke. Even under the light yellow sauce I saw the yolk ooze out of the soft white like syrup, golden-orange lava slowly enveloping the deep brown bacon like the sun itself was melting over earth. I gave it a moment to soak into the bread before I began to cut it all into one bite-sized piece.

“I spoke to Callipho on my way home this morning.”

I stopped cutting. So, that’s what this is. He’s done this before; he’ll make or order food he knows I can’t resist, wait until I’ve sat down and started to eat, then ask a hard question I’d never answer otherwise. Only he hasn’t actually asked me anything yet. He was waiting for me to take the first bite. “So?” I asked.

“He told me you went to the Ultra-Luxe together.”

Was he stalling? Or was he waiting for me to break down and tell him everything? I just took my first bite and waited for him to continue. The bacon was a bit thicker than I thought it’d be, which kept it from being too crispy, and the runny egg drenching the crunchy toast was… it was honestly divine. Salty and savoury and as flavourful as a dish could be despite the simplicity of it all.

“He also told me why the Jackals were all riled up when I returned to the Strip.” He went on when I said nothing. He only paused to finally eat, quietly and with his mouth closed, and didn’t speak again until he swallowed. “He insisted it was nothing to worry about, and that he and Fresno could take care of it, but…”

“I’m not scared of them.” I spoke up.

That made him look at me, his expression as unreadable as always. I never knew what he was thinking, but at the same time I wasn’t scared of him. Not of him directly, at least. “Well, I don’t really care how you 'feel' about them specifically.” He said. “What’s done is done. But next time, you should really let Callipho deal with these things himself. It’s why we have employees.”

Fresno has employees. Father’s just their husband. Technically, neither of us had any real authority. I’m not sure if he really understood that, or if he simply pretended otherwise.

“So did he tell you why I did it?” I asked. If he didn’t, then that was a really important detail he chose to leave out.

“He did.” He said, and let me wonder exactly what Cal had said about me as he used his knife to carefully pile on equal parts egg and toast onto his fork, then eating it slowly. Chew, swallow, speak again. “So, how do you feel now?”

Great, he wasn’t even going to tell me what Cal told him. Did he have any idea someone tried to hire a Jackal to kill me? …would Cal want him to know that, or would it accomplish nothing but making him worry? If he really thought my life was in danger, he’d probably keep me locked up in here. I had to assume Cal left out some details for my sake yet again. “How do I feel about the Jackals?” I asked. “No different from before.”

“No, I mean how do you feel now that you’ve killed a man?”

I’d already finished an entire slice of toast with all the toppings, and it began to hit my stomach all at once, making me a little nauseous. That was the only reason I felt queasy, I told myself. “Again, no different from before.”

“Are you sure?”

He stared at me, and I stared back at him. He looked more tired than usual this morning, even though late nights were a regular thing for him and had been since forever. I still blinked first, conceding.

“What do you want me to say, here?” I asked, getting really fucking tired of whatever it was he was trying to pull at this point. He clearly wanted to hear something specific out of my mouth, but it was too damn early in the morning for his mind games. Thankfully, he then decided to get to the damn point.

“I would have preferred it if you’d said it was upsetting.” He said. “That it was simply so horrifying you’ll never kill again. Not that I want you to be upset, but it would be nice if you didn’t derive any catharsis or pleasure from murder.”

Oh, was that all?

“It was more like an execution, but sure, I really didn’t feel much of anything.” I lied. Well, it was a half-lie. I was scared, but it was less because I killed the bastard, and more because someone really wanted me dead. “Nothing at all?” He asked again, firmly, twirling his fork absentmindedly between his fingers.

I set my fork down to take a sip of juice. I wasn’t going to be able to give him a satisfying answer unless I was honest, but I didn’t need him to find out about the bounty on my head, so… “I mean,” I paused again, considering my words carefully, “Look, yeah, it was kinda scary in the moment, adrenaline and all, but… right now? I don’t really feel anything anymore.”

He followed me and had a sip of juice as well, contemplating my answer before asking another strange question. “Do you feel empty?” He asked. “Unsatisfied. Like you hadn’t done enough to him, or… that you lost a part of yourself.”

What the hell was he on about now. 

“Uh… no? To both.” Well, I guess I did feel a little… numb, now. Almost. It was hard to describe the feeling, but it was similar to how I felt not long after Brutus had been shot. A numbness that felt heavy, holding back the weight of emotions that threatened to break my composure. A temporary dam to hold back the tears, strong and unable to crumble until I’ve found some privacy again. “That’s… really specific. Got something you wanna tell me?” I asked, only half joking.

“Perhaps I should.” He said, and set his fork and knife down for now. Oh, this had to be important if he was going to let his food get cold over it. I continued to eat quietly as he spoke.

“I was younger than you are when I first killed a man. Much younger, I believe I was thirteen, possibly fourteen. I used to practice all the time with my father’s gun, shooting rats and birds… sometimes people, but I never killed them…” I held back a grin as I imagined him taking potshots at random people with some peashooter. “...and by the time I was old enough to work for one of the families in Reno, I was very good at my hobby; enough to prove myself a capable marksman, at least. There wasn’t much work for a boy at that age to do besides deliver messages and products, but I wanted to avoid all that. Killing full-grown men seemed the safer choice, if you can believe it.”

My father rarely ever talked about his past. His life back in Reno wasn’t one he liked revisiting, so I listened closely, enraptured. I knew he’d probably never repeat this story again, so I needed to dedicate it to memory. I’ll worry about how he’s trying to use it against me later.

“Now that I think of it, I was definitely thirteen when I took the first job. I’d killed an addict that owed money to the family…” I was only now realizing he would never in a million years tell me which damn family he’d worked for. Maybe Fresno knew. “...out of it when I confronted him, I don’t know if he even felt it when I initially missed the first shot. I had grazed his ear before the second shot landed near the centre of his forehead. Not quite, but close enough to impress my new superiors. For the first year or so, I was only really called up to deal with such simple cases, no one particularly important, but…”

This is where it gets good, I can feel it.

“Then there was a family. Not a casino family, a real family. A father who was about to be on the run after trying and failing to rob his employers, a mother that was in on it, and two young sons that were none the…” I knew it. “...they were playing outside when I showed up. The father tried to defend himself by grabbing a shotgun off the wall, but he was old, and I was faster. He was down before the wife could draw her piece, and she only managed to add some holes to the wall before I shot her. I still remember, it was one in the chest, one in the neck. Even I’d never seen so much blood before. It must have been horrific for the boys to see. They didn’t go in right away, of course, they were just watching at me as I left. Probably too afraid to look.”

“And that’s when you stopped?” I asked. Maybe the boys tried to pay him back, maybe his superiors ordered him to finish the job…

“No.” He said, to my surprise. “Double the targets, double the pay… a whole five hundred caps. It was too tempting not to continue. I killed someone different at least once a month for a few more years, just until I had made enough to leave Reno for good.” He picked up his fork and knife again, and I frowned, thinking that was all. “I always thought it would get easier. It didn’t. But it always left me feeling… empty. Which is why I wanted to know how it made you feel.”

Right, this was probably his idea of father-son bonding, or maybe he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going crazy. And I guess because killing people was something he felt like he had to do to survive, there was no reason for me to do it at all. This was all part of the narrative in his head that anything he had to go through, I should never even know about let alone experience. There’s good but misguided intentions in there somewhere, probably.

“Really didn’t feel any different from the first time.” I admitted, deciding to try and top his story. It was true, but not something I’d ever told him about before. Part of me relished in him finding out I’ve always been as much a killer as he was.

He only glanced at me as he continued to eat. He was surprised, he definitely didn’t know, but he didn’t want to make eye contact anymore. Maybe he was upset. Maybe he was already judging me. It wasn’t going to stop me from sharing my own story now.

“I was definitely fourteen.” I went on. “I remember ‘cause it was after my birthday party and I wanted to play more card games. But you made me go to bed at one o’clock in the morning, so I ended up sneaking out. But, see, I couldn’t play in any of the casinos since they’d just tell me to go back to bed on your orders, so I went just outside of Freeside’s gate.”

He definitely hadn’t heard this story before. He was listening intently, despite not looking at me at all. I had to make this sound good.

“I went alone, just had the gun you gave me.” Already hard to believe, I know; I wasn’t really comfortable leaving the Strip alone, not without Brutus at least. “I found a group of Scorpions just hanging around, drinking whatever, smoking I don’t even know, playing cards. Blackjack, poker, three-card Monte, anything they knew, right? I had a ton of caps, so of course they let me join in. And since you and Cal had already taught me how to play, there was no way I could lo–”

“Who shot first?” He asked, trying to force me to get to the point with an odd sharpness.

I scowled. Didn’t he know anything about storytelling? It’s all about the details, the build-up, the tension. But he was almost done eating now. I huffed. “I won too much and the guy across from me snapped.” I muttered, then cleared my throat. “He was yelling at me, demanding his caps back, but I didn’t wanna give them back. I won. I told him to fuck off and he pulled a gun on me. And he shot first.”

“In your shoulder.” He said quietly, suddenly remembering something, finally looking at me. “You never told me, but I had heard about it. You went to the Fort, when the Followers still occupied it. You must have thought I wouldn’t find out you received treatment there.”

I didn’t. I had no idea he’d found out. I didn’t even have a scar and those doctors swore confidentiality, so who the hell told him? He didn’t even mention it after the fact. “You knew?”

He hummed, and set his fork and knife down, but made no move to get up. He was waiting for me to finish, at least. How polite.

“So, he shot first.” I went on. “He was on something, all clumsy and shit, missed when he should’ve nailed me. Didn’t even hit my right shoulder. I mean, it slowed me down, but not enough for any of them to stop me from shooting right back.”

That had been an unintentionally perfect shot. I wasn’t even looking when I raised my gun, but when I took the shot, there was a split second where his body was still upright. Frozen in place, much like his comrades, staring right at me with dead eyes as blood seeped from a hole in his forehead, before his body fell forward, the dead weight crushing the cardboard box that had been a makeshift card table. Just a foot away from me, I got the perfect view of the back of his head, exit wound having blown his skull wide open. I didn’t know handguns, even powerful ones, were capable of that.

“And it left you feeling numb?” My father asked again.

In the moment, I think it did. Something between numb and scared. I had run away, back into Freeside, straight to the Fort ‘cause I was still too scared of getting caught. More than I was scared of being out there, at the time. I had nightmares about him for years, I still do sometimes, and I remembered him when I shot Rocco. I haven’t even stepped outside of Freeside’s gates since. These feelings, fears, were too complicated to convey to him. We didn’t talk about deeper things like that. “Yeah.” I said simply, and left it at that.

He didn’t ask any other probing questions, and I didn’t feel like telling anymore stories. He’d gotten up to start washing the dishes, and I finished what was left on my plate before giving it to him.

“We ran into Vera and Lun while we were on Fremont Street.” He said as he began to scrub my plate with a sponge. “They asked about you. I told them you were doing well. Vera wanted me to let you know that she misses you.”

Vera was the closest thing I had to a friend my age. We met when we could barely walk after my father arranged a play-date with hers. He had been concerned that I was missing out by not socializing with other children, but he also didn’t want me to associate with any of the typical street urchins. It turns out not many families were interested in having kids in the new raider capital of the world, and she was literally our only option. But despite growing up in Freeside, she was what I considered to be the last classy lady in the whole city… or close enough, at least. I thank her fathers’ paranoia for making her somewhat shut-in and my own class rubbing off on her over the years.

She only officially became my girlfriend two years ago. It only made sense; we were the same age, she was the only girl I liked (or at least tolerated), and she was pretty enough that we looked good as an item. As soon as there’s a good enough reason to, I’ll likely propose to her and maybe that’ll be enough to convince her to move out of that pit.

“I’ll call her.” I said quietly. I may have forgotten she even existed in the last week, but who could blame me? I was mourning. She’d understand. “I could use a distraction.” I added, quieter.

I waited until it was nearly ten in the morning before I made the call. Late enough that there was no way she wouldn’t be awake, but early enough that if she had any plans, she probably wouldn’t have left home yet. Not that she would have any plans; she didn’t exactly have much to do without me. All she did was help her fathers run their restaurant, and in her free time she mostly went out and about, despite how much everyone around her preferred she stay in where it was safer.

The phone in my room was pristine, but I always had to take a moment to brush off a thin layer of dust whenever I needed to use it. I only ever used it to call her; all other calls I just made on the suite’s main phone. I didn’t need privacy to order room service. 

I'm reaching for the phone when it rings first, the blaring bell drawing a startled squeak out of me before I can take the phone off the hook to make it stop. I almost thought Vera had the same idea and thought to call first before I brought the phone closer and spoke. "Yes?"

"They're not happy about Rocco." Cal said, though he sounded more annoyed than worried. "Honestly, neither am I. That was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen you do."

"Tell me something I don't know." I muttered, and laid back on my bed as I continued. "Look, I'm really not in the mood for a lecture, keep it short. I've got a call to make."

There was silence for a moment, and a little whisper of a sound that could only be an exasperated sigh from the other end of the line, with the receiver kept at an inaudible distance. Then his voice returned, loud and clear. "New rules, kid. You're not going anywhere anytime soon. Consider yourself grounded until further notice."

"Grounded?" I balked. "I’m an adult. My father could ‘ground’ me and I wouldn't listen to him, why would I listen to you?"

"Are you fucking dense?" Cal snapped in a way that made me glad we weren't having this conversation in person. Before I could further consider the stupidity of my response, he continued. "Have you already forgotten what your would-be assassin told you? Someone has it out for you and there’s nothing stopping him from just hiring another Jackal. Hell, the Jackals probably wouldn’t even ask for half as much after today.”

I knew he was right, I just really didn’t want to think about death right now. I just wanted to call my girlfriend and pretend the last several days hadn’t happened at all. I missed when the only things on my mind were how we were gonna blow Fresno’s caps and whether Brutus should have a Brahmin or Bighorner steak, too afraid of looking stupid to ask what the difference even was. There were no would-be assassins in the back of my mind just a week ago.

“You killing Rocco made the trail die.” Cal continued when I didn’t say anything. “I have absolutely no leads now. Just… ‘a man in a suit’. So do me a favour and just stay home while I figure something out.”

I blinked at the ceiling. “Figure what out?” I asked.

“Who the hell wants you dead, obviously.”

“A lot of people, I think.” I said, quietly. I don’t really know why I said that, it was just a funny feeling that came out of nowhere. Very few people actually liked me, because I liked very few people. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if many wanted me dead. Too bad for them, then. “Why? You have any ideas? You said the trail’s dead.”

There was a pause before he spoke up again. “Yeah, I do.” Cal said. “But mostly just a hunch.”

I sat upright on my bed, crossing my legs childishly. “What kind of ‘hunch’?” I demanded. “You should really just leave the overthinking to me.” Cal said. “But… fine. Don’t blame me if you get nightmares. Just think for a second, what would happen if you died right now?”

My father would be devastated. So would Vera. Cal, too, I imagine. But no one else would mourn me, not personally. The city would have lost one of its most important residents, but I had no other friends to speak of. “I dunno. What?”

“Not much. Sorry. But the only people who would know that for sure would be the people who actually live around here. The ones who’ve seen how you and Fresno act around each other. Or, more importantly, how you avoid each other. But to an outsider who only knows of you by name, it might be reasonable to assume the Courier of New Vegas was close to their kid. Would be real upset if he died. Might even weaken their hold on the city.”

Oh. That almost made sense. It was hard to imagine anyone thinking Fresno would do anything but party upon hearing of my death, but if someone really didn’t know anything about us, well…

“I don't wanna make you paranoid, but I have a feeling whoever is behind this has, let's say, political motivations. Twenty years is a long time to keep Vegas and the Dam out of reach. I can think of at least one party that's bide their time long enough and feels the need to start chipping away at the Mojave again from the inside out. So like I said, just stay indoors where it's good and secure away from any windows and you'll probably be fine. At least wait until I get in touch with some old contacts, alright?” He asked, his voice softening a little like it used to whenever he tried to explain to me why I couldn't do something stupid; like stand on top of the Tops’ courtyard wall or tell a raider to go away because I didn't like looking at him.

“...okay.” I said, only to placate him. “But who do you think it is?”

His hesitation told me that he didn't want to tell me, because he couldn't control what I did with that information. But he still told me anyway, if reluctantly. “I haven't felt much movement from out West in a long time. It's almost too quiet. And I know the Republic is still bitter about Fresno kicking them out of the Mojave. But again, it's just a hunch. Go ahead and make your call, I've got a few of my own to make.”

The low droll of a dead line played in my ear, and I returned the phone to its hook for a moment. I could listen to him and just stay home, but the thought of staying in my room with nothing but my thoughts made me want to shoot myself (good thing I still don't have my gun, I suppose), so I called Vera anyway. The dial whirred gently as I spun it ten times, once for each number and the speaker buzzed softly as it began to ring.

Her family’s phone, to my memory, was barely functional, and kept together with duct tape and glue. Sometimes it’d stay broken for a week or so until her fathers had the right parts to repair it again. If I could commend them for anything, it was that they were slightly more resourceful than the usual Freeside rabble, but it helped that one of them came from a Vault where he had the privilege to be taught how to read technical manuals. Broken or functional, her phone always took an agonizing minute to even start ringing, but fortunately for me she was too eager to let it ring for long.

“Auguste?” Her voice chimed in after half a ring, her delight always audible through the static of the horrendous reception. She knew it was me because no one else had any reason to call her family at this time of day. Unfortunately, she also sounded incredibly worried, and I knew I had to control the subject before she could ask how I was feeling. “Vera, dear, I’m glad I caught you.” I said before she could go on. “Listen, I…” I couldn’t act like everything was fine. I had to at least act sorry or something. “I apologize for not calling you sooner, I-”

“It’s okay.” She said, cutting me off. She rarely did that, but I forgave her. “You don’t have to say anything.”

I couldn’t help but relax a little. I knew she would say all of this, act like I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong and needed to be coddled, and that’s because she knows nothing. She knows my dog died and that it made me a very sad boy. And that’s all she needed to know. “Thank you.” I said quietly, and pretended to think for a moment before speaking again. “I… I just wanted to know if you’re free tomorrow?”

Today was too soon. “I was going to work, but I’ll get out of it.” She said, and I swear I could hear her smile. “Where did you want to meet up?”

“Oh, I’ll just come pick you up.” I said. I never liked the thought of her going around the city all by herself, even if she was armed. Her fathers and I had that in common. “We can just decide where to go from there. Eleven o’clock?” Perfect for late brunch.

“That’s perfect.” She said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie.”

A pet name I tolerated rather than liked, and only in private. When we were kids we could talk over the phone for hours, but now I could hardly stand it. I needed to see her in person every time. I liked her voice, but I preferred hearing it without the fuzz, and I loved looking at her. Watching her whether she was telling me about some bizarre encounter in the restaurant or listening to me talk about something more important. I could count on one hand the number of people I actually enjoyed being around, and she was one of them. 

So, I said my goodbyes and hung up. And with nothing else to do until tomorrow, I decided to make the most of my time by sleeping the day away, too exhausted to avoid having any nightmares.

[beardedmrbean]

A Utah woman who authorities say fatally poisoned her husband in 2022, then published a children's book about grief, now faces another attempted murder charge for allegedly drugging him weeks earlier, on Valentine's Day.

Kouri Richins, 33, is accused of killing her husband with a lethal dose of fentanyl at their home in a small mountain town near Park City in March 2022. New charging documents filed Monday by Summit County prosecutors allege that it wasn't her first attempt on his life.

They detail the perilous months preceding Eric Richins' death, painting a picture of a paranoid man walking on eggshells around his wife as she made secret financial arrangements and bought illicit drugs that were later found in his system.

Prosecutors have said previously that Kouri Richins, who is being held without bail, may have tried to poison her husband the month before his death, but they didn't file the additional charges until this week.

The chilling case of a once-beloved author accused of profiting off her own violent crime has captivated true-crime enthusiasts in the year since she was arrested for her husband's murder. She had self-published "Are You With Me?" — an illustrated storybook about a father with angel wings watching over his young son after dying.

Once lauded as a heartwarming must-read for any child who's lost a loved one, the book has since become a powerful tool for prosecutors arguing that Kouri Richins carried out a calculated murder plot and attempted to cover it up.

The mother of three repeatedly called her husband's death unexpected while promoting her book and was commended by many for helping her sons and other young children process the death of a parent.

Her attorney, Skye Lazaro, didn't immediately respond to a request for comment on the new charges. Lazaro has argued in early hearings that the evidence against her client was dubious and circumstantial.

Details on possible prior murder try 

One bite of his favorite sandwich — left with a note in the front seat of his truck on Valentine's Day — made Eric Richins, 39, break out in hives and black out, prosecutors allege in the new documents.

His wife had bought the sandwich from a local diner in the city of Kamas the same week she also purchased several dozen fentanyl pills, according to witness statements and deleted text messages that were recovered by police.

The state's star witness, a housekeeper who claims to have sold her the drugs, told law enforcement that she gave Kouri Richins the pills a couple days before Valentine's Day. Later that month, Richins allegedly told the housekeeper that the pills she provided weren't strong enough and asked her to procure stronger fentanyl, according to the new charging documents.

In witness testimony, two friends of Eric Richins recount phone conversations from the day prosecutors are now saying he was first poisoned by his wife of nine years. After injecting himself with his son's EpiPen and chugging a bottle of Benadryl, he woke from deep sleep and and told a friend, "I think my wife tried to poison me."

His friends say they noticed fear in his voice as Richins, who had no known allergies, told them that he felt like he was going to die and that his wife might be to blame. Opioids, including fentanyl, can cause severe allergic reactions, including hives.

Details on Eric Richins' death

A month later, Kouri Richins called 911 in the middle of the night to report that she had found her husband "cold to the touch" at the foot of their bed, according to the police report. He was pronounced dead, and a medical examiner later found five times the lethal dosage of fentanyl in his system.

"One or two pills might be accidental. Twenty — or five times the lethal dose — is not accidental. That is someone who wants Eric dead," Summit County Chief Prosecutor Patricia Cassell said.

She alleges that Richins slipped the synthetic opioid into a Moscow mule cocktail she made for her husband amid marital disputes and fights over a multimillion-dollar mansion she purchased as an investment.

Eric Richins' family believes Kouri Richins spiked his drink the night he died, according to "48 Hours."

Possible motive?

Years before her husband's death, Kouri Richins opened numerous life insurance policies on Eric Richins without his knowledge, with benefits totaling nearly $2 million, prosecutors allege.

Kouri Richins was also charged Monday with mortgage fraud and insurance fraud for allegedly forging loan applications and fraudulently claiming insurance benefits after his death.

Prosecutors argue she was in financial distress when her husband died and say she mistakenly believed she would inherit his estate under terms of their prenuptial agreement. Newly released documents indicated she had a negative bank account balance, owed lenders more than $1.8 million and was being sued by a creditor.

Charging documents indicate Eric Richins met with a divorce attorney and an estate planner in October 2020, a month after he discovered that his wife made some major financial decisions without his knowledge. The couple's prenuptial agreement only allowed Kouri Richins to profit off her husband's successful stone masonry business if he died while they were still married.

Utah law prohibits anyone convicted of murder from profiting financially off their crime.

Maternal murder accomplice?

The case took another turn when a newly released court affidavit revealed last week that investigators believe Kouri Richins' mother might also have been involved in his death. 

A Summit County Sheriff's investigator wrote in the affidavit it is "possible" that Lisa Darden was "involved in planning and orchestrating" Eric Richins' death.

Investigators discovered Darden had been living with a female romantic partner who died suddenly in 2006. An autopsy determined the woman died of an overdose of oxycodone, the affidavit said. The woman struggled with drug abuse, but at the time of her death she wasn't in recovery, which the investigator said would "likely rule out the possibility of an accidental overdose." Darden had become the recipient of the partner's estate shortly before her death, the affidavit said.

The affidavit also said conversations "have been found on Kouri's phone showing disdain for Eric on Lisa's part."

"Based on Lisa Darden's proximity to her partner's suspicious overdose death, and her relationship with Kouri, it is possible she was involved in planning and orchestrating Eric's death," the affidavit states. 

No charges have been filed against Lisa Darden.

[valaruakars]

Wreathe Me in Darkness, My Earthly Flesh and Blood (1/4)

Viktor/F!Reader || 4.6k || Historical Vampire AU || NSFW || AO3 Link

“On an evening just after the autumn equinox, a fire lit to warm and brighten the study, you shake his cold, bony hand and make the acquaintance of Viktor.”  Alternatively: In the early years of your long, long life, you unwittingly fall for a vampire.

Warnings: Stalking mention, jealousy, non-consensual vampirism, so much blood, near death experience, implied murder, teacher/student dynamic, masturbation, vampire spit but make it a mind-numbing aphrodisiac, fingering, dacryphilia if you squint, he’s not evil but he’s not good either, “nausea inducing but in a pussyclenching way” - tumblr user @weltraum-vaquero

Mind! Those! Warnings! Anyways, here’s what I started last week for Halloween and then got too carried away with to keep as a oneshot. Never been known for brevity, sorry. Y’all are gonna have questions, and there will eventually be answers, don’t worry. As always, thanks to the babygirl gang for encouraging me to get fucked up with it for fun 🖤

The year is 1903, you are yet still young, and a small tragedy befalls your household.

One day your hale and healthy tutor is sitting with you in the study, inking corrections onto your arithmetic, though it needs very few. The next, a courier is on the steps of your rowhouse, and you are intercepting a letter from him—no, wait. From his family, actually.

You learn that when you open it. You also learn that he has passed away.

People talk, of course. You listen. And so you come to hear that a man was mauled by an animal in the park across town on that very same night. But it couldn’t be him, right? He was older and did not live in that direction. The letter made it sound so peaceful a departure. You imagined him passing in his sleep. It couldn’t be him.

Out of respect, a week passes and you languish with the literature he left you. Your studies are important and you are lucky to have them, even if they happen at home and not in some great, mahogany lecture hall. That doesn’t stop you from watching out your pretty window as the local boys come and go from the university, your face dark with envy. A week is too long to read and read with no instruction. Who will you discuss The Picture of Dorian Gray with while it remains fresh in your mind? Should you not be honoring his memory by finding a new tutor posthaste?

You bring it up at dinner that night. You get what you want easily. Even better, your new tutor is found quite quickly.

And thus, on an evening just after the autumn equinox, a fire lit to warm and brighten the study, you shake his cold, bony hand and make the acquaintance of Viktor.

Just Viktor.

He’s not very tall, hollow in the face, and walks with a pronounced limp. He cannot be much older than you, but he exudes an intelligence beyond his years. An old soul, the housekeeper said. His eyes are startlingly sharp, so bright a brown you could really call them amber, honey, or high karat gold. Any of those, certainly, but beautiful suits best. They are his most magnetic feature, aside from the weapon that is his voice. He could use it to have you do anything, surely, but he mostly uses it to correct your pronunciation when you study French or to scold you when your mind drifts reading bone dry Tolstoy. 

He comes in the dark and leaves in the dark, and after the first time you make him laugh hard enough to see that one of his canines is both crooked and freakishly pointy, you wish he’d stay longer.

He’s familiar, somehow. Night after night you can’t place it. Can’t even tell what exactly is familiar about him. But how could you?

You didn’t know, yet, that he’d been watching you.

It would be a long time before you knew that.

Years.

They pass quickly, in the spring of your life. But the springs and summers themselves pass without Viktor. So much sunlight, and yet they become the darkest part of your year, when he returns to Prague. Frankly, you don’t understand why he ever leaves. It’s beautiful, from the few pictures you’ve seen and the way he’s described it. You wish he’d write, or perhaps send you a small postcard. He never does, that first year he departs and leaves you in the hands of a boring, retired headmaster for those six long months. You check the mail every day and receive nothing but a formal, dispassionate notice that come October he intends to return to his post. No return address.

When he does, it’s as if he never left. He tucks himself up to the old oak table in front of the fireplace, just across from you, and it’s much like opening a bookmarked page. For a moment, lost to excitement, you feel brave enough to ask him personal questions. He does not like personal questions. He considers them a breach of formality between teacher and pupil. But emboldened, you finally ask what prevents him from starting your sessions earlier. Surely your family could afford more of his time? That’s all you want. You enjoy these lessons so.

He smiles. It’s a thin-lipped thing, but always sincere when you earn one. “I spend my days at the University. There is much to be learned here, many advancements in science, that I might take back home and share. I cannot come to you any sooner.”

Your fingers trace the gilt lettering of the book before you. “I like to walk near the school grounds, you know.” The fire is rather warm. You look at it, not at him. “I might wait for you. We might walk together. You might instruct me as we do.”

He laughs at your boldness, but a quiet chuckle. “Unattended? I believe your family would be quite upset.”

“Are we not unattended now?” you counter. And indeed, you are alone with the pocket doors drawn shut to keep out distraction, because Viktor is Viktor and he is no threat to your modesty. So they believe. It’s an utter disservice to him. “You would make a perfectly fit chaperone.”

His hand is cold and soft when it takes yours across the table—takes you by surprise, too. You’re stunned by the warmth of the gesture. “Wait for me here, please,” he asks, and you agree rather bonelessly.

You do not bring it up again. You reach a threshold for bravery you cannot surpass on the very first day of that season. But when the next spring approaches and you grow desperate, you ask if he might write to you. He politely refuses. The spring after that—because once when he looked especially ill, he put his hand on your knee and that certainly meant something, right?—you ask if he might leave a picture for you to pray over for his safe return. You have no higher power to pray to, but he need not know it would go under your pillow or into a locket, in truth. He politely, shyly refuses that too.

The year is suddenly 1908. By the time you’ve spent twenty five years on this earth, and he has come and gone four times, you are properly in love with him. How interesting it is, to love a man you know so little about. But surely, you do.

Which is why it’s a shame that you next turn twenty six and are betrothed by your family to the first man that will take a woman of your age, who is too intelligent for her own good. You’ve grown mouthy, with a thirst for independence that doesn’t befit your station. You’re becoming a burden; have overstayed your welcome in the very home you grew up in. You’ve also sabotaged every courtship attempt you’ve been subjected to in the last few years, one man on your mind, until now the choice has been taken from you. You wanted it back.

More than anything, you wanted Viktor to come back; to fall into his arms and sob; to at least be able to write him a tear stained letter saying this is the last winter you’ll ever spend together. But you had to wait another agonizing month. During it, you found fragile acceptance. This was always to be your fate. Viktor did not want you anyways.

So when he finally shows up to the door on his usual cold, dark evening and the housekeeper escorts him inside, you calmly wait in the study. No tears, no dramatics; just you, standing before the fireplace to greet him. As always, he takes your hand as if to cordially shake it, but something different washes over his face, staring at yours. You didn’t recognize it then, but it was realization. You have one of your own, too, as you stand there and look long at the face of your one-sided friend. Whereas you have matured into your features, his have remained much the same. How jealous he must make people, to age so gracefully. Where did he hide his picture, your Dorian Gray? 

You invite him to sit and get off his feet—to settle into your usual places. And to follow the formula, you ask the same meaningless question you do each and every year: “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

He’s supposed to say yes and promptly move on.

But instead he asks in a tone you’ve never, ever heard before: “What is that?” He’s looking at your hand. He sounds livid, and he’s looking at your hand. The stone perched in platinum upon your finger sparkles faintly in the low light, and you snatch your hand into your lap with a sigh. Suddenly, you do want to cry.

“As of a month ago, I find myself engaged,” you tell him like it’s a dull, passionless fact. Of course, you can’t bring yourself to look at him when you say it.

“…To be married?”

Your laugh is a humorless thing. “Of course, what else could I mean?” Then it occurs to you: “Why is it that you may ask me personal questions, but I may not ask you the same?”

“That is irrelevant,” he snaps, brute forcing the conversation to his strange ends. He reaches forward across the table to take your chin in his hand; to make you look at him. His hand is cold. Always so cold. His voice is softer this time; his thumb strokes across your cheek before he lets go. “Is this what you want?”

Nobody had asked you that. You shake your head no with such vigor that you can feel your hairpins shift against your scalp, fisting your dress white knuckled, but that can’t stop the truth now. “I want my freedom. I want control. I want…” You, but the way he’s looking at you steals that word away.

Who is this dark and wrathful and determined person sitting across from you? The one who says, “I will make it so,” like a promise, as though he has any bearing on the situation?

“How?” you whisper as conspiracy blooms thick in the space between you. “What could you do to prevent this?”

He snatches up his cane and gets to his feet, so resolute that he’s willing to abandon the session when he has never once before. “Give me time.”

And then he is gone. 

—-

You expect to wait, naturally. You’ve had years of practice waiting for him, though it’s different this time. You suddenly can’t predict what will happen; there is no formula to follow. But you’re almost certain, now…

He wants you too.

You dress for bed that night, crawl between the blankets, and spread your legs as if for him. You’ve done it many times. It’s all you’ve ever known. You’re quickly wet enough to slip in two fingers, to fuck yourself on them until you’re panting softly and whispering his name into the darkness. This house is old and solid; you have the only bedroom on the main floor. Nobody will hear.

But there’s footsteps in the hallway. You pause for them to pass, though who would walk this floor at so late an hour? It’s very late, indeed. Only at the last second do you realize that they’re not normal; they’re odd little clusters of three. Why is that familiar?

You withdraw your hand when the sound stops in front of your door. Something is wrong. A chill sweeps your body, and it slowly dawns on you that you are well and truly scared. Terrified as you lie paralyzed and watch the doorknob turn.

But before you see anything, there comes a voice from the shadows. It says, just a whisper: “It’s me. Please do not scream.”

You’d know that accent anywhere. And it’s true, as it has always been true, that Viktor’s voice could get you to do anything. You do not scream, though something deep and primally terrified of the dark says that you should. You simply sit up in bed and beckon him closer in a hurry. It’s not lost on you that he locks the door before he comes to sit on the edge, tenderly taking your bewildered face in his hands. Cold, cold, cold.

“How did you…?”

He shushes you softly and shakes his head. “Tell me again.”

Your lips part, confused, as you study his face so close to yours.

“Tell me again,” he repeats, “why you wish not to be married. The whole of it, please.”

You cannot deny him. It spills from you. “I want my freedom, truly. I have never wanted to be bound to someone else that way, and to be subject to the expectations that come with it. I was never made to be an obedient, maternal homemaker. My greatest love has been learning… with you, Viktor. We hardly spend much time together, and yet it means everything to me.”

For five years—sometimes long, sometimes short—have you wanted his attention like this. If you weren’t already so wet, you would be, with his languid, honeyed stare ticking back and forth from your eyes to your lips. He wets his own and whispers, “Go on.”

“You must know by now that I want you.” He is in your room, on your bed in the middle of the night and you did not scream, after all. It’s why you are suddenly emboldened to finally, finally look him in the eye. To take hold of his bony wrist where it yet cradles your face, stroking the back of his hand with your thumb sweet and slow. To confess: “I’ve loved you for years.”

”Oh, miláčku.…” he murmurs. His breath is faintly metallic, and the little hairs on the back of your neck stand up. But why? It’s only Viktor. “You have yet to learn what love is. You have yet to learn what it is to love me. But I will show you, if that is what you wish.”

”I do,” you agree all too quickly, so scared of losing what you have only just gained. “Of course I do.”

It’s all the invitation he needs to kiss you. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted. All that you’ve ever imagined, those slow, tentative, innocent little presses of your lips to his, quiet beneath the crackle of the dying fire. It’s only when your hand fists into his coat, pulling him in for more that the hunger starts to change—to build. You feel it keenly between your legs, a rhythmic throbbing that syncs up to your heart.

It worsens, deliciously, when he slips off his shoes and crawls into bed with you properly. When his kisses turn open-mouthed, and his tongue brushes past your lips. You find the taste of his mouth faintly metallic too and figure: Oh well. If you’re kissing a man with consumption, it’s far too late already. You cannot bring yourself to care about that or much else, the more he licks into your mouth and swallows down your soft, shameless whines. Your head swims thick with only thoughts of how good he makes you feel. When you reach for others—wait, did he ever say he loved you back?—they simply melt away.

You do not protest when his fingers pluck at the neckline of your shift. You do not feel a single shred of shyness when he pulls away to expose the swell of your chest and admire it. You are nothing but agreeable. Your limbs feel heavy. With great effort, you reach for his tie; fair is fair, and of course you want to see every inch of his body too. But he catches up your brash little hand quicker than you can blink.

The hand that holds you is gentle; the lips that lavish your skin are urgent. He kisses the pulse point of your wrist, drags his tongue over it so languidly—nothing short of worshipful. Your heart only beats faster, fluttering just there beneath your skin and his lips. His eyes fall closed in reverence, and he groans like he can sense his effect on you—sweet, low and needy. You are his echo, of course. You need more, and thus your left hand drags itself up your stomach to grasp and roll the stiff little bud of your nipple.

That is the first thing he notices when he opens his eyes, dark and blown, an amber eclipse. The second is the ring you’re still wearing.

“Remove it,” he hisses, and you don’t need to be told twice. You’d pitch it across the room if he hadn’t snatched and shoved it into his breast pocket first. For safekeeping, of course. He’s going to get you a better one, right? He said he was going to help.

Later, your mind whispers before the fog rolls back in. There is nothing to worry about, with Viktor. You are safe. You are wanted. Are you loved?

Your head lolls, heavy on your neck. Your skin tingles pleasantly everywhere he’s kissed it. “I want you to touch me,” you murmur, because he’s yet neglected where you need him most.

He shuffles you back into the bank of downy pillows against the headboard. His hand is on your thigh, hiking up your pretty white nightgown, and you part your legs for him eagerly. He looks perfect, crouched between them. “I have been touching you, moje lahůdka,” he huffs, bemused.

You pull it up higher still until it’s in a gossamer bunch above your hips. You want him to witness you swollen and glistening wet for him; to see the mess he makes of you untouched. “Here.”

His low, appreciative hum is resonant. He’s not truly interested in toying with you; does not hesitate to indulge in his wants or your own.

It’s better than you ever imagined, when his hand cups between your legs and the heel of his palm rubs your sweetest spot; when his fingers slide down the seam of you; when they catch the dip of your wet little cunt and press in sinfully slow. He watches, spellbound, as you writhe for friction and take two of his fingers to the hilt. That’s all he can stand before he swears beneath his breath, dragging you back against his mouth with a hand tangled in your hair. It’s a sloppy, inelegant kiss—perfectly debauched, the way he pants against your lips. He’s making you feel so, so good.

He deserves to feel good too, doesn’t he?

You reach down to palm the outline of his cock through those dark, woolen trousers. It punches a breath out of him, that gentle caress. His head drops to your shoulder, and your other hand fights gravity to stroke the soft, lovely hair at the nape of his neck; to soothe and encourage and hold fast to him. You seal your fate.

Viktor positively trembles, perhaps from the exertion of dragging his fingers in and out of you, as he kisses your neck tentatively. Licks your neck, a little more confidently. Scrapes his teeth against your neck, boldly. It feels divine, and you’re shaking too. The urge to scream rises in you again. You’re close to breaking, after all. You’re very, very close. That is nothing to be frightened of.

“Do you want this?” he whispers, his voice stripped raw. His lips wander lower and lower, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone to the top of your breast. “Do you want me? Only me?”

And what can you say but, “Yes,” and, “Always,” as you beg him to make you cum?

The feeling is rapturous when he does, like white hot pleasure pulsing thick through every nerve, every vein. So transcendent it’s almost painful. Your eyes white out. You screw them shut against the explosion of sensation anyways, bright and all consuming. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before from your own fingers, and it catches fire in your chest too—right where his lips are lavishing your breast. You writhe through it, nuzzling into his hair as you soundlessly sob and soak his fingers to the cadence of his soft, wet moans against your skin. Those quiet noises are so sweet.

Such a shame, that your heartbeat is starting to drown him out. Slower and slower, it thumps in your ears. You’re coming down already, aren’t you?

Something smells metallic again. Really, very metallic.

It still feels so good, though, like embers of pleasured bliss burning low in your body; like drifting asleep in the bath. It still feels good, even when he takes his hand from between your legs and grips your waist hard. His hand is warm and wet. Finally, you made him feel warm.

And you? Oh… You feel warm and wet too. Down the front of your body: Warm and wet and slick with your nightgown clinging to your skin like you sweated it through. From the intensity, you must’ve.

But it’s okay. Viktor won’t mind. Viktor, who is so very good to you; who cares for you so well. Sweet, shy, brilliant Viktor, you love him very much. You think of him always, even now. You stroke his dark, lovely hair. Or well… You try to. You can’t feel it—not his hair nor your fingers nor your hand. Your arm slips from his shoulders and drops, leaden, to the bed.

Lead. Metal. Copper.

You smell blood.

Fighting sleep’s embrace, there’s just enough willpower left in you to open your eyes. Your lashes are damp like you’ve started to cry. Have you? Feeling is fleeting, but Viktor is cradling your head. His touch is kind, his thumb sweeping soothing arcs against the top of your spinal cord. You can’t lift it, your head. You can hardly think. But you can see, for there is an old standing mirror where often you preened for your studious evenings together, or picked yourself apart for the features you imagined he didn’t care for. Though your vision swims, you are reflected in it as you always are.

Just you, alone in that mirror, hovering slack and painted red.

Viktor has no reflection.

One last desperate adrenaline spike has your head lolling forward. What you could feel and smell is all confirmed. Your eyes did not deceive you. Blood is seeping down your body from perfect little bite marks punctured into your breast, staining the white of your nightgown deepest, deathly crimson. And then there is Viktor—such a tender monster—cradling your limp body, deeply focused on drinking you down. 

You are bleeding out into the hungry maw of a vampire you so erringly loved.

Yes, vampire. It’s not a dream—you can tell. In the end, the only dream was that a predator might care for its prey. And it is the end. You are dying.

You do not want to die.

A scream well and truly rises in your throat now. Viktor feels it coming first and claps a bloody hand over your mouth. With slow, syrupy grace, he unlatches his teeth and rises from your lacerated breast, blood smeared and congealed around lips that’d kissed you so gently minutes ago. He does not wipe his mouth. “I did ask you not to scream,” he chides, leaning in to kiss away the tear slipping down your waxen cheek. Then another, and another, until your face is smeared red too and he’s laying your rag doll body back against the pillows. “You have nothing to fear from me. I would never truly hurt you.” He releases your mouth when you slacken fully, stroking back your hair. “Did it not feel good? I tried to make it feel good.”

You nod weakly. Your vision is rimmed in black.

He smiles. It’s that precious smile you remember from when he’s rather pleased with himself. You cannot see his teeth. “Come, let us fix this,” he says as your eyes slip closed. Then, urgently, he calls your name.

You’re distantly aware of something cold and seeping wet pressed to your lips; that he’s prying your mouth open and urging you to, “Drink. Please, please drink—you must,” in a voice far too scared to belong to a monster. Something truly putrid drips against your tongue, slips down the back of your throat. It burns like dry ice, and yet you frantically swallow it down. It’s vile, his blood, for that is surely what it is, and yet you crave more. More, more, more until your body wakes up, and you’re clutching his arm to your mouth because even if you’re not sure you want to be this—what he’s making you—it’s preferable to death. You want to live.

You drink deep from him, gulping and messy like it’s water and you’re parched, until he has to rip his arm from your clawing, iron grasp. The trance is broken, then. You’re promptly scrabbling back against the headboard, far away as you can get, breathing hard with burning lungs. It’s not reassuring that the way he’s staring at you is a reflection of your own face: Utterly horrified.

“What have you done?” you ask desperately, clutching at your naked chest. Your heart still beats scared and sure beneath your hands, somehow.

He calms and considers for a moment. “I have acted in accordance with your wishes,” he says slowly, as if he genuinely believes that to be true. “The freedom to be with me is now yours. You will be as I am.”

The audacity. To think you care about that, in this moment, after everything that has just transpired. Freedom, at what cost?

Your voice cuts a hysterical edge. “That was it? Was it really so simple to turn me?” In no significant way did you feel different, yet. Your body is warm, your heart still beats, and your teeth are normal when you touch them. You are not ready to believe that you will change.

He looks quite apologetic to tell you: “The painful part will follow, I’m afraid. Your body has not died yet.”

The tears come flowing unbidden, though you feel completely numb. They are normal too.

“You have a choice,” he tells you, scooting closer. You wipe the amalgamation of blood, snot and tears from your face and take his hand, for at the end of your human life, you were still needy. Indeed, he doesn’t care that you’re filthy; he kisses that hand all the same. You’ve been through a harrowing night, the two of you. And you will go through much, much more.

“You may either choose to stay and let the transformation run its course. Your family may watch you die, and ideally put you in the ground before they see you change. Or...” His hand tightens around yours. He has a preference. “You may gather your things and leave a note. Say that you have run away. With me, preferably; I would like them to know. Leave with me tonight, and I will do what I can to ease the suffering.”

That choice is how you end up on your knees, stoking the fire back to life in your bedside hearth. You cannot stay. Viktor feeds the flames your soiled, bloody linens in torn up shreds while you stuff a trunk with your favorite things. Everything burns but the nightgown you wore—he insists on keeping it as a token. A new one, but you don’t have the presence of mind to catch that implication. All you can manage is putting yourself back together and penning a note several times over until your script is clean and free of tremors; a note for which you will feel eternally guilty. Viktor approves, though.

You mention him. 

[eyes-onthehorizon]

The Old Guard Provide... Leverage

It's the 1800s, and Martha recently left the employ of Sir Archibald Graham for reasons she can't discuss. The Old Guard help her get revenge and closure with a healthy dose of found family on the side. A reworking of February is a Month Like Any Other because it desperately needed editing. An Old GuardxLeverage mashup. Rape is implied and the circumstances around it are discussed in detail; the violence itself is only alluded to.

chapter one (ao3)

chapter two

Three

We meet our client: Martha Jones.

formidable [ˈfɔr mɪ də bəl, ˌfɔrˈmɪd ə bəl]

Word forms: adjective

arousing feelings of awe or admiration because of grandeur, strength, etc.

(“I was called formidable once, and I will not let this ridiculous sham of a game ruin my reputation!”

“Yes, Nicoló, you are very intimidating. Put the crystal balls down now, please.”)

Andy had been the one to meet Martha and bring her in. She had a way of just knowing which people needed their help in a crowd, and Martha had been in need of help for some time.

Like most of the people they’d supported, she was brilliant and hard done by. Unlike most people, she had landed somewhat on her feet. This meant she had the luxury of anger. Nico always struggled to listen to their client’s stories – once he had actually ground his teeth flat and had to excuse himself because of the pain – but Martha’s was the one that inspired the plan in him.

(Usually they let Andy do the planning, both because she was smarter than the two of them combined, and she desperately needed something to occupy her time so she wouldn’t think about the… void in her life.)

Martha had approached the table cautiously, and even Yusuf’s friendly smile hadn’t done much to lighten the tension. “Andromache says you’re here to help?” It was difficult to tell whether the question rose at the end because of hope or suspicion. Probably both.

Nico had simply nodded, and then took a bite of toffee just so he had something to chew on. Martha looked bemused, then shook her head and took a seat. Yusuf looked at him with great amusement – that’s very reassuring behaviour, hayati – while Andy did her level best to just ignore him.

“What are you looking for help with?” asked Yusuf.

Martha took a deep breath, twirling the ends of her scarf round her fingers. “Before I answer that, let me ask you this: What d’you know of Sir Archibald Graham?”

Yusuf frowned immediately, mentally flicking through his knowledge of Debrett’s. “He’s the Duke of Montrose, up in Scotland. He lives in… Whiterose Manor? Whitehall? White-something, near Aberdeen.”

Andy’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she was otherwise completely still. Yusuf was getting into his stride now. “That’s where Castlestead is! Andromache – William Wallace?”

Andy nodded, a nostalgic look on her face.

“Never mind William Wallace. D’you know anything else or just ancient history?” Martha prodded. Yusuf took a deep breath as not to laugh.

Nico swallowed his mouthful of toffee and spoke. “He’s extraordinarily wealthy, he is a widower, and he goes through staff at a higher-than-usual rate, which is never a good sign.”

Martha nodded, then hesitated. “What exactly d’you all do?”

Andy finally joined the conversation. “We will do whatever needs to be done to get you a life that is comfortable and happy. We gather information and use it to fix things. In short, we provide… leverage.”

Martha’s dad had been so proud when she’d shared the news. She’d been working as a maid for nearly 3 years locally, and impressed the Duke – a Duke! – so thoroughly that he’d had his valet send for her in the final days of his visit.

She’d made sure to curtsy low and explained her duties well. For his part, he’d listened more intently than she’d expected, and asked quite a few questions. She’d left the interview with a more senior job offer and spring in her step. Her father had been hoping she’d rise up the ranks at the rectory (well, one rank, given that there was only Maid and Housekeeper at the place) but to work at a Manor for one of the highest-ranking peers in the country was beyond anything he’d dreamt of for her. Even if she was all the way in Scotland. He’d never even left London.

But she had. She’d left the job after little over a year of service, Mr Cottom losing the retirement they had both planned for him. Her dad had grudgingly put her up but refused to hear a bad word against the Duke. They barely spoke nowadays.

“The chances of you making Head Maid are high if you keep working hard, love.”

“I won’t let you down, Dad.”

She sat straight as a board, and recanted her story with nary a waver in her voice. Martha could barely feel the rage licking at her skin – it had become background noise, something she didn’t need to look at closely any more. She didn’t even have to fight to keep her face impassive. She recited the whole thing mechanically in under five minutes, and only struggled with tears right at the end.

It really wasn’t a surprising tale, she’d found. Scratch the surface at any Big House and you’d find someone with a similar story. The lucky ones had someone to lean on.

Martha was not one of the lucky ones.

She’d made the mistake of meeting Joseph’s gaze right as she was telling them about her father’s reaction to the whole sorry affair. The other two were alright; Andy’s gaze was assessing and Nick was focused on anything but herself, but Joseph looked at her as if he held the world’s empathy in his eyes. Martha hated him for it.

“Three days of travelling on foot, sleeping in stables… I traded my mother’s bracelet for passage in a coach from Leeds. It took me a week to get home, and one second for my dad to slam the door in my face.” Martha’s face contorted. “He’d heard from Sir Graham, said I’d stolen from the Big House. He said he wouldn’t harbour a thief, no matter if she was his daughter.”

She’d tangled her fingers in her scarf ends. Slowly unpicking the knots she’d made, Martha took a shuddering breath. “Ms B put me up for a night or two while Will went and talked some sense into the old man. He won’t listen to me but he let me have my room back.”

She looked around at each of them. “Well, it’s no small thing for a girl to have her own room in London, is it? He could’ve turned me out on his ear, and where would I be then?” Joseph’s eyes had gotten sad. Martha could withstand many things, but pity was not one of them.

She abruptly stood and shook each of their hands before marching out of the Emporium.

“I can’t wait to give her father a piece of my mind,” Yusuf muttered, glowering at the table. “Better yet, I can’t wait for her to do so herself. He doesn’t deserve to call her his daughter.”

“He might not, any more.” Nico observed, rocking back on his chair. He ignored the unappreciative look Yusuf sent him, saying instead, “she’s a formidable woman.”

“I like her.” Andy said with a decisive nod of her head.

“Let’s begin.”

[elnierah]

Sea-Kissed Melody

A canon short story for my fanfiction; You Cure The Light. :)

Disclaimer: This short story has no spoilers for YCTL in it, so it can be enjoyed with or as a standalone piece.

Spoiler-free video by clef heima below. 

                                 Sea-Kissed Melody

Yusuke’s footsteps echoed in a lone corridor, one familiar and often ventured to bask in bonds forged. Treading its various passages, the Servants’ quarter was a place of respite, where residents of the mansion could shed their outer shells and embrace their true selves. In spite of the locale’s name, those who inhabited its many rooms were not perceived as mere housekeepers but instead valued citizens of a shrouded kingdom. All was a pretence, from their uniforms to their rigid words of lordship, and whilst a hierarchy of power was still established, it wasn’t quite alike the visage they perpetuated. Such was one of the kingdom’s many defences against public scrutiny, and while at first Yusuke too had fallen for the mirage, he now knew the truth of this place and the souls which reside within.

With his returned art supplies in hand, he made his way back towards the main floor, having just exchanged warm farewells with Furiaye moments prior. For she had asked to borrow a few of his artistic reserves in order to craft a birthday gift for her twin sister - a charm painted with every fibre of her affection. He was heartened to aid in her wishes, not only because he holds all those here near and dear but also because he cherished when one employed creativity as an expression of love.

As his lips curled at the imagination of Fialy’s endeared smile, he perceived and stilled at the sound of a distant melody, one which resonated akin to the press of piano keys. The tune lasted but a singular moment, as if it were accidental instead of purposed. Confused by such, he thought to concede on its existence, only for it to resume and tickle his ears once more. Wholly intrigued, he began to follow the disjointed sounds, careful to listen for every note. After a few minutes, he found himself lulled towards the entertainment room, a space where any and all could unwind after a hard day’s work.

The fragmented melody now reverberant, he swallowed his slight hesitation and peeked within, only for his eyes to widen in witness. Akira, his beloved partner, stood over a familiar ivory piano, his delicate fingers pressing against its sleek keys at periodic intervals, as if he were appraising them. Tantalised by both his actions and presence, the navy-haired man made his approach - a gentle call on his tongue,

“Akira…?”

His lover swerved around with such startled haste his hand smacked against the keys and evoked a harsh dissonance. His crimson eyes then stared, unnerved, until a sense of calm glowed within, and a sigh of relief fell from his fair lips.

“Ah, Y-Yusuke… What brings you down here?”

His voice, whilst somewhat abashed, brimmed with adored warmth, an affection which ignited Yusuke’s heart every time.

Ignoring the flutter of his chest, the navy-haired man countered, “I could ask you the very same.” He then tilted his head towards the piano, a huff of amusement escaping him. “Although, I suppose the answer itself lies before me. Since when did you slip away for these private sessions?”

“I-I don’t, nor was this my original purpose…” With his lips now pressed together, the raven-haired man averted his gaze momentarily, towards the candles which illuminated the room, and began to awkwardly rub his nape. “I came down here to deliver and cheer Ann with some sweets, given it’s that time of the month for her, but then I… grew distracted on my way back upstairs.”

“Well, aren’t you quite the gentleman.” A charmed smirk flickered upon Yusuke’s countenance. “My own purpose isn’t of equal nobility, for I merely sought to regain some lent supplies.” Brandishing his collection as evidence, he stepped closer, towards the piano and glided his hand over its frame as he approached. “If I recall correctly, you have a history with this piano, yes?”

“M-Mm…” Akira moaned in answer, his eyes shifting to and fro the musical instrument and his love. “My father utilised it to teach me how to play, but I fear all his efforts were for naught thanks to my own neglect.” He then gave a sheepish chuckle. “I doubt I could even play a beginner’s melody now…”

“Hm… Why don’t you put such to the test?” With yet another step, Yusuke closed the small distance between the two, provoking a slight blush upon his partner's cheeks. “After all, I would love to both see and hear you engage in one of your beloved childhood memories.” 

“...I’m unsure. I may end up a nuisance and disturb those around us.”

“I am unconvinced they’d even be able to hear you through these thick walls, let alone perceive your efforts in such a negative light.” As an attempt of reassurance, the navy-haired man caressed his hand over his beloved’s resting upon the piano. “I have been intrigued by your musical talents ever since you first uttered them, and whilst I do not wish to push you beyond your comforts, I would truly be honoured to witness you play.”

Akira’s gaze diverted to their encircled hands, staring at them until a deeper scarlet took hold of his visage, and a soft huff eluded his lips.

“Alright… I suppose it couldn’t hurt to at least try.”

With such words of assent, he flashed an encouraged smile before he manoeuvred to take up residence upon the piano stool and began to stretch his fingers. He then gently pressed a few keys, seemingly to test and revitalise his memory. As he did so, Yusuke watched him with keen ardour, awaiting and anticipating an awe-inspiring performance.

*music*

A brief silence then commenced, one where their eyes met and held until a calming melody swayed and sprung to life. It began a slow, drifting tune, one which soothed the senses akin to a lullaby before it swelled into further bliss. Its gentle harmony evoked imagery of loving tides, of being swept into a tranquil embrace and its promise of untold refuge. Boundless, its tale of loss and love overflowed, echoed with sufferance and prevail, until it coalesced into reborn hope, into undying reassurance of the morrow.

Without realise, Yusuke had shut his eyes, fallen adrift amidst the song's beautiful euphony. Only once it slowed to a rejoiceful close did he reopen his tender gaze, observing Akira withdraw his fingers from the piano’s magnificence.

Too awestruck to speak, he could only gape at his beloved in pure adoration, so much so it fostered Akira’s abashment.

“S-Satisfied…?” The raven-haired man weakly murmured, his cheeks puffed and flushed by the unabating stare.

Realising his intensity, Yusuke endeavoured to recompose and instead erupted with ardent cheer, “Such feeble words couldn’t even begin to describe the emotions welling within me!” He clamoured, his eyes sparkling akin to stars. “That was beyond phenomenal, my love! The melody, the swell of harmonious notes and the vast tale unveiled in each…! Ah, you have truly blessed me! I thought I understood the full potential of music, but you have bestowed me with the realisation there is still much to learn!”

Surprised yet heartened by his profound praise, Akira sheepishly scratched his cheek and chuckled, “I messed up a few of the first notes, but I’m glad to hear you enjoyed it nevertheless.” His lips then curled with utmost reverence. “Such adulation coming from someone as talented as you is truly an honour, so thank you.”

Confounded, the navy-haired man tilted his head. “But… I have no talents in the world of music.”

“I don’t believe that matters. Music or art, you’ve faced the hardships of creativity for far longer than I have, thus your words hold more weight to me.”

“...Strange perspective, but alright.” Huffing in amusement, Yusuke placed his supplies down and inched to attend his lover’s side. “That song you played… May I ask what’s its name and where you learnt of its brilliance?”

“It’s name…? I’ll leave it up to your imagination,” Akira teased, a playful smirk upon his visage. “My father taught me it, but I am actually unaware of its origin. Perhaps it’s from some far away fantastical world, one which gives life to ours.”

“Hmph, now you’re just being needlessly cryptic…”

“As is my apparent wont,” The raven-haired man giggled, unyielding on his jokester ways. He then gestured towards the piano. “Would you be interested in trying your hand at music? I can attempt to teach you if you wish.”

“Weren’t you undeservingly doubting your abilities moments prior…? How do you suddenly have the confidence to teach?”

“What can I say? A minor, or rather considerable praise from you is enough to ignite my heart.”

Unconvinced yet fascinated, Yusuke gave a nod of assent. “Alright then.”

With his smirk remaining, Akira vacated his seat and implored Yusuke to take the reins. The moment the navy-haired man did so, rested down upon the stool, he felt his partner encroach and press against him from behind. His lover’s fingers then slipped under his own and guided them towards the piano keys - each touch far more sensual than the last.

Flustered by such, Yusuke sensed his cheeks warm as his desire for further intimacy began to swell. He attempted to dismiss, to focus on the lesson at hand, but with a single glance upwards he met his lover’s fond gaze. They stared at one another, brimming and unwavering with adoration until an amused huff escaped Akira, and he inclined to brush their lips together, ever so tantalising. Wholly captivated, Yusuke shifted to further their connection, their tongues gently interlacing as soft moans filled in the stead of music.

With warmed breath, they departed momentarily, exchanging affectionate blinks and words,

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself… You’re far too cute…” Akira chuckled, his fingers brushing against a scarlet cheek. “Shall we resume your lesson?”

“I would love to, but…” Yusuke narrowed his eyes, rubbing his nose against Akira’s as his fingers equally stroked his nape. “I believe I would love your continued touch more…”

“If that is your wish, then…”

The two reunited in their connection, cradling one another close and lulling each other with every adoring caress - their love flowing now and forevermore.

[bouncingkadachi]

Masterlist

Organizing a masterlist for ease of access.

FIC I WROTE

Completed:

Your Word Means Nothing -- local island child punches Kyle. That’s it. That’s the fic. Felyne Shelter arc.

Silvered in the Moonlight -- getting kidnapped by a Rathalos and being taken on a horrible joyride. Set post-game; Pomore Gardens

Silk Hiding Steel -- winning a stuffed toy for your crush friend at a summer festival. Set post-game; Kyle and Teddybear+ centric.

Blessed Rain -- Kyle gets a Mizutsune bow and immediately has an emotional crisis over it. Set post-game; Kyle and Blessed Rain Heaven’s Manna centric.

Reckless Thievery -- Kyle, briefly and very reluctantly, becomes a Rider. Set post-game; featuring Tobi-Kadachi my beloved.

Bitter Sweet -- Kyle loses a heart in the middle of the Hakolan jungle and gets dragged back to camp the village by a Nargacuga. What a fool. Set post-game.

Gifts Sunk Into the Sea -- you are eleven, your grandfather is dead, and you are alone in a house that suddenly feels far too big for one. Set pre-game, player character centric.

It’s me and the cat (and you, maybe) -- modern college AU. Kyle illegally cares for his family’s cat in the dorms and is very stressed out about it. His ecology labmate and her six dogs does not make it any easier. 

In the Works:

Promise Not to Fly Away -- Kyle’s eldest brother is getting married, except that Kyle just might ruin the wedding for everyone in his bid to win a bet against the rest of his siblings. [Chapters 2 of 3 (?)]

SCRIBBLES

Local Island Child [1] [2] [3]

The children are antagonistic

Monsties [1] [2]

STORIES 2 ARTBOOK

Assorted Notes

OVERHEARD GOSSIP

Lulucion Gossip:

Everyone loves cats (rightly so): [1] [2]

Gems from Assertive Girl (aka Kyle’s greatest fan): [1] [2]

Being nosy about other peoples’ relationships: [1] [2]

Felyne Shelter:

Relationship Goals

Kamura Gossip:

Seihaku and Komitsu Saga: [1] [2]

Poetry: [1]

Questionable advice from cats

Meowscles

Everyone loves Tsuriki (as they should)

Grandpa that will embarrass you at the workplace (thanks Master Hojo)

Elgado Gossip:

Are you getting enough rest, Fio?

Apple dangos

Princess Chichae Saga: [1] [2] [3]

Tartar vs Seagulls

Stew in a Bread Bowl (coming soon to a stall near you!)

The Housekeeper learned to make soup just for you! (I love him)

[heartwoodfurnishedhomes]

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Services: Listing Optimization & Marketing, Data Driven Dynamic Pricing, Revenue Optimization, Online Owner's Portal & Monthly Reporting, Housekeeping Services, Linen Service, Supply Restocking, 24/7 Guest Services, In-House Maintenance, Sub-Contractor Contacts & Professional Services

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[kirstenlinae]

Trying to shift

I attended a Zoom OA meeting today. I wanted to join one at 9am and then again at 9:30am but, the passcodes for the meetings wouldn't work for me on my zoom account for some reason. Then there were a couple of meetings that just didn't start at all, I waited like 10 minutes past the meeting time for both and no host came in to start them. Very frustrating. However, I did find one that I like and I will try to make it a habit to go to again on Wednesday mornings at 10. It was a small meeting, only 6 of us. All the ladies were older than me, most of them much older. That doesn't matter to me, though. I figure, the older the members are, the more wisdom that they have to share. In the beginning of the meeting we talked about tools for recovery and today's assigned tool was the eating/meal plan. It seemed like this particular meeting didn't assign itself to any strict regimen as far as a meal plan goes, everyone had a different definition of their own eating plan. I was asked to share and I did a couple of times where it was relevant. Everyone posted their phone number in the chat, including me. I haven't received any texts just yet but, one of the members I talked with after the meeting had invited me to speak at another meeting that is on Friday nights, about my sobriety from drugs and alcohol. I told her that I couldn't this week because I work second shift on Fridays usually but, I could request off for a Friday in the future and call in to this particular meeting. It felt good to have my sobriety recognized so quickly, even though I'm technically still struggling from an addiction (food). Before we parted ways, she said, "I hope your food brings you peace today." I appreciate that sentiment. I only have a little bit of anxiety from what I ate for "breakfast," however, I have a plan for the rest of the day and I am confident that I can stick to it.

I would like to try one OA zoom meeting a day for a little while. Find a few that I would like to attend regularly. As I mentioned in a previous post, there are couple that are pretty local to me but, they are held during the days/times that I usually work, also. So, unless my schedule changes or I request off, the in-person meetings are not conducive to my regular work schedule.

I have been thinking about discussing a few things with my dietician at our next appointment. I could call her but, I want to wait to see how the next month goes and I want to see what the psychologist says regarding my evaluation for surgery. If the psychologist is good at her job, she will see what I already know. I don't know that I am ready for surgery so quickly. I think I would benefit from a longer monitored diet regimen, some more OA under my belt, and some more food addiction-related therapy as well. I also think it would benefit me to make my own diet plan, tailored to the one I am already on for surgery. I think I need to make more concrete plans/goals for myself because right now, that concept seems foggy to me.

In other news, my interview for that full-time job got rescheduled to next Tuesday. Pretty annoying but, I worked for that company before and honestly, it doesn't surprise me. Since applying for that job, however, I have been thinking twice about going back to work full-time. For one, my biggest housekeeping client said that she is referring me to one of her friends so, I could potentially get another house in my schedule. Second, in order to make moving to full-time even worth it (meaning, quit housekeeping and working part-time), I would have to make at least like $18/hour and I know that place isn't going to pay me near that. I would be surprised if they did, let's just say that. Lastly, I need the flexibility of working part-time because of my myriad of doctor's appointments, my responsibility to take my boyfriend to work every day on second shift and my housekeeping clients that I've made a commitment too. Plus, my small business is growing...which is what I set out to do 6/7 months ago, anyway. I think I would like to work somewhere other than the hotel, though. This morning, I applied to two different Torrids that are kind of close to me. We'll see if anything happens with that, I guess.

That's all I've got for today. I have to get ready for work in a bit. Until next time <3

[cheapcleans08]

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[ssupremebattery]

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