#modest self-reflection

[corporateintel]

How Sure Are You?

Lately I’ve been struck by a surprising phenomenon finding its way into all kinds of discussions. That would be the expression of certainty. It seems increasingly in many of the conversations I’m having that others have reached conclusions they feel no further need to revisit. It’s more than certainty. It’s absolute certainty. Here are some varied examples: Let me tell you what the Fed is…

[mariocki]

Honor Blackman guest stars as art expert Syd Lewis in Saber of London: Deep in the Heart of Chelsea (1.3, NBC, 1957)

[mystiika]

nukh tag drop

[immoral-stranger]

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 // 𝐌𝐕𝟏

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒. 🪐 “I like to stick to walls. Observing conversations, lifting them when they fall.” – Foster the People, Fire Escape.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Word count: 5k

Warnings: There's a dinner party and reader is a chef, so a lot of talk about food. Reader is also very self-deprecating. Allusions to issues regarding mental health and self-worth, but it's not really the main story. It makes sense, I promise, I just don't know how to warn about it.

A/N: My sister requested this after we watched the movie Sommartider (very swedish), so there's a similar scene in that. I personally find this one very cute. ♡

The apartment smelled of butter and garlic, the scent clinging to the sun-warm kitchen, filled with light that spilled through the sheer linen curtains. It was small but charming, a snug little nest tucked into the hills of the French Riviera, not too far from Nice. You stood at the counter, hands damp from having peeled potatoes, a half-prepared gratin tray in front of you. It had been a gift from your parents, a fittingly named Marseille bleu Le Creuset roasting pan. You would’ve never bought it for yourself—too expensive—but as a gift, you’d been thankful to receive it. 

“Did you decant the wine like I told you?” Imogen’s voice drifted from the other room, where she was preening in front of the gilded mirror you’d picked up at a flea market. It wasn’t her style—too rustic, too worn—but she’d said it added “charm” to your place, always opting for a backhanded compliment instead of the truth. She hated your style because it was the opposite of hers. 

You didn’t look up from your work. “No, uhm—”

“Kinda busy,” she interrupted, breezing in. Imogen always moved like she was on a runway, even barefoot in her sister’s modest kitchen. Her hair was swept into a sleek bun, and she wore a silk blouse that you suspected cost more than your entire apartment deposit. Sponsored, most definitely. She paused to eye the tray in front of you. “What even is that?”

“The base to dauphinoise potatoes,” you said, flicking a glance at her. She didn’t care about the answer; she never did. Imogen asked questions to fill the air, not to gather information. You also suspected that she loved the sound of her own voice so much that she never felt the need to shut the fuck up. 

She wrinkled her nose, but it was half-hearted, like a habit she wasn’t willing to break. “I still can’t believe you do this out of pure enjoyment.”

You shrugged, lifting a knife to thinly slice another potato. “Everyone needs to eat, Imogen.”

“Yeah, that’s what Uber Eats is for,” she said breezily, perching on one of your barstools. “No need to go to culinary school.”

You turned to give her a pointed look, hand on your hip. “And who do you think works in the kitchens at the restaurants you order from?”

Imogen made a face, part exasperated and part amused, and waved you off. “You do not always have to poke holes in other people’s logic. It’s an unattractive trait.”

Before you could respond, the sharp trill of the doorbell cut through the room. Imogen’s eyes widened, and she hopped off the stool in a single fluid motion. “Oh god, that’s them—” She smoothed her blouse and gave herself a quick glance in the reflection of a hanging copper pot. “Do I look good?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but your voice softened in spite of yourself. “You always do. It’s your job.” 

As Imogen floated toward the door, a knot of tension twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy—it never had been. It was more complicated than that: a mix of frustration and yearning that you didn’t want to untangle. Imogen walked through life as though she owned the air around her, while you had spent most of yours holding your breath. 

She pulled the door open with a practiced flourish, stepping aside to let Daniel stroll in first. His confidence and laughter preceded him, a quick kiss placed on Imogen’s cheek, and she giggled in a way that made you want to hurl. 

Daniel moved with the kind of ease that made it impossible to tell if he was posing or simply existing. Former Formula 1 driver, now Imogen’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, who appeared far more interested in globetrotting and sponsorships than in anything truly meaningful with her. With a bit of self-distance, you actually really enjoyed Daniel’s presence. He was funny and kind, even though you had nothing in common. 

“Danny, always good to see you,” you said, managing a polite smile as he stepped into the kitchen, lifting your attention from the food preparations. 

“Whatever it is you’re cooking smells wonderful,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “This is Max,” Danny added, stepping aside to reveal the man behind him. 

Through a gap, you could spot Imogen in the entryway, observing your reaction and how you greeted the both of them. It was almost like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or, worse—embarrass her. You, of course, knew who she had invited over for dinner. You’d had to sit through hours worth of gossip all the times you and Imogen caught up on each other’s lives. So, having two world-famous athletes stand in your kitchen wasn’t as surreal as it may sound. 

Max was taller than you’d expected, his broad shoulders and quiet presence making the doorway seem smaller. Clad in a simple black t-shirt, he seemed like any other guy your age. He looked relaxed but not indifferent, his gaze curious as he took in your modest apartment.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the rising amusement. “Danny, I don’t know if it’s funny or offensive that you think I don’t know who he is.” 

They both chuckled slightly at your words, and it was like you could see how tension released from Imogen’s shoulders, instantly becoming a couple centimeters shorter. 

“I would shake your hand, Max, but I have oil all over mine,” you said, holding up your slick fingers as evidence, before returning to the food, dealing with a marinated cut of meat. 

“Right,” Danny said, clapping Max on the shoulder and steering him further into the room. “She’s got this whole culinary genius thing going on, doesn’t she? Always smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”

“Not exactly,” you said, though the compliment made your cheeks feel warm. You glanced up at Max, who was still watching you, his smile small but genuine.

“Well, don’t let us interrupt your masterpiece,” Imogen said airily. “We’ll stay out of your way. You’ve got this under control, right?”

You only nodded, turning back to the food. It wasn’t until you heard Imogen’s laughter trailing into the living room that you allowed yourself to relax. There was a faint comfort in being in your element, even if you weren’t entirely alone.

In the background, you heard them talk as Imogen poured up glasses of wine for everyone. The wine she had forgotten to decant—that you knew needed air to taste decent. You heard her talk about the wine like it was something special. You, however, knew that she had stolen all of her knowledge from when she shot an ad for a winery somewhere in South Africa, and it didn’t particularly look like either Max or Danny cared that much. Ironic, for someone who had their own wine company, but you also got tired of hearing Imogen talk about things she didn’t really care enough about to research but talked about anyway to seem interesting. 

As she poured the fourth and final glass, you saw Max pick up two of them in your periphery. You tried to not visibly tense up as you heard his steps approach across your creaking wooden floors. He set both the glasses down on your kitchen island with a careful clink. 

With a wordless nod, you thanked him, picking one of the glasses up and swiveling the red liquid around to aerate it. 

Max lingered near the counter, his hands tucked into his pockets as he studied the array of ingredients you had spread out around you. “Is that you?” he asked, nodding toward a framed photo on the wall. 

It was one of the few remnants of your short-lived modeling career—an editorial shot of you, disturbingly close up, showing skin texture and flyaway hairs, vivid watercolour-like makeup in patches around your face and neck. You didn’t even look like yourself in it, which maybe was why it was the only photo of yourself you could bear seeing every day as you spent time in your kitchen. 

“Totally narcissistic, I know,” you snorted, keeping your eyes on the frying pan sizzling on the stove. 

“No, uhm, I didn’t mean it like that.” Max’s tone softened. “I think it looks cool. You must model too then?” 

“Nope.” You shook your head, glancing up at him, surprised by his sincerity. “I mean, I tried to, but I quit a while ago and went to culinary school.”

“That explains all this.” Max said, gesturing to the kitchen.

“I may have gone overboard,” you admitted, laughing softly. 

Imogen, perched on the edge of the sofa like a cat surveying her domain, twirled a lock of her hair idly before cutting in smoothly. “Is she boring you with her food talk, Max?” Her voice had that lilting quality you recognized well—equal parts teasing and dismissive, designed to simultaneously charm and belittle.

You stiffened instinctively, your movements freezing, spatula scraping the bottom of the pan. 

Max, however, straightened slightly, his casual stance shifting. “Not at all,” he replied, his tone easy but resolute, as if dismissing her suggestion entirely. Then he turned toward you. “Actually…” He hesitated, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, probably not,” you said, trying to recover from sounding too surprised. “Imogen always says that I’m like a dictator in the kitchen and that my recipes are unreadable.” 

Max stepped closer, peering down at your notebook with recipes, pages filled with messy handwriting, arrows, and scratchy diagrams. “No, I get it. It’s like a mind map. Makes it easier to see the process,” he said after a moment. “Even if I don’t know what half of these things mean. What even is… a wild turkey?” 

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised that he could make sense of your ramblings. Looking over, you saw his finger point to one ingredient. You let out an unguarded laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “It’s bourbon, for the marinade,” you explained. “Does this look like turkey meat to you?”

The meat sizzling in the frying pan was obviously some cut of beef, to judge by the colour. You didn’t need to be a culinary expert to know that. 

“No,” Max admitted with a grin. “And it would be weird to measure meat in tablespoons.” 

Your lips quirked upward, and you reached for a pear from the fruit bowl beside you, along with a cutting board and a little knife. You were hesitant to give him one of your good knives, worried he’d cut himself the first thing he did. It was quite common for people to do when they were unfamiliar with the sharpness a chef’s knife could have. 

“I guess you can chop that pear in little cubes, if you want to help.” 

Max took the pear from you, turning it over in his hands as if he were inspecting some foreign object. “A pear?” 

“It’s for the salad,” you explained, already turning back to your own task. 

“You can put pear in a salad?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a pear since I was about seven.” 

You arched a brow, glancing at him over your shoulder to see that he was fully sincere. With swift movements, you took the knife and cut a slice of the pear before dipping it into a vinaigrette you’d already prepared. 

“Try it, for science,” you said, holding it up for him to taste. 

Max hesitated before taking a small bite, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed. Then he nodded, his expression lightening. “Huh, you know what you’re doing.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you dismissed his comment, turning to look at the stove again. 

Max chuckled in response, shaking his head. He then stepped closer to the counter as he grabbed a knife. His movements were unpracticed but deliberate, the pear wobbling slightly as he began chopping it into uneven pieces. You felt the familiar itch of not being in control, almost taking over your own movements. But, you stopped thinking for a moment. Dinner wouldn’t be ruined just because the pear wasn’t in perfect cubes. And Max was actually putting in effort, biting down on his tongue, a line forming between his brows as he focused.

“Are you always this much of a perfectionist,” you asked, viewing his motions, “or are you just showing off in front of me?” 

“I’ve never put this much brain capacity into anything before,” Max joked, adding a laugh as he examined one of the misshapen pear cubes. 

For a moment, the kitchen fell into an easy rhythm. Imogen and Danny’s laughter floated in from the other room, a sharp contrast to the quiet concentration shared between you and Max. You didn’t usually let anyone help in the kitchen—it was your sanctuary, your domain—but for some reason, with Max fumbling his way through chopping fruit and throwing curious questions your way, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. 

When the food was done, the four of you gathered around your dining table, decorated with pottery and plates that you had collected throughout the years. Nothing matched, just like you preferred it. The golden hour crept through the windows as the room filled with light from the sun and flickering candles. 

And the dinner went fine, just like it always did, even though you couldn’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario of accidentally poisoning someone, or forgetting an allergy, maybe dropping the main dish right on the floor. Your sister and her company ate like they enjoyed it at least. The added blur of wine helping with the atmosphere. 

You were always the most quiet one in group settings, only speaking when spoken to, really. But you liked it that way. The stories Max and Daniel could tell from their lives were vastly more interesting than anything you had experienced anyway. Imogen too lived a more eventful life with fashion weeks and world travelling. Everyone seemed to like it that way too, the scrape of forks against plates punctuating Danny’s latest story. 

“…and when I finally got the bloody thing out of the house, the neighbour’s dog chased it straight back in,” Danny concluded, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. Imogen giggled, dabbing her lips with a napkin in that poised way of hers.

Max chuckled but shifted his gaze to you, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “So, how did you end up going from modeling to cooking?” He asked, after Danny was done telling the detailed story about a snake entering his house back home in Australia. 

You didn’t realise for how long you’d been quiet until you were now forced to speak, your voice sounding foreign to even your own ears. Setting your fork down, you answered, “I gave myself one last runway season to see if I could support myself. I walked three shows, while Imogen walked like thirty.”

“Thirty-two,” Imogen corrected, not missing a beat. She reached for her wine glass, taking a delicate sip before adding, “I’ll always believe you could’ve done it if you didn’t give up so easily.” Her tone was light but pointed. 

Your lips tightened. “I didn’t give up, Imogen—I moved on.” 

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” she said with a faint shrug. “You never see yourself as anything special, always such a plain Jane.” 

The words settled heavily in the air, their weight pressing against your chest. For a brief moment, the table fell silent, the only sound the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. You forced yourself to maintain an even expression as you reached for your glass of water. 

“It’s kind of hard to when you’re having dinner with three child prodigies,” you answered, letting out a pathetic laugh to conceal your emotions. 

For someone who was so afraid of you embarrassing her, Imogen really had no issue with her own words causing embarrassment for others. 

Max frowned slightly, his hands stilling as he turned toward you. “I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with something else—discomfort, perhaps.

“Yeah, right,” Danny said, nudging Max with an elbow. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, mate. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Max smiled faintly but didn’t reply. There was a softness in his expression that made your stomach twist, though you quickly moved your gaze to look at your plate; the uneven shapes of pear in the salad were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 

The conversation shifted, as it always did with Imogen, back to her. Something about a designer or a photographer saying she was the best model to work with. Something about a socialite event where ridiculous things had happened. Ridiculous meaning stupidly expensive or over the top. You wanted to laugh, knowing that they most likely didn’t use the real thing for the crazy champagne fountains she talked about, or that the sturgeon caviar they had served was a cheap knock-off, because no chef in their right mind would use the amount she mentioned. 

You zoned out as she talked, only starting to pay attention again when the conversation drifted towards what they were doing tonight and that they might need to call a cab soon. 

“Oh, where are you going?” you asked, unsure if you actually cared. 

“A sponsored event on a yacht in the marina. You know the jewelry company I did an ad for?” she replied casually, her tone almost bored.

You nodded, though the familiar ache of exclusion began to settle in your chest. You knew the exact advert she was referring to, not because you cared, but because those freaking pictures of her were everywhere. In stores, on every social media app, on digital billboards across multiple cities of the French Riviera—hell, you’d even seen it at a bus stop. 

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to come,” she added. The statement wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same. “You never do.” 

Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass as you gave a small nod, keeping your face neutral. “No, I guess you’re right.” 

Max hesitated, glancing between you and Imogen. “I mean, she could come if she wanted to, right?”

“Yeah,” Imogen said, tilting her head as though the idea had never occurred to her. “I guess I could make a call to get you on the list.” 

“Don’t bother, you know it’s not my scene anyway,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you intended.

Danny grinned, leaning back in his chair. “A wild night for her is solving a crossword puzzle with a pen you can’t erase.” 

“Or,” Imogen added with a smirk, her eyes glinting with mischief, “when she’s brave enough, watching an episode of Criminal Minds instead of Friends like she usually does.”

Their laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls with the kind of ease you’d never quite mastered. It wasn’t malicious—at least not intentionally—but it still left a weight in your chest, heavy and familiar.

You kept your head down, pushing the last bit of salad around your plate, and told yourself you didn’t care. This was the dynamic, after all. Imogen had always been the star of the show, and Danny loved playing her supporting act. You had other friends who understood you better, who you had more in common with. Max, though—Max had been a surprise. And even now, as their laughter rang on, you caught him glancing at you from across the table, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

The dinner ended not long after. They had places to be, important people to talk to—while you had sitcoms to watch and dishes to take care of. You were happy to see Imogen every once in a while when she and Danny were both in Monaco, and you loved cooking for people, no matter who they were. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little happy knowing that Imogen was busy with work all throughout the upcoming month. 

As they filtered out, their voices trailing off into the warm Riviera night, the apartment felt suddenly too quiet. Locking the door after them, you slid down onto the floor, sitting with your knees tucked up towards your body, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hands, not caring if mascara crumbled all over your face. You felt empty, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. The half-drunk bottle of wine on the kitchen counter looked temping as you considered finishing it yourself. 

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Max trailed behind Danny and Imogen as they strolled toward the cab waiting just down the street. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea, and the stars twinkled faintly above the rooftops.

Danny was cracking a joke, and Imogen’s laughter rang out like a bell, but Max barely registered it. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his mind somewhere else entirely—back upstairs, at the table, watching you push your food around with that faint, detached smile.

He slowed his steps, his feet dragging. The idea of the yacht party, the glitz and endless small talk, suddenly felt suffocating. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Max hated events like that. Everyone knew that. And while it was nice to catch up with Danny since they didn’t see much of each other nowadays, he found Imogen insufferable. He could play padel with Danny tomorrow if he wanted to talk more with him. Before he could think better of it, Max stopped altogether.

“Hey,” he called after them, making Danny and Imogen turn around.

“What’s up?” Danny asked, his brow furrowing.

Max hesitated, then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I think I forgot my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Imogen gave him a bemused smile, her head tilting slightly. “You sure? It’s not like we can wait forever.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, already stepping back. He waved them off. “Have fun.”

He turned before he could see their expressions and made his way back to the building.

The walk up the stairs felt oddly daunting now, each step heavier than the last, as though the weight of his own indecision was pulling him back. The soft hum of the building at night—the faint creak of pipes, the muffled sounds of life behind closed doors—seemed to grow louder with every passing moment. Max reached your door and hesitated, his hand hovering uncertainly near the wood.

What was he even going to say? He wasn’t the type to overthink things, but this felt different. He didn’t want to overstep. What if you didn’t want company? The evening had already been a mixed bag of awkward moments, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse.

Max sighed, his arm lowering slightly, just about ready to turn back when he heard your voice from the other side of the door.

“I miss you too, like craaazy,” you said, your voice muffled but clear enough through the door. Max froze, his curiosity getting the better of him. You sounded close, as though you were standing right by the door. Picking up the pieces, he figured you were talking to someone over the phone. 

“Imogen and Daniel came over for dinner earlier, and he brought a friend of his, and it was the most awkward thing ever,” you spoke again. 

Max frowned slightly. He was the friend, of course. While he’d sensed some discomfort during the evening, particularly whenever the conversation turned toward you, he hadn’t thought it was that bad. Who would you be talking to like that anyway, debriefing something that had just happened? Did you have… a boyfriend? 

“Mum,” you added, your voice cutting through his doubt, “of course it was a boy.”

He relaxed a fraction, leaning slightly closer to the door without realizing it.

“A cute one, too,” you admitted. 

Max blinked, warmth creeping into his face. A cute boy. That was a twist he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t help but grin, his chest lifting slightly at the thought. And you definitely didn’t have a boyfriend.

“You don’t have to ask if I bottled it. You already know I did,” you said after a brief pause, your voice quieter now. “I’m not like Imogen. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be that easygoing.” 

Max was back to frowning, this time for a different reason. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wanted to knock, to interrupt, but he didn’t move.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you,” you said, your tone softening into affection as you ended the call. “Tell Dad I said hi. Buh-bye.”

Max barely gave himself a moment to think before he raised his hand and knocked. There was a pause, long enough for him to wonder if you’d heard, and then your voice came through the door. 

“Did you forget something?”

By the sound of your voice, he could tell that you were expecting it to be Imogen coming back for something. Not him. 

Max smiled despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, the words coming out more confidently than he expected. “I think I did.”

For a moment, there was silence, and then he heard rustling from behind the door, almost as if you’d stumbled to reach it. The lock clicked, and the door opened, revealing you with wide, startled eyes. You looked more tired than you had before, makeup and clothes a bit askew. He assumed Imogen had something to do with how polished you’d looked at the beginning of the evening. 

“Max?” you asked, your voice pitched slightly higher in surprise.

He cleared his throat, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was wondering…” he started, shifting his weight but keeping his tone light, “if maybe, I could stay here and be boring with you?” 

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, though the words sounded stupid the moment they left his lips. He half-expected you to laugh, but instead, you blinked at him, your surprise melting into something softer.

“Uhm, yeah,” you said, stepping back to let him in. “Sure.”

Max stepped inside, and for the second time that night, he was struck by how inviting your apartment felt. The uneven warmth of the terracotta tiles beneath his feet, the mismatched chairs around the small dining table, and the array of plants lining the windowsill. It was nothing like he was used to, yet it felt like the picture-perfect definition of the word home.

Moving into the kitchen, his eyes landed on something on the counter—a tray of something, its surface dusted with cocoa powder.

“You made dessert?” he asked, tilting his head toward it.

“Yeah,” you said, shutting the door behind him, smoothing out your shirt with your hands. “I made tiramisu. Want some?”

Max didn’t hesitate. Moments later, he was seated on your sofa with a fork in hand, his first bite of the tiramisu silencing any lingering awkwardness. “Fuck me, this is like the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.

You laughed, a soft, almost shy sound that Max couldn’t help but find adorable. You really couldn’t handle compliments well, and Max was going to use that to his advantage to make you wonderfully uncomfortable. “And you were going to have all this dessert for yourself instead of going out with us?” he asked, setting his fork down briefly to give you a look of mock betrayal.

“Well,” you said with a small shrug, sitting down beside him with your own plate of dessert. “I wasn’t really invited in the first place.”

Max frowned. “That’s not fair. They should’ve—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “Really. It’s not my scene anyway.”

Max studied you for a moment, his fork hovering over the dish. You were the opposite of so many people that he knew. And so similar to himself that it was almost scary to him. 

Tucking up your legs under your body, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa before you continued talking. “I tend to stick to the walls in places like that anyway. Just observing conversations, trying but failing to lift them when they fall.” 

“Do you also feel like you’ve got a foot in your mouth whenever you open it?” he wondered honestly. 

“Exactly. Always putting my foot in my mouth,” you replied with a chuckle. 

“Sounds impressive to me,” he joked with a grin. “I’m not that agile.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You were the one to bring it up.” 

For a moment, the apartment settled into a quiet hum, the faint sounds of the outside world barely audible through the walls. Max leaned forward, setting his plate down on your coffee table. The TV was noticeably black in front of the two of you.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “what is it tonight? A crime show or… what was the other thing?”

“Friends,” you replied, reading in his reaction. “You’ve never seen Friends?”

Max’s brows lifted. “Not really. Maybe bits and pieces, but I couldn’t tell you much about it.”

“Oh my god,” you said, your tone equal parts horror and humor as your eyes widened dramatically. “You have a lot to learn.”

He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me everything I need to know.”

You smiled, a real one that softened your whole face. You picked up the remote, turning on the pilot episode. Max wasn’t really paying attention, but he liked how certain funny things made you audibly laugh. The more you watched and the more tiramisu you ate—the more the comfortable feeling spread like a fire through your living room, silently burning as he placed an arm around you and shared your blanket. 

This wasn’t where he’d thought he’d end up as he had entered your apartment the first time tonight, but now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡

౨ৎ [ main masterlist . taglist . other love letters ]

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send @freyathehuntress

[zzencat]

Your Best Qualities - Current ⏳

From left to right. Breathe and choose.

Some of your best qualities in 5 bullet points! Decided we’d get a post to remind you of your best qualities, in case any of you guys are feelin’ down or going thru some tough weather. Let’s bring it back and focus on the good :)

To enhance accuracy before choosing: Clear your mind. Time is now patient and still. Close your eyes, inhale deeply, fill your chest up to the fullest, feel the soft air brush up against the ridges of your nose. Breathe out.

—————————

Pile 1. Feels like family…

• you’re definitely capable of bringing peace to others or keeping harmony within your own relationships, whether they be platonic or romantic — mediator skills or a person with good judgment

• you think twice before making moves or saying things — able to find balance between being the listener and being the speaker

• your resilience is unmatched!!!! — emotionally stable and can manage finances well

• loyal and uncaring of what others think — you stick to your crew and keep good people around you

• you’re super creative and your sense of timing is impeccable — you grab opportunities like it’s nothing. it’s like you always know what to say to make others feel good, reassured, comforted, confident

Points of Interest: good natured person or has good intentions in general; balanced af; leadership skills; a good head on your shoulders; extrovert-ambivert/very healthy introvert; entrepreneurial skills; ceo/vice president/secretary vibes; the type that listens to both sides of the story before acting; calm and peaceful; bounces back easily; thoughtful; considerate; family oriented; cares for others as well as oneself; clear minded; good work-life balance; open-minded; cautious in decision making; “confident” - justin bieber; good self esteem; good attitude; faith in your abilities; optimistic; creative; cares a lot for animals; people like being around you; possible mbti: healthy exxj, enxp, ixxj

—————————————

Pile 2. I got your back.

• intimidating and classified as a loner, but in the best way possible — you either have an expanse of knowledge OR do a great deal of self-reflection — very intuitive person (EXTREMELY)

• BIG, BIIIIIIG defender energy. when it comes to defending yourself or those you love, no one can do it better than you (have you ever considered being a lawyer btw?) — potential to be materially abundant and wealthy

• you empathize and feel for others easily, even when nobody else sees it or thinks that you do (but I’ll tell ya rn, most of the time you’re the most empathetic person in the room) — in a world full of evil, you’d make villains cry and can actually help them turn a new leaf — your level of empathy and understanding is on a totally different level

• independent and mature — if people come to anyone for advice or counseling, or just a good ear, it’s you

• you are very deep and insanely caring under the surface — you might approach things logically first and try to see things from all points of view before making a decision or advising other people — you really do have the biggest heart and only those who are close can see it

Points of Interest: introvert; very smart; spends a lot of time alone; VERY LOYAL !!!!!! (almost to the point of possessiveness); may need to work on control issues and rebalancing social life; communicates differently from others; sees things from a different perspective; offers good advice; good listeners; prone to pushing people away bc you start caring too much; knows who to trust and who not to; selective; secretly creative; very nurturing but kinda doesn’t want to show it; humble/modest/doesn’t want to be seen; wants to help people but doesn’t want to be put in the spotlight for it; you’ve felt more hurt/seen more trauma than those around you; defending like their lives depend on it; perfectionists; behind the scenes, extremely intuitive; possible mbti: inxj, healthy exxj

————————-

Pile 3. Life of The Party

• confident, outgoing, charismatic, funny as hell — there’s a lot of charm to you — you carry the energy fam, no you ARE the energy — you laugh/smile easily or cause others to

• highly ambitious and have the will to fight for what you want — you’d prob be the last one standing in a mr. beast challenge

• you light up the room !! (i keep hearing “baby, you light up my world like nobody else by 1D 😂😂😂) — potential for fame/someone in the public eye/someone in a position of power

• mischievous and fun to be around/has the most jokes — always up for a challenge or touching grass activities lmfaooo you’re always down to hang out — you don’t care if you look like an idiot as long as you’re having fun or are out with friends/family

• you don’t give up easily and take opportunities as they come — persistent, stubborn and strong-willed — you’ve achieved many things or definitely will in no time

Points of Interest: A-Class comedian; daredevil; extroverted or highly energetic; prominent fire energy, possible zodiac signs that are prominent in your natal chart (sun, moon, or rising): aries, leo, sagittarius; mistakenly seen as the leader of a group; impulsive; instigator; jumps on opportunities immediately; wearing what you want; impatient/bored easily; fast-paced; has the most friends/wants to have the most friends; easily sociable; questionable decision making, but has the most experience; likes to experiment; has seen a lot in life/plans to see a lot in life; probably a fan of fast and scary rollercoasters; among leaders, you’re the “fun” leader; confident with self-image

——————————

Teddy note: what is guuuuuuud guys!!?!?! I’m feelin pretty nice today so I thought I’d put this out for you all as a reminder of your good qualities 😊👍 we’ve all been working pretty hard lately!! Whether that’s on your physical, mental, emotional health—it’s all very draining to do SO I hope this reminds you of things you should remember to be proud of!! It’s a checkpoint! I hope it resonates with you and if not, leave it. Thank you v much guys 😎😎

Feedback through likes, comments, and feedback and very much supported!!

[weebsinstash]

*sigh* gosh you know, I have to say that one of my favorite things about Alastor is just the romanticism in the aesthetic of the time period he's from, specifically the fashion. I keep thinking of Alastor finding out you're his fated red-string-soulmate and thus, taking it on as his official duty to take care of you, which includes styling you, especially if you're a little, shall we say, homely

I just picture, he rolls up to your front door, following this new red string he hasn't seen in the almost 100 years he's been dead, almost scoffing at the nation he has one at all but being oh so curious anyways, and he's greeted by... you. Shy, quiet, modern you in your cheap modern clothes and your withdrawn demeanor. He's standing there in his suit with cologne and his cane and you've got like. An anime graphic tee and some sweatpants with dirty socks on and your hair is dry as fuck

But he's still instantly smitten. You're like a little puppy left out in the rain who needs a nice warm bath and a good brushing. He's already having so many ideas of how to fix you up like his new favorite doll, and he can tell your self esteem could be much much higher than what he's seeing, so, it's for you as well, isn't it?

He isnt... ENTIRELY intending to be demeaning, but, he sees how little effort you put into yourself (because you hate yourself lmao) and he just tut-tuts, "oh no, this simply will not do, my dear!". He's not much of a capitalist, but, it seems he'll have to take you shopping for some nicer garments, won't he? He'll pay for everything, of course! He definitely has to get you something as lovely as you, and you're a total shrinking violet when he winds up taking you to a tailor for both making adjustments to things he's picked up for you, but also, having something completely custom made.

He gets all warm and fuzzy as he watches you gaze upon your reflection in a full length mirror after he's dressed you for the first time, clearly unused to seeing yourself like this, especially if you're a lady and wearing the long skirt and dresses from his time are completely foreign to you, bringing a gentle feminity that you're unaccustomed to. Maybe, just maybe, it even makes you cry a little bit. You ask him if he's sure he wants to pay for all of this, to 'waste his money on you when you still look "like you"', and he just scoffs. "What are you even talking about? You look absolutely stunning, my dear! I fear I may even have to hide you away so that none of the perverted scoundrels down here get any funny ideas!"

I know this is so... tender but I actually really like the idea of... Reader being really exhausted and run down and, maybe you're even SUPER sick and he helps run you a bath, rolling up his sleeves as he pulls up a stool next to the old claw bathtub he has you in to help wash you and your hair, fingers gently massaging shampoo onto your scalp, dutifully combing out all the knots, putting in more love in dedication to your hair than even you do. He helps you out of the tub and there's a set of brand new modest pajamas with a thin robe that fit you perfectly and are so soft and comfy, the demon maybe even putting your washed locks in a bonnet or getting you a silk pillowcase as he leads your wobbly tired self to a bed with freshly cleaned linens, pulling the blanket up over you, putting an ice pack or cold washcloth on your forehead to help you keep cool, fetching you a glass of water for your parched throat and sitting at your bedside reading a book until you've peacefully drifted off to sleep in your new room. Alastor doesn't let himself get a wink of sleep until you're in deep slumber, but, even still, he can't help but simply sit there and watch the soft rise and fall of your chest, glued to your bedside all night, still finding himself staring at you as your eyes flutter awake in the morning and realizing, as cute as you are asleep, he misses you ever so much when you're not around to talk to

Just in general, you two having matching pajamas as the man has you sleeping in two twin beds in the same room. He may let you develop your own sense of style but he adores adding touches of red to your clothing so the two of you match, and if you have a personal color of your own, you may occasionally spot the Radio Demon sporting an accesory with that same hue.

It isn't terribly long after he's met you and brought you into a shared living space at all until he's already looking for engagement bands and wedding rings behind your back. He wants to keep it a surprise after all! He's perusing so many options styled from his time period, delicate silvers with spiraling filigree and modest diamonds, unable to decide on ovals or circles or square stones or even the band itself, something sturdy yet classy. Yet... he just adores you so much that he's not sure he can make a decision! It actually gets him very flustered and frustrated; the ring has to be absolutely perfect, and of course, he'll want to help you pick out a dress as well! And he'll have to decide on a venue! Which of his cohorts does he want to invite? What if you just look so beautiful that some of the guests want you for themselves?? Now he's just getting paranoid

Oh, Alastor will certainly continue to dress you up and take you out to dinner and jazz clubs and taking you dancing, but, unbeknownst to you, he may or may not be hiding an engagement band under his gloves and a little velvet box in his coat pocket. It gives him such an immense joy just to carry them, but he hopes someday soon, he'll be able to look at you in your pretty dresses and your cute little cloche hats and be able to eventually admire the sight of that ring around your finger as he holds your hand. Until then, he's just happy being with you for every moment that he can, even in the moments where you're not even aware that he's there at all, hiding in the shadows and making sure he's doing everything to keep you safe :)

[mitskicain]

navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ the doghouse — ken sato x reader

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: any guy could let a girl fuck him, but it takes a real man to be somebody’s bitch

content warning: graphic details of sex, p in v, unprotected sex, possible spit play, slight breeding kink, cowgirl, teasing, denial, marking, use of collar and leash, elements of BDSM

word count: 1.5k

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004: collared and leashed

Ken—whimpering, gasping, moaning under your grasp—flushed and hot all over. God, what a sight.

“That’s good, you’re so good for me,” you coo in his ear, eyeing the reflection of the both of you.

You were positioned behind him, arms stretched around him, stroking the base of his cock—agonizingly slow. You kept your grip light, barely allowing for any sort of hard friction between him and the skin of your palms, which kept him just about on the edge, but not being able to push himself through it.

He’s been on the edge for 45 minutes.

“You’re torturing me,” he says in between pants, trying to compose himself—still trying to compose yourself. You found his efforts adorable, trying to remain modest and shy despite him being completely undressed in front of your fully clothed self. He clung desperately to whatever little control he had, and you intended to strip himself of every single bit of it. It didn’t matter that he was likely some billionaire rich kid, successful athlete superstar whatever—tonight he was yours to do with as you pleased. He swore on it, begging for you to take him when he was kissing all up on our neck, the two of you writhing on the floor.

Now look at him: pathetic, begging; not even to cum. Just for you to tighten your grip, to go faster, anything to drag him out of the limbo you had kept him in for nearly an hour. Because you can edge and tease someone only for so long before the pleasure mixes in frustration, mixes into pain—the dull ache that reverberated throughout him, aching for release.

“Please,” he whines, “please, god.”

He tries, without fruition, to buck his hips up into your grip. You counter this by quickly wrapping your legs around his waist, forcefully parting his legs and keeping him from being able to thrust up. He whines again, frustration building—trying, again, but find it useless as you’re holding him down.

You smirk, entertained by his distress, and lick the side of his face. In this position, with his entire back pressed up against you, you could feel every breath he took, every twitch, every shiver. You relished in the feeling, being able to understand the complex mechanism of his body. Really, you wanted to be the best fuck of his life. You wanted to be unforgettable, burn yourself into his memory—because he had the audacity of reinserting himself into your life again, couldn't stand just being a one-night-stand, thought himself above it. So now you were going to fuck him, break him—such that he would never even dream of reaching this height of pleasure with anyone else but you. You felt a growing sense of possession, an ugly jealousy that began to bubble in the bit of your stomach. You retaliated silently by biting into the skin of his flesh.

Ken jolts at the feeling—a sudden, sharp pain that caused him to wince and once again buck up into your grasp. You let out a deep, throaty laugh into his skin, sending vibrations down his spine, feeling the goosebumps that rose on the back of his neck. He exhales in relief when you release your mouth off him, a few breathy moans escaping his lips as you lick at the tender flesh.

“You,” he mumbles, “you bit me.”

You chuckle.

“I did,” you say, leaning forward to look at his flustered expression, “you like it?”

He turns away, covering his face with his hands, and you laugh. He was adorable. That made you want to ruin him even more.

“Hey,” you beckon, turning his head to look at you, hand on his jaw. “Don’t hide from me, come here.”

You press your lips onto his—the first time you’ve done this—and regret for having held out on him for so long. He tasted like heaven. Like every single indulgence you’ve ever denied yourself. You hum into the kiss, sucking on his bottom lip, your tongue swiping against the entrance of his mouth before pulling away—a string of saliva connecting the two of you. You smile at his expression: eyes half lidded and glazed over with desire. How could you possibly not let him have what he wanted?

He lunges forward, capturing you in another kiss, this time all teeth and tongue. Hungry. Feral, even. He’s climbing on top of you, cock bobbing, precum beading on the tip. Your hands find them in his hair again, pulling his head back—another trail of spit.

“Stop,” you command, and you can almost hear him whine; see the frown that curls at the edges of his lips. You slip out from underneath him, his expression confused. He tries to stop you but just tumbles off the couch, crawling on the floor to reach for your ankle as you walk away from him.

“No! Please, I’m sorry,” he cries out, his cheek against the skin of your calves. “I’m sorry, don’t go, please. I’ll behave. I promise.”

You hum at the sight, enjoying the way he begged—writhed for you, the desperate look in his eyes—like he’d combust if you took your gaze off him. You promptly grabbed one of the new collars you had bought after Lassie chewed out her last one—black and sleek—and clipped it around his neck, much to his bewilderment at the accessory. You held the leash in your hand, waiting to see if he’d protest, and when he didn’t, you dragged him off to the bedroom with you, him trailing closely behind. You didn’t even ask him to crawl, he could’ve walked if he wanted, but he stayed on the floor, in fear that acting remotely human would provoke you even further.

His mouth was heaven. J as good for kissing as it was for burying into your cunt. As you laid there, thighs on his shoulders, spread for him as he licked you up with such fervor, an urgency, like he was trying to catch every drop of you before you melted away. You grind your hips against him, the crook of his nose practically perfect. Built for you, you’d say. When you tugged on the leash, pulling him towards you to kiss him again—you saw how the entire lower half of his face was practically soaked with your slickness. You could taste yourself on his lips when you pushed him back on the bed, climbing on top of him again.

He winced when you pushed him inside of you, completely bottoming out in the first thrust. When you lift your hips up, tightening your core so there’s a bit of resistance, and you hear him suck in another breath. You feel his hands grab roughly at your thighs, white knuckled and all, as he makes that pained expression again.

“What’s wrong, baby? You can tell me,” you whisper sweetly, watching him closely. “Too much?”

He nods his head, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched, trying to keep himself from moaning.

“Aw,” you coo, “too bad.”

You slam down into him, feeling the tip of him kiss your cervix. He gasps, and as you begin to rock your hips, riding him at a feverishly quick pace, he can’t control himself. He’s a flushed, writhing mess underneath you—holding on for dear life, whimpering to himself, whining. For a moment, you think you’re going too hard, so you slow your pace, but you find his hands on your waist and him buck up into you, chasing after his own pleasure. You could feel the way his slick covered cock thrusted in and out of you, lewd wet sounds and all, hitting your g-spot repeatedly. You throw your head back, drowning in ecstasy. God, how could you ever go back to other people after this?

When you sink your teeth into his neck again, you have devious intentions. One, yes, to hear his oh-so delicious moans, but two, because you wanted to mark him. You wanted to leave him a reminder of you when he looks at himself in the mirror tomorrow, something for the paparazzi and tabloids to pick up on during his games or interviews—a sign of your existence on his body, a memory of tonight, what you did to him, that he was yours.

“You feel so good baby,” you say, on the edge, “so good.”

Kenji just whines underneath you, bucking up into you faster. Your climax hits you like a home run, pulsing and fluttering around him, making a mess of his lap and your sheets. He follows closely after, hips stuttering as he spills into you, still thrusting, riding out his orgasm. Almost immediately, you feel his lips trail up the entirety of your arm, your neck, before finally crashing onto your lips. He kisses you like he’s grateful, all gentle and loving, and for a moment, you melt into his touch, arms locking around him. But being the good boy he was, he couldn't just leave you be—his cum and your arousal dripping out of your pussy. So he flips you over and laps at you again, cleaning you up, drawing another orgasm out of you, or two, or three—you wouldn’t know, you’ve lost count.

All you know is that Kenji’s the best fuck of your life. That nothing could ever possibly beat this. He traces letters on your clit, spelling out T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U-T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U.

He was spectacular—the greatest—and he deserved it. Every last bit of it.

prev | next

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author’s note: god 🙏 I see what you’ve done for others (the MC) I am once again asking for you to do the same for me (for me to be able to rail the fuck out of someone like this, or for someone to rail the fuck out of me like this) GOD PLEASEEE🛐🛐😫😫💥💥💥💥💥 the way that I was in disbelief when proofreading this 😭😭😭 I can’t believe I wrote all this like holy fuck the demons really possessed me 👹👹EITHERWAY I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY 💥💥 THIS IS FOR ALL THE FREAKS OUT THERE 🫵🫵‼️‼️‼️YOU GUYS SEEMED TO LOVE MY FIRST SMUT SCENE SO IM PRESENTING YOU GUYS WITH ANOTHER RAAAHHHH🗣️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

taglist: @luneariaa @moonjellyfishie @sweetcheeksbby-deactivated20240 @shittingonyourgrave @shauu @witcwitchy @fcklxnaa @despacito-uwu16 @mqshido @miffysoo @ybbayk @hore4ken @mochminnie @femmefqtqle @miratastic @lovingyeet @mythicalmo @yourfellowmarzipan @softdumplingposts @strayy-kidz

[extremely-judgemental]

Nesta isn’t a bitch, she is a mirror.

And somehow this isn’t apparent to the fandom. I’m aware this isn’t a firm, cohesive explanation but I don’t have the brain capacity for this. So take it however it resonates.

Papa Archeron is negligent towards his young daughters. Nesta in return neglects his care and abandons him like he abandoned them. This becomes the foundation for her anger and hatred.

Elain is the nicest sister and treats everyone with ‘compassion’. She offers company, validation, and emotional comfort which Nesta reciprocates and goes beyond that by protecting her from the world.

Feyre is domineering and mean. It’s not explicit in her words in the beginning, but it’s always underscored in her body language, and later on during the fights when Feyre says cruel things to Nesta, which she pays back in kind.

Nesta is wary yet polite to Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel during their initial visit. Cassian attacks first getting between Nesta and Feyre. Since then the IC treat her with hostility. The one moment Rhysand interacts with her like a person before the High Lords meeting, Nesta humours him and they share a joke. When he threatens her life or tries to control her, she retaliates.

Cassian has seen her as nothing but a vicious animal. He pokes at her, prods at her, which later results in Nesta lashing out. (I do wonder if this is why Nesta was changed from modest to hyper sexual to reflect Cassian’s exaggerated fetishisation. Can’t make him non-creepy if he goes on and on for pages about her ass while Nesta is dead serious about her virtue.)

Morrigan jokes about stealing her dress (from her body iirc) and Nesta comments on hers in return which is taken as an insult.

Amren looks at her with fascination as she does with all things Made, and Nesta reciprocates. That's why the two could develop a brief friendship.

Azriel is cordial and shows basic courtesy at times which she reflects back. He is the only one in the IC who never instigated a direct confrontation, and so their friendship.

Emerie is respectful and considerate when Nesta visits her shop. Nesta offers it back with the training and the solstice gifts.

Gwyneth values genuinity and authenticity. She pushes Nesta in the library until she is her true self instead of feigning politeness.

Nesta isn’t mean, temperamental, or sharp-tongued by herself. Instead she reflects what is directed at her. If she was just an angry bitch, we’d have moments where she lashes out at Gwyneth, Emerie or the priestesses at odd times without reason. Her disdain is always placed where it belongs, when the IC step on her boundaries or control her life, at Tamlin when she remembers what happened with Feyre, or Eris after she gets to know Morrigan’s past.

Nesta rarely initiates any interaction with the others. She needs to be pried into a conversation. She takes her time to gauge someone before she reacts to them. Often times, these first interactions set the pace for the rest of their relationship. That’s why she can have great chemistry with anyone. She mirrors them.

This can be considered a trait stemmed from her grooming which she still uses before building a relationship. Or, a lame writing trick to turn the character SJM butchered in the opening of her very first book into a likeable protagonist. Since Nesta’s inner thoughts don’t indicate she is manipulative enough or actively seeking that kind of validation from anyone, I will go with the latter.

[aventurineswife]

can i request argenti, aventurine, and boothill with a gender neutral reader who has long hair but struggles to style it? i swear doing anything beyond a ponytail is so complicated 😭 also your writing style is absolutely amazing !!!

Tangled in Your Hands

Tags: Argenti x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Gender Neutral Reader, Fluff, Established Relationship (Can be read Platonically), Domestic Moments, Hair Styling.

A/N: I have medium hair but I definitely get the struggle, it's painful 💀💔, also thank you!!! <33 i literally write these fics during night-time while I'm half asleep so I mostly write the characters a bit incorrecly or make them ooc💀

The sound of birdsong filtered through the open window of your modest cottage, but you barely noticed as you sat at the kitchen table, your head resting in your hands. Before you lay an array of hairbrushes, combs, and pins—all useless in the face of your long, unruly hair.

“Is something troubling you, my radiant muse?” Argenti’s voice, warm and musical, broke through your sulk.

You looked up to see him standing in the doorway, his red hair glowing like fire in the morning light. Clad in his knightly attire, he looked every bit the picture of chivalry and grace.

“My hair,” you admitted with a sigh, gesturing to the mess on your head. “I just can’t seem to make it look… decent.”

Argenti approached, his expression softening with understanding. “Your hair is as beautiful as the rest of you,” he said sincerely, “but if you wish for assistance, I would be honored to oblige.”

“You know how to style hair?” you asked, surprised.

“I have braided the manes of warhorses and woven laurels for festival days,” he said with a small smile. “I assure you, your hair is no greater challenge.”

He pulled a chair beside yours and reached for a brush. His hands were strong but careful as he worked through the tangles, murmuring quiet reassurances whenever you winced. Despite his self-proclaimed inexperience, his touch was steady and deliberate, each motion infused with patience and care.

“I find this task quite fulfilling,” he remarked after a while. “It is not often that I have the privilege of tending to something so delicate.”

When he finished, you turned to look in the mirror. Your hair was now styled in an intricate crown braid, adorned with a few wildflowers he had picked from the garden. It was charming and whimsical, perfectly reflecting your personality.

“It’s beautiful...” you whispered, touched by the effort he had put in.

“As are you.” Argenti replied, his voice filled with warmth.

You sat on the plush ottoman in your shared apartment, fingers tangled in your long hair as frustration simmered beneath your skin. The golden-framed mirror before you reflected the mess of locks that refused to cooperate, no matter how many attempts you made to tame them.

“Honestly, how do people make this look easy?” you muttered, glaring at your reflection.

Aventurine, lounging nearby in his signature attire, had been watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. He adjusted the rims of his glasses before setting aside the deck of cards he had been casually shuffling.

“Well, darling,” he said, standing and approaching you with a charming smile, “you’re not just people, are you? Perfection takes a bit more effort.”

You rolled your eyes at his teasing tone but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “Are you offering to help, or are you just here to commentate?”

He chuckled and crouched beside you, his hand brushing against your wrist as he gently took the brush from your hand. “Let’s make a wager,” he suggested, his voice light and playful. “If I can style your hair into something breathtaking, you owe me a favor. If I fail, I’ll owe you one instead.”

“And what counts as ‘breathtaking’?” you asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” he replied with a wink.

Before you could protest, he was already at work, fingers deftly moving through your hair. The rhythm of his motions was soothing, each stroke of the brush accompanied by his soft hums. Occasionally, he’d pause to tilt his head, observing his progress as though you were a masterpiece he was crafting.

“Where did you learn to do this?” you asked, curiosity piqued by his apparent skill.

“Oh, here and there,” he replied nonchalantly. “One picks up a few tricks in my line of work. Charm and presentation, my dear, are invaluable assets.”

Minutes passed, and you felt your initial frustration melt away, replaced by a sense of calm. Aventurine’s focus was unwavering, his usual flamboyant energy tempered by a surprising gentleness.

“There.” he announced finally, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

You turned to face the mirror and gasped. He had woven your hair into an elegant braid that cascaded over your shoulder, adorned with delicate twists and loops that framed your face beautifully. It was simple yet sophisticated, a style you had never managed to achieve on your own.

“It’s… perfect.” you said, genuinely awestruck.

“Breathtaking, you mean,” he corrected, his grin widening. “Now, about that favor—”

You laughed, reaching out to pull him into a hug. “Fine, you win. But don’t push your luck, mister.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he replied smugly, though his arms wrapped around you in return.

“Damn it...!” you muttered, wrestling with a stubborn knot in your hair.

Boothill leaned against the doorway of your shared abode, his arms crossed as he watched you struggle. “Need a hand there, sugar?”

You glanced at him, skeptical. “You know how to do hair?”

He smirked, pushing off the doorframe. “I’ve wrangled worse things than tangles in my time. Sit tight.”

Before you could protest, he had taken the brush from your hand and settled behind you. His rough (mechanical) fingers were surprisingly gentle as he worked through the knots, his cowboy hat tilted back to give him a better view.

“You’ve got some patience for this.” you said, half-impressed.

He chuckled lowly. “Patience comes with the territory, darlin’. Besides, it ain’t so bad when it’s you.”

He didn’t try for anything fancy, but when he was done, your hair was free of tangles and pulled back into a neat ponytail. It was simple, practical, and—most importantly—comfortable.

“Better?” he asked, stepping back.

You touched your hair and smiled. “Much better. Thanks, Boo.”

“Anytime, sugar,” he said with a wink. “You just holler if it gives you trouble again.”

[dalishious]

Notes on Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain from The Art of Dragon Age: The Veilgaurd

ELGAR'NAN:

With Solas, we established that hair loss would be the only outward indication of an ancient elf's age. Elgar'nan wear sa wiga ttached to his crown.

The shards of lyrium around his collar were each taken from a slain Titan during the war between the first elves and the Titans. They have become corrupted by their time in the Black City.

Elgar'nan uses an eclipse shape language, a reference to being the god of firie and shadow.

His costume was meant to reflect the general or dictator archetype; he proudly brandishes the medals of his previous conquests as a symbol of authority. The badges on his coat are more modest at the bottom but become more and more ostentatious as his victories (and his pride) increase. He also wears around his neck a vial of dust, taken from the same spot where his spirit self-formed his body from the dust.

GHILAN'NAIN:

Goddess of monsters. Mother of the Halla. Ghilan'nain was once an elf chosen by Andruil, the goddess of the hunt, to become a god as reward for her devotion to the world's animals. She then became part of the elven pantheon.

She is the goddess of monsters, creating countless twisted creatures. She has modified herself so much over the years that whatever her face may have been, its long forgotten.

Her mask tells the story of how she was made the youngest of the gods. On the first day, she struck down the monsters of the air. On the second day, she drowned the giants of the sea. On the third day, she killed the beasts of the land.

Ghilan'nain's horns are meant to reflect a hunting bow in reference to Andruil.

Ghilan'nain is our sinister mad-scientist god, using her blighted magic to create horrors out of Thedas's people and wildlife. She mutates the darkspawn into even more powerful and "efficient" forms, for example, and also warps the Antaam who foolishly come to her for power.

Ghilan'nain wants to restore the old elven empire so she can continue her work. Analytical and curious, she sees everyone as potential stock for experiments (except for fellow god Elgar'nan, with whom she gets on well). Ghilan'nain is pitiless about her work—she'll happily slice open a hundred people for parts—but she's got a soft spot of pride in her monsters once they're complete.

[mya-valentine]

The Man Beneath the Infinity

Synopsis: Despite his immense power, Gojo realizes he can't protect you from everything.

The night began like any other. The gentle hum of the city filtered through the windows of the apartment you shared with Satoru Gojo. Despite his eccentric personality and immense power, your home was surprisingly modest—a reflection of the simpler life he craved when he wasn’t standing at the apex of the sorcerer world.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly, while Gojo lay sprawled out beside you, his head resting in your lap. His blindfold had been pulled down around his neck, revealing those striking blue eyes that always seemed to glimmer with mischief, even in the dim light. But tonight, something about his gaze was different. Softer, quieter. Vulnerable, even.

“Hey,” you murmured, brushing a hand through his snowy hair. “You’re unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on in that giant head of yours?”

“Giant? Rude,” he pouted, but his heart wasn’t in it. He shifted slightly, turning to look up at you, his eyes catching yours. For a moment, he said nothing, just stared as though memorizing every detail of your face. “Just thinking about stuff.”

“That’s new,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood. But your smile faltered when he didn’t laugh or make a snarky comeback.

“Satoru?” you asked, your voice softening. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed, his hand coming up to rest on your knee. “You know how much I love you, right?”

The sudden seriousness of his tone made your heart skip a beat. “Of course I do. What’s this about?”

For once, Gojo seemed at a loss for words. He sat up, running a hand through his hair and letting out a frustrated sigh. You’d seen him fight curses that could obliterate cities without breaking a sweat, but this—whatever this was—seemed to genuinely trouble him.

“I’m the strongest,” he began, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Everyone says that. Hell, I say that. And it’s true. I can protect people, destroy curses, keep the balance. But…” He turned to you, his expression uncharacteristically raw. “I can’t protect you from everything.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you. Your chest tightened as you reached out, placing a hand on his cheek. “Satoru, where is this coming from? Did something happen?”

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment before pulling you into his arms. The suddenness of the gesture startled you, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as tightly as he held you.

“There are things out there, things even I can’t control,” he admitted, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you. Not to a curse, not to anything.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. This was a side of Gojo he rarely, if ever, showed to anyone. The world saw him as untouchable, invincible. But here, in the privacy of your home, he was just a man terrified of losing the person he loved most.

“Satoru,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “You don’t have to carry this burden alone. I know how dangerous your world is, but I chose to be with you. I knew the risks, and I don’t regret a second of it. I’m not going anywhere.”

His arms tightened around you as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I know you’re strong. Stronger than most people I know. But I can’t help it. You’re my everything.”

You didn’t know what to say. The sheer intensity of his emotions left you speechless. So instead, you pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, letting your actions speak for you.

For the rest of the night, Gojo stayed close—closer than usual. He insisted on doing everything for you, from getting you a glass of water to fluffing your pillows when you went to bed. At first, you thought he was just being his usual dramatic self, but the look in his eyes told you this was different. He wasn’t just doting on you; he was trying to protect you in the only way he knew how.

“Alright, what’s going on?” you finally asked as he tucked you into bed like a child. “You’re acting weird.”

“I can’t spoil the love of my life without being interrogated?” he teased, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You spoil me all the time, but this… this is over the top, even for you.”

He sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I just… I need to make sure you know how much you mean to me. In case… In case something happens.”

You grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers together. “Nothing’s going to happen, Satoru. Not to me, and not to you. We’ll face whatever comes together, okay?”

He nodded, though the worry in his eyes remained. “Okay.”

That night, as you lay in his arms, you felt the weight of his fears in the way he held you, the way his fingers brushed gently against your skin as if memorizing every inch of you. And as you drifted off to sleep, you couldn’t help but think about the man beneath the infinity—the man who, despite his immeasurable strength, was still human enough to fear losing the person he loved.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[ducksido]

Vil's Valentine's

Valentine’s Day at Pomefiore was nothing short of a grand affair, even by the standards of a dorm that prided itself on elegance and beauty. Y/N had barely managed to avoid Vil's meticulous gaze all day—he'd practically insisted on reminding them about self-care, proper posture, and the importance of looking one's best. So, naturally, they were already a little on edge as they walked into the common room after classes.

However, as soon as they entered, a soft voice called out, smooth and composed.

"Ah, there you are."

Vil stood by a table draped in luxurious red velvet, surrounded by candles that flickered gently in the low light. His lavender eyes locked with theirs, and for a moment, Y/N couldn’t help but feel that familiar tension—both admiration and something a little more... intimate.

He stepped forward, his perfectly tailored suit flowing behind him. "I must admit, I expected you to be a bit more punctual. But... I suppose I can forgive you, given how charming you look today."

Y/N chuckled nervously, glancing down at themselves. They were wearing something simple but neat—nothing extravagant, certainly nothing that could match Vil's impeccable standards.

Vil seemed to read their thoughts, his smile softening just slightly. “Do not be so modest. You look quite adorable in your own way."

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, not used to receiving such a compliment from the ever-critical Vil. Before they could respond, he waved them over to the table.

"Come, sit. I’ve prepared something just for you."

Y/N approached hesitantly, wondering what could be so special. On the table were delicate, hand-carved chocolates, each one arranged in a meticulous pattern. A vase of fresh roses sat next to it, and everything exuded a sense of perfect symmetry.

Vil gracefully gestured to a seat. "Please, indulge. It is my small gift to you, though it is not without thought."

Y/N picked up a chocolate, savoring its rich flavor, but their attention remained on Vil, who was watching them intently. “You really didn’t have to do all this, Vil.”

A soft laugh escaped him, his eyes gleaming with an almost wistful expression. “I will admit, I enjoy the process of curating perfection. But when it comes to you, I feel as though I must ensure everything is flawless. Even the smallest gesture must reflect my true appreciation."

His voice was low, almost intimate, as if the words carried weight beyond the surface.

Y/N glanced up at him, feeling the warmth of the moment. "I... really appreciate it, Vil. More than you know."

Vil smiled, a rare, genuine softness in his expression. "I’m pleased to hear it."

Without warning, he reached out, his fingers lightly brushing their cheek. The touch was tender, careful. “Perhaps I could be less critical... if it meant having more moments like this with you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in their throat. They were about to say something when Vil suddenly leaned in—slow, measured—his lips brushing against their forehead in a soft, lingering kiss.

The gesture was brief, but it left a warm sensation, a sense of intimacy that wasn’t often found with someone like Vil.

When he pulled back, his eyes remained soft, though his usual self-assured smile returned. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/N. I’m glad we could share this moment.”

Y/N smiled back, the words they wanted to say stuck in their throat, but they didn’t need to say anything more.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

I don't know where else to ask this but honestly I sometimes wish I was trans, from what I hear the transitioning is wounderus to go through (not so much the transphobic people obviously) and I just can't seem to find any joy anymore

I also can see why this is horrible as trans people have to go through so much just for being trans and i

just don't know what to do anymore

Idon't feel uncomfortable in my body or seek to become a woman so I don't think I'm actually trans, but the idea of becoming happy for once in my god damn life just seems so good

I'm sorry if this is a horrible thing to say but I just want to be happy

Hey there, Anon. Sounds like you're in a bad place right now.

Fwiw, medical transition for me was the clearing out of a lot of background radiation so I could do the actual hard work of becoming a better man. There is a lot of shit about myself I've had to fix that HRT will never improve. It's been a long road and continues to be so.

I feel like you're looking for a blueprint for happiness, and maybe it seems to you that trans people have a clear path, given how dramatic physical transition can be.

But I'd ask you to dig deeper, and look for inspiration in all the groundwork that goes into transition. And see how this work could apply in your case:

Realize you are not alone

Understand there is a lot of work to do - a lifetime of it - but it will be worth it

Constantly self-reflect

Articulate who you are and who you are not

Set goals and find role models for who you want to be

Work out a plan for what steps - even modest ones like a fresh haircut or change of clothes - you need to take to be your best self

Empower yourself to experiment with how you present yourself to the world

Get comfortable with the idea that your "best self" might look very different in the future than how it looks now

Stand up for yourself & uplifting others

Reach out for community - ask for help when you need it, and help others when you can

Get professional help when it's necessary

Learn the benefits, risks, and limitations of medication

Track your progress & being kind to yourself on the bad days

Relentlessly look for joy

Find strength in vulnerability

Don't be afraid to cut out toxic people from your life

Give yourself permission to take up space in the world

Acknowledge that change takes time and is the accumulation of mostly a lot of little steps, with the occasional big leap

Transition is deeply rooted in how we see ourselves and how we want to be perceived by and move about in society. And honestly, isn't that just being a human being?

It seems to me like you're unmoored right now. And possibly isolated. A good way to find help is to connect with other human beings (seek out community) and learn tools for making better connections (work with a therapist).

Hopefully with some time spent working on these connections, you can connect better with yourself and forge your path towards happiness.

[misshoneyimhome]

What’s up buttercups!

Alrighty, it’s time to turn up the heat for my g @nylwnder 🔥—for the third part of Sexy Christmas ☃︎ we’re slowing things down a bit to really savour a make-out session with none other than sweetheart Joe Woll 💋

Get ready for some tender, steamy moments with one of our favourite goaltenders. I hope you enjoy this one as much as I loved writing it!

As always, your feedback makes my heart melt ❤️ Happy reading, and let the holiday magic (and heat) begin! 🎄✨

➼｡ﾟ

Fireplace Heat - Joseph Woll

After a snowy night game, the hockey player invites OC back to his place to warm up by the fire. As they share hot cocoa and cosy blankets, the heat from the fireplace isn’t the only thing keeping them warm.

Tropes & warnings: 18+ smut, Joseph Woll x reader, friends to lovers, fingering, build up to protected sexual intercourse

Word count: 2.6K

The snow outside had no mercy tonight. It had piled up on the roads, coated the city in white, and slowed the world to a crawl. But none of that mattered when you were in the middle of a packed arena, cheering for Joseph and the Leafs as they battled through the storm both on and off the ice.

By the time the final buzzer rang, victory secured, the adrenaline in your veins was the only thing keeping you warm. That, and the sight of Joseph waving at you from the ice, his grin enough to melt any lingering frost.

_

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?” Joseph asked, his breath visible in the icy air as you waited outside the arena.

You glanced at the snowflakes swirling in the wind and then back at him, bundled in his coat and beanie. “I think I’d rather freeze than make you drive in this,” you teased.

He chuckled, his head shaking slightly. “I’ve got an idea.” His blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “How about you come back to my place? It’s closer, and I’ve got a fireplace. And hot cocoa.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Tempting me with chocolate? Bold move, Woll.”

His grin widened. “Is it working?”

_

Joseph’s place was warm, inviting, and smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon. A modest Christmas tree stood in the corner, twinkling with white lights, and the fireplace crackled softly, bathing the room in a golden glow.

“You weren’t kidding about the fireplace,” you said, shrugging off your coat. “This is nice.”

“I told you, I’m a man of my word,” he replied, his voice laced with a playful tone. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, complete with whipped cream and a sprinkle of cocoa powder.

“Fancy,” you teased, accepting the mug.

He plopped down beside you on the couch, draping a plush blanket over both of you. “Only the best for you.”

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a while, sipping your drinks and watching the flames dance. Outside, the wind howled, but it felt a world away in here.

As you lowered your mug, Joseph’s gaze lingered on your lips. “You, uh… you’ve got a little something,” he said, gesturing toward his own mouth.

“What?” You touched your lips self-consciously, missing the spot entirely.

“Here, let me,” he said, leaning in. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping away a dollop of whipped cream. But instead of pulling back right away, he hesitated, his hand still lingering on your face.

You froze, your breath catching as his eyes met yours, the flickering firelight reflecting in his soft blue gaze.

“You’re really beautiful, even with whipped cream on your lip,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, though there was something else beneath it—something deeper.

You swallowed hard, your cheeks warming under his intense gaze. “Thanks.. for the rescue,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Anytime,” he replied, his thumb brushing your cheek lightly before he finally lowered his hand.

In that moment, the air between you shifted slightly, crackling with more than just the fire’s heat.

“You know,” Joseph said softly a few seconds later, his voice breaking the quiet. “I think this is my favourite way to end a game day.”

“Winning and then hosting a freezing guest on your couch?” you joked, nudging him gently.

He smiled, his gaze flickering from the fire to you. “No. Sharing moments like this. With you.”

You felt your cheeks heat again, and it wasn’t from the fire. “Careful, Woll. That almost sounded romantic.”

He gently leaned in slightly, his expression more serious now. “What if I meant it to be?”

Your breath hitched as the tension from earlier built again.

“Joe…” you whispered, unsure of what to say.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he murmured, his voice low and his eyes a mix of hope and nervousness. 

But you didn’t answer with words. Instead, you closed the gap, your lips meeting his in a kiss that started soft but deepened quickly, fuelled by the unspoken tension that had been building between you for weeks. Maybe even months.

And when you finally pulled back, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his hand cradling your cheek. “Definitely my favourite way to end a game day,” he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips.

You laughed softly, leaning into him as the snow continued to fall outside, forgotten in the warmth of the fire—and each other.

Joseph still held his face close to yours, his breath warm and steady, brushing your lips. Neither of you moved right away, the weight of the moment grounding you. The crackling fire behind you seemed louder now, the only other sound besides your slightly ragged breaths.

“Hmm, so,” you hummed looking into his eyes, running your hand over his forearm, “if this is how you treat a guest, I might have to crash here more often.”

Joseph chuckled softly, his hand tracing a gentle line along your jaw. “You don’t need an excuse to be here. You’re always welcome.”

Something in his voice—earnest, raw—made your chest tighten. You hadn’t expected to feel so exposed, so vulnerable, but instead of pulling away, you found yourself leaning closer, both setting your hot chocolates aside.

“You really mean that?” 

“I don’t know what it is about you,” he continued, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself. “But you make everything feel… different. So much better.”

Your breath hitched, and without thinking, you tugged the blanket tighter around both of you, as though shielding yourselves from the outside world. “You’re good at this,” you whispered, your tone teasing but your expression soft. “Making a girl feel like she’s the only one who matters.”

His gaze darkened, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. “That’s because you are. To me.”

Before you could process his words, his lips were on yours again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you even closer until your legs tangled together under the blanket. The soft fabric of his sweater brushed your fingertips as you clutched at him, your body instinctively seeking more of his warmth.

Joseph shifted, his weight pressing against you as he leaned more into the kiss, deepening it with a quiet, needy sigh. His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, while the other rested on your hip, steady and reassuring.

Your heart hammered in your chest as the kiss turned from sweet to something more urgent. The heat radiating from the fireplace was nothing compared to the fire between you, the way his touch left a trail of warmth along your skin even through the layers of your clothes.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead found yours again, his breathing uneven. “You okay?” he asked, his voice rougher now, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress the grin threatening to spread across your face. “I’m better than okay.”

His lips quirked upward. “Good. Because I don’t think I want to stop.”

You let out a soft laugh, your hands sliding up his chest. “Then don’t.”

Joseph’s lips claimed yours again, deeper this time, the kiss carrying a weight of restrained passion that now began to unfurl. His hands, steady but yearning, slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, and the contrast of his cool fingers against your overheated skin made you shiver. Every touch felt intentional, as if he was savouring the moment as much as you were.

“You’re cold,” you whispered, the words trembling from your lips as his mouth moved to your jaw, then down the curve of your neck.

“And you’re warm,” he murmured, his breath fanning across your skin, teasing and tantalising. “Guess we balance each other perfectly.”

His words, low and rough, sent a spark of heat straight through you, your body instinctively arching closer to his. The fire crackled in the background, its flickering light casting his face in golden hues as his kisses deepened, his lips lingering longer on your skin with every press.

Joseph’s hands roamed more freely now, exploring with reverence and a growing confidence. His touch traced your sides, the curve of your waist, his thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles that left you trembling beneath him. The world outside—the storm, the cold—disappeared entirely. All you could feel was the heat of his body, the pull of his presence, and the overwhelming desire building between you.

When his hands slid back up to the hem of your sweater, he paused, his gaze meeting yours, silently asking for permission. You answered by lifting your arms, and he carefully pulled the fabric away, his fingers lingering on your bare skin as if reluctant to let go. His eyes swept over you, dark with desire but softened by something deeper, something unspoken.

“Tell me to stop if you change your mind,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion as he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was sweet and tender. His hands moved with equal care, tracing the lines of your body as though committing every detail to memory.

But you didn’t want him to stop. Your own hands explored him in return, fingers trailing up his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your touch. And when you tugged at the hem of his shirt, he let you pull it over his head, the lights of the fire illuminating the sharp lines of his torso, the strength beneath his skin. Your breath caught at the sight, your fingers instinctively reaching out to trace the defined muscles, the warmth of him drawing you closer.

Joseph’s kisses deepened again, his tongue exploring yours with a mixture of hunger and devotion. As if compelled by something he couldn’t hold back, his hands slipped to your waist, steadying you. And before you realised his intention, he pulled you gently into his lap. The movement stole your breath, and your knees settled on either side of him, your bodies impossibly close.

His hands anchored you against him, his thumbs brushing the bare skin of your hips as you melted into him. The intimacy of the position heightened everything—the feel of his chest against yours, the heat radiating from his body, the undeniable connection that thrummed between you. You could feel him slowly press against you between your thighs, his hardness making your core clench with need.

Your fingers found their way into his hair, pulling him closer as his lips moved to your neck, trailing heated kisses down the sensitive column of your throat. His hands moved gently, sliding over the curve of your waist and trailing along your ribs before they reached behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra with practiced ease.

As the fabric fell away, his breath hitched, and he took a moment to simply look at you. His gaze, full of awe and intensity, made you feel seen in a way you never had before. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing reverent kisses along your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, and the curve of your shoulder.

He held you there for a moment, savouring the closeness, before his hands shifted, sliding to the small of your back. And with a reverence that made your heart ache, he eased you back onto the sofa. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though he wanted to savour every second of having you beneath him.

The firelight still cast golden flickers across his face as he hovered above you, his hands bracketing your hips. His lips found yours again, the kiss a perfect blend of passion and tenderness.

Your fingers tangled in his hair again, tugging gently, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through you and igniting something primal deep inside. His hands moved lower, their touch purposeful yet tender, exploring the curve of your hips, tracing the soft lines of your thighs, as though mapping out every inch of your body.

With deliberate care, he began to peel away the fabric of your leggings. His movements were slow, gentle, as if each layer revealed something precious. When you were finally bare beneath him, his gaze swept over you with an intensity that made your chest tighten again. His expression was a mix of awe and desire, his eyes darkened by longing but softened by something even deeper.

Joseph leaned back just enough to shed his own remaining clothes, the lights flickering over his toned, athletic form. His skin was warm and firm under your touch as he returned to you, his body fitting against yours like it had always belonged there.

The heat between you was palpable, the air charged with the unspoken understanding of how much you both craved this moment. But Joseph wasn’t a man to give in to compulsions. He was deliberate, calculated—a mindset honed as the team’s goaltender. He made choices with care, and this was no different.

Hovering above you, he met your gaze, his eyes holding an unspoken question, a silent promise. His touch was gentle as his hand slid lower, his fingers trailing down between your thighs with exquisite slowness. The first brush of his fingers against your sensitive flesh sent a shiver through you, your breath hitching as you surrendered to his careful exploration.

Soft moans escaped your lips as he circled your clit with deliberate tenderness, the rhythm of his movements building gradually, coaxing pleasure from you with every stroke. And when he eased one finger inside you, the sensation was electric yet soothing, a perfect balance of passion and restraint.

“Joe,” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper as your body relaxed under his touch, yielding to the sensations he created. “Mmm…”

Hearing your voice like that nearly undid him. Joseph had to summon every ounce of control to prioritise your needs first, even as his own body begged for attention. His length throbbed against your thigh, a persistent reminder of his desire, but he stayed focused. Watching your closed eyes and the soft part of your lips as you let out quiet sounds of pleasure was enough to spur him on.

He added a second finger, stretching and filling you with the same care, his movements measured and steady. It wasn’t overwhelming—it was intimate, deliberate, every touch meant to draw you closer to the edge. The golden lights danced across his face, illuminating the way he watched you, completely captivated by the way you responded to him.

Your body arched slightly, hips tilting into his hand, and he let out a low groan of satisfaction, his thumb brushing over your sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that had you gasping again. The connection between you was unlike anything you’d experienced before, a slow burn that felt timeless and all-consuming.

As the tension built and your breaths came faster, he finally withdrew his hand, leaning down to kiss you deeply. His lips were soft but insistent, a promise of what was to come. He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his voice husky as he whispered, “We should probably use… protection.”

Your eyes fluttered open, your cheeks flushed as you nodded. “You have?” 

“In the bedroom,” he murmured.

Joseph then pressed a lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away, his movements fluid and quick as he retrieved what you needed. The anticipation buzzed in the air as he returned, his body warm and solid against yours once more.

This moment was yours, unrushed and full of meaning, and you knew—without a doubt—that this was just the beginning of something deeper.

[dancingbirdie]

This request is really out of the blue but, i need I CRAVE i require a fic where tav and astarion finally find a cure for his vampirism (in dnd5 it can actually happen yay!) and he manages to see his reflection again and finally have his natural eye color again (blue bc he's prob a moon elf but I don't mind other colors too). The fangs can stay or not, idc, i just want my boy happy, in love, and cared for. Bonus points if there's cuddles too

OK first of all, thanks for this prompt!! Second, I had to break this up into two parts because I'm afraid of how unwieldy it would get otherwise. So see part 1 below. I'm actively writing part 2 and should have that posted within the next few days. Hope you enjoy!

UPDATE: Chapter 2 available here!

I Promised You (Chapter 1)

Rating: G

Pairing: Astarion x GN!reader

Word Count: 3.1K

Warnings/Tags: mentions of unconsciousness, cheeky banter, domestic life, post-events of BG3, potentially problematic levels of self-sacrifice by reader.

***

“All right. I think you’re ready,” Gale affirmed as he peered over your shoulder, analyzing your hand movements as you practiced the incantation. 

“You think? Shouldn’t we wait until you’re sure?” you replied, heavy skepticism coloring your tone. 

“I can’t give you my complete assurance because you haven’t actually cast the spell,” the wizard sighed. 

The two of you had had this argument many times over the past several months as you studied and practiced. And studied and practiced some more. The conclusion was always the same, but your anxiety always managed to convince you that a different outcome would be had if you just asked him again. 

Conjuration magic was one of the most difficult forms to master. Yes, you had specialized in it during your formative years, under the tutelage of several learned wizards across Faerûn, but this spell was perhaps the pinnacle of feats in conjuration. Only a handful of wizards could perform it. Thankfully Gale was among that number, which is why you had come to him for help.

“As I’ve said, this isn’t a spell you can just cast for practice runs,” he continued. “You have one chance. And if it works, the sheer power of it is undoubtedly going to knock you unconscious.” 

“I know, I know,” you grumbled. “I just… I need to be absolutely perfect. I have to do this. For him.” 

“Have you told him what you’re planning yet?” Gale prodded.

“No. Not yet. I didn’t want to get his hopes up. Or have him tell me how unlikely success will be. Not until I was absolutely sure I could do this.” 

“I see,” the wizard returned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, tonight is as good a time to tell him as any. There’s nothing more I can teach you to prepare for this. You know the incantation by heart. You perform the gestures almost through muscle memory now. You’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” you repeated, as if saying the words would will it to be so. 

“Send me a missive if he wants to go through with this. I’ll come to the cottage and oversee the spell’s casting.”

“All right,” you nodded.

“It’s going to work. You have to believe it’s going to work,” Gale encouraged, meeting your eyes with a serious, stern sort of expression.

“It’s going to work,” you agreed. “It’s going to work.” 

***

It was dusk by the time you returned to the cottage. It was a modest home you shared with Astarion, situated just outside the city walls. It had a lovely view of the rolling hills that surrounded Baldur’s Gate, and proximity to the Chionthar River gave the air a refreshing, misty feel. Pastoral communities dotted the countryside with sheep and cattle grazing freely during the day, though they had returned to their stables long before your return.

Astarion was no fan of the bucolic lifestyle, as he was wont to remind you. But you both agreed that this living situation afforded him better meal prospects than the rats, cats and errant stray dogs that dwelled within the city limits. At least this way, he had more fulfilling options for food, since the livestock attracted their fair share of large predators. A mild, perpetual confusion charm that you cast kept the neighbors from questioning why – unlike their peers in neighboring villages and towns – their animals were never plagued by roving bears and panthers. 

Astarion was lounging listlessly in the bay window of the den when you entered your home, one leg dangling off the ledge of his reading nook while he carelessly flipped through a book. Probably one he had pilfered from Gale’s stockpile a few weeks ago, you surmised. There had been an uptick in the wizard’s grumbling about discrepancies in his library catalog of late. 

“Anything interesting?” you asked as you shrugged out of your traveler’s cloak and hung it on the coat rack by the door. 

“Ugh, hardly,” Astarion grouched. “Nothing but debunked theories and philosophies from bloated scholars who died a hundred years ago.”

“You’re going to have to return Gale’s books to him eventually, you know. He’s beginning to realize how many from his library are missing.”

“Haven’t the slightest clue what you’re referring to, darling,” he replied breezily.

“Of course, love,” you chuckled, planting a kiss on his forehead as you passed him by to make your way into the kitchen. 

“Care for a glass of wine?” you called.

“Mm, yes,” Astarion returned. “Red, please, dear.”

Uncorking the bottle and pouring the glasses gave you a brief moment to collect your thoughts. To steel your nerves for the conversation looming before you. Drawing a deep breath in and exhaling it slowly, you made your way back into the den and braced for the inevitable. 

“Darling, do you have a moment?” you asked as you offered Astarion his glass before taking a seat next to him. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Gods, it must be serious,” he teased, straightening from his reclined pose to take the proffered glass and make room for you. “You like you’re about to be ill. Go on then, love, before you faint and spill this vintage all over the floor.”

“It is rather serious, in fact,” you began, clearing your throat that had suddenly become tight with nerves.  “I’ve waited to tell you until now, but I’ve been researching some more difficult conjuration magic with Gale the past few months…”

“Oh?” Astarion prompted as you paused. “For what purpose, darling? I thought you had already mastered the school of conjuration.”

“I have. But this is a more specialized form. More… niche, I guess one might say. And, well…” you trailed off again, hesitant.

“Go on,” he encouraged. 

“I’ve-been-researching-a-spell-that-cures-vampirism-and-I-think-I’ve-found-a-way,” you spat out all at once, the words tumbling into each other like a wagon train gone wild. 

Astarion met your eyes with a blank stare, seemingly forgetting that his one hand had been in the process of lifting the wine glass to his lips. 

“I beg your pardon?” he asked hoarsely.

You coughed to clear your throat. “What I mean to say is: I’ve been working with Gale for months now to learn a spell that can cure your vampirism. He and I believe I’m ready to perform it. If you would allow me to try, that is.”

“If this is your idea of a joke,” he murmured, a slight quiver in his voice. “Then I have to tell you, it’s absolutely not funny at all.”

“It’s not a joke!” you assured. “I swear to you, Astarion. It’s not a joke,” you continued, squeezing one of his hands in yours. 

He nodded absently, his gaze trained on your thumb as it soothed over the knuckles of his fingers.

“H-how?” he whispered finally. “How can you cure it? I’ve read every tome I could get my hands on for over two hundred years. Nothing, nothing, I’ve read has ever offered a solution.”

“Because this is a highly guarded spell. It’s only passed down through oral tradition among wizards who specialize in conjuration magic. Which is why I’ve needed Gale’s help,” you explained. “I broached the topic with him some time ago, told him how we were going to look for some way to cure your vampirism. Being a master of magicks himself, I thought he would be a good source of information for me to begin my research. I wasn’t even aware of the spell until he shared it with me. He’s been teaching me the mechanics of it since then. It’s been a difficult spell to master but–” 

“What’s the cost?” Astarion interjected suddenly, meeting your gaze with a new intensity.

“It will cost you nothing, obviously,” you retorted, disliking where the conversation was heading. 

Astarion huffed through his nose. A caustic, frustrated sort of sound. “Don’t play cute with me, darling. You know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t,” you hedged.

“What will the spell cost you,” he bit out through a clenched jaw. 

You bit your lip, hesitant to reply. Astarion’s gaze never wavered. 

Finally you sighed. Better to reveal the consequences of it all than attempt to hide the downsides from him. Even though they were negligible in your eyes, compared to the wonder that would be returning his elfhood to him, you knew he would resent being told only partial truths. You couldn’t fault him for it. You would feel the same, were the roles reversed. 

“It will permanently weaken me. There’s a small, very small, chance it could kill me if I perform it wrong,” you confessed.

“No,” Astarion responded bluntly, without a hint of hesitation. He rose from the bench and made to leave the room. As if the matter had been settled and it was time to crack on. 

“Wait! What do you mean, ‘no’?” you blurted. Jumping to your feet, you snatched at the sleeve of his nightshirt. 

He turned to peer at you with a haughty gaze, one eyebrow arched delicately. “Exactly that. No. You’re not risking your life on the off chance of this working.”

“But it’s not an off chance. It will work! And the likelihood of me dying is incredibly slim!” you protested.

“But the likelihood of you being ‘permanently weakened’ is essentially certain, yes?” 

You rolled your eyes. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds. And besides, I don’t mind. I want to do this, Astarion.”

He scoffed. “Have you gone absolutely mad? ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds.’ Do you even know what will actually happen to you afterwards?” he shot back angrily.

“No,” you admitted, a bit quieter. 

He deliberately widened his eyes at your response, crossing his arms across his chest as if to say See? My point proven. 

“But I know I can handle it! And I love you enough to try!” you retorted.

That appeared to be the wrong choice of words. You realized it immediately as his expression morphed from outright anger to something darker, icier.

“Well then, it seems we’re at an impasse, darling,” he growled. “Because I love you enough not to have you go through with this.” 

You opened your mouth to object once more, but he continued, ignoring you. 

“AND, since it is my body and my life we’re discussing, it means I have the final say on the matter. My answer is no.”

You had anticipated this conversation going many different ways. You thought you had prepared for the most likely scenarios. But, in all your pondering, you hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Astarion would reject this opportunity outright. 

Your eyes welled with tears. Hot, angry, disconsolate tears. 

“Astarion,” you murmured, desperate. Angry though you both were, you couldn’t resist the urge to curl into his embrace. Gently, you pulled at his arms in an attempt to un-cross them. With a soft sigh, he allowed you to manipulate him so that you were pressed chest to chest. Your arms banded around his waist, locking him against you. Slowly, he raised his arms to mimic your stance, peering down at you.  

“Astarion, my darling, this is your chance. It’s the only chance we’ve found in over two years of searching. I know I can do it. And you can win it all back. I can help you. Let me do this,” you pleaded. 

“Darling, how could I ever ‘win it all back’ when there’s a possibility I could lose you forever? Or that you could be seriously harmed in the process?” he lifted a hand to cup your cheek, smiling sadly. “I would never forgive myself if you were harmed in an attempt to cure me.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. “Please. I know I can do this. Please let me do this. I want to do this for you.”

“Come, pup, no more tears. I’ve given you my answer,” he murmured, swiping a thumb across your cheekbones to catch each tear.

You opened your eyes to glare at him. “If the roles were reversed, would you want to try this for me?”

“Of course,” Astarion huffed. “But that’s obviously different, I –”

“WHY? Why is it different?” you cried, clutching him. 

“Because you’re worth it!” he implored, arms vibrating as though he were resisting the urge to shake sense into you. “Your soul is worth a thousand of mine! It’s not marred by death and torture and sacrilege. Can’t you see that? Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t,” you argued obstinately. “Because you are worth it to me. Your soul is priceless to me. I love you. You’re the love of my life.”

Astarion said nothing, just stared at you with sad eyes. You couldn’t tell if his silence meant you were persuading him, but you couldn’t relent without giving at least one more desperate plea. 

“I promised you. Remember? After everything that happened, I promised you we would find a way for you to walk in the sun once more. I didn’t make that promise lightly. I want to do this for you.”

“Darling…” he murmured sadly, shaking his head. 

“Astarion, please,” you beseeched, shifting to clutch his face between both of your palms. “I’m literally begging you to let me try. Gale and I have been practicing for almost a year now. He wouldn’t tell me I was ready unless he was certain. I know I can do this. Please. Let me try.”

“Don’t you have any regard for your own life?” he whispered. “How is it that I’m more concerned for your well being than you are?” 

“Darling, all of us have the slightest potential of dying every single day we continue to breathe. Anything poses some risk to our lives. I’m telling you, the risk of me dying from this is the same as the risk I take casting any other magic.”

“But there’s still a permanent cost to doing this. Have you even asked Gale to elaborate on what that entails?” 

“No,” you admitted a bit sheepishly. “I didn’t really think about it.” 

Astarion rolled his eyes but planted a kiss against your forehead. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”

“I’m sorry that I was so ecstatic about finding a cure that I leapt straight into studying it!” you said defensively, although your tone lacked teeth. 

He chuckled and wrapped you in a tighter embrace, resting his cheek on the top of your head. The two of you stood like that for some time, arms wrapped around each other, lost in thought. 

After a while, Astarion cleared his throat. “I want us to speak to Gale. I want to know the full details, the consequences of a spell like this.”

You jerked your head up in surprise, staring at him with wide, elated eyes. 

“I’m not saying yes,” he clarified, attempting to tamp down your burgeoning excitement. “But I’m willing to hear more about this… possibility.”

A delighted squeal rocketed up your throat. Quick as a flash, you jumped to wrap your legs around his waist. Long used to your ebullient antics, Astarion caught you with a practiced ease. His arms banded under your thighs and across your lower back, squeezing gently. 

“I love you, you daft, feral thing,” he chuckled, nuzzling your cheek. 

***

“I would have gone over this months ago, had you afforded me the opportunity,” Gale had groused upon arriving at the cottage the following evening. The three of you shared a bottle of barrel-aged Callidyren while Astarion peppered the wizard with umpteen questions about the spell’s mechanics. To his credit, Gale managed to assuage Astarion’s concerns. At least for the most part. 

The permanent effects of casting the spell, you both learned, would diminish your inner well of magic, rendering you unable to cast as many spells as you currently could before resting for a longer period of time. Almost as though the cost of performing the spell would revert you back to the strength you had had as an apprentice so many years ago. You would still be powerful, capable of wielding even the most intricate of spells. But your endurance would be shorter, more concentrated. It was a price you were more than willing to pay. Even more so now that you had actually allowed Gale to describe the effects in detail. 

“I still can’t believe you didn’t press for more details,” Astarion grumbled. 

“It didn’t seem important at the time,” you sniffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Still doesn’t, in my opinion.”

“You know, in some schools of thought,” Astarion countered dryly, “people believe the difference between bravery and complete idiocy is so fine a line that it frequently gets crossed.”

“So I’ve heard,” you crooned. “But, alas, I’m nothing if not an incredibly adept fool in love.” 

Gale observed the two of you warily, as if uncertain whether this exchange constituted harmless domestic banter or an undercurrent of severe agitation. 

“Yes, well,” he interrupted awkwardly, “as I said before, you’re as ready as you will ever be to perform this magic. I’ll be here to supervise and intervene, if necessary, though I don’t think it will be.”

“Bully for us. Is there anything else we should be prepared for, if we’re to go through with this?” Astarion snapped. “Sudden onset sliminess? Gills? Frothing at the mouth?”

You winced. He was always his most discourteous self when he was afraid. Gale might not realize it, but you knew him well enough to tell when his rudeness was obfuscation.   

“Ahem,” Gale coughed, clearly affronted by the impertinent question. “No, nothing of that sort. But this spell is incredibly demanding on one’s body. It’s very likely they’ll fall unconscious once it’s been cast. The effect shouldn’t last for more than a few hours. Enough time for a proper rest.”  

“You failed to mention that yesterday,” Astarion said peevishly, glaring at you from across the dining table. 

“Because it’s the equivalent to me needing a good sleep after a tiring day,” you quipped. 

Gale winced. “It’s a bit more serious than that, I’d argue.”

“Thank you,” Astarion intoned. 

“Tsk. An inconvenience at worst. Nothing unmanageable,” you retorted. “So, what say you, darling? Are you willing to give this a try?”

Astarion’s glare shifted between you and Gale, studying you both. 

“And you both swear to me that all information is now disclosed, yes? No partial truths, no hidden side effects?”

“I swear,” the two of you responded in unison. You reached for Astarion’s hand across the table. 

“My darling, this will work. I’m going to be fine. And you’re going to be cured,” you smiled gently. “Please, trust me.”

He squeezed your hand, crimson eyes boring into your own. 

Finally, after a moment, he gave you a terse nod.

“All right. Let’s try,” he agreed.

[ne-videl]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞

♡

yandere Ayato x fem reader

there's something wrong with your employer.

yandere, mentions of violence & kidnapping, stalker Ayato, non-consensual touching (not sexual, just our man being clingy), reader has a pretty low self-esteem, sfw this time I guess??, poor english

word count: ~2k

a/n: alright I decided to procrastinate and ignore my study, and what's a better way to do it than posting some more of my stuff?

p.s. лисичка солнце как ты меня находишь?? теперь мне стыдно за то что я все никак не могу дописать главу про нёвиллета и ничего не придумала про венти 🤧🤧

enjoy.

bright sun of Inazuma shone on the kimono shop on the corner of the street, filling its visitors with pleasant laziness, and the hostess herself with a desire to end the stuffiness of the day as soon as possible.

you hung your haori on the back of a chair covered with bunch of fabric and exhaled wearily.

it's only noon yet, and you're already listening to insults from a well-to-do girl after announcing that her outfit won't be ready at least until the next evening.

"and besides, with your appearance, I would be ashamed to even look people in the eye!" – the client left, slamming the door irritably. the bell on the door rang plaintively.

"why get personal...?" – you rubbed the bridge of your nose with another sigh, while your gaze slid to the dusty mirror.

impassive glass showed a young woman. always sad eyes, hands covered with calluses and small scars from work. slightly disheveled bangs framing a tired face.

"no matter what, it's still you." – your reflection replied mockingly.

you knew yourself that you weren't that beautiful. there was a little chance to notice you in a crowd, "unremarkable" was the word that suited you the most. the only bright detail on you was, perhaps, a smear of red lipstick on your dry lips. gloomy appearance and an overly calm personality did not add to your attractiveness either. but you were a reliable and practical person, and therefore at least you had a successful career as a tailor.

summer in Inazuma was a nice season for the likes of you: time of festivals and celebrations, banquets and parties of nobles. sometimes you wanted to be in the shoes of your clients yourself: a charming, cheerful young lady choosing among a string of colorful fabrics the one that would suit her new luxurious outfit.

but, unfortunately, you were just a gloomy mistress of a sewing workshop, overwhelmed with work in the hot season.

the long-suffering doorbell, which had to endure a lot of tantrums and dissatisfied cries from visitors today, once again tinkled plaintively, forcing you to come out of your thoughts and turn around.

tall gentleman dressed in expensive white clothes stood in front of the counter. gentle, beautiful face was decorated with a friendly smile and a mole under his lips. at first glance it wasn't difficult to understand that someone very important was in front of you. you were even a little embarrassed, just a little bit: he, bright and cheerful, looks at your modest figure, dressed in a dark, simple kimono.

looks without taking his eyes off.

"lady seamstress? good day. I'm here with a business proposal for you." – the man came closer, still smiling. – "you see, my sister happened to visit your workshop a short time ago."

you tilted your head to the side, scratching your chin. the man in front of you surely looked familiar, for some reason. so it should not be very difficult to remember some pretty young lady with blue hair, from whom the same aura of aristocracy and prosperity would emanate.

"I remember something like that. you must be lady Ayaka's older brother?" – you looked at the supposed head of the Yashiro commission with an impassive look. you're too tired to be surprised by anything, and after all, important people have visited you before. if anything, you certainly had no equal in skill.

"yes, indeed. you are very observant, [name]." – you raised your eyebrow: you couldn't remember telling your name to Ayaka. well, it's not like it really matters, right?

your strange visitor continued to speak with an unnerving gleam in his purple eyes.

"as you have already understood, my name is Kamisato Ayato. I would like to offer you to work at our mansion."

____*:･ﾟ✧

"it's beautiful. I like it." – the younger Kamisato was looking at the sleeves of the kimono with satisfaction while you, now her personal tailor, pinned the hem with pins.

"but, I would like to ask you something, [name]." – you raise your head, looking up at your lady. – "you make such beautiful things. why don't you ever wear them yourself? I always see you in such inconspicuous colors. no bright fabrics, no embroidery."

you get up from your kneeling position, your scarred hands concentrating on straightening the fabric while you mumble without looking up from your work.

"you see, milady, there are people like you and people like me. beautiful things are meant for beautiful people, for important ones: who look good in gold embroidery and silk hemlines." – you look up at Ayaka, narrowing your eyes a little. – "people like me don't wear such clothes. besides, I don't have the looks to wear bright fabrics."

you walked over to the table, adjusting your black haori and assessing the work you've done. kimono suits your lady, who is currently looking down in embarrassment, realizing the huge difference in your statuses.

"ah, I also wanted to know..." – Ayaka swallows, averting her eyes and changing the subject. – "you're going to the festival, aren't you? I'd like to do your hair, if you don't mind."

you answered as calmly as usual, stating the fact.

"I have nothing to wear. and no one to go with." – calloused fingers unconsciously run through your hair, as if you could not imagine someone gathering them into a beautiful hairstyle.

"how is that? what about my older brother?" – the younger Kamisato bats her eyes with confusion.

"master? why would he?" – you tilted your head to the side in genuine surprise.

"wait, I remember exactly, brother said that you will go to the festival with him." – you smiled wearily, as if Ayaka was a child who blurted out some nonsense.

you? with him? you'd rather cut off your own finger than believe it.

you felt your master's hands resting on your shoulders.

"that's right, you're coming, and you're coming with me. I'll take care of the outfit, and I'll do your hair too." – Ayato glanced at his sister and continued talking. it seemed to you that he was standing a little closer than he should have been: at least you heard his voice right next to your ear. – "are you done here? can I borrow you for a while, [name]?"

you just nodded cautiously, wary that your master still had his hands on your shoulders. and the fact that you could clearly feel his hot chest pressed against your back.

"eavesdropping is bad, brother!" – that's right, eavesdropping is bad. and you could only think just how much did he hear.

your walk down the corridor was in silence: you didn't want to speak until you were asked, and apparently he didn't want to ask.

"master," you finally spoke up, tired of the suffocating silence, – "why would you need to accompany me to the festival?"

Ayato gave you a look with his cunning lavender eyes and replied with an unchanging smile.

"because I want to."

"what about clothes? you know, I feel quite good in what I usually wear." – you raised your voice slightly, sincere confusion shone in your eternally tired eyes, – "and my hair? why would you need to-"

Ayato bent down, holding a strand of your hair between his fingers.

you saw him kiss your hair, felt his hot breath on your face.

"because. I. want. to."

that night, as at all nights before in this estate, you felt like you were being watched.

and they didn't take their eyes off for even a second.

____*:･ﾟ✧

summer passed quickly: time for banquets, bright festivals and celebrations ended.

you always finished this usually noisy and busy season with a sense of accomplishment, although, of course, you had less work than usual this summer.

you thought you loved to work. at least your hands were always busy with something: fixing someone's obi, making a sample for the store's assortment or another order. to live you need money, and to have money you need to work. so you've been working as long as you can remember.

that's why it was a surprise to find yourself sitting and doing nothing. Thoma did the mending of clothes and other simple work, and new things, as it turned out, were not needed too often by your masters. so all that remained was to drink tea with them and walk around, feeling guilty for your rather big salary.

archons, it's like you're not a tailor but a friend for them.

on the day when you were ready to climb the wall from idleness – such a seemingly unusual thing for you in the past – you finally decided to visit your employer.

Ayato perked up as soon as you appeared at the door of his office.

"master." – you bowed briefly, looking at him with your eternally tired eyes.

"what can I do for you, dear?" – lord Kamisato, realizing that you were here on a business matter, continued with an impenetrable smile, – "is there something you're not satisfied with? if you don't like the food or the clothes, then I'll immediately-"

you shook your head no, clenching your hands nervously, and spoke. there was a tiny bit of embarrassment in your usually calm voice.

"you see, master," – you swallowed nervously, – "I'm a little worried that I don't really have anything to do."

under Ayato's confused gaze, you continued, explaining what you meant.

"I've been working as long as I can remember myself, and when you offered me to work for you, I expected a higher level of workload." – you exhaled.

"I think I feel guilty for sitting around all day. at least let me fix the servants' clothes."

Ayato scratched his chin while his purple eyes seemed to drill a hole in you. you wanted to leave, to end this conversation as quick as possible. you've never been very comfortable in the presence of your employer. you felt the urge to run away to lady Ayaka and distract yourself with idle conversations, or embroidery – with anything.

"no, no, dear, that won't do. I can't let your pretty hands do that." – your gaze dropped to your rather elegant, but scarred and callused hands. not "pretty" at all.

"then," – you sighed, – "then I'm asking for your dismissal. in that case, it would be better for me to return to my shop in the city. I can't sit around all day, master."

pen crunched in Ayato's hands and fell onto the countertop, breaking in half.

you couldn't see him get up from the table before you felt his hot arms wrapped around your waist in a strangleingly tight grip. gloved finger gently stroked your cheek, outlined the edge of a dark circle under your eye.

seeing in your gaze the absolute misunderstanding of what is happening, commissioner Yashiro only smiled gently.

"[name], sweet, sweet [name]. no matter how beautiful a kimono is, if you lost your legs you won't be able to wear it, don't you think? I would recommend that you don't even think about leaving me. besides, Ayaka will be sad. we all got so attached to you."

Ayato giggled sickly, stroking your hair.

it's time to start preparing for the wedding.

____*:･ﾟ✧

[name]. sweet, adorable [name].

quiet and calm woman living on a street corner. completely unnoticeable in a noisy crowd. smoothly, smoothly her hair flutters in the wind. scarred, thin fingers hold the bundle of fabric tightly.

last name is unknown.

date of birth is unknown.

presumably an orphan.

owns a sewing workshop in the city.

not married.

"is this really all that has been found out?" – Ayato puts down the papers, staring intently at the servant who just nods nervously.

"I see. you may leave."

it's probably a good thing she doesn't have a family. no one would look for her if, say, he decided to kidnap her.

any other person would not have noticed her dark silhouette among the noisy streets. would not have remembered the features of her tired face. would not have made inquiries, looking into her past, find out her schedule, send people to monitor and report to him where and with whom she was. any other wouldn't have memorized what she likes and what she doesn't like, and what time she goes to bed.

anyone else wouldn't, but to commissioner Yashiro, she was the most precious person in the world.

ah, she's so diligent! every time Ayato sees his charming seamstress on the street, she always carries some bundles of fabrics, or in the shop, always busy.

today [name] is also working hard.

hiring her at the manor was the right decision: it meant always having her in sight, by his side. whether it was trying on another suit, when he could feel the light touches of her calloused hands sending euphoric shivers down his back, or just talking over tea – being in the company of a gloomy tailor was great.

humans are greedy, selfish creatures by nature. Ayato was no exception–a man of his status could afford everything and even more. and at the moment, his "everything" was her.

sweet, sweet [name].

slipping into her bedroom in the middle of the night has already become a familiar, routine activity. yukata fell off her shoulder, exposing her skin, while she slept, wrapped in a blanket and quietly snoring.

Ayato carefully, so as not to wake her up, sat down next to her and stroked her hair.

of course, so far they are just a worker and an employer.

"but not for long." – he whispered to himself.

you've always wanted to be in the shoes of your clients, haven't you, my dear? to be a noble lady dressed in luxurious silks?

well, you don't have to worry, your wish will come true soon. you won't mind becoming the wife of the head of the Yashiro commission, right, [name]?

I'm very very sleep deprived I wanna scream cry and throw up

bye!!