#or sole-the-shoe I guess

[ace-malarky]

I am intrigued about soul magic please expand maybe :)???

hm yes hi Trade I can very much expand on that!!!

caveat that a lot of this info is very possibly stuff I made up literally this month bc I only had the vaguest idea of how soul magic worked before starting on this particular story (ie the box for it in the twinery thing where I keep all my worldbuilding legit just has the world it comes from in it and nothing else lmao ^^; )

The vague in-text explanation we get is thus;

“Users power their spells with their lifeforce,” Jasper said. “Its main applications are healing and interrogation, but it can also be used to create locks and the like that are fine-tuned to a specific person.”

which is very rough but honestly it covers the basics. Jasper knows what he's about

When he says locks, I'm meaning like... biometric kinda scans only I couldn't remember the word when I wrote that. I may go back and write that in actually.

The other thing it can do that is like. the main part of the plot of this story is that the mages can use it to control other people! They're getting other people caught for their crimes!!

Mostly when a soul mage uses their magic, they're relying on their own life to power it. So many soul mages burn out early because they don't get the exchange right, or they just use their magic too freely. If a soul mage is old it means that either

a) they don't use magic a lot

b) they know the best exchange rates for spells (eg smaller spells will take less life)

c) they largely use it via aids such as gems and older spells that have been sunk into items for general use

or

d) they tie their spells to someone else's life.

d is why soul mages tend to have a pretty bad rep amongst the wider mist worlds. They're not as bad as green witches in general but hoo boy.

sometimes!! sometimes tying their spells to something else is useful. This is how you get the healing; you convince the hurt person's body to heal itself gotdamn quicker and if they maybe get a year or so knocked off their life in the process they probably won't notice. Can they siphon off other people's lives to extend theirs? uh. technically. yes. that's the plot of another story (sort of)*.

This is how you get the biometric locks and other fun trinkets that non-mages can use; you set the spell into the lock or the item or whatever and give it a trigger phrase or motion which can be used by anyone. Biometrics will ofc only work for like the one person, but anything else is just dependant on the person knowing the phrase or the motion. Using an item with soul magic in it is obvious - Solaris likens the feeling to a sudden weakness at one point and doesn't like using it. You can fully faint while using soul magic if you're not used to it sort of thing.

This is how you get the interrogation; no one likes having their soul poked at ok. it feels gross. they can and will rifle through your memories. Sometimes they ask for consent first (it could also be a therapy tool, I guess) but holy fuck it's tricky to do without damaging anything. Weirdly this is a fine-wire one that tends to fall more on the mage's life being the one used up because they're still the one using the magic. They could tip it the other way, but then they run the risk of like. killing the subject before they get anything useful.

The controlling-other-people part of the magic is less well known which is why everyone is so fucken stumped by the shenanigans that start this story. It's like. fairytale kinda nonsense. "the soul mage made me do it" to the tune of "the boy who cried wolf", you know?

But that one is tied to the victim's life and can be set as intricately as the mage likes. Most people never know they've even been controlled, although they'll have li'l missing screeds of time where they've just blanked the fuck out and then come to, maybe in another place with no knowledge of how they got there

noticeably it does not work well on fully bonded ferals bc they have two souls and not everyone knows this. The mage that goes after Jasper fucks up by just suppressing his human soul to make him lose the fight and uh. well. buddy's got a lynx soul in there as well, and the lynx has access to fire. That one may have backfired (lmao) on the mage that set the spell, but I'm not sure yet

The other fucked up casefile I have is Elise who is the target the soul mages are trying to get ahold of in this story bc she has a green witch sharing her body who fucked herself over by attempting to use soul magic when she was already dying. There's a timeshare going on. The soul mages stabilised them and would like the experiment back, thank you very much, but because of the stabilisation thingy-majiggy, soul magic no longer affects them. Elise would like the timeshare broken, the green witch is fairly sure she'd die in that case and Does Not Want that, no thank you. They are however both agreed that they're not letting the soul mages get their grubby little paws on them. The soul mages would like her back because literally no one can work out how the fuck she managed to make that happen. like. the only other beings that have two souls are fully bonded feral mages and uh. demons. I think is how Skilkran is classed anyway. but yeah Elise is decidedly neither like damn she's just a girl who turns into a witch when night falls.

(soul magic probably could affect them, the parameters of the spells just need to be set properly but no one's actually thought of that yet. or maybe they have but it's been since they escaped so they haven't had a chance to test the theory)

anyway! yes! soul magery! it was uhhhh it was born out of a dumb joke with brother#2 because the first time I wrote it the magic was set in the saxophone of a dude who was playing um. soul music.

that scene still exists within The Soul of the Party because there are no depths I will not sink to for a dumb joke.

*this is Mint of Red String, they may have had a bad break up with a soul mage in their youth and the soul mage reacted by uh. cursing them to drain the life of whoever fell in love with them? That gets broken with the power of polyamory and also maybe necromancy because fuck yes the gays are winning this one.

[coincasual]

ashlynn ella! local reclusive shoe maker (don’t worry, all of her products are vegan!)

[depoteka]

i bought winter shoes mid october and now it's mid january and they're unusable when it's wet outside. so fucking annoying

[dribs-and-drabbles]

Hey! So I take a lot of screenshots when I watch shows, mostly for fun Idk. But I have obviously seen and loved your communal wardrobe posts and I Thiiiink I might have 1 or 2 overlaps you don't have. I've only kind of just realised that you seem to be like intentionally tracking these not just yelling about a couple of the most popular ones 😅. Also you could already have them but like for example I completely freaked out when I realised Mew was wearing the same shirt as Techno in tharntype did... Do you have that one?

Hi Roc!

I had been just highlighting the popular ones but for some reason I've decided to document all the ones that have spotted so far (I'm on 30...which felt like A LOT when I started a few weeks ago but now feels like it's not so many 😂).

Anyway, I'm ALWAYS happy to hear of clothes that reappear in different series. I have Mew in Only Friends and Not in Be My Favourite wearing the same shirt but not one from Tharntype yet (although I'd love it to be the same one but it probably won't be!). If you don't mind, then send them all my way 💖

[historyherstory]

Chapter Ten References

For a short chapter, there’s a lot of things mentioned in passing here that I think are worth bringing up in further detail, so here we go!

The fun I had researching rations! Also, can I point out that some sources consistently write “k-ration” whereas others say “k ration”? Don Malarkey’s book used without the hyphen so I followed his lead. 

The US Military had multiple types of rations. K rations had 3 separately boxed meal units (one for breakfast, lunch, and dinner). Combined, one day equaled about 3,000 calories. This may sound like a “high” calorie intake but a few things to note: certain items were considered virtually inedible (the fatty pork loaf was a consistent miss from my research, and the lemon powder was too acidic to consume) and subsequently thrown away. As a result, the calories consumed would often be less than the intended sum and even at 3,000 calories a day, men who subsisted solely on k rations would still lose weight and condition. It was especially prevalent in areas with extreme weather (extreme hot or extreme cold). As a result, k rations were only meant to be used for a few days. That’s not how it played out in many circumstances though, as men would be stuck eating k rations for a week or more. You can read more about them on the wiki page, it’s a bit introductory but you can get an idea for the components.

(Other rations like the c ration or 5 in 1 ration seemed a little more palatable than the k ration but the k ration was the most compact, so. Lucky paratroopers.) 

If you’re particularly curious, there’s a gentleman on youtube who ate a few items out of a k ration. Disregarding the age component, you can get an idea of the packaging and actually see what some components of this particular meal looked like.

Dick Winters’ memoirs note that while the men were sleeping (so June 6th into June 7th) he had trouble doing so himself and went out to scout. He encountered a contingent of German soldiers, which he heard coming due to their hobnailed boots. The American boots (mentioned by brand name in this chapter, corcorans) by comparison, did not have nails affixing the sole to the shoe so were silent on the cobblestones. Dick mentioned that he could smell the distinct German tobacco as they passed. He didn’t engage and no one saw him, and he returned to Easy without issue.

His memoirs actually mention a specific memory of seeing Harry Welsh walking among the men, checking on them, that night. I wrote that into this chapter. Harry and his absolute devotion to Kitty warms my heart and I enjoy him a great deal.

Random date mention in this chapter: 1939. If you ask someone “when did WWII start?” the answer is really going to vary depending on where you are. Many Americans might say 1941 with Pearl Harbor (though the European answer of 1939, with the combined German and Russian invasion of Poland, is also pretty commonly accepted). If you are asking this question in Asia, you may get 1937 which is when Japan began its invasion of China (July, ‘37). Again - WW2 was a global war and while in the West we often focus on the European theatre (or American involvement in the Pacific), the war in the Pacific as Japan moved to establish itself as the region’s imperial power (kicking out European powers from their colonies in the area as Europe was focused on dealing with the German threat in Europe, as Japan wanted the raw materials from those territories) is complex, significant, and still impacts regional politics to this day.

However, for context of this story in particular: 1939 obviously, is the “before/after” for Europe. Germany invaded Poland in September. The following year would be a busy one for Germany: in April of 1940, Germany would invade Denmark and Norway, and the following month would be their invasion of the Netherlands, Luxembourg, and France. The Battle of the Atlantic however, began with the initiation of hostilities in September of 1939. This is when you begin to see the German u-boat threat make itself known, though it would skyrocket exponentially in 1940 and 1941. One of the first ships sunk at the outbreak of war in 1939 was a passenger ship, the SS Athenia. Among the casualties were some US and Canadian civilians, the media of both nations covered the incident. The Germans covered up their involvement in the sinking (some even asserted it was a UK propaganda effort) but despite the Germans modifying official documents to conceal their responsibility, a majority of Americans did believe the Germans had done it, irrespective of what other conversations were happening. (The truth was revealed post-war at the Nuremberg trials).

While not mentioned by name in this story, the sinking of the Athenia (and subsequent Battle of the Atlantic) is a significant component in the plot’s backstory for reasons that will be revealed in an undetermined number of chapters.

[ghost-of-you]

What did Micheal do?

He said he has tendinitis, and honestly, and I'm projecting here cuz I'm a failed jock with ankle and knee problems, I think this is an aggravation of earlier issues. Cuz like I remember Ashton talking about the amount of physical therapy both him and Michael do to keep moving the way they do on tour, how they stopped the slsp jump because of his leg, how he had a hairline fracture when he fell of the stage in that BBC thing and still played the whole show before getting looked at by a medical team and the general amount of times he tripped/fell on stage, and how much he moves and jumps around, I'm guessing his ankle gave up on him once he settled after the first leg of the tour. That's just assuming nothing major happened to him this past 2 weeks that could've triggered it.

[cannot-copia]

Guess who just spent the last hour trying to shove who knows how old black petrified horse shit out of this pipe in the fukin 100°+ humidity sun I am straight up NOT having a good time rn how the FUCK do like the construction guys do it

At least I think I got it now but I have spaghetti arms and I’ve been shoving hoses and pipes down both ends this whole time my arms bout to be sore af

[identittie-crisis]

when people say that they taste fear, i completely understand what they’re saying

i was out with my dog today and i stood on this thing that was kind of if an oval was 3d and then in half the same way a semi circle exists. i stood on it and when my shoes slipped down the curves i could taste it.

i literally tasted fear and it tastes like electricity.

[sadcadet]

it took my fucking memory away. what's up with that

[ereh-emanresu-tresni]

The eternal struggle between my hiking shoes chafing specific spots but my work shoes making me generally sore af...

[mag171]

i dont have any nonweird way to say that my feet feel like theres a ripcord of garrote wire running through the top that someone keeps tugging back and forth when i walk but. thats whats happening.

[regret-breathing]

last night i had a dream that my ex girlfriend was getting married to Armie Hammer. I was invited to the wedding, and invited to be her maid of honor, because we were secretly sleeping together and she needed moral support from her lover while she got married to her awful fiance. Also because like, even if we hadnt been sleeping together I imagine she wouldve brought me along because in the dream she had like. Just gotten back from the ISS (or dream equivalent, she was an astronaut in the dream, she isnt an astronaut in real life), and was not really prepared to be in a huge public event after being in space for a considerable amount of time. you know how it is when you come back from being in space after a considerable amount of time.

this is loooong so. yeah. the rest is under the cut.

anyway so I’m at this wedding, helping my secret lover get ready and helping keep The Fucking Hammers (who were giving extreme Bluths from arrested development energy) at bay as much as possible. wedding’s being held on this GOOORGEOUS little secluded island off the coast that they own (ew), we’re enjoying the sea air, we’re eating bonkers delicious food that probably cost enough to feed me for a year, when she fills me in about The Book.

Apparently in my dream world the Hammers have this whole ritualistic practice centered around The Family Book, a massive ancient tome supposedly containing the signatures of every Hammer dating back centuries, as they sign some sort of oath or contract when they come of age. Think like. what if the eagens from severance had the same unsettling religiosity but it was more antisemitic blood rituals trope and less corporate strategy. there were holidays about this book there were seasonal traditions about this book they were on some wild shit with this book. according to dream-ex “all old families like them have something like that”. i dunno man this book feels a lil fucked up, and again a little too close to some antisemitic tropes idk why my heavily jewish brain did this to me.

Anyway so she tells me all this because apparently it’s Hammer tradition that as a part of weddings, they have a private ceremony before the legal one where they properly induct those their children choose to marry into the Family, and so have them Sign The Family Book. i’ll be expected to go and serve as Witness, because i’m the maid of honor. she says it like it like it’s some great and incredible honor, to see the book signing ceremony as an outsider (and of course be sworn to secrecy as long as i shall live).

I’m like o.o maybe tell ppl that before they accept being your maid of honor, but fuck it! in the dream i love this girl so i’m like, in for a penny in for a pound i’ll go to your scary blood contract party to help you stay calm during it. so after everyone getting ready, she’s in her beautiful wedding dress I’m inexplicably wearing the himemiya anthy red wedding dress from utena (but without the crown or gloves) and i gotta say this is the first truly unbelievable thing in this dream so far. i wouldve worn a suit it wouldve been great and i got some audacity but i knooow i wouldnt roll up to my secret lover’s wedding in an anime wedding dress thats just gauche. and reeeeally obvious. im a bit buffooonish at times but im slicker than that.

So we’re all prepped and pretty and it’s wedding time, dream-ex is understandably anxious, i’m understandably anxious, and someone waylays us in the halls of the (seriously goooorgeous) venue to let us know it’s time for the Book Signing. we follow them to the chamber, and it is Weird in there. Basically, picture a very large cavernous room, totally dark in there, no windows, inky almost cave-like blackness. at the center theres like a corporate looking metal-and-glass conference table with super tall backed matching chairs, illuminated only by these blinding spotlights that blare down at each seat at the table, a double wide one encapsulating the two seats at the head of the table for the couple getting married. i like just woke up im glad i still remember this because it was an insane visual.

the whole collected living Hammer family is gathered around the table, all looking solemn and almost grim, they turn to us and beckon us warmly to join them at the table, she is seated to the left of her fiance at the head of the table, and i am next to her across the corner because i guess thats where the witness goes. Armie Hammer (first time i see him in the dream) is wearing basically the same fit he wore in Sorry To Bother You, except with the biggest Sonic blue high tops you ever seen. vividly remember these shoes. it’s kinda swaggy. He is also clutching the largest clearly hand bound leather tome i ever seen in real life, with slighly mismatched pages, dark almost black leather, with notably a large brownish stain on the spine where supposedly Grampappy Hammer fatally struck a rival with it and they’ve respectfully never cleaned the stain to remember.. something. i think there was a reason. this was an anecdote people were telling the whole fucking time. heard it like 4 times over the course of the wedding. miserable vibe. So he’s clutching this book tight, barely acknowledging his fiancé (dick move but i guess he was swept up in the ceremony), only occasionally mumbling to his best man, his brother (i have no idea if armie hammer has a brother but my dream said he did so im going with it).

i dont remember how or why but i guess dream-ex made an excuse to leave for a second?? or maybe im misremembering and i got there first and she was late?? or something?? but i pretty clearly remember getting there together so maybe she made an excuse to go to the bathroom or something i dunno. either way she steps out for a moment and im like. pretty heavily spooked by being alone with The Collected Hammers And Their Fucked Up Book in this Creepy Weird Ritual Chamber. the vibes are Off. theres sort of awkward chatter and I try to participate but Armie Hammer gives me a Look when i try so i shit tf up. Eventually dream-ex comes back, and she’s visibly more anxious than before. I try to discretely check in on her and she brushes me off, but sort of slowly takes my hand which is a little weird because we’d agreed not to do pda around the Hammers.

Then. Fucking. Okay. If you’re ever in this situation for whatever reason. DO NOT. DO THIS. TO ANYONE YOU LOVE. But yeah so she’s taken my hand, takes a pause while the Hammers look confused at her, and before the booksigning can begin she says she has something to say, and fucking TELLS THEM ALL THAT WE HAVE BEEN HAVING AN AFFAIR. I am flabbergasted right, we’d agreed that she was gonna go through with the wedding and i was cool about it because i woudlnt want to fuck over the Hammers they scare me. but yeah so she totally blindsides me with this, and i get it right i woudlnt want to sign their fucking book either, she probably made the right call, but cmonnnnn at least let your secret lover know BEFORE you tell the richest people ever that youve been screwing behind their backs WHILE THEYRE CARRYING THE MURDER BLOOD BOOK. So the Collected Hammers are shocked right, i’m surprised but kinda impressed by her absolute audacity, she’s doing a great job of appearing calm even though by the grip she has on my hand she’s freaking out, and Armie Hammer is just utterly confused by this turn of events. And she takes it one step FURTHER. she tells them that she fully intends to marry ME that day instead of Armie Hammer, when we’re on their private wedding island, with a wedding ceremony they paid for, surrounded by 100% of living Hammers and VERY few other guests, and I WAS NOT AWARE SHE WAS PLANNING THIS. and at this point, yknow what, i gotta give it up to dream-ex. brass fucking balls. looking Known Cannibal Armie Hammer in the face and telling him shes been fucking around on him, that hes not getting married today, and that some fucking dyke is gonna steal his girl right in front of him, all while he’s holding The Family Book no less. He’s gone from shocked staring at her, to death glaring at me, and im pretty sure hes gonna murder me with the book, or maybe his family will kill me with their hands because theyre looking Agitated, but he sort of sighs and just tells us to get out. And we do! we leave the spooky vaguely antisemitic corporate ritual chamber and get the fuuuuuck out of there.

admittedly not very far it’s not like we leave the island or anything, all the boats are Hammer boats. we go back to her dressing room and i’m like forreal we’re getting married today?? she seems relieved not to be marrying into the Hammers and doesnt seem like she thinks we’re about to die so i decide not to be unhappy with being blindsided like that. shes like yeah and im sort of giddy, theres some smooching, etc etc etc.

So we go to the much more normal wedding ceremony, which I’m expecting to be empty because like 80% of the guests were Hammers or Hammer adjacent, but it’s a full fucking house, and it is some WEIRD energy in there. We get married by the priest (who I’m pretty sure looking back is the priest from the season 4 finale of Peep Show), irl i wouldve been pretty salty about having a christian wedding but i guess when youre stealing someone else’s wedding and are pretty sure theyre gonna kill you because Armie Hammer is still holding The Book, you try not to be a stickler about it not being a rabbi. So we get married to utter silence from the host of Hammers and a modest amount of dream-ex’s family, it’s awkward, theres a smooch, yaaay woo should be the end of the dream right? right?

wrong!! because my brain hates me and wants to put me through MORE torture, for some reason instead of just getting on a boat to the mainland and finding somewhere Not Full Of Hammers to celebrate, we fucking go to the reception! for some reason!! and inexplicably, so does the entire Hammer family. It’s a nice party, the vibes are BAD but the food remains excellent the drinks are frighteningly expensive and the decor is tasteful if a little bleak, we’re sitting very awkwardly at the Big Table completely surrounded by Hammers and Armie is still holding the fucking Book for some reason, I’m trying not to look too frightened so i can make sure dream-ex is okay, i give us plenty of excuses to leave but dream-ex steps on every one of them, insisting on staying in the Hammer Zone. We do try to stay around her small number of guests though, spending time with her parents, answering lots of bewildered questions about how the fuck this happened, generally avoiding the Hammers as much as possible who for some reason DO NOT LEAVE. I dunno i guess it’s their island so whatever but if i were Armie Hammer and my fiancee ran out on me and then stole my wedding and claimed squatters rights to stay there I think I’d just go home???? maybe that’s just me but I’d definitely bounce if I were the Collected Hammers.

Oh right another awkward wrinkle— dream-ex is an astronaut in this dream right, so she’s been back from the ISS for a while now, and part of why she was getting married at all is because either the following day or two days later or something she was either going back up to the ISS for another shift up there or maybe to the moon??? i remember people mentioning the moon, but i dunno because like, they dont stay on the moon forever, doesnt seem like astronauts stay on the moon for even a full day, so it’s not like a Getting Shipped Out To War thing where you get married before you go because you might not come back and if you do youll be gone a while thing, right?? it’s a moon visit not a moon stay, right??? i think???? but from my memory people kept bringing up the damn moon so i gotta assume it was a moon trip even if that doesnt make a lot of sense to me. I dunno near the end of the dream is where i forget a lot of it. but yeah so she’s getting asked questions about the moon, I’m getting death glares from the family and sniffing my food for poison, we both look fantastic, she’s kind of getting tired of me hovering around making sure she’s alright which isnt a great sign for the marriage but yknow what it’s been a long day no reason to read too far into it.

Eventually, I take a little smoke break because she seems like shes getting overwhelmed by me being there, and I call a different ex of mine (one who i actually talk to in real life as opposed to dream-wife-ex who i havent spoken to irl in like four years minimum) to complain about the Hammers because hahahaaaa they never got to do the ceremonyyyy so i wasnt sworn to secrecy about their boooooook naa naa na boo boo.

And that’s the whole saga. i don’t remember what happened after that but i think i woke up pretty soon after. weird fucking dream.

but yeah if any fancy dream interpreters wanna tell me what the fuck any of THAT means do let me know.

[dinosnaurnuggets]

Why do all of my shoes have to fall apart NOW??

[bboricha]

y...yes, sir! anything you say, sir! || bori's 1k special - part 1

➳ pairings: al haitham, ayato, baizhu, childe, cyno (separate) x subordinate afab!reader ➳ part 2 with diluc, heizou, tighnari, venti, and zhongli coming soon! ➳ cw: not proofread, a bit of power play (duh... they're your boss), oral (m and f!receiving), dry humping (on a shoe lol and mattress), exhibitionism, deep throating, swallowing, face fucking, dumbification, mentions of impregnation (ayato), marking, mentions of tying up hands, overstimulation, unprotected, aphrodisiac (baizhu), kinda dubcon, fingering, you're a cicin mage in childe's blurb, mention of marriage in ayato's, lmk if i've missed any...!

➳ synopsis: what would happen to you as their subordinate...?

al haitham x secretary afab!reader

you’ve met al haitham several times before… the whole mess all the sages have gotten themselves into. it was only natural, being the grand sage’s secretary and all, you would often deliver documents and knowledge capsules between the two of them. you never really thought too much of the man and neither did he think anything of you. sure, he was, well, younger than some of your colleagues, a vision holder, and… undeniably attractive. 

maybe that’s why you’ve found yourself in this position. underneath the grand sage’s desk with a mouthful of the acting grand sage’s dick. you cannot believe the amount of control this man has talking to a matra with a straight face and unwavering voice despite being balls deep into your throat. not to mention, he keeps fucking his shoe against your clothed cunt and you’re absolutely sure that both his shoe and your panties are drenched at this point. you moan on his cock, the vibrations seemingly doing something for him as you hear his voice audibly hitch and his hand fly immediately for your hair, tugging at it as if to warn you.

it wasn’t your fault, it really wasn’t. if he would just stop using his shoe on you, order the matra to leave, and finally fuck you on his desk, you both wouldn’t be in this predicament. you’re almost led to believe that maybe he likes the idea of being caught, but then it dawns on you that he just actually likes seeing you anxious. this asshole only likes seeing you in this predicament, because he couldn’t care less about what others think about him. caution to the wind, you guess, and gulp down another whine, swallowing and stretching your throat out to make room for him even deeper as he digs the tip of his stiff sole against your clit. 

you’re so close and you can feel that al haitham is too. with the way his dick is twitching in your mouth, you decide to speed up your ministrations and apparently so has al haitham. you tune in a bit, noticing that their conversation is about to end as he hits a certain spot, noticing you falter and begins to abuse it. it’s becoming harder and harder to stay quiet with how his shoe works itself so well against your cunt, your slick aiding in the feeling. you’re about to pull out to cover your mouth when you hear the door click shut as al haitham pushes your head, your nose hitting his abdomen with ropes of his cum sticking to your throat. you’re shaking at the feeling—at the fact that him using you like a fucking sleeve made that coil snap and you spill your essence all over his shoe.

he yanks you up from your knees before the cogs in your brain could generate another thought, forcing your mouth open by pushing down your tongue with his thumb, making sure you’ve swallowed every last drop.

“you’re a competent secretary, by the way. i can see why you were kept around—your services are much needed everyday in my office.”

kamisato ayato x retainer afab!reader

you grew up with the kamisatos, your family serving them as their retainers. your parents served the former heads while you were taught from a young age to serve their heirs. when the former kamisato heads had passed, your parents began to serve ayato, until he had dismissed them—told them they should retire and enjoy themselves—something he had wished his parents had the chance to do as well. and so you inevitably became his personal retainer again. not that you were complaining, no, but it was different from when the two of you were children. things like helping him bathe, get dressed, and aiding him at the crack of dawn—it just wasn’t the same anymore.

especially considering that tending to his nightly duties included him being balls deep inside of you. face down, ass up, your kimono disheveled and almost in tatters, ayato muttering something about how he’ll buy you a new one, one that he’ll personally pick out—to him, it’ll be a sign of ownership. he kept his focus on plowing into you, gripping your hips so hard every night that you’re afraid you might find indents of his fingers one day, your insides already having molded to the shape of his dick.

you’re biting his sheets, trying so hard to not make a noise when he pulls out, maneuvering you over onto your back. he slips a thumb into your mouth as you suckle on it, much to his enjoyment, as he tells you to not muffle yourself. he pushes his length back inside, bottoming out when he caresses his hand over the bulge, admiring the sight and drags his hand back to your hips (where it belongs) and begins thrusting yet once again. you’re full on moaning now, relishing in the way ayato hits every place that makes your eyes roll back with his fingers playing with your clit, making the coil in your stomach tighter and tighter with every thrust.

when your orgasm hits, your hands fly to your face in embarrassment, blocking out any sounds leaving your mouth and covering yourself so ayato doesn’t see what a blushing mess you are. he tsks to himself, one that you can hear, but quickly throws whatever thought he had away, replacing it with the idea that he has all night to rid of those hands that’s hiding your beauty from him. perhaps maybe with your obi, or maybe a bright, red rope? how about both? what other sounds will he be able to hear tonight, what cries will he be able to coax out of you, he wonders, melodies that he can’t wait to hear.

his cock twitches inside of you at his own imagination. he leans down, his body almost flush against yours as he kisses your temple, placing a hand on the top of your head as his thrusts suddenly increase in speed, signaling him close to release. you’re whining at the overwhelming sensation, biting into his shoulder to help muffle your moans when ayato stills, pushing himself as deep as he can reach as he cums inside, his warmth filling you up.

“if this sticks, maybe this will give you a reason to finally marry me.”

baizhu x assistant afab!reader

you’ve been baizhu’s helper since he saved your life a few years ago. he had found you battered up and injured when he was visiting qingce village. it was only after he took you back to bubu pharmacy to take care of you, a complete stranger, were you able to recover. you didn’t know how else to pay him back, nor did you really have anywhere else better to go, so you asked for him to take you in, and he obliged, greatly appreciating the help. he especially appreciates your help in aiding him develop a new medicine.

one that involves his hand in your underwear. he coated the “medicine” on his tips of his fingers before shoving it down your pants, caressing it against your clit, massaging the substance in your insides. he pushes a finger to your entrance slowly, coaxing it in as it begins to make you tingle, your body heating up. you’re starting to get needy, grabbing at baizhu’s wrist when he keeps going agonizingly slow, and to your surprise, he lightly pushes your hand off. he says you have to be patient, that he’s making sure you’re properly absorbing the medicine, that he doesn’t want to hurt you, telling you all of this with a grin, not showing any hint of concern.

he finally pushes in a second finger, making you cum instantly around his fingers to his delight. it’s working beautifully on you, perhaps a little too well when you grab the hem of his jacket as he’s about to pull away, asking for more. he wasn’t actually going to stop, it’s not like he went in this purely for research purposes, but the way your cheeks are flushed, beads of sweat dripping down into the crevices of your shirt, the rise and fall of your chest from him riling you up—it’s enticing. he’ll just have to make a mental note for later and tend to you now, after all, it’d be cruel of him to leave you like this when you’re asking so nicely, right?

he tells to come to the edge of the bed, enough so that your ass is almost hanging off as he peels off your underwear, watching how it clings to your messy cunt, sticky with your cum and slick. he wets his lips in anticipation, wondering how well your essence has soaked up the aphrodisiac as he licks a stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste. he can already feel it getting to him as well, the residue or whatever was left on you, he figures, is still doing its job. either from the high of knowing how effective his medicine is or the effects really kicking in, he starts to eat you out with fervor, lapping up everything you have to give him, the noise so obscene that they bounce off the walls of his room.

you don’t have the time to feel ashamed by how loud it is, your hands going to tug on his hair as he grunts in response, the vibration of it ripples against you making you moan. he focuses his tongue on your clit, licking and suckling the tiny bud as he shoves two fingers into you, saying something about how you’re still tight even after an orgasm and his drug combined. he’s rutting himself against the mattress of his bed, his clothed cock desperate for any sort of friction as he feels you tightening up around his fingers for a second time tonight.

he curls his fingers, thrusting them in and out as he watches you unravel on his tongue, the sight one to behold. he gently fucks you on his fingers through your orgasm as he cums against his tight pants, slurping up your release as he stands up, unzipping himself to reveal his still hard length.

“there are still more tests to run, i’m afraid, before i can put this medicine on… our shelves, you see.”

childe x cicin mage afab!reader

you, a regular cicin mage, have been assigned to work closely under the 11th harbinger, tartaglia, your immediate response being nothing but a simple “fuck.” you’ve met the harbinger before and you immediately didn’t know how to feel about him. he was so… odd? so… kind? compared to the other harbingers at least, and on the contrary you actually felt the need to be even more wary with him. your first couple months working under him were quite fine. in fact, he was a great boss, he was kind and understanding and after a bit, you’ve completely adapted to being by his side. 

that is until he drags you to a harbinger meeting, forcing you to sit next to him as he places a hand on your thigh, dangerously close to your crotch. he’s stroking the soft flesh, his pinky occasionally brushing over your clit, covered by your leotard. you’re lucky that the other harbingers can’t see what’s going on, though, they seemed to not care for your existence and presence at the meeting anyways. you try to brave up, attempting to push his hand away when he doesn’t relent, completely ignoring any signals you’ve been giving him, participating in the meeting as if he’s absolutely unfazed.

he goes from being subtle to shameless rubbing the nub, not hiding his intentions whatsoever, especially when he pushes your leotard to the side, playing with you skin to skin. your hands cover your mouth, not caring about what the other harbingers might think at this point when tartaglia dips a finger inside your entrance, slowly coaxing it in as he watches your expression, choosing to put in a second. the stretch is divine, two of his fingers already proving to be larger and deft, feeling better than whatever you might be able to do to yourself, and you’re confused. how is he touching you so skillfully? as if he’s already familiar with your walls and every crevice, curling the tips of his fingers to hit your favorite spot with every thrust.

you’re unaware of the obscene noises the two of you have been making, painfully unaware of how the jester has already brought this meeting to an end, some of the harbingers completely ignoring you both as they exit, others shaking their heads in disgust. you’re resting your head against your arms on the table, trying your best to hold in your moans despite having no reason to do so at this point while tartaglia gets more bold with his movements, ripping your leotard for better access and movement.

the squelching sounds and your heavy breaths bounce around the walls of the wide hall, ricocheting back towards you, only adding to your nearing release. tartaglia can feel the way you’re tightening around his fingers, fastening his ministrations until you cum. he groans at your pussy convulsing against him, the bulge in his pants growing larger and larger as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“darling, i think you’re gonna have to… work overtime tonight, am i clear?”

cyno x matra afab!reader

you’ve never really been a good subordinate, always skipping out on meetings as you deem them unnecessary, opting out on drinking with your colleagues, never listening to cyno. it’s not like you can help it, honestly. you have your own way of doing things and you still manage to get the job done regardless, so is there really any harm to your methods? technically no, and cyno has yet to really do anything substantial that could threaten your position, so you decide to test his patience.

his patience that apparently isn’t limitless, you’ve figured out. by…well, you know, the way he’s fucking you against the shelves in the house of daena. he’s keeping you captive, trapping your body with his as it takes all of your willpower and concentration to not make any noise—to not attract any attention towards you both. his chest is flush against yours, his cock fully submerged within you as you grip the shelf for some sort of purchase with one hand, the other desperately covering your mouth.

you can feel his breath, hear every groan that escapes his lips right next to your ear, the sensation only turning you on even further as his hand finds its way underneath your shirt, choosing to play with your nipple. he gives a particularly sharp thrust, as if he’s trying to elicit some sort of noise from you, saying something about how he’s been needing a reason to punish you, about he’s been waiting for this “opportunity” for a long time. his words are lost on you, could you not comprehend simple sentences anymore or was he spouting pure nonsense? you’re not sure, your head foggy from how slow he’s going, how he would suddenly snap his hips against yours, how sometimes he’d suckle on the nape of your neck or bite your shoulder, the figure eights on your clit, everything is driving you absolutely insane.

the general mahamatra, someone you figured whose sex drive was nonexistent, is throwing you for a loop today. someone who is more well endowed than you would’ve imagined, someone who’s filling you up oh so perfectly, the head of his dick kissing your cervix in ways that makes stars float right before your eyes.

at this point you’re tempted to place both of his hands on your hips, to urge him to fuck you right then and there in the house of daena, and you do, but all he does is grip your hips tightly, not budging an inch as he smirks against your shoulder.

“this is a punishment, remember? have i fucked you so stupid already that you’ve forgotten?”

➳ an: wow look at all those tags! also i literally have no idea why childe's banner thingy is so fkn blurry compared to the others... akhdkahsd

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[astraystayyh]

please fall before i fall

jeongin x reader. best friends to lovers. they think it's unrequited love so a bit of angst. but they're just idiots. happy ending :))

summary : 3 times you saved jeongin's ass and the 1 time he saved yours (and ended up confessing along the way). holidays themed.

winter falls masterlist.

a.n. : i am very happy to finally post my first fic for the winter falls collab with my author xi hehehehhe i hope you'll enjoy this one <333 it's very light and fluffy she's the cute one!! oh and my song rec is i bet on losing dogs by mitski

One. 

Jeongin’s thumb hovers over your contact name, his rosy lip pulled tightly between his teeth. He hesitates for a few seconds before finally dialing your number. 

“What do you want?” you start which makes an incredulous snort escape his lips, a gust of powdery air materializing before his mouth from the cold. 

“How much do I have to pay you for you to come over?” 

“Ten thousand dollars. Cash,” you precise as he mouths along to what you say, already guessing what your next words would be. 

He's come to know you at an abhorrent speed these past few months; since you sat right next to him in your biology class, head buried in an oversized navy hoodie. Your perfume knocked into him like a gentle breeze— Sicilian lemon and white bouquet notes, nostalgic summer amid an unforgiven autumn. Memories of sticky fingers from molten ice cream and feet soles meeting the warm sand wafted in the air, alluring him to the kindness of a long-gone summer, you. 

That is why he talked to you at first, because you smelled nice, incredibly so. He tells you it's because he liked the pair of shoes you were wearing. 

“What if I brought you your favorite coffee?”

“Are you outside my dorm?” you squeal and he imagines you must be scrambling to get up, opening the curtains. He knows he's right as your figure materializes behind the window. “Hi,” you wave, a small giggle escaping your lips. He can't help the fond smile that draws upon his lips. 

He thinks he likes you a little. 

“Hey, please help me wrap my family’s gifts,” he pouts, waving the coffee in the air. Your order that he memorized by heart, not even meaning to, it was just natural for him to order you coffee every day, to remember your preferences as if they were his own. 

“Why are you here if we're going to your dorm anyways?” you laugh, leaning against the window. 

“Because I know I need to bribe you,” he sighs, angling his head to the side. “Are you not going to hang up and come downstairs? The coffee will grow cold.”

“I’m coming!”

An hour later, four gifts are resting beside Jeongin's figure, perfectly wrapped thanks to your skilled hands. He's lying on the warmed tiles, and you're right beside him, so close your knee brushes against his thigh now and then. 

He is keeping count, well, more so his heart, constricting in his lungs each time you touch. 

He's so aware of you, so much he's sure you’ve crawled into his skin, morphing him into nothing but a shell of you. 

Perhaps he likes you a lot. 

“You're an insane man. Who leaves gift wrapping to the last minute?”

“You're best friends with said insane man.” 

“Remind me how did that happen again?” you ask, propping your head on your elbow, and turning to the side to look at him. Jeongin has to pretend that the sight of you hovering over him doesn't affect him. That his eyes aren't drawn to your lips, heart dissolving at your feet, hoping to brush against your own. 

Please fall before I fall, he nearly pleads.

“Why are you so close,” he feigns disgust, pushing your face away with his pointer finger. 

“What? Does that fluster you?” you question, amused, bringing your face even closer to his. He scrambles away before a blush sprouts on his face, one he wouldn't be able to justify to your scrutinizing gaze. 

“As if. You're ugly,” his eyes squint, lips thinning into that particular smile he knows annoys you. He moves to the side swiftly, anticipating the shoe you throw at him.

“You're literally— remind me to never help you again, asshole.”

“I'm kidding. Thank you for today, seriously. I didn't know wrapping gifts could be this hard.” He falls back to the floor dramatically, banging his head against the tiles in the process.

“Well deserved,” you whisper. 

“I heard that.”

“Good,” you giggle, before gently massaging the spot where he has bumped his head. He purses his lips against one another, afraid of what words might escape the confines of his throat, vocal cords moving to the gentle rhythm of your touch. 

“Will you keep on being this clumsy, Innie? mm?” you muse, tone quieter. 

The nickname makes his insides churn, it is always so tender when it falls from your lips. No one has ever called him this softly before. No one has ever called his heart before you. 

He shouldn't be this clumsy with it. It is a fragile organ, akin to glass, easily breakable, so translucent— it'd be easy for anyone to peer inside and find you in it. 

“Yeah, I probably will.”

He'll stop liking you next year. He hopes. He'll try. 

Two.

Next year has come, familiar frigid winds pulling you to Jeongin’s heart, perhaps even more so than before, cementing your being into the nooks and crannies of his soul, perfectly so, as if it was destined for you alone to fill the emptiness inside him. 

Seasons have changed and yet summer remains, its essence stored safely within the notes of your perfume, it tickles his nose as you're seated on the countertop, legs swinging lazily while he scouts through his fridge. 

“Remind me why we're doing this again?”

“Because I made a bet with Yoon.”

“Your sixteen years old brother?”

“Yes.”

“You are in college.”

“I know.”

“Why are you taking it to heart?” 

“Because I have my pride,” he says solemnly, hand on his heart and you roll your eyes. 

“You literally begged at my feet fifteen minutes ago to help you.”

A year later, Jeongin stood beneath your window once again, phone brought up to his ear, hand hidden behind his back. You pick up on the first ring. 

“Look out the window,” he quickly says before you can even speak. 

“Hello, Y/n, how are you, Y/n, are you surviving with the cold—” you say sarcastically as you pull the curtains, the words dissolving in your tongue as he brings a single flower before him— you recognize its pink petals easily, Camellia, the rose of winter.

“I did not have time for coffee, but I plucked this off the sidewalk,” he offers, an amused grin on his face. “Help me bake cookies, pretty please, I'll be forever indebted to you. Forever and ever and ever and ever—”

“This is such a poor rendition of Romeo and Juliet, I'm afraid Shakespeare is suffering in his grave right now.”

“Do you think he knows of every theater play that was done to his story?” Jeongin muses.

“That's a good question actually. I hope he didn't see mine,” you shudder before your face pales. 

“You did not tell me you ever did that!”

“I'll bake your cookies and you'll never bring this up again.”

“Deal. My Juliet,” he smirks and you throw a middle finger aggressively to his face before hanging up. He shouldn't find it as endearing as he does.

“Because, my dear Y/n, this is my holiday reputation at stake. I kind of raised the bar last year with my gift wrapping.”

“You did?” you raise an eyebrow promptly at his words and he sighs, taking out the butter before leaning against the fridge.

“We did. Which is exactly why I need your help again. Imagine how embarrassing it would be if Yoon wins,” he shudders and a giggle finally escapes your lips.

The kitchen warms up at the sight of your smile.

“It's cute when you need me once in a while,” you say nonchalantly, hopping off the counter and moving to wash your hands. Jeongin freezes in his place.

“I always need you though,” he confesses quickly, swallowing the words, hoping that this way you wouldn't be able to taste the sincerity coating them, sticky honey dripping from his tongue whenever it speaks of you.

“Good thing you'll always have me then,” you beam, your words hanging into the air, oxygen suddenly harder to inhale.

“Gross,” he fakes a shiver, as his heart drops in his chest, breaks, and twists at the weight your words carry.

He'll always have you, but not in the way he wants to, your eyes would never soften at the mere mention of his name, and you won't think that a season blooms into every room he is in. He has you, but just a fragment of you, not how you have him, as a whole, heart, body, and soul. 

He's already fallen, a terrible, terrible fall.

“Will you help me or just stare off into the distance?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He smiles bashfully, rolling his sleeves and sidling by your side to mix in the eggs, one by one, per your instructions. 

It smells nice in the kitchen, the caramelized fragrance of browned butter, sweetened by the sugar dissolving into the warm liquid. Tentative sunlight streams through the window, and it falls perfectly on Jeongin's face, highlighting his sharp features. 

Not that jeongin needs any additional light, he reminds you of spring, a flower blooming on his face each time he smiles, his dimples two youthful fountains the roots strive from, brightening his face even more. 

He tentatively glances at you as he adds the chocolate chips to the mix, only to find you staring forward. He misses the fond look on your face by a few seconds, the tinting of your features with soft hues of pink, of spring, of him. He always misses it, always misses you. 

Three.

"I can't believe you have 37 pairs of shoes but not one nice shirt.”

“It's 36, please count correctly,” Jeongin retaliates and you snort, flopping around in bed till you land on your stomach, chin propped up by your hand. Jeongin is still rummaging through his closet, head almost disappearing into the dark void of his wardrobe. 

“What do you need this for anyway?” you question, as you scroll through your phone mindlessly. Jeongin’s eerie silence causes you to look up. 

“Um. I have a date tonight.”

“Oh.” 

His words hang over the room like a heavy cloak soaked with rain, the oxygen sucked out of your lungs and ensnared within that singular gasp.

Jeongin swiftly turns around, before kneeling beside the bed, eyes brimming with a hopeless search— you are too focused on steadying your breathing to notice.

“Should I go?”

“I mean… Why are you asking me?”

“If you don't want me to, I won't,” he speaks in an overflowing sincerity, as though he'd willingly surrender the reins of his life for you to guide, should you only dare to ask. 

A breath, a pause, and he adds, “In case you'll be lonely tonight.” Your hope deflates in an instant, akin to a birthday balloon tossed into the careless hands of children. 

Pity, that's what he feels for someone who hasn't had a date in a year while he went on ones regularly. Although they never transcended beyond that first meeting, always a first date, never a second. He says none of the people he meets are his type. 

“I have a date too.” It was the truth, Suhoo had told you to meet him at the ice rink. You said you'd think about it. You knew deep down that your answer would be no, solely because he isn't Jeongin.

Perhaps it is too late for him to fall for you.  

“Really?” 

“Yeah, with Suhoo, you know, the guy in our Economics class.”

“He's nice.”

“Mm.” 

Could you lose something you never had in the first place?

“You should wear Seungmin’s white shirt.” 

“Yeah. That's what I thought too.”

“And bring them flowers. The rose of winter, maybe.” 

You had preserved the plucked flower he gave you in a vase. The pink of the petals liquefying and bleeding into the blush on Jeongin’s cheeks once he noticed. 

“That one's just for you.” 

Four. 

You're alone on the ice rink, the frigid winds assail your form, fingers numb from winter's cruel grasp. Suhoo didn't come after all, perhaps he was offended by you calling him at the last minute to confirm your date.

The chill of disappointment is more biting than the frost— you want to melt off the ice, you want your spring. You want your Jeongin. 

But he isn't yours, perhaps he will never be. He is too sought after, too captivated by the fleeting chase of someone new to spare a glance at you. 

But in this instant, you need him. You need him to hold your hands in his larger, warmer ones and get you off the ice rink. You need the sight of his familiar dimples and blooming smile. 

So, you call him. He picks up on the first ring. 

“Are you that bored on your date?” He playfully taunts, and his voice becomes a gentle breeze that stirs the emotions you struggle to contain. Tears cascade down your cheeks in an achingly familiar path. 

“I-Innie,” you hiccup, and you’re instantly met with the sound of scraping chairs against the floor, the hastening cadence of footsteps hurrying out into the street. 

“Did he do something to you?” He speaks so coldly, a tone so foreign to the warmth of your Jeongin. He shouldn't be tainted with winter too. 

“He didn't come. Can you p-please pick me up?” 

“I will. I'm coming in a bit, okay?” 

He finds you rather quickly on the ice rink, a sore thumb unmoving between the gliding bodies. He skates over to you, almost falling twice in the process. 

“You're so clumsy,” you snort as he stands before you, sobs racking through your body once more at the sight of him.

You weren't mad at Suhoo. You were heartbroken over Jeongin.

“I'll beat him up for you. I'll tell Changbin to help me too,” he smiles, hands fidgeting as they land upon your cheeks, trying their best to wipe away your tears.

“Please don't cry. I hate seeing you cry, Y/n, I really can't bear it." The tears only fall harder at his words, as if he's stringing them forth with each touch of his.

“Did he do something to you?” an unknown voice startles you and you turn to your right to find a girl looking at you then at Jeongin, a frown etched on her eyebrows.

“No, I'm her friend I didn't-”

“I wasn't talking to you,” the girl cuts him off and you laugh despite you, as Jeongin’s jaw hangs open, before closing once more.

“It's not him, thank you so much though,” you smile gratefully and she nods, eyes wary as she glares at Jeongin one last time, before skating away.

“I can't believe that just happened,” He exhales, a breath tinged with bewilderment, before he delicately encircles a hand around your back. Gently, he guides your head to rest against the comforting refuge of his chest.

“What are you doing?” you mumble against his navy hoodie, the one he borrowed from you. You can still smell your perfume on him. 

“I'm comforting you.” 

“You don't like hugs.” 

“It's different when it comes to you.”

You close your eyes, allowing the tide of his warmth to envelop you like a cascade of spring petals.

“Where is your date?”

“I didn't go.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I love you. I'm tired of looking for you in other people,” he quickly says and you peel yourself away from him, feeling as if his clothes were suddenly made of fire. 

“What?” you whisper, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he repeats, each word drawn out, much slower this time, his hands cradling your face, tenderly, as though holding the sun between his delicate fingers. “I'm tired of pretending you're not my summer.”

“Don't say things you don't mean,” your voice wavers. 

“I mean it. I've always loved you. You complete me in ways I didn't know were possible, and I know you only see me as a friend but-”

Your lips press against his, a culmination of aching desires that have lingered for two years. Distant laughter echoes in the background, ice cream melting onto your fingers, a soft breeze ruffling your hair, flowers blooming under the soft caress of the sun— two seasons melting sweetly into the kiss.

“You're literally so blind,” you giggle against his lips, and his smile widens, your noses brushing against one another. “I love you too, idiot.”

“You love me?”

“You're my favorite season.” 

“Don't steal my lines.”

“Hey—” he kisses you this time, the winter is long forgotten. 

Was it ever a fall if you caught him in the end?

[vanderilnde]

so true @altissiia. neighbour/butcher simon is but a matted cat that would charitably leave mice at your door if that wasn’t so off-putting

-

It’s eight in the morning, and there’s coffee all over your work blouse. Burning through the canopy of your shirt, sticking your skin. 

You had loudly cursed as your foot got caught behind an innominate object, propelling you face first—and coffee first—into the corridor. Surely, the whole flat heard it. The tight yelp you released, the thunder of your nose colliding with the floor. 

You don’t care about the coffee blotches congealing in the hallway. The carpet has enough cryptic stains, ones that management isn’t bothered to fix, so you look away and throw a cursory glance over your shoulder—to see the cause of your fall—and grimace without conscious control.

It’s a bag of meat on your doormat. 

Wrapped in a plastic, sitting in a puddle of fresh blood. 

A few drops of dew glaze the bag by means of moisture. It hides its contents, hindering you from recognising anything inside. You poke it with your shoe, cringing at the cartilage and meat and marrow beneath the sole of your foot. It tumbles over in the clear film, revealing its gory underbelly and a sticky-note. 

The note is dog-eared, crumpled, and damp. Covered in writing written by a slap-happy hand. Sorry for being too loud last night with my mates. Guess I’m a hypocrite. Here’s some meat please accept, is what it reads. The tail-end features a poorly-drawn smiley face and a signature. Simon.  

He was being noisy last night. You were just too skittish to slap the drywall dividing you, or to knock on his door and ask him to keep it down. There was an overlap of voices, an undercurrent of accents, and the charm of beer cans persistently snapped open.

As you peel the note off the bag, the door beside you swings open. Simon stumbles out, sweatpants low on his hips, medical mask obscuring the lower shell of his face. By the looks of it, he just floundered out of the shower. His curls are still dripping with opalescent water drops. He’s shirtless, his chest hairs so blonde they’re almost glass-like. Tousled and wispy.

A few scars distort the skin of his ribcage and makes you wince. He’s breathing heavily, distending them, puffing out his chest.

“You alright?” He asks. “Heard you fall.” 

You realise you’re still on the floor. Simon looks cosmic from this angle—colossal—hauling with him disciplined muscles eclipsed by a soft belly. 

You meekly nod, rising to your feet. “‘m fine.”

Simon’s eyes flutter down to your chest. A hot-flash pools under your skin, sticky, messy, leaving you preening under his gaze, until, of course, you belatedly remember your spilled coffee. How your shirt sticks to your skin, revealing the barest hint of your breasts. You don’t cross your arms.

“You’ve something there,” Simon sniffs. He gestures to your chest.

“Um, yeah. I know.”

A whisper of discomfort marinates between you. Discomfort that Simon doesn’t seem to notice—or doesn’t seem to care about—as he keeps staring at you. 

He grunts. “I got you meat.”

“Thank you!” You chuckle. “It was a… sweet gift.” 

It takes you by surprise when Simon tucks his chin into his chest, grumbling. His crows feet crimp together like knife-edges as if he’s barely smiling. 

“Wait here,” he mumbles, then spins on his heel. You assume he’s going to put on some clothes, or bring you some more meat, but when Simon returns, he outstretches towards you a threadbare jersey, waiting expectantly.

“Stained your blouse,” he snorts. “Wear this.”

Owlishly, you blink. It’s your work blouse that’s stained. You can’t go in a Manchester United shirt.

“Um. I wouldn’t–”

Simon shoves it in your chest. At this point, he reminds you of a wet dog. Dripping wet, gratified of his gift-giving. Leaving raw meat that stinks of ammonia at your doorstep, handing you a shirt too-many-sizes too big for you. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging.

His hand is still extended. Above his mask, Simon’s eyebrows pucker as if he’s pouting. Like a kicked mutt, confused, and a little ratty. You feel awkward indebtedness eddying through you, so you snatch the jersey from him and slip it on jointly. It smells heavily of nicotine and pomade, slightly impairing you.

Satisfied, he nods. You think he’s going to say something else—there’s a little stifle between the flicker of his eyes and his jaw—but he doesn’t. Simon turns around and slams his door shut in your face.