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fayes-fics · 3 months

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 9 - Partance

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: A tiny touch of spice... some making out, celebrations and some more late-night confessions.

Word Count: 3.4k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is when we find out if their whole gamble pays off... Happy Valentine’s Day! This is my gift to you 🫶 Also, be warned that the rating will increase in the next chapter. 😉 Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Montivilliers (just outside Le Havre), September 1939

You awaken early to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. A glance into the living room, as you wander downstairs towards the enticing scent, shows the sofa is already rearranged and blankets neatly stowed, as if not slept on at all - a little twinge behind your ribs at Benedict’s forethought around the ruse you shared a bed last night.

Almost reluctant, you enter the kitchen, and there he is, pouring two cups from the cafetière, the sunlight catching the ring on his finger as he does so. Your husband. Benedict Bridgerton. He twists, and you see he is wearing glasses, taking you by surprise. On the table, you spy a newspaper open. You are momentarily embarrassed that you are married to a man you know so little about; you didn't even know he wore reading glasses.

“Good morning,” his greeting is soft but apprehensive.

“Good morning,” you mumble back, taking the proffered cup from him without quite letting your fingers touch.

Guilt eats at your soul as you take a seat, the creak of the old chair as you sit down seeming so loud in the otherwise silent room - guilt about pushing him too far with kissing, guilt about your confession, as if you burdened his sleeping subconscious with an unfair weight. It makes the need to talk about anything else bubble up within you.

“I had an idea,” you break the silence as he takes a seat. He says nothing in response, just looks at you expectantly. “We could pretend our relationship developed long distance. Say that we met through Eloise a few years ago? But were both with other people at the time. Perhaps we wrote to each other and, over time, grew close? I thought we could write some ‘fake’ love letters this morning. Fold them up, make them look a little old and creased, you know, and then exchange? Carry the letters as if we truly sent them to each other. It doesn't have to be many. Maybe 3 or 4? Backdated, of course.”

As you talk, his face lights up. “It’s brilliant!” he enthuses quietly, whipping off his glasses. “It's the perfect explanation! Then it makes sense I rush to Paris to rescue you! And my sister. The outbreak of war made me realise what you truly mean to me,” he spitballs, talking fast, gesturing animatedly. “It would explain our whirlwind marriage too - that we couldn't live another day apart without…. without being together with the looming uncertainty of war.”

His chair drags loudly across the tile as he stands up rapidly, grabs your hands, and hauls you up and into an embrace, lifting you off the ground and twirling around—a spontaneous celebration.

“You are brilliant!” he exclaims fervently, and then your lips find each other impromptu. A kiss that starts as a mere brush to seal the pact rapidly morphs into something else. Before you know it, your mouths are open, tongues tangled, and he is hoisting you higher in his arms, his hands grabbing your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist so your nightgown rides up to your hips, the heat of his pelvis crushed against yours through thin cotton pyjamas….

And that is the sight which greets the returning homeowners and Eloise.

A loud squeak from Marie has you rocketing apart, sliding down his torso back to your feet, cheeks aflame. But it's too late. There is no way to deny what they walked in upon-–you wrapped around Benedict’s body as you kiss fiercely.

“Wow… I miss that passion,” Jerome wisecracks in a bid to break the tension.

Although she is silent, the look on Eloise’s face is one you won't soon forget—shock, abhorrence but a streak of inquisition, as if taking on new information and filing it away.

You and Benedict both mutter apologies in unison, which seems to charm your hosts even more into good-natured joshing as they unpack croissants and jams from a wicker basket.

“A breakfast for our newlyweds,” Marie chimes with a wink. “I’m sure you need sustenance after a night like yours.”

In some ways, although mortifying, you cannot deny the cinch they caught you in does not exactly hurt the illusion of you being a real couple.

And so you all take a seat and begin breakfast together. Each treat on the table is delicious, and the conversation flows easily.

“You do know Solene will be mad she was not invited to the wedding,” Eloise remarks offhand at one point.

“Pssh! Let me deal with my sister,” Marie counters with an almost stereotypical Gallic shrug and a dismissive chuckle.

—

With a couple of hours until your sailing, you pack the few things you unpacked in the last couple of days and then turn to letter writing as Eloise reads. You sit outside, a delicate breeze over your sleeves as Benedict joins you. You agree on some dates and then fall silent as you pick up pen and paper and compose letters.

Yours don't feel sophisticated, but they feel honest - writing about actual events back home and more recently in Paris to lend an air of believability, interspersed with words of affection, longing, and hope to be reunited. Your final letter is dated the day war was declared, expressing a need to see him as soon as possible.

You have no idea what Benedict is writing, but his intensity and speed impress you, pages seeming to pile up around his elbows as you see glimpses of his elegant, looped script.

“I just have much to say, that’s all,” he responds, somewhat enigmatic when you express your concern that his letters appear much longer than yours.

—

Before you know it, Jerome and Marie are dropping you off at the port in Le Havre, hugging you all so tightly with promises of letters, telegrams, and phone calls. You will certainly miss them and Solene; they have been so welcoming to you, even for such a short period.

Benedict wraps an arm around your shoulder as a porter loads your cases onto a trolley and accompanies you to the boarding queue.

“Just like we practised,” he turns his head and murmurs into your ear so only you hear.

And then he sweeps you into his arms and kisses you, instantly opening your mouth under his, your pulse racing even among the crowd.

“Do you mind?” Eloises hisses, disgust evident on her face.

Breaking the kiss, you giggle and bury your face in Benedict's shoulder as he shoots her his trademark elder brother look of derision.

“Do you want your best friend to come with us to England or not, sister? Because we have to look married and madly in love,” he points out, his arm stroking your back.

“You don't have to swallow her face,” Eloise grouses, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes as she pouts, looking aside.

“The more convincing, the better,” he counters, but their dispute is interrupted by your being called forward to the desk.

After asking for your tickets and passport, the surly young man looks at your passport and frowns.

“Are you planning to remain in the UK?” His ask is terse.

“Yes,” you reply, clear but polite.

“Reason?”

“She is my wife,” Benedict cuts in, that arm back across your shoulders.

“Do you have proof?” the man looks sceptical.

Benedict produces the marriage certificate from a folio in his case.

The man scans the document, his frown deepening. “You got married yesterday?” His questioning tone raises the attention of others nearby.

Your heart leaps into your mouth as a face you recognise materialises from behind a glass office. It's Theo Sharpe - the young soldier Eloise met in the bistro a few days ago.

“Is there a problem here, Jones?” he asks with an official tone.

“These two just got married. I have concerns…”

Theo peers at Benedict and you as if assessing you as a couple.

“What sort of concerns? They look in love to me…”

“We have letters!” you pipe up, nerves jangling.

“Letters?”

“Love letters we have written to each other over the months.” Benedict takes over. “When war broke out, I had to come and rescue the woman I loved. And then I could not resist proposing. And yes, we married yesterday. Sirs, you likely know better than anyone - war brings clarity to a man’s heart like nothing else. I could not go another day without her being my wife…” his speech is reserved but impassioned, and when he is done, he tucks you under his arm, kissing your forehead.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eloise frown as he hands over your letters, and you do the same with his from your handbag. Theo takes the pile and unfolds them, his eyebrow rising at something in one from Benedict’s pile.

“Jones, tell me that is not the sign of a man in love,” he tilts the page to his fellow soldier, seemingly pointing to a particular line.

The man coughs and runs a finger into his collar. “Oh… well… yes…” he seems to stumble, his cheeks heating.

What on earth did Benedict write?

“I think we can safely say they are a real couple, can't we?” Theo argues, refolding the letters and handing them back to you.

“Yes, yes, I think so…” the man agrees hesitantly.

“Well then, please issue the lady with the paperwork for residency,” Theo prompts, almost impatient.

You can barely contain the furl of excitement as the man dutifully grabs an official certificate and transfers your details, passing it under an embossing stamp and placing it inside your passport.

“Welcome to the United Kingdom, Mrs Bridgerton,” he smiles tightly as you see Theo shoot Eloise the briefest of winks behind the man’s back.

“Thank you, sir,” you breathe, almost stunned into a quiet silence, as again you are in Benedict's strong embrace.

“Well done, you were perfect,” he assures a few moments later as you walk up the ramp onto the ferry, his arms never having left your shoulders since.

With reality finally setting in, relief and elation radiate from inside - like the sunny day seeping into your being, making you feel the lightest you have felt in weeks. You can't help the grin you shoot him and drop a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“All thanks to you,” you demure as you cross onto the deck, “I owe you my life.”

“You owe me no such thing,” he counters immediately and sincerely. “Your idea - the letters - that is what sealed your future. You are much smarter and stronger than you give yourself credit for,” he adds, his tone ardent, a hand tenderly cupping your jaw as his thumb strokes your cheek.

Again, you find yourself lost in his eyes.

“God’s sake, you can quit the mooning now, you idiots,” Eloise gripes and elbows Benedict unceremoniously out of the way, drawing you into a bear hug. “I’m so happy!” she chimes into your ear.

“Me too,” you reply, laughing joyously, hugging her back as fiercely.

“I may have planned for this,” she winks, withdrawing to pull a bottle of champagne from her bag with a flourish.

And so, as the ferry pulls out of port and enters the English Channel, the three of you raise a toast to France as you watch the shoreline slip away. A kaleidoscope of emotions washing over you - a bittersweet farewell to your all-too-short French adventure, but also excitement and apprehension for the start of something new. A stay in England. And a new husband, well, sort of. For the first time, the future feels completely unwritten in a way that is freeing.

—

When you arrive in Portsmouth that evening, you immediately head for the stately Royal Maritime Hotel by the port. But there is a snag when you get to the check-in desk. The late hour and no reservation means only one room is left—with one double bed.

“I will sleep on the floor,” Benedict offers, ever the gentleman, as you all accept the room, knowing it's likely a similar story in all the other hotels with this many people escaping mainland Europe.

After dropping your luggage, you all head to dinner, which becomes drinks in a local bar, all of you wanting the celebratory mood to last a little longer. You nurse just one drink while Eloise seems determined to drain the port city dry, tipsily wandering off to the little dancefloor in the back room.

At some later point, while Benedict is at the bar paying the tab, Eloise returns, sidling up to your seat and loops her arms around you.

“You know how much I love you…?”

“What do you want, Eloise?” you chuckle, patting her elbow as you let her sway you with her hug.

“I've met someone,” she whispers excitedly, her breath sweetened by brandy, “and I realllllly like him. His name is Phillip. He’s lovellllyyy,” she singsongs.

“That's nice. But what does that have to do with me?” you ask, amused.

“If I were to spend the evening with him, would that be okay? With you?”

“You've never asked my permission to enjoy your previous dalliances, El; why now?” You are finding her thoroughly entertaining.

“Becaaaaause it means you will be stuck alone in a room with my brother,” she spells out. “And no woman should have to endure that,” she counsels with faux gravity, only mildly undermined by her comedic look of horror.

Your stomach vaults at the idea of a night alone with Benedict in a hotel room, but you must school your face to one of casual indifference.

“El, I shared a cottage with him last night; I think I can handle it.”

“Oh yes… and what in God's name was this morning all about?” she suddenly shifts the topic, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

You do your best not to choke on your sip of cocktail. “We saw you all coming up the path. Benedict thought it best for the ruse if we were caught in a compromising situation,” you bluff, waving your hand dismissively, even as you feel your cheeks glowing at the mere memory.

She side-eyes you momentarily but seems to accept it, giving you one more squeeze before bidding you goodnight. Her farewell to Benedict at the bar appears to be a smack on the arm and a warning with a pointed finger—ever the loving siblings. Then, with a flutter of butterflies under your ribs about the night ahead, you and Benedict head back to the hotel.

“Thank you again,” your tone is sincere as he unlocks the room. “If we had only known Theo would be at the port, maybe we wouldn't have had to go through all we did,” you point out wincingly, still apologetic, as he secures the door closed.

“We did what we had to. We were very fortunate he was there today; it was a wonderful coincidence, but we had to prepare for any circumstance. Besides, it is all water under the bridge now. You have your paperwork. You have your residency,” he points out brightly.

“But you had to marry me….” you point out, unable to let it go, guilt still shadowing your heart. “That was a huge sacrifice.”

“I am not the one who had to break a promise to another,” he counters softly. “You had to be the brave one here. You should not think of yourself as selfish. And you should feel free to pursue whatever you want in this world, y/n.”

Something in the choice of words in his heartfelt petition seems oddly reminiscent, but you cannot pinpoint it.

“I will still sleep on the floor,” he adds reassuringly, removing his coat.

“We… we could share…?” you feel your heart pound as you extend the tentative offer.

The look on his face is indecipherable, but you don't miss how his pupils dilate a fraction. “I promise not to kick…” his response is a genial callback to your discussion days ago.

You giggle, feeling that lightness in your being again. “And if you do, I’m sure I could find plenty of rope to remedy that. We are right by a port after all,” you can't help but banter back, gesturing to the harbour outside the window.

His responding warm laugh is like a balm.

He excuses himself to shower, and while he is gone, you unpack some basics. As you are delving in your bag for your hairbrush, the pile of letters Benedict handed you spills out.

Intrigued, you unfold them—curious to know what Theo had seen. The letters are a thing of beauty; you find yourself crawling onto the bed to read them properly. Pages of lyrically crafted praise that make your correspondence seem entirely lacking, more akin to a boring newsletter. You find yourself swept up in reading - lines of poetry, yearning sentiments and a few racier epithets that make your breath catch and your blood run hot.

‘Every night since we met, my love, I dream of nothing but you. Endlessly. I dream of your laugh, your smile, that wonderful little crease on your forehead when you think I am being foolish. You captivate me - body and soul. I dream of that delectable noise you make when I kiss you. I dream of tasting your skin. I dream of you coming apart in my arms, grasping me so tight you leave finger marks on my body. One day, my love, one day…’

You almost jump out of your skin when Benedict reenters the room, freshly showered, his hair in damp curls, sporting a distractingly fitted white t-shirt. You attempt to conceal what you are reading, embarrassed somehow, but it’s too late.

“I was wondering if you would,” he laughs softly when he realises.

“I’m sorry,” you utter, feeling as if you have snooped somewhere you should not have.

“Don't be,” he cuts in, smiling gently.

“How did you think up such poetic stuff?” you query, fingertips tracing almost reverentially over the words. A wistful ache in your being, hoping anyone would ever be inspired to write such an elegy to you one day.

“I just told the truth,” he shrugs.

“You must’ve been in love with whoever has made you feel like this in the past,” you sigh, standing up to put the letters aside on a table, feeling as if they definitely do not belong to you. Conscious of the slim band around your left ring finger, like a guilty weight stopping him from that possible life.

There is a long pause, making you look up at him. He is drawing near, something profound burning in his expression.

“You,” he breathes finally. “You inspired this in me.”

The confession knocks the breath from your very lungs, almost a need to bend double.

“Wh….” you cannot even find enough voice to finish a simple word.

He moves closer until you are almost touching.

“I heard you…” he admits softly, his fingers encircling your wrist, then bringing your hand close to his face. “Last night, when you thought I was asleep…” a plunge of utter dread in your stomach as you realise what he means. Your confession.

Oh no.

“Benedict, I….” but you can't finish. There is no end to that sentence, even in your quick mind.

“So I thought it was only fair you have mine,” he continues, a flicker of a modest but charming smile as he tilts his head to the pile of letters.

Your eyes cut briefly to them before darting back to him.

“Y… you dream of nothing but me…?” you stutter, parroting one of the many memorable lines, a flicker of desire and hope and yearning so strong you can't help but ask.

His smile turns crooked. “Every night…” he confirms, eyes glittering.

“A-all of it?” you can barely utter it, your cheeks heating as you recall precisely what he wrote that he dreams about.

“Every word,” he asserts before his warm lips brush the back of your knuckles.

It's like you are thrown into a hurricane, a hundred thoughts and feelings tumbling, making your breath catch hard in your lungs. But it all converges into one singularity as you stare up into those hypnotic eyes. An overwhelming need coursing through you. For him. A longing that is tart on your tongue and deep in your core. And you are powerless to do anything but grab his neck and pull him down into a searing kiss.

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delicrieux · 10 months

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—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, ch.3: sweet dreams, chicago

pairing—carmy berzatto x f!reader genre—drama, romance, age gap, boss/employee relationship warnings for this chapter—anxiety, (+18) masturbation, mb one (1) allusion to a blowjob, swearing, excessive use of cigarettes word count—3.6k

detailed instructions on how to fuck up your life in 30 seconds

author’s note: tremendously down bad, lonely, and socially inept? not talking abt u LOSER im talking abt carmen. my lil meow meow

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | eyvcte masterlist | < back. next >

important! some of the dialogue scenes are written as a script & dialogues that overlap are marked in [] <3

tell them

not white, gray – the exact color of cigarette ash, the red ember a reflected streak of sunlight; these walls box him in, and it’s always a surprise that space can feel so vast and so confining all at once. the plastic chair he sits on is unforgiving on his back. his foot sounds a pattern on the tiled floor to impair the silence.

he’s aware of it, of everything: his pursed lips, trembling lashes, quick blinks, slight sniffle, flitting irises, the light coat of sweat forming by his hairline. the taunt flex of his muscles; twitch of fingers that have nothing to grasp onto but each other. the tapping. pulsing in his jaw and temple. the tapping.

tell them

he tries to stare ahead, keep straight – it’s not expected of him, but he wishes he could do it. wishes he could face the silhouette sat across, too close and too far.

“well?” she prompts – a prim woman with a kind face sunken from all the miseries she had collected over the years, “how are you, carmen?”

a sharp exhale through the nose, like a humorless snort; corner of his lips pinching into a grimace that could resemble a smile, if one was generous enough, “how am i?” he repeats, “how am i?”

tell them

tell them your

“chef?”

storage closet. he keeps his hand firmly on the handle and breathes, jaw tense, head bent, illuminated in the shitty buzzing lights. the containers are organized – did it himself. methodically set cans with no spaces between them, all in neat rows. one’s a bit too close to the edge, sticking out. someone had moved it. he rubs his chin before pushing it back.

his hand falls from the handle and settles on his hip as he sighs, looks up, feels a rush of air tinted with spices and the overwhelming noise of the kitchen pierce the coveted silence of his hiding place when the door cracks open. she pokes her head in and he doesn’t look, can’t look, can’t sleep, can’t–

“you good?”

kindness is always startling, even when it’s the standard. her words hold no weight of deep inquiry, only a shallow question mark. it’s enough. he lives on scraps. “yeah, uh, thanks,” his tips his chin in her direction and his eyes flit over the crown of her head. can’t look for long; he’ll search for thank you and love you despite knowing they’re covered.

“i was just, uh, was just, needed to check,” he vaguely motions behind himself, and the knot in his throat tightens slightly, “something, s-so…” maybe she decides to take him out of his misery. maybe he’s the only one that notices he’s drowning.

“family’s up.” she informs him, offers a small smile that he thinks is pity. can’t be sure.

“yeah, yeah, o-okay, i’ll, uh, i’ll, i’ll join you in a,” the hasty spill of his words slows, quiets. he inhales, brows crinkled and eyes focused on the new streaks on the floor he’ll have to clean, “i’ll join you in a minute.”

“i’ll save you a seat.” not a proposition mentioned aimlessly and left to rot in his subconscious, but a statement. and she’ll always save a seat for him, because he’ll always be late, and in the rare occasions that he won’t, he’ll be too early. she’ll save him a seat by the table and pat the couch next to herself when the staff’ll huddle to watch a Bulls game; she’ll save a slot for him on her free day to come into his office and help sort through papers; she’ll save her hand from others so that he could hold it and she’ll save a pair lace panties the color of her eyes that’ll tear through the flower pattern because he’ll be too rough and because he’ll like the way they look on her.

she’ll save a cup that’ll shatter during one of their arguments, glue it back together. the cracks will show, and it’ll be blotched, but he’ll still use it, even if the edge’ll be chipped and he’ll cut his lip and she’ll be long gone by then.

he’s mostly himself when he joins everyone, if he even knows what that entails. tina’s explaining form to marcus, and sydney’s on her phone, and richie and neil are discussing something with too many theatrics, and the rest of the staff shares idle conversation punctuated by comfortable silence. there’s an empty spot for him, food set in a plastic container and cutlery placed trimly – must’ve been her. too even, she’s borderline about these things. he appreciates them, because he’s like that, too.

a smile eases the tension from his shoulders, if a bit. he pulls the chair back, takes a seat, and her head ticks to the side to acknowledge him. no big speech, no welcome back or you good again, just a slight curiosity that makes her teeth pull on her lip. he dares a glance that doesn’t linger.

"verdict?” he asks the table, feeling the familiar flutter of anxiety squeeze his throat.

sydney: ‘s good. real good richie: too fucking fancy [god] this the type of shit they serve up in yee-whole-fucking-new-of-the-fucking-york? her: wouldn’t expect you to recognize shit from food [fuck you] since your mouth is always full of it richie: oh ha ha [cousin] look at us folks [cousin] we got a fucking comedian with us tina: shut it [so/rry] both of you. not by the table richie: not by the fucking table, kid [fuck you] marcus: i like it

it’s kinda funny, it’s kinda familiar, it’s kinda comforting. he glances at her again, sees her holding up her knife like a sword aimed at richie on the other side of the table. they mimic one another – in movement, in tone, in smiles that are careful not to display too much. friends. carmen watched this happen in his peripherals, sometimes through the haze of cigarette smoke. observed the pointed jabs and nudges that were harder each time as if they were competing who could knock the other off of their feet first. stupid, amusing, the nascence of a friendship.

whatever. it’s not that, it’s just, just that carmen’s the way he is and someone could roll their eyes at him and kill and sydney, well, he got along with sydney instantly – she came at a confusing fucking time, a breath of fresh air, and really, for a while, he only had her to help him navigate the clusterfuck of a dynamic of his brother’s staff. she was new, he was new, and it was natural they stuck together to survive the nuclear winter of a chicagoan kitchen. till he was approved as one of them, and she was, too, but, and it’s nothing, it’s dumb, fucking idiotic, it’s like he’s six again all of a sudden and no one wants to play ball with him in the fucking playground.

he’s not even left out, and he still feels like he’s somehow forbidden to join, even if he doesn’t want to, even if he doesn’t know what to say. as if he’d break some sacred law and inspire a drastic butterfly affect that would ripple into something abhorrent. the other shoe. there’s no first one and he’s already waiting for the drop.

“cousin,” richie calls, “cousin, she’s trying to fucking murk me. pretty sure that violates some sorta fine print.”

“better sleep with one eye open in that case.” carmy mumbles, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his lips as he watches the exchange briefly before he returns to the food. melts in his mouth. holds a sweet, syrupy tang, and, fuck, this is noma, this has fucking noma written all over it, even the cinnamon zest blended with orange peel.

no noma on her resume; dad must’ve taught her, then. how to blend and cook all of this shit to make the chicken taste like butter. probably needed to scour the whole kitchen for leftover ingredients, open a few rusted drawers for pipettes to measure lemon drops. stay up again prepping. filming. not sleeping. don’t look.

needlessly complicated and missing some parsley. coincidentally, they ran out of it this morning.

he looks at her because she’s not looking at him and for a moment he takes in her profile – the slope of her nose and the dip leading to her cupid’s bow. “‘s good.” he says after a short pause, and as soon as she turns in his direction he’s back to his food. the taste, this time, is compounded by added discomfort, “where’d you learn this from, anyway? there are recipe?”

“my dad. sorta,” she explains, “he’s also a chef. and he used to make it for me when i came to visit, soooooo, since it was my first time cooking family ‘n all…i thought, why not? y’know? just to upset richie.”

“heard that, kid.”

he snorts, leaning back into his chair, head dipped and container held in hand. glances at her from under his lashes, and maybe direct eye contact is not as scary when he wants her to be looking back. that small smile of his is pulls on his lips again, “‘s good.” he repeats.

“you like it?” her voice can be soft, and so can her features.

“i like it,” he admits, “thank you, chef.”

she smiles and it’s like a fucking firework.

he tries not to look too hard, scared what he might find there. metronome. dull, almost, like the beating of his heart in his chest, yet it pulses through him, from the back of his head all the way to his feet. the tapping.

tell them

he rubs his faces with his hands, leans forward, as if the words are physically trying to get out. doesn’t want to say it; doesn’t want to admit that he can’t dress for the weather and that he’s wearing a gray woolen sweater which blends into these walls, that he blends in, that he’s invisible.

“i’ve, uh,” pinches the bridge of his nose, wanes the upcoming headache – too many cigarettes and not enough sleep, “i’ve been going through somethin’.”

like her pictures on a late monday night fresh out of the shower. the phone light catches damp hair falling in ringlets. the towel is still slung around his shoulders – white, clean, he’s done his laundry, it’s a fucking miracle. it was a notification that distracted him mid-way putting on a t-shirt, was like a beacon in the dark on his bedside table. bare feet padded to grasp it and here he stands, gaping like a fucking idiot with nothing but boxers on and cold water dripping down his back.

wasn’t supposed to look. made a promise, swore it in the mirror staring into clear blue eyes that held nothing. wasn’t his intention, either, it just happened. everything seems to just happen to him. she just seem to text him at 1 in the morning the recipe from a few days back, and he just seems to find her profile again because he just wants to look. no further reason. she just seems to follow him and he just seems to pretend not to notice because he’s not very good at this, he’s not really good at anything.

and there she is, confined in a little electronic device held in his hand, looking at the camera, looking at him, and he’s not really sure what to do with himself. text back, likely, but he can’t think of a response – thank you? thanks? thumbs up emoji? chef emoji? just to mix it up a bit. the mattress dips when he sits on the bed. where the fuck are his cigarettes?

never too far, and the lighter isn’t, either, so he stands, and his phone is still in his hand like the thing is fucking glued to it, and he cracks the window open to let the summer night in. chicago doesn’t sleep, and neither does she, it seems, but he doesn’t, either, and when his teeth have something to bite onto he feels like he found an anchor.

thank you and love you are objectively interesting detonators, but there are other rare gems. where she’s smiling. look taken off-guard and never by her personally, always by someone else: hugging a bottle in the midnight new york vista, nursing a to-go cappuccino by the bodega too early in the morning, holding up a plastic puka shell necklace in the backdrop of a souvenir shop somewhere in yucatan. hugging her mother wearing a tracksuit while the former’s poised in a neat blazer. they look similar. carmen looks like his mother, too.

she’s more approachable when her eyes crinkle and cheeks apple and lips stretch to reveal a crescent line in the corner. pretty. real pretty. too pretty. maybe that’s why he doesn’t know what to say. maybe she doesn’t expect him to say anything. maybe that’s why she sent the message.

‘s not fair. he knows too much about her. knows her dad’s a renowned chef and her mother’s a business exec with a penthouse in brooklyn; knows she gets her tattoos in-house, on the couch, from some low-key junkie-looking artist that always wears a beanie; knows she worked in an upscale restaurant in wallstreet. chef whites, neat, trimmed, fitting – nothing he can offer in his fucked joint. fuck is she doing in chicago, anyway? spent last summer backpacking across europe with a distinctly new york-looking art school dropouts that wore the latest sneakers and tiffany necklaces. rich kids, rich kid, what she gets now was likely her daily allowance.

all of that just because he’s noisy. just because he’s curious. just because she’s pretty and he’s too scared to actually talk to her.

shouldn’t talk to her about anything anyway. too awkward – can hardly form a coherent sentence without ripping his hair out in the first place. he’s her boss, she’d think he’s a fucking weirdo if she knew how much he had gathered about her already. just from looking. does sydney know? does richie know? that would be fucked. oddly insulting, even. but since carmen hasn’t heard richie calling her a spoiled brat yet, he supposes it’s safe to assume this information hasn’t reached him yet.

parasocial as shit. he feels on the verge of a panic attack by the way his heart is hammering in his chest. maybe it’s the 5th cigarette. maybe it’s because he’s been sleep deprived. maybe it’s because looking at her makes him lonely and this is fucked and just put the fucking phone down, carmen.

she's really hot, though. but he can’t say so, not out loud. not right now. not here. not in front of the bed, where the mattress sags when he sits, or in the window, where the wind rattles the glass ringing of common sense.

‘thanks for the recipe’ is a good start, ‘cool tats by the way’ is definitely a line that has crossed his mind, but can’t text that, either. too personal. too easy. too close. fuck did he look at them anyway, too busy staring at her tits. fuck.

she’d think he’s a creep because somehow, in the divine comedy of his life, he’d let it slip somehow, because he’s stupid. because thank you and love you slap at him on odd hours during the day. because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

feels like he’s a teen again and a girl from school sent him her homework to copy. only the girl in a hot rich kid from nyc that works in his restaurant and is so far out of his league that she’s in a different fucking orbit.

the mattress dips again. he closes his eyes, exhales slowly, rubs his face with his free hand. can’t stop thinking. can’t stop looking. staring. wanting. get a fucking hold of yourself. doesn’t want to. too tired. too fucked. too alone.

she’s so pretty.

so smart.

so fucking pretty.

what is he doing? what the fuck is he doing?

he tries to swallow, but it feels like there's sand in his throat. can't think straight, every corner leads to her anyway in a comical gotcha moment. can't go back. can't go forward. can't do anything but sit here, stare at the phone, think the last threads of his fizzling mind will conceive a reply.

say something. say something.

she's so fucking pretty and his dick is so fucking hard.

inhales again, this time slowly. feels the first tremors of an erection ignored, the pulse in his neck, in his wrists.

his heart is pounding and he wants her to look at him, wants to look at her, wants to feel her touch him, wants to show her how much he wants her.

"fucking christ," he can hear the breathless crack in his voice. feel it, taste it.

his face burns and his hair falls over his forehead, already drying. there's sweat on his brow and a lump in his throat from the steady rise of panic, anticipation, desperation, whateverthefuck. the blood in his veins pounds through his chest – he can feel the vibration in his bones, and god, god god god, he’s so fucking horny.

can't move. can't breathe. can't think. can't stand being alone. can't stand the silence. can't stand not doing anything and can’t stand being like this because he’s not supposed to. not allowed, breach of contract, jesus, who does this shit in their spare time? a lot of people, probably, but carmen wouldn’t know.

"fuck."

he wants to close his eyes because she’s so cold on the screen but so warm in his mind. can’t do that. can't stop palming dick over his boxers, either – wants to pull them down, but that would mean looking at himself, so he stares at her picture instead.

he feels like a teenager again, vaguely wants to throw up. can't believe how hard he is. he's not supposed to be like this. this isn't going to end well.

he knows he's gonna fuck this up because he's already fucking it up. can't stop staring at her. can't stop touching himself. can't stop thinking about what she'd do if she knew he was sitting here ready to jerk off to her.

she'd probably freak the fuck out, and she'd have every right to. that doesn't stop that wandering hand of his from dipping below the elastic band anyway.

his breath scratches at his throat, stuck there as he feels his hand brush something warm. glances down, sees his middle finger pressing against the swollen tip. looks back at the phone, sees her smile, the hint of her teeth; his cock twitches at the sight of her like some deranged pavlovian response. his fingers curl around his shaft and go down in a nice, long stroke.

"fuck me," he hisses. eyes squeeze shut and hips push forward and head rolls back to release a small groan.

it's a slow slide of a rough palm, with just enough pressure to cause shivers. he thinks of her lips wrapped around his him. the way her tongue would tease him. the way her hair would tickle his thighs.

"so pretty," he breathes, but the words are lost in the rhythm of his hand, "fuck, sorry."

fingers and palm slide over the sensitive head, each pass adding more pressure until his hips buck and it feels like someone punched him in the gut and he sucks in a breath, the sound coming out more like a moan; squeeze, tighter this time, and he groans louder, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure. teeth clamp down on his lower lip and all the oxygen in his lungs leaves with that.

the hand with the hand pierced by a kitchen knife pumps faster, coating the creases and veins in warm, sticky pre-cum leaking from the tip and leaving a stain on his boxers. he's breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that matches the throbbing of his cock.

he's so close already. so close he feels like he might actually lose his mind if he doesn't come soon.

"hm, fuck," he breathes out, eyes squeezing shut and fist tightening around the shaft as his hips jerk forward to meet the movement.

everything is swimming and spinning in the liquid dark around him, all the sensations coiled up into one chaotic bundle that's threatening to overwhelm him.

"yes," can't be his voice, can it? too raw, too desperate, too loud.

fist tightens even more and the throbbing is too much. feels like something is trying to get out of his body, like it's going to burst through his skin.

"oh fuck. oh fuck, oh fuck—"

everything is happening at once. everything is mounting to a small cry of her name.

he comes. coughs and huffs, head tipping back and hand still pumping. there's a low groan coming from his chest that sounds like it originated from some other person entirely.

then, it stills. his back hits the bed and he tries to gulp down air that stutters down his throat, the phone bouncing on the mattress beside him. the motions ripple in his spine, in tensed muscles that’ve gone lax. calm. outside the window, a siren howls first, then a dog.

he’s spent. feels good. cold air bites skin coated in sweat, like ice melting in the bed of a warm palm. “fuck.”

but the reality of the situation rips through the haze just as quick, and ignited by a sudden fucking unbearable anger, he grabs his phone and throws it across the room, “FUCK.”

ch.4: normal people

tags <3 @rexorangecouny - @astridyoo15 - @elliesbabygirl - @fortisfilia - @diorrfairy - @frequentnosebleeder - @eddiemunsonreader

more notes: sum fun lil gemmie gems for my narrative lovin girlies in chat 1. timeline is worky asf, things flowing in an out perception - imagine it like moving frames of the show 2. carmy says “’s good” whilst he admires her silently - is he referring to her or the food? 3. who text their boss at 1am? rich kid explain 4. the swearing increases the more he’s distressed 5. major virgin alert, can u tell? 6. this is the only chapter so far where ive used caps lock

#the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto smut #carmy x reader #the bear imagine #imagine #imagines #reader #xreader #we need the extended version directors cut live commentary with bloopers for the second half of this fic

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snappit-the-snek · 5 months

Text

"Burnt Waffles" -Malleus Draconia

"FOR SEVENS SAKE-"

Well that wasn't something you wanted to hear at 3 in the am. Especially not when it was a weekend and all you wanted to do was sleep in for once. But alas, it seems trouble has a knack for finding you at any hour of the day, no matter how atrocious that hour may be.

Slipping out of bed you trudged down the stairs to the kitchen, where the unclaimed angry shout had made its debut. Was it a good idea to walk towards unknown voices in the middle of the night, no. However this was far from the oddest thing to happen to you, and 9 times out of 10 whatever happened was the result of a ghost.

What you didn't expect however was to find a familiar mop of black hair by the kitchen counter, adorned with an even more familiar set of horns. What was even more unexpected (and much more concerning) was the cloud of smoke that was slowly filling the room.

"Malleus, wha-"

"I don't know what you want from me but release my pastry from your iron constraints this instant you infernal thing!"

You had to hold back a fit of laughter, watching the fae on your kitchen continue to hurl insults at the machine in front of him. Malleus Draconia, the prince of briar valley and one of the top mages of the world, had been thwarted by your waffle maker.

"Malleus, what are you doing." You giggled, alerting him of your presence behind him.

"Oh, good morning child of man." Malleus said, turning his head away from the torched waffle to look at you. "I would have thought you would sleep in more this morning."

"Well I might have, however the verbal assault on the waffle maker were to hard to ignore." Malleus's ears flushed a bright red, joining the embarrassed flush on his cheeks.

"Nothing it doesn't deserve I assure you." He said indignantly, crossing his arms to emphasize his point, "No matter what I do to it, it refuses to cooperate with me!"

You strode over to stand next to him, sidestepping the mysterious ingredient spills on the tiled floor.

"You have to turn it first before you try opening it." Demonstrating, you gripped the handle and effortlessly opened the maker, cringing slightly at the intense burnt smell that hit your nose.

"Oh, I see." He said quietly, watching you pry the black brick out and throw it into the garbage.

"You want to try making another one, now that you know how to use this properly?" You asked, looking up at him with a small smile on your face.

The fae let out a hum, feeling a smile of his own tug at his lips.

"I would enjoy that very much."

You were later told the reason he had been in your kitchen so early was because he wanted to surprise you with breakfast, and had actually been there much earlier just trying to get a batter together (He had been nearly defeated earlier by trying to crack the eggs into the bowl without sending it into the wall.)

As much as you valued your sleep, there was little you would trade for the time you spent making waffles together with Malleus that morning, watching the sunlight stream through the windows as you shared the plate of waffles in the lobby and leaving the mess in the kitchen for a later time.

#malleus draconia #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland diasomnia #yes i posted the headcanon of this not even an hour ago but i couldnt resist #twst sebek #twst fanfic #snappit writes

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keep-this-place-beautiful · 1 year

Text

A List of Things Found (Not Comprehensive, Subject to Change):

A broken camera, several pairs of underwear, hope for love.

Spatula, kitchen knife, the memory of the dinners I ruined in blackouts.

Part of a mobile phone, 3-5 rubber gloves (once sterile, no longer), the image of black blood pooled on rocks.

A single crutch, a threadbare flag, an incomprehensible ache.

Broken tiles (3) in 1950s institutional green, a deep breath, the feeling of sunlight on my skin.

Boxing glove, pink balloon ("It's a girl!"), a promise whispered in my ear.

A lonely molded work glove, one (1) dead raccoon (probably), a slight knowledge of self.

MSU branded soft cooler, antique candle snuffer, a sacred place to unspool grief.

The cold smell of rotted wood and brackish water, a sadness for the domesticated remnants of yards eroding into the wild down the banks, a sinkhole in miniature.

Headless, shattered baby doll, Mardi Gras beads shaped like wheels, comfort from twigs and leaves tangled into my hair.

Tiny forests of moss, a ladybug, the gentle caress of a sun-warmed, floral breeze.

#keepthisplacebeautiful #feralcore #nostalgia #usedcore #southern gothic #rural gothic #gothic americana

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year

Photo

If you like big old stone houses with lots of original wood inside, this 1915 home is a pretty good price below $400K. It’s in Greenville, Ohio, has 5bd. 2.5ba. and priced at $383,700.

Isn’t this an interesting entrance hall? Look at the size of that pocket door. It certainly is roomy.

They’ve got it blocked, but I like that little nook and door under the stairs. Nice leaded glass side window next to the front door.

Beautiful fireplace in the sitting room. Plus, it also has a built-in bench under the window.

The renovated kitchen is pretty nice. I like the caramel color of the walls and the creamy cabinetry. New doors open to a patio.

Love the dining room, especially the dumb waiter, even if it no longer works.

This room is set up as a home office, but look at the green tile on the fireplace. So pretty.

Isn’t this a nice sun parlor? In the hall is another set of stairs.

The guest powder room.

Large upstairs landings. Very nice linen storage closet.

The main bd. is spacious, gets lots of sunlight and his an en-suite.

This very nice. I like the 2 arches and the vanity table.

This room could also be the main suite.

It has a fireplace and nice big en-suite shower room.

They’ve made quite an extensive walk-in closet/dressing room.

I like this room, too. It’s also a suite.

Check out the vintage en-suite. This is cool.

There’s a storage room up here, too. The upper cabinets are original.

These back stairs go up to another bd.

Lovely spacious room. This house goes on and on.

There’s also a family room up here. Very nice.

Isn’t this pretty? The side sun porch entrance.

Beautiful stone patio and garden.

Plus a 3 car garage. (I would probably jump that rock garden in the middle, though.)

https://matrix.daytonrealtors.org/matrix/shared/n8DGKxdtDt/102SBroadwayStreet

#old stone house #vintage architecture #houses #old house dreams #house tours #home tour

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yandere-kokeshi · 1 year

Note

ok we all know keigo Never really Had A Proper Christmas so Could I pls req Keigo spending Christmas with them and Y/ns Family

— Interesting surprise for breakfast

Pairing: yandere hawks x gn reader

Warnings: This is taken place a few months after season 6; Keigo loses his wings.

A/N: while writing this, I noticed that I read that entire thing wrong! Instead, I wrote Keigo with his family: reader and their kids. My bad!! Sorry :((.

Happy holidays!

Slowly opening your eyes to find the sunlight sneaking through the curtains, heavy snow gathering on the ground with the sound of cars honking. You lay there for a few more minutes before leaning over to Keigo’s side. You went to move your arms, stretching them to your right, wanting his warmth closer but all that was connected was nothing but a bundle of sheets.

Really, Keigo?

He must've not gotten far, as it was Saturday; Christmas Eve. You knew well that he wouldn’t leave the warm house unless it was necessary; wanting a rest from what took place of Dabi.

Huffing out an annoyed sigh, you raised your hands over your face, rubbing your round cheeks to convince yourself to leave the warm bed, wanting to stay huddled in the comfy blankets.

Though, the smell of waffle mix, sugar, and chocolate flew into the bedroom, making your tummy roll in hunger.

Who knew Keigo could actually cook?

Groaning quietly, feeling the need to use the bathroom, you sat up and pulled off the covers. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you looked down at your feet, admiring the cold tiles below it.

However, you noticed it was quieter than normal. Usually, your kids are screaming at each other for that damn Endeavor plushie and certain items before hearing Keigo’s ‘dad's voice’: “Hey! Quiet down! You three can share, just give your brother an hour.”

Finally getting up, you patted away to the bathroom, doing your business.

Exiting the bathroom a few minutes later, you walked into the familiar kitchen, seeing Keigo have his back turned to you with the familiar 3 blonde-haired kids right beside him.

Your eldest, who’s 5, stood on a stool to Hawks left while pickering with him, shoving his arm to tell him off: “No! Baba won’t like that! They hate green!” Hearing Keigo laugh, reaching his hand over to mess up the little one's hair before speaking, “What do you think they'll like?”

"Yellow! Yellow!!" Said the two youngest, standing on a stool on his right, were aged 2 and 4; trying to help roll the cookie dough on the counter.

“Those look good,” You stated out loud, causing all of them to turn around and stare at you.

“Baba!” Your youngest yelled, jumping off the stool before skipping towards you with her arms in the air; hair and cheeks covered in thick flour and the smell of butter.

It wasn’t very often seen the four of them cooking altogether, it was quite chaotic; Keigo normally burned food. But, you could tell they were trying to do their best, which you were proud of.

“What you doin’ up so early?” Keigo whined, turning around to walk towards you; throwing out his arms to wrap around you, pushing you into his warmed chest.

You laughed, speaking up again, “Woke up to a nice smell. Couldn't resist coming out and seeing what kind of trouble you four were in!” You started before picking up your youngest, throwing her onto your hip for more support.

“We were gonna bring you cookies in bed,” He whined again, slightly pouting.

You forced a pout back at him, looking up at him before speaking up, “I can go back to bed—”

“DAD!”

Your eldest screamed, the sound of plastic hitting the floor, causing the both of you to look at the problem. Immediately, you started laughing loudly.

The eldest was covered head and toe with flour, the bowl of doe on the floor, decorated with more flour.

The other kids started laughing, as did Keigo.

“It’s not funny! I’m all dirty!” The eldest spoke again, his red wings poofing out in frustration while he stomped one of his feet on the ground, face grew in embarrassment.

“You’re an idiot!” The middle one teased, pushing him into the fridge before running off into the living room. “No! I’m not! You are!” The eldest yelled back, chasing his brother into the other room.

“Don’t get the couch dirty!” You yelled, watching the other two push and pull at each other before looking at your youngest in your arms, kissing her forehead.

“love you!” She states, reaching up to put her hands on your cheeks, making you smile. Putting her down, she clinged herself to your leg, pulling at your pant legs as she rested her leg against your knee.

“Sorry it’s all dirty, dove. I tried keeping it clean but—you know how it goes.” Keigo stated, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand; smiling at you with his golden irises.

You smiled, reaching your hands till his face to wipe off the doe on his nose. But, Keigo pulled you closer to him, hands sliding up and down your side as he planted a kiss on your neck. “You know, the kids came up with the idea ‘breakfast in bed’ for you.

“Did they now?” You teased, feeling his hand rest against your lower back before traveling down, towards your bum. “Keigo.”

He laughed, pulling himself before holding up his hands in defeat. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”

Before the both of you could talk, beeping could be heard. Turning your attention to the counter behind Keigo, you saw the heated waffle iron going off.

Watching Keigo, you saw him begin mixing the ingredients together for yet another batch of waffles, getting out another plate for the batch. “So, how did you sleep?” He asked.

“I slept well. Sad I wasn’t awakened by those devils.” You replied.

Watching him pour the waffle batter before closing the iron, he turned towards you with a smile. “Why don’t you call the kids and help us decorate the cookies?”

You hummed in response. Yelling the kids names, you watched all of them run inside the kitchen like a tsunami; yelling at each other like a bunch of puppies that were picking on each other.

Once the food (the waffles) was ready, you went over the cupboards and pulled out plates, bringing it to the table before feeling your clothes being pulled down. “Baba!” You looked down to see your youngest, holding something in her hand before revealing it to you.

It was a gingerbread man, decorated messily but was neatly made. It had 3 buttons on the so-called stomach which was made out of marshmallows, dipped in chocolate; colored red for the buttons. The eye’s were Hershey’s kisses, surrounded by white icing. The entire body was laced with more icing, swirled horribly.

It even had hair, or at least tried to have hair… part of it was tilting off onto the side.

“It’s you!” She stated, pushing it more further to you with her being on her tippy-toes.

“It’s pretty,” You stated, reaching for it before taking a bite out of it. Watching your youngest smile widely before giggling, running over to the other side of the table where her other siblings were sitting, waiting patiently for their dish.

Feeling hands wrap around your waist, you gasped: “Keigo!”

Turning your head to the side, you saw Keigo’s head leaning his forehead against your shoulder. “I love you. Thank you.” He whispered against your night-shirt.

“For what?”

He smiled, looking at you, “For being amazing.” He re-positioned his head, bringing his lips to meet your own. Quickly, you fell right into his kiss before hearing the kids yell ‘eww!!”

“That’s so disgusting dad!”

“Yeah!! Get a room!”

You laughed, looking at Kiego one last time before pulling yourself away to sit at the table.

Seeing Keigo sit in front of you, reaching across the table to grab his plate before chowing down. “Say,” He started, “Should we make more cookies afterwards?”

“Yeah!” All of them screamed.

—

My masterlist || Reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!! Stay well!!

Do not plagiarize, repost, modify, translate or copy my work.

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lesbianhotch · 1 year

Text

two thousand and twenty three

notes: happy new year!!! enjoy some frankie x reader. very fluffy, very domestic, implied hanky panky. as always, dedicated to @spacecowboyhotch <3

The coffee pot in front of you gurgles slowly to life, and it may just be the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard.

While you would’ve loved to sleep in, your body refused. Too many years of waking up early had your internal clock set to no later than 7am, and even today on January 1st, after a very very long night, you had woken up before the sun.

You lean forward against the counter, elbows cushioned by your sweatshirt. You place your chin in your hands, glancing over at the untouched box next to your coffee pot. A brand new Keurig, courtesy of Will and his wife. It was sweet, incredibly so, both a Christmas gift and something to celebrate you and Frankie getting hitched. However, you were sentimental, to an almost aggressive degree.

You loved your old coffee pot, had bought it when you bought your first apartment. It did the job, and you weren’t about to get rid of something that still worked.

It got you through your first job,and night classes, and then your second job, and it had made its way to the home shared by you and Frankie.

You hear your husband before you see him. There’s an unmistakable grumble and shuffling of feet coming from the stairs, followed by the slap of slippers against the tile of the kitchen. It pleased you to know Frankie was still wearing the ones you had bought him for Christmas.

Arms wrap around your middle, and Frankie rests his chin on your shoulder. You feel his overgrown stubble rub against your neck.

“Mmmm, we’re never gonna open up that damn coffee pot are we?” Frankie’s voice is still laden with sleep, and it’s warm in your ear. You shrug, and Frankie’s upper body rises and falls with your motion.

“There’s still hope.” There’s not much conviction behind your voice. “We’ve only had it for a week.”

Frankie grunts softly, which is the best response you could ask for this early in the morning.

You both stand there in comfortable silence, watching as the pot in front of you slowly but surely fills up with coffee. Your respective favorite mugs are already waiting for the both of you, cleaned and set out the night before. How you managed to do so while Frankie was pawing at you after you returned home from Santi’s party remains a mystery.

You feel Frankie’s belly start to move with laughter against your back, and he nudges his nose against your cheek.

“Even if we did want to return that coffee pot from Will, I don’t know if we could. It’s seen things.”

After you’d finished the dishes last night, the two of you didn’t make it any farther than the kitchen table. It’d been a nice way to spend your first hour of the new year.

“So we can’t open it, and we can’t return it because it’s seen your butt?”

Frankie sucks in air through his teeth, head slowly nodding from side to side.

“Mm, more than just my butt.”

You can’t help but smile, relishing in the light teasing tone of his voice. “And that’s because you like to come down here in nothing but your birthday suit, Morales.”

The coffee pot lets out one final drip, and the little red light clicks off to signify its completion. Frankie removes himself from your back, taking the warmth with him as he pads over to the fridge.

You’ve already poured a generous helping into each mug when Frankie returns, handing you the creamer. He drinks it black, a habit that started in high school and solidified in the service, and he takes a sip, no doubt burning his tongue.

“So, what’s the plan? We going to spend the day doing uh-resolutions or something?”

You scoop some sugar into your coffee, stirring it gently with your spoon. You glance past Frankie at the window leading into the back yard, watching as sunlight starts to creep into the gray of the winter morning. Other people would love to be in your position. Up before dawn, starting the first day of the year out bright and early. You think of your notebook filled with to-do’s for you and Frankie. Chores and errands and yes- even resolutions that you plan to carry out over the year.

But, those could wait until tomorrow.

Your gaze shifts to Frankie, his eyes watching you over his mug as he takes another too-hot sip of coffee.

“Honestly- I really want to get back into bed.”

Frankie smiles, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I can get behind that.”

You end up spending most of the day in bed.

You try to tease Frankie for heading down into the kitchen nude a little while later, but then again, he is getting you a refill on your coffee.

You remind him to close the curtains in the kitchen, and you hear his laughter as he heads down the stairs.

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #FLUFF FLUFF I CANT HELP WRITING FRANKIE FLUFF

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somethingclevermahogony · 15 days

Text

Rewrite Tag

Doing a few here! @illarian-rambling (x3), @mk-writes-stuff (x2), @roach-pizza , @willtheweaver , and @theeccentricraven thank you for the tags! I think that was all of my Rewrite tags, woo!

Line 1 (Katie)

He traced one of the images with a finger; two gods debated furiously on twin mountain peaks. A mature woman with ears of gold, a winged lizard coiled around her feet, and a young girl holding a copper-furred hound by the scruff. Their faces were so similar, like a mother and daughter.

My Rewrite

He ran the tip of his finger around the edges of the image; two divine figures trapped in a heated debate each stood upon twin mountain peaks. An older woman, her ears made from gold, wrapped round her feet the form of winged lizard, and opposite her a young girl who held at bay a copper-colored hound by its scruff. Their faces were eerily similar, like those of a mother and a daughter.

Line 2 (Katie)

Suddenly, but gently, the memory of a great plaza trickled into Izjik’s mind, filled with hundreds of dancing people, their skin and hair shining with all the colors of Illaros. A vast, tile mosaic covered the floor and the dancing people followed its geometric lines. Above, the vaulted ceiling was painted with swirling, spiraling rays of sunlight and though the space was indoors, potted palms swayed with artificial wind.

My Rewrite

All at once, though not violently, the memory of the great plaza filled Izjik’s mind. There it was in her mind’s eye, the grand space filled with hundreds of people, their skins and hairs shining and glittering with every color that Illarian eyes had ever seen, they danced, twirled and spun. Their feet followed the paths laid out by the expansive mosaic of colored tile which covered the floor. High above on vaulted ceilings were painted swirling and spiraling rays of sunlight and though walls may have surrounded them, the fronds of potted plants swayed to an artificial breeze.

Line 3 ( Also Katie)

Izjik rubbed furiously at her eyes, trying desperately to get some modicum of moisture back in there. That fucker— that motherfucker hadn’t blinked even once for an entire godsdamned day! Nevermind the state of her poor feet, nevermind that she’d had to pick not one, not two, but twenty-three thorns out of her hands, but what type of infamously many-eyed being couldn’t remember to blink for the spirits’ sake!

My Rewrite

Izjik rubbed desperately at her eyes as she attempted to work up some small trace of moisture. They hadn't even blinked once, not even once over the course of an entire day. That fucker! That motherfucker! And that was not to mention the state of her feet, nor the fact that she had been forced to pluck twenty-three thorns from her hands. What sort of many-eyed being doesn't remember to blink for the spirit's sake? She thought bitterly to herself.

Line 4 (MK)

He had long, clumsily cut black hair and soft brown skin. He was awkwardly holding a massive bag of potatoes in one arm, with a cutting board tucked behind it, and a chef’s knife clumsily in the other fist. He stared about the kitchen and his grey eyes fell, squinting, on the stretch of countertop next to her.

My rewrite

His shaggy black hair was was haphazardly cut, his skin a soft brown. Held with some difficulty in one arm was a massive bag of potatoes, an old cutting board held in place behind it. Clumsily gripped in his other hand was a chef's knife. He stood there for a moment, his grey eyes squinted as they took in the countertop beside her.

Line 5 (Morgan (Roach-Pizza))

A man's tan hand swept across a giant chalkboard as he took the other one and pulled a joint out of his mouth. Smoke lazily poured from his lips as he placed the eraser back into position. His tired, hazed baby blues then scanned the desk where pastel colored papers were in an unorganized pile with an ashtray next to the mess.

My rewrite

The man swept his hand over the board, his tan skin dusted with chalk. With the other hand he pulled a joint from the corner of his mouth. Smoke poured from between his lips as he set the eraser back in its usual position. His blue eyes, glazed over with fatigue, inspected the desk upon which pastel colored sheets sat in a heap, an ashtray at the pile's edge.

Line 6 (willtheweaver)

The air had a musty quality to it. Not the smell of damp and decay, but of hundreds of years of history. This was a place of great families, of titles handed down through the generations. Etched into the walls were tales of love, sorrow, and death told throughout the centuries.

My Rewrite

The air had a musty smell, though not the stench of the damp, of mold and mildew, of decay. It was a smell which could only be produced by the passing of ages. In these ancient halls was recorded the lines of ancient families, of titles passed from generation to generation in unbroken chains. Carved into the stones were tales, their subjects long since rendered to distant memory and dust, songs and stories of love and sorrow, life and death.

Line 7 (MK)

“Lord Narcissus,” she said with a curtsy as she got close to him. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”

It wasn’t even a lie. He did look lovely. He had an elaborate red flowery hairpiece made out of real flowers, and he was wearing a tight red cocktail dress that, while definitely scandalous, did admittedly draw attention to his figure. Narcissus was a good-looking man – it was a shame that was his only virtue.

My Rewrite

"Lord Narcissus," she said as she approached. She stopped and curtsied, her head tilted respectfully. "You look lovely tonight."

It was true, he was a good-looking man. His hair was pulled back by a crown of real flowers, the red cocktail dress he wore may have been tighter than polite company would have typically allowed, but it certainly did show off his figure in spectacular fashion. There was no denying that Narcissus was beautiful. Unfortunately, it was not a virtue which extended past the physical.

Line 8 (Raven)

Justin felt a ripple go up his spine that felt like a thousand knives stabbing him. He curved his back and cried as he felt a burning sensation reaching into every corner of his body. Deep inside his thighs, in his stomach, in his elbows, feet, chest, and knees, he could feel something eating inside him. It was like millions of worms crawling inside him and eating every inch of his body inside and out.

My Rewrite

Justin felt a sharp pang race up his spine. It was as if thousand of knives had been driven into his back. He curved his back and cried out in pain, as a searing agony spread across body. Deep in his thighs, stomachs, elbows, feet, chest, and knees, no part spared. He could feel something inside of him, wriggling, moving, feeding. It was if his very veins had been replaced with writhing and twisting worms, worms that conspired to eat him from the inside out.

Tagging some of y'all back @illarian-rambling , @mk-writes-stuff , @elsie-writes , @kaylinalexanderbooks , @writingamongther0ses , and @foragedbonesblog and whoever else is interested!

Your Line

The blood dripped into the awaiting bowl and painted its alabaster walls crimson. Narul watched it trickled down his arm, skirting past the hairs, rolling veins, and moles. Despite these twenty years of blood lettings, he could not shake a creeping feeling of unease as his eyes followed its creeping path down his arm. He gazed back at himself from the scarlet pool, he could not meet his own eye, could not stand to look that creature in the face. He turned away.

Also in other news, I finally made the cheesecake for my 200 follower celebration, I'll be posting about that tomorrow.

#testamentsofthegreensea #writeblr #writing #rewrite #tag game!#some of these were pretty hard!#fantasy writing

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ranchracoon · 2 months

Text

Ch. 3: No Return

The exhaustion from the past week couldn't compare to anything you had experienced. Muscles you didn't know existed ached, you couldn’t even wash your hair properly because of how badly your arms hurt. The skin on your knuckles was raq with dried blood in a few of the cracks. How a woman three times your age could do this for so long was beyond you. Today however is laundry day, which means a whole lot of washing by hand but also a lot of down time. The laundry has to be hung inside because the mist from the waterfall will keep them wet, but it takes longer which means you got to relax more.

While you do so, Angie made herself scarce and you dallied around on the main floor for something to do. There's a few book shelves that you rummaged through but none caught your fancy. You took another pass, and lowered your standards until you decided on one. The sun had begun to set when you finished your reading and made your way to the back room. It gets the most sunlight compared to the rest of the house.

It feels like a greenhouse, with the ceiling and walls made from glass with tile flooring. Tight ropes lined the room from wall to wall with clothing hung from each one. You grabbed the last article of clothing from the clothes line; a luxurious, red, suit jacket that was softer than any material you've ever felt. All the clothes were oddly slim, you would have thought that someone who stayed inside all the time would be the size of the duke but, these clothes looked like they could fit you easily. They must be a twig, an insanely tall twig, but a twig none-the-less. Must be something in the water that makes everyone so tall.

You folded each article of clothing and divided them by ownership which was exceptionally easy. Angie does her own laundry, and your clothes are thrift store fancy at best. Meanwhile the lord's belonged on the runway of Paris, or on a magazine cover. You dropped off the basket of clothes in front of the lord's bedroom then excused yourself for the evening.

Sundays were your day off according to Angie, apparently the lord is gone all day doing whatever lords do and would return in the evening for dinner. It was also the day you went grocery shopping for the week, and Angie was going to let you pick out ingredients. This was your chance, if you could make something actually edible for the lord, maybe he'll come out to thank you. Or at least expose Angie to something other than whatever concoction she did make.

The next morning while you dressed you couldn't help but think how this lord managed to move around the manor without you or Angie noticing. There must be secret tunnels or something that they traveled through, because there was no way they could move from the workshop to their bedroom without cutting through the kitchen. On Friday you served lunch to the workshop, spent the entire day in the kitchen cleaning then the bell for their bedroom rang. It was impossible. Unless you're more oblivious than you thought. You grumbled under your breath then stopped dead in your tracks and shook your head. Great. Now you were acting like that deranged woman.

You hurried downstairs and to the kitchen as fast as you could to avoid Angie, in the kitchen you didn't see anyone and grabbed a bowl of leftover mush. It tasted like vomit but it was all you had, for now. You hadn't been this excited for something as mundane as grocery shopping since, ever. You leaned against the counter and a sudden clang against it made you jump. Looking over you saw Angie who dropped a bag of lei next to you.

"Is that my pay?" You asked.

"No, it's to buy food." She snapped.

"So, when do I get paid for all this work?"

She cackled, "what do you need to be paid for? You have a room, and food. What more do you need? A vacation? Ha."

She had a point, where would you go if you did have money? Could go back home and couch surf, get a steady 12 hour job and work 5 days a week. Plus weekends. You decided to remain quiet and finished your meal. After you finished you washed your dishes, dried them, then put them away. Angie left you in the kitchen while you found a basket and blanket to hold the food, when she returned she was wrapping a shawl over her shoulders.

"I'll be going with you to the village to visit my girls. You'll be on your own so don't do anything stupid. Remember, you now represent Lord Beneviento which is nothing to snuff at. Anything you do is a reflection of them."

"Girls? You have daughters?" You asked surprised.

"No, they're Lady Dimitrescu's daughters but I visit them every Sunday so they're practically my girls too." She replied.

You nodded in acknowledgment as the two of you rode the elevator up then passed through the front doors. Angie hummed to herself the entire walk and you hugged yourself as the wind blew past you, it carried the crisp bite of fall with it. The thin jacket you wore wasn't enough to keep the cold out, you would need something thicker to survive the winter. Angie continued to hum until she crossed over the grave of Claudia. She stopped walking and humming, her stare moved to it for a moment. You watched her watch the gravesite until she relit the candle and covered it with a glass dome so it wouldn't blow out again.

"Angie?" You asked softly.

"Hm?" She answered.

"Who was Claudia?"

Angie stayed silent for a long time before she started to walk away from you, she sighed heavily and the wetness of tears appeared in her eyes.

"I suppose you should know. Claudia was the lord's mother. She died from a horrific disease, but she was the kindest woman you've ever met. Her husband though, the late Lord Beneviento was a dark man, the definition of evil. Rumor has it he's the reason the lord doesn't come out. I started working there very shortly after the mother's death. Poor dear must have just been a child then." She replied sadly.

You sighed softly as you thought about it, all this time they've been completely alone with no one but Angie as company. It made you think back to your mother, and whenever you were upset she would cook you something, but now you also understood not having that comfort. The rest of the journey was silent, with only the wind and the brush of the weeds as company. The village came into view and Angie wiped her tears away as she looked back at you.

"This is where I leave you. Be back at the manor by 6pm sharp for dinner."

"Yes ma'am."

You watched her waddle toward the village center where three, tall, gorgeous women waited for her. One brunette, one ginger, and one blond. They looked exactly the same aside from the hair color, and microscopic differences in their facial structure. They even wore the same black cloaks with black roses pinned on the upper left of their collarbone. If they looked like that, their mother must be a goddess on Earth.

Angie opened her arms wide as the three women swarmed her in hugs and giggles then walked with her out of sight. Not a single glance your way. A thought occurred in your head, a meal you used to love growing up and always made you feel better but there was one, little, issue: it required fish. That'll be the last thing you get. It didn't take long to acquire the rest of the ingredients: rice, ginger, cucumber, soy sauce, garlic, and other seasonings. All of it fresh and handmade or grown locally. However, now that you're finished that meant you had to do the inevitable.

You groaned under your breath and followed the signs that pointed to the bay, with your head on a swivel. Ironically you loved this meal but hated the smell of fish. You scrunched your nose as you got closer, merchants yelled for attention trying to sell their latest catch of fish, crabs, and other shellfish.

A woman caught your attention, she wore a simple brown gown with a red apron that used to be white. She had freshly caught and gutted salmon which was exactly what you needed. You approached her and asked for three filets, while you waited you glanced around the dock to watch the fishers pass you by. Just as the woman was about to wrap the fish in paper your skin prickled with goosebumps and you felt as though someone was watching you, you glanced around again to see if you could make them out.

"Y/N!"

No.... You thought.

Salvatore appeared from around the corner with that creepy grin that you were certain he thought was genuine. His hair was neater today, it was combed to one side and he had on a green button up with slick overalls that had the boots attached. He walked up to you and attempted to hug you but you quickly side stepped to avoid it. You didn't like to be touched in general, and definitely not by men. He pretended to look hurt but quickly changed it back to a smile.

"What brings you down here? Come to get some fish?" He asked excitedly.

"No, I came down here to see what fruits and vegetables I could find." You replied sarcastically.

He laughed louder than you would have liked, the woman motioned for you to take the fish; you took it and paid her the lei then wrapped the fish in the covering to keep it from leaking. You had hoped Salvatore would take that as his cue to leave, but he remained standing there. You strained your head to look behind him so any opening to escape.

"Well, since you're here, would you like to see my boat?" He offered.

"I can't, I'm afraid I need to get this fish on ice and be back at the manor before...2pm." You lied.

"Then, how about I accompany you?" He asked.

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't want to get distracted nor keep you from your duties. Have a good day." You replied as nicely as you could muster.

You tried to step around to walk away but he continued to walk next to you. He slipped his hands into his overall pockets, while strutting proudly.

"Nonsense, Sundays are my day off because my dad is gone all day in meetings with Mother Miranda."

You perked your head up. If his father was in the meeting, then he was with lord Beneviento. Maybe you could do some fishing of your own.

"Is that so? So your father is a lord too?" You asked curiously.

Salvatore smirked, "yeah. There are four lords around here that run the village like a city council. They make the judgment for any crimes, how to spend taxes, all that boring stuff." He sniffed and puffed out his chest, "I'll be taking over for my father when he steps down."

You refrained from rolling your eyes, "who are the other lords?"

"Well, there's my dad, Beneviento, Dimitrescu, and Heisenberg. Dimitrescu exports her family's wine and some other stuff I think. My father and I handle fishing and help out with the farming, while Heisenberg does all the carpentry and metal work for the village. I don't know what Beneviento does, no one has seen him so I think he just rides his father's legacy and that's why he remains a lord."

You stopped walking, "bold of you to talk about a lord like that. Especially one that I work for and you've never met." You snapped.

Salvatore raised his hands in defense. His toothy grin remained as he shook his head.

"I'm just saying."

You glared at him, "I think it's time we parted ways. I have to get back."

You started to walk away when he grabbed the arm that didn't have the basket attached to it. He swung you around to face him again. It took every muscle in your body not to smack him with the wrapped fish right then and there.

"Hey I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you mad. Let me make it up to you. The summer festival is this upcoming weekend, come with me. We can-"

You yanked your arm away and cut him off, "no. Now I need to get going. Angie is waiting for me."

As fast as your feet could carry you, you walked away from that man and back into the crowded village. After you deemed yourself far enough away you slowed your pace and relaxed a little, he really did give you the creeps. Just when you thought you wouldn't have to deal with unwanted attention here. The bell tower over the church rang four times. After you calmed you began to walk back to the manor when goosebumps crawled over your skin, that feeling of being watched returned. Maybe you should mention something to Angie; no, she'd just laugh at you and call you crazy.

Every step you would shoot a look over one shoulder. You couldn't shake the feeling of being prey stalked by a predator. Each time the grass or trees rustled you walked a little quicker until the manor came into view. You've never walked faster and slammed the door behind you.

Back in the safety of the manor you slumped the groceries on the counter and huffed, now that you were alone you started on dinner while cursing to yourself. Anger boiled underneath as your mind swam with the interaction with Salvator, he was just as bad as the men from where you came from. You trusted your gut, and your gut said he wasn't as nice as he came across. There was certainly something off about him.

Cooking relaxed your mind and you allowed yourself to fully dive into it. The salmon marinated in melted butter, soy sauce, and ginger while you sauteed mushrooms, bell pepper, and zucchini. The water boiled for rice and you added it in then turned down the heat and covered it to cook, just in time for you to cook the fish. While those are going, you thinly sliced the cucumber and pickled them with vinegar, lime, and salt.

Angie walked into the kitchen and eyed you, she sniffed the air curiously and hovered over your shoulder while you worked. She picked up an avocado from your cutting board and examined it like it was a foreign entity. After her examination she plopped it back down then rummaged through the rest of the groceries.

"Where did you get these things? I've never seen them in the village." She asked.

"The Duke. I asked if he had any and he did." You answered, "oh, and the leftover lei is on the counter."

Angie cocked her eyebrow at you, "are you feeling okay? You're not as sarcastic or groany as usual."

"Yeah just...how was your day with your girls?" You asked to change the subject.

Angie narrowed her eyes but shrugged it off, "good. Those girls sure are a handful but I love em dearly."

The two of you conversed in small talk while you finished dinner, Angie judged your cooking of course so you displayed it like a five star restaurant. Rice for the base, veggies next, then the salmon, with sliced avocado and ginger on top with the cucumber around the side. On cue the bell for the bedroom rang, you picked up the tray and carried it to the bedroom. You knelt down and knocked on the door then turned around back to the kitchen. You paused in the doorway and glanced over to see the door cracked open. It quickly shut before you could get a good look at whoever was behind it and sighed. Maybe it was rats eating the meals, but that wouldn't explain the dirty clothes, then again, the clothes you collected hardly looked dirty at all.

Maybe Angie was wrong, perhaps ghosts do eat and wear clothes to remind themselves of when they were living. The thought made you internally chuckle as you thought about ghosts trying to wear their human clothes and it goes right through. You and Angie ate in silence, when you were finished Angie offered to clean the dishes for once. It made you suspicious but decided to take the opportunity to go to bed early, a small coma sounded lovely about now. The refreshing water of the shower washed off the grossness of the day and having to be around people; the lord was onto something being a hermit. After you were clean and changed into some night clothes you crawled under the sheets of the bed and closed your eyes.

Sleep did not come to you though. You tossed and turned but your thoughts wouldn't settle. After much debate and staring at the ceiling for seemingly hours, you decided to walk around. You wandered around the top floor, glanced out the windows to watch the waterfall until the faintest noise came through that wasn't the white noise. It sounded like music. As you walked toward the elevator you could make out bits of it, you looked around and took the elevator down. If Angie caught you, you could say you were getting water, that's a reasonable excuse to be up at midnight.

You banged your hand on the side to open the doors, the music flowed through the corridors a bit clearer. You followed it until you stood down the hall from the workshop. The music was a piano, and it didn't have the static of a record which meant it was being played. As you approached closer you noticed the door was a ajar with a sliver of light beaming through. You tiptoed toward the door, the entire time you held your breath as if that would help you make any less noise. The music was somber but alluring, it couldn't be Angie which left one other suspect. You peeked through the door and your eyes widened at the sight of someone's back to you. They were dressed in all black with black hair tied into a bun. Their head was hung low and you couldn't make out anything else.

They played expertly, their fingers glided over the keys with ease and familiarity. As you leaned closer to try and get a better look you accidentally pushed the door which creaked open further. The person froze; you watched them stand and move out of sight then suddenly appear in front of you. Before you could look up at them the door slammed shut in front of your face. The sound of music was replaced with the hammering of your heart. You panted heavily as if you had just ran a marathon. The footsteps behind the door faded away, but then grew louder as they approached the door and you took off running to the safety of your room.

Once in your room you shut and locked the door then out of panic pushed the desk behind it. The lord was going to be so angry that you saw them, that you were snooping, and if they didn't, Angie certainly would. You paced around the room in panic, you should have ran for the front door. Instead you're trapped here, and you were going to have to face judgment.

#resident evil village #re8 #alcina dimitrescu #donna beneviento #donna benevento x reader #re8 fanfiction #nsft wlw #wlw #wlw fanfic

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captainjamster · 3 months

Text

Underrepresented!Reader Series

Pairing(s): Ghost x vision impaired!reader Warnings: Mentions of dogs and ducks :) Wordcount: 2.9k Summary: A gentle, domestic morning with Simon and your dog as an individual with vision impairment. AO3 Link: Right here <3

AN: Reader has been written with vision that is limited to distinguishing only the outline and colour of items. A good visual example would be these shots from The Experience Unseen Campaign showing the Australian bush through a visually impaired perspective.

As I recognise the possible interpretations of the scene, I want to clarify that Simon is not infantilizing the reader in his insistence to make breakfast and general servitude - I just think that his primary love language is acts of service and he wants to do what he can for you, vision impaired or not!

Full fic is under the cut <3

When your eyes flutter open, breath speeding up as life begins to seep into your muscles, the world is a familiar, colourful fogginess that you know you can’t blink away. A warm square fills your vision, the sunlight speckled across your face as it peeks through the window behind the rippling curtains. The room is quiet with the gentle hum of electricity, buzzing from the electrical appliances just down the hall, and the gentle patter of water droplets echoes from just further along. Rolling away from the luminous sight, the spot next to you is cooling to the touch, the heat of the sun’s rays intermingling with the last remnants of your lover’s warmth.

“Phone, time?” You yawn, pressing a palm against your eyes, watching the pale morning colours disappear into a blackness. A tinny voice from your phone announces that the hour has just turned eight, the day seems clear but cool, and wishes you a good day before falling silent.

You lay there, fading in and out in the silence, bathing in the last tendrils of sleep until a leathery, wet nose pushes itself underneath your hand spread out against the mattress. The sensation draws a sleepy giggle from you, exciting the nose which begins wriggling underneath your palm as a furiously wagging tail drags through the air loudly, thumping against the bedpost with each swish.

The large shape of your german shepard perched on the bed fills your vision, and based on the whines he exhales with each breath, you assume he’s giving you a look that Simon calls ‘the saddest puppy in the world’.

“Yeah yeah, I know, you’re hungry sweetheart,” you croon, rubbing the bridge of his head affectionately. Riley nuzzles into the pat with a happy pant, pulling himself off the bed as you sit up and swing your legs over the edge.

The slippers are cosy on your feet, shielding them from the air far colder than the haven of body heat underneath your blanket, and Riley jumps excitedly as you finally right yourself up off the bed. He keeps to your left as you shuffle sleepily to the door, a soft barrier of fur between your knees and the bedframe, having learnt after listening to you curse the thing out in pain more than once when you were becoming accustomed to the new flat.

The smell of soap is clearer in the hallway, drifting from the slightly cracked bathroom door that allows the soft sound spotting of droplets to spill from the room. Riley brushes past you to sit himself in the hallway with a huff, acting as a very determined blob of a barrier between you and the bathroom, the outline of his head just distinguishable enough to see it pointedly stuck towards the archway to the kitchen. He pants happily as you bump his head playfully, nudging at your leg as you grab his food from the fridge in its designated bottom draw, listening to his nails click against the tiles with his gleeful tapping.

“This what you’re after, handsome?” You laugh, tipping his food into the bowl as he gives a loud woof before his muzzle is deep in the dish. Washing your hands to make a start on breakfast, the water splatters uninterrupted by dishes against the sink basin, and the kettle is chill to your touch as you tentatively tap it. Simon’s mug is right where you expect it to be, still hanging on the wall from last night’s dishes.

Grabbing the cool ceramic and popping the kettle on, the frigid chill has you regretting not grabbing something to wrap around yourself. The desire to escape its grips drives you to reach for the default, everything needed for Simon’s usual breakfast.

Different shaped containers are scattered against the wall on the counter, your fingers skimming the lids until you feel the curve of the sugar pot and the metal of the tea container. You fish for the teaspoon lingering inside the pot, dumping in the respective amounts – just one sugar for Simon – and two teabags, putting the pots back as you reach for the liquid level indicator hanging neatly off the hook Simon installed for you. It slots on the side of the mug as you fill them up, waiting for the tempo of the beeps to increase as the water nears the rim, before topping it off with milk and repeating it again for Simon’s mug. The kettle’s heat faintly stretches to the handle, warming the inside of your hand as you tilt it back up right, cutting off the stream of water.

Between your preoccupation with making breakfast and the low rumble of kitchen appliances, the absence of running water going unnoticed as you bustle about. It isn’t until you hear Riley’s paws scrabbling against the cold kitchen tile from where he was laying down, bounding to the entryway with happy growls, that you realise Simon has finished in the bathroom.

The tag on Riley’s collar tinkles as Simon rubs at him aggressively, deep thuds as he slaps his hind with affection, charging the pup up with a shower of love that has him whining and squirming in enthusiasm. You can hear Simon rumble soothing affection as he makes his way across the kitchen to you with padded footsteps, pacifying Riley back down to a lively bouncing buzz as he comes up behind you.

You turn in Simon’s arms as you feel them trap you to the counter, resting on each side of you. The pout you give him is smothered by the kiss he plants to your lips, soft and minty with the taste of lingering toothpaste, and he pulls away.

“Our boy got you up?” He mumbles into your shoulder, a smile in his tone while his lips graze against your skin, his hot breath washing against it.

“Yeah, thought I’d get started on breakfast ‘til someone interrupted me. Not hungry this morning?” You query, bringing up a hand to run through his soft, still damp hair.

“Jus’ wanted to shower first, didn’t think you’d be awake before I finished.”

You grunt in response, closing your eyes and relaxing as his arms embrace you. His hand dwarfs the side of your head, pulling it against his clothed chest as the other slips around your back, rubbing it gently. The soft patter of his heartbeat lulls a sense of sleepiness back into you, and just for a moment, it’s easy to forget you’re not back in bed. The tranquil trance is broken as Simon pulls away, arm still around your back. “Want a cuppa?”

You chuckle, detaching yourself from his embrace. “Already made one, made yours too.”

His socks rub gently against the tiles as he turns to the counter, letting out a rumble of appreciation as he walks over to grab one. “Didn’t even notice. Too good to me, poppet.” He hums, sipping at the steaming tea before returning the mug back to its spot. You return his affection with your own happy hum, grabbing the spatula from where you left it on the bench before your arm is stilled by a firm grip.

“Didn’t you say you made a cuppa already?” He teases, taking the spatula from your hand as he gently bumps you to the side. “Go sit down, let me.”

You cross the kitchen to the little table pressed up against the corner, placing your hand flat against the wood to feel for the edge before you put the mug down and take your own seat. Running your thumb along the ridges and bumps of your mug, you listen to Simon’s movements as he works in the kitchen.

“Want everythin’, full plate?” He asks, stirring the content of the pan.

“Yes, please.”

It falls silent again as you sip at your drink, taking in the wide shape of your man blocking the light of the stove’s overhead. His figure is dark today, even in the light of the room, but from being within them, you know the only thing wrapped around his arms is the extensive, intricate ink he’s described to you.

“Got plans for today?” His voice carries over the sizzling, interrupting your thinking. You hum thoughtfully, leaning back in your chair before responding.

“Yeah, actually. Wanted to go for a walk to the park, got some fruit scraps for the ducks. What shirt is that?”

The clank of Riley’s tag announces his captured attention at the word walk. He trots from his place of hovering at Simon’s feet in hopes of stray scraps, moving to sit next to your chair and nudge your thigh with his nose, and Simon snorts at your question before he answers. “Was hopin’ you wouldn’t ask that. S’the one Johnny got for me, skeleton on the front with the extra bone.”

He emphasizes the last words in a mocking Scottish accent, huffing playfully as you laugh against the rim of your mug at the memory. “That was a good one. I know I heard Price chuckling at that one, I don’t care what he says.”

The hinges click as he pulls the cupboard open, grabbing plates out to serve up the food. The metal of the cutlery clinks against the plate as it hits the table with Simon’s delivery, taking a seat across the small table. Finding its home tucked behind your ankle, his foot rubs the back of your calf, a gentle up and down. You give your thanks with a smile as you pick up your utensils and dig in, taking time to savour the food as Simon’s figure hunches over with each bite into his toast.

“You want to go right after?” He questions, voice thick with a mouthful of food.

“I think Riley wants to go right now,” you giggle, and Riley whines with a huff at his name, tail sweeping across the floor as he presses his muzzle against your thigh.

“Comprise with right after,” Simon affirms fondly, pulling off a piece of meat to offer Riley who gobbles it down with a series of dramatic slurps. You rub his muzzle affectionately as you finish the last of your plate, and the big pup returns to your thigh in hopes of extra feedings. He huffs when your fingers only deliver apologies, moving away to scratch noisily at the metal of his collar. Simon scoffs as he reaches for your plate, stacking it on top of his as he rises from his chair. “Reckon ‘e’d eat until ‘e was sick if we’d bloody let ‘im.”

You stand up with him, brushing off your gown and pushing your chair in. “Well, let’s go before he gets any more excited, or he won’t last until we get our shoes on.”

Simon laughs quietly, putting the dishes in the sink before following you to the bedroom. His clothes ruffle as he shucks them off, chucking them into the laundry basket as you open the closet. Running your hands through the orderly fabrics, Simon slips behind you, hands on your hips.

“Something loose, nice to walk in,” you hum, answering his silent question as you feel Simon’s arm brush across your shoulder as he reaches for something.

“The blue one?” He suggests, pulling away to redress himself, and your hands trail to the one he’s talking about. “Looks good on you.”

The compliment sways you, your hands sifting through the rack of fabric and tugging the clothing off the hanger before letting your dressing gown fall to the floor. Before you can fully pull the cloth over your head, the gown brushes against your feet as Simon grabs it, grazing against you again to return it to the closet. He already has socks in hand, giving them to you as he calls Riley out the room, who scrabbles from his bed to follow. You pull the socks on, grabbing the bag hanging from your doorknob as the sound of Riley’s whining grows louder with each step to the front door.

Simon’s form grows as he rises from the floor, and you can hear him nudge your shoes across the floor to you. Sliding them on, you reach for your cane on the wall as the click of the leash connecting to the harness sends Riley onto another cacophony of excited yips. “Ready, love?” Simon’s face is obscured moreso than usual, hiding behind his cap as his mask slightly muffles his words.

“Ready!” You chime, wrapping the strap of your cane around your wrist. The breeze is slightly cool against your face as you step out the door, waiting for Simon to lock it. Riley sits with restrained excitement, tail sweeping as you reach down for his harness to double-check it’s secured into the lead. When you stand up straight, the rough callous of Simon’s hand grazes against your inner arm, feeling for your hand, and you allow him with a small squeeze as your fingers intertwine.

“Got the fruit.” He shakes the bag as you walk into the street, the click of your cane setting a comfortable rhythm. “Thank god,” you mutter, “or it’d be a short time at the park.”

The walk is tranquil, only interrupted by Riley’s pauses to sniff around eagerly or mark his territory at each streetlight and fire hydrant. The familiarity of the path you walk frequently aids your confidence, easily navigating each rise and dip in the pavement and avoiding the bins that’ve been put out for collection.

Peals of laughter and squeals echo through the fresh morning air as you near the park, the faint quacking of ducks punctuating each pause of audible joy. The high-pitched, youthful clamour grows with each step of your feet against the pavement, and by the time you’ve reached the park’s entrance, there’s a much busier buzzing than usual from the playground.

Simon’s grip on your hand tightens just noticeably as Riley leads the way, well accustomed to the routine as you move away from the noisy children. The walk is slower with more people to avoid, though Simon’s inherently insinuating nature often creates a wide berth that you’re silently thankful for, leaving you to focus on avoiding any sticks or rocks that have found their way onto the path.

The clicking of your cane dies as you veer off the path, replaced by grass squeaking under your feet as you head for the bench overlooking the lake. Instead of letting the cane graze across the ground, you raise it to tap from left and right to minimize the chance of getting caught on the uneven dirt and jabbing yourself in the ribs.

When the bench becomes more defined, you retract your cane, tucking it into the holder of your bag. The sturdy wood of the structure is smooth under your fingers, well-kept with maintenance as you reach for it, and your bag thunks heavily next to you as you sit.

Simon takes his seat a moment after, tying Riley’s leash to the armrest before settling next to you, thigh pressed up against yours. He fiddles with the knot in the bag, the rustling of plastic combined with a grunt as he tugs it open. Extending your hand expectantly, he grabs a handful of fruit before giving it over, sitting it in the palm of your hand.

The presence of humans has attracted a few braver duck who waddle up with a noisy swish and a shake of their feathers, quacking cautiously at the big, furry dog parked almost on top of your feet. Simon coaxes them in with friendly grumbles, throwing cuts of apple that hit the grass with a quiet thump and send the ducks into a flurry of feathers as they fight to peck it first.

A few slices of fruit later and the ordeal has drawn in more ducks than you can distinguish the noises from, crowding around the bench without getting too close to Riley. Simon describes each funny-looking duck, teasingly insulting them or characterising them in silly ways that make you giggle. “Got a big arse, that one, talk about fuckin’ boyant. An' this little fucker keeps pushin’ in. Y’know what – oi, back of the line, you – there y’go, someone take ‘is spot.”

With the sizeable group of eager beaks to snap up the food, the bag quickly empties, leaving you with nothing but plastic to stuff back into the draw. The crowd of ducks disperses as they realise the feeding has come to an end, disinterested in your friendly, waggling fingers or the hungry way Riley licks his lips. The pups’ patience has worn thin, which he makes clear with his gentle whines and huffs as he licks impatiently at your leg. When Simon unties his leash to give Riley more room to walk around, clinking against the metal legs of the bench, Riley bounces up to stretch with a dramatic yawn, digging his nails into the ground and tearing at the dirt.

Simon’s amused snort makes you smile, and you assume he catches the way his reaction tugs at your lips, as his hand slips into yours again. “Glad I have you,” he murmurs into your ear, planting a soft kiss against your head.

You turn your head to press a kiss into his shoulder, taking in the smokey smell of his jacket as you prepare to get back up again. “Glad I have you too.”

#jams writings #rep!reader writings #simon x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon “ghost” riley x reader #simon x you #ghost x you #simon riley x you #simon “ghost” riley x you #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #ghost x vision impaired reader

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maispeakslove · 11 months

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♡ photo credits : pearl_tbr on instagram.

#poetry and prose #poetry #poetry books #poetry collections #literature #starry skies #starry nights #night skies #stars #romance #lovers #relationship quotes #love quotes #always with you #romantic academia #love core #pretty books #annotations #Sunlight On The Kitchen Tiles <3

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mango-fizz · 11 months

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anyway so this is a wip i have that i dont think i'll ever really finish? but i wanted to share it anyway. this is based on some tags that user @luci-is-currently-loving-bees left on one of my posts because i shit you not i thought about that for like two weeks straight. this was supposed to be part of a 5+1 things but i couldnt come up with uh the other 5 things skhdkfhlkhskd so yeah anyway i didnt want it to just sit in my docs gathering dust so here it is

Marie startles awake.

She breathes heavily, trying to steady her heartbeats. She's still in her room.

She rubs her eyes. It was just a dream. The same dream, again. But it's fine, because Four got her back, safe and sound. They both got her back. She’s been back for weeks now.

Then why is it still hard to breathe?

Sunlight is streaming through the cracks in her curtains, and yet the apartment is deafeningly quiet. She checks the time on her phone. Callie should be making breakfast by now.

No, it's fine. Everything is fine. She just… overslept. Yeah. That happens sometimes. Silly Callie.

That doesn't stop the suffocating sense of dread from making itself at home in her throat. She swallows it down.

It's fine. It's fine. She's just going to check. She flings her covers off and leaves her room.

Callie's door is closed. She takes a few breaths before clearing her throat and knocking with trembling hands. No response. Callie must not have heard such a weak knock. She turns the handle.

"Callie, you dummy, did you oversleep again?"

The room is empty. Callie's bed is neatly made.

Her hand squeezes the door handle as the panic starts to set in. No, no, no, no, no, no. She rushes down the hallway.

"Cal!"

She starts panting as tears well up in her eyes. This can't be happening. The apartment is completely empty.

"Callie!" she calls one more time for good measure, as if Callie was hiding somewhere, waiting to come out and surprise her. Marie falls to her knees.

Callie was supposed to be back. Four had gotten her back! Unless she was taken again, from right under her nose this time. She was taken again while she was sleeping, and she failed to protect her again. She failed again, and now she was taken.

It's all her fault. It always will be. Marie curls into herself as she sobs.

What a wretched sister she is.

Maybe Callie had never come back to begin with. Maybe she had imagined everything. It was too good to be true, after all.

She needs to call Four, they need to continue the search. She doesn't know what to do. She can't keep going like this. She's nothing without Callie. She's never felt more lonely in her life.

She takes out her phone and looks for Four in her contacts, but it's hard when her sight is blurred with tears.

Four picks up. "Yo, Marie! What's up?"

Marie takes a shaky breath, staring at the tiled floor.

"Hey, are you alright?" Four's tone turns soft.

She can't stop crying. She manages, "We need to find... C-Callie..."

"Callie? She's right next to me."

Marie gasps between sobs. "...Where?"

"We went grocery shopping. I'm here with Callie and Agent 3. We left you a note on the kitchen counter."

Marie didn't notice. She didn't even think of checking for such a thing.

She feels stupid.

"Is Callie okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine." Then, after a moment, "...Want me to put her on?"

She hums a quiet "Mhm," while she wipes at her eyes. She really does feel dumb about this. Her, a grown squid, crying over something like this. Stupid, stupid Marie.

She hears Four's muffled voice saying "Callie! Marie wants to talk to you," before sounds of the phone being passed around.

"Hiiii~! What's up?"

She sighs heavily in relief. Callie's fine.

"Are you coming home soon?"

"Yup! We're almost done, we just need a few more things. Three wandered off again so we gotta go find them, too."

"...Okay."

“You okay?”

“...Yeah. Sorry.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line before Callie presses, “You sure?”

Marie caves. “No,” then, “Are you coming home soon?”

“Yeah. …Sorry for making you worry.”

“I’m sorry.”

Callie sighs with an almost imperceptible sadness. Almost. “I told you to stop apologizing, Marie.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too. We’ll come back soon, I promise. Three says hi, by the way.”

The phone gets passed around again.

“Bye Marie! Hope you feel better!” comes Four’s cheery voice before she hangs up.

Marie stares blankly at her reflection on the screen.

#wip #mango writes ?????!!!#splatoon #squid sisters #they make me ill btw #should i post this to ao3? idk #i have another one about the agents and that one requires more brainpower to finish. however i do intend to finish it. hopefully. one day #NO I STILL DONT KNOW HOW TO END THINGS #SEND HELP

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writingbymoonlight · 2 years

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strawberry scones on saturday

ft: timeskip kita x reader

a/n: this was written for the wonderful @augustinewrites's simple pleasures collab. thank you augustine for allowing me to join! i absolutely loved writing some domestic bliss for this precious soft boy <3

word count: ~1.3k words

Some people perceive routines as repetitive and mundane and perhaps at one point in your life, you would have agreed with this sentiment.

However, now you find that there is something comforting to them. In a way, routines are reassuring. It’s similar to knowing that the sun will rise in the east and set in the west. Or that spring will succeed a long winter. Or that the receding waves will crash onto the shores of a beach on a cyclical basis.

And you really have your fiancé to thank for this mentality. Kita Shinsuke showed you how to appreciate these small patterns. And ever since you moved into his quaint abode, you’ve continued to adhere to and develop several habits and traditions together.

Your favorite routine with Kita certainly has to be your Saturday morning one.

You both like waking up later than usual on this particular day because Kita doesn’t have to be up at the crack of dawn to tend to the rice farm. Even after you rouse from your slumber, you don’t bother getting out of bed immediately. Instead, you rest your head onto his chest and silently enjoy each other’s company as the golden sunlight gradually streams in through the bedroom window.

After approximately half an hour, Kita leaves your cozy shared bed and gets dressed, and you soon follow suit. You then jointly fix breakfast, listening to music and laughing all the while. Sometimes, when a song you are especially fond of starts playing, you manage to convince the former volleyball captain to dance with you across the tiled kitchen floor. Kita repeatedly insists that he is not a good dancer, but he’ll still wrap his arms around your waist and sway to the rhythm of the song. Occasionally, he’ll twirl you around because he knows it makes you giggle happily, and your laughter is his favorite sound in the entire world.

Soon, the food is prepared and the two of you eat at the little breakfast nook that overlooks your spacious garden in the backyard, where various fruits, vegetables, herbs, and flowers are grown. Sipping on freshly squeezed orange juice and munching on fluffy pancakes, you and Kita talk about any and every topic that comes to mind. Once breakfast is over, you clear the table and clean the dishes: Kita is the one in charge of washing them and you carefully dry them.

Afterwards, you and your fiancé go on to do separate tasks. For Kita, that means tending to the garden outside. For you, it means baking. You take the opportunity on Saturdays to create sweet baked goods that you like to share with your neighbors, friends, etc.

Today, you are baking for Kita’s granny, since you’re planning on visiting her in the afternoon. Ever since you met her, she has been nothing, but kind and doting towards you, so you show your appreciation by baking treats for her. And presently, you are undertaking baking strawberry scones for the first time.

You make the dough by tossing all the ingredients into a large bowl and mixing them together thoroughly. All of the flour causes the counter and your clothes to become slightly messy, which you don’t mind since making a mess is part of the baking process. Kita eventually re-enters the kitchen, a bowl of freshly picked strawberries from your garden in hand. He places the fruit on the counter in front of you and rests his chin on your shoulder.

“It looks delicious,” Kita comments, observing the progress you’ve made.

“It’s only a lump of dough so far,” you remark, playfully throwing a pinch of flour onto his face. “You’re only saying it looks delicious because you are obligated to do as my soon-to-be husband.”

“Well, since I am your soon-to-be husband, I know you better than anyone else and I know for a fact that everything you make is absolute perfection,” he responds as wipes the flour off from his face. “I’ll be in the garden if you need anything else.”

With that he presses a kiss onto your cheek that is as gentle as his personality before returning outdoors. You watch as he leaves with a content sigh then glance around the kitchen. You can still visualize when you first stepped foot into this room: he had invited you to dinner at his place not long after you began dating and you recall the shock at seeing how clean the space was. Since he had cooked such an elaborate meal, you were anticipating more disarray, or at the very least, a couple of stray dirty pots and pans in the sink. You certainly weren’t expecting everything to be as neat as a pin and the rest of the house turned out to be equally organized and spotless as well. However, it did not mean that his home was sterile and devoid of any personality. There was still a warm, calming quality to it, just like Kita.

Once you finish your brief stroll down memory lane, you go back to the task at hand of dicing the bright red berries into tiny pieces to toss into the dough. When your mixture is ready, you divide it into multiple small balls and place them onto a tray lined with parchment paper. You then put the tray into the oven and tackle your next chores: storing all the ingredients into their proper cabinets, washing all the utensils and bowls you utilized and making a list of items you’ll need to pick up from the farmer’s market tomorrow.

The oven soon beeps, indicating that the scones are done, and you carefully take the tray out. As you allow the bread to cool down, you head to the backdoor and call out, “Shin! The scones are ready if you want to try!”

Kita, who is crouched down in the dirt and checking up on some tomatoes, instantly stands up and jogs in order to catch up to you as you walk back towards the kitchen. While he washes his hands in the kitchen sink, you plate all the scones, except one, which you hand to the grey-haired man. As he takes a bite, you watch him expectantly, dying to know his reaction.

“It’s really good,” Kita asserts as he hands you the half-eaten scone for you to try. “It’s not too sugary and not too bland.”

You take a bite into the fluffy scone and happily hum when the delicate sweet flavor hits your taste buds. “Not bad for an initial attempt! I hope your Gran will like it, though.”

“Of course she will,” Kita replies as he takes your hand into his, rubbing soothing circles across the back of it with his thumb. His brown eyes are full of loving sincerity as he gazes at you and states, “She appreciates everything you do for her.”

The way that he reassures you with such confidence in this moment reminds you that he is your sun, your spring, and your waves. He will always comfort you. He will always support you. He will always be by your side. He will always be someone you can lean on.

You cannot help, but smile up at your future husband and give his lips a light peck. Before you can pull away, though, Kita cups your cheek and pulls you in for another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate. Although this fervent display of affection surprises you, you welcome it and, without hesitation, melt into the kiss.

This is only one Saturday, and you know that there will be plenty of Saturdays like this to come. And you look forward to taking pleasure in this simple weekend routine with Kita for the rest of your life.

#kita x reader #kita x y/n #kita shinsuke x reader #kita fluff #kita shinsuke #haikyuu x reader

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lady-wren-of-tella · 11 months

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Undeserving (I Love You Too Much to Let You Stay) -- a Zivy oneshot

word count: 5,215 tw// mentions of past abuse, extreme self-doubt I've been working on this oneshot for a while and I'm so proud of how it turned out. I hope you enjoy this very self-indulgent piece.

love you guys <3 (and thank you @miirohs for your help + enthusiasm)

Zira wakes up with her skin crawling. Her eyes flutter open and Zira is greeted by the beautiful sight of Ivy’s freckled face soft with sleep, red hair resting on the pillow around her like a halo of protective fire.

The sun streams through the bedroom window, light blessing Ivy with its golden touch.

Zira looks at the personification of perfection and feels her heart sink.

With grace and stealth learned on the most bloodstained of fields, Zira slides out of bed, careful not to disturb Ivy. She walks around the bed to close the curtains, trying to breathe through the feeling humming under her skin. Everything about this morning feels wrong, and, unfortunately, shrouding the bedroom in shadow doesn’t help anything.

Still asleep, Ivy lets out a deep exhale and Zira feels her body warm with a mix of affection and guilt.

She’s perfect, look at her, Zira’s mind whispers. You’re ruining her.

She dresses quickly, deftly slipping out of her bed clothes and putting on a simple day gown. The tailored fabric feels soothing on her skin, but the steel circlet she slides over her head to rest against her forehead feels better. Zira resists the urge to hold it to her nose just to let the calming smell of metal wash over her.

The sheets rustle as Ivy turns over and Zira’s heart jumps. Her heartstrings strain at the sight of the frown on Ivy’s face as her arm falls through a space beside her that should have been filled. Guilt pools in her gut, but every fiber of Zira’s body screams at her to get out.

The princess ducks out of the bedroom, making sure to close the door as quietly as possible.

Mornings in the Imani palace are bright, sunlight bouncing off the marble tiles in the hallways. The guards draw the curtains away from the windows as Zira walks past, bowing shallowly.

Zira wants to scream.

Hide yourself away. You’ll hurt them if you stay close.

She scratches her nails down her forearm, finds a bit of comfort in the sting.

Walking to the kitchens takes longer than Zira thought it would. The route feels drawn out, with more corners to round and stairs to the basement, but eventually, her hands meet the worn wood of the kitchen doors and she pushes them aside.

Sam Yinlar, the royal cook, looks up and smiles at the sight of her, quickly retying the strings of his stained, white apron.

“It’s rather early,” Sam comments, quietly dismissing the other people working in the kitchen as Zira pushes herself up to sit on the farthest corner of the counters. “It’s been a while since you’ve visited me like this.”

Zira sighs, letting her head fall to her knees. “Hi, Sam.”

“Zira.”

She huffs, twitching her fingers and summoning a fork to her hand from right next to Sam. “If you’re not helpful, I’m going to leave.” She allows the ferrokinesis humming in her blood to sing, crushing the fork into a metal ball. “Better yet, I’m going to fire you.”

Sam isn’t phased, he continues cutting the vegetables on the cutting board in front of him, corner of his mouth tugged upwards with amusement. “With all due respect, Princess, you’ve been threatening me with that since you were seven. I’m going to call your bluff here.”

“Sam.”

“What’s bothering you, Zira?” Sam pushes, scooping the neat cubes of vegetables into a ceramic bowl. He gestures vaguely at her with the point of his cooking knife. “And don’t try to get around the question. I know your tricks.”

Zira pinches the metal ball, kneads it as if it was clay. “It’s Ivy,” she finally says, and winces because she knows how it sounds.

The royal cook freezes. He sets the knife down calmly and fixes Zira with a look so focused she wouldn’t dream of breaking eye contact. “Zira. Is everything okay? Is she hurting you?”

Zira wanted to scream, earlier. Now, her eyes water. Now, she wants to cry.

It takes a deep breath to keep the rivers of emotion at bay.

“No, Sam. It’s me.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Elaborate. Now.”

“I think I’m hurting her,” Zira breathes, unable to help the way her eyes flick down to her hands, as if expecting to see scarlet pooling in the creases of her palms. “She’s too good for me, Sam. Everyone knows it.”

Flinching isn’t something Zira does much of anymore, but the sound of Sam stabbing his knife into the wood of his cutting board makes her tense too obviously to be missed.

“Zira Sevaan,” the man's voice rings, forceful as it bounces off the surfaces in the kitchen. “Look at me right now, and listen.”

She complies.

“Have you hurt her?” Sam asks and Zira frowns, irritation simmering in her gut at his stupid question.

“I just said-”

Sam sighs, yanking his cooking knife out of the cutting board and setting it down calmly once again. “I’m going to be blunt, Princess. Have you hurt her in the way your mother used to hurt you?”

Zira stills.

She swears a shadow shifts in the way it shouldn’t, but that’s just her memories playing tricks. They like creating little hallucinations to mess with me.

It takes work to make her vocal cords work to form the sounds of her answer. “No.”

An encouraging glint shines in Sam’s eyes. “Have you purposefully put her in situations where she could get hurt? Are you manipulating her?”

“She’s with me, Yinlar. I think that’s dangerous enough,” Zira shoots back bitterly. “You likely only know half of what I’ve done.”

Like always, Sam is patient, wise in his rebuttals. “I know you’ve killed people, I know you’ve done worse, and I know you’d do it again in a heartbeat if you had to.”

Again, Zira’s gaze flits down to her hands. Seeing tan, scarred flesh feels wrong. She almost craves the sticky sensation of blood seeping into every little line and crease in her skin, almost misses the sharp, unmistakable scent of it.

“It’s like I told you. I’m going to ruin her. I’ve done awful things– for Delphine’s sake I practically killed her best friends! She deserves someone so much better than someone damaged and morally unsound.” Zira rips off her circlet and rakes an angry hand through her hair, grateful she didn’t bother to braid it before coming down to the kitchens.

“She still loves you and chooses to be with you?” Sam asks pointedly.

Zira nods, and it pains her. “That’s the probl–”

Sam Yinlar cuts her off. “You haven’t coerced or manipulated her into being your partner, correct?”

“No. Of course not.”

He smiles. “You have done awful things, yes? And you’d do them again?”

Zira hesitates before delivering the honest answer waiting on her tongue, if only because the pause has the potential to make her sound like a better person. “If the situation called for it.”

If she asked me to, goes unsaid. If someone threatened or hurt her.

Sam smiles wider, and Zira braces herself for the killing blow.

The royal chef may not be a Mythica, may know nothing about what war feels like, but he beats Zira every time. He corrals her into a corner so she can’t escape with practiced deflection before forcing a mirror in front of her face and a basket full of truths into her arms.

“And no matter what, you’d never even think of harming Ivy?”

I’d rather die, Zira could say.

You’ve said that before, she knows Sam would retort calmly, so I don’t think that even begins to describe a fraction of your feelings towards this girl.

You’re right, Zira would admit.

She settles for a simple, “Never.”

Sam knows me well enough at this point to fill in the blanks.

The royal chef nods, as if Zira’s measly answers could solve her problem, the insecurity and guilt chewing at the worn threads of her being. “Then you have your answer, Princess. You aren’t hurting her, and you aren’t going to hurt her.”

Zira groans in annoyance, throwing her head back against the cabinets above her and relishing in the sound and spark of pain it produces. “You’re not getting it!”

Sam frowns. “Zira, you came to me with a concern, and I talked you through it. You said you thought you were hurting Ivy– that you didn’t deserve her, and I explained to you how that clearly isn’t the case.” He leans on the counter, weight on forearms. “What am I not getting?”

Zira wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Now, she does both.

The sob that rips its way out of her throat is painful, it sounds guttural, made worse by the way it echoes in the kitchen. Instinctively, she draws her knees to her chest, clawing at the skin of her upper arms as she wraps them around herself.

She buries her face in the little space her crossed arms create, letting her tears flow freely as her body trembles.

Sam is at Zira’s side in a heartbeat, standing in front of her and gently pulling her into his embrace. He drops his chin to rest atop her head, squeezing her body once to try and stop the shaking. “Hey. Kid. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Zira whimpers.

She feels pathetic, dirty.

She goes to claw at her skin again, but Sam stops her gently, just keeps hugging her until she eventually melts into the steady comfort of his hold.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get it, Princess. Do you want to explain it to me?”

It takes a few seconds, far more than a few, but Zira eventually gathers herself enough to answer.

“I don’t deserve someone as perfect as her,” she whispers, words muffled by the rough fabric of Sam’s apron. “She’s far too good to be with me, and I don’t deserve her.”

The admission leaves her feeling scrubbed raw.

Sam exhales deeply, a thumb rubbing twice at her shoulder when she trembles again. “Ivy’s hardly perfect. She’s hurt and killed people too.”

Zira frowns. “Don’t do that,” she orders firmly. “Don’t try and make her sound like a bad person just to make me feel better about what I’ve done.” She takes a calming breath. “I don’t deserve someone good.”

Sam squeezes her tighter, but Zira knows he’s wrestling with the idea of pushing apart to look her in the eye. “I don’t care what anyone else says, Zira Sevaan. You deserve every good thing that comes your way.” He taps a random pattern onto her shoulder. “No one is perfect. Everyone has done good and bad things. The mistakes you make don’t define you as a person.”

Zira pushes herself away, quickly drying her tears. “They weren’t mistakes, though, Sam. I made the conscious decision to murder and torture people.”

“You realize it’s wrong, though,” Sam tries.

“I’d do it again.” Zira is stubborn.

“Zira,” Sam tries again, firm. “You are not a bad person. You did bad things, but that doesn’t make you a pad person. You were hurt. You are still hurting. The bad things you did don’t cancel out your right to heal.”

“That’s not what my mother said,” Zira mumbles, ghosting a thumb over her forearms as if remembering how it felt to have bruises there. “That’s not what a lot of people say.”

Sam frowns. “Your mother was abusive and I don’t care what other people have to say. You deserve to be happy.”

Vulnerability is terrifying. Vulnerability flays Zira limb from limb, dissects her for Sam’s observant eyes to pick apart. This time, she doesn’t shy away. This time, she sticks it out and steeps in the discomfort.

“Feeling happy feels wrong, sometimes. It feels like I deserve that almost less than I deserve Ivy,” Zira confesses, falling into the embrace Sam offers again.

Sam just holds her, simple and meaningful in his display of affection and comfort. “I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it: you deserve the good things that are happening to you, you deserve to have Ivy and all the happiness she brings you, and you are not a bad person.”

The tears start flowing again and Zira doesn’t bother stopping them. She lets them fall, lets Sam’s words soak into the hollow cracks that had formed over the years of her existence.

The two of them take solace in the silence.

“I’m a good person,” Zira tries out saying, just to hear the way it rolls off of her tongue. She whispers it like it’s a secret.

It feels almost instinctive, the way Sam’s hold on her tightens. “You are. You really are.”

Zira keeps going. “I deserve good things.”

“You do, Princess.”

“I deserve the happiness my partner makes me feel.” Her voice cracks and wavers. I deserve to wake up beside her every morning and brush her soft hair away from her pretty face just to kiss her on the nose. I deserve to be able to bicker with her about staying in bed or actually fulfilling our duties.

“I couldn’t have said it better, kiddo,” Sam whispers. “Now how about we make some plica for you to enjoy at breakfast with her?”

Zira smiles softly, drying the final tears from the corners of her eyes as the two of them step apart and she hops down from the counter. “I’d like that a lot. Thank you, Sam.”

Already walking away to grab ingredients from the cabinets, Sam smiles at her over his shoulder. “Go be helpful and grab some bowls for me.”

Anytime, Princess, goes unsaid.

— --

Zira takes a deep breath before pushing open the doors of the library with her foot, tray stacked high with plica in hand. The servants said she’d be here. I hope they’re right, she thinks as she balances the tray while slipping through the space in between the doors.

Sure enough, a head of familiar, red hair whips around at her entry.

Ivy’s face goes soft, eyes sparkling, and Zira feels her heart warm at the sight.

“Good morning, love,” Ivy says, beckoning her lover over. “You brought plica!” she exclaims happily, spotting the contents of the tray. “Is that what you were doing this morning?”

Walking over to set the tray of pastries down on the big table in the center of the table, Zira settles down on the couch right next to Ivy, settling against her side even as her gut swirls with guilt she tries to get rid of. “I thought I’d pay a visit to Sam,” she answers, shrugging in an attempt to seem casual.

An arm comes to rest around Zira’s shoulders, soft fingers brushing across the nape of her neck, and Zira’s heart jumps. “That early? You should have stayed in bed and visited him later,” Ivy admonishes fondly, thumb ghosting over the base of her lover’s skull

Zira’s breath catches in her throat and her heart skips too many beats.

You’re going to hurt her.

She flinches backwards hard enough that she tumbles off of the couch, knees and elbows making painful contact with the floor. The loss of Ivy’s warmth against her side makes her shiver, but the guilt woven into every fiber of her being keeps her from returning to the other’s embrace.

Hands still outstretched as if she had tried to keep Zira from falling, Ivy schools her face from shock and sadness to kind and contemplative. “Bad day?” she asks.

“Bad day,” Zira answers quietly.

They developed the system a bit ago, and it works better than Zira could have ever imagined. In the early days, Ivy would ask “Good day or bad day?” before even coming close to making contact, because some days, the very thought of being touched made Zira want to both stab someone and disappear.

Ivy nods and readjusts on the couch, crossing her legs and scooting over to only take up one half of the couch. “Good day,” she answers for herself.

Take what you want, she means. Whenever you’re comfortable, I’m here.

Shame making her face warm, Zira rises from the floor and sits back on the couch, crowding herself as far into the corner as possible.

Ivy points to her forehead, at the circlet resting against her skin. “You should take that off. Your skin’s going white.” Her eyes soften, voice too. “It’s hurting you.”

Zira’s heart aches and she reaches up to take the steel thing off, taking a deep breath and willing her ferrokinesis to mellow out. Immediately, a headache she didn’t realize was forming begins to subside.

Reaching out slowly, giving Zira time to pull away if she wanted to, Ivy takes the circlet from Zira’s hands. “For now,” she says softly, “just be Zira for a bit. Forget the circlet and the title. I want to talk through this.”

The circlet transforms into a steel rose in Ivy’s hands.

Zira makes the flower float upwards with an almost missable twitch of her fingers, not looking away from the mesmerizing green of Ivy’s eyes. Just as slowly as the other did, she stretches out a hand, gently tucking Ivy’s red hair behind her ear. Zira grabs the floating rose out of the air and tucks it behind her lover’s ear as well.

“Thank you,” Ivy whispers, her breath ticking the skin of Zira’s palm as she leans into the lingering touch. “It’s beautiful.”

Zira smiles softly, ghosting the pad of her finger across Ivy’s cheekbone. “It’s not the only one,” she says, heart sparking at the sight of the blush beginning to color Ivy’s cheeks.

You can’t have this with her.

The princess’s face falls and her hand drops like a stone into her lap.

Kindly, Ivy leans away, resting against the back of the couch once more. “I’m here,” she says simply. “I’m here if and when you need to talk, always.”

Zira feels the cracks forming, prepares to shatter and braces for the feeling of accidentally cutting herself on the shards of her being. She steels herself, draws upon familiar impassivity to keep from bursting into tears right there.

“You’re so good,” she chokes out in a low whisper after a bit. “And you’re good to me.”

Ivy tilts her head to the side in confusion, not having heard her, silently gesturing to ask for an explanation.

Don’t tell her, Zira’s thoughts whisper, in a voice that sounds eerily like her mother did. She’ll realize the truth and leave. You’ll be alone.

“I don’t want us to be together,” she says, trying to sound firm. It comes out weakly, her voice wavering and betraying the uncertainty, guilt, and sadness she had been trying to hide. “We’re– we’re not a good match.”

She had kept an admirably even disposition throughout the entire interaction thus far, but Ivy flinches hard, arms instinctively drifting upwards to wrap around herself protectively. But she doesn’t whimper or cry, even though her eyes water. “Explain – now – because you’re not making any sense.”

See? You’re hurting her.

Zira wants to scream and cry and break herself to pieces so she can’t hurt this being of perfection before her.

The princess cuts off her connection to metal, afraid of what could happen with her wild emotions and the metal resting so close to Ivy’s skin.

“Take the flower off,” she orders quietly, as if volume could soften the blow. “Please.”

Ivy frowns, a single tear falling from her eye. She wipes it away quickly, hand returning to rest on her opposite shoulder. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” she challenges, but it sounds weak too. “You’re more than capable of controlling metal.”

“Please,” Zira pleads again, panicking at the feeling of her ferrokinesis humming under her skin again. “I can’t. Take off the flower and set it on the table.”

“Next to the plica you made for someone you spent time making for someone you’re not a good match with?” Ivy shoots back, but she complies, setting it down next to the tray of pastries. “There, done. Now–” her voice cracks with emotion and another tear falls. She wipes it away just as swiftly. “Now,” she tries again, “explain, Zira.”

Look! See? She’s crying. You’re hurting her and keeping her close to you when all it’s doing is damaging her more, the ghost of Kamara’s abuse returns once more to say.

“Please go,” Zira asks, desperation bleeding through the syllables that fall past her lips.

Ivy lets out a bitter laugh and the sound grates on her lover’s ears. “You’re not making any sense right now. You walked in this room with plica you made for both of us, gave me a pretty rose you made out of your royal circlet, and now you want me out of your sight.” Her bottom lip quivers, voice shaking. “Explain,” she begs.

With every second she spends near you, she only gets more hurt.

Zira forces iron-strong resolve into her voice, uses it to mask her breaking heart. Please, love, she pleads in her head, please go before I hurt you more.

“Go, Ivy.”

Zira almost flinches at how cold she sounds, hating how it sounds like her mother did.

Ivy stands up from the couch, expression unreadable. “I want an explanation soon,” she says, defeat weighing down every word. “I love you,” she says softly before turning on her heel and leaving.

The door slams shut behind her.

Zira takes one look at the steel flower and the tray of plica and bursts into tears.

—

They avoid each other for the rest of the day. Zira hides away in her office, tending to her queenly duties. The title is still new and fresh, and she’s still drowning in work. The servants tell her that Ivy spent the day in town with her friends.

Night falls mercilessly and Zira falls asleep at her desk.

She startles awake at the feeling of someone’s hand resting on her shoulder, papers fluttering sadly to the ground when they’re knocked off by her wild movements.

“Easy, easy,” the voice soothes, and Zira recognizes it with a twist of her heart. “It’s late, Zira. You should come to bed.”

Still half asleep, Zira leans into Ivy’s touch. “Missed you,” she mumbles, voice muffled by her arm and slurred by sleep. “Missed you a lot,” she chokes out, groaning as she uses her aching muscles to sit up.

Ivy laughs lightly, and Zira doesn’t realize how forced it sounds. “I’m here now. You need to come to bed, or you’re going to hurt your neck.” She takes Zira’s hand, lacing their fingers together before tugging gently. “It’s a bad day, so I’ll sleep somewhere else.”

“No,” Zira says, and she feels her face burn in embarrassment when she realizes how quickly she responded. “I want— If you want, please stay with me.”

With a sardonic huff, Ivy’s hand falls away. “What I wouldn't have given to have heard that this morning.”

Now look at what you’ve done, child. Just as I predicted, you’ve caused her pain.

Zira’s blood goes cold at the reminder of their conversation that morning. She thinks back to the flinches and the fear, how volatile, dangerous, and guilty she’d felt. “I’m sorry,” she whispers after a moment. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

The words tip Ivy over the edge. “Too late, Zira,” she spits back. “You already did that.” She moves away, sitting down in a chair a few paces away from the desk, and Zira finds hope in the fact that she didn’t leave. “I think we’re both too tired to talk it out right now,” she admits.

Zira gets woken up completely by that, reaching out for Ivy instinctively. “No. I’m awake and I need to explain.” She turns in her chair to face Ivy completely. “And I need to apologize.”

Ivy nods. Go on, the gesture says.

“You are a good person– the best I’ve ever known,” Zira begins. “You deserve happiness, a perfect partner, and every other good thing that comes your way.” She takes another deep breath. “I am damaged. I am a bad person who’s done bad things and you shouldn’t settle for that. I don’t want you chained to someone unworthy.”

Zira’s skin crawls and her ferrokinesis begs to be used.

Ivy’s face shutters. “You’re not a bad person,” she says firmly. “And even if you were, that would change nothing.”

“It’d change everything,” Zira argues, frowning. “And if I am not a bad person, I’m a dangerous one. Death and tragedy follow me around like I have them on a leash, and we both know neither take well to being controlled.”

Vulnerability is a demon Zira hates facing. Ivy sees her attempts at loose avoidance and forces her towards the confrontation, somehow both unflinching and comforting.

“What are you so afraid of?” Ivy challenges.

“Myself,” Zira answers simply, watching as clarity and understanding flutter across her lover’s face. “I have damaged everyone and everything that has ever been in my life. I can’t do that to you.”

Ivy sees the twitching of Zira’s fingers and pulls her into a tight hug, one arm around her waist and another cradling the back of her head. “Cry if you want to,” she whispers, pressing a long kiss to her lover’s hair.

Zira breaks. “I can’t ruin you,” she admits into the warmth of Ivy’s neck and shoulder. “You’re so good – so perfect – and I’m afraid of ruining you because I’m too selfish to let you go.” She chokes on a sob, on the weight of keeping everything at bay.

The metal in the room cheers, screaming and begging for attention.

Immediately, Zira tears herself away from Ivy, scrambling backwards across the massive office to cower in the farthest corner. The breaths don’t come easy, getting caught in her throat. Her chest heaves as the tears turn messy.

Ivy gets up slowly. “Zi-”

“Don’t come near me!” Zira begs, crossing her arms in front of her chest and pinning her arms between her arms and torso. “Don’t come near me,” she repeats, quieter this time as she trembles.

It’s going to happen and you’re going to see. You’re going to lash out and you’ll ruin her and what you have together. Just like everything else, it’ll end with blood on your hands.

“Take deep breaths,” Ivy soothes as she sits down on the floor too. She starts taking off all of her jewelry, setting it down in front of her.

And Zira wants to cry, because Ivy understands, and feeling so seen is terrifying.

“Listen to my voice and take slow breaths. It’s going to be okay.” Ivy meets Zira’s eyes unflinchingly, somehow isn’t terrified by what she finds burning in her brown eyes. “You’re not going to hurt me because you’re not that person and you’re strong enough to hold back.”

Deep breaths, Zira tells herself. Focus on one bit of metal and make it your anchor.

She lets her ferrokinesis rip into Ivy’s necklace, uses the overflowing energy to take it apart and reassemble it in the air. The channeling works, slowly, and Zira starts to relax as her heart rate calms.

The metal chain links separate, a thousand little pieces suspended in the air.

Zira takes a deep breath, blinks, and it goes back together. She exhales, and commands the necklace to float back down onto the floor.

Ivy breaks the silence tentatively. “Zira? Good time or bad time?”

The princess looks up, drying her tears. “It’s fine,” she assures, voice scratchy with the remnants of her crying. “I’m okay now.”

As she crosses the room to sit right next to her lover in the corner, Ivy smiles. “See? I was right, love. You didn’t hurt me. I’m okay.”

“This time,” Zira retorts, tamping down the anxiety that prickles her skin at Ivy’s proximity.

Ivy rolls her eyes. She takes Zira’s hand, grip loose enough to slip out of if she wanted. “Do you trust me?”

Zira answers immediately. “Yes. Of course.”

“Then trust my decisions,” Ivy says simply, holding Zira’s gaze unflinchingly. “Trust that I am happy with you and trust in my faith that you won’t hurt me.”

It takes a second, but Zira concedes. “Okay.”

Ivy allows herself to celebrate the small victory with a little smile, but she doesn’t stop pushing. “Trust that you’re not going to “ruin me”– whatever that means. No one can deny that you made mistakes, but you’re a good person and you deserve happiness.”

Zira opens and closes her mouth, not sure what to say.

Stifling a little laugh, Ivy leans forward, kissing her tenderly. “Don’t feel guilty, love. You’re allowed to want this and you’re allowed to have this. You’re not going to mess anything up.

The influx of emotion makes Zira’s eyes water again.

“I don’t know how–” she chokes on her own feelings. “I never want to lose you.”

“You don’t have to.”

It never works like that. We both know that and it’s stupid to pretend otherwise.

Zira hesitates, trying to make sense of the heat in her veins and the pounding of her heart. “I think I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” she admits quietly, and smiles at the way it makes Ivy’s face light up. “I think, someday, I could be good enough to deserve that.”

Ivy smiles, and Zira knows she’d give up everything to see that for the rest of her life.

“It’s late,” Ivy says softly, brushing her fingers through Zira’s soft hair. “Let’s go to bed.”

— --

Zira falls asleep feeling loved. Her eyelids flutter as they fight the weight of exhaustion and she struggles to stay awake, the repetitive motions of tracing little patterns on the bare skin of Ivy’s shoulder lulling her to sleep.

She brings her hand up to make constellations out of Ivy’s freckles, distracted for a second by the gentle curves in the waves of Ivy’s red hair. Zira brushes it away from her face with a feather-light touch, scared of waking her up.

The princess smiles, overcome by the comfortable warmth in her heart.

Moonlight streams through the gaps in the window curtains, swathing both of them in gentle silver. For the first time in a while, silver doesn’t feel threatening or cold.

Ivy looks peaceful, happy, at home in their bed. She looks perfect, beautiful, good. Even in sleep, the gentle embrace she holds Zira in is comforting. When she was still awake, she’d tighten her hold every few minutes, just to hear the other girl giggle softly with tired amusement.

Right before she’d succumbed to her exhaustion, Zira brought them even closer to each other, intertwining their legs and lying close enough that their noses brush, comfortable with the proximity and touch.

At every point of contact, Zira feels her skin buzz pleasantly.

She takes a slow, tired blink, and smiles again. This is perfect, appreciate it, her mind whispers. You deserve it.

The stars sparkle overhead as she leans forward to kiss Ivy gently.

“I love you, Ivy,” she whispers against the soft skin of her lips. “I love knowing that for the rest of my life, I’ll have you by my side.”

Zira falls asleep feeling loved.

#ladywrenoftella #lady wren:: writing #writing #creative writing #my writing #writing wip #wren is writing #zivy

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