⤷ " . . . Well? Are you waiting for a countdown to start running? "
Hi !! My name's DOUG UPGRAVE (Omen) I'm a 22 y/o (9.8) self-shipper with not only a deep love for my f/os, but also insects and various other horror media. I don't go by any public pronouns, but you're free to refer to me as any sort of terms of address (boy, girl, queen, mr, ms, etc) !
⤷ This is a side-blog, and I follow from @heebiecreepies !
brought nothing to the gun fight, and everyone is really embarrassed for me. they keep trying to hand me a knife or a really big rock but I tell them I am not a charity case and die immediately
moving off 3 hours of sleep cooking and acting like I'm gonna be productive as if I'm not gonna end up like this as soon as I don't have to look after something on the stove
— Estelle's desperate attempt to indulge a vice that isn't their own.
SHIP ; matastelle (M.atador x Estelle)
MEDIA ; M.eleeniacs
WORD COUNT ; 1,0001
CW/TW(s) ; Smoking
NOTE(s) ; yearning has literally never been this serious, title is a reference to the song 'trancy' by biz !
Estelle hated feeling like they were sneaking around. It wasn't her style. She had nothing to hide from people, an open-book to all. People trusted her not to lie, steal, or cheat. Basic human principles she had instilled in her since she was a child. It made people feel comfortable around her. Someone they could trust.
That's why the weight of their actions felt like such a great, terrible sin. They had stolen.
They look around on a high alert, every nerve in their body shouting at them that it wasn't too late to go back and make this right. It was a quiet night out, thankfully. Not another soul to be seen nor bare witness to their transgression. The pounding in their chest was a testament to the guilt beginning to bubble in their stomach. This was wrong. Worse, this was selfish.
They open their palms. They had been carrying the contraband with all the carefulness of a bug they were trying to transport outside. All this for a cigarette. One of Matador's, to be specific.
Matador had left it unguarded on the counter after the two shared a passing encounter with one another. It was the only time Estelle witnessed Matador leave anything of themself unguarded. And the first thing she thought to do was pluck one of the dozen sticks in the pack.
'They surely wouldn't notice', she had tried to reassure herself, as if that made that flimsy excuse made it any better.
She didn't take it and run, no. She had let it sit on her nightstand for several hours before she took any action with it. So much time was spent just staring at it, debating with themselves whether she should return it, once again reminding themselves that what they had done was wrong, but..
They take a deep breath. They weren't even interested in picking up the vice. It wasn't some experimental urge they were looking to scratch, no, it was deeper than that. Cigarettes were one of the things Matador was known for. A deep association tied to their person. They smoked god knows how many a day, for god knows how long. They smelled of cigarettes, but not in a way Estelle particularly minded. It had become almost a comfort for them. From that, a thought blossomed - Matador probably tasted like cigarettes, too. If they could experience that taste for themselves, then.. Maybe this craving could be snuffed out.
With shaky hands, they lifted the stick to their mouth, holding it steady between their lips while they fished a box of matchsticks from their apron pocket. They struck the match, keeping their hand over the stick to protect it from the night's breeze as they raised it to the head of the cigarette. It felt like she needed this more than air itself. All the while, thinking -
"This is probably going to kill me, isn't it?"
It hardly begun to catch flame when there's a loud click at the door, startling Estelle hard enough where she nearly jumps out of her skin. The cigarette falls from their mouth and into a puddle on the ground. "Ah-!" Estelle gasps, looking at the ruined vice with an astonished expression on her face, hands reached out like were about to attempt to reach out and catch it. Which would be ridiculous and not to mention desperate to do to begin with, as a falling cigarette has no filter.
They blink a few times just to make sure she wasn't hallucinating such a wholly tragic failure. Then, from a her lips fell a whine, distressed and disappointed.
"…Estelle?" A confused voice calls, and Estelle immediately straightens up, covering the stick with her boot and standing with her arms tucked behind their back; her idea of inconspicuous.
"I didn't expect anyone else to be out here." Matador comments. There's no specific tone behind the statement, but it carries a distinct lack of irritation, atleast. Matador might've been squinting at them underneath that TV-like device of theirs, seeing as how Estelle looked as guilty as a child caught to everyone but herself.
"A-Ah, yeah.. I was feeling a bit restless tonight." Estelle says with a sigh, feeling the increasing weight of Matador's scrutiny. Her nervousness translated into the increased speed of her swaying.
"I see." Matador says after a long minute of assessment. "…Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all."
Matador mutters something, likely a word of thanks. Estelle didn't hear it. She was focused on watching the way Matador goes to light their cigarette. It's a very practiced movement, something they've undoubtedly been doing for a long, long time. There's no hesitation from pack to mouth. It almost feels like the care taken to light it was for show. Matador breathes in, filling their lungs with a chemical mix of god-knows-what before breathing out slowly, releasing it into the night air.
The smell had become all too familiar to Estelle. It came with being in Matador's general proximity, especially being close enough to give themselves second-hand. They had come to associate it with warmth; comfort, even. Sort of like being wrapped in a heated blanket.
The two were silent otherwise, just sharing the same night sky.
As much as they wanted to enjoy it for as long as she could, being so close to Matador that they could practically take a part of them in, it didn't come without it's side effects. She'd be spending the rest of the night nurturing an irritated throat if she didn't move soon.
"I should probably head back inside." Estelle announces, breaking the silence. "It's getting late, after all."
Matador grunts in affirmation. Estelle walks past them, getting one last whiff of the cigarette smell for the night. Closer to the door, she turns her head back for a second, her eyes going wide when she sees Matador looking down at the shriveled, drowned cigarette that Estelle had been coveting.
Their footsteps moved hurriedly on the way back inside.
