#England Wall Canvas

[mycanvases1]

199 Steps Whitby, North Yorkshire, UK Canvas Wall Art https://mycanvases.co.uk/product/199-steps-whitby-north-yorkshire-uk-canvas-wall-art/

#England Wall Canvas #Large Wall Canvas #Canvas Wall Art #landscape art

[overtrred28]

Gnomeo and Juliet | alanna kennedy x reader

Summary; Two players steal each other's hearts and keep it from everyone because they know how controversial their relationship could be to their club’s rivalry. OR Y/N and Alanna soft launching their relationship over time until they decide to share it. *Features social media posts.*

Pairings; Alanna Kennedy x Manchester United reader

Words; 2.2k

Warnings; swearing (i think that's it)

A/N; i literally love alanna so much and don't think there are enough posts about her so naturally i write one. i just thought this was cute and different from a chealse v arsenal rivalry (though i really love those). enjoy and please give it some love and feedback xx

Lioness star Y/N Y/L/N set to leave her club of four years, Brighton & Hove Albion W.F.C, and join Manchester United W.F.C on a two year contract at the beginning of the 2023/2024 season. 

You had really valued your time at Brighton, starting your senior career there and blossoming into a strong forward for both the club and the England Senior Women’s team, better known as The Lionesses. 

But when the offer from Manchester United came in at the end of last season, you knew it was the right move. Leaving the team you had come to know and love was tough to say the least but the adventure before you sounded a lot more exciting. So during the break before pre-season began, you made the move to Manchester and took a few days to settle into your new home and surroundings. 

Manchester was very different from Brighton; no beach and much bigger city life, but it was a good different. You had found that everything in Manchester was so much closer, and in great reach of your new club and housing. 

You had officially settled into your new home, very quickly making it feel just like your last one, then decided to go exploring through the city. The first thing a person would normally do would probably be going shopping or searching for a new café to become the regular, but you had spotted the Manchester Art Gallery and decided to go in. 

It was quiet, as expected for midday on a Wednesday when most people were at work, but you found it peaceful. It was a break from the regular hustle and bustle of your regular life as a professional footballer. 

It wasn’t until a particular painting caught your eyes that you realised someone else was in there, because you quite literally walked into them. 

“Shit. I’m so sorry.” You apologised quickly to the taller person, picking up their phone you had knocked out of their hand, from the floor. “Here…” Your voice trailed off as you met bright blue eyes while handing them their phone.

“It’s all good, thank you.” The woman met your eyes and she also felt the world pause around her, you were no longer in the gallery but just in a moment of time with each other. 

“Sorry the painting distracted me.” You snapped out of your trance and nodded to the painting on the wall; the story of Romeo and Juliet portrayed on a large canvas. 

“Well it is quite captivating.” Alanna spoke, still looking at you, now at the side of your face as you looked at the painting. 

“It is.” Your eyes fell back to hers and realised she was still staring at you, a slight blush rose to your cheeks, both smiling at each other. “Hi.” You extended your hand out, indicating a handshake. 

“Hi.” She laughed at your chivalry for a second before shaking your hand. “Nice to meet you.” She spoke softly in the quiet gallery.

“You too.” You smiled up at her, quite literally encapsulated by her. 

That was three weeks ago before you decided to get coffee after finishing a self led tour of the gallery, then the conversation kept going and you ended up at dinner together, continuing to learn about one another until the night ended. 

What you didn’t seem to bring up was that you both knew who each other were, but there was a mutual agreement that it didn’t matter. You weren’t professional footballers who had gone up against multiple times in the past at both national and club level, you were just two people who met and wanted to get to know each other. 

Now you were both deep into pre pre-season, you at Man United, her at Man City, and there wasn’t as much time to meet up for fun dates every night, now relying on text messages and late night calls before bed to catch up. 

The first kiss took a while to get to, but boy was it worth it. 

You had both decided to keep whatever this was between the two of you, soaking in the quiet moments shared in one anothers apartments and over long phone calls. It was still labelled a friendship, you both knew you wanted more, both scared of what the other might say if you revealed your feelings. But when you both had a free long weekend, you decided to take Alanna down to Brighton and show her your old home, soaking in the last of the warm weather before winter began to creep in. 

It was the best decision you could have made, relishing in being able to spend time together away from your normal lives. You had rented a small air bnb right near the beach, enjoying the solitude together as you cooked together and watched the sun rise and set each day by the ocean. 

It was on the second night after dinner that she finally made her move, unable to swallow the feelings bubbling inside her. You sat on the beach alone as you waited for Alanna to join, wrapping your arms around yourself to shelter from the cool breeze. 

A blanket had been wrapped around your shoulders and a warm body nuzzled into your side, a small smile on your face as you rested your head on her shoulder, Alanna looking down at you as you watched the waves crash. No words were said for what felt like ages, the only sounds being the waves and the seagulls heading off to bed. 

“Y/N.” Alanna suddenly spoke, a thick Aussie accent breaking the silence. 

“Hmmm.” You hummed in response, keeping your head in its place. 

“I want more than this.” Her statement made you move your head, turning it to meet her blue eyes. 

“More?” You spoke softly. 

“More.” She nodded with a small smile before she moved her hands from her legs, twisting to cup your face before moving closer. You thought she was going to kiss you straight away but her forehead came to rest on yours, both closing your eyes as you basked in the silence. 

“Just kiss me already.” You breathed out and she smiled before closing the gap, joining your lips in a strong kiss. Her hands cupped your face, yours held her waist before trailing up to meet her face. It was passionate but soft, saying so much without any words and your heart grew. 

y/n.y/l/n.. just posted a story

alannakennedy just posted a story

Since you were both heavily in the public eye, it was an easy decision for you both to keep this new found relationship to yourselves, not wanting to receive any unwanted attention from the media, fans and even your own teammates. 

You were able to keep it that way for a while, without you guys being on the same national team or at the same club keeping this secret relationship a secret was quite easy. And since no one thought you would even know each other personally, there were no fans sifting through evidence to put two and two together. Of course though, you both wanted to show each other off, you were so happy and so was Alanna, so maybe a soft launch would be best until you decided to go fully public. 

It started small.

y/n.y/l/n.. just posted a story

alannakennedy made a post

alanna kennedy almost as good as home

y/n.y/l/n.. made a post

y/n.y/l/n.. felt like a fairy tale

alannakennedy just posted a story

Your teammates began to ask about the secretive posts, hammering you about it in the locker rooms at training, Alanna's friends and teammates doing the same.

“When are you going to tell us more about these mystery posts?” Mary had asked Alanna while she was tying her boots before training. Alanna paused for a second before sitting up and looking up at the other Australian. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Alanna simply shrugged with a straight face before standing up and walking away. 

“Oi mate.” Ella Toone had caught your attention as you walked out to the carpark after a late friday night training session. You paused and turned around, waiting for her to catch up, instantly wrapping an arm around your shoulder as she met you. 

“What’s up?” You turned to her as you walked towards your cars.

“Few of us are going round Zelly’s to watch a movie, you in?” She asked with hopeful eyes. 

“Sorry love, got plans.” You apologised, knowing you had a certain blonde already waiting for you at your apartment.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with a possible mystery woman you refuse to tell us about, would it?” Ella asks with a suggestive smirk, nudging your shoulder as you remain stoic. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You simply shrugged and patted her shoulder as you let go of her, walking to your car door. “Goodnight Tooney.” You waved before getting in and racing home to Alanna, preparing for your own movie night of Gnomeo and Juliet and a weekend spent in each other's arms.

The day had come, the one you and Alanna refused to talk about until the night before.. It was the Manchester derby day. The day every City and United fan had waited for and the one you and Alanna dreaded. 

y/n.y/l/n.. made a post

y/n.y/l/n.. Derby day. Let's bring it on home red's! ❤️

alannakennedy made a post

alannakennedy The day we've all be waiting for. Come on blue! 💙

Sure you had come up against each other in the past at both club and national level, but you had yet to do it since being in a relationship together. So it was going to be different this time; harder. You both decided it would be best for your teams if you didn't interact with one another from the moment you joined your teams for the match, and until that final whistle blew.

The plan was going well during the first half of the match; Alanna had started with City in the defensive line and you were sitting on the bench waiting to get subbed on. Katie Zelem had secured the United side a goal through a penalty early on, but City fired back and took the lead 2-1 at halftime. 

You got subbed on for Nikita Parris at the very beginning of half time, taking her place as the left forward and a strong striker. Though this became a slight issue because of who was currently defending the City goal and in charge of blocking your shots at goal; your very own girlfriend. But in that moment you had to act like you didn’t know who she was on a personal level, right now you were just opposing players who both wanted their teams to win. 

It was hard for you both to act like that, stealing glances on the pitch, brushing past each other ever so slightly without anyone noticing too much. You had both been able to get away with this secret relationship so far because you’ve haven’t had to be in the same place yet, but maybe it was time for that to change. 

The final whistle blew and City had won 3-1, your side not being able to score any further goals despite your best efforts. You looked around at all your teammates, defeated looks all over as City celebrated together before exchanging handshakes with the other team. 

You and Alanna had purposefully left each other till last, waiting until you could be alone with each other in a busy and full stadium. You had finally found the blonde Australian and began walking towards her and she finally locked eyes with you. Seconds before you had very different expressions, one filled with happiness and one filled with disappointment. But as soon as you got closer the one expression you both shared was one filled with love, and your heart melted as she brought you straight into a hug rather than a friendly handshake. 

Her hands wrapped around your waist as her slightly taller frame leant down, your hands found their way around her neck before you buried your head in her neck. An instant feeling of warmth and security flowed through both of your bodies as you hugged, Alanna pressing a soft kiss to your neck as she buried her own face in your shoulder. 

Confused looks fell to both sets of teams at the interaction, at first because of the more than friendly hug and second because of the familiarity they could sense between the two of you. 

“I’m so proud of you.” You murmured, still holding tight around Alanna’s neck. 

“You played so well, it was a tough game.” She spoke back instantly, squeezing your waist before slowly pulling back to look at you. You smiled at her as you exited the hug, genuinely happy for her but still very upset your own team couldn’t secure the win like they wanted. 

“You should go celebrate.” You nodded to the City team who gathered in the middle, preparing for their post-match huddle, your team doing the same further down on the pitch, all players still watching the interaction with lost eyes.

“I’ll find you after and we’ll go home together.” Alanna nodded to you, looking down to your now interlocked hands, a small laugh leaving her lips. “This is going to be everywhere tonight.” She looked back up at you as a small smile grew on your face. 

“Definitely.” You laughed too. “Are you okay with that?” You raised a brow at her. 

“Yeah. I’m ready to show off my girl.” She winked playfully at you, now both of you laughing, shaking your head at her before playfully pushing her shoulder and walking over to your team. 

y/n.y/l/n.. made a post

y/n.y/l/n.. the gnomeo to my juliet

tagged @alannakennedy

alannakennedy made a post

alannakennedy my girl in red

tagged @y/n.y/l/n

THE END

#alanna kennedy #alanna kennedy x reader #manchester united #manchester city #woso #woso x reader #lioness reader

[satorutini]

above snakes - kamo choso

pairing: choso x reader

summary: “At your service, ma'am,” he says, with an earnest grin and the tilt of his gallon hat. “Always.”

rating: explicit

wc: 7.6k

ch: 1/2

You can’t imagine the number of things I had to google that probably don’t matter but would’ve driven me up a wall if historically inaccurate. Idk how to fucking paint so pls forgive me, artists and art history majors.

read on ao3

There was a particular brand of wildness that seemed to touch everything this far west. 

It had to, you surmised, come from the lack of seasonal rain. Something must’ve mixed into the well water with the first wave of settlers. Grown into the dry cracks and crevices of the desert with the rest of the shrubbery. Crept into the hearts of every untamed beast that could endure the sweltering heat, timid or truculent. 

You’d experienced that wilderness in bits and pieces in your short time this side of the Mississippi River. You’d heard it through the stories men traded on bar stools. Felt it in the rough callouses of the hands that traded coin for drink and paint. In the first few weeks after you had settled, you had attempted to capture it yourself. But no matter how long you spent bent over a canvas, painting broad blue skies and looming canyons and bands of wild horses, your brush simply could not replicate that untamed, beautiful something, native only to nature herself. 

It intrigued you. It called to you from the safety of your New England home and the polite society you’d been indoctrinated into all of your life. The desert and its residents were both beguiling and dangerous, in real, tangible ways that tea parties and gossip circles back home couldn’t even begin to compare to. 

On its worst days, the sun and the heat did terrible things to people who linger in it for too long. But for most of your life - and much of your stay thus far - you’d been lucky enough to have never seen that kind of violence up close, not if you could help it. Not if your father could help it.

The unbearable heat, however, is something you had willingly signed up for the moment you rejected your birthright and fucked off into the countryside for good - something you try to remind yourself at the sight of half of your paints gone runny in their cases.

A sudden wave of anger causes your fingers to twitch against the wooden lid. I don’t understand.

“Is…Is everything alright?” You blink and straighten up, taking a second to compose yourself before turning to face your inquirer with an expression as blank as you can muster. You don’t understand how the paints had melted in storage - since you had moved, you had done what you could to keep them cool and out of the sun. For the two years you had taken residency in the ramshackle saloon, your materials had managed to survive the desert heat from the safety of the trunk you kept under your bed.

  And yet today of all days, half of your case is a watery, separated mess.

Had you been back home, this could have been easily resolved within a day with a few silver dollars and a quick trip to an art store - that very same day if you were early and lucky. The largest commission of your life wouldn’t have to be postponed for longer than mere hours, and you and your standoffish companion could be on your way in a few days. 

It’s been two years since you made the journey west and settled in this small haven in the middle of a dry sea. It was a purposeful two-day travel by horse to get to the nearest train station. When you first rode into this tiny town, it had been the perfect place to escape. He was determined and astute, but you doubted that your father and family would follow you this far out into the middle of nowhere. Life here wasn’t perfect or easy, and there were often times (like now) when you longed for the conveniences of modern society.

But it was yours . For the first time, you could confidently say that you were in control of your own life and content - happy, even.

 And yet looking at the mess in your hands, all you can feel is unadulterated rage as you calculate about many weeks it will take for the general store to have black paint again. 

Weeks. Months , maybe. You don’t have months. 

The sheriff had paid good money to have his deputy’s portrait remade, despite his lack of knowledge in your lack of knowledge. That I-don’t-have-to-worry-about-food-or-rent-for-the-cold-season kind of money that you couldn’t just pass up on. All he had heard was that you were a painter from the north - a skill no one had the luxury for this far out west - and all you had heard was the promise of financial security .

 In your turmoil, you’d nearly forgotten about your unlucky patron - a tall, broad, and stolid man with inky black hair and sullen eyes that tracked you about the room as you had prepared to paint him. Deputy Choso sat atop your rickety stool, poised for his portrait to be painted. His impatience radiates throughout the room.

The portrait painting hadn’t been his idea, but his mentor’s. An apology from the sheriff after his original portrait - the one he received after his installation as deputy of your quaint township, conceived by a much older, real artist passing through town - was bullet-whipped in a close call with a gang member turned near - escapee at the station.

While you weren’t there for the initial conversation - or however Sheriff Nanami decided to break the news to his young deputy - judging by the icy demeanor and rigid posture he had maintained since his arrival, you can only imagine that the gift had been met with some measure of reluctance.

The deputy had arrived at your doorstep in the early hours of the morning looking haggard and half-ready to jog back downstairs and escape on his horse, maybe relay some poorly composed excuse to his mentor about why he couldn’t see this through when you first opened the door to greet him.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen each other at all in the two years since that fateful encounter. Your tiny town was exactly that - tiny. The proximity of everything compared to the vastness of the empty desert made it so that no one strew too far from home without the purposeful intent of doing so. You had always seen Choso in passing on the way your way out of the general store, making his survey rounds about town, or on his way into the saloon after a long day, pretending not to see the way you slide from the bar to the furthest corner of the room at his arrival. 

Admired him quietly from afar all the while he seemed to avoid you like the plague. Straight up ignored you, even.

Head down, gaze averted. Worn gallon hat shielding the upper half of his face. Never offering more than a polite nod if you happen to be roped into the same conversation. But seeing each other like this, up close, without the usual buffers of his colleague, your nosy neighbors, or drunken bar patrons, was an entirely different beast.

At the sight of you, the shock on his face was plain as day no matter how quickly he schooled his expression into one of impassivity. You couldn’t blame him, maybe even look at him similarly - overnight, the anxiety leading up to this appointment had crept into your bloodstream and buzzed in your ears like a pesky mosquito. If he ever asked how you had gotten to the door so quickly, or if you had been waiting up on him by the door, you would lie. Profusely.  

After inviting him in wordlessly with a tight smile and excusing yourself to gather your things, Choso had taken a moment to take in your other works littered about the tiny studio - horses, lots of them, racing thunderously alongside dusty mesas and atop desert plateaus. Vivid oranges, murky browns, and brilliant blues dance across his vision.

Snakes too - long, scaly reptiles with cavernous maws bearing thin, murderous, and razor-sharp teeth. Choso feels like he could prick his finger just touching the painting.

You’d taken careful time to mimic the way the relentless desert sun made the scales of the reptilian appear nearly wet and shiny, its eyes glinting soullessly back at him from different angles. No people, though , he notices. No faces.

 He’s in the middle of wondering when the last time you saw a snake this close to town was when he notices you freeze in his periphery, staring into a wooden case.

The deputy shifts in his seat; this is already taking longer than he anticipated, and you have yet to even start painting.

“Ma’am,” he calls out again when you don’t respond, pursing your lips as you struggle to think of what to say. You can hear him trying to bite back the bark of annoyance in his voice. “Are you okay?”

Not at all. “Absolutely.” You offer him a placid smile if only to see him relax a little. 

Recalling the pale look on his face when he first marched up to your little studio above the local saloon, you get the sense that despite his usual impassivity,  this appointment isn’t easy for either of you.

Deputy Choso Kamo is the young gunslinging protege to your town’s sheriff, a champion fighter with his own tall tales from the desert tied to his name. 

In any other situation - if you were anyone else - this would be an honor beyond your imagination for the amateur artist you considered yourself to be. 

There was a time when Deputy Kamo would stroll through the center of your dusty little square in the early morning hours of a Sunday on his brooding black mare, surly and stolid, and the sun would roll in behind him as if waiting for his arrival for permission to set. Women would flock to the windows of the chapel to snag a glimpse of the gunslinger and peak behind their hands at him in passing. Men would amble out onto the deck of the saloon to gawk at him in the guise of appraisal, arms crossed, fingers resting on the hostlers of their guns. 

Of course, that was in the earlier days, when he first took up the position as Sheriff Kento Nanami’s secondhand man. Before you arrived. That was what was told to you after you had already made your own unforgettable first impression.

You knew the deputy as simply Choso, the man who you fucked half senseless the first night you arrived in his small town.

You had been drunk, celebrating your first night of true freedom with as much ale as your silver could carry. And he had been there. Hair long and unruly, observing you from his quieter corner of the saloon. Never looking away when your gaze caught his, finally noticing him looking, watching. Not a belt or badge or holster in sight - just quiet, confident resolve, and enough money to buy you one more drink before you invited him back to your closet-sized rented room.

He had probably figured you were a city slicker just passing through, journeying to the booming mining cities near the coast. It had probably never crossed his mind that you would stay.

And yet here you were, having never spoken to each other again in the two years since that fateful night and clutching your half-melted paint palette between the two of you like it would shield him from you.

Or vice versa.

Choso glances at the wooden case again and then places both hands on his belt with a sigh, arms akimbo. “Look, if you’re going to be weird about this-,”

“No, no, not at all!” You grimace and sigh, flipping the oily mess in his direction, frown growing when the paints slosh in their pans. “I’ve run out of black. That was the last of the only tube I had.”

“So what does that mean? You can’t paint?” You try not to feel a bit hurt at the hint of hopefulness in his voice. You know this interaction is awkward - you’ve been dancing around each other for two whole years, there’s only so many people in this tiny town - but you hadn’t thought your company was that unbearable.

“No, I can still start, it’ll just take a little longer. It takes a while for the general store to order the paint, and even longer for it to get. But maybe I can order the materials to make the paint a little faster if I can just get my hands on some linseed oil…”

At this point, you’re murmuring more to yourself and into the canvas propped in front of your reluctant subject than to the young deputy himself, who has quickly schooled his expression back into one of disinterest. All he hears is that he’ll be seeing you a lot more often than he already had expected, quickly coming to the same conclusion you have.

Much of his appearance and uniform attire were comprised of dark greys and browns - hell, his hair was black. His skin took on a gold tone from long hours in the sun. Tiredness cast a dark shadow beneath his low-lidded eyes. Like many of the men who spent their time out in the wilderness, he seemed to carry pieces of it with him. If you didn’t come into possession of any black paint any time soon, this process would take much longer than either of you had anticipated. 

 “I can still get started.”

As if sensing his uneasiness, you meet his gaze full-on for the first time since greeting him at the door. And then you add, a little quieter, “But we don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to.”

His brows shoot up in surprise, contemplative, as if recognizing that this is the closest either of you has ever gotten to addressing the massive elephant in the room. His fingers idly fiddle with the gold plate at his belt, palms curling over the leather at his waist, and you try not to remember the way they felt bracing your hips. Your thighs. The way his grasp had trembled when you touched him.

It was all so long ago, and yet somehow not long enough. The faded memory is now clear in your mind at your forced proximity.

Choso considers leaving. He thinks of Nanami, of how he’ll probably pry the real reason for his reluctance right out of him with little to no effort the moment the young deputy tells him that he’s no longer interested in receiving the sheriff’s gift. He thinks of how the man will most likely march him right back into your meager studio and sit in the corner and watch . He’d rather not have this debacle unfold in front of an audience, much less his mentor. 

The deputy is facing an internal uphill battle of his own as he struggles and fails to repress the memory of your last private encounter with every minute of sitting in your presence. Fighting back a warm blush that threatens to spill over his cheeks when he remembers the last time he was in this room. If he is uncomfortable now, he can only imagine the immense discomfort that would come with the sheriff seeing him so on edge like this. So openly undone by your mere appraisal..

Choso is a grown-ass man who will not run away from a gift just because he can’t unsee you bent over this very same stool two years ago, crying out on his cock.

“I can do this,” he resolves and then reddens with the realization that he has exposed a bit of his inner dialogue when you frown, scrambling to rephrase his words. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

His heart aches a little at the way your expression shutters, closed off, but then again maybe you’re just reflecting his own. “Take as much time as you need, I mean. It’s up to you,” He tries again, but you’ve already returned your attention to your easel with a sharp nod, ducking behind your canvas. 

This way, he can’t see the way your hand trembles when you make your first brush stroke.

Your appointments are sparse and brief. 

At first, the whole ordeal is kind of a burden. It’s not that Choso is too busy to give it much thought - not really . Your town is quiet and picturesque - an unknown speck of nothing smack dab in the middle of nowhere. A watering hole, maybe, to those who wandered across the wild desert in gangs. Choso has done his best to keep the peace in your region, even in the few years before your arrival. Between him and the presence of Nanami - a legendary quick draw -  keeping the unruly at bay, it’s been a while since the young deputy had come across anyone that he could truly consider his rival.

The problem is that he does give it too much thought.

He only sees you maybe once or twice a week. The appointments are brief - there is only so much you can do to add to the portrait when you’re missing such a vital color, and for all of the patience and timeliness rumored to have carried his infamous gunslinging career, Choso is terrible at sitting still for too long.

You being, well, you , doesn’t help his case much either.

When he is not with you, Choso finds his thoughts drifting back to your studio. He thinks back to your many landscape paintings; the snakes and the way you paint their glittering scales. The distinct lack of portraits in your gallery despite being commissioned to make one. There seem to be more iterations of the desert each week he comes to visit as if you’re missing something you can’t quite put your finger on with each new edition. 

He daydreams about the way your bare ankles cross as you sit on a stool of your own. You’ve eventually stopped wearing shoes in his presence (he takes that as a sign of you being more comfortable with him rather than just simply too lazy to do anything about it when he comes through). 

His mind wanders to the pensive look on your face when you tune him out and really get to work. To that scrutinizing gaze you turn on him every so often while he poses, in the moments when you’re willing to pry yourself from the canvas to refresh yourself on the subject you’re replicating. He ruminates on the furrow of your brow, and how the first time he saw it he was knuckle-deep in your wet heat, wringing the sweetest sounds from your mouth.

But worst of all he thinks of your hands. Your fingers more accurately. The digits that wield your brush and paint palette with practiced ease. He imagines the grip of your fingers on the brush and recalls a time when they braceleted his neck and squeezed. The ghost of the delicious pressure of your fingertips against his skin, the band of your knuckles wrapped around his throat, haunts him on the hottest desert nights. 

Choso is reluctantly obsessed with the memory of you choking him, subconsciously chasing that shock of surprise at the sensation, followed by the rush of pleasure that sent him quickly tumbling over the edge faster than he ever had in his life. The feeling had hit him before he had even known was what happening. He remembers with stark clarity wrenching out of the grasp of your tight heat in surprise before spilling onto the wooden floor with a sharp cry. The cocktail of shame and confusion in his stomach at the sight of your pleased smile.

And then, as he makes his way into your modest studio, mentally preparing himself for another round of sitting as still as a statue, he reminds himself that that night was a one-off, one-time thing.

When he’s not plagued by his growing hunger for you, Choso has come to enjoy this moment of silence and stillness away from his usual routine. Typically, his days are filled with patrols about the perimeter of the town or hauling overzealous drunkards from the bar. He has been long familiar with the mercilessness of the desert this far west, the maliciousness that lurks in animals and people alike. 

While the bored bumble of your small town was reprieve itself, the young deputy can’t help but begin to look forward to his afternoons cooped up in your rented room. 

He stares at you from behind the canvas and wonders if you’d sound the same as you remember if he got his hands in the way he’s been itching to. Restraining to. Wonders if he got up from his station and crowded you by your canvas if you’d brace his neck with your small hands again just to keep him at bay.

You refuse to speak to him and yet he craves your presence even in your tense silence. He craves the solace of your company. Knowing he is your singular focus for just a small portion of time. Watching you watch him as you - supposedly – immortalize his face into a masterpiece.

When you finally receive news that the general store has ordered your paint and it will be here before the summer turns to autumn, Choso can’t help but wonder if you’ll paint him with the same quietly murderous black eyes as your snakes. 

He knows now that you are actually capable of painting human bodies, despite his earlier skepticism. Albeit only from the chest up, Choso’s painted double takes on a broad and heroic stance, filling out his deputy uniform with all of the muscle and build of somebody sculpted by hard work and hardship. 

All that’s missing is his face. 

The deputy talks to you now, speaking freely, offering quiet words here and there. There is a shared sense of amicableness between the two of you. A shared, unspoken understanding that you’d both silently chosen to ignore whatever had transpired up to this moment, for the sake of the commission. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice when your gaze lingers on his face for longer than probably necessary. That doesn’t mean his eyes don’t track your hands as you move about the canvas.

 Eventually, every time he comes by, you update him on the last thing the general store told you about the status of your paint order, and he wracks his brain to calculate when he’ll see you next. How long this will last. 

He doesn’t know if he can go back to ignoring each other after this.

--

It wasn’t until Deputy Kamo became a regular fixture in your routine that you would feel the cool bite of the steel and the worn wooden handle between your own two palms.

Guns, the indiscriminate dictators of the lawless West, were not an uncommon sight. Men carried them as casually as cigars. It was a less common occurrence for women, although the wives of cow wranglers were known to be familiar with riffles. Every so often when he would visit, you would curiously watch out of the corner of your eye as he would remove the weapon from his holster and place it gently on your rickety excuse for a kitchen table. When you ended your last painting session by asking Choso if he could teach you how to handle a revolver, he almost whited out at the concept.

He looks at you now as you balance the device in hesitant hands, impassive as ever. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself more than someone else with a grip like that.”

You huff and wordlessly adjust your hold on the weapon, frown furrowing your features. Trying hard to recall the deputy’s earlier patient instruction. The pair of you stand on the outskirts of town, at the lip of his patrol range. As far out into the desert as you’re comfortable venturing. The candlelights of your township twinkle in the distance like little figurines in the fading sunlight. 30 feet away, a beer mug balances on a dead log, perched directly in your line of sight. 

You hope he can’t feel the way you tense when Choso wraps his arms around your frame from behind, readjusting your grip with his own. 

“Breathe,” he admonishes.

“I am.”

“Right.”

His tone is clipped as he takes a step back, and you can’t help but frown a little as he steps away.

“Shoulders,” he corrects you, and you adjust accordingly, rolling them down and back, away from your ears. Not having made your first shot yet, you’re silently taken aback by how cold and still the device is in your hands. Unable to fully comprehend the violence it could administer - loud and quick and unforgiving. Permanent.

The sun sinks. The sound of crickets gets a little louder.

“You’re alright,” the deputy calls from behind you, softly, as though sensing the fear crawling up your throat. “Focus, don’t think. Steady.”

You level the revolver.

“Aim,” your finger rests on the trigger. A slight tremor in your stance. 

“Fire.” 

Too much happens all at once. The crack of the revolver is deafening, the force of the firearm rocking you back in your stance. You cringe. Your ears ring, and your shoulders burn. Tears well up in your eyes on instinct. The once cool metal now radiates with a minacious warmth. Your elbows drop but you keep the weapon extended as far from your body as possible.

“Did I hit it?” You face him rather than your makeshift target, as if afraid to be greeted with the sight of the aftermath of some sort of carnage and not just some shattered beer mug. 

The air tastes like gunpowder when you speak. Choso takes one glance over your shoulder and grimaces.

“Depends on what you were tryna’ hit.”

You whirl around, indignant. “What-,”

A gaping hole now graces the side of the barrel. In your haste to shoot, you’d completely missed your target, the mug having fallen into the shrubbery with the force of your firearm.

Choso is patient and watchful. He slips the revolver from your grasp, easily dismissing your disgruntled look. “Go pick it up. Try again.”

You try not to roll your eyes and gripe at the patronizing tone he’s taken on and fail as you trudge toward your fallen target. Wondering again why you had thought that he of all people would be better to ask to sate your curiosity rather than any of the other gun-totting residents of town. Nanami was just as accessible as his deputy.

He’d probably charge me for the lessons, you muse, take it out of my commission or something.

As you reach for the beer mug, the snake sees you before you see it, but Choso is faster.

A flash of reptilian skin and teeth whips in your direction, sending you startling backward and falling on your ass.

“Shit!”

Two gunshots ring out in quick succession, but you feel the whiz of the bullets go by more viscerally than you hear them. 

The deputy’s gentle hand on your shoulder wrenches you from the shock of your fright.

“Are you okay?” The question is asked with such sincerity you have to look up at him in astonishment. The sight that greets you sends chills up your spine. Choso’s stolidity largely remains the same, but after studying his figure for weeks on end, you can see the cracks in his composure. The tightness of his jaw. The knuckle-white grip on the weapon in the hand not holding you. You zero in on his comfortable grasp on the metal, trailing your gaze up his sun-warm arms and well-toned neck and nearly flinch at what you see when you meet his eyes.

It’s a fleeting look, one you would have missed if you had looked back at him a second too late. That wild thing that is found in all desert things. That violence. It dances in the blown pupils of his eyes, wicked, sharp, and hungry and suddenly you understand the stories. Suddenly you can’t help but marvel that once long ago, there had been a moment when you had a creature capable of such violence crumble beneath your simple touches. You know he can feel the way you tremble a little in his grasp, even as you nod and straighten up, dusting off your skirt.

“Yeah I’m-,”

The snake twitches violently in the dry grass and the deputy is quick to react, drawing back from you to stomp on the beast’s neck with such force and precision it shocks you more than the initial attack. The thing makes a pained, high-pitched wheezing sound akin to a shriek before going limp under his boot as Choso twists his heel sharply. Blood turns the desert floor a murky brown. 

For a moment, the two of you stare at the thing. It’s nearly as long as you. White, reptant eyes stare unseeingly back at you. 

Choso sighs, turning away from you almost sheepishly. He considers asking if this is the snake you’ve been painting. Instead, he shakes the blood off the bottom of his shoe and starts with, “‘Sorry you had to see that.”

He knows that despite your few years here, you’re still not akin to the dangers of the wilderness. You never wander too far from the confines of your township. You are far from the comforts and safety of the city you once called home. He doubts the men of New England are shooting each other willy-nilly in the streets. Knowing this, the guilt he feels is immense. He shouldn’t have agreed to teach, let alone see you outside of your appointed painting sessions.

So it is his turn to be shocked when he registers the look on your face to be one of approval. Admiration, naked and plain on your face. The expression of someone who just experienced a revelation. As you stare up at him in wonder, something hot coils beneath his stomach.

“Don’t be,” you finally say, sneering at the snake and spinning sharply on your heel. The moment is broken. “I’m not.”

--

The day you finally get black paint is more momentous than it really should be. The general store owner has to keep you from nearly breaking down his doors when the morning after the shipment arrives, relieved to put an end to your incessant hounding. If there was anyone else more ready for you to complete your portrait commission than your deputy, it was the store owner. 

Choso tries not to frown at the news when he meets up with you for what would now be the very last time, especially when you seem to have lightened up significantly at the return of this pigment to your arsenal. You’re giddy - you can finally give this man a face. And hair!

Caught up in your satisfaction, you hardly notice the subject of your masterpiece fidgeting in his seat more than usual. He’d rather not admit it now, but the deputy is distraught at the thought of things returning to normal after this. The sense of finality that lingers in the room disturbs him.  He revels in your quiet but stern presence, the passion and dedication to your craft. That odd hunger for danger and risk that reflects in your paintings a craving you seem too embarrassed to put a name to, but too curious to fully ignore.

 Choso would like to consider himself an honorable man of the law - he dons his badge with pride and purpose. But before that, he was a boy in the desert with a gun and enough bullets and anger to strike as deadly and indiscriminately as that snake. That life, no matter how far in the past, sticks with him and reflects off of him in an intangible way that even without seeing his scars and bullet wounds, people just know . Most strangers and visitors, especially women from the city, would turn their cheek to his particular brand of unruliness.

For a moment, you seemed to want to eat him whole despite of it. 

As you meticulously mix the black paint, your movements are precise, almost reverent. Choso watches you work, the evening sun casting long shadows across the room. The air feels heavy with anticipation, charged with an energy neither of you can ignore.

With each stroke of your brush, the likeness of Choko begins to take shape on your canvas. His features emerge from the blankness with startling clarity.

The sun sets, dying your small studio in hues of pink and orange, and you finally step back from your easel with an air of completion. Choso can feel his heart pounding in his chest when you gesture for him to come to look, his breaths becoming shallow and quick. He thinks of taking a glance, granting you a decisive farewell, and never speaking to you again, and his chest aches. 

“What do you think?” you ask as he rounds the canvas. 

Your voice is smaller than he’s ever heard it. Choso silently takes in his painting and tries not to sigh in relief. You have captured his stoic demeanor perfectly. Looking astute in his deputy uniform, you have portrayed him as a figure of pride and power. His face looks back at him with a gaze so steady and confident he’s almost unnerved.

“So?” You ask, trying and failing not to appear anxious.

 “Have you always known how to paint faces?”

You blanch and whirl on the man you’ve spent most of your summer studying in this exact same studio. “Did you not think I could do it?”

Choso shrugs, and nods to the little corner cluttered with your other discarded pieces of work. “Didn’t see any other portraits."

“It’s just not what I’m into painting right now,” you sputter, indignant. “Why didn’t you think to ask?”

The deputy mumbles, aptly studying the heel of his boots. “Thought you’d paint mine in the shape of a horse or somethin’.”

The man admits it so forlornly, you can’t help but chuckle, turning away to pack up your materials and allow him to take a closer look. “Maybe I should’ve.”

He says nothing in response, and you don’t look back to catch his expression. The silence that follows. You’re both hesitating and you know it.

Choso is the first to break.

“I’m sorry for what happened after…after we met for the first time. I shouldn’t have left like that.”

You sigh and put your brushes down, unwilling to turn and face him just yet. “I feel like all you do is apologize to me lately. We gotta put a stop to that.”

You wait for him to laugh you off and excuse himself, trying to offer him an out. Your tone is playful, joking, but Choso can sense the sincerity in your words. You can’t see it, but he shakes his head, adamant. “I was scared.”

The omission weighs heavy between the two of you.

“That I’d hurt you?” You wonder aloud, knowing that’s not the truth but pressing him anyways. You think of how he towers over you easily, how he could probably snap your wrists with two of his fingers, and can't help but laugh at the idea of this death machine of a man finding you physically threatening. But there was something else - 

“No,” he admits, almost a whisper this time, still full of resolve. “That I liked it.”

You finally face him, inching closer, still unsure. Your breath catches in your chest at the sight of his expression. Open and vulnerable, eyes wide and expressive with want.

“We can try something else,” you offer, pouncing on the opportunity. “If you’re feeling brave.”

A challenge. For the first time, he is willing to confront the suffocating something between the two of you - desire . The pure longing and awe on your face after the snake incident is imprinted on the forefront of his mind and haunts him as frequently as this memory of your hands around his neck.

He reaches for those very same hands now, in silent askance. Pleading you to collar that untamed unruliness lurking beneath his skin, quell the hunger that boils in his blood.

Choso has been bored . He loves the slow pace of your quaint little town. The stability and predictability are a welcome change from the life he once lived. But… he misses the thrill of the fight. The adrenaline pumping through his veins, the euphoria that follows the moments after brushing that thin margin between life and death

He feels it again, that buzz, as he allows his odd little painter to guide him back to a seated position on the stool, undo his belt buckle and slide the leather through the loops with delicious intent. Permits you to secure the material around his wrist. Encourages you to free his hips from the denim fabric of his pants. 

He is suntanned beneath his trousers too and the thought of how that came to be makes you feel a little lightheaded. The deputy is completely bare beneath his trousers, and it occurs to you that he had been squirming in his seat originally for reasons more than just impatience. 

“Oh,” you sigh at the sight before you, breath ghosting over his cock, and Choso nearly pitches forward in your grasp at the sensation. He wrenches his bound arms towards his chest, away from where you kneel between his knees before him on the floor.

“You’re so pretty down here,” you murmur absently, thumbs rubbing along where the waistband of his pants press into the tops of his thighs, tucked just beneath his balls, and its true. His erection throbs from where it sits propped up against his tummy, red and leaking under the weight of your attention. A smattering of soft, curly hair runs a trail from his stomach to his groin.

He keens when you press a kiss to the base of his dick, thumbs tracing a new path at the crest of his hips.

“Please, quickly, please-,” he stammers, flush from the neck down and willing himself not to tremble in your hold. “Gotta get back soon and, ah -,”

Choso’s resolve and dedication to his job falls apart at the feeling of your wet mouth on him, warm and insistent. You nod and hum in understanding, wordless, but he feels it all with you pressed this close to where he wants you. The deputy would have half a mind to be embarrassed at the high pitch of his voice if he weren’t so eager to feel you again.

“You remember my first night here, right?” You say, mockingly, pressing a soft kiss to his dripping head. “You were pretty then too. With my hands around your neck.”

Choso’s knuckles are pressed tightly to his forehead as he purses his lips. He can’t respond, can’t even bite back and tell you to shut up when you call him something as silly as pretty. Eyes rolling back as he sinks into the warm cavern. He’s in heaven. He’s in hell.

You can’t help but marvel at how pliant he is in your hold, drawing back to press a quick kiss to the inside of his thighs when they tremble. A warmth and wetness builds between your own legs at the sight.  When you draw him into your mouth again, you have to brace an arm across his hip to keep him from fucking into the back of your throat.

“Please, fuck, hurry ,” 

He’s writhing, throbbing as you swallow him down. You had had your fair share of promiscuity on your journey west - part of the reason you had departed high society - but Choso was an impressive task. You moan at the weight of him in your mouth as he struggles against the slow, relentless suction of your mouth. The patch of hair beneath his stomach grows damp with a viscous mix of your saliva and tears.

When you pull back suddenly, his hips stutter forward, and you have to duck out of the way to avoid being blinded.

“Fuck, sorry,” Choso gasps. “Really sorry.”

He watches with breathless anticipation as you draw two fingers from the hand not braced across his hip to your open lips, coating them in spit until they’re slick and shiny.

“Scoot forward a lil,” is the only direction he receives before he feels rather than seems that same arm wrap behind him, wedged between his legs and the seat of the stool. His ass hangs precariously off the ledge, the seat of the stool digging into his lower back. You’re much closer in this new position, straddling one of his elongated legs he sits with a slight bend in his knees to balance against the seat. 

When he feels your slick fingers brush his puckered hole, Choso lurches again at the foreign feeling, and you narrowly avoid being stabbed in the face once more. You can’t help but grin, all teeth. Choso gets the foreboding feeling like he’s about to be eaten alive.

“Fuck, wait, wait,” he pleads, pitiful, but you are already rubbing slick circles around his rim. “N-not there.”

You coo, "Relax, I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

The deputy shakes a little more in his seat, but doesn’t protest further, not when you’re returning the attention of your hot mouth back to the head of his cock, tongue torturing him with tight circles and light flicks before you press him further into your throat. He rocks his hips into your mouth with draw out pants of ha, ha, ha that only serve to fuel your own arousal. The sight of such a dangerous man, crumbling at your simple ministrations, has you pressing your thighs together You rock back on the deputy’s leg with a moan, subtly shifting so that the tip of his point leather boot presses blissfully into the soak crevice of your undergarments. 

“Huh?” The deputy hiccups, having given up hiding his face in order to lightly balance his bound hands against the top of your head. “A-are you-?”

Your fingers quicken in pace from where they slide around his untouched rim. This time when he bucks into your mouth, you don’t pull away, leaning in further to trap him between the heat of your mouth and the relentless sensation of your fingers. The deputy cries out, feeling helpless.

“I’m gonna, fuck, fuck m’gonna-!”

Choso sobs, his bound arms fully wrapping around the back of your head to thrust fully into your throat until your lips press fully into his abdomen and hold you there. Barely able to warn you before he locks up in your hold, cumming hard and damn near babbling at the sensation as you choke and struggle in his grasp, surprised. He cums long and and hard, gently rocking his hips into your face even as his comes down until you’re slapping profusely at his thigh to release your head.

The gunslinger is silent, eyes tightly shut as he struggles to catch his breath and regain his sense. Distantly, he hears you get to your feet, allows you to pull his hands away from his face so you can unwind the leather biting into his skin. The red marks they leave behind cause the red flush of his cheeks to flare up again.

He sits upright on the stool and peaks one eye open to glance at you, puttering around your small kitchen for a glass of water. Then he glances at his boots. “Did you get off on my shoe?”

He wonders idly if it was the same foot he used to kill the snake. You don’t respond, but the way you slam a glass of water beside him on a work table is answer enough.

--

Not much is said on his departure. You clean up and share soft smiles. He picks up his portrait, makes his way to the door, lingers with his hand at the handle.

“‘Ppose I should get going then.” His tries to keep the resignation out of his voice, but you pick up on it easily.

He makes to head out resolve to bother you any further fizzling at your slow response, but then you’re crossing the small distance to stop him, fingers digging into the thick material of his uniform.

“This won’t be the last time I see you, right?” You ask him. Implore him. “This time?”

The deputy breaks out into a grin, expressive as you’ve ever seen him, before pressing a kiss to your forehead and ducking before you, hand on his hat.

“At your service ma’am," he says, with an earnest grin and the tilt of his gallon hat. “Always."

--

“Hm.”

The town’s sheriff stands beside Choso, gazing contemplatively at his new and improved portrait from where it hangs in the place of its predecessor. He watches his mentor tilt his head to the side, hand at his chin. “I dunno. Something about it feels very..”

Sheriff Nanami’s gaze flicks between Choso and his replication. “Horselike?”

Choso nearly keels over in his boots. The sheriff waves him off dismissively. “Ask her to do it again, or at least touch it up a bit. We paid good a good amount of money for it.” 

He sighs, pinching his brow, remembering the shoot out and prison escape in the manner parents do when reminded of delinquent children. The deputy gawks at the portrait. Maybe he really didn’t understand art?

As if sensing his subordinate’s hesitation, Nanami clasps him on the back, marching back to his desk. “Can’t hurt to ask, right? Beside, how long could it possibly take?”

#choso x reader #choso smut #choso x reader smut #jjk smut #choso fanfic #jjk fanfic #gunslinger!choso #cowboy!choso #above snakes #choso angst #choso fluff #jjk

[strugglingwriterwattpad]

walter deville teaser

In the magnificent ballroom of a majestic Tudor manor, a spellbinding scene unfolds. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, a mysterious woman glided across the polished floor, her movements as graceful as a swan. The haunting melody that filled the air seemed to possess her, guiding her every step between each guest. In the depths of the shadows, a figure stood, his presence both alluring and enigmatic. His face remained concealed, adding an air of intrigue to his already captivating aura. Their eyes locked, two souls drawn together by an invisible force, and the world around them faded into insignificance.

As the music swelled, reaching its crescendo, the stranger took a bold step forward. His voice, filled with a whisper of longing, broke the silence, confessing a love that seems to transcend time itself. “you have no idea how much I love you, Miss Stoker.” The woman's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat, as she was swept away by the intensity of his words.

In the moment frozen in time, their lips finally met in a passionate kiss. It was a collision of desire and longing, a union of souls that defied explanation. But as their embrace deepened, a peculiar taste lingered on the woman's tongue, a metallic tang that sent a shiver down her spine. Suddenly, a surge of curiosity mixed with a hint of fear flooded her heart. The taste of blood upon his lips was unmistakable, a jarring contrast to the tender moment they shared. Questions swirled in her mind, like whispers in the wind. Who was this faceless man? “(Y/N)?” he whispered. “(Y/N)?”

With a sudden jolt, the woman catapulted out of her seat, causing Evie to quickly reach for her pills. "We've landed," Evie whispered, handing her boss a pill with a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry about it," she added, noticing the beads of sweat on her forehead. "Oliver's waiting for us, let's go!" with a nod of her head (Y/N) slowly stood from her seat.

“So, who lives here again?” Evie asked as (Y/N) sat in the car, cruising along the secluded roads on the outskirts of Whitby, she couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. The ever-changing weather, a characteristic she had missed dearly, played its whimsical game once again. One moment, the sky was a brilliant canvas of blue, devoid of any clouds, and the next, it transformed into a murky grey, with gusts of wind that seemed to dance through the air. “The De Ville family.” As they continued their journey, (Y/N)'s gaze was drawn to the enchanting woodland that enveloped their family estate. It was as if nature had painted a masterpiece, with emerald green shades blending seamlessly into fern green's vibrant hues. The lushness of the trees and foliage created a mesmerizing tapestry, inviting her to explore its hidden secrets. “But our family will be staying the weekend for the festivities.”

“Holy shit. are they royalty or something?” as the manor came into view (Y/N) felt a sense of familiarity. Nestled amidst a sprawling landscape, stood an opulent white brick mansion exuding an aura of wealth and influence. Its majesty matched only by the pristine gardens that surrounded it, meticulously manicured to perfection. Every corner of the magnificent abode reflected the abundance of riches it houses, while the walls remained untouched by even the tiniest speck of dirt. “No, it's just old money. England's full of it.” the artist knew something felt strange about the manor. It felt like home to her, and she couldn’t tell if she liked it or not.

“Welcome to New Carfax Abbey. Let me find our host.” As Oliver wandered off to find the owner (Y/N) also started to wander around the outside of the beautiful building. As she approached the entrance, the pillar carvings beckoned to her with an irresistible allure. Intricate and mesmerizing, they depicted a whimsical dance of enchanting forest creatures, each one brought to life in the bleached stone. These were no ordinary animals; they were the very same majestic beings she had encountered in her adventures. The sight filled her with an overwhelming sense of wonder and curiosity, igniting a fire within her. She yearned for the owner's permission to document every intricate detail, to capture the essence of this extraordinary building. Her excitement surged through her veins, as her mind raced with a flood of ideas, eager to be transformed into words on paper.

“I hope you don’t mind I brought a friend with me, Lord Deville,” Evie spoke pointing towards (Y/N) as she traced the pillar with her manicured nails. “(Y/N).” She called out but the girl seemed to ignore her. evie and the lord watched her closely, the rich gentleman listened to her breathing slow down as if slipping into a trance. “(Y/N)!” Evie called once again but still no reply. As the man gracefully approached the mesmerized woman, his presence seemed to cast a spell of intrigue. With a gentle touch, his large hand found its place on her shoulder, as if to guide her deeper into the enchanting world of his home. And there she stood, lost in a trance, her gaze fixated on the captivating artwork that adorned the brick. “miss are you alright.” His voice as smooth as milk snapped her from her brain her twinkling eyes locking with his stormy ones. The two matched their gaze smiling lightly at the sense of familiarity of each other.

“I'm sorry were you both calling me?” she stuttered looking towards Evie was an embarrassed look. “don’t worry (Y/N) your probably jet lagged.” She laughed picking up the poor girl's bag from the ground. “Walter, this is (Y/N). the artist I was telling you about.” The man now known as Walter stared back at (Y/N) his storm eyes now swapped with a flash of light of excitement. “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stoker. I am a very big fan of your work. obviously.” The sun-kissed hue of his skin suddenly blushed with a fiery red, as if caught off guard by his own rambling. It was almost endearing to witness him in such a vulnerable state as if his emotions were laid bare for all to see. But there was no denying the transformative power of the new face that had entered his life, for it had swiftly altered his entire demeanour. “I'm glad you enjoyed them Mr Deville and thank you for the generous donation to the gallery I can assure you there are big plans for it.” his smile couldn’t get any bigger, but it did. The sound of her voice lulled his heart into a stuttering beat as if it had been out of service for many moons.

“come let me show you around the manor. I hope you like how I've displayed your art.” His cotton-covered arm poked out to her as an invitation to his home. She slowly slipped her arm into his feeling a familiar spark ignite in their touch. His smell was so calming and alluring sending her into a high, her doing the same to him. Walter held her small hand in a comfortable tightness not wanting her to slip from him again.

#fanfiction #xreader #walter deville #walter deville x reader #the invitation #vampire #horror films #romantichorror #thomas doherty #thomas doherty x reader #wattpadwriter #wattpad #coming soon #teaser

[ahqkas]

001. THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF RMS TITANIC

❛ i can't help but feel somewhat like my body marred my soul. handmade beauty sealed up by two man-made walls ❜

PAIRING! simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! Onboard the RMS Titanic, social boundaries blur as a high-class woman's gaze meets that of a man from the lower echelons. In an instant, their eyes lock, kindling an unexpected fascination that lingers until their next encounter

WORD COUNT! 2.6k

WARNINGS! nothing major, the plot is building !! mean mother and bad relationship w her, brief mention of death

NOTES! ahhh so excited for this series even though idk if someone's interested enough to read the whole thing ,, enjoy the journey and thank u for sticking around if u do !!

SERIES M.LIST! NEXT PART!

© ahqkas - all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

The sky is nothing but a canvas of light, letting the artist use their talent and imagination to create something unique for a human's eye to catch and cling onto, like a child to its mother. The sight was something natural, yet it still warmed hearts of people around. Even though the eye is plain and the beauty of the nature is too brilliant to be seen by it, it still manages to capture a lot of attention and curious gazes of those who show enough interest and let themselves be pulled in. Just like the beauty of the glorious ship, Titanic.

The world is simple, but the beauty of it is complex and difficult to crack.

The giant of a boat robbed many of their breaths away and caged them with her unforgettable appearance like a simple flower in the meadows. She was constructed of thousands and hundreds with the deepest care to make her look as appealing as she was pictured to be, to steal away hearts with all of her glory. The luxurious ship was meant to be an eye catcher, so that's what they made her to be. Many men even died in the process of her building, but their sacrifice was worthy the heart shaped stares she was bringing upon herself. They put their tears, their blood, and their sweat into perfection and now she was swaying on the gentle waves in the deck of Southampton, England, waiting to outshine the stars themselves. The unsinkable ship, as they said. The ship of dreams.

The distant singing of seagulls wavered through the air along with the chorus of chaotic goodbyes of people who already boarded the ship to their loved ones below, shouting about how they're gonna miss them or how they'll bring a gift from New York once they return home to their awaiting embrace. Lingering words and held breaths painted a canvas of poignant parting, heartbeats echoing their farewell. It was messy but sweet at the moment, the promise of returning in the air as the last warning of departure was echoing in the air from the captain.

Goodbyes were bittersweet yet freeing sometimes, and you wished you could say your goodbye to the life you've been living since the day you were born. The cause of your anguish was simply because of your social status, standing between the snob and rich people like you belonged in the place like them.

You didn't.

You weren't like your mother, who only respected and liked people with the same social status like her (the high class, or better said the first class) and you certainly weren't like her in the way she couldn't even look in an eye to a person with a lower class than her. She spoke of them lowly, like their hands have never touched gold and silver like hers did every day. She thought of them lowly, like she was something more than them in the society.

You weren't like your fiancé, König, who you could learn to love in the depths of your big heart if it wasn't for his constant actions to please your mother. He wasn't really that bad but he wanted to fit in and that changed his way of thinking and acting. He started agreeing more with your mother on things he didn't before and the way he did things resembled hers in some way. You couldn't like him anymore after he changed and that left you fluttering your wings in the golden cage your mother trapped you in with her mindset.

However, you were like your father. He was an old man, but he wore his heart on the sleeve of his expensive suit and the words he let out of his mouth were carefully thought through before he let them reach the ears of others. There was nothing but kindness in his blue eyes full of wisdom and he made sure you'd take all the good from him once he was long gone. John was the opposite from your mother, he didn't think differently of other people and treated them all with the same kind of respect until they did something to change his mind. You couldn't put a finger on the thought of how your courteous father ended up with someone as nasty as your mother. It seemed like everyone who walked upon the planet got their piece of love, the question was in which form you'd receive it and if you accepted it.

The voice of your mother, fake sweetness dripping from it like the sticky ice cream had streamed down your tiny hand once the sun shined bright and the warmth of the weather was too much for the cold treat, reached your ears and it sounded like a chalk on a board. Many would say the singing from the gulls was annoying and unpleasant to ears, but you supposed they haven't heard your mother's voice yet.

"At least act like you want to be here, [Name]. You're a lady so act like it. Smile."

Her judgmental words always knew how to get into your heart. No matter how thick walls you built around the muscle to protect it, her cruelty found its way to pierce a path and get through. The words of almost inhumanity made your poor heart bleed, then heal enough for you to forget how mean she can be before they attacked again and that process repeated and repeated without any signs of stopping.

'Who said I even wanted to be here.'

You could only thought in your head because according to her, it was unlady like to speak your mind up and another lecture from the woman you called your mother would only bring you a headache.

'With you from all the people.'

König placed his hand on the small of your back in a silent plea to keep moving forward and you did so, slowly continuing in your path of exploring the ship. His touch brought you comfort in the young days where you've been in love and all over him but those days were long gone. If only he didn't betray your trust like that. And again, you could only blame your mother for that. You saw him nod his head at your mother's words and the urge to push his hand away was stronger than before.

John was walking in front of you with your mother's arm in the crook of his elbow, his other hand resting lovingly at the top of hers, thick fingers occasionally brushing against her knuckles from time to time. He was a gentle man and when he loved, he loved hard and to no end. A personality trait you always admired in the old man.

The man looked over his shoulder at you and König, his eyes twinkling with amusement and excitement while he sent you a wink before he turned his attention to your mother once again. "Give her a break, my love. This was all a sudden opportunity so understand she's a bit . . . well, let's just enjoy the trip."

The old man was all over the opportunity of being on the surface of the giant Titanic and he made clear everyone around him knew it. His love for big ships and ocean was as old as his love for your mother and the excitement he held in himself now was like a child's on Christmas. You didn't want to ruin this moment for him so you forced tight smiles at the people you passed by as you walked on the wooden floor. You had to admit though, even you were robbed of your breath when you saw the unsinkable ship for the first time.

The corset of your dress felt like it was tightening with every step you took and the thought of suffocating there on the spot was welcomed into your restless mind. It would be better than the play pretend game you were showing to people around you and most importantly, you'd be free to fly away from the cage and never return back.

You wanted to turn around, say you didn't feel well or that you forgot to unpack the paintings you took with you, come up with something to convince your parents and fiancé to leave you for a moment so you could clear your head.

A friendly breeze welcomed your uneasy mood as it calmed and ran along your skin like a gentle touch of fingers drawings shapes on your face. You closed your eyes with minimal effort as they felt heavy and let yourself enjoy the simple moment of nature. The salt air entered your nostrils while the wind caressed your skin, your thoughts finally shutting off as the voices and footsteps of your family became more and more distant.

It was just you and your heart now.

Your head moved on its own the moment you felt shivers run down your spine, making you shudder and tense your fingers as they gripped onto the railing you and König were leaning against. The feeling reminded you of an innocent animal, watched by a sinful carnivore. A prey stalked by its predator. Your eyes opened by an instinct and connected with ones that made you feel that way.

And your breath was taken away just like before when you saw Titanic for the first time this day.

Within the Titanic's elegance, an enigmatic stranger appeared in your sight. Shadows clung to him, whispers of intrigue trailing his steps as he returned your stare. Curiosity beckoned, locking gazes and weaving a connection impossible to break and it’s not like you wanted to end whatever was happening.

You weren't a stranger to unwanted attention, you received it all the time as a little kid who danced ballet for the selfish eyes of your mother and you received it even now years later when people saw you with the large man of your fiancé by your side. The attention was all but wanted and you had the urge to hide from that but his attention on you felt somehow different. You didn't feel the tinge of egocentric gaze from him and you certainly didn't feel like he thought any better or worse of you. You were simply just a stranger to him, one that seemed to catch his eyes.

It's probably because it wasn't a look of judgement on his masked face, but rather one of curiosity and intrigue and you welcomed the sudden attention in. The owner was a man, a large one, though he wasn't as big as König, it was clear he was still towering over most of those people amongst him from the C-Deck. Even from the distance you could sense the mystery he was giving off and that made you curious yourself. He wore a dark colored jacket with the hood over his head as he was leaning against a railing like you, his wandering gaze never leaving your form. The weather was fine, warm enough for you to feel good in the short sleeved dress, so the hood threw you off a little but what caught your attention the most was the mask. The skull patterned clothing was hiding his nose, jaw and lips from your gaze as you drank in the appearance of the stranger. He was intriguing and if you could, you'd crack the mystery of him.

You couldn't see well in the distance he was standing in but you were pretty sure his dark eyes never left your figure, even as you turned your head away from him and broke the eye contact. The contact was intense, something you've never experienced before and to your surprise, you wanted more of it even though it sent shivers down your spine. It was like he was pulling you in and you didn't fight against it.

König sent you a concerned glance from the corner of his bright eyes as he stood next to you with his arms crossed on the ship's railing. "You okay? It seemed like you zoned out for a bit here, Schatz."

You turned your head towards him, ignoring the way you still felt his eyes on you before giving your fiancé a tight smile that wasn't convincing at all. "I'm fine. Just tired, I suppose."

"You should rest. We have a dinner planned tonight and your mother will throw a fit when you show up all distracted."

He was right, of course he was, and you didn't like the way he was talking about her. It was like he already made his mind up about his soon to be mother-in-law and the picture of her was pink and sweet. Just the opposite of what she truly was.

You feared she had König wrapped around her finger.

"Okay," you mustered a dismissive reply to his concerns, your head turning oh so slightly in the direction of the masked stranger and your breath hitched in the back of your throat when you caught him looking at you again, his eyes trained on you like you'd disappear if he blinked. The gaze he was offering you felt like he was appreciating you and you felt truly wanted for the first time in your entire life.

What a strange man.

The stranger below was staring off at the A-Deck, his brown eyes drinking your appearance in as you walked away with the large man from Simon's sight and he fought off a disappointed sigh that threatened to spill from his covered lips. You were enchanting like that, a gentle breeze fluttering the short sleeves of your dress with a peaceful expression on your pretty face as you appeared in his life. A sight indeed.

A Scottish man next to Simon waved his hand in front of his friend's face, his own sporting an expression full of cheekiness as he grinned. He wasn't dumb and he saw the way Simon was looking into the distance of the deck above, his eyes trained on one woman in particular. Simon has never acted like this, no matter how the women were attractive or how many drinks he had that night.

"Aye, mate, I think we're losing you there."

Simon Riley was simply down bad, as the Scottish man would say.

A nudge to Johnny's ribs caused for his teasing eyes to pull towards their another friend, Kyle Garrick or rather Gaz as he preferred to be called, as he shook his head in a manner to mock Simon's sudden interest. "You can forget about her right here, pal. She's clearly off limits, one way or another."

All three of them knew to what exactly was Gaz indicating. You were standing amongst rich people and the expensive dress you were wearing that shined in the sunlight with its brightness was of an enough proof. You didn't and wouldn't talk to people like them, whenever you decided on it yourself or because your high status didn't allow such action without having eyes turned on you. And then there was the person next to you, the huge mountain of a man who seemed to care about you with such delicacy Simon was almost pissed off. Of course you'd be taken.

"People like her aren't friendly with people like us."

Simon knew Gaz was right but his mind and heart still wanted to reach for you, to get to know the persona he suddenly became intrigued with.

"Whatever."

But his thoughts were filled with you to the brim, the image of your face imprinted behind his eyes like the finest painting ever painted. It was clear he wouldn't forget about you in some time. And maybe it was for the better.

You didn't know that simple indirect interaction would have a huge effect on your life, both his and yours.

TAGLIST ! @lols-wdym @taylor-clifford-65 @ananas26t @poohkie90 @razzles-boiler @kaysav608 @blvebanisters @sanzuandmikey @snowy-skyways

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #cod x y/n #cod x reader #cod x you #cod fanfic #cod fluff #cod smut #simon riley smut #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #cod mw x reader #cod mwii #cod mw ghost #simon riley fluff #simon riley fanfic

[rayleeeen]

kulay ng tadhana "color of fate"

- jia x hobie (oc x canon) characters by @minquiec

"In the canvas of life, two soulmates find their colors in each other's presence, painting a masterpiece of love that knows no bounds."

summary: In a world full of of black & white, he finds his ray of sunshine. his eternal, his daylight.

or

Hobie sees Jia in five colors, but orange is his favorite.

Alternate Universe - Soulmates Colors AU (Where they don't see colors until they have met their soulmate)

Side notes: This is more of a character study (?), I'm trying to explore all possible ways their fates can collide or get destroyed 🙇🏻‍♀️ focuses on Hobie's pov but will definitely make a Jia/Lin one soon. Another thing, this story will be divided into 6 parts, this being the first. I'll post one each day so do not worry— */worries

NOTE!: THIS HAS NOT BEEN PROOFREAD SO ANY GRAMMAR MISTAKES I MADE I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE 😓

--------

Chapter 1: soulmates & colors

-----

For the first time in his living years, Hobie sees colors.

Miguel had assigned him on a solo mission in his universe. A giant peacock man— who had actual wings that could indeed fly— was terrorizing a part in England. What's more of a threat about this villain was the seemingly infinity amount of very sharp feathers being constantly shot his way. Hobie tries to avoid most of them until one had hit the upper part of his chest, causing him to fall onto a building from swinging.

The villain had been more agile and vigorous than expected, Hobie tries swings across the city to lead him away from civilians and to avoid getting attacked, however, this one had caught up to him, a massive kick from behind that sends him down hard, almost knocking him out unconscious.

Fortunately, Hobie had taken him to an uncivilized area filled with abandoned construction that would not pose any risk to innocent people. But despite that, he was cornered with no way of defending himself in an injured state. So he quickly went into the nearest inhabited building, one hand pressed to his chest to stem the bleeding as he tries to carry his body inside. As soon as he entered, he pulled himself away from the door and braced against the wall, with hopes of expediting his injury's healing.

As his eyes began to become unfocused and tired, he heard a sudden man curling scream that came from outside.

His eyes were jolted awake by the sound alone. Hobie tries to focus his vision, but he was already too fragile and tired to move any part of him, he doesn't know if he'll be able to make it out of here. His Spider senses weren't indicating any danger, so he couldn't feel it. Was it some other threat? Some accomplice?

He glances around the room looking for any indication of danger. For a few moments, there was silence. Leaning his head against the wall as his body begins to weaken and his vision becomes unfocused. The door opens, and a faint but visible sound of footsteps is heard coming towards him.

"I finally found you."

A young woman's voice has a gentle but firm tone, much like her footsteps. In silence, she stands there, then her steps coming closer. Hobie is unsure of what she's doing, so he attempts to lift his head and looks at the woman in front. That's when he see saw colors.

Out of nowhere, Hobie felt something warm and foreign run through his veins. Every bit of oxygen seemed to vanish from his lungs as though he'd been kicked once more in the chest, as the woman’s eyes sharply blinked into color.

Stunningly soft black eyes. The pain in his brain and aching in his limbs intensifies. He gasped for breath as the color spread across everything, starting from the woman's eyes. Her lips boast a beautiful peach hue, her raven-dark hair tied up in pigtails glistening like a starry night sky, and she looked just as stunned as Hobie was, who looks down on him with a metal stick on her right hand. Hobie briefly examines her, taking note of her suit, which he recognizes as the attire of a fellow Spider-Person. He admires the suit's beautiful orange shade, illuminated by the sun's rays from the window, which perfectly complements her.

After some time, he comes to the realization of why he is seeing colors.

"So it's you, huh.." Hobie whispers softly as he loses vision, and the woman in front of him suddenly becomes frightened. For a quick moment, Hobie thinks, maybe it's not bad, to die in front of his other half, his soulmate.

He thinks of his siblings, how he will miss their constant bickering.

He thinks of his best friend, who is probably on the other side waiting for him. Hobie begins to think of an apology for failing to save him.

He remembers Gwen, his drummer, whom he failed to keep his promise to her, his promise to help him find her muse, her Miles.

Then he thinks of the woman in front of him, how his soulmate will be the last person he'll ever see.

Hobie is certain he's on the brink of a grim demise. He can only hear the her urgently calling out for help. The sole memory etched in his consciousness is of warm hands cradling his face and soft words he struggles to recollect. But he does remember her voice, and he remains utterly captivated by its taste as it helps him drift off to sleep.

----

"Her voice, like a soft piano piece, grazes the soul with lulling notes of serenity." - rayleen

---

can you tell i have a complete addiction to these 2?

#writers #jipunk #across the spiderverse #soulmates #i have an obsession #and it's not healthy #oc x canon

[valleydean]

Raise the Black - posting begins on 9/2/22

a deancas pirate au by valleydean (emmbrancsxx0) look out for this banner! playlist | ko-fi

SUMMARY: Nassau, 1717. Captain Dean Winchester of the Impala is a born and raised pirate, committed to disrupting commerce and civility on a global scale. After a battle at sea with the Royal Navy, Dean discovers a stowaway on his ship: Castiel Novak, an officer from Carolina with a secret. As their relationship grows, so does England’s determination to end piracy in the New World. This is the story of how men can become legends and how love can ignite a revolution.

READ THE FIRST SCENE:

Fifteen years ago 1702

The foremast was cracked, its splintering wood resembling jagged teeth. It had been the collateral of the first cannonball that hit the ship. A massive hole was ripped through the canvas sail, eliminating any prayer of outrunning the galley with its battered black flag shivering in the winds sweeping off the waves.

It wasn’t long before white smoke sat like thick fog over the deck, despite the sunlight winking on the sea. There was even less time before the pirate ship crashed into the starboard of the merchant vessel Castiel had boarded three days ago.

His father, mother, and sisters had waved to him from the docks in Charles Town as the ship sailed from the harbor, headed to England—a place Castiel had never been and had only heard stories about. But he was sixteen years of age now, and his father had been adamant that it was time for him to continue his schooling at the naval academy in London. As a soldier, his father said, Castiel could truly serve the empire.

As he’d watched the land sink into the wild blue depth, Castiel determined once and for all that he didn’t want to be in the Royal Navy, to fight for a crown and a country that was as foreign to him as the golden coasts of Africa and the forests of Asia. But his father was a navy man, as was his grandfather, and Castiel didn’t know what else he’d be.

“The sea is who you are,” his grandfather used to say. “It’s all there is.”

But, as the pirates with their painted bodies roared and chanted while jumping onto the ship, Castiel’s legs were still unsteady from the unfamiliar rock and sway of the waves. He wished he’d never left the land.

Shadows moved like specters through the smoke. The paltry crew of merchants unwisely put up a fight when they should have surrendered, most of them gutted for their efforts. Castiel heard their cries and shouts of the remaining English-bound passengers as they scattered—just as loud as the choking, gagging noises of the crew, the clanging of swords, and the ear splitting bang of bullets. All of it was so clear, unmuffled by the ghostly fog, and if not for that, Castiel might have been able to trick himself into thinking the smoke was a barrier. That all of it was happening on the other side of the wall, and he was safe from harm.

The quickening of his breath and the pressure over his heart knew differently. He stayed low, hidden from the pillagers as he made his way toward the hatch into the hull of the ship. He would go past the silks and tobacco stored there for trading, which is likely what the pirates were after. He’d find a place to hide in the afterhold.

Maybe his father would have been ashamed of him taking the coward’s way out, but survival seemed more strategic than failing to defend himself at the moment. He knew it the second the flags were raised on their assailants’ ship, and a shudder went through the merchant crew. “Black John,” one of the men had whispered in fear.

The newspapers detailed John Winchester’s crimes in detail. He was painted out to be more than a murderer; he might as well have been a kraken that had sprouted up from the deepest depths of the ocean. His crew was without mercy, without conscience. They never took captives, and they never left witnesses.

Castiel had often scoffed at the reports, calling them sensationalist attempts at vilifying pirates. However, right now, he wasn’t so convinced he’d been right.

A strangled shout came from close by, and a man stumbled backward before Castiel. There was a cutlass poking out of his gut akin to a stuck pig and he was coughing blood from his lips. Castiel froze, remaining crouched down next to the rail of the ship as the merchant hit the wood and slumped downward. The man wheezed, his glazed-over eyes searching Castiel beseechingly in an unanswered prayer. His head lolled. Dead.

Remorse bled through Castiel’s fear, telling him he should have helped the man. He should have been helping every innocent man and woman on that ship—whether it was brave or stupid or a little of both.

But all those people were as good as dead, himself included. Maybe the only brave and stupid thing to do was die. But the least he could do was take Black John and his crew with him.

He grabbed the cutlass and tore it from the merchant’s belly, the blade singing as it sliced through the air. The hatch wasn’t far, but the cannon and grenade smoke was thinning to let the light back in. He could make it if he moved quickly.

As swiftly as he could, he slid toward the hatch and slipped inside. He shut it behind him, the wood an inch above his nose, his feet planted on the planked stairs. Briefly, he allowed his eyes to slip closed, his breath loud against the hatch door. Beyond it, the screaming had mostly stopped. The pirates were calling for one another, some barking out orders, others with laughter in their tone.

He didn’t have much time.

Turning, he surveyed the barrels and trunks located in the hold. Oil lanterns swung from hooks, their flames no match for the dusty sunlight that streamed through the splintered wood where a cannonball had pierced the side of the hull.

He rushed to the first barrel he saw and used the cutlass to pry off the lid. A foul stench hit his nostrils. He covered his nose with his sleeve and looked in, finding a cask of whale blubber. It hadn’t been what he’d been searching for, but the odor meant it was old enough to be flammable and therefore would aid his cause. He pressed his back against the cask, heaving until it toppled over. The fat and sludge pooled sickly on the floor.

Panting, Castiel didn’t allow himself a moment to think. He caught sight of the barrels toward the back of the hull, away from any lanterns. A thrill of excitement and the stone-cold grip of dread battled inside of him. He snatched a lantern off its hook and made for the barrels nestled in the corner.

When he pried open the lid, his suspicions were confirmed. Gunpowder. There was enough of it to blow the entire ship to Kingdom Come.

Maybe he would never become a navy man like his father and grandfather. Maybe he’d never even make it to England. Maybe the ocean would be his grave, but he could swallow his fear. 

Death by fire while surrounded by water. It might have been poetic.

“The sea is who you are,” his grandfather had said. Now, Castiel would never leave it.

Metal hinges creaked as the hatch opened up again. Instantly, Castiel’s bravado shirked away. He crouched behind the barrels.

His breath felt too loud in the small space as footsteps slowly clapped down the steps. In the patch of sunlight hitting the opposite wall from the cannonball hole, Castiel saw the shadow of a man. It stretched tall, filling the space like a painting on canvas. The pirate paused, likely seeing the toppled cask of whale blubber. 

Then, after the short beat, the planks began to whine under the man’s boots again. Castiel bit down on his jaw, his fist tightening around his weapon. His heart skipped with every slow step the man took in his direction, as if he were true north and the pirate was the needle point of a compass.

He was close now, and Castiel knew he only had seconds before he was discovered. Until then, he had the element of surprise. He steeled himself in preparation—then jumped up, swinging the cutlass toward the pirate in an arc.

Metal hit metal with a reverberating clang. The pirate’s sword was locked against Castiel’s, and Castiel wasn’t certain if the man had it out already or if he’d been fast enough to pull it from its scabbard. Castiel hardly realized he was holding the lantern over the open barrel of gunpowder until time slowed.

The pirate before him was just a boy—around Castiel’s age, maybe a year older. He was tall, with short brown hair and freckles smattered on sunburned cheeks. There was blood splattered on his frock coat, on his neck and collar. But the first thing Castiel noticed was his eyes.

The sunlight cut a line across the pirate’s face, lighting his eyes up like treasured emeralds.

His gaze traveled to where their swords met, then flickered to the lantern Castiel was holding over the gunpowder. His hardened expression softened somewhat at that, like he was either humored or impressed. 

Castiel tried to keep his arm from shaking. All he had to do was release his fingers, let the lantern fall. They’d all be dead. He kept himself steady, kept his face firm and threatening. He’d do it. He knew, deep down, he’d do it if he had to.

He should have done it already.

But then a slow, lopsided grin formed on the pirate’s face. His green eyes swept back up to meet Castiel’s.

It was unnerving. And something else, too. While he held the pirate’s stare, Castiel didn’t know how to place the emotion skimming over him like fingers causing ripples in a still pool.

Then, a booming, rough voice called in from the hatch, breaking the trance. A shadow suddenly blocked out the light from above. “Dean! See anything?”

The pirate—Dean—kept looking at Castiel with curiosity, but the smile snapped off his face. He pulled his shoulders back, standing straighter.

And that was it. Castiel was a dead man. His fingers twitched, ready to open his fist and blow them up.

But then Dean called back, “No.”

His voice was as gritty as sand, as big as the Atlantic. 

Castiel’s grip tightened more around the handle of the lantern.

“There’s nothing down here!” Dean went on.

Castiel didn’t know if Dean was being sincere. He narrowed his eyes, trying to puzzle the pirate out.

“What?” the voice from above called, and Castiel got the creeping suspicion it belonged to John Winchester himself.

“Info must’a been wrong,” Dean told him. He winked at Castiel, some of his mischievous smile returning. Castiel’s chest collapsed in what he told himself was relief. “Hull’s empty. Guess they planned on loading inventory at the next port.”

There was a pause. And then, “Damn it. Alright, let’s go.” The shadow over the hatch disappeared, and Black John called out to the rest of his men: “Move out! Back to the ship…” His words were lost to the wind.

Dean stepped back, lowering his blade away from Castiel’s. Castiel dropped his sword arm, unaware until that moment how much tension his muscles had been under. His eyes flashed to the lantern before suspiciously moving back to Dean. He decided to keep the flame hovering over the gunpowder, just in case.

But Dean kept backing up toward the stairs.

Castiel wanted to stop him, to ask him why Dean had spared his life. Briefly, he wondered if Dean would ask him to join the pirate crew. Castiel had heard such stories: of pirates giving their captives the option to join them on the open sea.

Later, Castiel told himself the answer would have been a resounding no if he’d been asked. But in that moment, and for many years, he knew in the most secret part of himself that it wasn’t quite true. 

It didn’t matter. Dean never asked.

When he was far enough away, Dean turned and rushed back up the stairs, then out of view altogether.

Above, Castiel became aware of the footsteps on the deck. He looked at the lantern, knowing there was still time to kill whatever pirates were left on board. To kill Dean.

He couldn’t do it. Dean had spared his life, after all.

And Castiel still didn’t know why. Maybe he would never know.

He lowered the lantern and listened until the footsteps petered out, leaving him alone on a hulk of a ship full of ruin and blood. Alone. But alive.

Part of him wanted to rush above deck and watch the pirates’ black flag disappear into the horizon. He wondered if he’d catch one last glimpse of green eyes.

/////

Tagged: @lovercas @donestiel @wanderingcas @wayward-angels-club @thetiredstuff @skella-bro @casthegrumpy @celestialcastiel @bluefirecas @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @that-one-fandom-chick @haru-park96 @alejandriaiqq @no-aesthetic-all-aethetic @amirosebooks @epple-benene @agus-likes @the-ship-haz-sailed @justkissalreadyforfucksake @madimoo31 @an-angel-in-love-with-a-hunter @gracelesstars @bazghetti @wayward-waffles @theojaxons @jenmishrob @all-or-nothing-baby @auttownblue @leftistdean @sargafust @wannabe-loser @jessalrynn @splicedthoughts @castielss @that-dumbass-on-a-horse @passionfruixts @fabreagab @princesswinchester100 @superduckbatrebel @hopefuldreamers-world@theangelwiththewormstache @casandeans @mylovelydame21 @confusedisaster @superduckbatrebel @destielwentcanonomg @highest-brightness @i-put-the-ayyy-in-asexual @darkacademiagay @imthedoctorlove @freckledean @youcanteverknowenough @chicken-kebabs @myguardianangelisatrickster @hotactiongirlcoded @wingsandimpalas @casandhumanity @tploz @dontsgotalifee389 @on-a-bender @castiel-mybeloved @siriusseverusdeservedbetter @doctorprofessorsong @castielshotgirlsummer @toomuchheartcas @paintdriesfaster @lesbiancowboyy @angelinthefire @transdeantruther @fluffy-alpacaness @rogue-cas-whore @winchester-derangement-syndrome @lizzybennettdarcy @kineticpassion @i-love-books-and-so-do-you @dascean @llamasdumpsterfire @psychicbouquetblaze-stuff @im-some-lionheart @charlie-bradburi @bunnymcbunnister @gothanna @afeelingsosweet @sinnabonka @artsymoth @cassandrablah @sweetpeaalena @goiwantamuffin @rauko-is-a-free-elf @jessalrynn @ungcl @highwarlockofinnsbruck @deancaskiss @caddy-coo @bloodydeanwinchester @hannibalsthembo @proudpigeon

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#let's GOOOOOO #destiel #deancas #destieledit #deancasedit #spn #destiel fic #deancas fic #spnedit #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #cas #deanedit #casedit #castieledit #my writing #raise the black #my post

[a-m-pyra]

First Burn: Ch4 End of Summer (American McGee's Alice/Lies of P)

P went downstairs in the morning to greet the children, Mrs. Sharpe, Otto and Mrs. Seymour. He stood in the aisle and smiled as he saw the children and Otto stuffing themselves with still warm bread and jam.

“Good morning,” he said, and the children responded in chorus, some of them, like Otto, with their mouths full.

He felt hands on his waist, and when he turned around, he saw Alice beaming with a wide smile on her face, which he returned, looking closely at her face.

She looked different somehow. Her cheeks were pinker, her eyes seemed more expressive, and her lips were the color of fresh strawberries.

He blinked several times, unable to utter a word for a moment.

Alice was pretty — in a completely different way than Sophia, who was as beautiful as a butterfly — delicate and sheer. Or Eugénie, who was just like Spring — charming and delightful.

Both Mrs. Seymour and Alice were as beautiful as something dangerous. Mrs. Seymour was like a scorpion among flowers — she was inaccessible and constantly glancing warningly at the gentlemen milling around, and yet, although she was not a common beauty, attracted all these curious men — like belladonna and aconite. Alice, on the other hand, was like the blade of a foil — even while walking, he saw men admiring her, but none of them dared to approach her.

Maybe it was his fault, but he was sure that her sharp look would effectively scare away even the most persistent men.

But now he had the impression that she was even prettier. The makeup on her face highlighted everything he liked about her — her big green eyes, pale skin, and lips.

When he finally found his tongue in his mouth, he grunted and put his hands behind his back.

“You look beautiful,” he mumbled, as if unconsciously, and the children, Otto, even Mrs. Sharpe, looked at them with interest.

“Thank you,” she glared at him, “you too.”

Charlie and Otto looked at each other, making surprised faces; at least until Alice looked at them scoldingly.

“Be quick with this food, because the orphanage still needs to be decorated. Mr. Mitchell will arrive in less than three hours.” She grabbed P's hand and looked at him. “Will you help me take down the remaining decorations?”

“I'll just put Gemini away.”

Gemini didn't protest. P just put him on the table next to Otto and he and Alice went to the attic where there were a lot of old things.

Some were old clothes that the children had outgrown long ago. Others include furniture, frames, old sofas and armchairs; P suspected that it was from the time when Dr. Bumby was the director of the orphanage.

He saw a frame standing with the canvas against the wall. He grabbed it and turned it around, seeing that the canvas was cut diagonally and there was a burnt scorpion on the board.

He pursed his lips and looked at Alice, who was reaching for the box of decorations. He smoothed out the canvas, noticing the children standing around the middle-aged man.

“So this is Angus Bumby?”

Alice looked at him and moved closer. He saw her face tense, just like it did when all those women showed up at the orphanage.

“He is.”

“The biggest dick in England.” They turned around, noticing Mrs. Seymour, who must have just entered the attic. “I mean, not literally, but… figuratively.” She grabbed the oversized basket and smiled at them.

P looked decidedly confused.

“What happened to him?” he asked, and Alex blew a strand of hair out of her face and gave him another wide smile.

“Like any sociopath with a superiority complex, he thought he was doing the world a favor by hurting other people. I just had to show him how wrong he was.”

“Alex prefers to take decisive measures,” Alice explained, exchanging knowing glances with Mrs. Seymour.

Mrs. Seymour left the attic and Alice handed P one of the boxes; she took the second one herself and they both carried it downstairs, setting it in the living room next to the sofa and looking through what was suitable and what wasn't. After the children and Otto helped Mrs. Sharpe clean up, they immediately started helping decorate the downstairs.

Alice set about creating an altar on which the basket of offerings would later be placed. P and Otto hung decorations that would appear on high — wall hangings, cutouts and small wreaths made of ears of grain. The children, however, took everything they could put up and hang low.

Just before eleven, Mrs. Seymour came downstairs, asking with amusement that the children should be careful. She carried a huge basket of apples, plums, cranberries, ears of grain, sunflowers, bread and wine, all decorated with gold, yellow, orange and red ribbons with a white lace doily which Mrs. Seymour used to line the basket.

Mrs. Seymour walked up to the altar and everyone stood in a circle and held hands. P did it too, with some hesitation. He watched everyone else, they stood with their heads slightly bowed. Mrs. Seymour whispered something as she placed the basket on the altar, lit the candles, and drew an unusual symbol on the wall with chalk. She then grabbed the skirts of her dress and bowed. Only then could they let go of their hands.

P was terribly confused, but also intrigued.

The children dispersed as soon as Mrs. Seymour said they could return to their work, Otto, hearing that Mrs. Sharpe was going to work on the sunflower cake, went to help, hoping to nibble something while preparing, and Alice and P sat down at Gemini.

“I don't fully understand what just happened.”

“Providing gifts to the helping spirits of this place along with requests. Alex believes that every person has at least one spirit that guides them through life and helps them achieve their goals. Each of us thought of something they should stand up for or help us with. Alex is always asking for further spiritual development, and from sabbath to sabbath her skills and knowledge grow, even despite her attention deficit and hyperactivity. Sometimes also about prosperity and happiness for us. The children said they wanted to be happy.”

P had to admit that, despite living in an orphanage, they all seemed happy and full of life. He overheard Charlie and Abigail talking about how they hoped they would never be adopted unless by Mrs. Seymour.

And when Alice talked about attention deficit and hyperactivity, he finally understood what was happening to Mrs. Seymour. Bitten cuticles around nails, playing with jewelry, forgetfulness, irregular handwriting.

He wondered what else could come from this.

“Nan has been asking for her health recently, especially since her previous job severely damaged it. She feels better. It's hard for me to say what she asked for this time.”

“I wonder what Otto asked for.”

“I can guess, but I'm not sure.”

"What?"

“I know he wants acceptance, but I don't know if he asked for it.”

P wondered why he may not be accepted.

“He can be safe here; it would be a sick concept if it were not accepted in our circle; especially since Alex is facing the same, let's call it, problem.”

“I guess I don't quite understand.”

“I'm sure he'll tell you someday.”

There was a moment of silence as P wondered if he should ask her.

“What did you ask for?”

She scanned his face and tucked her leg under her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“For prosperity…you know what.”

He nodded, understanding what she meant.

“And you? What did you ask for?” She rested her head on her hand.

“I didn't ask. I was too…confused.”

Alice parted her lips, then grabbed the apple and handed it to him.

“We can fix it. While holding the apple, think about what you wish for, then put the apple in the basket, say thank you and bow.”

“Do you think this will work?”

“Everything indicates that Alex's abracadabra is working. Or, for the unbelievers, the placebo effect. Either way, you can try. If it works, that's great. If it doesn't work, you won't get hurt anyway.”

He pursed his lips and glanced at Gemini.

“Try it, at worst nothing will happen.”

P rose and, standing in front of the altar, pressed the apple to his chest. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, thinking about how much he wanted to finally be a real human. Who feels hungry, can try food and drinks, who can get really tired, feel drops of sweat on his face after hard exercise, or get bloody when he cuts himself with a knife.

He then placed the apple on the pile of others and silently thanked, bowing.

The fire from one of the candles suddenly glowed brighter and swayed, as if there was a draft somewhere nearby.

P looked at Alice, who was smiling in his direction.

“And what now?”

“You can sit down,” she replied with amusement.

It was shortly after twelve when there was a knock on the door. Alice immediately got up from the couch where she was sitting with P and Otto, and with a joyful squeal she threw herself at the neck of a man with curly blond hair, a dark purple coat and a subdued orange vest.

Alice was about to call out to Mrs. Seymour, but before she could open her mouth, they heard Mrs. Seymour running down the hall and then almost flying down the stairs to fall into the man's arms, also throwing her arms around his neck and letting him lift her body slightly.

“You don't even know how much I missed you.”

“We saw each other less than a month ago,” he said with amusement.

“And what about this? You were supposed to come more often.”

The man set Mrs. Seymour on the floor.

“I need to introduce someone to you.” She entered the living room with the man, and P rose from his seat. “Jacob, please meet Pinocchio, our new charge. P, please meet Jacob Mitchell, my almost-brother, lecturer at Oxford University, formerly at Cambridge.”

Jacob extended his hand towards P, and he grabbed it, and they both shook it with small smiles on their faces.

“Welcome to the family, P.”

To the family.

P's smile widened and Alex grabbed Jacob's hand, pulling him upstairs.

“Come on, Jake, I have some hot tea.”

Jacob's eyes widened, and his lips quirked into an interested smile. They both disappeared upstairs, and Alice and P looked at each other and laughed.

“I don't remember anyone making tea,” he finally said, and Alice shook her head.

“Because it's not about the tea you drink, you silly. She meant gossip.”

“Gossip?”

“You've just met the biggest gossip duo this side of the Thames. Congratulations,” Otto replied, and P looked at Alice, who covered her laughing face with her hand.

Mrs. Seymour and Mr. Mitchell were a duo unlike any he had ever seen. He had never met two people who got along so well; they shared their sense of humor — although it was extremely silly — they talked about everything that came to their tongues and even teased each other with the same affection.

Alice grabbed his arm, following the rest of them towards the garden. There was a huge fire burning there, blankets and thermoforms were hung on the garden furniture, there were a guitar and an accordion next to two chairs, and in a moment Mrs. Sharpe was to bring mulled wine, tea, sunflower cake, plum tarts, and then apples with cinnamon.

P felt a strange feeling in his stomach as soon as he smelled all the smells from the kitchen. Everything smelled so sweet, caramelly and slightly spicy.

Mrs. Seymour introduced him to Mrs. Isabelle Wingrave.

They both seemed to feel terribly intimidated by their new acquaintance, but P felt a little more confident when Alice was with him, and Mrs. Wingrave when Mrs. Seymour and Mr. Mitchell appeared at her side.

Inez and Diggie argued about seats, each of them hoping for easy access to the sweets, and only one of them could sit next to Mrs. Seymour, next to whom the sweets were to be placed.

Eventually, Mr. Mitchell moved the wicker sofa so that the two of them could sit together.

“Too bad I can't eat any of this,” he muttered, and Alice grabbed his hand.

“I'm sure you'll be able to someday. Now, just enjoy the chants and conversations.”

And the chants started a moment later. Mr. Mitchell played the accordion and Mrs. Seymour played the guitar, singing a lively song perfect for dancing — and sure enough, some of the children decided to dance. Otto embraced him and Alice, swaying and singing with Alice along with Mrs. Wingrave, Seymour, and Mr. Mitchell.

At the end there was applause, and after a while another song was played, to which Otto led Mrs. Wingrave and Alice. Their mid-length dresses swirled as Otto tried to lead them both while singing.

He saw Alice extend her hand to him. He felt a strange cold in his stomach. He shook his head, only for Alice to turn hers urgently.

She just wanted him to have fun.

She walked up to him, taking his hand, and then the song ended, and a street musician who often stood in the area and played his violin stuck his head out from behind the wall of the orphanage building.

“May I do so, Miss Seymour?”

“Of course! There's always enough seats, and we need one more instrument.”

He smiled and sat down to the side, starting to play.

“There's no turning back now,” Alice told him and P sighed, nodding.

Paradoxically, it was Alice who led him more than he led her. He didn't feel completely confident yet, he didn't know what the melody line of the song was. Everything was changed by Alice's encouraging smile that played across her lips as she sang, as if to him. He felt more confident as he took over the lead of the dance from her, making her laugh delightfully.

The children were not at all embarrassed, jumping, dancing with each other and in a circle. Occasionally he saw them whispering to each other, but Alice's warmth and the weight of her body in his arms distracted him.

“Now, let’s go for one! And now let's go drink wine!” Nan announced, emerging with a cart filled with mulled wine and still hot cinnamon apples.

The same sound and feeling coming from his stomach again.

“Has anyone developed an appetite?” Nan asked, and P lowered his head, embarrassed.

“I can't eat.”

“Try it,” Charlie suggested. “At worst, someone will fix you.”

Nan handed him one of the apples with a spoon and poured mulled wine into a mug.

P felt stressed; and then everything was fine. One bite at a time and one sip at a time.

He looked towards the window, which showed a piece of the altar. The familiar bluish light that only he seemed to see glowed softly.

Then he looked at Mrs. Seymour — she was smiling as if she saw it too.

#alice madness returns #american mcgee's alice #alice liddell #lies of #lies of p #pinocchio lies of p #alice #alice x pinocchio #p #p x alice #oc: alex seymour #oc: otto #american mcgee's alice oc #american mcgee's alice fanfiction #alice madness returns oc #alice madness returns fanfiction #lies of p fanfiction #archive of our own #ao3 fanfic

[haha-shit]

In occasionally ask my friends to send me single words to think about before bed so my thoughts can run wild a bit and I think I just wrote an essay on why people are worth saving in fifteen minutes.

“It’s weird to me how much paint connects people through time because of the pigments. Granted some pigments aren’t used anymore because they’re poisonous like arsenic or sulfuric derivatives or radioactive likes cobalts and uraniums. But many pigments such as the red from iron or the green from copper are the same pigments invented and pioneered by ages old painters. My self portrait used the same iron that a Scandinavian woman what feels like millions of years ago used to paint her baby a picture of her husbands hunting, the green I use to paints viola stems and stream is the same green that van goph used in his highlights and stilllifes. The indigo I used to paint a woman’s eye is the same indigo that would’ve been used to paint a flower for a wealthy persons commission of a family. Maybe me and some unknown painter three hundred years ago both painted tangled limbs in the sunset, maybe both of our tears thinned the paint on the pallet, did they twirl their brush in thinner too? Did they ignore the canvas? Leave it blank? Did they share my name? My face? Did they follow the same pattern drawing loving eyes first and working form there? Or did they focus on the anatomy, discussing with themselves. Did they have to repaint the hair because they had smeared the background paint. Did a German artist a hundred years ago paint the same forest cat, did he name it? Did it mean little rascal in his language too? Did a woman in England dream of a sea she has never seen? Were the shells painted with the same daisy yellow and rust red or did she dream of different ones. Spirals instead of points, smooth instead of textured? Did she laugh at the brush bristles being permanently pink from yesterday’s carnations? Maybe a man in Russia painted a similar skyline, maybe an Icelandic man painted the same northern lights. They might’ve meant more to him, maybe less. Every new paint that comes out we pioneer, my crappy imagination could turn out the most influential thing of the next century. Perhaps we’re all connected through art. Not just the pigments but the act. Mediveal children drew in the margins of books, graffiti is on the walls of Pompeii, woodcarvings are found in remnants of churches in Denmark, the cuts imprecise and erratic as though an apprentice forgot his post, there are cave paintings that shows the painters hand the size of a four year olds’ likely guided by their father or mother. Humans create. In depths of war and famine we create. We create when we are happy when we are sad the angriest people create the most beautiful pieces because you can see the shaking hand holding the brush you can feel warm breath fanning on the canvas, tears thin paint to create washes and drips, smiles reflect light onto the painted rivers and ice. Paint connects every human who has ever lived and every human who ever will. Art goes beyond religeon, race, ethnicity, food, ideas, language poem written in German evoke emotional responses for me when I do not know the language. Art has no structure and yet we are all fluent and it is truely remarkable.”

How beautiful the cry of the soul slashed open

#adhd #mental health #lol #art #it’s what unites human kind #people

[azspot]

Why do we look at photographs? Sometimes the reason is the moment they capture. A family reunion, a meeting of world leaders, snapped the way we mark a child’s height on the wall. The shake and smile genre. But this is not all. We do not treasure a picture (or find it compulsive) merely because it reminds us of a particular moment—like the best paintings, photography is less often historical than essential. What we value in portraits and landscapes is the quintessence of the subject: the green and pleasant land of England, the splendour of the old establishment, the singularities of Rembrandt’s old women—the way that oil and canvas can be made to look so very, very much like a duck. Rather than “dark nationalism” or political mendacity, what we really see there is history staring back at us like the fowl’s beady, glass-clear eye. Too often, pictures are too clear for comfort.

Why do we look at photographs

#photography

[nickyroethemarinebiologist]

Hoorayy chapter five!!!!! Just about a third of the way through now, which is easily further than I have ever made it through writing before. I will admit I am not terribly proud of this one. However it is here, and so I will share it, and hope you might like it a little more than I do :)

Chapter V

The covert in Plymouth laid high upon the stony beaches of England’s south coast, looking out on the channel; a fellow standing atop the very edges of the cliffs might endeavour to see the beginnings of the Atlantic, where the grey waters familiar to England joined the rolling, deep blue swells of the ocean, mighty and furious in all her billowing prowess.

The cliffs were somewhat slanted and crumbling with recent rockslides, and topped with rolling pastures of thick, clumping masses of peat, brown against the green; these served in some part to conceal the beginnings of the covert, some ways lower inland, where the battlements were nigh invisible from such a way upwards. A dragon and his handler might miss it completely if he neglected to search the hills afoot; Linsey did have to admit, in circling curiously upon Timor’s back, it was an impressive means of deception; he might have missed it wholly himself if Franklin had not ensured to guide him.

The covert itself was somewhat sprawling, and rather crude in nature, built up within and around the remains of an old stone fortification and comprising largely of thick canvas tents. These were scattered about in a disorderly manner, and what with their differing sizes, and the few about the outskirts which edged upon the fringes of the cliffs, it presented a rather meandering appearance; Linsey likened it to the sprawl of the old port towns he frequented in sailing, far off on the coasts of the Caribbean.

He ignored the immediate weight that settled in his breast—such endeavours were painfully impassable now—and turned to heed Franklin’s call; the aviator had dipped below Timor, who was somewhat distracted in sweeping about the cliffs, and now signalled curiously; Timor swept down and craned his head inquisitively over the grounds, and after a brief perplexity Linsey found what he was indicating: a wide berth towards the middle of the covert, partially walled on one side by a wood fence, largely fallen in and leaning dangerously. Sprawled on the stones was a young dragon of a pleasant pale colour, with a long, spined tail curled about and over itself; beside were two smaller breeds, compact and beaky, of scales in impressive shades of grey and black and crimson, and smoke curling about their nostrils in sleep.

Franklin directed them to land in this courtyard, which was not so much a courtyard but a rather wide clearing, with the remnants of large cobbles protruding in clusters about the soil. Timor nosed at these curiously and sniffed the air, then shook out his head in displeasure; the spines upon his neck clattered, and Linsey was made to brace in the harness, jostled somewhat by the motion.

Linsey dismounted and stood aside in watching the proceedings of the covert, unable to keep from glancing curiously about at the sleeping dragons, and the couriers sweeping this way and that. He kept a hand upon Timor’s snout, to offer the dragon a small comfort as much as calm his own treacherous nerves; his heart fluttered in his breast, an uncomfortably familiar notion, like the first change in the air before an ocean storm.

‘Oh, what are those?’ said Timor; he had raised his head inquisitively, looking off to the side of the grounds. Linsey followed to a small flock of dragons which could be no bigger than his palm, wheeling about in great arcs over the cobbles. Occasionally they skirted too close to the sleeping dragons; the largest flicked its spiny tail and snorted loudly, and then all went away again, skipping to land momentarily upon the stones before sweeping upwards in a dark mass of little wings.

‘They are Slights, I believe.’ Linsey said. He watched the little dragons skip in flocks about the grounds, with hides flashing grey and brown in the lowering sunlight, rallying intermittently with the sparrows and shorebirds; he smiled a little in remembering a rather similar display above the pastures about his home in childhood.

‘You would be quite right. They are lovely creatures, rather, but wholly feral; there isn’t much use in taming a beast so small.’ Franklin had come upon them without notice; he smiled in watching the Slights, while Linsey fixed his expression in false apathy. ‘They fly up around the spring, we think it is our dragons; they must like the company.’

‘Do they have names?’ Timor asked, tilting his head in watching. ‘I think I might like to meet one.’

‘No, fellow, they cannot talk, unless I find myself mistaken,’ Franklin said kindly; he turned to Linsey and indicated one of the larger tents, a small ways inland. ‘Come, you might like to meet our commander; I assume he will be wanting to speak with you. Caritas will keep company with Timor, we’ll only be a short while.’

Linsey was not a little discomforted by this; already he was growing tired of his shepherding, and found himself dreading an introduction with the Fleet Commander, who no doubt held the Navy’s same reservation towards his piratical career. Still he nodded and allowed Franklin to lead; Timor reluctantly bid him farewell, then stretched out upon the stones and very deliberately turned his back to Caritas, who blinked large, curious eyes and nestled happily against Timor’s warm hide.

Linsey was directed through the sprawl to a large tent of thick green canvas; the entrance flaps were set half-open and glowing with quivering lantern light. ‘You mustn’t fret, he is a kind enough fellow,’ said Franklin, kindly; then he lifted the canvas and stepped inside.

The arrangement inside was much like a mess hall, rather than the grand study Linsey had anticipated, and disdained. Fellows were taking supper—great piles of steaming meat and potatoes—upon benches laid out in three rows, and sharing ample laughter between them; he noticed many wore their coats folded over their laps, or had discarded them entirely in favour of their simpler evening dress. All fell silent and turned in hearing them come in; Linsey paused at the entrance, feeling uncomfortably perceived.

The commander was at once obvious; he wore a coat of light blue wool, the standard for any aviator, but where their shoulders bore only bare fabric, his were adorned with golden epaulettes, similar in colour to the embroidery upon the collar, but rather more grand for dignity and prestige.

He rose from his seat to take Franklin’s offered hand; they shared brief respects in low voices, then the commander waved, and the watching fellows resumed their dinner and easy conversation. ‘Gentlemen,’ He said, coming over; his face was very unpleasant, and did not match his coat at all. ‘Admiral Chauncey told me you would be arriving; I am Commander Davis, I trust Captain Franklin has not disparaged my reputation?’

He stretched out a hand; it was clear he expected some show of respect, and Linsey disdained to give him one; he paused in considering the gesture, then very deliberately clasped his hands behind his back.

Davis marked this display of insolence with a raised brow; he looked to Franklin, who frowned in dismay and said, a little uncertainly, ‘Sir, this is Captain Linsey, he arrived on Timor.’

Davis nodded his recognition; he paused to inspect Linsey closely, frowning in apparent disdain. ‘The pirate,’ he said, with little of his polite friendliness prior. ‘I see your manners have not exceeded reputation.’

‘My manner is not any of your concern,’ Linsey said, neglecting to conceal his frown.

‘Hm. Well, you are a good deal older than most of our handlers, but you will do,’ Davis went on, ‘Your quarters have been set aside for you; Chauncey has kindly sent up an escort, he will accompany you about the grounds, I take it the admiral had little faith in your disposition to duty.’

Linsey was not a little dismayed to hear this proposal, which only served to diminish his already lowering mood; he found it required an effort to restrain his first response, and the second was hardly kinder, so he drew his lips to a thin line and stayed begrudgingly silent. The commander seemed to take this as consent, so nodded his satisfaction and said, ‘Very good; you may tell Timor I will need to see him flying—first light tomorrow, and we can fit him for harness. Gentlemen, that is all.’

He nodded politely to Franklin and dismissed them both, then turned abruptly on his heel, with hands clasped at his back, and resumed his supper, slipping easily into conversation with the fellows at his side.

They walked together back to the courtyard in silence, though Franklin did not seem spiteful, only puzzled by Linsey’s presumed distaste. Linsey was privately grateful for this moment of quiet, and set to wondering of the Delight, and the state of her crew; he had scarcely been a day without them, yet already he felt their absence keenly, and found it a struggle to repress an uncharitable resentment: if he were not Timor’s handler, he might have taken his liberty without reservation, and would be some long ways out upon the ocean now.

 They came out to the courtyard and found Timor sprawled drowsing upon the cobbles, and any such sentiment vanished at once; Linsey woke him gently and laid his cheek against the warm hide, silently condemning himself for even entertaining the notion. Timor nuzzled back affectionately, rumbling his delight at Linsey’s safe return, which woke a sleeping Caritas; the little dragon blinked wide, sleepy eyes and yawned enormously, much to Franklin’s apparent amusement.

‘Well, Linsey, I suppose we will see you soon enough,’ he said, and smiled, reproval apparently forgotten; Caritas tottered over and chirruped in greeting him, to be patted affectionately in return, then Franklin knelt to adjust the straps of his harness, brow furrowing in a rather appealing expression of focus.

Linsey blinked at him, faintly puzzled. ‘You won’t be staying?’ he said, concealing his dismay; their journey together had not been pleasant, what with his dwelling unease, but he found himself reluctant to lose a familiar face.

‘No, no; we are not yet at liberty, I’m afraid,’ Franklin said; his smile bordered upon a grimace of mock displeasure. He unhooked the clasp of a rather large leather satchel fastened to the side of Caritas’s harness, then loaded into it a small stack of parcels, folded over and tied neatly in twine. ‘I am due for Gibraltar before the dawn, and no doubt they will send us off again, if we make good time.’

‘You are flying through the night?’ Linsey said, frowning a little.

‘Of course; in fact I prefer it, it is far quieter, and dear little Caritas will have no trouble with the dark.’ Franklin said. He climbed back up and petted Caritas fondly, earning him a delighted chirping. ‘Fair seas, Captain, I trust you will be treated kindly,’ he said, and smiled, and with a great fluttering of wings they were a quickly diminishing figure in the dusking light.

‘Linsey, are you feeling well?’ Timor said, after a moment.

Linsey paused, and realised after a brief perplexity that he had been frowning. ‘Splendid,’ he said, patting the warm nose. ‘Perfectly splendid. I have only been thinking.’

Timor nosed his shoulder, somewhat anxiously. ‘Was the commander unpleasant?’

‘Oh, very. You will have to meet him; perhaps you might have a taste for beef after all.’ Linsey said, with some great amusement. Timor tilted his head uncertainly, apparently misunderstanding him; Linsey smiled fondly and patted his snout. ‘He would like to see you flying tomorrow, at dawn, you will meet him then.’

Timor sniffed disdainfully. ‘I do not think I want to,’ he said, with a low grumble, and laid his head upon both forelegs. Linsey laughed faintly and settled against the golden hide, drawing the coat more closely about himself; for the night air was somewhat cool, despite Timor’s familiar warmth.

‘Linsey,’ Timor said then, a little sheepishly. ‘I think I am hungry.’

‘Again?’ Linsey said, amused. He smiled and stroked Timor’s neck affectionately; Timor flicked his ears and rumbled in delight. ‘I am not so sure there will be much about, but I will certainly make a go of it.’ He paused to resettle the coat upon his shoulders: it had become somewhat rumpled in flying, and his curled position at Timor’s side. ‘Will you be well by yourself?’

Timor nuzzled him affectionately and hummed his gratitude. ‘I should think so,’ he said, ‘But please be quick.’

Linsey smiled; he nodded and patted his neck in farewell, then walked out to the grounds in search of fresh meat, or perhaps a pasture of cows.

Several of the smaller tents had been opened on one side during his walk with Franklin, with the canvas rolled up smartly and tied at the peak; now they were set loose with the coming of night, and the faint amber glow of lantern light brimmed beneath the coverings. Linsey assumed these must be personal quarters, for the carpenters—responsible for the assembly and maintenance of a dragon’s harness—and the flight crews; Franklin had indicated the separate quarters for the captains prior, a smaller cluster of tents arranged in round, much closer to the cliffs, where the dragons presumably slept.

A cluster of lanterns had been set out at rather sporadic intervals, lighting the entrances to each tent and presenting an image rather like a small port town at dusk; the likeness was familiar, and warmed Linsey somewhat. He passed several tents whose flaps were drawn open; the fellows inside glanced up curiously, marking his unfamiliar face, but made no introductions, which Linsey was privately grateful for.

After nearly half an hour of searching and yet still no earnings to his labour, Linsey paused in the middle of a small round of tents, feeling a rather profound sense of misery: he had caught little rest in their movements from the harbour, and felt now a great fatigue, and rather off-balanced by solid ground, for his legs were accustomed to the motions of a ship, and ached oddly in walking.

He felt some reluctance to return empty-handed, and a great disappointment also: for several months he had been living off salt beef and sea biscuits, then the stale remnants dredged up from his old coat; he quite fancied a fresh cut of mutton himself.

There was a dim light a small way upwards: a tent with the canvas lifted on one side, and a lantern set out upon a small wooden table at the front, offering a little warmth. A strong-looking fellow was set to folding cloths inside; he had a face quite round but not unpleasant, softened with stubble, and dark hair tied smartly into a short queue.

Linsey stood watching him for a moment, with hands clasped firmly behind his back, lest they begin to fidget in his unease. He was unsure if the man had heard him come up, or whether he was ignoring him deliberately; he cleared his throat loudly so that he might catch his attention.

‘Yes, yes; I have been told, and I’ll have it done, have some patience,’ said the man, without glancing up. ‘If you might leave me alone for a moment—’

He stopped abruptly and stared, presumably registering Linsey’s unfamiliar face; his brow furrowed minutely in confusion.

‘Oh.’ He said, frowning; his brow pushed deep lines into his forehead. ‘Lieutenant Peter Malcolm, presently unassigned. Do you need something?’

‘If you might direct me to your pastures, or wherever else I should find food enough for a dragon, and for myself, that will be enough. Quick as you like.’ Linsey said, a little coldly; there had been an irritable quality he did not like in the other man’s tone. ‘He will take fish, if you have it, which I assume you must, being so close to port.’

This last remark was made more for Timor’s sake than his own, though he enjoyed his own belligerence, and condemned himself for it. Timor had become rather particular with his food, after having eaten nothing but cod and seabass for nearly six weeks, and though he could not be impartial to alternatives, least not when he was so hungry, Linsey knew he would much rather take what was familiar to him, and found little reserve in pressing for such.

‘We do not.’ Malcolm said shortly. ‘We have lamb, or cattle; and for you there will be very little, with a manner like that.’

He turned his back before Linsey could reply, occupying himself in neatly folding a pair of breeches onto a small pile, apparently having dismissed himself. Linsey paused, faintly baffled; he could not be wholly sure whether this was a deliberate show of insolence, and so waited quite awkwardly outside, largely wishing he had stayed with Timor in the courtyard instead.

Then Malcolm paused abruptly; he turned to Linsey and said, ‘How long were you at sea?’

Linsey frowned, somewhat perplexed by this sudden change in temper. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You are the pirate, are you not?’ Malcolm said, very sharply. ‘I am not a seaman, they puzzle me to no end, but I understand you will be wanting something fresh. Come, and quickly now.’ He discarded his flight dress, now folded, and brushed himself over momentarily, then waved a hand. ‘You certainly have some nerve coming up this close to dusk, mind. I shan’t be surprised if the cooks refuse to serve you; they have certainly done so before, pirate or not.’

What with Malcolm’s irritable tone and apparent lack of any restraint to effrontery, Linsey felt profoundly that he would easily rather starve until morning, if he might be freed from such unpleasant company. But he would not put Timor to such discomforts, and condemned the notion severely, so he put aside his reservations and begrudgingly allowed Malcolm to lead him out to the pastures, a little further downwards.

Malcolm picked out a rather scrawny sheep from the fields, and sent a young servant out to put it to slaughter. Then he brought out a fresh meal of mutton and roasted vegetables; this he loaded into Linsey’s arms, for which he was privately grateful for, and dragged the slaughtered sheep down to the courtyard himself, while Linsey picked at his meal in walking, feeling a great deal of his happiness restored.

Timor was waiting eagerly upon their return, with ears raised in delight and crest quivering; Malcolm flung the animal down before him and wiped his hands on a fresh cloth, grimacing in displeasure. He stood to the side while Timor feasted, keeping well clear of the mess and inspecting the dragon’s smooth hide, brow raised faintly in mild curiosity. Linsey ate quickly and loaded the remnants into Malcolm’s hands, without thanks or ceremony, as private revenge for his insolence prior; Malcolm frowned bitterly but stayed thankfully silent, and both men stood aside to watch as Timor lapped up the last of the meal and deftly licked his claws clean.

‘That was odd.’ Timor said; he sat back on his haunches and nosed curiously at the scraps of wool left strewn at his claws. ‘Are you sure there is no fish?’

‘Very sure, dear fellow, I am afraid.’ Linsey said, patting the warm nose fondly, and wiping the last leavings of blood from his harness. Timor rumbled gratefully, apparently quite satisfied; though he glared openly at Malcolm, dark pupils narrowed to slits, and nudged Linsey protectively closer against his breast.

Linsey grinned privately and petted him back into temper, faintly grateful for Timor’s seeming fondness over him; he was keenly aware of Malcolm’s presence close behind, and so gave Timor a final pat upon the neck, and turned to the lieutenant with his face set in rigid apathy.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant, that is all.’ He said, stiffly; it was a clear dismissal, and yet apparently not enough to send Malcolm off, for the lieutenant only frowned.

‘I had assumed you would need guiding to your quarters,’ he said, with a hint of belligerence; he seemed not hostile, only unendingly bitter, which Linsey considered a great slight to his repute. ‘You surely cannot hope to find them yourself, if you wandered far enough to seek me out at mine.’

‘I will make room enough here, and I won’t have you guiding me about, as though I am some miserable dog.’ Linsey said, his temper breaking loose; he glared at Malcolm savagely, and felt the colour coming into his face. ‘I am not bound by your laws nor your customs; you had better keep yourself civil, or by God I will hang you from the rigging, and you may go to the devil in my place.’

Malcolm blinked in momentary confusion; then he frowned and said, ‘If you insist, Captain, though I think you had better tend to your finery. I do not know how it is on your ship, but here in the Fleet there are certain standards you must attain, if you can manage it.’

It was now Linsey’s turn to fall silent; all the outrage went out of him at once, and he looked down at himself, faintly puzzled: his coat was somewhat rumpled, and the shirt perhaps a little too loose, but he did not feel as though he presented an undesirable image.

‘Your coat is creased,’ Malcolm said, noticing his confusion. ‘And an aviator is to keep his hair in tie; yours is loose. Perhaps you disdain to be called a dog, but I shan’t fault the fellow who made that mistake; it is not so easy to tell you apart.’

This last remark was made with little reservation, and perhaps a hint of amusement in the lieutenant’s expression; Linsey paused, put somewhat at odds by his open derision, for it was startlingly unfamiliar from the thinly veiled contempt he had received in his encounters with the Navy. He stared momentarily, feeling the angry colour rising again to his face, then was put to rest in his confusion, and said only, ‘If there are such issues with the men here, I have not seen them.’

‘No, and if I was of higher authority, I would tell them much the same.’ Malcolm said sharply, ‘It is all well going about in a mess, though you might at least have the experience to dignify it, of which you do not. If that is all, Captain?’ he added, in false courtesy, and so turned abruptly on his heel and left.

‘I do not think you look like a dog,’ said Timor afterwards, though of course he had never yet bore witness to such creatures, and was merely offering some small reassurance, which Linsey was quietly grateful for. He smiled without mirth or conviction, otherwise wholly occupied in thought, then went into the sea chest, which had been fastened to the front of Timor’s harness for their flight from Weymouth, and dug out the red silk scarf ordinarily worn beneath his hat; he took the adornments—two rings of gold, likely stolen, and a pleasant yellow stitching to match—in one hand, and tore a piece from the other end, with some difficulty. In the end Timor was made to tear it with a claw, and did so most carefully; Linsey laughed fondly at this small kindness and patted the smooth hide.

He took his hair into a short queue and tied it off with this strip, and spent a great deal of time afterwards pushing it into shape; for his hair was somewhat filthy, and matted with salt and sea air: it dealt well enough when set loose, but stiffened oddly in tie and would not sit comfortably, despite Linsey’s persistent coercion.

This unpleasant task completed, Linsey unhooked the sea chest from Timor’s harness and set it at his feet, rather dreading its awkward weight now that Grayson was not there to relieve him. He was most comfortable in sleeping at Timor’s side, feeling it his place, and so disdained to make use of his quarters, but he might at least take it as holdings for his effects.

There were two smaller dragons curled about each other on the further side of the courtyard; they had raised their head curiously in hearing his dispute with Malcolm, but now closed their eyes, and twitched faintly at the wings and tail in sleep. Linsey paused in watching them, marvelling quietly at their apparent placidity, and wishing impractically that he might have such quietude for himself, and for Timor.

‘Fellow, are you comfortable here?’ he said, turning to Timor.

Timor turned and looked down at him curiously, and Linsey said, ‘You might find a quiet spot out on the cliffs, if it suits you; I will meet you afterwards. I shan’t be long,’ he added afterwards, a quick reassurance.

Timor looked out over the cliffs, and the wide ocean far behind; his crest quivered along the curve of his neck, interest clearly caught. ‘Oh, yes please,’ he said; he nosed Linsey affectionately and went aloft, spiralling far out over the grounds with quick, sweeping wingbeats. Linsey stood watching him for a moment, feeling some quiet affection, and a great sadness also; then he righted himself and took up the sea chest, and walked out to the quarters set aside for his holdings.

With his things tucked away and covered loosely with old cloth, and the night quickly approaching, Linsey set out again across the covert, somewhat uncertainly; Timor was no longer visible overhead—presumably having landed further upwards on the cliffs, and likely already growing impatient—and in the coming dark he had some trouble picking his way through the meandering campgrounds. He found himself again in the courtyard and stood looking around, wholly at a loss, for the sleeping dragons had since departed, and he felt some great reluctance to seek directions from the other aviators, when the company prior had proved so disagreeable.

There was a shout and a great fluttering of wings overhead; Linsey turned in momentary confusion and watched as a large, trim-looking dragon landed across the courtyard: the same beast he had seen slumbering on his arrival. It had a rather long and narrow snout, like a heron’s beak, with teeth that poked a little from its mouth and small round eyes, yellow and shining in the low light. It was a long, supple thing, with a tail almost as long as the full length of its neck and body, and curling over and about the long, splayed talons as it settled itself upon the stones, humming delightfully.

It had, also, a set of spines running down the full length of its back and tail, and an impressive crest behind the head, which fanned twitchily when it glanced about; these were much the same as Timor’s, but a good deal longer, and largely laid flat or grew small and stubby around the end of the tail and in the natural space for a rider, just at the base of the neck.

The wings were rather impressive, long and wide, and tipped with black scales at the outermost edges, in some contrast to the blue and grey accents striped along the pale head; they stretched immensely, then furled quite neatly against its hide. It tucked its talons in beneath itself also, then sprawled the long tail out across the cobbles and laid its head turned back upon its flank.

The rider dismounted and petted its hide, very fondly, then turned and smiled to Linsey, something like surprise in the windswept expression. He was a little younger than Linsey, with brown hair plaited quite severely into a long queue, which gave him a rather sharper look than his softer face might have accounted for.

He came over and offered a hand, still smiling; he had a mild sort of expression, but a pleasant one, with kind brown eyes despite the lines beginning to form just beneath them.

‘Hullo,’ he said, hastily dropping the offered hand when he noted the furrow of displeasure in Linsey’s brow; the tone was not irritable but plainly confused, and strangely high, for a man of his age. ‘Have you just arrived? I take it you have not been given the rounds, if you’ll forgive me for saying so; you look lost.’

‘I am perfectly alright,’ Linsey said, a little sharply, in an attempt to escape any further introduction. He cast a glance across the courtyard; the grey dragon had one eye open in watching, and yawned enormously, showing off the long, serrated rows of teeth.

The captain blinked at him. ‘Oh! Well then, that is certainly favourable. Captain Mary Elliot, at yours.’ She said, gesturing to herself and smiling, pleasantly.

Linsey stared; she was wearing the standard aviator dress, with the usual shirts and breeches, and a neckcloth tied smartly almost up to her chin; her coat, well-kept, bore the gold trimmings of a captain, though Linsey had to look twice to be certain. With her hair pulled back so tightly she did look laddish, along with the clothes clearly tailored for another fellow and then adjusted hastily to fit; his mistake had not been unnatural.

Her presence there at all baffled him, more so than the startling appearance of her male dress and captain’s coat; he would not have a woman aboard his ship, the men would likely throw fits and fall into disarray, for it was well-known among sailors and pirates alike that such a presence would certainly bring foul fortune to their vessels; the notion sickened Linsey somewhat, and he found himself frowning a little. He could not imagine why the Fleet would put a woman to charge of such an impressive beast—or any beast at all. Perhaps, he reasoned silently, the aviators were not so tied to the stiff formality of their fellows in the Navy after all; or perhaps this captain had found herself in rather similar circumstances to he and Timor, and only happened upon her dragon, and the resulting duty, by chance.

‘Are you looking for the captains’ round?’ Elliot said, with a little less warmth; evidently she had noticed Linsey’s agitation, and was seemingly disheartened by it. ‘I am just going; we might fly you over, if you are having trouble, dear Fancy will manage.’

Linsey had halted in astonishment; now he fell back automatically on rebuke, and condemned her rather more harshly than he meant to; he snapped, ‘No, I am a pirate, not a fool; I am damned sure I can find my way about.’

‘A pirate? How strange.’ Elliot said, with brow furrowed somewhat; she paused to inspect Linsey more closely, perhaps marking the matting of his hair, and his work-roughened skin. Linsey passed a hand over his face subconsciously, feeling awkwardly perceived, in a rather more uncomfortable way than he had at the mess hall; he felt the stubble upon his jaw, and the faint filth dusting his cheeks, and realised he must be presenting a rather rotten image—not so much a slight to himself, for there were men in his crew who faired far worse, in face and tidiness both, but wholly out of place in the trim dress of an aviator.

‘No; certainly not so strange as your being here,’ Linsey said scornfully, less of the captain herself—for though she perplexed him to no end, she was polite as a lady, and kind enough—but more so for his own wretched predicament, and the constant woes it seemed to bring him. He felt his composure slipping gradually, and tired only more at every turn of company, used to the familiarity of his crew, and the wide ocean all around; but he could not press his anger upon Timor, a dishonourable notion which he condemned severely, so turned it elsewhere; he glared severely now at Elliot and spat, ‘There is poor fortune in your like upon the sea; you’ll have my respect, perhaps, but do not fault me for my habits, when your own are hardly desirable. Out, Captain, I want no help from a wench.’

Elliot blinked in confusion; then her brow furrowed, and she pressed her lips together into a thin, unhappy line.

‘Well then; we may see you about,’ she said, though she sounded perhaps a little restrained; the warmth in her expression had all but vanished, to be replaced with plain affliction. ‘Take care, Captain.’

With this she left; Linsey watched her climb back up into harness, then her dragon shook out its wings and went aloft, and both vanished quickly in great, sweeping wingbeats across the sky.

It was easy enough to find Timor, after a great deal of looking this way and that, and the first settings of shivers in his hands; he was grateful for his coat, what with the wind sweeping across the cliffs, and for his neckcloth also, tucked up around his chin, though the sensation of his dress folded about him so closely was still rather difficult to ignore.

Timor was curled about himself in a quiet spot a little ways out from the covert, with clumps of peat and brushwood growing all around, offering a little shelter from the cold winds blowing in from the sea. He raised his head in hearing Linsey approach, flicking his small ears impatiently; the golden hide stood out a little in the dark, and his great eyes were shining watchfully.

He lifted a wing in welcome, tucking Linsey close against his side; Linsey had taken a blanket from his quarters, and was comfortable as he could wish, curled against the warm hide.

‘Timor,’ Linsey said, hoping to ease some of his own unease; Timor heard the restraint in his voice and turned his head around to nuzzle him anxiously. Linsey smiled a little and stroked the warm nose, feeling again wholly grateful for the dragon’s presence there.

‘Is something wrong?’ Timor said softly, with marked worry in the amber gaze.

Linsey blinked at him, surprised by this quick perception, then smiled stiffly and said, ‘No, Timor, only I am beginning to lose faith in our company.’

‘Oh.’ Timor said, ‘I had wondered why you were gone so long. I would have come and found you, if I had known.’

He said this very sensibly, and Linsey felt his smile relax at once to an expression of fond amusement. ‘Thank you, dear fellow,’ he said, patting Timor’s side, ‘Though an escort is already along the way; I think I will manage well enough without you herding me about as well.’

Timor rumbled in something like delight; he was silent for another moment, then he said, more quietly, ‘Was it that foul man again?’

‘Malcolm? No.’ Linsey said, ‘No, it was another captain, though not like you would expect.’ He paused in remembering Elliot’s expression falling to dismay, feeling faintly shameful, and added only, ‘I am afraid I have been untoward.’

Timor paused to consider this, humming a little in thought. ‘They have been unkind to you.’ He said, a little uncertainly, and perhaps with the beginnings of a growl beneath his voice. ‘They have stolen us away, and put us to work here; surely they cannot expect you to be kind?’

‘No, not at all,’ Linsey said, nodding, though he was surprised to find he felt a little uncertain in his agreement. ‘Though it was not the Fleet who sent us here, and I suppose this, er, captain was not so deserving of it.’

Timor sniffed. ‘Then he can leave us alone, and let me eat the rest of them.’ He said. His eyes glimmered eagerly; Linsey laughed, with surprising ease, and patted his side.

‘And I would be very grateful for it.’ He said, and meant it wholly, for he had not before been recipient to such devotion, save perhaps from his crew, who he knew would put themselves to battle a dozen times over for him, just as he would do for them in turn.

He smiled sadly at this notion, and laid his cheek against Timor’s warm hide, trying to ignore the misery setting himself sombre.

Timor yawned enormously and made a small rumble, in such a way that reminded Linsey sharply of old Estella, the ship’s cat. He paused to scratch at a spot just behind his shoulder, where the leather straps of the harness looped around buckles set firm against his scales. Linsey inspected these with displeasure, and some quiet shame also; Timor’s scales had hardened somewhat in his weeks of growth, but they were still flexible and soft, and Linsey worried suddenly that the harness might begin to cause him discomfort. He had removed it to wipe away the remnants of Timor's meals upon the Delight, but had not thought to consider his comfort besides, and condemned himself harshly in realising he had forgotten to put it off entirely since their departure from Weymouth.

‘Timor,’ he said now, reaching up to stroke the dragon’s nose, a little anxiously. ‘I am very sorry, I had not thought to take off your harness; is it not uncomfortable?’

Timor paused thoughtfully, then he said, ‘It does not chafe.’

‘No, dear fellow, but you may have it off, if you’d prefer.’ Linsey said firmly, to be sure Timor would understand; to ignore a dragon’s discomfort until it bordered on injury was a sour notion, and it worried him somewhat that Timor might think him of such cowardice.

‘Oh,’ said Timor, brightening a little. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

Removing the harness in the dark was a good deal more difficult than Linsey would have liked, but he was not going to refuse Timor now, and so worked slowly at the buckles mostly blind, fumbling at the straps with hands trembling somewhat in rising frustration, until finally the harness came loose; he flung it down beside, then climbed from Timor’s back and patted the smooth hide.

Timor stretched enormously, then shook out his wings and tail; the spines upon his back quivered with the motion. ‘Oh, that is much better,’ he said, with a delighted rumble, and pushed his head gratefully against Linsey’s palm. Linsey patted him in turn, smiling fondly, though his hands now ached somewhat; he shook them out and tapped the fingers of one against the palm of the other, then righted himself and folded them into his lap, resettling beside Timor, and feeling a great deal of his satisfaction restored.

‘Linsey, will you sing to me?’ Timor said then, his eyes shining.

Linsey smiled at his enthusiasm, but found himself somewhat reluctant; his easy indulgence prior had come about with the shielding of his ship, and of Richards’s presence near at the mast. ‘No, dear fellow, I do not think I can,’ he said regretfully, and stroked Timor’s side in quiet apology.

Timor drooped a little, his shoulders hunched in sulking, then he stopped and rumbled thoughtfully, small ears twitching. ‘Then you might tell me a story,’ he said, ‘If you like.’

Linsey looked up at him, faintly surprised. ‘Of course,’ he said. He thought for a moment, remembering with amusement his excursions upon the sea as a younger man, some several years before he became captain of his own vessel; then he smiled involuntarily and said, ‘You have heard of Edward England?’

‘No,’ said Timor, puzzled. ‘Was he English?’

Linsey patted his side, fondly. ‘Oh, fortunately not.’ He said, ‘No; he was my mate, we shared all holdings—gold and company both. I took it all when he passed.’

‘Oh.’ Said Timor, somewhat disheartened; evidently his interest had been caught. ‘He is dead?’

‘‘Fraid so, though he was a good pirate, and a fellow enough.’ Linsey said, ‘You might have liked him; he was a fisherman, once.’

‘Oh, that is nice,’ Timor said, wistfully; Linsey laughed and patted him heartily upon the neck.

‘We met in Tortuga; I happened upon him by fortune, and thought him a good fellow—foolishly, I suppose. I told him of the frigate I had seen on coming in—the Royal James,’ he said, ‘I had the wildest notion of making off with her. It was his ship, of course, and he flogged me for it, rightly so,’ and as he continued, Timor put his head down on his forelegs and unfurled one wing to shelter them, making grateful, quiet rumblings as he listened in the dark.

#edward england was a Real Guy btw #I LOVE historical cameos I couldn't help it #hoping ya'll like Elliot also!! She's my best friend she's my one and only she's got so much love to give #timor: here be dragons #guess we're tagging it now #enjoy <3

[exhibit-of-the-century]

The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, Paul Delaroche, 1833, Oil on Canvas, 246 x 197cm, National Gallery, London

Masterlist

BUY ME A COFFEE

I would not do this painting justice in my analysis of the work; I doubt words can ever do justice to that which is painted. Art forces us to attach and feel whatever the artist has placed before us, to empathise and connect to its display. No painting does that, in my opinion, as much as the painting “The Execution of Lady Jane Grey”.

An oil painting by Paul Delaroche, painted in 1833, completed long after the actual historical events, the painting attempts to represent the historical execution of Lady Jane Grey. It has been one that I’ve seen making the rounds on many “mentally ill girlies” Instagram posts and TikToks, due to the connotations of loss of innocence and girlhood. It is a painting that has come back into circles of discussion through its ability to emotionally connect to those feelings, and its forlornness, through the delicate portrayal of Lady Jane Grey.

Historically a Protestant believer, Lady Jane Grey was dubbed the “Nine Day Queen” due to the length of her reign. Proclaimed Queen of England during the Tudor period (1485 to 1605) was overshadowed by her relatives Mary Tudor and Elizabeth I, more so by Mary Tudor, “Bloody Mary”, a Catholic, as she succeeded her to the British throne, overthrowing Lady Jane Grey with the support of the English people due to the conflict of Protestant and Catholic beliefs of the time. Imprisoning Lady Jane Grey in the Tower of London on charges of high treason, wherein she was placed on trial and handed a death penalty. Presumed to be executed at the age of just 17, the painting takes on another layer of mourning and grief.

Located in room 45 of The National Gallery, Trafalgar Square, London, the painting hangs at 246 cm x 297 cm, taking up a quarter of the wall, it demands an audience. Drawing our attention in further with its colour composition, the Lady stands out against the dark background, aided by the gallery’s darker choice of wall paint, she becomes a beacon of white within the grey space.

(Visual Analysis under cut)

The painting depicts a white clad woman, Lady Jane Grey (LJG), surrounded by figures covered in far darker clothes. This choice of colour, specifically the choice to place LJG in a white silk dress, gives her an ethereal glow, almost angelic, symbolising her soon to be death and perhaps the hope that she passes onto heaven. Moreover, these ideas and themes prevails through the iconography in the background, tall pillars with details chiselled and carved into its walls. Patterns that you’d find in monasteries, cathedrals and catholic churches, known for their grandeur of detail. Furthermore, her hands outstretched and eyes blindfolded, she is guided by the man behind her, presenting her as a lamb to the slaughter, reinforced by the white dress and the straw laid at her knees.

The background is dark; the use of greys, blacks, and reds creates an oppressive atmosphere. Working in tandem with the white of the dress, the contrast highlights her, singling her out. To her left are two women, both clearly in states of distress, as shown by their positioning and expression. One hides her face, hands reaching skyward as if in prayer. However, the choice to hide her face, away from the execution implies mourning and a loss of hope; her prayers not being heard. While the other woman looks defeated; shoulders slumped, she loosely clutches a rosary, unlike the other woman she shows no desperation. From this body language we can infer that these women care for LJG, and from their golden jewellery and elaborate velvet dresses with embroidery, that they were of high status, perhaps ladies in waiting. This comparison between the ladies in waiting and LJG makes her seem bare, stripped of any layers of fabric and clothing that could protect her, or any representation of status.

On the right of LJG are two men, one further removed from the scene and one who guides her. The man closest to her, leans in with his arms around her, guiding her to the executioner’s block, while shielding her in some manner from the executioner’s presence, forming a greater divide, prolonging the inevitable. His body is close, head leaned in, as if whispering. LJG seems to wear a sombre expression, almost peaceful, hinting at her knowledge of what is going to happen to her, while simultaneously having given up the fight. The man’s bald spot suggests that he is a member of the clergy, and reinforcing this idea are his heavy long clothes and chain. His greying hair suggests ideas of a wise judgment, that this is what must happen to LJG, as she blindly (literally and figuratively) follows him. It could also be said that his wise demeanour backfires and suggests a perpetuation of old ideas surrounding the monarchy and needless violence in Britain at the time.

The other man stood a distance away is clearly the executioner as he wields a large axe and other objects of harm around his belt. He does not display the stereotypical characteristics of a willing executioner, as he holds the axe away from the scene, unwillingly handling it with a loose grip. His objects around the belt are on display but small and seemingly insignificant and lost to the greater detail of the scene. Through his body language, the executioner is also prolonging the inevitable demise of LJG, reinforcing the narrative of her as a beloved figure.

Despite the painting implying prevailing ideas of martyrdom surrounding LJG’s depiction of her execution, and how beloved she was by those around her, in the background you can make out spears and lances raised upright. Pocking out from behind the stage on which the execution is taking place, as if making a spectacle of her death, these lances are a show of strength. Perhaps here to represent her inability to escape or be aided by outside help, forced to die. Or perhaps to symbolise the overshadowing presence of Bloody Mary and her rise and dominance of power over this situation.

Next to her hang other, much smaller, paintings in comparison. This makes her the focal point and the main subject on this wall in the gallery. Furthermore, she is displayed next to the title “Academic and Romantic Painters”, which goes on to explain the 19th century artist’s mentalities and ideologies. Romantic painters, during the Romanticism period of art and literature, are defined by their new intrigue in human psychology, expression of personal feeling and interests in the natural world.

This artwork does just that. The painter, Paul Delaroche, was a French artist, during the time in which France was going through a phase of Anglomania: the excessive admiration of English customs. One might say they were just a bit obsessed with British history and reinventing it. More specifically this artist, who came from the romanticism period, was obsessed in capturing the emotions he had invested and read from historical accounts. However, there is a dramatic flair to the painting, as a lot of what is on display- such as the ladies in waiting, wailing in the corner- would not have actually been present at the execution.

As virtuosic as this painting is, we must bear in mind that this is a romanticisation of the execution and a departure from reality.

However, these creative liberties do not subtract from the painting’s genius, they afford the painting an even deeper feeling of despair at her demise, precisely the of a romantic artist. Although this painting comes from an artist who would’ve only had the capability of reading about this moment in time, it, to me, makes the painting all the more impressive in its ability to create such anguish, from 2D words into a painting that feels 3-Dimensional.

As I type my analysis and breakdown of the painting and its historical aspects, I sit in front of it as it gives me a greater chance to analyse the work in detail. A photographic reproduction can only do so much justice to a painting as they tend to lose their size, colour, and impact of when you first walk into a room and see it for the first time.

While sat down before the work, it gave me the chance to listen to and sometimes discuss aspects of it with other gallery goers. Some of the things that I’ve overheard have shaped my own understanding, interpretation, and further reflection from a modern perspective of the work.

“You see what you expect to see” – while this isn’t a false statement in the slightest, it is a shame to only look at a painting for what is just on the canvas. While the title given to this piece rightfully describes the scene exactly to us, there is a greater layer of representation and emotion. Also not all works will have a title, or name, that relates to what is on the canvas, looking at the greater context of who Delaroche was reveals many details about this work (please refer to the visual analysis). But also this was a very dry sarcastic quip made by a very tired British person, the humour of it is not lost on me.

But this did make me consider and reflect, as when you read the statement for the first time, I doubt you read it with that dry sarcasm. Which got me thinking on if it were just a plain, monotone, statement. Consider the title and the brutality behind the word ‘execution’ one that you may associate with medieval and outdated practices, but is still preformed today in prisons, consider the distancing of emotion when you hear that word. Consider: a brutal death execution delivered to a young girl. Historically it was an execution, but why not use the word death?

the carrying out of a plan, order, or course of action.

the carrying out of a sentence of death on a condemned person.

“This one is so pretty” – how can the planned murder of a young girl be ‘pretty’, why is this painting considered so beautiful? There was some intent in making her ethereal yes, but pretty? Was that what he intended, or was that a by product of the time of painting and style? Was this perhaps driven by the Anglomania gripping France at the time, and yet people today consider her pretty.

This line of thinking and pursuit of knowledge led me into considering the female form, her age, and the cultural (modern) obsession with making women beautiful in death. Although I’m not going to analyse this in detail here or deep dive into the history. But to highlight this phenomenon most prominently, through the photo of Evelyn McHale, hailed as the most beautiful suicide and reproduced in great detail over the centuries following the release of this photo.

I personally will not be posting the photo, but you can find it in one of the articles below.

These articles are for further reading, I do not fully agree with everything said and always read articles with a grain of salt, remember that there is always intention in any work.

Most notable ideas that followed suite were of objectification in art of women portrayed by men. Is this painting perhaps exhibiting some aspects of that?

I leave you to draw your own conclusions and understandings, as that is what art is all about.

(Feel free to let me know your thoughts, I’m always very curious)

Sources:

#art #artwork #writing #essay #paintings #art show #art exhibition #art tag #art hitory #art gallery #painting #photography #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writerscommunity #writers and poets #writer things #writerblr #artists #artists on tumblr #drawings #illustration #history #exhibition #composition #installation #sculpture #oil paintings #essay writing

[joelcrisafulliart]

Website : https://www.joelcrisafulliart.com/   Address : Natick, Massachusetts, USA

Joel Crisafulli Art, based in Natick, MA, specializes in delivering original artwork inspired by nature and pop culture. A lifelong Massachusetts resident, Joel finds inspiration in New England’s natural beauty and childhood concepts. Formerly a high school design teacher, Joel now dedicates his time to creating landscapes, seascapes, and pop culture images, offering both original acrylics on canvas and hand-signed Giclee prints on 100% rag paper. His creations are available for purchase and are ready to hang, with edges painted black and the back gallery wired.

Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100089333941559

Instagram : https://www.instagram.com/joelcrisafulliart/

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[averyblair]

The Lake of Fire

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters: England, France

Ship: N/A (they're a little too young for romance here)

Tags and warnings: Canonverse, temporary character death/temporary child death, graphic description of injury, hurt/comfort. A short exploration of immortality.

Word count: 653

“That’s ridiculous. We’re at war. You have other things to worry about.”

“And yet here I am, worrying about you.”

Read below the cut or >here< on AO3.

Note:

The time period is vague, but they are both physically children - England around 9, France around 14. I've added some of my own thoughts on nations and death below the story if anyone is interested.

---

“Can’t you just rip it out?”

“I don’t know. I think your ribs have healed around it.”

“So? Just pull it.”

“It will hurt. A lot.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do, or you would have done it yourself.”

At that, England was silent - eyes averted, fiddling with the corners of a torn tunic. It was stuck to him - pinned by the dagger, glued by dried blood.

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know. Five days ago, maybe six.”

“Idiot. You should have come sooner.”

France grabbed the dagger where it protruded from skin, and the hilt was warm. Body heat, fresh blood. England grimaced at his touch, but for a boy usually so fiery, he was oddly subdued.

“This is war. You’re not exactly flaunting your position.”

It must have been the pain. France knew how days of agony wore you away to nothing, and it angered him to see England this way. He surely went somewhere he shouldn’t have, meddled too directly in affairs - but still, for an adult to take a dagger and lance a child…

… Human cruelty. It was frequently beyond France’s understanding.

“You could have found me if you wanted to. These are your lands.”

“Can you get it out or not?”

Surrounding ruined metal was an angry mess of pulverised red flesh, where the blade had cut and nicked anew with every step, every movement, every twitch of a muscle. Inside was rotten black and venomous yellow - fat and muscle and pus, too, where infection was setting in.

It felt unfair. This was the enemy, but this was a child. This was a rival, but this was a friend. This was war, where everyone suffered, but at least there was an end to the suffering of mortals.

There was only one way this could go, and he’d known it, deep down, from the moment England had appeared in his tent with silver protruding from his core.

“Did you die when you first got this?”

“Yes.”

“How did you feel?”

“You know how death feels.”

“But how did you feel?”

“I’ll die again if you pull it out, won’t I?”

Now, France was silent. Only for a moment. England deserved his response.

“Yes. But if you tell me all the worst parts, I can try and make it not so bad.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I don’t fear death.”

A lie. France did not push the matter. It wasn’t the time, and he could guess, anyway, at what most frightened a proud child like England.

“If you say so. I’ll stay anyway. I’ll protect your body until you wake, however long that takes. No-one will touch you, or move you, or take you. I’ll keep you safe.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’re at war. You have other things to worry about.”

“And yet here I am, worrying about you.”

“You’re a rubbish enemy,” England was embarrassed. He turned away, pouting at a canvas wall. France saw an opportunity. “My king would hang me if I got as soft as y-”

With all his strength, knowing he could not afford for the blade to stick on bone, he pulled.

For a moment, England looked betrayed. Frightened. His eyes said it all, even if his mouth could not for the blood filling his throat.

“I’m sorry. I had to get it over with. Anticipation would have made it worse.”

The apology, presumably, was accepted, because when England collapsed it was into France’s open arms. He caught the boy easily, cradling him like an infant and muttering gentle reassurances.

“Hush, you’re safe. I’m here. No-one is going to hurt you.”

A cough, a wet gargle. A twitch, a shudder.

Not fair. He was just a child.

“There’s no air, I know. It’s okay. You’ll come back, remember? And I’ll still be here. I’ll watch over you. That’s a promise. I never break a promise.”

And at last, as life left him, England was still.

---

Note:

I imagine the nations don’t die very often as children. There are some executions, some tragic accidents, some incidents where they get mixed up in something they shouldn’t. Some are luckier than others - born in stable times and on peaceful lands. But they all know death, they’ve all experienced it, and it’s scary and unpleasant and a Very Big Deal.

As soon as they’re physically old enough to fight on the battlefield, they start dying frequently. Hundreds of times in a war (they are so very aware that they can come back and their warriors cannot, so they take dangerous positions and sacrifice themselves frequently), and sometimes multiple times in a battle (when one lasts long enough to allow it). Death starts to mean nothing. They begin worrying about each other little, and about themselves even less. 

(I’m generalising, of course, and there are outliers at both ends - those whose childhoods were particularly difficult - struggling to adulthood and dying all the way, those whose skill lies off the battlefield, those who are just particularly good at staying alive, those who are overly protected by their leaders or the nations closest to them, those who have reached adulthood and not faced major war, etc.).

#hws england #hws france #hetalia #fanfiction #The Lake of Fire #blood #violence

[rockislandadultreads]

More Historical Fantasy Recommendations

Stardust by Neil Gaiman

Young Tristran Thorn will do anything to win the cold heart of beautiful Victoria—even fetch her the star they watch fall from the night sky. But to do so, he must enter the unexplored lands on the other side of the ancient wall that gives their tiny village its name. Beyond that old stone wall, Tristran learns, lies Faerie—where nothing not even a fallen star, is what he imagined.

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke

The year is 1806. England is beleaguered by the long war with Napoleon, and centuries have passed since practical magicians faded into the nation's past. But scholars of this glorious history discover that one remains: the reclusive Mr Norrell, whose displays of magic send a thrill through the country.

Proceeding to London, he raises a beautiful woman from the dead and summons an army of ghostly ships to terrify the French. Yet the cautious, fussy Norrell is challenged by the emergence of another magician: the brilliant novice Jonathan Strange.

Young, handsome and daring, Strange is the very antithesis of Norrel. So begins a dangerous battle between these two great men which overwhelms that between England and France. And their own obsessions and secret dabblings with the dark arts are going to cause more trouble than they can imagine.

This is the first volume in the “Strange & Norrell” series.

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not. Within the black-and-white striped canvas tents is an utterly unique experience full of breathtaking amazements. It is called Le Cirque des Rêves, and it is only open at night.

But behind the scenes, a fierce competition is underway—a duel between two young magicians, Celia and Marco, who have been trained since childhood expressly for this purpose by their mercurial instructors. Unbeknownst to them, this is a game in which only one can be left standing, and the circus is but the stage for a remarkable battle of imagination and will. Despite themselves, however, Celia and Marco tumble headfirst into love—a deep, magical love that makes the lights flicker and the room grow warm whenever they so much as brush hands.

True love or not, the game must play out, and the fates of everyone involved, from the cast of extraordinary circus performers to the patrons, hang in the balance, suspended as precariously as the daring acrobats overhead.

The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley

In Marion Zimmer Bradley's masterpiece, we see the tumult and adventures of Camelot's court through the eyes of the women who bolstered the king's rise and schemed for his fall. From their childhoods through the ultimate fulfillment of their destinies, we follow these women and the diverse cast of characters that surrounds them as the great Arthurian epic unfolds stunningly before us. As Morgaine and Gwenhwyfar struggle for control over the fate of Arthur's kingdom, as the Knights of the Round Table take on their infamous quest, as Merlin and Viviane wield their magics for the future of Old Britain, the Isle of Avalon slips further into the impenetrable mists of memory, until the fissure between old and new worlds' and old and new religions' claims its most famous victim.

This is the first volume in the “Avalon” series.

#historical fantasy #fantasy #science fiction fantasy #historical fiction #Library Books #Reading Recs #reading recommendations #book recs #Book Recommendations #TBR pile #tbr #tbrpile #to read #Want To Read #Booklr #book tumblr #book blog #library blog

[capricornwriter5]

You are the one - Chapter 22

Pairing: Bang Chan x female OC; Lee Know x female OC

Genre: au (high shool, college), love triangle, fluff, angst, smut, from friends to lovers. ⚠️Warning: soft drugs

Words: 6k

Summary: Bang Chan and Jasmine have been best friends for as long as they can remember. With little time to finish high school, they both begin to develop romantic feelings. However, family situations and communication issues force them to move away. Once in college, they decide to try to regain the friendship they had. As Bang Chan sees the opportunity to finally be with the girl he has always loved, his friend Lee Know, who had been studying in England, returns home and the connection he develops with Jasmine is undeniable. Can the chemistry and attraction with Lee Know outweigh a tender first love and memories of years of friendship between Bang Chan and Jasmine?

Disclaimer: I named the character Jasmine (Minnie for Chan 🥰) because I love that name. Besides, it’s easier if we want to see Chan saying cute names (it’s better than just Y/N, I think) but you can totally picture yourselves in the story, that’s the idea. &lt;3

Chapter 22 - Red Flags

On December 31st Chan had been active since early morning. The sun had not even risen when he had already gone out to train. He returned home only to gather his computer and go out to do everything he had to do. One of those pending was to go to a museum to collect several documents. When he finally had them in his hands and was about to leave, Chan was curious to see how the new section of paintings had turned out, so he went to take a look.

The change from the collections Chan had seen displayed in the main wing of the museum to the ones he now had in front of him was radical. While the first ones he saw were Renaissance-themed and cold-colored, the ones in the new hall were colorful, modern, and full of life. There were paintings of animals, children, and even caricatures.

The familiarity of those paintings made his heart feel warmer; yet, there was also a certain melancholy in them. Why did he feel that way about some drawings that he was seeing for the first time and that seemed not to represent any aspect of his life? The answer was simple and it didn't take Chan long to find it, it was Jaz's painting style, the paintings were especially similar to the ones she made. Experimenting with as many colors as possible was always Jaz's passion, and Chan knew how much she loved adding cute and playful elements to her works, just like what he was seeing on those walls.

"You'd love this..." Chan thought, imagining how she would feel if she saw that.

It had been a long time since he had seen a drawing of the girl, hence the melancholy that those pictures aroused in him. At other times there were pencils, paints, brushes, canvas, papers, everything Jaz could need to paint scattered around Chan's house, even the girl's items appeared in his car; however, he couldn't remember the last time he saw something of hers, the closest thing had been the brushes he didn't give her.

Sighing, the boy returned home. The path seemed to disappear before Chan, for his mind and heart had drifted back into the past and now countless images of him and Jaz led him on a walk without even noticing where he was going.

That was why he couldn't stand sobriety anymore, he needed to drown his mind with work or with alcohol, no matter which one, but he needed to silence the voice of his heart that screamed at him louder and louder and less mercifully to look for the only person who made him feel alive.

The longing to be with Jaz was a much deeper and more painful one than before, it wasn't a toxic need like it had been for a while, Chan genuinely missed how he felt around her, he longed for who he was when Jaz was by his side. He missed everything, from how Jasmine used to fix his shirt collars to how her hands felt on his back when she hugged him. It was true, he had hit rock bottom and had felt more miserable than he ever imagined because of things that had happened with Jaz, but he had also reached the highest point of happiness by her side, and not only as his girlfriend, but also as his friend. Jaz had made him feel accompanied, understood, protected, and loved.

While Chan had also been an amazing friend and a wonderful boyfriend, lately he had been wondering the same thing: had he been able to let Jaz know she was the most important thing to him? Had he demonstrated to her that just as he knew she was capable of doing anything for him, so was he for her? Had he made Jaz feel as extraordinarily loved as she had made him feel?Whatever the answer, Jaz had definitely done it, the girl had not only touched and protected his best friend's heart for all those years, but she had also stolen it from him and even if Chan couldn't accept it, he didn't want her to return it.

Without even realizing when he got to his apartment, much less when he locked himself in his room, Chan lay down and did nothing more than close his eyes as his mind plunged back into memories, this time of his first year of college.

***********

"Minnie, is it hurting?" He asked extremely distressed when he saw that his friend left the pencil she used to draw and with her left hand, massaged herself on the right.

A week ago, the girl had gone to Chan's apartment to help him move some things, although Chan insisted numerous times that she let him take charge of the biggest piece of furniture, Jasmine was too stubborn and didn't listen to him. The girl tried to move a bookcase at the same time that Chan was in his room. As soon as Jaz noticed that Bang Chan wasn't around, she tried to push it by herself, Chan could be terribly overprotective, so sometimes he wouldn't let her do anything. However, that day the boy was right and it was a wrong idea for Jaz to move the furniture alone. The bookcase was made of old wood; in fact, it had a few deteriorated shelves, especially on the top shelf, where Chan used to leave the models he worked on.

Suddenly, Chan heard several things falling and his friend screaming. In seconds he had already reached the room; he panicked when he discovered that Jaz had literally used her right hand as a support so that the highest shelf did not collapse. All the books were already on the floor, but Chan's model was hanging by a thread before it was destroyed. If Jaz moved her hand, the shelf would fall, which ended up happening when Chan got to her side and forced her to move her hand.

Now, a week later, what Chan had warned her had happened, her wrist was seriously swollen and she couldn't even hold a pencil without the pain forcing her to stop.

"It looks worse than yesterday." He said sitting next to her and gently taking her hand so as not to hurt her more. "Why did you do that, huh? This can be dangerous, we don't know how badly you hurt yourself. I have some anti-inflammatories at home, I'll go get them."

"No, I took a pair before you got here."

"Minnie, that was four hours ago and the pain's killing you."

"It's not that big of a deal, and I have to finish this for tomorrow. I think if I use the brushes..."

"You're not going to use anything and you're going to stop with this." He said taking the sketchbook away from her. "Minnie, you have to rest and stop forcing your hand. We're still not sure you don't have a fracture and..."

"Chris..." Jaz asked patting his shoulder. "If you're so worried, that's fine, I'm going to stop for a while, take a bath, and then I'll get on with this."

"Need help?"

Bang Chan asked it in the most innocent way, the boy was really alarmed by his best friend and didn't realize the context, or how his offer sounded. Truth be told, he wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for Jaz smirking.

"Are you offering me help with my BATH? How are you supposed to help me?"

"Minnie, please!" He said with a RED face and even turning away from her. "I didn't mean that."

"Do you see why I've always said that you're the most perverted person in the group?" She joked.

"I'm not a pervert!"

Jasmine kept laughing in the bathroom just remembering Chan's red ears and all the times he apologized for the misunderstanding. However, Jaz's giggle disappeared when she tried to take off the dress she was wearing. It had a zipper in the back and a few buttons that she couldn't even touch when the pain made her pull her hand away.

"Shit..." She thought accepting that she couldn't do it alone.

Meanwhile, Chan had been in the living room when she called him. "Chris, I think I'm going to need your help." She shouted. 

"Ha, ha, very funny. I'm not going to believe that you need help from Mr. Pervert."

"I'm serious, I tried to do something but I couldn't, my wrist is hurting." Jaz hadn't even finished saying that when Chan got up and came to her side.

"What's happening? Did you close the shower too hard and now you can't turn it on?"

"I can't take my dress off."

Chan could have sworn her friend was joking again, but seeing Jaz look down at the floor and her cheeks take on just a little blush, he smiled tenderly. "Let me see." 

Chan stood behind her and parted the girl's hair in such a way that her back was exposed. Of course, Jaz couldn't see him, and she would never know how his hands trembled as he opened the buttons, then slowly lowered her dress. During that period of time, neither of them said a word, they feared ruining the moment.

Jasmine's skin was still as soft and tempting as ever, just as Chan's manly hands undressing her kept Jasmine speechless.

"Ready," Chan said quickly looking away.

"Chris... you're missing my bra," Jaz said turning just a little to look at him.

It was unbelievable, but even though they had gone out together, and even though they hadn't gotten out of bed for days, Chan was still the most respectful boy of them all. And it was precisely one of his characteristics that Jaz would always love, no matter the situation, with Chan by her side, she always felt safe, there was never discomfort but there was plenty of tenderness.

"I'm sorry." He said laughing and running his hand behind his neck, a classic gesture from when Bang Chan was internally dying of embarrassment. Jaz had seen that part of him before, she knew it all too well, just as she had discovered the daring and even brazen part of him.

After taking off her bra, he immediately rearranged her hair so that it covered her bare back, and just as he had entered the room, he left her alone.

While Jasmine was taking a bath, Chan had sat where she always worked and, praying he didn't mess anything up, colored the rest of the drawing. After all, who better than him to do it? He knew how Jaz painted, what colors she liked, and even what her favorite techniques were. The boy was focused to the point that he didn't even notice that his best friend had left the bathroom until she was practically in front of him.

"Chris, you finished it!" Jaz took the drawing with a smile and noticed every detail he had made. 

At the same time she witnessed how well Chan had done everything, he had been speechless watching her wear one of his hoodies with pants to sleep. It was the most comfortable clothing, but for Chan, seeing Jaz in his hoodies would always be the easiest way to steal his breath away.

"You're the best, thank you." She said caressing his arm and right there Chan carefully took her hand.

"It still hurts? Don't lie to me."

"A little." She answered sighing and looking at how swollen it was, maybe Chan was right and it was broken.

"Let's go to the hospital tomorrow, please. I know you have a presentation in the morning, but I'll pick you up later, you can't go on like this."

After accepting what Chan asked of her, Jasmine suggested that they watch a movie together; naturally, he accepted. They agreed that he would go buy something to eat in the meantime; however, Chan hadn't even walked two blocks when he realized he had left his wallet and returned home.

As soon as he entered, Chan heard the sound of the dryer, and discovering his friend struggling with the comb, her hair, and the dryer, he laughed softly.

"Why is it so hard for you to ask for help?" He asked holding the dryer, grabbing a towel, and taking Jaz with him into the bedroom.

Bang Chan didn't have to make an effort to do things carefully, because when it came to Jasmine, he would always treat her as his little doll, and he did just that as he towel-dried her hair and then blow-dried it. He was even careful that the heat didn't make the girl uncomfortable.

Chan's hands in her hair felt like the softest caresses of all, it was always like that, any contact that existed between them evidenced everything they felt for each other. As much as Jaz and Chan tried not to cross the line and break that physical limit, the truth was that they always managed to touch each other's hearts with whatever they did.

"Are you seriously falling asleep, Minnie? Wait a bit, I'm almost done and you can go to bed." He said smiling when he saw that the girl had her eyes closed.

"Aren't you going to stay? What about the movie?"

It was inevitable that Chan didn't grin at the look of anguish on Jaz's face. Finding out that she still wanted and needed him by her side always made him feel good. "I'm not going anywhere, but it'd be good if you rest. We can watch a movie later."

"I'm not sleepy." Jaz guaranteed, but Chan was sure that as soon as they turned on the TV, she would fall asleep.

Indeed, that was how it happened. When they moved into the living room and chose a movie, Jaz began to nod off, and almost automatically Chan moved a little closer to her, silently offering her his shoulder.

"Little doll?" he softly asked as he felt Jaz's head on his shoulder.

Receiving no response, Chan leaned in a little to look at her and confirmed she was asleep. It had been a long time since Jaz slept on his shoulder, so long that Chan had forgotten how warm his chest felt having her that close. For a moment, just for a moment, he allowed himself to do something, and without Jaz realizing it, he kissed her forehead.

An hour passed like this, then two, then three, and even the fourth, in which Chan did nothing more than discreetly caress Jaz. Meanwhile, she was in the deepest and most restful sleep of her life, something that could only happen if she was in Chan's arms.

The girl would have spent the night there, and Chan would have left her, if not for one of Jaz's alarms going off too loud. After apologizing for falling asleep, Jaz tried to walk Chan home; however, before she could look for shoes, Bang Chan had gone so she could rest. 

The next day, Chan surprised her best friend by knocking on her door early, in fact, she was still in her pajamas when Chan came in with breakfast for the two of them.

"Chris, it's too early. I think I might kill you for waking me up." She flopped into the chair while Chan set everything and served her food. "Didn't you go back to sleep yesterday?"

"I tried to do it, even watch a movie to make me sleepy, but I realized SOMEONE turned on parental control and I can't watch anything but cartoons. Can you explain to me what that was?"

"You deserved it, you saw our series without me. Did you think I wouldn't notice? You're so dumb Chris, not only did you watch our show by yourself, but you also used MY account and got registered."

"I have a totally valid justification for doing that."

"No more than mine to turn on parental control."

Chan laughed, he knew that his best friend had defeated him in that argument. Soon, he was serving her some waffles with various bits of fruit on top. "This is my apology." He said winking at her before starting to eat together.

Chan's plan was to have breakfast with Jaz and go to class together. Since he was ready, he waited patiently for her at the door but Jaz didn't come out. Surprised, he looked for her in her room and saw her struggling with her hair and a brush, trying to pick it up but the wrist wouldn't let her. Already resigned, she was about to leave with her hair down but Chan surprised her by standing behind her and asking for the brush by holding out his hand.

"I got this."

"Huh?"

"You're not going to go with your hair down to such an important presentation, you won't look professional."

"Chris, you can't even control your curls."

"Just watch me."

Even though the boy needed twice as much time as Jaz would have needed had her wrist been well, the truth was that she had to admit that her best friend had done a good job with the braid he made her.

"Okay, I think you're ready." He said looking at her from all angles to make sure she looked good. If he hadn't been so focused on Jaz's hair, Chan would have seen the lovestruck look Jaz had, she even sighed looking at him. "While we wait for your wrist to recover, I'll be your stylist." 

He was so proud of his work that he even clapped his hands and took a picture of it to send to Hyunjin, Chan insisted that his friend was the most indicated person to judge.

***********

Snapping back to the present, Han opened the door to his friend's room with such force that Chan dropped the cell phone and it landed directly on his forehead. Chan had been looking for Jaz's picture from that day, but when he was about to find it, Han had surprised him.

"We're ready!" He yelled from the door.

Controlling the urge to kill Han, Chan left with him and Changbin, he had promised to drop them at home since he was going to a party of some friends who lived even further from his parents' house.

"Changbin, could you check the location again? I think it's not around here." Chan asked handing the boy his cell phone.

Of course, Changbin knew Chan's password, hence he could easily unlock the phone. However, just by unlocking it, he could see not only his friend's photo gallery but also the one he was looking for from Jaz. For Changbin, discovering this was not easy at all, his first impulse was to try to talk to him and make him understand that all this about getting away from Jaz was an error. However, he remembered how Jaz begged him to let them move on, and even though he was convinced that none of them were being honest, he decided to respect their decision. He left the photo gallery and looking for the map, tried to forget what he had seen.

***********

While the boys were enjoying the New Years' festivities, Romy and Jaz had agreed to spend the date together. They had bought something special to eat and after having talked about practically everything and having eaten everything, they only had the topics of conversation that they both tried to avoid and the soju that they had preferred not to open all night. However, as soon as the first cap fell off one of the bottles, the girls began to talk more seriously. They knew that when that happened, it was almost like going to therapy, so while one spoke, the other listened carefully and from time to time added a comment or encouraged her friend to continue talking, just like when Romy asked Jaz how she was been feeling lately, but the girl was silent until she finally got up the nerve to speak.

"I think I feel kind of alone, but it doesn't make sense; I mean, things are going well with Lee Know, we spend a lot of time together, and I also talk a lot with mom. Besides, you and the boys are always there, but I don't think I've ever felt more alone than these days, Romy. I think... forget it."

"Come on, tell me, take it out." The girl cheered her up by pouring her another bit of soju.

"I think I miss the messages from dad. I know I didn't answer any of them, but every day I knew I'd read something from him."

"Are you sure you only miss him? Could it be that the one you miss is Chan?"

"No, no, Romy, please don't even mention that." She asked in total denial, she didn't want to admit how much she had thought about him.

"Come on, Jaz, you can't keep everything to yourself, talk to me. Is this the first time you've been away for so long? Hadn't this happened when you found out everything?"

"We stop talking for over a month."

"And this time it's been almost four months, it'd be normal for you to miss him."

"No, Romy, if everything goes well with Lee Know I shouldn't..."

"Jaz, there are certain things you can't control, and you shouldn't feel bad about it. I know you don't want to hurt Lee Know, and that's fine, but don't fool yourself either."

"I mean... yeah, some things remind me of Chris, but I think that's normal when you've lived through so many things alongside someone. You know what? We shouldn't be having this conversation, it's not fair to Minho."

Romy let out a sigh at her friend's refusal to notice things that were being obvious and before she knew it, she was the one telling Jaz about her life, the problems she had with her siblings, and that they were becoming more and more recurrent.

"If you need a place to stay, you know you can come." She honestly offered. "Hey, but speaking of less shitty things, what are you up to with Bin, huh?"

"What are you talking about?" The almost immediate blush on Romy's face prompted Jasmine to confirm her suspicions, ones she had had for a very long time. 

"Come on! It's OBVIOUS that you guys are seconds away from fucking."

"Okay, that was totally unnecessary and false." Said the girl practically choking on soju. "Where do you get that from?"

"Not only do I think so..."

"Jasmine! Who are you talking about this stupid thing with?"

"Chris and I used to talk about this a lot. What's more... ever since we found out that Muscles was the one bothering you, we both said you guys would end up together. I tried to talk about the same thing with Lee Know, but he said that I was crazy and I was imagining everything."

"Well, OBVIOUSLY! Lee Know's a normal person, unlike you and Chan. No wonder you miss him, no one else thinks as weird as you do."

"Ouch, cheap shot!" Jasmine said hitting her with a cushion. "Don't change the topic, you like him right? I know that he has bothered you a lot, but he doesn't do it because he's a bad person, he's a bit of an idiot, poor thing, but I promise you that he has no bad intentions."

"Let's just have some more of this."

"Romy..."

"I know he's not a bad person..." She admitted.

"He's also handsome, come on, say it!"

"He's not that bad and that's all I'm going to say, now, give me that." Romy practically snatched the bottle from her, but she had to put up with her friend teasing her with the same issue.

**********

Some days later...

Waiting for his breathing to return to normal and for the agitation to decrease, Lee Know caressed his girlfriend's thighs. Just when he noticed that she was about to fall asleep, he approached smiling mischievously to kiss her.

"Don't fall asleep, not before I do." The photographer whispered at the same time Jaz laughed and stroked his hair.

"Don't be selfish, I'm tired."

"That's what you get for wanting to control everything, you always want to be above me, even in bed."

Lee Know's comment caused the girl to laugh and turning a little, she was back on top of him. "I don't know what you're complaining about, you love it."

"Well yeah... it's not that bad."

Jaz was so used to her boyfriend's teasing that she just covered his face with the sheet. Lee Know lazily moved it and taking Jaz from her hip, he sat with her on top of him. Almost immediately Jasmine felt his hands moving lower until he was able to grab her butt.

"You're hopeless." The girl said between laughs.

Jasmine smiled at him and was already expecting her boyfriend's mischievous comment, but instead, Lee Know kissed her forehead, leaving her in shock, the only person she had received such a kiss from was Chan. It was something automatic that her whole body reacted. Her face blushed, her heartbeat accelerated, and her gaze softened. However, when Jaz noticed that, she immediately wondered if it was because of Lee Know or the memory of Chan doing that. It was as if her body and heart had memory and had jumped with the faint memory of the Australian.

"Hello? Are you listening to me?" The boy asked giving her a spank.

"Ouch! Minho!"

"You're not paying attention to me and I was telling you something important."

It took Jasmine several minutes for her boyfriend to agree to repeat what he had said, and had it not been for Jasmine promising to play with his hair until he fell asleep, he would have stayed sore all night.

That night the temperature dropped a lot and even though they had the heating on, Lee Know could not stand the cold, even more so because he had not realized that he had been left naked. That was how the photographer got up, waking up Jaz, who turned on a light when she felt him moving, Lee Know NEVER got up before dawn once he fell asleep.

"What's up handsome?" She asked her still half asleep.

However, the blow Lee Know gave himself when he bumped into the bed to get his pants was just as potent as the impact the memory gave Jaz by making her remember all the times she slept with Chan being just friends and force him in the middle of the night to put on his pants. Unlike Chan, who claimed everything was fine and kept stumbling as Jaz laughed at his hair mess, Lee Know was extremely upset and even went for ice. The two boys were so different and Jaz knew it from day one, why were those comparisons so recurrent now?

**********

The next day...

"Changbin, listen to me, DO NOT get involved, Chan's not going to accept it, much less if it comes from us," Han whispered grabbing his friend's shirt so he wouldn't walk out of his room straight into the apartment's kitchen where Chan was.

"Han, let go of me or I swear I'm going to fill your bed with bugs."

A perfect landing against the ground was what followed that warning. Han had let go of Changbin almost out of survival instinct and Changbin had never expected his friend to do such a thing. Now he could barely understand what he was saying, because, at the same time that he was fighting with Han, he was trying to stop the bleeding from his nose.

"It was your fault! How dare you threaten me with some shit like like that?" Han asked, going around his room in circles looking for something to give him to wipe his nose.

"It was not a threat, you asshole! I was just telling you what was going to happen. I have things to do later! How the hell am I supposed to go like this?"

"Don't worry, I can do your makeup."

"Shut the fuck up and open the door."

"No, listen to me first. I'm worried about him too but Chan is NOT the type to listen when it comes to him. Trust me, I've already tried."

"We've had to pick him up three times and Lee Know other two because he doesn't show up DURING THE WEEK. We're not talking about him partying on weekends, but during the week. At first, I thought I was overreacting, but look what happened today."

Han, Changbin, and Lee Know had a really stormy January, his friend was getting out of control, and what started out as too many drinks ended up being Chan not coming home multiple times and having to be picked up. And it wasn't even that they were overprotective friends, Han barely even noticed what was going on around him, it was that this definitely wasn't the Chan everyone knew. He had always been responsible, too much for someone his age, so he would never worry anyone, and if he didn't get to sleep, in other situations Chan called or at least sent a message; however, that had changed.

Precisely that day was Wednesday, Chan had gone out early on Tuesday and asked Han and Changbin to order something to eat for dinner; however, no matter how much they called him, he did not appear. And that was not the worst, the boy's mother had come to visit and waited for him for several hours. Lying was last on Han and Changbin's list of skills, but as best they could they told the woman something believable as to why her son wasn't showing up. 

The next day, both of them went to train together at the same time they took a look at a street famous for its pubs and that was how they found Chan leaving one of the places with a group of friends they didn't know. Changbin and Han needed no more than seeing how Chan was trying to stay on his foot to know how seriously drunk he was. They practically towed him home and couldn't talk to him because Chan slept all day. Now, it was five in the afternoon and they had heard him cook something. Naturally, Changbin tried to talk to him, but Han insisted that it was not a good idea.

"If you don't want to do it, then let me do it."

"Changbin, don't you remember how he reacted the last time you tried to do it? Excuse me if I want to prevent this house from becoming a battlefield, I don't want to go back to that, Lee Know's not going to receive me in his apartment and I highly doubt that Jaz will."

"Then let's tell Lee Know to talk to him! I'm sure Chan will listen to him."

**********

"Forget it." Lee Know sharply sentenced when his friends had come to his house and asked him to talk to Chan.

Minho didn't even deign to pay them much attention, he kept feeding his cats while the guys begged him to help them.

"It's his life and you don't have to get involved."

"Lee Know, this is getting out of control and you know it. You have gone to pick him up when he has been practically unconscious. I really think we should listen to Changbin this time."

"I've not seen him unconscious, he was just a little wasted and who hadn't?"

"Neither of us" Han and Changbin replied in unison.

"Lee Know, stop downplaying the matter, Chan's also your friend, don't be so careless and indifferent."

"And you don't be so exaggerated."

"Chan has cared more about me than my own family and I'm sure the same applies to you. If it were in my hands, I wouldn't ask you for help, but he won't listen to me. Please cooperate, he won't listen to us and Jaz..."Han's eyes widened at the same time he looked at his friend to shut his mouth right there. 

And if Han's expression wasn't enough, the way Lee Know stood up and turned around, looking at both of them directly, said it all, for Changbin cursed the moment he had spoken.

"Jasmine what?" The photographer asked waiting for him to continue talking.

"Jaz doesn't know what's going on," Han answered quickly before Changbin ruined everything; however, this time his friend was not going to keep anything. 

"If she knew, she would have done something, she wouldn't have let it escalate like this, she DOES care about Chan" 

"I don't get why you make so much drama out of this, let him have some fun, you're not a mother and you're not a saint either, let him alone, Changbin. And if you think Jasmine can do better than any of us, then go, talk to her, I don't give a fuck."

"Dude... chill" Han tried to calm him by patting his shoulders and sending warnings through his eyes to Changbin to change the strategy. "This isn't fun, I don't know what the hell Chan is dealing with, he probably doesn't either, but I'm sure it's serious. He has a lousy sleep schedule and..."

"Chan has always been like this, since we were in school we all knew that he slept little." Lee Know replied. 

"But he didn't party as he does now."Lee Know's indifference was not beneficial at all, for the first time, what Changbin said was true, the boy was right to worry about Bang Chan.

As expected, a tense atmosphere surrounded the three boys. On the one hand, Han and Changbin were wondering what else they could do for the one who had always cared for them; but on the other hand, Lee Know's coping mechanism led him to act cold and disinterested. 

"Sorry, I think I was wrong, I didn't plan to enter a torture room. What the hell is going on here guys?" Jaz asked taking off her coat.

"Changbin's sick." Han responded causing the girl to look up immediately.

"What? Bin, what's wrong, what do you feel?"

The girl quickly approached her friend and as she checked on him like he really was a child, Lee Know thought about how his girlfriend might react if she found out something was up with Chan. It was a selfish way of thinking, yes, but he couldn't help it.

It took a long time for Changbin to convince the girl that everything was fine and that Han was just exaggerating. He thought several times about asking her to talk to Chan, but if he did, that would mean a HUGE problem with Minho and it wasn't what he wanted, so he had to keep quiet. Although Lee Know had said he did not care, everyone knew how jealous he was, mainly after the kiss between Chan and Jaz.

**********

Soon Han and Changbin left, leaving the couple alone. 

"I'm starting to suspect that you're not coming to visit me, but them." Lee Know claimed, as his pets were already sleeping on the girl's lap.

"Well, they fight and complain less than you, that's for sure."

After a pathetic imitation of Jaz, Lee Know sat next to her with the computer on his lap, before everyone got to his apartment, he had been checking out some gallery sales; but now what he had was chaos among so many bills. Trying to find some order, Lee Know started once again with the bills from the previous year. 

"Wait," Jaz asked grabbing his hand when she saw a particular drawing. "Did you sell that one?"

"Yeah, actually, we sold it just after two minutes of posting the pictures. Chan did a great job on that one."

"Who bought it?" Jaz tried to see the name and when Lee Know showed it to her, the girl froze at her place. "That's my father. Chris didn't say anything to me."

"I don't think he knows, Chan hardly takes care of sales. Besides, you said that you don't want to hear from your dad, kitten, why would Chan tell you?"

"Because I painted it."

Lee Know ignored that detail, he thought that the drawing was only Chan's work. Curiously, that piece had caught the photographer's attention, for it was not just that the drawing was excellent, but also that the colors used had shown a wonderful technique. Seeing that the two of them had that kind of chemistry even for painting annoyed him so much that he ended up closing the computer and putting it aside.

"Well, precious, what do you want us to watch today?"

"Will you let me choose? Oh My God! Are you feeling okay?" In response, Lee Know laughed, winked at her, and handed over the controller. To tell the truth, he wasn't in the mood to look at movie options, he was a bit upset and although he didn't accept it, he was also worried about what his friends told him of Chan.

Finally, they had chosen a new anime and as soon as Jaz got comfortable next to him, Lee Know went for a kiss but did no more than touch her face when he moved away.

"Min, don't do that, don't be mean."

"Kitten, you're burning! How did you leave your house like this? I'm going to make you something to eat and I'll walk you home, you need to rest."

"No need, I don't feel anything. I'm fine."

"Don't get your hopes up, they're just leftovers." He lied.

It turned out that he was right, or maybe until that moment she was paying attention to her body, for she soon realized not only that she had a fever, but that she had been coughing all day and that all her body ached. She had been so focused on other things that she hadn't noticed the cold she had caught.

Despite acting cool and pretending he didn't care much, Lee Know secretly did care about her, he even had brushed off his snarky comments. As he promised, he walked her home and within minutes the pills he had given her were working. Seeing her asleep, Minho calmed down a little more and even picked up a few scattered things around the room. That was how he found the umbrella that Jaz's mother had given her. The photographer laughed remembering Jaz talking about it, he also remembered that she had mentioned that her family was embroidered, and when he opened it, he found four figures. He didn't have to look at them for more than a few seconds to know that the fourth figure was Chan.

The boy left the umbrella and was about to leave, but Jaz heard him open the door, and called out to him.

"Are you leaving, cat boy?"

"I think I should."

"Are you afraid that I will infect you?" Jaz asked smiling at him and causing him to do the same.

"It's too late for that, kitten."

"Then why don't you stay?" 

Lee Know closed the door again and after leaving his coat, he lay down next to her. 

"Make room for me and you better take care of me today because I'm going to be VERY sick because of you."

Even though it was obvious that Jaz was the one who was sick, it ended up being Lee Know who got all of her cuddles and caresses that afternoon. Jaz agreed, of course she did, but deep down, she would have liked her boyfriend not to be so self-absorbed, at least for that day.

Already in the evening, when he was about to leave, Lee Know remembered something that Jaz had told him a few days ago. "By the way, are you going to that reunion on weekend?"

"I haven't decided, but I think not."

"Good..." The boy seemed a little calmer, so much so that he went back to kiss her cheek before leaving the apartment.

**********

On Saturday Changbin was home when he saw Chan getting ready to go out.

"Are you taking the car? I think it's not a good idea, last time you couldn't even walk."

"Bro, chill" Chan replied laughing. "I'm not going to a party." The mistrust on Changbin's face forced Chan to explain his plans. "The school has this activity... a class reunion. Afterward, I have dinner with dad, I agreed to see a few things about the family business and he wants me to meet his most important partners."

"Oh wow! Now, that's a surprise! You're already an adult."

Chan showed a shy smile, for he felt kind of weird assuming part of his family's business. But after thinking about it a lot and talking to Jaz's father, he had decided to give himself an opportunity to work with his father, at least try to do it.

"Well, since you know my entire itinerary, can I go? Or is there anything else you want to know?" He asked as he opened the door.

"Let me know when you got there !" Changbin yelled. "And call me after the dinner!"

To be continued... 🐺

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