#a red ink day! until three thirty!!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drawn Together 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, obsession, intimidation, and other dark elements.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You get a tattoo on an impulse to break your routine, but you walk away with something else as permanent as the ink.

I saw this and had to

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You are not a rebel. You are clean cut. You live within very precise boundaries. Minimizing every part of yourself to evade notice. Rules are not meant to be broken, despite that old cliche.

That is until that day. It's foolish, you know it. That voice in the back of your head repeats your foreboding. You know you can't go back. There isn't a magic eraser for this one.

Shut up.

You're over it. Over yourself. Over your boring life. You've never done one fun thing for just yourself. It's always been what has to be done. What must be done. You're thirty years old and you don't even know if you understand the concept of 'fun'.

You sit on the leather bench. Nervous and shaky as hell. There's still time to change your mind. You can take your deposit and go, with clean untainted skin.

No! You're not going to chicken out this time. You want one memory that doesn't end in you tucking tail and running.

"Do you like the sketch?" Sam, your assigned artist asks.

You glance over at him as he pulls on a pair of black gloves, his gun laid out and sterilised. You peek at the open sketchbook, the drawing of a simple red poppy outlined in black with a thick spiraled green stem. Nothing too big or extravagant, easy to hide. If your mother or father ever saw that, you would be excommunicated.

"I love it," your voice quavers and you clear your throat, "I'm sorry, I'm just a little anxious."

"That's fine. First time, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I don't even have piercings," you give a brittle chuckle, "I'm not really the adventurous type."

"I'm sure you are in your own way," he grins, a look that calms you. "So, we still set on ankle?"

"Um, yeah, I think that's good."

"As good a starting place as any. Glad I talked you off the ribs. Those are tender."

"Just an idea," you breathe, "I don't know much about these things."

"Not to worry, you're in good hands," he winks, "you can just relax," he rolls his stool to the foot of the bench, "and pop your leg up here."

"Right," you gulp down another chest full of air and follow his direction, "that's it?"

"And keep still. Tell me if you need a break. The pains a bit much at times so don't be afraid to speak up."

"Okay, sounds good," you try to settle in but your blood feels thick and your vision speckles with silver. Oh god, you're really going to do this.

"Don't hold your breath," he says, "really, I don't like my canvases passing out."

"Sorry."

"It's okay, you want something to drink before we start?"

"No, I'm good."

"Awesome," he says and grabs his gun, double checking the tip before moving back to your ankle. "Alright, I'll count down so you're not too surprised."

"Thanks," you fold your hands over your stomach as he positions your leg and bends forward.

He counts from three and you focus on not moving at the first stab of pain. Don't be a weak bitch. You grit your teeth and let out your breath as the gun buzzes loudly. The pain keeps a steady sear in your skin but you slowly get used to the sensation.

As he works, your eyes wander along the dark red walls and the artwork hanging all around. Tattoos in colour and black and white. The schematics of a tattoo gun. A falcon crest wrought in brass.

You hear the door open and the smoky voice of the other artist, Nat greets the newcomer you can't see past the pillar. The response is a deep, rocky timbre. You can only imagine the inked up brute behind it.

"Always with the notes," you hear a paper crinkle, "I'm the artist here, Rogers."

"Hey, I'm an artist too," the man counters lightly.

You peek over as the redhead woman appears on the other side of the pillar and guides her client through to her open workspace. An open curtain drapes against the wall at the other end of the shop. She sets down the page and tuts as she looks it over.

The man slides off a pair of dark sunglasses, black lenses with golden frames. He slips them into the pocket of his denim jacket and tugs at the sleeves. Their actions seem to be routine and you can see why. His arms are covered from wrist to shoulder in ink, a few smaller tattoos on his knuckles. Now you really feel out of place. 

"Sam, what's up?" The other client calls over as he hangs the denim on the coat rack.

"What's it look like, Steve?" Sam says, his eyes not leaving your ankle.

You take in the interaction silently. You're a stranger among the usuals. The poser getting their taste of artificial danger. Your ankle tweaks and you smother a grunt between your teeth. The noise catches the blue eyes of the man, Steve.

You quickly avert your eyes back to Sam and knot your fingers together. Steve's shadow moves away. The artist at your bench hardly seems bothered but gives a shake of his head.

"You want the curtain?" Natasha asks as she approaches the black drapes.

"Nah, you know I don't care."

Your eyes flick up as the man peels off his tank top. Wow. You blink rapidly and make yourself act normal. 

He lowers himself onto the leather seat as Natasha takes out her tools and starts sterilising. You once more force your attention back to Sam's careful work. It's going to take a while.

"You good?" He asks as he glances over, lifting the gun from your skin.

"Great," you murmur in an airy voice.

"Still nervous?"

"No, actually, kinda excited," you try not to speak too loud, overly mindful of the other client in the shop.

"Good," he hunches again and you suck in as he put the needle back to your skin. "So, what do you do? When you're not getting sick tats, that is?"

"Um, I, er, I teach. Music lessons."

"Music, huh? You seem like… the drummer type."

"Piano," you correct him, "I can carry a beat–" you pause to check the pain in your voice, "but I mostly teach piano."

"Classy," he remarks, "so, a poppy, any particular meaning to that?"

"Er, no, uh," you rub your neck nervously but make yourself quit moving, "it's my favourite flower."

"Pretty sombre fave but I get it," he remarks.

"Yeah, I guess…"

Your attention is drawn at the soft slap of skin and the rattle of metal. You look up as Steve retracts his hand and Natasha points at him with a sharp nail, "this is a sterile workspace."

He chuckles at her irritation and shows his palms before he sits back. He rolls his shoulders as he leans casually and twiddle his fingers against his jeans. Once more, your eyes meet and his mouth slants slightly. You gulp and look down again.

"So, any ideas for a second piece?" Sam asks.

"I think I'm gonna stick with one."

"Not gonna get a full bouquet?" He wonders.

"Not yet."

"Better get cozy, Rogers," Natasha says.

You look up as she sprays shaving foam onto his chest.

"You know this is my second home," he teases as he relaxes and she spreads the cream.

"Don't remind me," she grumbles as she takes a razor.

You tear away from your distraction once more. Gosh, it is painful. You don't know how people end up like him. Your tiny little flower will be more than enough for you.

You close your eyes and groan. Sam rests his hand on your calf. He squeezes as he pauses again.

"Need a break."

"No, keep going," you puff out.

You grip the side of the leather bench and bite down. You've always been a big baby. You bat away the gloss of tears threatening to confirm that and take another breath.

The subtle creak of leather pulls your gaze back across the room. Steve leans slightly around to see you past Nat as she shaves one side of his chest. You grimace and hide beneath your lashes.

Why is he looking at you like that? It must be amusing, someone like you in a place like that. Now you know this is definitely a mistake.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #drabble series #mcu #marvel #captain america #sam wilson #natasha romanov #au #tattoo au

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Hey, Sunshine 💙

A/N: Wishing the happiest birthday to my beloved @sunshinesdaydream!

Pairing: Hardcase x Reader (GN; Reader has a nickname)

Rating: T but minors DNI as always

Wordcount: 1.1k

Warnings and tags: fluff; kissing; Star Wars swearing

Summary: Hardcase has a birthday surprise for you.

Suggested listening:

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

Three hours, twenty-two minutes, and thirty-seven seconds. 

That's how long you had left until you'd officially be on shore leave. A whole week off. No handing out uniforms; no listening to sheepish explanations about how exactly a trooper ended up with an undersuit three sizes too small (HOW?!); no defending your distribution numbers in pointless meetings with your supervisor. Just five days, all to yourself. You could do anything you wanted. 

Well. Almost anything.

You finished taking stock of the Resolute’s uniform inventory and sent a quick comm to the supply officer to let her know the ship was running low on socks—again—while you tried not to think about a certain heavy gunner with the sweetest eyes and the prettiest ink in the GAR. The truth, which you would never admit even under pain of torture, was that you'd happily skip shore leave if it meant you'd get to spend more time with him.

But you couldn't, so you didn't.

Instead, you'd be spending the week on Coruscant, NOT with Hardc—your friends, which was FINE. It was absolutely FINE, and you were excited to finally have some free time, and maybe it sucked just a tiny bit that you'd be spending your birthday alone in a hotel room in the mid-levels, but it was FINE. There was plenty to do on Coruscant, after all. You were sure you'd be able to find something—

“Hey, Sunshine.”

You shrieked and jumped in surprise as the voice sounded close behind you.

“Hardcase, you scared the kark out of me!” you gasped, smacking him in the chest with a compression suit and doing your best to ignore the way the world suddenly seemed a little bit brighter. “What are you doing here? Don't tell me you lit your dress uniform on fire again.”

“That was two times!” he exclaimed, affronted. “It's not like I did it on purpose.”

“Then why are you here instead of getting ready to paint the Entertainment District red?”

He eyed the compression suit warily. “If I tell you, are you going to hit me with that thing again?”

“Depends on what you say,” you replied with a cheeky smile.

Apparently unwilling to take any chances, he took the suit from you and folded it neatly, then set it aside. When he turned back to you, he looked almost… nervous? That was new; you'd never seen him display anything less than well-deserved confidence. He licked his lips, and with an effort so heroic that you mentally awarded yourself a medal, you kept your gaze steadily on his eyes instead of staring at his mouth.

“I, uh, have something for you,” he said. He fumbled in one of his many pouches—why do they have so many pouches?—and produced a small box wrapped in colorful flimsi. “It's nothing much, just, er—happy birthday, Sunshine.”

He shoved the box toward you and looked away quickly. Surprised, you accepted the gift and examined it curiously as Hardcase watched out of the corner of his eye. On closer inspection, you saw that the flimsi was covered in hand-drawn geometric patterns in your favorite colors, and your heart gave a strange little thump at the thoughtfulness and effort he'd put in.

“How’d you know my birthday was coming up?” you asked.

“I have my ways,” he said in a dignified tone that was utterly subverted by the eager expression on his face.

“So mysterious!” you laughed.

He grinned. “A mystery, wrapped in an enigma—”

“Shrouded in flimsi,” you finished.

“Exactly. Now open it!”

“But the mystery!” you teased.

“Mysteries are meant to be solved. Open it!”

He was practically vibrating, his earlier jitters obliterated by anticipation. Unable to resist tormenting him (just a little, as a treat), you took your time to unwrap the box, painstakingly avoiding tearing the flimsi. Once you had it completely unwrapped, you held up the flimsi and admired the artwork.

“Hardcase, this really is gorgeous. I didn't know you could draw like this.”

“Kriff the flimsi, open the box! I know you're doing this on purpose.”

With one final, mischievous smile, you complied. Your breath caught when you saw what was inside: a simple cord necklace, and on it, a crystal pendant that flashed purple and green in the light, intricately wrapped in silver wire.

“It's beautiful,” you whispered. “Did you make this?”

He nodded. “I found the crystal on Saleucami. Reminded me of you.”

“Saleucami was months ago,” you replied, confused.

“I know.” 

Your eyes flitted from his face to the necklace and back again. On impulse, and before you could lose your nerve, you asked, “Can you help me put it on?”

He didn't reply, but he stepped closer to you and picked up the necklace. He fumbled with the clasp a bit and paused to tug off his gloves with his teeth. Once he got the clasp open, he lifted the necklace and fastened it gently around your neck, his calloused fingers ghosting lightly over your skin.

Maker, he smells so good, it's not kriffing fair, you mused, trying to refrain from huffing him like glue.

“Thanks.” Your voice sounded suspiciously hoarse, even to your own ears.

His thumb stroked softly down the side of your neck.

“Hey, Sunshine?” he whispered.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded. “Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath stuttered to a halt. “... Yeah.”

His eyes dropped to your lips, and he slowly closed the distance between the two of you. As his hand slid around to cup the back of your head, your heart hammered so hard you were sure he must be able to feel it. He glanced back up at your eyes, as though looking for confirmation that you wanted this, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him. His lips touched yours softly, his kiss achingly tender at first. Then you brushed the tip of your tongue against his lips, and he drew in a sharp breath, pulling you tightly against himself.

How many times had you imagined kissing Hardcase? Dozens? Hundreds? It didn't matter, because none of them even came close to the reality. He kissed you like you were the only being in the galaxy, like you were his entire world. When at last you drew away, breathless and dizzy, he whispered your name—your real name—like a plea, quiet and reverent.

His thumb traced around the shell of your ear. He nuzzled your cheek, then pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth one more time.

“Been wantin’ to do that forever,” he murmured against your skin.

“What took you so long?” you asked in a hushed tone.

“Didn't want to kark it up,” he replied. 

“Oh,” you whispered. “Well. You didn't.”

He held you close to him, his breath soft and warm across your face as his fingertips drew tiny circles in the downy hairs just where the back of your neck met your head. After a moment, he spoke quietly.

“Did you have plans for shore leave? Because if not, I have a few ideas.”

---

Looking for more Hardcase fluff? Check out my ficlet, “A Question of Seman-dicks.”

Taglist:

@secondaryrealm @sev-on-kamino spicy-clones @wings-and-beskar @523rdrebel @merkitty49 @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @arcsimper5 @starrylothcat @clio3kantarella @cloneloverrrrr @goblininawig @ladytano420 @arctrooper69 @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @mandos-mind-trick @littlemissmanga @stunkbiggu @starqueensthings @clonemedickix @marierg @idontgetanysleep @moonlightwarriorqueen @dudewhynotthis @sleepycreativewriter @tcwmatchmakingau @littlemissbshine @multi-fan-dom-madness @heavenseed76 @wizardofrozz @bobaprint @sweetcream-coldfoam @banksys-rat @skellymom @pickleprickle @trixie2023 @mythical-illustrator @dickarchivist @cw80831 @kimiheartblade @meredithroseg @flyiingsly @lightwise @swcowgal @reader6898 @cdblake1565 @epicy0n

#clone trooper hardcase #hardcase x reader #tcw hardcase #the clones wars #star wars #tcw fanfic #star wars fanfic #i wrote this instead of sleeping #dystopicjumpsuit writes #Spotify

[amillieaway]

prompt: that hurts

They break up in the middle of dinner.

Maybe at a restaurant Granger would have avoided a scene, but because they were staying in, yet again, and because Draco insisted on it, she takes full liberties in unleashing hell upon him.

At one point plastic cutlery and teriyaki-stained wooden chopsticks are airborne. Later, when Draco undresses, he finds a rice noodle in the buttonhole of his blazer. And for the grand finale, shards of his great-aunt’s vase become a mosaic on his foyer floor, once valued at some fifteen thousand galleons. Now, worthless.

She’ll be back, he thinks, quite confidently. He experienced a similar rockiness when he dated Pansy. They broke up and got back together at least every other fortnight.  

A day goes by.

Three, five, ten—and nothing.

Fine, Draco relents, he’ll write to her.

It’s a fine letter. Bottomless black squid ink, proof-read four times, eloquently expressing that he misses her, that he’s sorry they haven’t been together in public places and, if she’s willing to hear him out, he’ll take her out for a proper meal. She can even tip-off the Daily Prophet if it pleases her.

She doesn’t reply.

Draco grows irritable. He begins to resent her a little.

Once, before the war destroyed his reputation, any girl would have been thrilled Draco Malfoy was giving her the time of day. He was good-looking. He was wealthy. His family was connected to top politicians and moguls in the Wizarding World. He was Slytherin’s Seeker. She would have been lucky to date him.

So what, they haven't been out in public after a couple months of dating? That gives her no right to give him the cold shoulder and act like they never knew one another.

To hell with her.

Days pass, and Draco is gutted. Wrecked.

Her absence hurts and hurts and hurts.

He catches himself staring out into space at odd moments. Over a bowl of soggy cereal, trying to remember what her hair smelled like. Peach? Pear? Wiping the same spot on the window for five minutes, knowing it’s Sunday, and somewhere on the other side of town, she must be cleaning her flat too.

He caves and writes to her once more.

This time, with more apologetic and less arrogant undertones.

Radio silence.

He knows she’s receiving them because he prodded gossip out of Blaise who lives with Pansy who bumped into Potter at a party, and Potter drunkenly blurted out that ‘your douchy friend Malfoy’s still trying to win Hermione back. She needs to forget that wanker, if you ask me.’

Well nobody asked you, Potter, thank you very much.

And so Draco spirals a little.

He sends fifty-three bouquets to her office. One for each day they were together. When he hears nothing, he follows it up with fifty-three cauldron cakes. When that proves no bueno, he hires a mariachi band to follow her around the Ministry, singing cheery love ballads. He’s given them express instructions to perform until she visits him.

That should prove he’s more than okay with everyone knowing they’re together. He doesn’t care. All he needs is Granger back. Because-because—

“I miss you,” he says when she Apparates into his office precisely thirty-seven minutes after he unleashed the mariachi band upon her, holding out longer than he expected.

She’s red in the face, shoulders bunched up to her ears, eyes blazing, pointing a finger at his chest. “You are the most infuriating, conceited, over-the-top…”

“I miss you,” he repeats, speaking over her as he rounds the desk to meet her on the opposite side.

“…PRAT I have ever had the misfortune…”

“I miss you so much.” He has her shoulders, forcing them down a little, pressing his thumbs right where he knows she needs it most, watching delightfully as they liquify even as she’s going on.

“…encountering and when I’m done with someone, Draco, I am DONE…”

“I need you back, Hermione.” He draws his palms down her arms, grabbing her hands and pinning them to his chest when she tries to swat him away.

“…and I refuse to date anybody who’s even slightly ashamed of where I come from…”

“I love everything about you.”

And that about does it.

Granger stands there, mouth agape, no more screaming. She drops her gaze to her hands, splayed open on his chest, realising, perhaps, how close they are. Feeling, maybe, how her presence alone turns Draco on. Seeing, hopefully, the authenticity in his gaze.

“You… you…”

“I love you,” he says, prepared. “I’m sorry you had to leave before I realised it.”

“Harry says I need to forget you.” She’s staring at his lips now, making no effort to step away.

“Potter’s a wanker.”

She frowns, but doesn’t seem angry. Her eyes grow distant, lost in thought.

He waits.

When her focus resurfaces, she's watching his lips again, heat creeping into her irises. “Kiss me on two conditions.”

“One?” he asks, heart racing.

“We tell everybody.”

Her breath is warm on his skin. Deliciously close. “And two?”

“You never send anything to my work ever again.”

It’s the sweetest deal he’s ever made.

xx

#dramione #dramione drabble #amillieaway #draco x hermione #draco malfoy #hermione granger

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #3: The Ink on Your Soul

Prompt: reclamation (free write!) || Master Post || On AO3

Essentially a followup to some of the aftermath of "The Long Road Home" from last year's FFXIV Write.

--

The first tattoos that Synnove has restored, once she’s deemed healthy enough to handle it, are the most important: her clan marks.

Oh, her arcanima sleeves and her compass rose style backpiece will be redone, in time, but her clan marks? They are as integral to her identity as her own name.

This is one of the few ways in which the House Greywolfe—like its progenitor House Wolfe—is traditionalist: for every new member of the family, the matriarch will pick a set of marks for them to wear in the house color. Rohesia had been a Greywolfe by marriage, but that still made her head of the family by Greywolfe custom, and it had been she who had chosen the marks Synnove bore all her life, she who had first applied them in a mix of pigment and clay on her forehead and nose when Synnove was but a few days old.

For those Gyr Abanians who still follow the practice of clan marks, the paint is usually enough. But at sixteen, one was allowed to have the marks permanently tattooed into their skin, should they so choose. And that was what Synnove had chosen.

In those first days of consciousness after the aversion of the Final Day, standing in a Sharlayan hospital bathroom and seeing her reflection in the mirror, Synnove had not recognized her own face.

It was fortunate that it had been Aunt Angharad who was with her at the time; Synnove had frozen, eyes going too-wide and pupils dilating into pinpricks, a violent tremble overtaking her at the sight of her strange, blank skin, unable to speak. Galette’s shriek of alarm was what had her aunt skidding into the room, and the older woman had taken one look at her, gone pale, and immediately turned to fetch a tin of her own facepaint. Auntie usually wore only her Redclawe marks, but Grandmother had chosen a set of Greywolfe ones for her upon her marriage to compliment her birth ones, and Auntie’s paint tin contained both red and grey pigments. It wasn’t until Auntie had drawn Synnove’s marks onto her skin for her that Synnove had finally calmed down.

But she wouldn’t feel wholly at home in her own skin again until the marks were permanent.

So today she is laying on her back in Atheleys Wyght’s workroom in Limsa Lominsa, patiently waiting while the old tattoo mistress mixes the pigments that would be embedded in her skin.

Synnove had lain on this same table when she was sixteen and Atheleys’s hair was black streaked with white rather than white streaked with black. Atheleys herself hadn’t originally been a full-time tattoo mistress in the old Gyr Abanian tradition, but she had been a member of a large mercenary company wintering in Limsa Lominsa when Ala Mhigo had fallen to the Garleans and like many of her fellow sellswords, had decided to take up other work in her new home. She worked strictly in Gyr Abanian styles—clan marks and battle honors and skin stories—and strictly with mallet and hafted needles made of adamantoise shell. Most would assume her clientele would be limited, but Synnove wasn’t Atheleys’s first customer to return with skin made bare from an overflow of conjury so potent it made no distinction of what perceived flaws to heal.

Finally, Atheleys leans over her, holding a piece of wood wrapped in leather in her hand, one bushy white eyebrow raised. Synnove shakes her head; she had needed it when she was sixteen, biting down hard in a futile attempt to distract herself from the pain, but now, at nearly thirty-three?

She’s known worse.

Atheleys sets the bit aside and picked up the haft; Synnove feels the points of the adamantoise needle settle on the bridge of her nose.

Synnove takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly but steadily. Atheleys brings her mallet down on the haft, and pain explodes in the middle of her nose, radiating out into the rest of her face through the bone.

The outlines first, first the nose mark and then the curving dot on her forehead, the radiating pain causing her head to throb despite the willowbark tea she had drunk upon arriving. As she had when she was sixteen, Synnove thinks a prayer to her grandmother in thanks for granting her a distinctive but small set of clan marks. Not for long, though, for Atheleys hums as she works, a wordless Gyr Abanian tune that soon has Synnove drifting into a mediative state, even when the tattoo mistress begins to shade in the outlines and the sharp, piercing pain is replaced by constant scraping in its stead.

It still has nothing on being nearly gutted by a sword.

Synnove is brought back to full awareness when the sting of witch hazel swipes across her brow and down her nose, and she blinks once, twice, a third time to focus her gaze on Atheleys’s own. The tattoo mistress wears satisfaction like a mantle.

She takes a moment to let her body settle, the pain fading into a dull throb across her face, then pushes herself slowly, carefully, upright. The room swims for a moment after being so long on her back, but she gives herself the time to calm. Once it does, she swings her legs over the side of the table to sit on its side. And in doing so, face the mirror on the opposite wall.

Synnove stares at herself. She’s still too thin, her skin still a washed out brown rather than a healthy bronze, her dark brown hair—no dye, it’s been too troublesome to keep applying during her convalescence—still mostly brittle and prone to breaking in ways that frustrate her attempts to put it in a proper set of braids. Recovery is still a long road before her.

But there is grey is on her forehead, and across the bridge of her nose. Despite the enflamed skin around her clan marks, her face is hers once more.

Synnove smiles.

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#ffxivwrite2023 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #oc: synnove greywolfe #dt's writing #yes hi hello it's me dt that bitch who given an inch takes a mile to worldbuild #NO REGRETS #man i have been sitting on this particularly bit of worldbuilding for y e a r s

[docnoctem]

(I don't really know how to introduce this, nor have I really posted my writing on this blog in many, many years-- but it is so removed from the fandom writing I've done that I can't see how it fits there.)

Some personal writing below the cut, very rough, very uncertain in what it is besides an exercise in addressing insecurities. I haven't really ever written in this sort of style, nor kept a diary in my life, so it's nothing fully expanded or polished. Just, er, something. Trying to make myself work through a very long rut, I suppose.

the divine feminine as the bizarre feminine, or: an ode to & from the weird girl

/

When I’m thirteen, I hold tightly onto her left hand while he is in her right. We sit catty-corner against the edge of his mattress, my knees facing the bedroom door. She turns her shoulders away from him fully and tells me she’s scared, and I don’t know that she shouldn’t be, because I’ve never sat where she’s sitting now; I say instead that it’s alright, that we can leave if she wants to. Whether I want to goes unspoken, lost somewhere in the din beyond the door.

In the early evening she and I are drinking frozen cokes from the general store, in mere hours children again, and she says “I’m glad you were with me.” Only then will we whisper conspiratorially about how I was afraid too, laughing soft so her parents don’t hear, even though I did nothing except count her fingers with my thumb and steal looks between her twisting mouth and the hair tucked behind her ear. It won’t occur to me until I retell this story at thirty-one how strange it sounds, and I’ll leave off the warmth her words gave me deep in my stomach. I’m glad you were with me. In that gratitude, it becomes girlish bonding, and girlhoods bound.

/

When I’m sixteen, she is a different she; over five, eight, twelve years, she will change faces many times.

In this skin, she is adored; blonde and sloe-eyed, suited to a tiara, her world manic and bright. I have never seen her alone– at least, this is the image of her I carry. She is too good for me. She, in so many skins to follow, will be too good for me.

One day, in the family’s orange-wood kitchen, her mother will call me her daughter’s weird friend. In the moment, I tuck it away. I might even smile, like clay pulled into a funny shape, or maybe I pretend not to hear, asking instead if I can wear her skirt tonight, if I can be her for a while. I am still too young to be wounded in ways that can be seen; in acknowledging it, I would give life to the way it felt. And I cannot picture a more wretched, futile thing living than the thing inside of me.

Little by little though, these stolen gasps of oxygen as its head nears the surface will give it shape, give it breath, give it teeth. My Weird becomes something so ugly, red-raw and pulsing like an organ. What was once abstract becomes something more animal; from here onward, it will bite in me.

/

When I’m eighteen, I come to understand that the weird girl can only ever be an accessory.

It’s my birthday, and a fabled one: the sort you turn to a forever-day commemorated in tattoo ink. I want something revealing of my then-bookish heart, brazenly uncool, but the curved writing is too intricate to read in the small space I’ve allowed myself. Terrified of wasting the day, of disappointing, of loosening my grip on a fantasy, I instead choose something easy, something impersonal. It is permanent all the same.

She has two bodies now. They will leave with matching tattoos. A decade on I imagine we’ve each grown to think differently of our markings, but that night they went arm-in-arm to bed singing. By dark, I was in my car alone.

This will be a theme when she comes in threes and fours and sixes and eights; the weird girl is a silvery party hat for the drunken chorus at midnight, but she is never the dress, never the coat, never the foundation you build your day around. She’s a bit of tinsel in your hair for a laugh, for a memory you wish to pack full and paint in technicolor for flattery, but she is not a favorite shirt worn threadbare and known. I am lucky to glitter your eyelids and to perfume your skin, and at dawn I’ll be bumped inch by inch to the back of the drawer again.

/

When I’m twenty-six, she makes me write. She’s lived in a world so far from my own– a world of hard-won successes, an uncompromised mind and sharp tongue that turns self-deprecation to charm, not least of all because it is so observably untrue. She keeps her hair shorn close to the scalp, and tells me her mother didn’t perform love like women on film do. And she writes. Between afternoons of more weight than a year in my life amounts to, she writes; there is never a question of time to the willful, for there are always spare minutes in the day occupied by lesser needs like breathing, or resting, or sitting alone with a terrible thought.

She is the sharp and gilded end of Weird, where I sit dulled and dulling. I tell her plainly that she makes me feel small, but that I love all that she is; it is so earnest a thing to say that within the sea of words she’s penned that month, she shies from finding those few. Maybe she just wouldn’t mean them, I fear. She tells me she feels ill when she cries. I cry so often.

For a few years, I write. She is matching me, then doubling me, then rounding her tenth lap while I stare hard at the page. I want to be fruitful but instead I curl my fingers into fists, press the tips together until my nails bend. I stand in the kitchen light, awash in cold-white and buzzing overhead, and I watch the potatoes sprouting eyes in their basket. It feels as if I haunt my life; girl and ghost, separated by use to the world. That divide grows wider day by day. Her basket, it seems to me, is overflowing with fruit.

My Weird gnashes its ugly teeth again then. I think to myself that I cannot be happy, but it is not a pitiable, romantic thought– not the whimper of some helpless thing drawn out between the heavier hands of the world– rather, so long as I steer, I have made happiness into a needfully elusive thing. I define life by what mine isn’t. This awareness gives strength, but not strength enough to defang my Weird.

#writing

[kuraikyu]

@digenvez : It's a bold move to make --- Reaching out for his friend. Carefully, nearly gingerly, using his hand to cradle the other's chin, a benign touch that could be brushed off and pulled away from if wanted and demanded. " Hey. " It had been incited by the sadness he had worn all day in his eyes, by that untold little story, singing out in a discordant tone only between the both of them when fingers brush along Suguru's jawline. Aside from the soft call, there was nothing else, just this certainty of I'm here.[ teen satoru and suguru <3 ]

Rings under sunken eyes laminated by dark circles grew with worries unbefitting of his age. A silk ladder unrolled across the ivy wanderlust of each other's limitations. Suguru himself was not weary in hardships of body but shadows of his mind.

The familiarity of the sound rings hollowly in still tapestry of his arduous dreaming. The strongest and egotistical by definition in a tough position, would hold no caution counsel in dealings with his best friend. Yet, here was the other one, engulfed by silence of campus, sitting and staring how spilled ink soaked into notepad pages with glassy eyes and perception deeply absent; compounded guilt and ruin that have fallen beneath notice. Time itself had become irrelevant; tens of seconds could have been hours, hours mere seconds. Why Sorcerers ignore warnings at their peril? Can't they see that our life would be fleeting as single breath because of ... [ ... ]

That one stupid word regarding primates of this society haunted his mind like Baskerville hound. Unfortunately, it was not only sadness that day. Did he really think Satoru would not notice, his stands apart from the rest, how every now and then his eyes drift into direction of the unknown and without aim or focus, nervous finger drumming against the table surface, reading more than thirty minutes one sentence of a short poetry book? And those periodically violent shifts in his cursed energy whenever he was alone? Wordplay without surrounding consonants. There are two syllables in water and three in inferno, he thirsted for the first while fusing himself with the latter but he would not weep for the need of it. Such a theatre of absurdity it made his stomach twist and turn. Near to choking on self-produced venom, day by day his inner darkness was growing teeth, searching for a target to sink them in without truly understanding or acknowledging such desire. Whatever it was it couldn’t feel pain, yearning, or regret just this eclipse of emptiness he kept falling in endlessly. There was something feral going on within scape of Suguru's energy that day, something that threatened to unleash itself from chains and rip to shreds whenever light and solace would not reach him. The night parade in his core kept perpetually thinking about carnage and craved bloodshed of the unworthy scums. The shower should be soothing and not the other way around. He blamed too much exorcism, too much everything ...

Until his focus was guided away by initiatively secured touch. Hand that roams far afield along the contour line of his jaw sending shivers down his spine. And he follows, cranium titles. There was a mild sense of astonishment expanding in the gloom of Curse eater's eyes where somewhere in their depths, with a flick of sericeous tail a shimmer of hope swims like an ivory beta in the black pool of Yin. Another half is never too far, even to the ends of the earth to complete like an equation and like a missing piece puzzle. They ride though life conjoined - expanding and contracting instinctively, filling each other's spaces liquidly despite spiny conflict. Two halves of insanity - a beginning of terrible brilliance for twisted mirror can not exist by itself.

Bright red quickly darkening, the spider lily coops petals of trickling vices and prepares to slumber, applause echo of invisible collective ceased, every fleeting beat of touch has died safe and warm within attempts of rescue. But even if temporarily so -- was it not a moment worth to mellow in that tender light, calm and reassuring, forget about what gaudy day denies, reject the ends of being, and lean against ideal grace?

Satoru? Early is the hour in which he returns, by the time Geto was long after the shower. Did he say something; something before? He could swear Gojo's lips moved just now but he could not hear anything until his sense of sound returned to the faculty of perceiving.

White portion of the eyes saturated with bloodshot. Awareness perked enough through executing action to reflexively trap firmly his friend's wayfaring wrist within his hand. It was almost harsh; nearly savage, only to manifest another touch the next second with a lighter contact where each could try and pry free if wanted. Persistent fool, he would still try, /attempt/, knowing he should not be around when the binge eater was near at peak of his worst.

A worm gnawing at his subconsciousness manifested once again. Oh, look who shows up. Where were you for so long, hm? ........ Where were you when I needed you the most?

Ah, the Honored One finally minding to pay a visit to his old friend after done safeguarding his new priority; monkeys?! He wanted to coil arms around his stomach, curl, and cackle in hysterical self-derision and romanticization of disgust. But there's a hiss that snakes bitterly past his lips instead. Oh, and that moment and he could have snapped, could have pulled him into ravaging calamity and devoured him, setting the floor ablaze with the impact of destructive turbulence where even divinity would shake itself because he knew Satoru could withstand that, the thought was there, at length of his arm -- rooting deep. One tug was enough to pull them together in a tornado of seeking intensities. But his best friend's eyes ... like cloudless climes and starry skies ... kept looking at him with a sign of worry and reminded him of lost control. Once ravenette fulfilled his sight with prolonged eye contact he seemed relatively calmer, no, much calmer, because, and undeniably foremost he always had this emollient effect on him. Upon his word, faithful puffs of warm breath fell on the brevis of the inner side of Gojo's palm as Geto held him in place until full rotation to face him. Lips on the doorstep to quiver from sucking in a thicker consignment of air till he masters and swallows indescribable emotions, until they vanish and he stands once again with his expression tired just this time indulging in something grander and less destructive. Ocean eyes take him back to the floral shores sweet as May. Like at the edge of the receding glacier, he nodded sagely as a sign of perception and even attempted to charm fragment of a ghosting smile, " I'm sorry, my reflexes must have overreacted due to pounding headache ... did you say something? I probably misheard ... ''

" Must be the weather ... "

Thank you. For being here ... and reminding me (*how) to be better.

#digenvez #!Satoru #Muse: Geto #VERSE (past) : ⑆ㅤㅤㅤcracks in golden seal. #{ H'OH here come duality of his reactions!! Oh yeah one more proof showers at tech are wicked ... and should be investigated. >:| } #{ -indulging in my coffee while pondering what exactly this turned into- I think I just K.Oed myself with feels this early weekend. :'D #{ Anyway here me yeeting you into bin with myself. <3 } #反応‚ㅤ╱ 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 reacted.

[brumaire18]

The making of a new tattoo

Thirty-five years ago I got a tattoo on my shoulder. Back then the way of thinking about tattoos was very different from the way it is today: you would go to a tattoo artist's studio and he would give you a big album full of pictures and decide at the time what you wanted to tattoo. i decided to get a tattoo of a leprechaun with a beard and butterfly wings. I was in my hippie period. Since then the tattoo has always remained on my shoulder and gradually living a life of its own the colors faded and the lines blurred. so it had been a few years since I had decided to cover it up. I thought several times about what I could get tattooed to hide the old one but never had a chance to be faced with the need to think of something real: everything had remained very abstract until now. Until a few days ago, I called a tattoo studio to ask them if they could give me advice. As luck would have it, they were free at the time. I took my bicycle and went to them. I met with a tattoo artist to whom I showed some initial ideas and who told me that everything could be done. But more importantly, he gave me an appointment three days from now. that's how on the impetus of that appointment I began to think about what I really would like to have in place of the tattoo I had on my shoulder. I began frantically searching the Internet for designs and images I liked.

For some time I had been leaning toward geometric and minimalist type tattoos, which are what I like best. So very different from the old tattoo that I had to cover. The best shape to cover the old tattoo was round, and the ideal color to cover is black. the problem, however, was that covering an old tattoo with a black vignette would have made a bit of an impression: all that dark mass would have reminded one from a distance just of a patch. It was therefore necessary to figure out how to lighten that black-filled circle. So I found the first designs, specifically by an artist who has a minimal graphics project called Daily minimalism, which works a lot just on dark circles. So I found dark circles intersected by straight lines that I immediately liked. Also from the same Artist I found the design of two planets one larger and all black and a smaller one appearing behind him half white both intersected by a long straight line and next to them a small planet probably a satellite. I really like science fiction and so that design immediately inspired me. So I added the first design, the one with the black dot intersected by straight lines to the black planet. In this way I lightened both the black planet because of the three straight lines intersecting and by adding a small planet and a satellite and a straight line, so that with only the black dot the tattoo would not look like just a patch. day X was approaching, I therefore decided to start printing the designs I had composed so far with my ink jet printer on transparent paper so that I could see the designs directly applied on my shoulder over the old tattoo. I therefore began to try and try again, but there was something I was not sure about, something missing. The day before the tattoo artist's appointment, while I was taking a bike ride, an inspiration came to me. I had seen some very beautiful designs by an artist named Tycho . they were colorful planets with bands of sloping colors. I had really liked them when I had seen them, but I had put them aside because I was convinced that my tattoo should be black and white.

in a moment of mental clarity while I was pedaling, I asked myself, "what if a little color fit in instead?" Back home, I immediately tried inserting two colored Tycho planets instead of the white planet behind the black one. I immediately liked the result and began to print the two options: the one with the blue-hued planet and the one with the red-orange-hued planet. I also tried, as i had done with the other images, to apply the designs fine-tuned to the photograph taken with my old tattoo to try to get a better sense of how the tattoo would look. After doing these tests, I sent the three designs to the tattoo artist via WhatsApp, who replied, "color?" in fact I had initially told him that I wanted to do a solely black and white tattoo. And he himself later confided in me that it had been years since he had used color: in fact, he specialized in geometric tattoos and mandala-type patterns, exclusively in black and white...

The morning of the appointment I was very nervous, I had not yet actually decided which of the three possibilities I wanted to get a tattoo, and in fact I was not even convinced that I wanted to get this tattoo. In the three days that separated me from the appointment at the tattoo studio I asked all my friends and all my family which of the options I had thought of they liked best. In short, I did a kind of extended consultation, which eventually helped me make a decision.

Arrived to the tattoo studio I met the tattoo artist for the second time and we began to discuss. I showed him my designs and asked him for information. He was very kind and patient, reassured me and told me that he liked the designs. I taught initially that we can do the tattoo in two sessions: in the first one draw only the circle intersected by straight lines and in the second one add the other two planets and the straight line. He, however, convinced me to do everything together by telling me something I had been thinking about: that only the black vignette intersected by the straight lines would simply look like a cover, a kind of patch on my shoulder. Instead adding the two planets would have looked like a tattoo, a more organic design. At that point I made up my mind and said okay let's do it. He elaborated on the designs I had sent him on his iPad and from those to made stencils with which he showed me the result directly on my shoulder.

We decided on the best location for the drawing and at that point he started to prepare the machine, the needles and the black color. Having done all this he turned on the machine and told me "have a good tattoo" and started drawing. I began to relax and enjoy: what is done is done. Within two hours it was all over and I didn't even have any pain, just a tingling and sometimes a little more painful sensation but nothing unbearable, on the contrary.

During the session, Marcelo (the tattoo artist) had an idea: why not blur two of the triangles created by the lines intersecting the black planet, so as to make it even less visually prominent? And so we did.

I am very happy with the result, and most of all I am very happy that I finally decided to do it. The important thing for me was to completely reverse the mode that had led me to tattooing more than 30 years ago, with a random and totally unthought-out choice. So I wanted to be the one to decide the shape and appearance of my tattoo and for it not to be something randomly chosen from an album or the Internet, and for there to be something of my own in the design. And so it was.

The nicest compliment I received was from the tattoo artist who told me: "your tattoo design is very modern, I like it very much. Here in this studio I see mostly very old and uninteresting designs pass by".

Thanks to Marcelo, who with a firm hand and gentleness accompanied me in this little adventure.

From the pictures I posted, you can follow some of the steps that led to the final result.



#tattoos #design #minimalism #geometric

[laejoh]

(Math) Exercise, Dividers Of Theoden

College & University | Learning | April 4, 2013

(We’re taking a calculus final. The TA is a well-known Lord of the Rings fan, and we’ve had running LotR jokes all semester.)

TA: “Okay, guys, everyone look at me. We’ve been over the rules, but just in case: no notes, pencil your answers in on the scantron sheet, and graphing calculators only – no more ‘can I just used my cell phone’ nonsense.”

Student: “[TA’s name], my calculator batteries just died! What should I do?”

TA: “Here, I’ve got a big box of spares.”

Student: *struggling* “I can’t get this packaging open…”

Student 2: “Here, I’ve got a pocket knife.”

TA: “And I’ve got a pair of scissors if you need them.”

Student 3: *from the back of the room* “OR MY AXE!”

(Everyone starts laughing.)

TA: “The only axes allowed on the exam are in the graph section.”

(Everyone groans.)

TA: “Oh, come on, you’re in a math class. Deal with the math jokes.”

(The professor enters with a stack of exams. With him are two exam proctors.)

Professor: “Tolkien jokes already, [TA’s name]?”

TA: “Hey, I didn’t start it.”

(The professor starts handing stacks of exams to the TA and proctors.)

Professor: “But I’m about to finish it. [TA], take these exams down the left flank. [Proctor 1], follow the desks down the center. [Proctor 2], take your exams right, along the wall.”

(At this point, many of the students have realized where this is going: Theoden’s lines from ‘Return of the King.’)

Professor: “Forth, and fear no problems! Solve! Solve, students of calculus! Points shall be taken, scores shall be splintered! A pencil day! A red-ink day! Until three thirty!”

(The professor pulls out a pencil, holding it out like a sword, and runs down the first row holding it out. Students hold up their pencils, hitting his as he passes.)

Professor: “Solve now! Solve now! Solve to good grades and the class ending! MAAATH!”

Entire Class: “MAAATH!”

Professor: “MAAAAATH!”

Entire Class: “MAAAAAATH!”

Professor: “Forth, exam-takers!”

(The entire class rises to their feet and gives him a standing ovation. A week later, we get an email from the professor.)

Professor: *at the end of the email* “PS: I appreciate all of you who wrote in their evaluations that I was the one professor to rule them all, but the best one yet was the student who called me ‘Mathrandir.'”

#Maaath #Mathrandir #Class #Professor #LotR

[anabsolutetrainwreck]

she plays songs i’ve never heard || h. styles

warnings: references to sex, swearing, mentions of alcohol, harry gets a lil pervy (pls don’t watch your neighbours get dressed), kissing, not proofread properly

word count: 1.8k

summary: when you get a new neighbour and his dog breaks into your garden, it sets off a chain reaction of events that might change your life...

The day he moved into the house next door seemed like a normal day for you. Sure, the sound of him actually moving in had woken you up early. The furniture being moved in through the small front door and the busy workers he’d hired banging about as if it wasn’t 8 in the morning. Begrudgingly, you had pulled yourself out of bed, poured yourself a glass of orange juice and buttered some crisp toast. Toast in hand, you watched from your kitchen window as grumpy Mr Bennet from across the road came out to shout at the new man and the workers. You’d managed to make out something about ‘too early on a weekend to be making that kind of noise’. Rolling your eyes, you went back upstairs to get dressed. 

And that was that. You’d ordered a pizza for lunch and your mother had rung you during the afternoon to catch up. You told her about your new neighbour. And that was that. 

It was, in fact, the day that the tattooed man’s dog broke into your back garden that your life seemed to change. You had been sat in your living room, watching The Sound of Music - a personal favourite of yours. Just as you were preparing to invest three hours of your life into the lives of the von Trapps, there was a loud bang on your door. Huffing quietly to yourself, you climbed off the sofa and left to open the door. And there, on the other side, was the tattooed neighbour. However, his tattoos were covered by a black hoodie but you could see a couple poking out beneath the hoodie’s cuffs. He was wearing shorts, exposing you to the tiny doodles of ink along his legs. His brown curls were hidden beneath a baseball cap. His features were hidden almost entirely in the shadows as it was dark outside and his cap sheltered him from whatever light there was. “Hi?” you said awkwardly. 

“I’m so sorry, but my dog got into your backyard. Do you think you can go and get him for me?” he asked.

You were almost taken aback. Though not entirely sure what you’d expected when being confronted with your tattooed neighbour outside your house, you definitely didn’t expect him to be searching for his dog. You didn’t even know he had a dog. 

You nodded slowly, “Sure. Come in, if you want.”

He thanked you, stepping in before you closed the door behind him. He shuffled awkwardly into the hallway, knocking your coat off the rack. It landed in a heap on the floor. “Shit, sorry,” he said quickly, bending down to pick it up. “Fuck! Sorry for swearing!”

“It’s okay, we’re both adults,” you smiled softly. You moved forward through the house, unlocking the back door. And there, chasing a wasp around the garden, was a small black dog. He wiggled in your arms as you picked him up carefully. You carried him into your house and back to Harry, who you found in the living room. 

The dog licked your face before you place him in his owner’s arms. “Thanks. Sorry for the inconvenience - I know it’s late. I’m Harry by the way.”

He extended his hand for you to shake. “Y/N,” you replied, smiling up at him. 

His grip on your hand was strong and firm. While you’d been away finding his little treasure, Gabriel (named after Peter Gabriel), he’d had a chance to explore your living room. The first time Harry saw you was when he happened to catch a glance of you reading in your back garden in your green shorts and sweater. It had been a hot day and you had a pair of sunglasses pushed up over your head. You looked ethereal with the sun highlighting your skin. From then, he’d tried to time his dog walks perfectly so he’d ‘accidentally’ bump into you on the way out. But, his attempts had come with little success. It was rather fortunate that Gabriel had escaped into your garden. 

He’d actually jumped at the opportunity to come round and meet you in person. After all, he only knew your name because his other neighbour, Edna, had told him a bit about you after he asked. And when you’d invited him in, he was ecstatic. He couldn’t help but wander into your living room. He noticed The Sound of Music paused on your tv, wondering if he’d get to watch it with you one day. Maybe you’d exchange favourites -  he’d watch The Sound of Music and you’d watch The Notebook. He then noticed a stack of books on the coffee table, with everything from Cervantes’ Don Quixote to Murakami’s Norwegian Wood. Your current read, Sally Rooney’s Normal People, was being held open by the tv remote. He wanted to ask what you thought of Norwegian Wood, after all, it was one of his favourites. But he refrained. 

There was a glass of wine on a coaster, a half-eaten bowl of cheese pasta beside it. The room was littered with lovely plants -  some were hanging down from shelves and others were standing up high beside the sofa. The walls were a soft grey, but they were drowned out by the green of the plants and the subtle pink tones littered throughout the room. “What’s this little guy’s name?” you asked, tickling behind the dog’s ear. 

“His name’s Gabriel.”

“As in Peter?” you asked.

“Yep. You a fan?”

“Who isn’t?” you grinned in response. He knew you were a fan of Peter Gabriel. He’d seen your rack of records in the corner and he’d been gardening a few weeks ago and heard you listening to one of his albums in your own backyard. Upon examining your record collection, he’d noticed some Beatles albums, a bit of Lionel Richie, some Taylor Swift, a few ABBA albums, a sprinkle of Bee Gees and a plethora of Elton John albums. Relatively mainstream, but a mixture nonetheless. 

“Exactly,” he agreed, before gesturing to the wine. “Special night?”

“Huh?” you’d replied.

“The wine?” he responded. 

“Oh,” you laughed, “that’s cranberry juice.”

He flushed bright red as you laughed quietly. You placed a comforting hand on his arm, guiding him out of the room. “I think you’re a bit tired. I guess I’ll see you around then?” you offered a hopeful smile. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, holding Gabriel at arm’s length as the dog tried licking his cheek. “I’d like that.”

“Great,” you smiled, closing the door. “What an odd man.”

You couldn’t help grin to yourself. He was strange, yes, but very kind. You resumed your position on your sofa, taking a sip of cranberry juice, and pressing play on The Sound of Music. What a bizarre evening… 

Come a few days later, Harry found himself busying himself in his bedroom. Gabriel was sat on his bed, barking at Harry as he worked away at his computer, sending emails back and forth to his boss. It was only when he saw your own bedroom light flick on in the corner of his eye. You wandered in, throwing your phone down onto your bed. A white towel was wrapped tightly around your body and your hair was wet and your skin glistening. 

He knew he shouldn’t look. He knew he shouldn’t stare. But he couldn’t help it. He watched as you pulled a silky pyjama set from your dresser. You seemed to examine it briefly before deciding it was good enough. And when you dropped the towel, he knew he was wrong for staring. He knew you’d never speak to him again if you caught his gaze on your naked body. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

You sighed as you stepped into your silk shorts and slipped on the matching shirt. As you finished doing up the buttons, you happened to glance up and catch Harry’s gaze. He’d been staring. Once he realised you’d caught him, he went bright red; redder than when he’d mistaken cranberry juice for wine. You smirked, challenging him to look away. 

When he didn’t avert his gaze, you leaned over to grab your notebook from your desk. Embracing your 2009 Taylor Swift moment, you scribbled down: wanna come over? You laughed as you watched him scramble away from the window and out of his room. 

It was thirty seconds later that you heard his knocking on your door. You dashed down to open it. There he was. Grabbing his hand, you pulled him into your house and up the stairs. And there you were, standing in your bedroom with your tattooed neighbour. “That was super pervy, you know?” you whispered, your faces inches apart. 

“But you’re so beautiful,” he choked out, revelling in the feeling of your hands dancing up his arms. 

“What if I told you I did it on purpose?”

“What?”

“Yeah, what if I left the light on so you could see me? What if I wanted you to stare?”

He couldn’t resist you any longer. He pressed his mouth to your own, pushing your wet hair out of your face. He slipped his attractively large hands under your thighs, lifting you into his arms, only to drop you down onto your bed. You squealed as you hit the soft mattress, laughing as he buried his face in your neck, his fingers fiddling to undo your buttons. And that was that. 

Before you knew it, you were lying beside his naked figure, panting loudly. Both of your bodies were covered in a thin layer of sweat. “That was amazing,” he whispered, rolling over to face you. “You’re amazing.”

You smiled, kissing his nose, “Thanks. I think you’ll find you’re pretty sensational too. I need another shower now, though… wanna join?”

It was just after 11 when Harry left. The night had spiralled in the most perfect way. You switched off your bedroom light, slipping under your soft bedsheets. You were excited for the day to come - you’d asked him if he wanted to come over for a date. He agreed ecstatically. 

The following morning, you woke up as you usually did. You were groggy, unexcited for the uneventful day to come. That was until you remembered your date that night with your tattooed neighbour. Up until 7, you had nothing to do but wait. You watched some episodes of a drama your mother had been raving about. You made yourself a sandwich for lunch. But finally, 6.30 rolled around and you peeled yourself off the sofa to get ready. At 7.02, Harry arrived. He knocked on your door and when you answered, his smile was bright and his eyes were alive with excitement. “Hello,” you grinned until you noticed something behind his back. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

He held out a bouquet of roses, “I got you some flowers… and I brought round a bottle of cranberry juice.”

#harry fanfic #harry fanfiction #harry imagine #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry x you #harry styles oneshot #harry x y/n #harry x reader #harry oneshot

[chemicalpink]

대취타 (DAECHWITA) | EMPEROR!YOONGI X READER | FINAL

Pairing: Emperor!Yoongi x Assassin!Reader

Words: 3.5k

Genre: Emperor AU, Historical AU (kinda), smut, angsty

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of historical public execution, oral sex (male receiving), lowkey breath play, unprotected sex

A/N: FINALLY IT’S HERE. I hope you enjoy, I had a hard time trying to make this not seem lame so here it is! please let me know what you think!

Summary: You used to be an assassin, got caught and works at the palace as a servant up until you are escorted to the main palace, either to meet your inevitable destiny or for a change of plans. 

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Forehead resting against your own as you found yourselves panting, him sliding out as your spasming cunt dripped with both of your releases onto the floor, placing one more soft kiss on your lips with his eyes closed “Marry me”

 You almost sat up with a start. Suddenly the world was bright and hazy. Yoongi had opened his eyes and they were digging like daggers into yours, an unusual look on him. You looked at the emperor apologetically before turning your gaze to the end of the room where there was a pile of books, silently detangling yourself from him.

The silence was deafening.

Then again, who in their right mind proposed marriage while having their cock buried deep inside some assassin turned royal slave. All the same, Min Yoongi wasn’t exactly known for having a right mind. But it wasn’t just the fact that he had proposed seemingly out of the blue, more than it was everything that came with it. The words seemed to tangle themselves inside your brain as you hear him say them over and over again. That he couldn’t think of himself marrying some woman that was inferior to him in mind and spirit. That he had wanted to marry to someone he loved. To think that Min Yoongi had proposed you marriage not in the heat of the moment but fully conscious of his actions would not only mean that he was in it for the great sexual escaped you two regularly went on, but because due to some fucked up mindset the royal had, he believed he could love you. 

Yoongi reached for your hand in an attempt to get your attention, face soft with post orgasmic bliss as he repeated the ill fated words “Marry me, Y/N”

You  snapped out of his hold. “Yoongi I don’t think you understand the situation”

“What is it then, please do enlighten me, Y/N cause from what I understand is me asking for your hand in marriage, twice now” he blinks a few times, looking at you expectantly, crossing his arms like a petulant child

“FUCKING READ THE ROOM MIN YOONGI ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND”

“Well I’m not, but you seem to be”

“I’m a fucking assassin, my hands? they will forever be tainted red” you look down at your hands and the blond man comes near to hold both of them inside his 

“Y/N I couldn’t care less about that, it’s not like I’m a saint either”

“You just don’t understand”

“Then help me out” somehow his ever consistent and aloof tone gave you more chills thana you could’ve imagined if he were to raise his voice at you “Y/N I’m serious with my proposal, the sex is amazing, but you’ve proven to be an excellent addition not only to my court, but to my life”

You are shaking, voice trembling and just above a mere whisper “I was the one that killed your mother on that freezing December night”

He freezes in place.

He seemed oddly composed for someone who had just been told the responsible of his mother's death was none other than the woman he thought he wanted to marry

You remember how a few years ago, he had gone on a killing rampage, exposing heads outside his palace as if they were homemade decorations, swearing to find the person responsible for his mother’s death and get revenge. It had been months of bloodbath. Some had considered the emperor’s son to have gone completely out of his mind. 

You storm off. Not before accepting the responsibility of your actions, perhaps Yoongi had also been a good addition to your life “I’m fine with you deciding to execute me for my crimes, I understand whatever sentence is best fitted for me, your majesty” for the first time since you had arrived at the palace, you don’t dare to look him in the ye, opting to follow court protocol and bow deeply before taking your leave, attempting to detangle yourself from your messed up robes and even more messed up string of thoughts.

The following days to that conversation were a blur and for the most part, uneventful, the emperor had opted not to gravitate your way unless strictly necessary, oddly enough, the air wasn’t awkward at all, it was as if nothing had ever happened between the two of you in the first place. Yoongi had retreated to being an aloof ruler, along with regular trips to meet his once very occupied and spoiled rotten concubines, all the while you were kept apart from. Sometimes, you would receive jobs outside the palace and were expected to fulfill them according to instructions. More times than not, you were left wondering if you would make it back to the palace or if it was one hell of an excuse to execute you.

Hearing approaching footsteps, you couldn’t help but hide the best that you could behind one of the hostel’s walls. Hooded and well muffled with the cape, as you did your best to camouflage yourself into the shadows and become a mere wisp of darkness. A maid from the hostel trudged to the open window and closed it, grumbling. Lightning illuminated the landing. You took a deep breath and reviewed the plans that you had so painstakingly memorized throughout the three days you had been guarding that building on the outskirts of the kingdom. Five doors on each side. The target’s bedroom was behind the third one on the left.

Stealthy as a specter, you walked down the landing. You pushed the target's bedroom door, which opened with an almost imperceptible squeak; waiting for another thunder to rumble to close it carefully. A second flash of lightning illuminated the two figures sleeping on the canopy bed. Young Hee must not have been over thirty-five. His son, small and beautiful, slept soundly in his arms.

“I’m not murdering a poor kid’s mother”

“So you’ve gone soft”

“No I haven’t gone soft” “What could a poor merchant woman have done to you for her to deserve such an end to her life”

He sits down on his throne “You didn’t even hesitate when killing my mother, though”

“Yoongi I-” he turns his head to you, a sharp gaze following your every move, as if he was a predator waiting for the precise moment his prey took a wrong turn to jump on them. You turn your gaze to the floor immediately “Your Majesty”

“Listen Y/N- I’m a very busy man, so I’ll make it easier for you” he stood up from where he was sitting, and although you weren’t looking directly at him, you could hear him move around the room until you were able to see him stop right in front of you, a hand you were so familiar with once caresses your cheek as he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him face to face “It’s either her life, or your life. Easy choice, Y/N”

You can feel your heart wanting to burst out of your ribcage at that exact moment, finally understanding the importance behind such a horrifying task, the mirroring in the situation. And the choice was as simple as it could get. “Kill me instead”

You could see the rage inside his eyes, even as he stood still for a few second, steady as ever, unfaltering as he called over one of the palace’s servants to get him the royal seal, the infamous red ink that decorated the skin of those in line to be executed by the royal himself, an utmost sign of rage, of personally wronging the monarch. A sense of longing crossed his gaze for half a second as he locked eyes with you before he took your wrist in his hand and stamped the cold ink on it; you couldn’t keep your body from reacting to the action, whether it was having him touching you again, the almost imperceptible stuttering of his movements when he did so, or the knowledge that you’d have to face an execution, making you shake lightly as adrenaline filled your veins. 

Preparations were something the emperor certainly didn’t scattered in, back when he became known as the cold hearted borderline psychopath he had a vaste fame of, ikt was mostly do to the whole antiques that surrounded his personal executions, the way that they seemed to mimic a kingdom’s festivity was almost breathtaking, were it not for the fact that the main entertainment of the day would be having you publicly executed.  You had been waiting for that night for a whole week. Sitting in the wooden corridor nestled to one side of the golden dome of Min Yoongi’s personal library, remembering how the last time you had been there, things were so different from how they were now, where the emperor had asked you to marry you in the worst way possible and you had confessed the greatest murder of the dynasty; you let yourself be carried away by the music that rose through the amphitheater. With your legs dangling under the railing, you leaned forward and rested your cheek on your crossed arms. One could almost swear the palace was preparing for a wedding, if the way you were constantly dressed up and down during the week, the way the palace’s servants were constantly bustling around the building to ensure the greatest quality for the evening, the greatest night for the kingdom. The execution of the Empress’ murderer. 

“You seem oddly calm for someone who's about to be executed” Jungkook mentions as he approaches where you were currently hanging out, a few minutes to spare before a small group of designated maids were to call you to get you ready for the night.

You look up at him tiredly, without separating your head from where it was laying, catching him taking a seat by your side in the most infantile way you had ever seen the royal guard do, shrugging to no one in particular, you add “You know, accountability and stuff”

“Oh and she grew a moral compass during her time here” if he was expecting a bickering comeback, the way you used to do back when he was designated to look after you, he was certainly not getting anything other than be met by an extended silence that seemed to rise the tension and seriousness of the whole interaction between the two “Why are you letting this happen to you?”

“What are you talking about” this time, you do turn to face him, confused as to where he was expecting the conversation to go.

“You didn’t kill his mother”

“I did”

He huffed out air, sounding a bit exasperated at your response; you could have even sworn you saw him roll his eyes faintly “No you didn’t, you were a mere 15 year old” there was a bit of laughter behind his sentence before he regained his composure and went back to his former self from a few minutes ago, looking at your face quizzically as if there was something hidden in there that held the answer to his question  “So why are you doing this”

You try and miserably fail to convey a nonchalant look on your face as memories of your time with the emperor fill your mind, not just the carnal ones, but those where you would watch him work for his place in the royal hierarchy, the soft sides around the rough edges that were publicly hidden on purpose, turning away from the guard you say softly “Yoongi’s a great man”

“Okay sure, he could do with a more...tame temperament, but what does that have anything to do with you chopping your own head off”

You try your best to ignore the way your heart seems to physically ache at the thought behind the answer; you almost don’t get enough strength from within to mutter “I’m hoping to get him some closure, be an even better ruler”

“That’s- definitely not how it’s supposed to work Y/N” Jungkook says incredulously 

 “I was technically part of the killing so, it’s all the same”

He huffs before going to stand up, dusting off his uniform and already facing away from you, before you can hear him call for you one last time “Yoongi’s in his room, you know, he was looking for you a few hours ago, in case that information helps in any way”

So perhaps you were naive for thinking that he would answer his door, he would have no reason to do so, especially given the circumstances, if it were you, opening the door to the person that had confessed of murdering your mother, and having them come up at your room, you wouldn’t even need to think it once to decide not to further interact with them, but Jungkook had said Yoongi had been looking for you before, so the chance of him wanting to see you alive one last time were there. Unless you were reading it all wrong. You turned your back on the huge wooden door you had come to know as the emperor’s bedroom a few months back, resigned, when you heard the creaking of a door opening and a calm steady voice.

“So you’re going to just knock on my door and run away the same way you entered my life and are now leaving it forever?” his frozen tone still having an effect on your body as you turned to face him properly for the first time in what seemed like an eternity “Came to discuss a bargain for your life?”

“Not at all” you lock eyes with him when approaching him, until you were practically inside the room, his judgemental gaze still on you “I wanted to say my goodbyes properly, your majesty”

“Then don’t waste my time and come in already, Y/N” 

The royal wasted no time in cornering you against the door, face so close to yours you could feel his breath on your skin, the tip of his nose nuzzling the side of your face and you knew him enough to know he had his eyes closed to keep his composure as he talked “I’m going to miss you like a fucking mad man” 

It felt like falling back into routine, the way he kissed you, down to your neck up to your collarbone, pushing past the robes that covered your skin, in preparation for the ritual, his hands roaming freely in a familiar way, grabbing all the right places as he draws little sounds from your throat, all while he worked the both of you to where his bed was placed, although he was giving your body and pleasure a decent amount of attention, you couldn’t brush off the fact that he irradiated an angry aura, words left unspoken as he got his anger out by pleasuring both of you. Maybe himself more than you, as he removes himself from caressing your body as he usually did and positioned himself above you, his member laying flat on your already expecting tongue,as soon as you realised what his intentions were when he started undressing himself, his hips thrusting a few times in an experimental manner, soon enough finding a  pace at the same time as you bobbed your head up to capture as much of his length as you could inside your mouth, your hands captured under Yoongi’s weight, unable to help you work him further, the way you’d done before. 

You feel him start to thrust further into your throat at one particular kitten lick of yours to the tip of his cock, your head starting to hang from the edge of the mattress you two were on as he picked up the pace, his cock filling you up all the way until it hit the back of your throat a few times, you trying to whine around him, only further encouraging him to take a handful of your hair and push you further against him, your gag reflex taking the best of you as he held you there, nose close to his navel, deep grunts ripped from his lips, the air leaving your lungs and becoming slightly light headed after a few seconds of you tapping his thigh in a motion to let him know to let you breathe, at which Yoongi locked eyes with you, a mix of anger and longing in his yes as he  thrusts a few more times as saliva started dripping from your mouth, tears decorating your pink stained cheeks before he removed himself from you, giving you a few seconds to gain air before he repositioned both of you. A deafening silence taking over both of you, as you were still catching your breath and he positioned his cock at your entrance, his tip, wet with your saliva, playing with your folds for a few seconds, as you take a sharp intake of air when he enters you and immediately sets a slow deep pace. You can feel his member filling you up perfectly, mind racing with flashbacks to all those other nights before where the emperor and you shared endless nights all over the palace. 

The knowledge that this would be the last time creeping up in the back of your mind. You feel an unfamiliar wetness hit your neck where Yoongi was kissing your skin, rolling down as you identified it as tears, as he was still passionately thrusting into you. 

“I don’t want to lose you” his voice barely above a whisper, trying to conceal the way his chest was tightened with sadness 

“You have to let me go, Yoongi” one of your hands comes up to caress his locks as he pushes up to stare at your face, anger long gone and replaced with utter sadness before one last thrust has him filling you up with his seed, warmth enveloping you, a soft whimper leaving your lips as his cock leaves your cunt, a briskly wind coming from the window causing your body to shiver for a second at the loss of body heat on top of you.

“I guess this was it then” his cold and unnerved facade was on again, making the cold shivers in your body that much worse as you watched him adjust his clothes and walk out of the room, leaving you to dress yourself and ultimately face your fated destiny at the end of the day.

The palace’s front plaza is filled to the brim with spectators as the news got out that the Emperor was finally getting revenge for his mother’s killing, people from the kingdom and even some people from neighbouring ones all lined up in the outer sides of the fire marks that decorated the space to illuminate the middle path where you were placed in the end of it to walk your way up, two unknown guards on each side of you as each grabbed your elbows to push you forward, the rope certainly leaving marks on your skin as it was wrapped tightly around your wrists.  

You could only catch a glimpse of Yoongi’s blond hair, wrapped in his infamous black and golden hanbok, drums roaring in unison, people screaming as you watched him take the sword from the swordsman that had prepared the ritual beforehand, as someone wrapped a cloth around your eyes and you were promptly pushed forward, legs buckling every few seconds as you came to realise what you were about to face, it hadn’t been clear before, mere seconds away, finally falling to your knees, head bowed down in resignation as you could barely hear the sharp sword cutting the air around you, gasps from the crowd filling the air along with the constant sound of the drums around you. You could only hope your death would bring much needed peace to the monarch and his kingdom. Your heart seemed to want to burst out of your chest, if anything, Yoongi was known for being an espectacular swordsman, which hopefully made the whole execution that much easier. You could hear cheers and a metal cutting the air before your body fell limp to the ground.

But your consciousness never left, the drums couldn’t be heard anymore, cheers were replaced with confusion as a pair of hands helped you up to your knees, fumbling with the cloth around your eyes to come face to face with Min Yoongi kneeling before you, a subtle smile on his face as one of his hands caressed your cheek before helping you up beside him.

“I’m sure you all must be confused right now” he announced to his subjects “This woman right here, has got more courage in her than anyone that has ever worked for me, any of us, for that matter. Which is why I’m asking once again, publicly, for the first time, for her hand in marriage” he turned to face you, as you were still dazed by the whole ordeal, his hand in yours being the only thing holding you down “Marry me, Y/N”

#kwritersworldnet #thebtswritersclub #bangtanarmynet #hyunglinenetwork #networkbangtan #bangtanuniversity #yoongi smut #bts smut #bts imagines #min yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi smut #bts fanfics #bts fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi scenario #bts scenarios

[sophie-i-guess13]

Summer Days

This was a request I did for @apricot-colored-feathers after they made me that amazing carrd that I never got around to posting here :0

|Words: 510|

|Characters: Sylvia, Marcia, Cherry| *Marcherria is not my ship, it belongs to Rock*

 |Genre: F|luff|

|Tw: N/A|

|Tag! @mjmacchio1991 @apricot-colored-feathers @pepsi-and-cigarettes @felworthless @the-kneesbees @sodapoppatrickcurtisofficial @thegaygreaser @ralphmaccchiato 

You stare at the calendar plastered on your kitchen counter and the large, red X’s crossed through the days of the past. The water is cool, running over your fingers and the rag wrapped around them. The dishes won’t do themselves, but you have bigger things in mind. Big ol’ numbers.

It’s twenty-six days until Marcia gets back from the getaway her parents dragged her on; some sliver of paradise in the south-pacific you can’t remember the name of. You can’t remember the name inked in the top-right corner of her ticket when she showed you, but you can remember her voice.

Sweet and light, like a candy you’d only had so many times, Marcia told you she’d only be away for a little bit. She told you to check the mail every so often, too, she’d write as soon as she had the chance. You remember her eyelashes fluttering against your temple when she leaned into you, pursed lips to your cheek in a quick embrace. The green-apple gloss stuck to your skin the rest of the day- even through the Oklahoma heat. You wore it like a medal.

It would be twenty-six days until Marcia came home, but thirty-one until Cherry caught your eye again. She smelt of perfume and her father’s cigarettes, a thick and floral kind of flavour that made you gag even just thinking about it. Her nails were a gentle blue when she took your hand in her own, palms and fingers surprisingly cold for a girl with a smile like a burning forest.

She kisses you after going on about all the sights she’ll see in Paris, and how she wishes she could take you with her. She promises to bring you something too, another one of those perfume bottles she always keeps in the corner of her vanity. Although she isn’t as passionate with her kiss, Cherry comes much closer to your lips- catching the corner where they curl into a flustered smile. You savor that kiss for as long as your memory will allow it, knowing it will be more than a month until you can meet again.

Warm light trickles in through the window as you rinse the last dish, those damned numbers back at the front of your mind. This is what being a greaser got you, alright, never mind the whole being a girl part. You had two spectacular girls who seemed to love you beyond what words could describe. They were willing to write you letters while they were out on their adventures, even buy you expensive gifts you could only ever see in magazines.

The whole dynamic is a little tricky since it isn’t usually the girlfriend who buys a gift, but you don’t think they’ll mind. If you’re stuck in Tulsa for the rest of the summer, why not make use of it? Buck’s always looking for another set of hands down at the bar, anyway.

Cherry and Marcia want to shower you in gifts from their summer escapade?

 Three can play at that game.

#soapie’s stuff #the outsiders #the outsiders fanfiction #sylvia (the outsiders) #marcia (the outsiders) #cherry valance

[phykios]

honesty and promise me, co-written with @darkmagyk [read on ao3]

Update: Annabeth has not done what needs to be done. 

August moves over into September, hot and sweltering days giving way to the first few hints of the coming autumn chill. One unseasonably cold night, Annabeth had gone to bed wrapped in one of Percy’s old Paris Opera sweaters, waking up with it and wearing it home to ward off the chill of the morning drizzle, like some a normal girlfriend would. 

It’s a problem, she knows, but she just cannot quit this man. 

And boy did she try, about a hundred different times. 

One time, she spent an entire Tuesday before seeing him googling around until she found a picture. It was three years old, and it showed Mittie--oh, sorry, Her Royal Highness Margherita--at a soccer game in Moscow. Next to her is the handsomest man in the world. Percy’s hair is shorter, and something about his windbreaker reminds her of some of the crew boys she knew at Harvard. They aren’t touching, but they are both smiling. This is the kind of girl Percy deserves. This is the kind of girl he should want. His type. She reminds herself of it for hours before meeting him at a show. But the smile he gives her is nothing like the one in the pictures with the princess. And when he whispers what he wants to do to her that evening, she just can’t do it. 

She even took him to his favorite pizza place once to soften the blow. But then she thought about how her dumping him would forever taint the magic of Antonio’s for the both of them, and she just couldn’t abide that.

So she kept putting it off. And putting it off. And putting it off.

And then he asked her to dinner with his parents again, on his one night off in three weeks.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to bring you something?” he asks for the fourth time, concern making his connection thin and tinny.

“It’s just a little stomach thing,” she lies, shaking out a ramen flavor packet. “I’ll be fine. You go have fun with your mom.”

“Okay. I’ll call later to check up on you.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m just going to be asleep.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Yeah.”

He clicks off. Her apartment is very quiet. For lack of anything else to do, she decides to check her mail.

Who even mails anything anymore, she thinks.

Rifling through the pile of wasted paper, she sighs at the banality of it all. Junk, junk, junk, NYCB brochure she needs to cancel, junk… Harvard?

She peers at it.

The red seal is unmistakable, as is her name, printed in neat, black ink. “Ms. Annabeth Chase.” Why are they contacting her? And more importantly, who the fuck gave them her address?

Hands shaking, she unfolds it. “Dear Ms. Chase,” it reads, “Thank you for your generous contribution to the Harvard Graduate School of Design. As one of our most promising graduates, we are so pleased and thrilled to receive your encouragement. With your gift, we were able to reach our fundraising goal of $2.5million, which will go to support the various operations of the school, so that we can continue to provide a top-notch education for your fellow students. You do make a difference for us, and we are immensely thankful for you!” And then it goes on. “As a thank you for your generous gift of $15,000, we would like to invite you to the Alistair Moore dinner for distinguished graduates and faculty. We would be delighted to receive you at...” 

She can’t finish, dyslexia scrambling the words in front of her. Or maybe that’s just her, trembling so hard she has to sit down. Fifteen thousand. The Alistair Moore dinner. She knows it well, yet another fancy networking event, like the Eta Industries party. Bile rises in her throat. Who would…

The answer hits her like a freight train. Only one person would be so bold. 

Crumpling the letter in her fist, she pulls out her phone, dialing the number she still stubbornly has memorized, despite deleting it off her contacts list. 

She isn’t sure if she’s upset that she gets his voicemail, or relieved. “Hey, dad. It’s me,” she says, grimacing as she starts off like he wouldn’t recognize her voice. Like it’s any other phone call. “I got your message. The Alistair Moore dinner? I’m not going. I told you, I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. What I need,” she sneers, “is for you to butt out and leave me the hell alone.”

Then she hangs up, before she can chicken out and delete it.

She shoves the letter into her recycling bin, down to the very bottom. Out of sight and out of mind. 

Well, her night is pretty much ruined. 

Ramen growing colder, she lies on her couch, her head hanging over the edge, studiously not looking at her phone. She shouldn’t have left that message. She shouldn’t have opened that letter. She shouldn’t have rebuffed Percy’s invitation. Or maybe she was right, in all those situations. Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares. Her leg bounces, frantic, stomach roiling.

Like a gunshot, her phone vibrates on her coffee table. Annabeth catapults herself up, reaching for it, nearly dropping it, even as her eyes begin to blur. Please let it be her dad. Please let it be anyone else but her dad. Please. Please. Please. 

checking in, writes Percy. feeling any better?

With a sob, she hits call. He picks up after the second ring.

“Hey,” he says, softly. “Everything okay?”

“Can,” she hiccups. God damn it. God damn her. “Can you please come over?”

She can feel his demeanor change over the phone. “I’ll be right there,” he says, calm and collected. “What’s your address?”

Her address is supposed to be a secret. No one is supposed to know where she lives. She doesn’t even like Luke knowing where she lives, and he might be the closest thing she has to family right now. But she tells Percy, and he promises to be there within thirty minutes. Throwing her arms over her face, she lies back down, breathing through her nose so she doesn’t vomit.

He makes it in twenty. here is the simple text, devoid of any hearts or emojis, and she buzzes him up. Less than a minute later, he knocks on her door. “It’s open,” she calls, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. 

Softly, the door clicks open, someone smoothly and quietly stepping inside. “Annabeth?” 

“Here,” she moans. She should get up to greet him. She can’t feel her legs. She can’t feel anything at all. 

The couch dips as someone sits next to her, a warm, large hand on her shoulder, and she can’t help but open her eyes. Percy is there in his blue sweater that she returned the last time she had slept over at Nico’s apartment, his brow furrowed in worry, but he’s smiling a little, too, just happy to see her, to see that she’s safe. In his other hand, he holds up a plastic bag. “I brought you a cookie,” he says, gently. “Chocolate chip.”

Annabeth blinks. “It’s… blue.”

He nods. “It is.”

Blue cookies. His mom’s special recipe, he had told her, for bad days of aching feet, harsh dance instructors, and school bullies.

The dam breaks. 

She launches herself into Percy’s embrace, sobbing. He tucks her head into his neck, his arms coming up around her. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

“I’m--I’m so sorry,” she gets out, in between heaving breaths. “I just--I didn’t want to be alone and--”

He shakes his head against hers, his nose in her hair. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

They sit there for a long, long time, him holding her as she cries, pathetic. She can only imagine what it must be like from Percy’s end: here he was, having a lovely dinner with his mother uptown on his night off, only to get a frantic call from his hookup, demanding that he drop everything and rush to her side. And he did. He even fucking brought her one of his mom’s special cookies. 

She does not deserve this perfect, amazing man.

It’s that thought more than anything else that pulls her out of her spiral, her sobs abating somewhat. “There we go,” he says, sweetly. “I’m going to get you some water, okay? Be right back.”

Resisting the urge to hold onto his sleeve like some kind of child, she lets him pull away, stepping into her kitchen. Head aching and eyes puffy, she can’t even really register the fact that he is in her apartment right now. Her secret hideaway. Her sanctum sanctorum. He can see her tasteful couches and her expensive coffee maker and her giant TV screen. 

But honestly? She doesn’t care about any of that right now. All she cares about is the long, solid line of Percy’s body next to hers as he sits back down next to her, handing her a glass of water. She drinks it down, greedily, falling back against him, his hand automatically coming up to her shoulder, and she turns into his side, drinking him in, just as desperate.

They don’t speak, just holding onto each other. 

As she drifts off, there on her couch, her arm around Percy’s midsection, she only has one real thought in her head. 

Forget the apartment--this is her sanctum sanctorum. This is her safe space.

***

Annabeth wakes up in a bed that isn’t her own, in an apartment that isn’t her own. 

It reminds her, weirdly enough of her mom’s apartment, she thinks as she sits up in the soft, cream sheets, here in New York. She had only ever been a handful of times, whenever her mother deigned to claim her for their allotted family time. She doesn’t remember much about that place--mostly the skyline through the window, the low, uncomfortable furniture, the spotless, empty kitchen. 

Across from the bed is a mirror, squat and wide. Annabeth has her hair back, her face devoid of metal. She looks tired, she thinks, and maybe a little older, dark, heavy bags beneath her eyes. She’s wearing a real, actual set of pajamas, rather than a sweater or an oversized shirt, pale pink silk tight around her body. 

Shaking her head, she looks down, and spies a thin band of gold on her left hand, which rests on her stomach, sporting a slight, but noticeable curve. 

Only then does she realize it’s a dream. She lets out a grateful sigh. Just a dream.

It seems like a pretty boring one, too. She’s older, a little fatter, and has a nicer apartment. Somewhere in the distance is the indistinct sound of a person singing. And beyond that the even more indistinct sound of the city. 

Stumbling out of bed, her feet falling into a pair of soft, pink slippers, perfectly positioned next to her bed, she makes her way out into the apartment. The walls are cream, decorated with generic seaside landscapes, a nondescript sailboat in the background against an unchanging, cornflower blue sky. 

The kitchen is empty. Breakfast is cooked, laid out on a placemat at the kitchen island, but no one is there eating it. No one is there cleaning up, or making coffee. The food looks delicious, like a magazine spread: a perfectly made bowl of granola and yogurt, a lemon poppyseed muffin, a glass of orange juice on the side. Nutritious. Small. 

It’s weird. It’s really weird.

Moving on, she enters the living room. There’s a little girl on her knees, maybe three or four, she’s wearing a red pinafore over a white polo shirt and Mary Janes shined like the top of the Chrysler building. The preschool version of a prep-school uniform. She’s hunched over the glass coffee table, frizzy blonde curls bouncing as she moves her hand back and forth, scribbling with a colored pencil on a piece of paper. 

All of a sudden, she notices Annabeth standing there. 

“Mommy!” She jumps up, holding the pencil behind her back, her green eyes wide with apprehension. “I--I was--”

She hears whistling, and turns to see… well, it's Percy, but he looks nothing like her Percy. His hair is cropped shorter, parted and moussed perfectly flat. He’s in a three piece suit. He’s in trousers. Not a pair of sweatpants or a muscle tee in sight.

He stops when he sees her. “Sorry, didn’t know you were awake, wouldn’t have been singing.” Which makes no sense, Because Annabeth loves Percy’s ambient music. He looks around her, speaking to his--to the girl, “I told you you’d have to stop when mommy got up.” 

Annabeth glances at the little girl, who nods too solemnly. 

“Don’t worry,” this stranger wearing Percy’s face says, “She’s ready for school. She is ready for her Math qualification. I only said she could draw for a little, to calm herself down.” He glances at the girl again. “Put your things back in the art box, and we’ll go to school. I have an 8:30 meeting with the board.” 

The little girl runs off. Holding her paper and her pencils close to her chest, like she’s afraid someone is going to take them away from her. Maybe someone is. 

Percy turns to her. “I confirmed our reservations at 7 tonight at Sarabeth’s with your mother’s assistant this morning. And the nanny is going to stay late, so we don’t have to bring her.”

The her in question reappears just then. She’s so small. And she’s carrying a backpack. She looks like that breakfast, out of a magazine. But normally kids in magazines smile. 

“Are you ready?” Annabeth’s voice finally says.

A beat, then she nods again. “Yes, mommy.”

“Good,” she says. Outside, the sunlight through the windows isn’t so bright anymore, but dark and cold, like a solar eclipse. “Make me proud.”

And she turns to go back to bed, but the floor has disappeared, and she steps on nothing, tumbling down into the void.

With a start, she wakes up again in her bed, to the smell of breakfast in the air. Which is confusing, because she’s pretty sure she fell asleep on the couch, and she usually doesn’t wake up in time for breakfast, let alone actually make it herself: she has Percy for that, now. 

Right. Percy. 

It comes back to her in flashes: the donation, the voicemail, calling Percy out of desperation. Inviting him into her room, her bed. Falling asleep in his arms. 

She physically shakes her head, roughly scrubbing her face, forcing herself further into consciousness. The light coming through her window is grey and weak, doing absolutely nothing to help her out. The morning feels muted, for some reason, like it’s very far away. Maybe it was her nightmare.

She can’t hear Percy, Annabeth realizes. That’s what’s wrong. She can smell breakfast, but she can’t hear him puttering away. She doesn’t hear the clanking of pans as he tries to be quiet, or his off-key humming, or the dull thump of footfalls on her floor as he practices his steps. 

God, how late did she sleep? If he has to leave for a morning class he usually makes sure to wake her up, first. For a kiss if nothing else.

But when she pads out to her kitchen, she’s stunned to find Percy still there, sitting at her warped kitchen table. There are two plates in front of him, eggs and bacon untouched and cooling. He’s fully dressed, too, in his dark jeans and stupid dance pun t-shirt: “Girls Just Wanna Have Buns,” his sweater on the empty chair. Annabeth had been weirdly looking forward to wearing that this morning; he likes seeing her in his clothes, and she likes seeing him without them. It’s a system that works for them, typically leading to a lot of smiles, a couple giggles, and maybe another round or two before he has to leave.

He’s not smiling now. His gaze is fixed on his plate, hands in his lap. “Morning,” she croaks, softly.

Percy lifts his eyes to her, unfathomable like the sea. “Morning.”

Something in her stops her from sliding into the seat across from him. Standing gives her strength, gives her power that she doesn’t want to give up. She may not be able to tell what Percy is thinking right now, but she knows when someone is gearing up for a fight. “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“What’s the matter?”

He is uncharacteristically still. Annabeth has gotten so used to him expressing himself via his body, the stillness is unsettling. Percy holds her gaze for a moment, then sucks in a breath, sitting up a little bit straighter. “I kicked over your recycling by mistake, and when I was cleaning up, I…” He bites his lip, a little ashamed. “I accidentally read some of your mail.”

“Okay.” He can’t be that broken up about her junk mail, can he?

It’s only then that she sees it, laid out neatly next to the breakfast plate. The letter has been carefully uncrumpled, but the red Harvard seal is as obnoxiously bright as ever. “I don’t mean to pry, but…” Percy licks his lips, gathering his words together. “I thought you didn’t get into Harvard?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“It’s just--this is from the Graduate School of Design,” he continues, looking at the page as if to confirm it. “And the dean says you were one of their ‘most promising graduates,’ here, so. That means you have, what, a master’s degree? Right?”

Still, she doesn’t say anything.

Percy rubs a hand over his mouth, square jaw squaring further. “I guess I just don’t understand why you lied to me.”

“I never--” she blurts. 

“I mean, were you trying to spare my New Yorker sensibilities by telling me you didn’t get in? Did you think I would actually care?”

There’s nothing she can say in response. So she doesn’t. 

After a moment, he blows out a sharp breath. “So. Fifteen thousand dollars, huh.”

She sighs, looking away. It’s not like Annabeth doesn’t hate it, too. “I didn’t do that,” she says, crossing her arms. “My dad did it, he just put it under my name.”

“And, he did that… why? I mean,” he tilts his head, a little bewildered. “I thought you guys weren’t on speaking terms.”

“To try and get me to network again, probably.” She shrugs. “And I’m not on speaking terms with him. He just hasn’t gotten the memo yet.”

He hasn’t raised his voice at all. He hasn’t moved from his seat, or made any kind of threatening gesture, but like an approaching storm cloud, she can feel the anger rolling in, dense and crackling. “Does he do this a lot, your dad? Throw his money around for you?”

“It’s not like I asked him to.” 

But he’s shaking his head, rueful. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. You know, I thought it was weird that you could afford an apartment in the East Village with a bedroom on periodic architecture contracts, but I’m guessing he pays for that, too?”

He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from bristling. “It’s a trust fund,” she snaps. “It’s still my money.”

“A trust fund,” he says, softly. “Right.” 

Anger lances through her, cold and burning. Just because her dad had set it up for her didn’t mean that she wouldn’t use it. “Yeah, a trust fund. Is that a crime, now?” 

He opens his mouth as if to say something, then snaps it shut with an audible click. Pushing his chair out, he stands up, hands flat on the table. “I should go and get ready for my class. I’ll… I’ll text you later, okay?” Percy takes a step towards her, hands reaching for her on instinct, then pauses. “See you around.”

Percy leaves without so much as a look back, closing the door so quietly she can barely hear it over the roar of blood in her ears.

#my fic #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #ballet au #😈😈😈 #darkmagyk #happy endings onlyyyyyyyy #percabeth fic #PJO

[parkers-gal]

he remembers T.H.

okay major trigger warning // suicide, death, abortion if you interpret a bit

wc: 1.3k (angst)

If you're reading this, it's probably too late. 

It had been three days. Only three days, but they felt like centuries to Tom. He was sitting in her desk chair, reading the letter inked in her perfect handwriting. His eyes had deep, dark bags under them. His hair was greasy and untamed, and his body odor reeked strongly. He hadn't thoroughly cried yet; he was still in shock, to be honest. He thought things were going great, but obviously, he was wrong. 

I just feel so goddamn empty. 

His brows were furrowed; in anger, in sadness, in confusion. For the first time in a long time, he didn't have the answer. He hadn't expected to find an answer, but walking into the home office for the first time that week, he saw his name on the letter, and rushed to open it. 

I'm sorry. 

Tom paused to take a breath. He placed the letter on the desk and took a deep inhale, trying to compose himself even though no one was watching. He had several panic attacks throughout the week, and he was hoping he wouldn't have to deal with one right now. 

I was so unloved. Though, 

Above all else, Tom was lost. He hadn't expected things to turn out the way they had; he imagined getting married and starting a family and growing old, though life had its own set of plans too. 

that's partially my fault, for being so unlovable. 

He wanted to scream and shout and cry all at once. He wanted to scream in frustration, for her, for himself. For everything. He wanted to shout the one question he'd been asking himself all week: 'why?'. 

Crying seemed so hard right now. Crying for the girl he was in love with seemed impossible, because the situation he was in, was impossible. Tom was so frustrated at himself for letting things get this far, and for not realizing sooner how not okay things were. Why can't you fucking cry? he asked himself.  He thought he was broken for not letting the tears drop down his face, but he just didn't know why they weren't falling.  

Nothing could've fixed me. 

A memory flashed through his mind. One of him and her on a picnic in a meadow not too far from the house. 

---

They had finished lunch around thirty minutes ago, and now they were laying down on the blanket, side by side, staring at the clouds as if it were a scene from UP. She had just confessed something that had taken Tom's breath away, disbelief at such a dark, horrible thought; she was wrong. 

Tom had talked to her for ten minutes, about how she was perfect and that she was loved, and that even if she was broken, people could still love damaged goods. Tom had kissed her gently, and got her to giggle for the first time in at least twenty minutes. 

---

Tom remembers that day vividly; she was wearing a yellow sundress and her favorite pair of Birkenstocks. Her makeup was natural, almost nonexistent, and her freshly cut hair was flowing freely in the wind. A picture from that day sat on Tom's nightstand.

I never deserved the wedding that comes with this ring. 

Tom glanced into the envelope. Sitting there was the engagement ring he had given her four months back during a bath together. It was unplanned and the opposite of cliche, but she had told him it was a perfect moment, a perfect memory. 

He remembered everything from that day, too. The way her face went through too many emotions the minute he had popped the question. He remembers hugging her and eating sour patch kids in the tub, and he remembers the way her eyes sparkled. 

I'm so weak, so pathetic. 

Now, Tom was the one who felt weak and pathetic. He wanted to know when it went downhill for her, when things started to crash and burn. He thought he was the actor, but she was even better at pretending to be happy. He thought a lot of things, but he was wrong. 

He believed that things would get better, and they'd get their perfect happy ending. The ending they deserved, but he got the opposite. Instead, he got the epitome of melancholy and depression. He got to find his fiance, dying in the very same bathtub he had proposed to her in. Tom had to be the one to make the call for an ambulance, and he was the one to find the empty pill bottle sitting in the bathroom sink. Tom got a lot of things, but a happy ending wasn't one of them. 

So pathetic that I can't even stay alive, even when I'm carrying our child. 

At this, Tom dropped the letter onto the desk, his mouth ajar and his eyes wide and red with tears. A hand flew to his mouth to try and suppress the sobs, but nothing would be able to quiet these. The first of many choked sobs that had been held in the back of his throat were coming out now. The tears were free falling fast, and Tom felt dizzy. His sobs turned into frustrated whales and cries, ones that had Harrison and his mother running upstairs. 

They were staying with Tom until things got a little easier, but Tom had never experienced grief before, so the process was harder than they thought it would be, especially since it had seemed like Tom wasn't even grieving. 

"Tom-!" Nikki had exclaimed, rushing through the door with Harrison on her tail. "What's-"

But she didn't finish her sentence, because Harrison was pointing to the slip of paper on the desk. Walking over, she kneeled down and rubbed his back, whispering comforting words to Tom before he enveloped her into a tight hug and cried the hardest he's cried in his entire life. 

Harrison had picked up the paper, reading it through before quietly gasping and putting it back down, covering his mouth as tears filled his eyes too. He tried to keep them in, but his orbs had betrayed him. 

Twenty minutes had passed, and both boys had calmed down to some degree. Nikki had read the letter, before excusing herself and leaving Tom alone, as he had asked. Harrison had given Tom a tight hug before making his way down the stairs and into the kitchen to make lunch with Nikki. 

He picked up the letter again, finding where he left off before finishing the letter. 

I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. I love you too fucking much, and I don't deserve to be in love. 

He wanted to yell again; yell that she was wrong and that she deserved everything good in the world, but Tom was too late. Tom cursed at himself. Repetitively, for the next two minutes. Tears were welling up in his eyes, but they hadn't fallen again, yet. 

l'm sorry you couldn't save me. 

He didn't deserve this, and she didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve the demons she had. Tom thought back to a memory of them in the kitchen, talking about her and her suicidal thoughts. 

We talked about this, he thought. So many times.

And it was true, they had talked about it. Every two to three months, Tom told her how she could deal with those thoughts, and he made sure she knew he was there for her. They had talked about what to do with the thoughts, but never about what to do with the actions.

He saw her neat signature at the bottom, and he swore his heart broke again. Tom had lost his future wife, and his child. A child he never got to appreciate while it was alive. The demons Y/N had once had, were left behind and lingering on and in Tom. They were beating him up, bruising and breaking what was already shattered. 

How much can a broken thing break? he thought. 

It was only a matter of time, before he found that answer too. 

#tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland angst #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fluff #tom holland x pregnant!reader #husband!tom holland #tom holland oneshot #tom holland imagine #tom holland blurb #tom holland series #tom holland hc #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland angsty #tom holland #tom holland angsty fic

[macbetha]

below the cut, you'll find an interest check chapter for quatervois, a nancy drew pc fic. it's francy and also my idea of my absolute dream game. please let me know what you think and enjoy!

+++

After Ned breaks up with her and she loses her father, Nancy struggles to find her old vigor for detective work. While on vacation in London with Bess and George, Nancy accepts the urgent invitation to return Blackmoor Manor. Her English getaway quickly turns into an investigation once Nancy realizes the true reason Nigel Mookergee asked her back to the moors. Finding Deirdre Shannon at the manor under the same pretense only sets Nancy’s nerves further on edge. It isn’t until the Hardy Boys show up in Blackmoor that Nancy gets a glimpse of who she once was. With a manor full of suspects and a glass heart cracked open, Nancy is determined to find the truth.

Dear Ned,

How are you? It’s been a while. I’ve always started off my letters telling you about my latest case, but I’m not on one right now. I’m sure that’s hard to believe. Bess and George have whisked me away to London. I’m sure you would love it here. This is the first time I’ve seen Bess and George since I sold the house in River Heights. I stayed with Kyler and Matt in Ireland for a while. I needed a change of scenery. Their daughter just turned two. I’m somewhat jealous I’m happy for them. Anyways, I miss you I hope you’re doing well. I’m sure New York is lovely at Christmas time. I hope Stephanie is I wish Stephanie well How is Stephanie? I hope Stephanie is doing all right. I appreciated the card Stephanie sent when dad passed away. Warm regards, Merry Christmas, Love Nancy

She stares down at the letter as if the red ink were her own blood. It feels just as wounding, seeing her emotions made physical in the words on the paper. Only when a tear splatters on the page does she break free from her trance to the past. Nancy is the only person in her hotel suite, yet she works to rid the evidence like one of her own suspects. She pulls her feet up in the desk chair and crosses her ankles, holding the arch of her right foot – it recently became the victim of her latest culprit. Nancy’s foot got caught under the getaway car’s tire, and she is lucky to even be able to walk after the event. Months later, it’s stiff as hell with the most intense cramps she’s ever endured. Heart racing to forget the night it happened, she focuses on the snowfall out the window – counting little sparkles of snowflakes, though the world blurs when she squints. The doctor thought her failing sight as well as the daily headaches were on account of being hit in the head so many times.

She busies herself with choosing a postcard to send Hannah and Nancy selects one with a cat dressed up as a royal guard. The cuteness puts a smile on her face, however small – she hopes it’ll do the same for Hannah, but there is no telling. Nancy had the gut-feeling Hannah was lying about recognizing her the last time Nancy visited the nursing home. Torment swirls like wind to fallen leaves. She doesn’t have Hannah or Togo to come home to. Togo passed just before Nancy’s thirty-second birthday, and Carson fell ill soon after that. Nancy looks to her hotel bed where Mr. Woogle Woggle sits tucked between two pillows. It seems he is the only one that hasn’t left her. A knock on her hotel door reminds her that is simply not true. Nancy rights herself, fixing her posture to the stance of someone passionate, and she opens the door. Bess and George greet her with blazing smiles; Nancy gives silent thanks for their presence in her life. She would still be in Scotland with Kyler and Matt, had Bess and George not insisted to take her on a vacation. Nancy imagines that their insistence was due to them wanting to keep Nancy from spending Christmas alone on the road again like last year. “Nancy,” Bess stresses. “You’re never going to guess who we ran into in the lobby!” Horror strikes dull and loud in her ears. Surely, it’s not Ned. Please, don’t let it be Ned. George says, “Give you a hint: they were involved in one of your cases.” Nancy’s despair leaves her throat tight. She glances down the hallway, preparing to yank Bess and George into her room and dial her Cathedral contact to get them set up in witness protection.

“That didn’t narrow it down at all, George,” Bess says with a roll of her eyes. “Nancy’s been on hundreds of cases.” Nancy’s strain creeps into her one word: “Who?” Bess and George beam. “Maya Nguyn!” ++

Nancy follows Bess and George to the elevator in a hurried stupor. No thoughts can she conjure as she steps free from the elevator walls which seem to close in on her; Nancy marches into the lobby and notices a woman in the crowd of tourists. She stands with her back to Nancy, her hair drawn up in a bun, and her chin is lifted high with no time for games. Maya turns around and her bright red mouth stretches into a smile. “Nancy!” “Maya,” Nancy huffs in disbelief. She tenses in Maya’s sudden embrace before all but falling into it. This is something good I did; Nancy cherishes with shut eyes. This is someone I helped. When Maya pulls back, Nancy says, “What are you doing all the way out here? You said in your last letter, you were still in Washington.” “My house is technically there,” Maya nods. “But I get to work on the road more these days.” Her brows crease over a sympathetic smile. “Bess and George tell me you’re kind of in the same boat.” Nancy shrugs, struggling to hold Maya’s concerned gaze. “It’s just easier,” Nancy lies. Maya seems to see right through it, but she doesn’t speak on it. Nancy will have to thank her later. George says, “Maya offered us free tickets to a play she’s reviewing tonight and get this – it’s at the Globe Theater!” “Remind me what’s so special about a globe theater,” Bess sighs, checking her nails. “Not ‘a’, Bess, the.” George shakes her head. “The Globe Theater – well, technically it’s a reconstruction of the first one, but it’s where Shakespeare wrote his plays.” “It’s the opening night of a new play,” Maya explains. “And Nancy, you’ll never guess who the star is.” Nancy cannot take anymore guessing games. “Brady Armstrong.” Maya blinks. “Well – yes, actually.” Nancy frowns. “Wait, really?” “Yes,” Maya laughs. “I’ll be conducting an interview with him after the show if you want to go backstage and chew him out for all the stunts he pulled back in the day.” A spark of vigor heightens Nancy’s senses. That doesn’t sound bad at all. Still – “Are you sure we won’t be a distraction or –” “Nancy.” Maya’s hand falls on her shoulder. “You saved my life. You’re the furthest thing from a distraction.” Gratitude floods her before Nancy nods. “All right, then.” +++ The walk to the Globe would be depressive what with the sky being the color of a soaked napkin, but the Christmas decorations lift everyone’s spirits. Nancy limps by a shop playing Christmas oldies through the open door and she is borne back to her father listening to records over cocoa on Christmas morning. She tries to push the memory from her mind, then she thinks of building snowmen with Ned and having snowball fights that turned into the sweetest kisses she’s ever received. The music won’t stop. There are three Christmas trees in the display window and their flashing lights strike pain behind Nancy’s eyes. She pants through a sensory overload before someone squeezes her hand. Maya smiles in understanding as Bess and George walk obliviously in front of them. “It’s hard,” Maya says. “This life on the road. You pick up a few habits.” Nancy squeezes her hand in thanks before tucking her own in her peacoat’s pocket. “I want to enjoy this,” she admits quietly. “But I think the holidays are always hard.” Maya nods. “It won’t be this way forever, Nancy,” she promises. “I’ve got my fingers crossed for you.” Cross your fingers, there’s a story behind this door! Nancy swallows around the lump of panic in her throat. She plasters on a smile. +++ The theater is packed with noise and touching and all-around boisterous patrons. They find their seats in the crowd and Nancy doesn’t watch where she’s going – she must keep her eyes on the open ceiling to remember how to breathe. She sits down at the end of the group and Maya passes out programs. Quatervois, the title reads. Bess says, “What does that mean?” “It means you’re at a crossroads,” Maya says. “A turning point.” “Sounds a little dramatic,” George grumbles. Nancy traces the swooping lines of the title with

her thumb, repeating the process until the lights go down. The masked chorus emerges from the shadows and gives a synopsis: Down from Olympus a great hero emerges, Mighty in his strength and courage! A choice he must make Shall he ignore fate? Will he choose love, Or follow his destiny there-of? When Brady saunters on stage in an impossibly short silk chiton, it’s an out-of-body experience for Nancy. He still hasn’t grown his ponytail back, so Simone could very well be in the audience right now. Nancy rubs her aching temple at the thought. Brady begins his journey as the character Diogenes, a demigod that was supposedly – according to the play’s plot – written out of ancient Greek mythos. Diogenes must defeat those who want to leave him forgotten in history, lest he admit that he can’t win this fight and live his life like everyone else. Nancy assumes the play’s ending too soon. She imagines this will be a droll experience written only to paint Brady as a glorious hero that can conquer anything – but she is quickly surprised. Brady is stabbed in the final act and addresses the audience in a wail: And so my story ends a breath too early, No time to even be weary! The moon shall pass over my corpse, And the sun will beat down on my ashes with no remorse. Today, I have failed my quartervois Alone, forgotten, and lost. When the curtain falls, Nancy’s mouth is parted in disbelief as a tear burns down her cheek. They don’t receive a proper goodbye with Maya since the rest of the crowd is bustling toward the exit. She does have time to say that Brady is producing a new television series and will be scouting some locations further into Essex; Maya will be following the film crew there for test shoots. She embraces each girl individually and holds Nancy for a beat longer, whispering, “You’ll call if you need to talk?” “Of course,” Nancy says by impulse. “Same to you.” +++ Nancy is proud of herself for going out, but when she closes the door to her hotel suite, her back thunks against the wall and she must take deep breaths for several minutes. She decides to treat herself to a bubble bath even though it’s nearly midnight. She rolls her hair up into a bun and looks at it in the mirror, how haphazard and messy hers is in comparison to Maya. Nancy isn’t jealous – but she can’t help but notice when people are thriving. She wants to figure out how to do it herself and hasn’t found the cure yet. The bath is claw-footed and deep. Nancy sinks into the steaming water before goosebumps rise on her arms, and her freckled skin blushes in the heat. The water does wonders for her foot. She eases her head back on the lip of the tub and nears a light doze when her cell phone rings. It rests atop a stack of towels by the tub. Nancy wipes her damp hand off before looking to the screen. Frank Hardy. Nancy answers and taps the speaker button to relax back in the tub. “Hey.” “Hi, Nance,” Frank says, his voice a familiar balm after such a stressful time. “What’s going on?” “Things aren’t too different from last week’s call,” Nancy smiles. “But I’m on vacation with Bess and George.” “Oh wow! That’s awesome. I hope it’s been fun.” Nancy’s glazed eyes blink. “Yeah,” she rasps. “It’s nice.” She clears her throat, searching for her old enthusiasm. “But what about you? How’s Joe?” “Same as usual, a pain in my ass.” Nancy chuckles before a distinctive lift raises Frank’s voice. “We’re actually getting ready to get on a plane for a case – but I wanted to make sure everything’s good with you.” Nancy’s hand closes in a fist on her raised knee. “Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a case.” “Not really. You just took a few months off to stay with Kyler, right?” “Yeah, but that’s the longest I’ve ever gone without a case since I started.” “I’d give you ours if I could,” Frank says. “Really not looking forward to such a long plane ride. Oh, they’re calling for our gate – but do you want me call you when I land?” Gratefulness is a warm glow in her heart. “No, that’s okay – but

thank you. Be safe on your trip and tell Joe I said hi.” “Can do.” Frank pauses. “I – tell Bess and George I said hi.” “Can do,” Nancy repeats. She chews her lip. “See you soon?” She feels foolish for saying something when Frank is headed to a case. While the weekly phone calls have kept Nancy sane, it would be even better to see the Hardy Boys. “I’ll make it happen,” Frank promises. “See you, Nance.” After they hang up, Nancy struggles to get out of the tub with her swollen foot. She gets into a pair of sweats and wraps up some ice in a washcloth, then holds it against her foot. Nancy mulls over her conversation with Frank, wondering how much of her poor mood could be due to not solving a mystery. With a deep yawn, she tosses the soaked washcloth in the wastebasket, not able to walk to the bathroom to put it in the sink. She cuddles up to her teddy bear and flicks the lamp off when her phone rocks to life on the nightstand. Bewildered, Nancy turns the lamp back on to look at the screen. The number is unknown; she sees her hand tremble around the phone. She lets the call go to voicemail before the phone vibrates to life once again. Bracing herself, Nancy answers. “Hello?” “Yes, hello – I’m trying to reach a one Nancy Drew?” The voice is British and eerily familiar, like Nancy heard it in a dream. “This is she.” “Splendid! Oh, you wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve gone to in order to find your number.” “Sorry? Who is this?” “Why, Nigel Mookergee. We met at –” “Blackmoor,” Nancy whispers. “Nigel, hi. What’s going on?” “I’m afraid the manner of my call is not a jovial one,” he says. “How should I explain this? Well, I suppose from the start. You see –” He sighs. “Don’t tell anyone I’m speaking of this, but the Penvellyns have fallen into a bit of… financial trouble.” Nancy says, “’Financial trouble’?” “It’s certainly not my business to spread, but yes. It’s not that they are a poor family by any means, but one diplomat’s salary is not enough to keep up a castle.” Nancy sits up, grabbing a pen and notepad from her bedside table. She jots as Nigel continues. “The Penvellyns began to host historical tours at the manor – much to Mrs. Drake’s dismay, I might add. Jane wishes to expand the business to the paranormal side of things, and I don’t quite agree with the idea myself, but she insists it’s just what the manor needs.” Nancy finishes scrawling and says, “So, you’re working for the Penvellyns now?” “Yes. I’m afraid there’s been some situations – inconsequential events, if you will – that need a glance over.” Nancy arches a brow. “You mean an investigation.” “Ah, such a serious word. I simply want to make sure we are fully prepared to expand the business.” Nancy’s eyes narrow. “Right. When would you need me there?” “As soon as possible -” Nigel catches himself. “I mean, at your earliest convenience.” Nancy glances over her notes, running her hand over the page filled by red ink. She closes her eyes against the sight and says, “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

thank you so much for reading! please let me know what you think and stay safe. and please consider following me here and on twitter! xoxo

#nancy drew #nd #nancy drew pc #nd pc #CUR #clue crew #blackmoor manor #curse of blackmoor manor #francy #frank hardy #nancy drew fanfiction