#also all of these were made just straight ink to paper without a sketch first so that's why they're all so... Wonky | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mxchellesworld · 3 years

Text

punk rock princess

spencer reid x reader

synopsis; where spencer’s working on the final paper for his third phd meanwhile you take on the task of making sure he takes a break.

warnings; smut, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, sub!spence if you squint, nipple piercings;),

a/n; i’m not saying this is my fantasy but .. this is my fantasy,, inspired by this song, y’all know the drill. you don't have to listen while reading but i always love to set the vibe. lastly y/n doesn't have any mentioned features or looks besides piercings/tattoos,, the rest is all up to you:)

pls send in feedback!

***

A shiver crawled down your spine from the first squirt of dye hitting your scalp. The bubblegum pink shade being a change from the firey red which inhabited your head a mere 24 hours prior.

The process was muscle memory at this point. Brushing out your hair then parting and sectioning it off. However that was the only methodical part. The fun was in slapping on the dye, not a single worry about staining your hands or neck.

The sounds of heavy drums and bass guitar bounced off the walls in the bathroom of the small apartment. Even though the door was shut it wasn't enough to stop the sound from flowing into the living room where your boyfriend was working.

Spencer sat at the dining table, flipping through copious amounts of folders and books. His third thesis in the process of being written. The computer screen in front of him looking back with a mocking glow. Since apparently things had to be digital now.

Your feet padding on the wooden floor made him look up from the pages. Humming to the music as you walked into your bedroom. Then back out a few seconds later holding a towel and robe.

A small smile tugged across his face. Ever since you had moved in together he loved to watch your day to day actions. The way you played your music concerningly loud, your skincare routine which included cleaning your facial piercings. What fascinated him the most was that in the 13 months you’d been together he’d seen you dye your hair 7 times.

Not including any touch ups.

He stood from his place at the table, making his way to the bathroom. Two quick rasps on the door to check if you were decent. The action made you giggle.

“Come in!” you called, “I don’t know why you knock weirdo you’ve seen me naked plenty of times.”

A blush spread across his cheeks from both your words and your state of undress. His eyes tried to focus on the splotches of color on the counter, keeping the blood flowing to the head on his shoulders.

But it was hard when the sheer bralette you had on did very little to hide the metal bars in each of your breasts.

“Spence?” you said snapping a fingers in front of him.

He cleared his throat, eyes snapping to your face which held a smirk.

“Are uh those n-new?” he questioned, hand going to scratch the nape of his neck.

The usual silver balls at the end of the bars were now tiny jewell hearts. The color was a little hard to tell due to the material of your bra but from the change in your hair he could almost bet money they were also pink.

With swift hands you unclipped your bra and threw it on the closed toilet seat before turning to face him.

“Got them when I bought the dye yesterday,” you said pushing your boobs up with your hands, “You like?”

Spencer’s eyes were as big as saucers, frantically nodding, “Y-yeah they look nice.”

You dropped your hands to your hips, tugging off the shorts you had on. The wide brown eyes before you couldn’t get any bigger, trailing down your frame stopping to admire the bar in your belly button along with the ink which littered your ribs.

He watched as you got to your knees, turning on the bath faucet. You dipped your head under the water, a stream of pink filling the tub.

The slope of your spine bent over was a sight he'd seen more than enough times. He could pinpoint the beauty marks on your left shoulder, the small sun he sketched which ended up permanently on the back of your neck. But if he let his gaze drift a little further south he could see how deliciously the dark lace looked barley covering up your most intimate parts.

A smack to his calf got his attention.

“Earth to Spencer! Can you hand me the shampoo,” you asked which came out sounding a bit muffled.

He quickly scurried to the tub and reached over to grab the bottle, squeezing a bit of gel onto your open palm.

"I'm gonna go work on my thesis some more," Spencer said slowly shutting the door behind him.

Making his way back to the living room, he pulled a few files and sat down on the couch. Glasses sat on the bridge of his nose and red pen between his teeth and he stared in concentration.

They were the same words he had read over and over again. The lack of sleep causing a dull ache in his skull.

"You need to take a break love," you said walking over and sitting next to Spencer on the couch.

"I did take one," he argued back flipping through the file.

"Gawking at me before I shower for 2 minutes isn't a break," you said with a giggle, the warmth flooding back to his cheeks, "Cmon 25 minutes at least without a file in your hand. "

When he didn't respond you took matters into your own hands. Ripping the file from his grasp, earning a grumble of disapproval before you straddled his hips. Your arms circled his neck and your hands went straight to the back of his scalp, fingertips running in soothing motions.

"Isn't this so much better baby," you asked whispering in his ear.

He nodded quickly, staying silent as he let his actions speak louder. His large palms went right to your plush hips. Bucking up as he led you to grind yourself on his lap.

Letting his hands explore the material of your satin rope he could feel the lack of undergarments on your frame. Spencer dared to let his hands dip under the black fabric and take each one of your cheeks in the palm of your hand with a gentle squeeze.

You could feel his cock stiffening under you. If you looked down you'd probably be able to see a wet spot on his sweats, most likely a mix of your arousals.

Leaning forward you let your lips attack his neck, placing sloppy kisses sure to leave marks. The process of licking and biting making Spencer hold onto you tighter, almost as if he had his very own vampire to mark him up.

Trailing up to his ear you bit on the lobe before whispering, "Tell me what you need baby."

Lust filled brown orbs met your own as you each continued your steady grind.

"Please fuck me," he pleaded.

If only he knew how wrapped around his finger you were. As pretty as he sounded begging you'd give him anything.

You pulled the metal frames off his face, tossing them to the other side of the couch. He had complained one too many times about foggy glasses during sex. No matter how cute you thought he looked.

Your hands slid down his torso and reached to pull down his sweats. His precum soaked length was heavy in your hands. Pretty pink tip leaky and throbbing already. The first few pumps had whiny moans slipping from his lips, red from biting so hard.

"Unwrap me baby, it's all for you," you said tilting your head down, motioning to the strings holding your robe together.

Quickly he let his slender fingers go to the ends, a swift tug and it was like opening a gift on Christmas. Leaning forward he let his lips wrap around one of your nipples. A strangled moan leaving your mouth from the stimulation.

With a raise of your hips you lined his cock with your opening before sliding down. You both sighed at the same time, the feeling of him stretching you out and your warm walls hugging his length was just too good.

Slowly you rocked your hips testing the waters, soft gasps and curses left your lips. You could feel very vein and inch stuffed inside you.

Spencer on the other hand was having an out of body experience, there wasn't an inch of your skin which was left untouched. Unkissed. After you were settled he raised his hips meeting you halfway with each thrust.

"You're doing so well baby," you cooed down at him, "You love when I ride you hm? Best fucking seat in the house."

His eyes shut closed in pleasure as your pace quickened, "Love it so much. So so pretty," he mumbled out.

His arms pulled you close again. Chest to chest as you continued your movements. Your lips met in a lazy kiss, panting in each others mouths when you ran out of air.

You could feel him pulsating inside you. The iron grip he had on your hips as he helped drive you up and down on his cock was sure to feel sore the next day. His shoulders were sure to have corresponding crescent marks from your nails digging in.

"Touch me Spence m'so close love," you said breathlessly.

One of his hands fell down to the space where you both connected. Skilled fingers rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves in quick circular motions.

Loud moans escaped your lips. Your head fell back to the familiar junction of his neck and shoulder, biting the skin in order to stifle your noises of pleasure.

"Y/n I can't hold it any longer, please cum with me," he whimpered out.

Nodding your head you grabbed onto the back of his neck, "Right behind you baby. Let go for me, I got you."

With a few more upward thrusts you felt him pull you down onto his cock, warmth spreading in your tummy. The feeling of his seed filling you up and his euphoric groans sent you over the edge.

You both rode out your orgasms, swiveling hips and satisfactory sighs of release leaving your lips.

After a few minutes of content silence listening to the music still flowing through the hall you moved to get up, the sticky mess between your thighs less than comfortable.

Warm arms kept you in place, denying your movement.

"Spence I gotta clean up," you said trying to push yourself off his chest.

"If I remember correctly you said at least 25 minutes and from my calculations I have 3 minutes and 38 seconds left of cuddle time," the lanky man under you said matter of factly.

You rolled your eyes, sighing but resting your head back on his shoulder, "If I get a UTI thats 3 minutes and 38 seconds of me playing screamo in your ear at full volume."

With one last squeeze he kissed the side of your head, the scent of ammonia only sightly bothering him, "Worth it."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #chellewrites

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wreckofawriter · 5 years

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Pencil Sketches

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader

Warnings: Ummm none fluffy

Word Count: 2,738

Summary: You start receiving sketches of yourself and find out who the artist is in a very surprising way.

A/n: Hi this is my first Cedric fic. I dont exactly love it buuuut whatever.

You remember when it all started. It was four months ago. You had just had a particularly hard day, you were late to Charms and got 5 points taken from your house, you spilled ink all over your positions essay, you got pumpkin juice on your blouse and forgot about a very difficult quiz in DADA. You were heading to the back of the library to choose a book when something fell out of the large amounts of papers you were holding. You groaned bending down to pick it up as you did you glance at the contents of the page and your heart stopped.

It took you only a second to figure out what was on the paper. It was you. You were glaring down at a notebook, your eyes appearing to shine as you clutched a quill in your right hand. Your hair hanging in front of your frustrated face, your lips drawn into a thin line. It was the best drawing you had ever seen, for a second you thought it was a photograph. But it was a drawing, a drawing of you, a drawing of you that looked so realistic it almost scared you. The pencil marks were flowing yet sharp, shading was done in just the right places to give your face depth. It was like looking in a black and white mirror.

You stood in the middle of the hallway for what must have been a good five minutes just staring at the photo in amazement. You then realized what you were doing and continued to the library.

From there the drawings became a normal part of your life. You would usually receive five to six a week in your bag, waiting at your desk or even in your dorm room. You had no idea how they managed to swing that. Each one was more beautiful than the last and you swear that they made you look much prettier in the drawing than you really were. Most were done in pencil a few in quill and one in charcoal. Each one seemed to be a different mood, sometimes you would be scowling, sometimes smirking, sometimes smiling and one was even of you with your head down on a desk your eyes closed and your hair hanging in your face. The ones you received the most were ones of you laughing. Your lips split open in a smile and your eyes crinkled or just shut altogether.

Many times you had tried to find the artist who had drawn you without luck. They never left any notes or indications and it made it extremely difficult to find the culprit. You wished for nothing more than to meet and thank the person who had brought so much happiness into your life with their artwork. But they never revealed themselves even after four months, nothing. You began to worry, what if they never revealed themselves? It was your last year after all, you would be leaving in a few months. Eventually, you stopped looking and simply hoped they would reveal themselves.

“Ms. Y/l/n,” McGonagall called to you.

“Yes, Professor?” You asked your arms full of books as you made your way back to your common room.

“Could you please follow me? I have something we need to discuss.” She clipped, beckoning for you to follow her.

Your eyebrows scrunched together in momentary confusion before following the orders you had been given.

As you followed McGonagall through the castle you wracked your brain for what you could have possibly done wrong. Did they think you cheated on an exam? Did they find your stash of food in your dorm? Surely that wasn't that big of a deal. Then you remembered the bottle of firewhiskey under your bed and fear rose in your throat. What if they expelled you? What would you do? Your heart pounding you were lead into a room expecting all of hell to rain upon you, but when it opened you were greeted by Dumbledore's warm smile.

“Ahh Y/n, looks as if the last of you have arrived.”

You glanced around the room and easily recognized two-thirds of the famous fourth-year trio and a young girl you didn't recognize.

McGonagall went to talk to Dumbledore as you made your way over to Ron and Hermione.

“Umm do you guys know what going on?” You asked as you approached them.

“Not a clue,” Hermione responded with as she glanced around the room as if looking for clues on their current situation.

“Are we in trouble or something?” You inquired.

Ron snorted, “As if Hermione would ever get in trouble.” he jeered earning a glare from the bushy-haired girl.

“I think it has something to do with the next task.” Hermione guessed.

“Then why am I here?” you wondered.

Hermione opened her mouth to answer but she was cut off by Dumbledore.

“I assume all of you are wondering what is happening, well as Mrs. Granger pointed out it does have something to do with the task tomorrow.”

Everyone else seemed very excited you, on the other hand, were very confused, what did the next task have to do with you?

“Tomorrow morning your friends are going to have to rescue something of great importance to them from the bottom of the black lake. You, my friends, are those things.”

Hermione gasped. Ron raised both his eyebrows and the girl seemed a bit frightened.

“You will be put under a spell and not remember a thing until you break the surface again. I promise all of you will be fine. So if you could just take som-”

“Umm excuse me?” You asked cutting off your professor, “Why am I here?” His eyebrows raised in confusion. “I mean I get the whole rescuing someone that is important to them thing, I mean Hermione for Krum.” Hermione flashed red and Ron rolled his eyes. “Ron for Harry and I guessing she's Fleur’s little sister or something?” You said gesturing to the young girl, “I just don't get why I'm here.”

Now Dumbledore's face was filled with amusement, a small smile on his lips. “You don't know?” he asked.

“Know what?”

He started to laugh, “For such a bright girl I expected you had already found out.”

You were beginning to feel stupid, “Found out what?”

“Have you been receiving drawings for the past few months?” He mused glancing at Mcgonagall who also seemed amused.

“Y-yeah, wait how do you know about those?”

“It's impossible to miss,” Mcgonagall said sweetly, “Cedric is constantly pouring over as sketchbook in his classes, particularly the ones you are in, Ms. Y/l/n.”

You heard Hermione let out a giggle as your face flashed a brilliant red. Your head was spinning. Cedric was the one who was giving those to you? The golden boy of Hogwarts was spending his time sketching you?

“Cedric is the one drawing me?” You managed to get from your mouth, the sentence came out squeaker than you would have liked but at least you managed it.

“Yes Y/n, I'm quite surprised you hadn't noticed the boys admiration in you.” Dumbledore smiled as your eyes got impossibly bigger and your stomach began to fill with butterflies. “Now we don't want to waste much more time." He sighed, “Take some of this, it will put you straight to sleep, although I must warn you it tastes terrible.” He passed each of you a bottle full of a deep purple liquid.

You downed it quickly and almost immediately your world grew dark.

Cedric had grown exceedingly nervous as he stood on the docks in the middle of the lake. While the others around him seemed to be scared of what lurked in the dark of the lake he was concerned at where you were. He hadn’t seen you at breakfast, where he was planning to slip his newest drawing into your bag and now he couldn't find you here either. What if you were sick? Where you ok? Had you gotten hurt? He silently shamed himself for caring so much for a person who didn't even know he existed but he couldn't help it. He had tried to stop caring about you, but fate seemed to work against him as all he could do was see you no matter where he looked. It was as if you had been placed behind a glass case in a bakery, with a price tag much too high. So all he could do was look and wonder how your lips would taste against his own.

Finally, he gave up looking for you and looked at the challenge ahead of him. If you weren't here he wanted to make sure you heard from everyone else how he had won. Determination took over his features, he had a plan and he just hoped the others were less prepared than he. Just then the horn was blown and he dove into the water quickly casting a bubble charm around his head and begging to swim into the depths of the lake. He quickly located the singing he remembered form the terrible egg he had gotten and swum toward it. He almost choked when he saw what was waiting for him. You. Your ankles were tied with rope and your beautiful y/e/c eyes resting closed as your y/h/c hair floating in the water. The others tied around you suddenly meant nothing as he stared at you. He thought you resembled an angel floating in the water, all you were missing were wings. He then remembered he was in composition and swam towards you at a quickened rate. He thought for a minute, inspecting the rope holding you before muttering a spell. As the bounds broke he snatched you and began to swim upwards. He then saw Harry come into view, he nodded at him and continued upward.

Your eyes popped open and you found yourself gasping for air as you coughed up water. The first thing you noticed was how cold you were, everything thing was cold except an arm swimming you towards the dock. You looked up to see Cedric dragging you towards the dock his face full of worry. He glanced over at you and smiled and blushed.

“Are you alright?” He asked over the cheering of the crowd. You nodded still coughing.

When you reached the ladder you were helped up and quickly wrapped in a wool blanket as you continued coughing tiring to get the water out of your system, finally you were able to intake air and breathe normally and you saw that you were on a dock in the middle of the lake but you could hardly see anything over the crowd of people swarming you, well more swarming Cedric. You then realized that Cedric had his arm securely wrapped around you as he maneuvered you through the crowds and your face flushed red. Cedric led you to an empty bench overlooking the lake on the platform getting congratulated all the way. When you sat down he pulled you close to him in attempts to warm your shivering your form. You instantly leaned into his warm body, looking up at him to meet his grey eyes. He blushed bright red and looked away from you. Just then the crowd erupted into cheers and you looked up to see Krum emerge, Hermione, gasping for breath as she appeared to shriek a bit at his shark head before he quickly changed back.

“I hope Harry’s alright.” You murmured as you peered into the water.

“I'm sure he's fine, I saw him when I was getting you.” Cedric blushed a bit when he mentioned you.

“Did you see Krum?”

“Uhh no, I didn't,” Cedric answered.

“Why is he up here before him?” You questioned worriedly, your eyes scanned for the young boy in the water. You didn't know Harry well but you wished for no harm to come to him.

“I don't know.” Cedric seemed just as confused as you.

You both waited for Harry to show up as the minutes ticked down. Then suddenly you gasped. In all the excitement you had completely forgotten that Cedric was revealed as the mysterious artist.

“What is it?” The grey-eyed boy asked you.

You turned and looked at him. There was no denying that he was absolutely stunning. He was beyond handsome with his sharp features and kind eyes. You saw him blush a bit as you took in his profile, which only made him more attractive. But not only was he gorgeous he was amazingly kind, talented and smart. You opened your mouth to confess your knowledge on the portraits he had drawn of you. But you were interrupted by shouting and yelling and you both turned away from each other to see Harry emerging from the water, with not only Ron, but the young blonde haired girl as well. You sighed in relief and looked back at Cedric who was already staring at you. He blushed for the 1000th time when you met his grey orbs and looked away again. Then he turned back to look at you with something new in his eyes, determination.

“Hey Y/n I need to tell you something.” He said his voice a bit louder than it had been before.

“Sure what's up?” You asked.

“You probably have already realized this but clearly you mean a lot to me, I mean with the whole rescuing you think that was probably obvious but umm,” He paused then continued, “Imtheonewhosebeengivingyouthedrawings” He said quickly his face burning a deep shade of crimson.

If you had not already known what he was going to say you would have been thoroughly confused, but because of your recent discoverings, you had managed to gather about what he said.

“I know.” You answered simply.

“Oh ok- wait, WHAT?” He said his eyes wide his face getting impossibly redder.

You giggled rolling your eyes playfully.

“For how long?” he gasped.

“Umm, it's almost noon so about, I'll say 14 hours?” You guessed.

He blinked rapidly then smacked his forehead with his hand. “Of course you know, they probably told you before they put you in the lake.” He said clearly feeling very stupid.

“They're amazing by the way.” You complemented, “Although I'm pretty sure you make me look much better in the drawings than I am in person.” You giggled.

He looked at you and scoffed, “Are you kidding.” He murmured running his thumb along your jawline. “The most talented artist in the world couldn’t do your beauty justice.”

You flashed a deep red as you felt your stomach erupt with butterflies once more. You bit your lip, the exact place his eyes lingered.

He leaned in millimeters from your lips, “May I kiss you?” He asked his lips brushing against yours as he spoke.

You simply closed the space between the two of you in an answer. His lips were warm against your cool ones and your hands found your way to his damp hair. The kiss was sweet and passionate, his lips moved slowly against your own making you swoon. As you pulled away you were for the second time in the past hour gasping for air.

“I have something for you.” He whispered turning to grab a bag next to him. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to you.

You couldn't help the small smile on your face as he looked at his newest drawing. You had your head thrown back your eyes closed and a smile wide on your face, it was clear you were laughing.

“I always loved drawing you laughing.” He said shyly.

“I still don't understand how you are so good.” You said in amazement.

“Thanks.” He blushed

“No, thank you. Thank you so much for all of these. They made my day so much better.” You said, “Just looking at them made me happy.”

Now as you looked at them you felt your world fall apart. Sobs wrecked your body as you stared at the drawings you had saved. You couldn't think, your head throbbed and you felt like you were falling into a deep dark pit but you could never hit the bottom. Your tears soaked the picture of you with your head thrown back in laughter and you were sure you would never laugh again.

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watarigarasu · 4 years

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Home

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word count: 3,622

Warnings: None

Author’s note: None

Synopsis: Persuaded by his closest ones, Thorin agrees to hire an artist to paint a portrait of him and soon finds out that it might be the best kind of coincindence that has ever happened to him—and for you, too.

The King under the Mountain was standing still, eyes focused on something behind your back, his posture straight and proud, and for a single moment you started to believe that it was a majestic statue you were looking at, not the very alive and equally intimidating Thorin Oakenshield himself. Slowly, your sight moved to the canvas, carefully, as if you were afraid that this movement could cause too much noise in the deadly silent room. Soft strokes of the brush left a trail of beige paint on the creamy fabric, following by the next one and another, until you needed to dip the brush in the pigment again. Holding your breath, you proceeded with your work, the trembling of your fingers now not as visible as an hour ago when you had just saw him for the first time.

To say that you were surprised while receiving a message considering your new job would be a misunderstanding. You were beyond shocked, a bizzare combination of anxiety and excitement building up in your stomach when your gaze ghosted over the inked letters, as if you were expecting them to lose the first meaning if you stared long enough. Nevertheless, they remained the same, unmoving and very, very clear about the sender's intentions.

You were invided to the Lonely Mountain, the kingdom of Erebor you have heard a lot about as a child in various stories and legends, and spent many sleepless nights wondering how did it look like in a more merciful times. Right now, however, the mere possibility of wandering through its halls seemed too unreal, like a dream you could not wake up from no matter how many times you blinked or put the letter down only to pick it up after barely few minutes. The letters were still there though, black ink sinked in the yellowed paper, so heavy in your hands.

Placing the wooden palette on the side, you walked to Thorin, your palms suddenly becoming treacherously sweaty, betraying your nervousness in the latest person you wanted to show any weakness to. Delicately, as if his frame was made of a fragile glass (oh, sweet irony, for you have never witnessed anyone as strong and powerful as him), you grabbed the edge of his fur coat and moved it slightly up over his shoulder, since it must have accidentally slipped down a little bit, now not suiting the sketch on your canvas and changing the way the shadows fell upon his armoured torso. You could feel the intensity of his gaze on you, although he remained silent, allowing you to touch and change the way he was standing to your liking—so the painting you were working on would be as breathtaking as Balin promised him to be.

„A painting?” Thorin asked back then and took a sip of an ale from his wooden beer mug. „I do not need a painting.”

„Of course you do not,” Balin nodded understandingly. „The palace is already full of the monuments of your ancestors and soon yours also. What I think is that, it would be an interesting difference.”

„Paintings are fragile, they won't endure the pass of time.”

„Prehaps they will, if you only give it a chance.”

„Plus...” Kíli, who was obviously eavesdropping the whole conversation, sat next to his uncle with an alarmingly wide smile on his face. „Currently there is a great opportunity to try this out!”

Thorin eyed him cautiously, never truly considering anything Kíli called 'great' as such. 'Dangerous' maybe, 'reckless' even, but never 'great'.

„Indeed, it is,” Fíli took a seat on his other side, so Thorin had nowhere to escape this pointless discussion.

Groaning deeply, he took another sip of an ale.

„Listen, uncle,” Kíli continued, despite his partner in coversation being less than interested in what did he have to say. „Yesterday we have met a wonderful painter in Dale. Amazingly skilled. At least few years of experience. But what is the most important, is that she is a globetrotter. A lone ranger.”

„Which only means that she must not be as clever as you take her for, Kíli, to travel those lands all alone.” Thorin's remark was almost enough to wipe the smile off this nephew's face.

„Prehaps. Prehaps she is also a fool to paint for barely few silver coins or a warm meal and a place to stay for the night but isn't it what makes it all special? The dream, whatever it is, she is following? Despite what anyone says? Ignoring the danger? Eating the fear for breakfast?” With every word passing, Kíli was getting closer to Thorin, his voice lowering almost to the conspirational whisper before he laughed and straightened his back. „Come on, it does sound familiar.”

„Why does it mean so much for you?” Thorin peeked at him and then to the other side, at his brother who was only listening for now, surely ready to intervene. „Why the bloody painting?”

„Because you have been working so much lately, you need some kind of entertainment.” Apparently, it was Fíli's turn to speak. „A relieve from all the stress and burden. Something different to think of, a breath of fresh air.”

„And how is standing in a single place for hours going to help?”

Fíli only shrugged. „It could be fun. If you won't like it then you can destroy the painting and we promise to never ask you that again. Ever. Am I right, Kíli?”

„Absolutely!”

Later on, Thorin could not point out what exactly made him agree for his nephews' wicked offer. Maybe it was an ale, maybe he was feeling particulary tired that evening and simply wanted them to leave him be or maybe he knew that he truly needed some rest for his mind. It has been a long time since his Company reclaimed the Lonely Mountain and ever since he rarely thought about anything else than his duties—the neverending pile of problems which seemed to grow as he reached deeper, like a wild weeds devouring the garden he was desperately trying to tame. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, under every stone there was more; more things to take care of, more decisions to make, more sleepless nights. Only the time seemed to shrink.

When he stood in the room, the sunlight spilling on the floor by his feet, Thorin thought that maybe it was not such a bad idea, after all. Your gaze was soft but attentive, remembering the details of his royal outfit and recreating them on the canvas. It was a talent he never considered particulary useful but it could have some advantages, indeed.

Like the fact that he could look at your lovely face for how long he wanted, never getting caught as you were too focused on the paths left by your brush.

„Where do you come from?” he asked the first day, right after you explained your vision to him, not without a stutter or two.

You looked at him puzzled, at first not really convinced that he actually asked it out loud, for his posture did not move a bit.

„Nowhere,” you told him and cleared the throat before continuing. „And everywhere. I like to consider this whole world as my home. That way you never feel like an unwelcomed guest, no matter where you go.”

„The place you were born,” he added, his voice low and demanding, used to giving orders and having them accomplished in a blink of an eye. „Do you ever miss it?”

You were afraid of the subject, aware that speaking further seemed more like wandering on a thin ice. The King almost sacrificed everything just so he could have a place to call home, and then, there was a human telling stories about how did it never matter. And so, you decided to tell him the truth.

„I was never happy in a place I was born. It made me feel trapped.”

He did not elaborate on the subject and you knew better than to continue. You have almost finished colouring his face that day, the handsome, royal features staying under your eyelids long after you have fallen asleep.

The next morning, you were invited for breakfast with Thorin's nephews, the ones you had a dubious pleasure of meeting during your stay in Dale. Although you were not convinced that it was a good idea to ask you to paint the king—the King under the Mountain, that is!—eventually you were quite grateful for their idea. You could not remember when was the last time you had such a delicious food in your mouth and a soft mattress under your spine to rest. Furthermore, you were promised to not only get a shelter while you were working, but also a payment you deserved, which only made you more nervous about what will Thorin think about the result. For the first four hours you have spent with him alone in your temporary study room, you could already tell that there were not many things which could make him at least content.

You wondered, how did he look like when he smiled, how did the tone of his voice change when he laughed.

„Could you...” you started, still desperately wanting to sound as polite as possible, which was quite hard, considering the situation you were in—telling the King where should he stand and look. „Could you, please, move a little bit to the right, My King...?”

You could swear there was a spark of amusement in his eyes before he took a step as you asked.

„'My King' is not necessary,” he informed you and in the very second he finished the sentence you wished for the ground to open and swallow you up.

„Oh.” You blinked few times. „My apologies, I have never... I was talking to your nephews and they told me it will be the best way to politely adress you.”

„Of course they did...” he sighed. „I am not your king and as far as I am concerned, nobody is.”

You barely managed to finish the outline or his armour that evening, way too lost in thoughts to focus on the job and Thorin did not seem to mind, not then, nor the day after when you met him in your study room, puctual as always.

You told him the stories from the lands you have travelled through before reaching Dale, some of them more or less interesting, but he was listening to you nevertheless, the sound of your voice echoing in the room bringing peace to his mind. Living for so many years, Thoring managed to visit most places you were still under the huge impression of, the images of different landscapes sharp and vivid in his memory as if it was yesterday. Looking at you, so eager to go further north, to experience and live, was truly a breath of fresh air in the dark halls of Erebor. The light burning in the shadows.

Thorin have never cared for the painting in the first place, after weeks of your presence in the kingdom, however, he found himself caring about it even less—despising the canvas, although you asked him to not look at it until it will be finished. Once you will be done with your work, he will have to pay you few golden coins, as promised, and let you go, only to be left alone once again, without your stories, without your voice, without your smile, without your mere presence shining brighter than the sun high on the sky. He admired you; the way your fingers moved the brush, the way your brows furrowed when you were particulary focused on a single detail of the painting, the way you laughed in the dining halls during breakfast, amused by something silly either Fíli or Kíli said, the way you walked down the corridors heading to your bedroom. Your presence was now so natural there, as if you were meant to be in the Lonely Mountain, like a long lost piece to finally make his kingdom whole.

He knew that the day when you will go on, will be the day when his heart will break in two also.

In no time, Thorin began to somehow admire the characteristic smell of terpentine filling the study room every evening, when you were cleaning your brushes and palette knives from the paint. It reminded him of you and your skills, and everytime he joined you there for a small chat, he observed the way your fingers gracefully moved with the tools. Your hands were not as rough as his, probably never wielding a sword nor holding a shield, but no less admirable. He would have laugh in the face of those, who would dare to tell him, barely few months ago, that one day he might grow fond of the delicate skin, the one he often mocked, considering it as a proof of a lesser work.

„I was wondering,” you started, placing a thin brush on the table covered with fabric next to you. „Could you tell me the story of your Company?”

Thorin looked up at you from his seat, the leather armchair in the corner of the room he tended to use whenever feeling particulary tired by the presence of the others. Never yours, though, for your presence was as natural as breathing.

„I believe everyone knows this story already, you and your kin included. There were legends, even.”

„Legends usually tell only half of the truth. The other half is made up by those who speak and I wish to hear it from the most reliable source. That would be an unforgettable experience.”

„I am curious how listening to an old Dwarf can be considered as a gained experience for ones like you.”

„And now I am curious how can you think it is not,” you admitted. „You are the King under the Mountain, you have seen and lived through more than I will ever do. It is a miracle that I can at least imagine your journey, but I do not want to hear about it from the mouths of people from Dale, nor Elves from Mirkwood. I wish to hear it from you, this is all I ask for.”

Thorin thought for a while, the innocent fascination in your eyes reminding him of the times he was nowhere near being the king you could admire. Lost, bruised and beaten but never broken—standing proudly like his own reflection on your canvas.

„Sit down,” he eventually told you. „I have to warn you that this is a very long story.”

„I do hope so.”

It surprised you, when you realized that you have been starting to slow down with your work—unlike all the past times. You liked the finish, putting some white paint there and there, giving the picture a new perspective, exposing the light and deepening the darkness, but when you looked at Thorin's eyes, now staring right at you from the canvas, you found yourself rather downhearted than satisfied. Your time in Erebor was growing short, it was just a matter of days until you will have to part with the Dwarves and move on, find another model to portray and a new place to stay.

But how could you do that, if you felt like you had all your inspiration there, in this very place? As irrationally it sounded, you believed that the King under the Mountain was the muse you were looking for for all those years. He was the one you could look at and paint for the rest of your days and never get bored, the one which caused you to smile everytime you opened your eyes in the morning, ready to face the day. He made your heart beat so fast, now not due to the anxiety, but the possibility of seeing him and feeling his eyes upon you.

The realization struck you like a lightning when you were painting strands of his silver hair on the dark locks falling on his broad shoulders.

You loved him.

You loved your muse, your inspiration, your king.

You had to bite your lip to prevent the involuntary smile to appear on your face. Prehaps you were not as wrong as you previously thought about using this term toward him, for Thorin truly and unconditionally ruled your heart, willingly or not.

Not that you minded.

The last day of your work together, you spent wondering whether to put your signature on the painting or not. Once it will be there, there won't be turning back, the painting will be done and so your time in this place, too. King Thorin was standing still, just like on the very first day, now seemingly the whole years ago. But it was barely summer, the warmer days were coming and you were aware that you have already overstayed your welcome in those halls. It did not change the fact that putting down your brush was the hardest thing you had to do.

„I am done,” you announced, the forced smile on your lips as you stood straight next to the easel.

„Already?” Was his reaction.

Nevertheless, Thorin let his arms fall loose by the sides and faced you, the harsh expression on his face now slowly melting, since you were no longer going to look at him that way nor another.

You nodded in response.

Now it was the time to say something. If he wanted to tell you what he felt, it was the best and last chance to do so, but he remained motionless, simply trying to remember the image of you standing there in a humble study room, the sunlight on your face, paint stains on your apron, hands held together in an awaiting manner. You were expecting him to say something, probably to ask to finally see your masterpiece... but he did not care for the damn painting.

He never cared for this bloody painting.

Instead, he muttered a simple order, while veguely gesturing to the armour and fur he was wearing:

„Help me to take this off.”

It was exactly as hard as you imagined, the steel pieces heavy and unpractical to carry as you placed them on the floor one by one, next to the axe and the sword, the weapons of his choice to eternalize. First, the noble furcoat, sliding down his arms with your trembling fingers as you could feel the scent of his hair, the subtle braids ended with beads jingling on the armour beneath the warm cover. The pauldrons, next the arm guards, then the breastplate and the gauntlets. Cold steel caging the burning heart. The King under the Mountain observed your ministrations and sporadically gave instructions if you were lost on how to continue, preparing for what was much more complicated—for baring his soul.

Contrary to what you hoped for, he was still as intimidating, even in the loose tunic, no weapon in hand and a sight which reminded you of a devoted sky above. The wise silver strands in his hair proved his knowledge and labour, something you were now familiar with after hearing the whole story of his Company. There were ages written down in a small wrinkles by his eyes, the history of loss, loyalty, courage and glory, and you found yourself mesmerized by it—by his gentle gaze hiding the pure ocean of secrets.

You were standing there, right in front of him and never in your whole life have you wanted to kiss him more. You did not move, when his hands stroked your arms, carefully moving up until they reached your neck and further, barely ghosting over your jaw.

„I have never been good with words of affection,” he whispered, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand. „But I know for sure that I would never forgive myself letting you go without an explanation. This world is harsh and brute, drowning in chaos and devoured by wars, eating alive the latest rays of light, but you have my word that I would willingly go through all of it once again, if it only meant meeting you at the end. I have no control over the past and although I regret that our paths did not cross earlier, now all I can do is to ask for your future, since it is and always will be shining brightly in front of us, darkness left behind. I love you, my dearest, and I care about you more than I can comprehend, with the most sincere kind of love a heart of an old king can muster.”

You were speechless, partly by the declaration itself, partly because of the ardour in his eyes and tone of his voice. His touch on your skin was featherlike, making you wonder how someone who carried such a great strength and authority could treat you with an utter gentleness. You smiled at him, taking his hand in yours and holding it for a while, feeling how warm they were against you—and Thorin patiently waited for your answer.

„I do not know what to say,” you started. „All I am certain of is that I was already starting to think that you will never ask me so, My King.”

Wide, genuinely happy smile which appeared on his features was way more breathtaking and heartwarming than any wild landscape you have ever seen, any adventure you have ever been on and any fleeting dream you were so desperately trying to achieve. When he kissed you, sweetly and passionately, you thought that maybe your aim was never to find a place to call home but to find home in the person who loved you the most.

#thorin x reader #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin #thorin imagine #thorin oakenshield #thorin oakenshield imagine #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction

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mxliv-oftheendless · 4 years

Text

Writer’s Month Prompts Day 26

Day 26: Tattoo Artist/Flower Shop AU

I know, it took me this long to write up the prompt that was officially supposed to be written on Day 1 XD. Hope you enjoy it!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Aw, c’mon, baby, why don’t we talk it out over a drink?”

“Fuck off,”

“Ooh, nice mouth. What else do you use it for?”

“I said fuck off!”

Heather sighed and turned to smile amiably at the customer she was assisting. “Would you excuse me for a second?” She left the counter and went across the flower shop to the door, where outside was Paul and the stupid tattoo artist from across the street. “Hey!” Heather snapped. “He said fuck off, so fuck off, Sixx.”

Nikki scoffed and rolled his eyes at her. “C’mon, I was just having a little fun—”

“Yeah, you’ve been giving me that lie for three days straight now. Try it again and I’ll call the police and make a harassment complaint.”

Nikki was silent as he glared at her, no doubt trying to think of something to say. Heather just crossed her arms and glared right back. Finally he sighed, looking more like a lectured teenager than a grown man. “Fine.” He turned around to stalk across the street towards the tattoo parlor. He was about to enter when he turned around and, in a rather childish move, aimed his middle finger right at her Heather made a big show of rolling her eyes and turned away.

Paul sighed. “Finally. I thought he’d never leave.”

“I bet if you just ignored him he’ll go away,” she suggested as they headed back into the flower shop.

“I should start bringing my lunch from home,” Paul just mumbled. He smiled at her gratefully. “Thanks for stepping in.”

Heather smiled at her best friend. “No problem.” She went back to the counter while Paul went into the greenhouse. “Sorry about that. Now where were we?”

She finished helping the customer fill out their order, and after sending him on his way she went to go help Paul in the greenhouse. She pulled on her gardening gloves and went over to the zinnias. “How’s everything looking?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Good so far.” Paul was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Is it bad I keep thinking about earlier?”

Heather turned in his direction. “Why?”

“Just… How do you handle a situation like that? Someone refusing to leave you alone? Without hurting their feelings?”

Heather frowned at him. “Well, for one thing, don’t care about their feelings. They’re the one harassing you. Second, just stay away from the tattoo parlor.”

“How can I do that when they’re right across the street from us?” Paul deadpanned.

“Just avoid them whenever possible. You’ve seen everyone who works there, and how they act. All those guys are nothing but trouble.” Heather calmed down from her small tirade and smiled reassuringly at him. “We could call their manager and complain about Sixx harassing you.”

Paul brightened. “That would work, probably. Just call him and let him take care of it.”

“Yeah, exactly,”

Heather would later wonder if some divine power had heard her comment on how all the artists at Motley Crue Tattoos were nothing but trouble, because at that moment they heard the bells above the door ring.

“I’ll get it,” Heather wiped her gloves on her jeans. “You prune the dahlias.”

“But you do such a better job on the dahlias than me,” Paul grinned at her. “They’re your pride and joy.”

Heather grinned back. “I think you’re finally ready for the responsibility of pruning them. Do not prove me wrong, Paul Stanley.”

“I shall not fail you!”

Laughing, Heather opened the door to enter the shop floor. She caught sight of a man looking over the flower pots, looking like he was trying to blend in with the surroundings. It was a bit difficult for him, though, since he was clad in all black, with a black leather jacket and black boots, as well as sunglasses. He looked about as invisible as a drop of black ink on a sheet of paper. There was also a sketchbook tucked under one arm. He looked rather familiar, but Heather wasn’t sure where she had seen him before. She still put on a smile and headed towards him. “Hi there. Welcome to the Dahlia Shoppe. I’m Heather, how can I help you?”

The man looked at her for a second. What was he doing? He finally said, “I was wondering if I could go back into your greenhouse.”

Heather blinked at him. “Why would you want to do that?”

“I’m, uh… an artist. I take commissions. And a lot of people request flowers. And I knew you grew good flowers here, so…” The man shoved his hands into his pockets. “Wouldn’t be bothering anyone. And I wouldn’t touch any of the flowers. Just thought I’d ask if I could come by and practice drawing ‘em sometime.”

Heather thought for a moment. Then she shrugged. “I guess it wouldn’t be a problem. Come on, I’ll show you the greenhouse.” As they were walking over to the door, she asked, “By the way, what’s your name? Just so I know who you are if you stop by again.”

“Mick Mars,”

“Heather McMann. Nice to meet you, Mick Mars.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw the corner of his mouth lift up in a smile. She opened the door and showed him inside. “There you go. Just go tell Paul,” she pointed over to where Paul was meticulously pruning a dahlia plant, “I said it’s okay for you to be back here, and he’ll leave you alone.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Sure. Let me know when you’re leaving.”

Heather closed the door behind him and went to go straighten up the racks of seed packets. Customers were always rifling through them and putting the packets back out of order. But she hadn’t even been doing her task for five minutes when the door opened and she looked up to find Paul hurrying onto the shop floor.

“Heather,” he said quickly. “That guy you said could sketch the flowers in the greenhouse…”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“He’s the manager of the tattoo parlor!”

Heather froze. “What? Really?”

Paul nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen him closing up before. I think he owns the place.”

“Oh…” Heather set down the seed packets she was holding. “Stay here. I’m going to go tell him right now.”

“But I thought we were going to call him!”

“Paul, the manager of the tattoo parlor where the guy who’s been harassing you works at literally just walked into the shop. On the same day. When’s this going to happen again? I’m going to go tell him right now.”

“But I don’t know if you—” Paul began, but Heather was already striding briskly to the door of the greenhouse. “—should,” he finished, and sighed.

Heather shoved open the door and stalked over to Mick, who had his sketchbook out and was in the middle of starting a sketch of the daisies. “Hey,” she demanded, making him look up. “Are you the manager of Motley Crue Tattoos?”

Mick looked taken aback by the question, but nodded. “I own the place, actually,”

“Yeah, okay. Tell your tattoo artists to stop harassing me and my friend.”

Mick frowned. “I didn’t know they were…”

Heather crossed her arms. “We are directly across the street from each other, and you just happen to not notice your one worker, Sixx, harassing Paul in broad daylight for three days in a row? If he does it again, I will call the cops on him. Tell him to stay the fuck away from my store, and from Paul, or I’ll have the cops do it.”

To her surprise, Mick got an annoyed look on his face. Then he sighed frustratedly. “Fuckin’ teenager went and fucked up again,” he grumbled, then he looked up at her. “I’m sorry about him, and I’m sorry he did that. I’ll talk to him about it.”

Heather frowned. “You’ll talk to him? Forgive me, but that sounds too much like a simple slap on the wrist to me.”

“Then how about this: I’ll talk to him today, and tomorrow morning when you open I’ll drag his ass over here so he can apologize. Trust me, I know how to get through to that kid.”

Heather clenched her jaw. “What happens if I don’t accept his apology?”

Mick sighed. “You’ve got every right to not accept his apology. I’ll suspend him from work. I mean, I was already going to, but I didn’t tell you that.”

For a moment, Heather was taken aback. She had been expecting him to argue with her, even say some crap like “oh he’d never do that”. But no, he wasn’t. He actually believed her. From how he was acting, it didn’t seem like this was the first time Sixx had gotten into trouble. And he seemed genuinely sorry…

“I… I guess that’s fair,” Heather finally sighed. “You’ve got a deal. Suspend him from work, and drag him over here to apologize to Paul, and I won’t call the cops on him.” She let Mick relax for a second before continuing. “But… if he ever does it again, I will file a harassment complaint.”

Mick nodded and held his hand out to her. “Deal,”

After a moment, Heather reached out to shake his hand. “Okay then. I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to keep sketching.”

She turned and walked away to exit the greenhouse. Paul was still waiting by the seed racks, drumming his fingers against his leg anxiously. “So what happened?”

“I talked to him, and he said he was going to talk to the guy and make him apologize to you.”

Paul blinked. “Really?”

Heather smiled. “Yeah, really. He was really understanding about it.”

“I can believe it. He was real polite when he came over to ask where the best flowers to sketch were.”

“He was? That was nice of him.”

Paul grinned at her. “But I thought you said tattoo artists were nothing but trouble,”

“They are… but this guy’s not. There can be exceptions.”

“Or maybe he likes you,”

Heather gaped at him and smacked him on the shoulder, laughing. “Shut up, he does not!”

Little did she know, Mick couldn’t help but overhear their conversation, and flinched a bit at Paul’s teasing words. Shit… was it obvious? So maybe he had just a little tiny thing for the blonde owner of the Dahlia Shoppe. That didn’t mean anything, or that it would go anywhere. Besides, Heather was probably out of his league anyway.

Mick sighed and went back to sketching. He could wait until after he finished and left to figure out his stupid feelings.

#writersmonth2020 #tattoo artist flower shop au #blackmassacre #yeah guys harassment is wrong and creepy and not a valid method of flirting so... stop doing it #but anyway this is mostly about mick's first move being not asking heather out on a date lol #mick has feelings and he is not ok with it #stardahlia broship #heather mcmann #my writing #hope you enjoyed!

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x0401x · 5 years

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Inktober 2019

I don’t know how many people got to know about it, but the arson attack at Kyoto Animation claimed its 36th victim this October, thus I decided to use KyoAni’s main titles for my very first time taking part in Inktober. Here’s to hoping that this will serve as a small homage to whoever it was, whose passing won’t be as widely regarded as the previous ones.

All 31 illustrations in full size and their descriptions under the cut.

Basically a collection of very simple ink sketches made in a hurry. Some were drawn with KyoAni’s style, some with my own style and some were a blending of both. I don’t particularly like how grainy the scans turned out after being diminished because it makes them look like digital art instead of ink art, but it’s a fact that they were too big to fit in one post otherwise. Anyway, here goes nothing...

Day 1: Ring Kuriyama Mirai (Kyoukai no Kanata) Pretty self-explanatory, and also the picshot that started this mini-project (yes, I took it with my phone). The others are all proper scans, though.

Day 2: Mindless Akiyama Mio (K-On!) From the movie’s ending clip.

Day 3: Bait Shinonome Nano and Hakase (Nichijou) Rock, paper, shark.

Day 4: Freeze Asakura Ryouko (Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuuutsu/Shoushitsu) “I will nullify your data link.”

Day 5: Build Hidaka Yumemi (Munto) Connecting two worlds to create another.

Day 6: Husky Matsuoka Rin (Free!) When your throat is screwed and you’re straight-up not having a good time.

Day 7: Enchanted Kamio Misuzu and “Sora” (Air) Just your average dying girl and her bird not-boyfriend.

Day 8: Frail Okazaki Nagisa and Okazaki Ushio (Clannad) “When winter arrives, she won’t be able to move anymore.”

Day 9: Swing Tsukimiya Ayu and Misaka Shiori (Kanon) Based on official art.

Day 10: Pattern Izumi Konata (Lucky Star) Cheer uniform, revisited. I was motivated to draw proper stars at first, but kinda got lazy halfway, lol.

Day 11: Snow Nagato Yuki (Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuuutsu/Shoushitsu) and Minase Nayuki (Kanon) From the movie and episode 23.

Day 12: Dragon Tooru (Kobayashi-san Chi no Maid Dragon) I mean, come on.

Day 13: Ash Sagara Sousuke (Full Metal Panic) Always ready to blow shit up and watch the world burn. Me, a fool: What if I try to draw him in FMP’s old-school style? My utterly cursed hands: what are eyes

Day 14: Overgrown Suzumiya Haruhi (Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuuutsu/Shoushitsu) Long hair version but without all the brooding.

Day 15: Legend Okazaki Tomoya (Clannad) “Have you ever heard about the legend of this city? Whenever something fortunate happens, a glow of light appears.”

Day 16: Wild Shindou Ayaka, Shindou Ai, Yakiimo (Kyoukai no Kanata) and “Sawatari Makoto” (Kanon) Two foxes, one cat and one ball of floof.

Day 17: Ornament Chintanda Eru (Hyouka) “I’m here to show off.”

Day 18: Misfit Ishida Shouya and Nishimiya Shouko (Koe no Katachi) “Ishida-kun is a bully, so you’re better off not getting involved with him.”

Day 19: Sling Togashi Yuuta (Chuunibyou demo Koi ga Shitai!) “I don’t know anything about that.”

Day 20: Tread Gilbert Bougainvillea (Violet Evergarden) “He had a charm that drew people to him, but he himself didn’t have much interest in others. He was a man who only ever thought about how he’d tread the pure-white path towards his own future that had been laid out to him.”

Day 21: Treasure Violet Evergarden (Violet Evergarden) “It is the same color as Major’s eyes. I have always thought that they were ‘beautiful’. I did not know the word, which is why I had never said it. But Major’s eyes, from the moment we first met, were ‘beautiful’ to me.”

Day 22: Ghost Nakahara Komugi (Nurse Witch Komugi-chan Magikarte) “So when you die, it’s like, ‘Okay, that’s all folks’, huh?”

Day 23: Ancient Narumiya Minato and Takigawa Masaki (Tsurune) Yawatashi no Gi.

Day 24: Dizzy Oumae Kumiko (Hibike! Euphonium) “You hadn’t been drinking anything at all, had you?”

Day 25: Tasty Hazuki Nagisa (Free!) “It’s delicious. It’s filled with strawberry jam and marmalade, coated with chocolate and only costs 480 yen! So cheap!”

Day 26: Dark Edward Jones (Violet Evergarden) “It’s not like I killed without thinking. I have lots of reasons. You got time to listen to all of them?”

Day 27: Coat Enigma (Musaigen no Phantom World) Quite literal.

Day 28: Ride Kunisaki Yukito (Air) “Where I’m going, you ask? Who knows? I wonder where. That’s right, you should try to ask Misuzu. She’ll be tagging along with me for a while.”

Day 29: Injured Kanie Seiya (Amagi Brilliant Park) Having a rifle thrust at your face must hurt like a bitch and leave marks, and I just love that this isn’t addressed, like, ever.

Day 30: Catch Kitashirakawa Tamako (Tamako Market) “Ah! My mistake! Throw one back!”

Day 31: Ripe Momokawa Inako (Nijuu Seiki Denki Mokuroku) The next work in line, ready to receive the baton. I can’t wait to see you.

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identityexcavationstation · 4 years

Text

The High Fidelity Remake is Good and my Identity is Irreversibly Linked to Music Consumption

Hi! So, I’m kinda insane about playlists.

This year I’ve made a lot of them. They’ve been short and snappy on index cards, scanned and pasted in a book and uploaded to the internet. (I’ve really fallen in love with index card playlists and they’re my thing now and I think everyone should do them always and forever.) They were easy to churn out as a retrospective exercise because the music I listened to as a teenager really defined my high school experience. Also, I have most of my favorite songs from that period in a very dramatic playlist I started in 2014 so it was really a game of copy-and-paste.

Making these smol boys in batches has been a really peculiar experience because for years now, I’ve only made one playlist at a time. In my second semester of college, I’d officially burned myself out listening to only CHVRCHES for three months and began venturing elsewhere. (Don’t get me wrong, CHVRCHES absolutely bangs, but you can only listen to “Never Ending Circles” so many times before getting seasick.) All of the random songs I was listening to made me feel kinda hazy and purple, like I’d done all of this before. So I made a playlist full of them and called it “Deja Vu.”

I added to it all semester, and then suddenly it was summer and I didn’t feel purple and hazy anymore⁠—everything was blue and crisp on the way to South Haven as my friend blasted “Settle Down” by Kimbra in her beat-up Honda. So I started a new playlist and named it the first word that popped into my head: “Roots.”

Using Deja Vu as a rubric, I developed some ground rules for the playlists I would go on to create. They are pretty nonsensical but also exceedingly firm because if I don’t make rules for every area of my life I feel like I’m falling into a deep and limitless void. Health! Anyway, the rules are:

The playlist’s title has to be a short noun (seven letters maximum).

This has since transformed into a noun that is also a verb.

To generate a title, I ask myself what short word I would use to describe the phase of life I’m currently in. The answer comes quickly and reflexively, and I choose the very first word I think of.

One song per artist, no repeats!

Exceptions are made for artists who are featured on a track.

There have been times when I’ve obsessively listened to a whole album or an artist’s entire discography, so I have to choose just one song that represents the very best of that album or artist.

Tracks are added chronologically, based on when I first hear them and/or start listening to them compulsively.

The playlist has to contain an amount of tracks that is divisible by five.

If a song in a playlist is deleted from Spotify, I have to find a replacement asap that is accurate to what I was listening to when that playlist was being created.

and, most importantly,

I can’t make a new playlist until I feel I’m finished with the current one.

These playlists represent seasons of my life, cycles in which I change and evolve and stagnate and fuck up and try again. The only rule I have for beginning a new playlist is that I feel done with the current one—those songs are a little stale and don’t represent me anymore. These “seasons” don’t have any set length, and I can never predict when I’ll feel like a new being who needs new songs to define her. So far, my life has looked like this:

Deja Vu - 176 days (12.03.16 - 05.28.17) Most common lyrics: now, love, time, need, take

snow that covers ivy that covers bricks, towers made from dining hall dishes, smiling at the bus stop without knowing, sheet masks in the dorm bathroom at 2am, pink string lights and pink crocheted blankets and pink shag carpeting, cheap beer behind tarps and walking everyone home

Roots - 111 days (05.28.17 - 09.16.17) Most common lyrics: love, one, give, wanna, know

t-shirt tan lines, mozzarella and tomato and basil and singed spaghetti, sunset walks around abandoned high schools, green leaves outlined in watercolor, the smell of mildew and old paper in banker’s boxes, sweat-soaked french braids, the knife twist of eye contact, tarot readings under lamplight

Walls - 110 days (09.16.17 - 01.04.18) Most common lyrics: wanna, know, baby, take, feel

crying in the gender-neutral restroom, pretty boys holding guitars or rolling rock, photos in the forest, blue carpeting and lofted bedframes, pitch-black bonfires, sitting in the dining hall to just watch the people pass, snow on eyelashes in large wet clumps, laughing at lies

Bite - 78 days (01.04.18 - 03.23.18) Most common lyrics: know, love, stay, come, need

impatience at the airport, texting on the laundry room floor, nervous night drives, five grilled cheese sandwiches, acne like freckles, ceiling photos taken in secret, watercolor lines and paper houses, broken glass on the sidewalk, ink-stained forearms, notebook paper comics, writing small on basement walls

Windows - 131 days (03.23.18 - 08.01.18) Most common lyrics: love, now, know, baby, fall

books piled up by the bed, rum and coke and orange juice and vodka and cheap white wine, rainy day night walks, streetlights turning the leaves orange, echoes from the party upstairs, solo trips to the grocery store, always leaving the blinds open, aperol and chai lattes and smørrebrød, never coming home

Grip - 136 days (08.01.18 - 12.15.18) Most common lyrics: know, boy, lost, girl, night

read receipts, the creaking of an empty house, sand and bricks and traffic cones, sitting on the curb and shaking, applause at dinner, bubble tea, bike rides in torn jeans, mr brightside blasting at 10am, doodles during lectures, embroidery at the kitchen table, blue bus panic attacks, half an apple for lunch

Wait - 117 days (12.15.18 - 04.11.19) Most common lyrics: heart, want, one, back, know

crying in the lobby, measuring oats by the quarter cup, drunken voice memos, shoes on power lines, another bowl of granola, reading all the lyrics, photos taken with the flash on, sleeping on strange couches, shoeboxes full of photographs, wire catching the sunlight, fifteen minutes of windchill

Wave - 108 days (04.11.19 - 07.28.19) Most common lyrics: wanna, know, now, love, come

dancing on the porch, reading on the roof, tipsy trips to the corner store, silent heavy parlor air, chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, barred windows and string lights and exit signs, highlighting the important parts, nails tapping on wooden tables, wet wind before the storm, biking straight into the smoke

Home - 178 days (07.28.19 - 01.22.20) Most common lyrics: down, know, now, wanna, think

steep downhill walks, fingertips covered in graphite and lead, blank faces on green walls, forest walkways, hands gripping thighs too tightly, light leaks in darkrooms, the handwriting of strangers, chains trapped between teeth, white words left unread, twirling at the tennis court, yellow becoming blue

Hand - 63 days (01.22.20 - 03.25.20) Most common lyrics: know, time, love, die, back

masking tape messages, laughing four shots in, BiC .07mm HB mechanical pencils slipped into coat cuffs, cheeks blushed with red ink, green floodlights and kissed knuckles, windows fogged from the inside, falling asleep with earbuds in, finger guns and everything in boxes, wedging open locked doors

_______________________________________________________________________

It’s interesting to look back at these playlists altogether, see them as self-contained units, little stories I tell about myself, about the people I used to be. Adding a song to one of these playlists was like making a vow, entering a relationship with a collection of sounds. It’s like I was saying “this song is now a part of me.” I constructed this little world for myself in the space between my ears, and it, in turn, created me.

I really mean it when I say that the first word that floats to the front of my mind becomes the title of whatever playlist I’m making. I never question what the word means, and its meaning always ends up describing that season of my life.

“Roots” became a period of reconnecting with essential pieces of myself I thought I had abandoned.

During “Grip,” I was holding on so tightly to things that had left me ages ago, and I think I knew that, even if I was unable to admit it to myself.

“Wait” revealed itself in two ways: it was a time in which 1.) I felt stagnant and restless, unable to be patient, and 2.) I was forced to grasp with a physical and emotional weight that had been bearing down on me.

The mind is a magical thing—it processes what we refuse to recognize.

Speaking of which, these playlist covers have been driving me up the wall for ages. They’re like nails on a freaking chalkboard for my synesthesia. Is “Bite” a heavily blue playlist? Sure. But is “Home” purple? Is “Grip” pink??? I think the fuck not!

(I could do a whole goddamn blog post on synesthesia, and I might.)

Now that I know how to switch out playlist cover art (can you believe it’s taken me this long to figure out how to do that?), I have decided to issue myself a challenge/project/way to procrastinate actual work I have to do.

I’d like to make a piece of cover art for all of the above playlists. And because I am, to reiterate, insane, I’m setting up some Rules For Creation:

All works must be the same size, on the same type of paper using similar materials (tbd but probably graphite, colored pencil, watercolor, fineliners, and/or collage).

The preliminary sketch for each cover must be created while listening to the playlist.

Each piece can (must?) incorporate the five most common lyrics as listed above because goddammit I did not spend four hours compiling lyrics in a web-based word cloud generator for nothing.

If I’m not having fun, I won’t make myself do it because this is literally just for laffs.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to creating some fun weird art! I know nobody is gonna read this and nobody is gonna comment but if, by some miracle, you feel like it, comment a playlist you’ve made that you’re really proud of! Or comment if you have some weird playlist rules! Or cyberbully me! Anything’s fair game.

TL;DR playlists are fun and I’m a maniac :)

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peace-coast-island · 4 years

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Diary of a Junebug

All aboard the Midnight Train

One of the hardest parts of embarking on a big journey is taking the first step. I can say for certain that you will definitely stumble and fall - believe me, I’ve fallen further than I’ve moved forward - but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

That’s not to say you don’t have every right to be ticked off when things go wrong. I mean mishaps can be a good learning experience, but it’s okay to get frustrated when you lose your way.

Hell, it’s absolutely okay to bail out and throw in the towel when you’re just not feeling it. Perseverance is good, but sometimes it’s okay to say “fuck this shit, I’m out” - not to mention freeing if it’s about something that’s really dragging you down.

Sometimes life doesn’t work out. It fucking sucks but in most cases there’s nothing you can really do other than carry on. As my mom says, what’s done is done. Stop trying to build a house if it brings you more frustration than joy - tear the whole damn thing down and burn the remains if you have to.

Funny how far your mind can wander when you’re on a train. With nothing but trees, beautiful landscapes, and the starry night skies, deep thoughts are bound to run free. Especially when it’s about something that’s been on your mind for a while.

At the start of the new year, Daisy Jane decided to leave Rosevine. Like many other old friends - and myself - as much as we love our charming little town, we were starting to outgrow it. After spending almost two years at home stuck in a limbo, Daisy Jane had enough and packed her bags. Her mom wasn't too on board with the idea as she doesn’t really have the means to support herself but nevertheless she gave her daughter her blessing to go out in the world.

Daisy Jane’s one of those people who deserve so much more and yet usually ends up with the short end of the stick. She’s one of the most creative people I know and could easily make it as an artist if she had the support. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not nagging on her family, but at times they don’t respect her enough - especially her sister.

What I’m saying is that Daisy Jane could've become an artist if she wanted to, but disapproval from family is a hefty roadblock. They say doubt kills more dreams than failure but what about strict family expectations? Asian parents, amirite?

Tired of sitting around at home, getting repeatedly rejected in a career involving a degree she worked her ass off for, and being put down for not being as successful as everyone else, Daisy Jane needed to get out. So she did, taking a leap of faith and jumping straight into the unknown. She didn’t have a plan in mind, but sometimes you just gotta cut and run before you lose your nerve.

Months of traveling led her to the small village of Neptunia as she was running low on funds. What seemed like a promising new start quickly fell apart as soon as she stepped into her new house. That’s because it’s not actually her house - it belongs to someone else. Because Neptunia is so small and resources are limited, Daisy Jane is stuck rooming with a stranger. And both have to pay off the remaining mortgage, adding to the annoyance of both since the main resident already paid off a huge part of it herself.

Because of the living situation, Daisy Jane’s not too keen about living in Neptunia now. Her housemate’s nice and all but neither one were prepared for the roommate situation. Had she known about that, Daisy Jane wouldn’t have gone through with the move. But knowing how bad Tom Nook felt about the miscommunication regarding housing (you just can’t stay mad at him for too long - and in his defense, Neptunia’s kinda on the bottom of his list of villages he’s overseeing so it’s easy to forget things) Daisy Jane decided to stick around and see how things work out.

Six months in and things have been pretty meh for Daisy Jane. She didn’t want to dwell on the negatives too much but I suspected that she wasn’t entirely truthful. Always eager to please and willing to silently suffer, that Daisy Jane. Instead of creating art like she wants to, Daisy Jane’s been selling pears and shells, randomly planting stuff around the village, and running errands for everyone. She doesn’t mind doing all that (well, except maybe the garden, which she admits isn’t something she’s too excited about) but it all seems kinda anticlimactic. It also doesn’t help that Neptunia’s kinda isolated so there’s rarely any visitors, so things are pretty monotonous.

And to top it all off, Daisy Jane’s experiencing the absolute worst art block ever. By spending all her waking hours trying to pay off a mortgage, saving up for a rainy day, and catering to everyone else’s needs, she rarely has time for herself - or her creativity.

I really miss seeing her art online. It’s been months since she last posted something she made and it’s sad. You never know how much you miss something until it’s gone. The same can be said about creativity.

I’ve had my moments where my creativity and motivation for art burns out and it’s not a good feeling. Being someone who is driven by creating art, losing that spark is one of my biggest fears because without it, I’d be nothing. Art is one of those things that keep me going so to lose that means I’ve lost my purpose. I’d hate to think about what happens if my creativity is gone for good.

And what’s even worse is that I’m afraid Daisy Jane’s headed for that direction if she doesn’t take action soon. I suspected something from our texts and her posts, but seeing her in person really puts things into perspective.

She’s not one for selfies, her last one being taken over a year ago, so seeing her face for the first time in forever, I almost didn’t recognize her. From her hair being tied into three messy pigtails instead of adorned with pretty clips to the concealer hiding away the bags under her eyes and the slightly too dark blush on her face (what happened to her naturally rosy cheeks?) as well as the slightly ragged Nook shirt a couple sizes too large, I could’ve sworn that she was someone else.

Visiting Neptunia wasn’t too bad, but it’s no Wizpire. Things are just a tad bit too slow for my liking - and a bit outdated as well, then again what do you expect in these parts? Honestly I’m surprised that Tom Nook still keeps tabs on this village, especially since he’s busy with islands and such. Then again, he does feel bad about Daisy Jane’s housing mishap so he’s been dropping by quite a bit to check in on her.

To say that Daisy Jane’s been frustrated is an understatement. She describes it as escaping from one prison only to get stuck in a trap. Except staying in the trap is more practical than going back out on the road where it’s unpredictable. So she’s in a position where she feels like she can’t really complain because it’s not like she’s stuck in the middle of nowhere. It’s not an ideal situation but sometimes you need to pick and choose your battles.

I can’t tell Daisy Jane what to do since it’s not up to me, nor should I try to influence her in any way, but I can take her away for a bit. An outsider’s perspective can be super helpful, especially if you’ve been looking way too closely and missing out on the big picture. I know I’ve fallen into that trap too many times, wasting too much time and energy on one small piece without considering the overall grand scheme of things.

So we took out the train amenity to go on a late night ride. We’ve been meaning to bring back the train and this was the perfect opportunity for it. A scenic route’s the perfect way to escape from monotony and let your mind wander without putting too much effort into it.

Also, Daisy Jane enjoys long train rides as she’s the kind of artist who breaks out a sketchbook to capture the view outside her window. It’s amazing what she can do with a pen (yes, she uses a ballpoint pen and does so with full confidence) and paper. It would be a shame to see her talent and passion go to waste.

The train ride was super relaxing and beautiful to look at. Of course, it didn’t solve Daisy Jane’s problems, but it was a good retreat. I can tell by how much her eyes lit up that she’s feeling a lot better than she had in a long time. I had suggested that she bring her sketchbook along as well as a pen (no pencil, because that’s now how Daisy Jane works!) and that did wonders for her.

I never thought that the sight of Daisy Jane scribbling in her sketchbook with ink stained hands would bring me as much joy as it did tonight. I’m pretty sure she filled about half the book in the span of a couple hours.

Creativity can be fickle. Sometimes it flows in a steady stream, sometimes it comes and goes, and other times it goes into a drought before flooding back like a storm. The latter is what describes Daisy Jane. Hopefully the storm will lead to a steady flow of inspiration. After all, you can’t keep the tide from coming in, even after a long dry spell.

The night’s still young and there’s still so much to see. It’s just me and Daisy Jane in the train but it feels like we’re in different worlds. There she is, scribbling away, capturing the views outside her window. Jagged shapes for mountains, curving lines for rivers, scattered stars bringing a night sky to life - even in rough sketches, you can tell it’s unmistakably Daisy Jane.

A train ride won’t solve all of Daisy Jane’s problems, but it’s a start.

#animal crossing #animal crossing pocket camp #Diary of a Junebug #headcanon ramble

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javistg · 5 years

Text

One Victor. CH 19. P1.

Chapter 19 is almost done! Seriously, I have to write one more scene and edit stuff a bit, but I’m mostly done. So, I decided to share this snippet with you.

If you want to find the rest of this fic, go HERE.

As usual, all this is unbetaed and still subject to change. Hope you enjoy. Tell me what you think.

One Victor. CH 19. P1.

“So, what do you think? Is this OK?” Peeta slid the open book across the table so that Katniss could see his work.

“It’s perfect,” Katniss said, running her fingers along the edge of the book so as not to smudge Peeta’s artwork. The bunch of yellow flowers was so lifelike she could almost smell them. “I’ll add the information tomorrow, once the ink is dry.”

Peeta looked at the clock on his kitchen wall. It was 6:45. “You better get going, the alarm’s about to ring.”

Katniss sighed. Tired. Annoyed. It was the same thing every day: wake up, go to school, check up on Prim, go to Victors’ Village, rush before curfew, put dinner on the table, do homework, go to sleep, start again.

Life in District 12 had never been particularly exciting, but Katniss Everdeen had never lived within the confines of her district. She couldn’t even remember a time when the woods weren’t a part of her life. She had grown to rely on them for nourishment and needed them to bring peace and contentment to her soul.

Sadly, Peacekeeper Thread’s hold on the district was tighter than ever and —with everyone walking in a straight line— Katniss’s days of roaming through the woods and stalking prey had become a thing of the past.

Luckily, thanks to her arrangement with Peeta, the lockdown didn’t mean empty cupboards and hunger. With the food she received, Katniss and her family could now enjoy the kind of peace that came from knowing where their next meal would come from; a sense of ease she hadn’t experienced since before her father’s death.

Of course, she didn’t miss the constant worry of having to provide for her family —or the terror of going back empty-handed after a long day out in the woods— but she still missed the thrill of doing what most wouldn’t. The sound of the forest moving around her; the smell of the trees; the soft brush of the mountain air caressing her cheeks; the feel of her father’s bow between her fingers; the pride that came from landing that one perfect shot.

She still went by the fence every day —like a stubborn criminal returning to the scene of the crime— and every day, she was met with the buzz of electricity coursing through the wire.

Sometimes she didn’t know what was worse, confirming the woods were still out of limits or knowing that —after her last adventure— she might not even have the guts to sneak out ever again.

Even as her days blended together in a monotonous repetition, Katniss still enjoyed a few things. Helping Peeta out in the greenhouse remained one of her favorite activities —just the thought of the small glass building thriving in spite of its surroundings made her smile-- but, lately, there was something else she liked even more.

The day after her little adventure in the woods, Katniss had shown up at Peeta’s back door with a shy smile on her lips and a sort of peace offering in her hunting bag.

She couldn’t explain why she felt so rotten for having put him through the entire ordeal, but Katniss knew he had been worried, and she hoped her small token would help make up for his troubles.

Peeta’s mouth dropped open as soon as she produced her family’s plant book, leaving it on his kitchen table with an almost theatrical flourish.

“Would you still like to work on it?” she asked, her voice tight with anxiety. She wanted Peeta to say yes so badly, her heart ached.

They had both mentioned the project in passing a few times, but her misunderstanding with Gale had made her weary, and the idea of misreading Peeta’s intentions scared her so much that she hadn’t followed through yet, somehow convinced that he had only offered his help to be polite.

With the gentlest of touches, Peeta ran his fingers over the cover. “I do, but only if it’s OK with you.”

“It is,” Katniss assured him.

Peeta pulled out a chair and sat down.

Katniss pushed the book in his direction and took a seat; watching as he opened it and began peering through the entries.

“Where should we start?” he asked, smiling like a boy who’s just received the best birthday present ever.

They worked on the book practically every day. They always left it for last. After tending to Peeta’s vegetable and herb garden, and prepping and storing the food for later use, they went into his kitchen and sat down to work.

Unlike the hours they spent in the greenhouse, --where Peeta chatted about the most random topics, usually making her laugh and pulling her into conversation— the time they spent with the book was one of silent reflection. Once they settled on the plant they were recording, no words were needed. Katniss didn’t understand why sitting like that, immersed in the comfortable calm they shared, thrilled her so but, as days went by, she found herself yearning for those stolen moments almost as much as she longed for her time in the woods.

In the soft light of impending dusk, she followed Peeta’s hands as he worked, making a blank page bloom with strokes of ink, adding touches of color to her previously black and yellowish book.

Sometimes, while Peeta diligently made sketches on scraps of paper trying to get every detail right, Katniss’s mind wondered.

Three weeks had gone by since she had found Bonnie and Twill by her father’s lake and, in that time, no one had mentioned them again.

She wasn’t surprised by Peeta’s silence. As a victor, he was probably privy to information she couldn’t even begin to imagine —information he wasn’t at liberty to disclose.

She had never given much thought to these things before, but learning that Peeta carried a signal scrambler in his pocket —and had another one installed on the kitchen wall; she was now convinced that the green blinking light over his stove couldn’t be anything else— had made her realize that the blue-eyed victor with the winning smile had some secrets to keep.

But Peeta wasn’t the only person who knew about the escapees and, after years of hearing her hunting partner’s rants against the Capitol, Gale’s silence on the matter unnerved her. Why was it that, in the face of real change —actual rebellion— Gale had suddenly become tight-lipped?

Had Thread’s measures tempered his spirits or was Gale still fighting —secretly scheming with those discontents he had mentioned in New Years’? If so, had he approached Peeta?

The first option saddened her —she hated the idea of her friend’s spirit being crushed under Thread’s boots— but it was something she could understand. A lot of miners had been arrested recently. Ending up in the peacekeepers’ cells was no joke. Katniss wouldn’t have blamed Gale for walking away from his ideals when his family’s safety was on the line.

But the second… the second scared her so much she pushed it out of her mind almost at once.

Days trickled by. Katniss went to school, checked up on Prim, worked in Peeta’s greenhouse, wrote in her family’s plant book, and kept her theories and questions to herself.

Deep down, she didn’t mind, holding on to her routine soothed her and, really, it wasn’t as though she had much to say. When it came to politics, Katniss had learned from an early age to steer clear of trouble. Even as a small girl, she had understood the importance of watching what she said, always fearful —like her mother had been— that Prim might repeat her words and get in trouble.

After all, Katniss had spent years ignoring Gale’s heated rants when they went out to the woods, not because she didn’t agree with him, but because she didn’t see the point of attracting unwanted attention when she had a family who depended on her.

But things were different now, something big was happening in Panem —something most people had only ever dreamed of— and, with her days blending together with tedious dullness, Katniss was growing curious. She was also growing anxious.

As thrilling as news of an uprising had been, hearing what the Peacekeepers had done in Eight sobered her. Thread and his men had already done plenty in Twelve —and that was without provocation— what would happen if things got out of hand? President Snow would show no mercy. He wouldn’t think twice before killing off another district --same as he had Thirteen. Even if it was only to make an example of it.

District 12 was small and weak, and it didn’t develop nuclear weapons. It would take every person in the district to stand up to the Capitol for anything to really happen, and that would never be.

She hated admitting it, but Gale was right. The tesserae system, the lack of job opportunities for people from the Seam, the way merchant businesses were passed down from one generation to another. More than the Games, these were the things that kept the people in Twelve pitted against each other; the things that made it impossible for a rebellion to succeed.

With all these thoughts pressing down on her, Katniss couldn’t stop being cautious —couldn’t forget that she had a lot to lose. Curiosity wouldn’t put food on her table —and it certainly wouldn’t keep Prim safe— so, Katniss bit her lip and did what she had always done: kept her thoughts and theories to herself.

Still, when she was at home, all the silence and prudence in the world didn’t stop her from paying attention whenever she watched TV. Every night, she sat in her living room and waited for Bonnie and Twill’s elusive mockingjay to show up on the corner of her screen. It never did, but that was hardly surprising, District 13 wasn’t the kind of topic that came up in the daily news.

Her repeated failure to put the matter to rest frustrated her, but there was nothing she could do. She had a full, busy life. She didn’t have time to sit around and wait for a random story to pop up on her screen.

XXXXX

Peeta stood up and stretched his back. He hadn’t been painting for long, but the chairs in his kitchen weren’t that comfortable, and he was tired. The long, sleepless nights of late were finally catching up to him.

A few steps away, Katniss began gathering her things. Now that winter had begun to withdraw, she had cast her old coat aside and gone back to wearing her father’s old hunting jacket. The leather garment was a couple sizes too big for her slight frame, but Peeta suspected she liked wearing it because it reminded her of her dad. Whatever her reasons, he welcomed the change. It made her seem happier, she looked a lot more like her usual self.

Wanting to keep Katniss around just a few minutes longer, Peeta asked, “Would you mind giving me a hand before you leave?”

“Sure, what do you need?”

Peeta pointed to a couple of wooden crates on his counter. “Could you help me carry one over to Haymitch’s?”

Reaching the counter, Katniss slid her hands under one of the crates and pulled it into her arms. “Lead the way.”

XXXXX

Haymitch’s house was worse than a pigsty. Mouse droppings, piles of unwashed clothes, and discarded wrappings littered the hallway.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust at the revolting stench of liquor, vomit, and burned meat that hung in the air, Katniss followed Peeta through the long entrance corridor and into the kitchen.

Alerted by the sound of visitors, Haymitch quietly slipped into the room.

At the sight of the victor, Katniss tightened her hold on her crate and shuffled back a couple of steps. She had seen Haymitch hundreds of times before, usually skulking around the Hob, but she’d never been close enough to smell him.

Surprise quickly gave way to disgust.

Maybe it was because she had grown used to Peeta, who was stylish and handsome, and every bit what a victor was supposed to be, but she couldn’t quite believe that the paunchy, middle-aged man with greasy black hair and gray Seam eyes who stood across from her had once won the Hunger Games.

Unperturbed by Katniss’s presence, Haymitch pointed a half-empty liquor bottle in Peeta’s general direction. “Hey, Kid,” he slurred. “Whatcha got there?”

Peeta looked down at the jars and containers he carried. “The usual.”

Eager to get back out to the fresh air, Katniss looked around trying to find an empty space for her crate. Every surface seemed to be covered in empty bottles and dirty plates. “Where can I—,”

Haymitch waved his bottle in the air. “Just leave that on the table, Sweetheart.”

The jars in Peeta’s crate rattled as dropped it on the counter. “Don’t call her that,” he growled.

Startled by the anger in Peeta’s voice, Katniss stiffened. She had never heard him speak so forcefully before.

Seemingly undisturbed by Peeta’s outburst, Haymitch shrugged. Pointing his chin at Katniss, he asked, “How old are you, girl?”

Annoyed to be under Haymitch’s scrutiny, Katniss pulled her shoulders back. “I’ll be seventeen in May.”

“Ah!” Haymitch raised his liquor bottle as if in triumph. Looking back at Peeta, he added, “Don’t worry, Boy, I’ll learn her name when she’s 18.”

Peeta’s lips turned white as he pressed them together to bite back a retort. Looking away from his mentor, he went to the kitchen table and began to move the dirty dishes out of the way so that Katniss could deposit her box.

“This place is a mess,” she grumbled, too nauseated by her surroundings to be polite. “Have you ever considered getting a housekeeper?”

Amused by Katniss’s discomfort, Haymitch tilted his head to one side. “What? You angling for a job, Sweetheart?”

“Ew, no!” Katniss shook her head in disgust. It wasn’t a bad offer, even with all the filth, but she still had two more years of school ahead of her. “I don’t have that kind of time. You need someone who can come here every day.”

A wide smile broke on Haymitch’s face, and he started laughing. “You hear this, Boy?”

Peeta nodded, his previous bad mood forgotten, replaced by a bright smile. “I think she’s right, you know? You could use someone.” He turned to Katniss. “Do you know anyone who might be interested?”

It only took her a second to find an answer. “I do,” she said, adding an enthusiastic nod for emphasis. “I think Hazelle would be perfect for the job.”

“Hazelle?” Peeta shook his head, the name unfamiliar.

“Gale’s mother,” Katniss explained. “She washes clothes for a living, but she hasn’t had much work lately —what with the shortages, and all— I’m sure she wouldn’t mind leaving that for something more steady.”

“Could you tell her to come over tomorrow?” Peeta asked.

“Yeah. I’ll stop by in the morning before school.”

“Hey, I’m still standing here!” Haymitch complained. “Don’t I have a say?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get your say,” Peeta said, already moving to show Katniss the exit. He didn’t want to keep her any longer. This had taken longer than he expected, and the curfew alarm was about to ring. “But it won’t hurt to have her come by and take a look.”

“It won’t hurt you, you mean,” Haymitch yelled back.

“Is he always like this?” Katniss whispered once they had reached the front door.

Peeta shrugged. Haymitch was more of an acquired taste, he couldn’t expect her to understand.

XXXXX

Katniss had just reached the wrought iron gates of Victors’ Village when Peeta stepped back into Haymitch’s home.

The old victor was busy rummaging through the contents of the crate Katniss had left on his table. “So, you know any of these people?”

Peeta leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Yeah, I know Gale. He’s alright.”

Haymitch pulled a big round jar out of the box and smacked his lips in appreciation. He loved pickled cabbage. Cradling the jar against his chest, he fixed Peeta with the most solemn look he could muster. “Alright, alright?”

Peeta nodded. “This is a good idea, Haymitch.”

With a grunt, Haymitch twisted the jar open. After dropping the lid on the table, he turned to look for a fork. “OK. Set it up, then.”

#one victor #sneak peek #victor!Peeta #catching fire AU

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lovecraftian-druid · 4 years

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Pactborn - Part III

Khaadeehava, Lahira Marina. It was a brisk harvest morning - not cold, mind you, but still…there was a certain extra salty sea breeze in the air that morning. I started my day like every other morning since I turned fifteen: wake up, get dressed, hit up my favorite food stand for two dosas with coconut chutney for breakfast, and head down to the docks for work. I should have known from the start that today was going to be different though when I had to hear those six awful words: “sorry, we’re all out of coconut.” Too lazy at that point in the morning to look elsewhere for breakfast but also too foolish to ask for my other options, I told them to surprise me – a mistake indeed, as I found out after my first bite.

Ginger chutney. Ugh.

Already disappointed with how my day was going, I discarded my breakfast to a large flock of gulls then quickly finger-combed my hair before jogging the rest of the way to the boardwalk in an effort to warm myself up more. Ghaan may not get snow like some of the places Papa had told me about, but it still gets bitter cold late in the year: it was only one of the first few days of the month of Muu, and already the fog that would roll in with the ships would bring a settling of frost on anything it touched.

As I reached the fog-riddled Lahira Marina, my primary senses – being trained to switch over from sight to sound – focused through the blindness, taking in the rhythmic lapping of waves, plaintive crying of seabirds, muffled creaking of wet wooden boards, and occasional thumping of mooring ropes as swaying ships bumped up against them in the shipyard. From memory, I find my way through the icy mist to the old docker, Telfar. “Is a’ you, Ka’lya?” the portly middle-aged human called out in my direction.

“As per usual, Telfar,” I replied, following the barely visible light of his hooded lantern. “By the way,” I add, slowing my jog to a walk, “you can just call me Ka’l, seriously.”

“Sure, sure,” was his mumbled response, as always. He stood there, stroking just the right side of his brown and grey mutton chops as he peered out into the harbor. “Got some big loads comin’ in today, mostly from Dawnwilde: salt, ore, that sort of thing. Couple merchants due to arrive today from Hjarta, too – lumber shipment, I think… Gonna be a busy day for us both, I dare say,” he ruminated aloud.

Just as he said that, the toll of a ship’s bell rang out into the chilly haze, announcing the arrival of our first customers of the day. Without a word required, we both sprang into action, making ready for the sea vessel to come into port. Telpar bellowed questions and instructions to the ship’s deck officer while I ran out extra mooring and made ready to receive the tossed ropes from the ship itself. I could see my breath as I heard the ship drop anchor, slowing itself as it calculated its berthing to enter the yard.

Once docked, Telfar would discuss import and export details with the ship’s captain while I would usually board the vessel and coordinate what needed loaded or unloaded with the crew, pitching in with the manual labor. It was amazing, the types of stories these sailors would share with me as we moved cargo – tales of gigantic sea creatures, dangerous sea storms, and merciless pirates. I would always listen with rapt attention and sincere awe, wondering what it would be like to sail the high seas.

The morning pressed on, and the fog eventually dissipated. More and more merchants began pulling in and out of the marina, pushing us to hustle with each new arrival. By that point, the docks were loud with the jumbled voices of seamen talking amongst themselves or conducting business with one another: many would operate right from their own gangplanks, haggling for surplus merchandise or making trades while others could be seen negotiating passenger rates for those looking to travel. Opportunistic food vendors would wander down from the Central Bazaar to roast meats on spits in an effort to lure hungry mouths craving the enjoyment of a hot, cooked meal. Exotic spices and other pleasant aromas filled the air as small puffs of dried herbs and other seasonings sifted naturally from the burlap bags we tossed from the holds of large boats. Young girls squealed as they hung off of the arms of sailors, both parties enjoying the brief reprieve ashore. The marina was its very own little slice of the Upper Planes, and getting to experience the daily wonders was – in and of itself – a reward of its own. Still though, a girl’s got to make a living, and to do so meant rarely getting to stop to enjoy the thrills of the bustling coast.

By noon, a lull had finally graced us with a break in action. The sun glistened and glinted off of the beautiful waves that splashed against the beach as I walked, barefoot, on the sand, staring out into the wide, cerulean expanse of the Turquoise Waves. My mind wandered for a moment or more before Telfar interrupted my contemplations – “Ka’lya! Ka’lya! I need your swift feet!" I slipped back into my shoes, the insides now scratchy with gritty sand, as I hurried back up to him along the dock. He was in his usual cheerful mood (he always enjoyed rubbing elbows with ship captains, always claiming that “it never hurt to have a seaman remember your name for a good reason). Standing next to him was a pair of well-dressed men, one of which looked to be of halfling or gnomish descent, the other a smarmy-looking human.

"The captain of the Humble Hermit has an ink shipment for the Painted Lady - I need you to run down to the parlor and fetch her signature: his boys will wheel her crates over straight away: they need to shove off within the hour, and we both know you'll be there and back to us before they finish pulling it off the ship, heh heh," he chortled with residual laughter from whatever had the two of them cracking up moments ago. “Also –” he commented more professionally as he handed me a sealed letter stamped with some reddish-brown wax, “– if you could drop this off to her as well, this gentleman would be most appreciative." The shorter man made brief eye contact with me before giving me a nod and then returning to his conversation with Telfar.

Seeing this as an opportunity to grab some lunch and perhaps make a little extra coin by way of a tip, I took the letter and headed off towards the Painted Lady, our boardwalk’s popular tattoo parlor. As I sprinted along the busy walkway, I couldn’t help but get the feeling that I was being watched, followed, something. When I reached the parlor, I made small talk with Nexus, the tiefling woman who ran the shop, before explaining that her shipment was on its way and delivering the special mail. She took the letter, opened it, shook her head, and smiled weakly. “Oh, Darja…thank you for, um, dropping off the note, Ka’l…here, tell him I am fine and give him my regards.” Nexus said as she absent-mindedly signed off on the invoice parchment, drawing a quick but masterful sketch of a sailing ship at the bottom of the document before returning it to me and flipping me a copper piece. “Enjoy what’s left of the nice weather!”

I took back off into the crowd, pressing my way to a food stand to grab a bite to eat (courtesy of Nexus), then hurriedly returned to Telfar and the man who apparently wrote the letter. "Ahoy!" Telfar hollered toward me as I jogged, "I told ya, didn't I? It’s like she’s got wings, she’s so fast." I felt myself blush at the compliment but appreciated it all the same. "Come, come, give the captain his papers," he said as he straightened up, beaming with pride.

The man’s eyes were dancing with hope more than expectation as he asked me, “"Did she give you anything? A letter or something maybe?” Knowing it likely wasn’t as much as he wanted, I handed him the signed document – he unrolled it with initial excitement then sniffed the spot where she had signed with bizarre reverence before giving the air a hard sniff, holding his head up high, and pocketing the parchment. I felt my face attempt to hide a contorted look of confusion as he turned to address us: Mr. Telfar, this longshoreman of yours, I simply must have her as part of my crew – not only is she fast, but she’s a welcome sight for sore eyes such as myself and my sailors…” His eyes settled on my own as he continued, “It wouldn’t be much for starters, just a midshipman position to replace one of my former members who was recently carried off by a harp—errrr, seems to have abandoned ship…so, what say you?”

I couldn’t believe my ears: this was all I’d ever wanted, all I had ever dreamed about doing with Papa – a chance to sail? How could I turn down such an opening? Perhaps gaining some experience at sea would afford me an opportunity to go with Papa on his next voyage the next time he returned home? But what would Mama, Jida, and Jido do without me in the meantime for the much-needed income? My mind raced with indecision and – as though he read it – the merchant sweetened the pot: “Do you think you’d be up for making some coin for a ten-day tour aboard the Golden Afternoon? I’d pay you five copper a day, not a coin less.”

Quickly doing the math in my head, I calculated the profit: working with Telfar, I was making a mere two copper a day, plus a tip if I was lucky – that worked out to a modest two silver pieces by the end of a ten-day. If I did the tour, I’d make over double that in the two weeks I’d be at sea; and I’d be living out my biggest dream as a bonus. Still, my conscience weighed heavy. “I’m…I’m very interested, but I’d…uh…like to think about it…I mean, if that’s alright,” I said as my voice trailed off in tongue-tied gratefulness and hesitancy. While Telfar looked relieved at this, the captain looked disappointed.

I opened my mouth to break the awkward silence when a hand gently but firmly settled on my shoulder – turning my head to see who was there, I saw Vormesius, the elderly green dragonborn who owned the jeweler’s shop on the boardwalk. “What do I overhear about you going on an adventure, Miss Ka’lya?” wheezed the old man, his jaw slack between words. I again attempted to speak but felt the grip tighten on my shoulder as he continued, “you know, I bet that would really make your folks proud, them having another seafarer in the family – maybe you can try out that nice compass your father gave you?”

It was at that moment that I knew something was awry: not only was it out of character for the sweet, aged jeweler to insert himself into other people’s conversations; but I definitely had not had enough interactions with him to have ever brought up my compass. Turning my head to meet his gaze, I realized that the golden, vertical-pupiled eyes into which I stared were not Vormesius’s…these were the eyes of an acquaintance long since forgotten, only to be resurrected from the depths of my childhood memories.

I knew not what else to do – I stared, unblinking, into his eyes as I addressed the merchant, but only in words: “uh, yes, okay…let me get my things together and tell my family, if that’s okay, Captain…?” I asked, waiting for his reply (as well as his name).

“Oh, sorry, yes, that’s more than acceptable,” he responded, pleased. “And the name is Darja – pleased to officially meet you and welcome you as one of the crew.” He extended his hand to shake mine and, after doing so, looked about for a moment before absently asking, “hmm, where did that dragonborn go in such a hurry? Oh well; meet me aboard the Golden Afternoon in one hour – adventure awaits!”

I found myself running again, in a complete daze. What was I doing? How was this happening? And why did that tabaxi man show back up? Why (and how) was he disguised? It had to be him, it just had to be. Those eyes, that voice…what was his name again? It’s been so long…

Making it back home, I sped through the house, chaotically gathering up anything I thought I might find useful while at sea. Surprised to find me home so early, Mama followed me into my room: “Ka’lya, you’re home early – what are you doing?”

Anxiety springs up from my stomach and clutches at my heart as I swallow hard, not wanting to say what I knew had to come next. “I’m leaving, Mama. I’m going to join a crew for two weeks at sea. I’m going to sail like Papa and bring home lots of coin to help the family. Don’t…don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine…I’ll be back before you know it.” The words spilled out of my mouth in a mess of stoic sadness. Mama’s eyes met mine and she silently watched me pack, eyes glistening with tears, as she stood in my bedroom doorway holding some laundry.

Eventually finding words, she stifled a sob before saying, “I knew this day would come…I just didn’t think it would happen so soon…please look after yourself, and write to me often, and remember the stories your father has told you: do the wise thing - not the brave thing - if you want to tell the tale." I could hardly look at her without wanting to break down in tears myself. She reached out, tucking my hair behind my ear then pulling me into a tight, warm hug. “You are so loved, Ka’lya – I will miss you so much. Come back to me, okay?”

I nodded, fighting back the hot moisture pooling in the corners of my eyes. As I released from our embrace, something clattered from my pack to the floor. We both looked down to see what it was before I realized – “the compass…I’m bringing it with me,” I explained.

She smiled, halfheartedly. “I hope it brings you back to me soon then.”

I rushed in to steal one more hug and a swift kiss on the cheek before bolting back out the door, at which point I allowed the tears to come streaming down my cheeks as I rushed back to the port district. Breathless, I searched for Darja’s ship – my ship. It didn’t take long to locate what looked at first like the regular old merchant schooner; however, its name (the Golden Afternoon) was embossed in brilliant metallic-colored paint and seemed to shimmer as the sun reflected off the waters beneath it. The furled sails appeared to have a sandy circular emblem with a gold ship's wheel inside it, advertising it to other sailors as a merchant vessel. "Are you ready to board now?" Darja asked. "Just think, in two weeks' time, you'll have made fifty copper pieces by the time we loop back around! And I’ll tell ya what, if you feel up to the task after the first ten-day, we can make it a solid 100 so that you can bring your mum a shiny gold piece if you think you can do two more weeks. Oh, the stories you'll bring home, too!"

Darja chattered on for what felt like an eternity, trying to talk up the whole scenario. But as we raised the anchor and shoved off to sea, all I could do was lean over the stern and watch Khaadeehava – the only place I’d ever known – fade out into the distance as we sailed westward into the sunset.

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Hope you enjoyed this week’s (belated) installation of Ka’l’s backstory! If you enjoyed reading this, feel free to ask to be added to the list!

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howling-harpy · 5 years

Text

With All Due Respect

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Speirs/Lipton Word Count: 8032

Summary: Only commands from Captain Speirs make Lipton’s blood run hot. He has a feeling that the captain knows. Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction based on the HBO drama series and the actors’ portrayals in it. This has nothing to do with any real person represented in the series, and means no disrespect.

A/N: Someone on LLSS wanted speirton with ordering kink and body worship. Of course I picked that one up.

[Read on Ao3]

It was the Champagne that was at fault, that’s what Lipton decided long afterwards when all was said and done. The reverend of his church and his mother had been right about alcohol, it was indeed the drink that made him careless and dissipated and led to other sins, but in the end Lipton couldn’t bring himself to mind any of it. It would have been a lie to blame the drink, though. It had all started earlier, and Lipton couldn’t exactly pinpoint when.

Mourmelon, perhaps? In that miserable village of tents and endless practice drills and guard duty rotation and patrols, in the chilly and muddy February? “Lieutenant Lipton, patrol orders to the NCOs of Easy. See them delivered and brief the men.” “Lieutenant Lipton, inspect the roadblocks at eleven hundred hours. Report back to me.” “Lieutenant Lipton, I’ve scheduled second platoon for an all-night field problem. I’ve appointed you to lead it.” Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It seemed that Lipton said that a hundred times as slow, routine days rolled by, and more than winter frost melted from his limbs with them. Captain Speirs seemed to want to keep him close now that he had been promoted and trying his legs as an officer, and Lipton wondered if it was to show him the ropes or if it was the only thing he could think of now that he wasn’t First Sergeant anymore. Whatever the reason, Lipton was grateful as Speirs seemed to always have something to do and never let anything go to waste. It was also fascinating in a way, to get this close to “Bloody” Speirs, the man whose reputation preceded him among enlisted men and officers alike. Lipton hadn’t even thought about it at the time. He remembered Foy as a moment of despair, like being dangled over the edge of a cliff and slowly feeling his fingers giving out one by one, and then in a flurry of artillery and snow there had been Speirs, settings things to balance once again. Lipton had simply been happy to see him and followed him without a question. In that moment of despair on the edge of the annihilation Speirs had been just a good soldier, a leader worth following, and Lipton had. But afterwards, after Noville and Rachamps and Haguenau, Lipton too had to admit that there was something singular about Speirs. After all, he had met and served under several good officers, he had fought alongside many capable soldiers, but only orders from Speirs made him feel warm to his core. Only his harsh demanding voice made his heart beat faster, only obeying him made his blood run hot in his veins. For the most part, Lipton preferred not to think about it. It felt like one of those things you had to shove back into the back of your mind and ignore in order to survive, but he couldn’t decide if ignoring it was easier or harder now that Easy was in reserve. On one hand, rush and combat had perhaps hidden it from his thoughts before, but on the other now that he had realized it he felt like the safe routine of Mourmelon was the only thing keeping it under control, and he feared what would happen when they’d have to leave it behind. It was late March when Lipton was making his way out of the battalion mess after a long day of training replacements that were a worryingly large portion of Easy’s strength, when First Sergeant Talbert fell in step with him. “Hey, Lip! How’s it going, sir?” Talbert greeted him. “It’s going,” Lipton replied, his mind still sketching a timetable for training passable combat soldiers of their re-enforcements before they’d move out while only half listening to Talbert. “How are things with you?” “Well, that’s the thing,” Talbert said and awkwardly chuckled. “The men are great. Everything’s going well, we’ve been through our training and finally got our hands on good supplies too, I think Luz had something to do with that, and I’ve written this week’s report about it all…” It was all within the responsibilities of the First Sergeant and Lipton knew it well, as he knew that Talbert did too, and he wondered when the actual business would come in picture. It didn’t sound like your regular chatter, but if there was a question in there, Lipton couldn’t pick up on it. Talbert cleared his throat. “Well, I should go and submit that report to Captain Speirs.” That was the key comment, and Lipton guessed that was it, only he wasn’t willing to be the one to say it. “Yes, that’s correct. The week report needs to be delivered to the company CO. Do you know where Captain Speirs’ tent it?” “Yeah, I know,” Talbert said, a note of frustration in his tone, “and I have the report right here too.” He lifted a thin brown cardboard file that looked like it had exactly one sheet of paper inside. “It’s just that, you know how Speirs can be sometimes,” he said and gave Lipton a friendly nudge of the elbow. Lipton did know, but he was too amused to cut the chase. There weren’t too many fun things around the muddy camp, and struggling forward on the soft ground was less grating with some company. “I don’t, actually, Sergeant.” “He can be a bit, well,” Talbert struggled, drew his words on and hoped that Lipton would either take the hint or complete the sentence for him. But when he didn’t, Talbert finally dropped his clumsily tactful demeanour and said: “He can be a bit hard-headed, alright? Heard-headed and weirdly moody and obsessed with details, and I’m gonna be straight with you, Lip, I’d rather not take this report to him personally if I could avoid it.” Lipton wasn’t surprised in the slightest. A lot of people didn’t get along with Speirs, or preferred not to interact with him personally if there was any other option, and Talbert’s easy-going and friendly personality might have been a great match with Major Winters, but Captain Speirs probably read him as sloppy and unprofessional. “Captain Speirs is a demanding officer, I’m aware,” he said. “Yeah, let’s say that,” Talbert grumbled, but then lightened up. “But you can handle him, right? He likes you. I’d really appreciate if you could drop this report off for me, sir.” Lipton accepted the errand without further convincing needed, and Talbert was too busy being grateful to question why he’d do it. But it wasn’t like it was much extra trouble, Lipton was probably going to cross paths with his fellow officer anyway, and if he didn’t, their tents were relatively close to each other. It wasn’t strange, just a kindness, a happy coincidence. Speirs was in his tent when Lipton came by. The flap of the tent was up, and the captain was sitting at his desk, a flimsy thing that had been provided to all commanding officers and that took up half of the small tent, not that the narrow bunk needed much space anyway. There was nowhere to knock, so Lipton stopped by the entrance and cleared his throat. Speirs had an ink pen in hand and was writing a letter at impressive speed, but he stopped when he looked up. “Yes? What is it, Lieutenant?” he asked. Lipton lifted the file in his hand before stating his business. “Just dropping off some paperwork on behalf of First Sergeant Talbert, sir.” Speirs’ expression didn’t change, he just nodded and made no further questions, but beckoned Lipton inside. “Sure. Come in, Lieutenant.” “Yes, sir.” Speirs already had his hand extended when Lipton stood by his desk and handed the file over. He flipped it open, glanced over the report with a single wrinkle between his brows and turned it over once, finding the paper empty on the other side. He scoffed. “Only a single page for the whole week’s work? Really?” “I’m sure Sergeant Talbert included everything he felt was necessary,” Lipton said. Speirs gave him a look underneath his dark brows, hard and direct. “Are you now, Lieutenant?” he demanded. Lipton looked back. “Yes, sir.” “You have read the report, then?” “I haven’t, sir.” “Then how can you be sure of its quality?” Lipton didn’t know when he had fallen into parade rest, but presented with a direct question that required him to raise up to answer it made him aware of how he tensed up with his back straight and feet firmly planted on the ground, slightly apart. “I know Sergeant Talbert, and I can vouch for his expertise. If he has written a one-page report, then all that was needed is a one-page report.” Speirs stared at him for a moment quietly, evaluating him and probably his statement. His expression gave away nothing, neither good or bad, he simply looked and evaluated Lipton, then got up from the desk. He looked down at the report once again, seemingly read it over before closing the file and dropping it on his desk. Lipton stood where he was since he hadn’t been dismissed. After Speirs tossed the report he turned back to face him and leaned his hip against the desk, crossing his arms. The silence stretched on and Speirs kept looking at Lipton like he had all the time in the world and planned to use it. For what, that wasn’t clear, and Speirs didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let Lipton in on whatever his endgame was. “You vouch for your men readily, Lieutenant,” Speirs finally said, his tone neutral. Lipton answered honestly: “I know them, sir, and so I am able to.” “You submit their reports for them too, I see,” Speirs added, this time his tone slightly more pointed. His voice was still soft, conversational even, but it was clear he was probing for something. Lipton was on his guard, but there was nowhere to run or no way to avoid, besides there shouldn’t have been anything to hide. “Sergeant Talbert happened by and asked me to, and since it’s convenient, I dropped by,” he said. “Sergeant Talbert didn’t want to do it himself, did he.” It wasn’t really a question, but Lipton pretended not to hear that. “It was more convenient like this, sir.” Speirs gave a little hum, almost a scoff and regarded Lipton with hard eyes. His expression didn’t falter, nor did his crossed arms either tighten or loosen. One could have thought that he didn’t care where the conversation was going at all, even though his tone was getting stronger as he was drawing out information. “I know Sergeant Talbert finds me objectionable,” he said then, “it’s all right. The feeling is mutual.” Lipton didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, not even in a gesture. Speirs stared him directly in the eye. “But you, you I see pretty often, Lieutenant Lipton. You come by often.” That was a puzzling remark, and Lipton couldn’t quite keep it out of his voice. “You ask for me often, sir.” “Yes, I do. But even when I don’t, there you are. You don’t have a problem with me, then?” Something warm curled in Lipton’s chest and he had to suppress a smile. “No, I don’t have a problem with you, sir.” Nothing changed in Speirs’ expression, but something in his eyes did. Lipton had spent a lot of time looking in his eyes which were the only giveaway when for whatever reason Speirs decided to wall everyone out. There was an intent look in them now, something strong and focused and strangely heated, something that made Lipton want to squirm – not with discomfort, but out of some sort of coyness that he hadn’t ever felt before. “Lieutenant, close the flap,” Speirs ordered starkly. Lipton was moving before he even knew it, not questioning the order or wonder about it. When the flap of the tent fell, they were left in the glow of a bright lantern that made the green fabric glow. “Come back here,” Speirs said then. Lipton did, assuming his previous position of parade rest with his hands behind his back before Speirs who was still leaning against the desk. With the flap closed the tent felt smaller, more intimate somehow. Private. “Take one step closer,” Speirs said. Lipton did, even though the movement took him too close to his captain. They weren’t quite toe to toe, but too close to be simply within conversational distance. All Speirs would have to do to touch him would be to unfold and reach his arm, which he did a moment later. Lipton drew in a careful breath when Speirs’ hand landed on the side of his face, fingertips light like a breath on his scars. They still held eye contact like that was the only way they could actually communicate, and Lipton searched Speirs’ intently, seeing the previously detected heat burn and turn darker. Dangerous, this man was. “You have acquired quite a few battle scars,” Speirs noted as if they were discussing the details of a report, his fingertips ghosting across Lipton’s facial scars. “A few, yes, sir,” Lipton replied and was surprised to hear his voice almost level if a little soft. “Anywhere else than here?” Speirs asked. “Yes, sir,” Lipton said. “On my neck, on my arm, and on my – “ He realized what he was going to have to say with the words already on his tongue and what that might prompt when Speirs was brushing at the scars he could see. At the same time Lipton also realized that even though his voice was level, his breathing was off. He had taken a deep breath when he had stepped forward and that had turned into his new rhythm of rapid, deep inhales that he could hear too loud in his ear. “ – on my inner thigh, sir.” Speirs’ head tilted to the side in a slow arch, but his gaze never wandered or lost its focus. Lipton swallowed, fiddled with his hands behind his back some. “You’re such a valuable soldier. I’ll have to inspect you sometime, just to check up on you,” Speirs murmured. It could have been a threat or promise, and Lipton found himself wishing that in either case it wouldn’t be idle. For a moment longer Speirs stared at him, held his gaze in a manner that made Lipton feel like he was supposed to say something, but then he let his hand drop and the flame went out in his eyes. “But not today, Lieutenant,” he said, once again neutral and noncommittal, already moving on from the situation like it hadn’t even existed. “You’re dismissed.” Once again, it was easy to follow the order. “Sir,” he hoarsely recognized before he let his feet carry himself out of the tent on automation. Chilly March air was like a sobering splash to his face after the warm tent, that Lipton only outside of it realized had smelled like Speirs. Regardless of when it had started, it took a stark turn after that evening in Mourmelon, as did many other things. There was a vague yet constant feeling of pressure lifting. It was frustrating to just go through the motions and loiter around and train endlessly for what felt like nothing, but no one missed combat. They moved out from Mourmelon to Germany in April, driven in trucks through German countryside, met only weak resistance and mostly cleared towns and set up roadblocks and checkpoints. Lipton kept his post and continued to assist the company commander while acting as a willing link between the NCOs and the CO. Whatever had transpired between them in the tent in Mourmelon seemed to be gathered up and packed away with their equipment. Lipton kept following Speirs and Speirs kept requesting his presence, and even though on the surface it was all everyday army life, proper and professional, something had changed underneath. Lipton could see it in his Captain’s eyes every now and then, how they lingered on him when they shared a Jeep, how that intense heat sometimes flared up when they were alone, and how Speirs kept favouring his personal attendance over any runner or radio messages. Speirs kept him close, somehow more tightly than before, and Lipton let him. Something mellowed in him when the captain told him to follow or go, to join him or do something for him, and the best days were when many small errands needed doing and he got to hear the simple “come here, Lieutenant” several times. Getting to obey and please the captain felt like slipping into a warm bath, and those ordinary busy days were full of tingling contentment that relaxed Lipton’s shoulders and flushed his skin warm. Sometimes he wondered if Speirs knew what he was doing to him, and at times when he caught his keen eyes on him he was sure he had an idea. He wondered if it really had started in Foy, and if it had been a mistake how he had simply joined Speirs by his side, close up without any reservations or backup whatsoever. Nearly everyone else sensed something strong and dangerous about Speirs and knew to stay away, but Lipton had ignored all the warning signs and glued himself to the captain’s side, ending up inside that aura of danger. Maybe it had been a mistake. But nothing happened. Nothing was said or even hinted at, and although Lipton understood why considering they were constantly on the move and surrounded by other officers and trying to keep Easy company together and somewhat out of trouble, he was still disappointed. All they had was their professional familiarity, proximity by necessity, and silent looks that lasted just a few seconds too long. It felt like a standoff. V-E day was full of soaring relief and boundless happiness. With the help of ten thousand bottles of the finest wine and liquor, Easy company celebrated their survival and the end of all horrors for several days, sprawling into a week. One party seemed to simply blend into another, and even if they were technically still on duty, there was not a single sober man, enlisted or officer, willing to hold them to the regular standard. It was impossible to control everything in that little Alpine paradise, and even though they did keep up with the necessities such as supplies and road blocks, especially the evenings were full of wild merriment, more or less contained in the houses of the deserted town. On Saturday new supplies arrived, and Colonel Sink hosted a party for all the officers at the extravagant hotel that resembled a lodge in a brutal sort of way. There were fine rugs on the floors, red velvet in the halls and all the furniture along with walls and staircases were dark wood with heavy decorations, but then there were stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls, creating a strange mixture of fine art and death. After supplies catching up with them there was good food, things that Lipton hadn’t seen in ages such as roasted meat that was served hot and crunchy vegetables. With them Champagne and liquor flowed freely and the merriment of the men kept the eerie feeling from the stuffed animal carcasses at bay and warmed the entire building. The doors were open, and even though the party was intended for the officers, several soldiers without bars in their collars strolled through to sample the goods. It was almost midnight. Lipton had been dragged along by Welsh and Nixon who had both wanted to eat and drink and show their junior officer a good time, and even though he had felt reluctant to join them, a few cups of Champagne later he was happy he had come. Some senior NCOs came by too, and Lipton got swept into the merry group of Talbert, Grant, Moore and Liebgott who had decided to snoop around the officers’ party and maybe sneak in for a bit. They were in the middle of a playful debate about it when someone called out for him. “Lieutenant Lipton.” The tone was familiar and his body recognized it before his thoughts caught up, his back straightening and cheeks flushing. He turned around. Speirs looked like he was off-duty, but just slightly. His hair was smooth and neatly kempt, he was wearing his good brown uniform jacket that had been washed, his shirt was neat and his tie tugged in, but the top button of his shirt was undone and his jacket open. “Captain Speirs,” Lipton said. “Come with me, Lieutenant,” Speirs ordered promptly, ignoring the enlisted men completely, “I need you.” “Yes, sir,” Lipton agreed right away, turned to throw one last glance at his buddies who looked back with grimaces and pitying eyes. Lipton wished he could have laughed openly at their misplaced sympathy, but that would not have been wise, and besides he had a long ago learned to feel privileged and happy with him alone knowing the captain’s true thoughts. He followed Speirs through the crowd and to the stairs without any further questions. The second floor of the hotel had become almost as crowded as the first with several gambling tables and drinking games set up there. Someone had found a record player and instead of German classics that every household seemed to have was playing The Andrews Sisters. Speirs led Lipton up the stairs to the third floor, where the crowd was rapidly dwindling. A few men who preferred to simply converse rather than join the partying of the lower floors were sitting at the steps, and none of them paid Speirs and Lipton a single glance as they passed. A captain from another company had fallen asleep on the steps with a wine bottle cuddled in his arms and his head resting on a step. The third floor was deserted, and as soon as they got out of the stairs and took down to the hallway, Speirs reached behind him and took Lipton’s hand. His hand squeezed, and Lipton squeezed back. Speirs picked up his pace from a confident stroll to almost a jog, turning the corner and taking them even further from the party, then seemingly at random darting towards one of the doors. He pulled Lipton into one of the hotel rooms, leading him by the hand and ushering him inside, then throwing the door shut behind them. They were in a large one-room suite, a large, comfortable room with soft carpeted floor, antique-looking oak panelling and furniture to match. There was large hulking dresser with brass handles, a few armchairs and a writing desk with a single green-shaded lamp that was on. The windows had red velvet curtains that had been drawn, and behind the lounging area there was a bulky double bed. The lock clicked in the door, and Lipton was reminded of a flap of a tent. Speirs brushed against him in a manner that could have passed for accidental, then continued his way to the writing desk that was set in the middle of the room like a space-divider. He turned around, leaned against the desk and regarded Lipton, who just now realized he was locked inside a private room with the captain whose eyes had that uncanny flame he usually hid. Lipton assumed the parade rest just to appease that fire. “Lieutenant. Come here and stand before me, at ease.” Lipton didn’t see a reason to reply, just did as he was told. He felt suddenly alert in a way he associated with field duty. “You are truly a valuable asset to this company. I have been very pleased with you.” Lipton didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. This didn’t seem to be to Speirs’ liking, because his expression hardened and he said: “Answer me when I’m speaking to you.” Lipton felt a shudder go down his spine, a thrilled and pleasant one. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Speirs relaxed again, content like a cat. “Come here.” It felt like a small eternity when Lipton crossed the floor. His boots made no sound on the soft carpet, but each step was heavy and dragged on like he was treading in deep water, and all the while Speirs watched him, keen and shameless. Lipton stopped before him at a distance he would have if they were simply talking. Somehow pretending like nothing was out of the ordinary added to the tickling flame that had been lit in his belly at the first command, or even perhaps from the moment when Speirs had taken his hand. “I promised I would inspect your condition once, didn’t I, Lieutenant?” Speirs said, playing along with the normalcy as well. He could have been giving a briefing or reporting nothing new from his patrol. “You did, yes, sir,” Lipton agreed, matching his tone. “Take your boots off, Lieutenant.” Lipton crouched down to follow the order. His jumpboots hadn’t been this clean in a while and he was proud to have himself together, but right now they were only an obstacle to be put aside. He wasn’t about to be evaluated based on his uniform. One boot came loose, then the other, and Lipton took his socks off while at it, stuffing one in each boot before setting them neatly aside and standing up straight again. Speirs was watching him still, so keenly that it felt impossible that he had glanced aside even for a second. It was an astonishing thought to consider that something so simply as taking his boots off for him gained Speirs’ undivided attention for him, and Lipton shivered pleasantly at it. Speirs leaned more heavily on the desk, almost a mirror image of himself back at Mourmelon in that yellow-green glow. He extended one foot forward. “Now mine.” Lipton’s mouth went dry in an instant, but the demand in Speirs’ voice didn’t leave any room for hesitation or refusal. He crossed the polite distance between them, less and less soft carpet between them, and stopped just short from bumping knees with the captain. For a second they shared a look, Lipton’s wide-open eyes meeting Speirs’ fierce ones. He fell on his knees. It wasn’t a difficult task to undo Captain Speirs’ jumpboots as they were exactly the same ones Lipton wore down to the same size, but just kneeling there on the floor and doing something like that for him, that was a treat. He undid the laces and pulled them loose, then grabbed the boot by the heel and the outsole and pulled it off, then peeled the sock off like he had done to himself. Speirs helpfully offered his other foot for the same treatment, and Lipton took in in his lap to deliver. Speirs had calloused feet just like every soldier, surprisingly sleek ankles and wiry hair starkly black against his pale skin. “That’s good,” Speirs murmured, gently pulling his foot free from Lipton’s hold. “Now stand up and give me a kiss.” Lipton’s stomach did a flip at that and it took him a moment to collect himself enough to put his feet under himself again. While kneeling down he had had an excuse not to look at Speirs, but when he stood he had to raise his gaze too, and when he locked eyes with the captain again he saw his fierce eyes and mouth just a bit agape, anticipating. To kiss someone was a simple enough command, but with Speirs he didn’t know exactly what he wanted. He had waited for this inspection for so long while also keeping it in the back of his mind that Lipton now found himself unprepared, never having kissed a man in his life, and the list of girls kissed a short one as well. Speirs waited for him. He had given an order and he expected it to be followed, so he just sat there in his relaxed yet taunting manner, ready for anything and expecting the best, and suddenly Lipton couldn’t take the single-minded scourge of his eyes anymore. Quickly he leaned in close, closed his eyes and kissed his captain, at the last second avoiding his mouth and instead going for the corner of it, pressing his lips there quickly. He felt like a boy being dared, and despite how juvenile and chaste the contact was, his heart thumped in his throat. He felt a hint of stubble against his lips. He pulled back, biting his own lip. He felt torn between having done something unspeakable but also ridiculously inoffensive, and when he met Speirs’ gaze again he saw the feelings reflected back at him. “You can do better than that, Lieutenant.” Even with his cheeks rosy and heated, Lipton rose up to the challenge and dived in again, his hands trembling when they came to rest against Speirs’ collar, and lips uncertain but determined when he claimed his captain’s mouth in a kiss. This time Speirs met him in the middle like he wanted to be sure he didn’t miss again, and the result was perfect. He kissed with force and passion, pressing in and parting his lips like he wanted to bite, and suddenly Lipton felt challenged. He returned everything he got, letting his desire take the lead. “Oh…” Speirs breathed between them. It was a strange sound, a barely audible mixture of pleasant surprise and lust, the ordinary and indecent blending together in one greedy breath, and then his hands moved up to take a hold of Lipton’s jaw and the back of his neck, angling him so he could kiss him deeper. When they parted, they were both out of breath. Speirs kept his hands where they were, holding Lipton by his neck with his fingers idly slipping into his hair. “Take your clothes off,” Speirs grunted. With his hands clammy, Lipton obeyed. Speirs pushed him just at arm’s length to watch him as he did, and his gaze burned so hot on his skin that the room didn’t even feel chilly. Lipton took off his cap and his jacket, placing both on the chair by the desk. He untangled the knot of his tie and pulled it off, then turned his attention to his buttons. Speirs’ eyes watched his fingers like a hawk, and just as predatory. He undid his cuffs, then started from his collar and moved down, undoing every button until he could slip his shirt off, leaving him in his undershirt. Speirs said nothing, just let his eyes roam and take in everything that was bared. His teeth grazed his bottom lip briefly. Lipton pulled his undershirt from his trousers and over his head, sending it to the growing pile of clothing on the chair. When he moved to undo his belt buckle, his hands happened close enough to his groin to notice he was already half hard. He felt himself blushing, a bit stunned, and his fingers felt that much clumsier when he started to open his trousers. He hadn’t even noticed himself growing aroused, he had been too busy being sunken into the sweet bliss of obeying, and now that he was about to reveal his state to be observed by Speirs’ keen eyes, he almost faltered in embarrassment. He risked a glance at Speirs and was shocked to realize that he had already noticed, which was evident in his downcast eyes and openly yearning expression. “Good. Good, keep going,” Speirs urged him, his voice low as he shifted rigidly, his calm façade slipping. Lipton pushed his trousers down and stepped out of them. On a strange impulse, or perhaps delaying the inevitable, he folded them neatly before putting them over the back of the chair. His breath was coming out short and quick now that there was only one article of clothing left. He pushed his thumbs under the elastic band of his underwear, then slowly inched them down his hips, and legs until he could discard them too. Speirs shifted again, almost compulsively. Lipton straightened up again, fully nude, skittish on his feet and his cheeks flaming, but still eager. Speirs took a long look at him, all the way from his toes and legs up his belly and chest before finally coming back to his face. If the look in his eyes had been heated a moment ago, it was positively scalding now, and there was naked desire there. “You are stunning,” he breathed. He moved like something had snapped, like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore, and in a second he was in Lipton’s space where he caught him in his arms and kissed him like he intended to devour him. Lipton gasped into the kiss and Speirs pressed in closer. He tasted faintly of whiskey and cigarettes, a strong, smoky aftertaste that Lipton didn’t mind at all. Speirs held him fast by the back of his neck as they sunk into the rhythm of their kiss. It was like diving, sinking into the swirling depths that took your breath away and muffled all sounds around you. Speirs’ hands moved. Their grasp let go and they slipped on the move, strong and greedy, conquering skin and flesh. They caressed his back, warm palms kneading into the muscle and fingers stretching to draw the edges of his shoulder blades before slipping down, making Lipton curl his body towards Speirs. Speirs’ thumbs caught in the small dips in the small of Lipton’s back before sliding to grasp his hips, a commanding, firm hold that made Lipton give a stuttering whine and buck forward, rubbing his naked body against Speirs’ uniform, distantly wondering if he was making a mess there. The wool scratched his skin, but underneath it Speirs’ body burned hot and inviting and the man gave a low groan when their hips rubbed together, fully hard in his pants and fingers grasping tighter. Then suddenly, Speirs pulled back from the kiss and left Lipton blinking in confusion. He opened his eyes to meet Speirs’. “I want you in bed, now,” he told him. “Yes, sir,” Lipton breathed in return, not even noticing the title and already moving. They stumbled across the floorspace, Lipton backwards as Speirs pushed him by the hips, until they fell on the bed. Speirs handled him with confidence, and he found himself yielding with terrifying ease until he was almost fully on his side with Speirs pressed against him from behind, arms around him and mouth against his neck. Speirs hadn’t even loosened his tie, but his mouth was hot and insistent, his teeth ever present on Lipton’s neck, and his hard-on bore against his ass through the rough material of his trousers. Lipton arched back against him and earned himself a moan. “Christ, you drive me insane,” Speirs growled against his neck, greedy hands all over Lipton. “Uh-huh,” in a breathless grunt was all Lipton could manage. Speirs was making good of his words with his hands, stroking and palming him without restraint. His hands stroked his chest, palms curving along his muscles, thumbs nudging against his lowest rib and then stroking upwards until his fingers could circle and toy with his nipples. Lipton squirmed and panted under the treatment, not knowing what to make of the burning touch but having nowhere to go because Speirs held him in an ironclad grasp, firmly pressed along his back. He had no other option but to lie there, belly up and held tight and take it, take all that vicious tenderness, that thorough exploration of his body, and whimper and moan. Speirs’ wonderful, dangerous hands pet his skin and kneaded the muscles, then stroked lower down his belly, affectionately caressing everything they touched, then reached even lower down his naval, fingers stroking through pubic hair. Speirs’ breath was coming in deep, concentrated puffs like he was running uphill. “Spread your thighs for me.” Lipton shuddered and hurried to follow the command, bending his knee and pulling it up, opening his legs in a form of sharp v. Speirs let out a shuddering sigh, a sound of admiration, and his fingers slipped on the smooth, soft skin on Lipton’s inner thighs. There was the scar, the rugged ugly reminder of a close-call, and Speirs traced it carefully before lavishing the tender skin with merciless attention. “You like that, don’t you? When I tell you what to do?” There was absolutely no reason to lie, and Lipton felt no shame. “Yeah,” he sighed. In a bizarrely animalistic manner of affection, Speirs licked the corner of his mouth, then lapped at his lower lip. “I knew it,” he rasped, “I knew it.” It was deliciously decadent how Speirs was still fully dressed, but it seemed that he also had a plan in mind. His hands let go of him for a second, and a few seconds later Lipton heard a pop of a metallic lid. Then there were fingers on him, between his legs and drawing behind, and just like that he was touched on his entrance, then inside. There was copious amount of jelly of some sort coating Speirs’ fingers, thick and warm and slippery, easing the penetration and making everything feel so so soft. Being fingered felt like nothing else ever. There were no words, there was no comparison, there was only this entirely new, alien feeling of his body opening, being spread open and caressed from the inside. The lubricant warmed up quickly and was so thick it didn’t leak or spill over but left him feeling tended to and wet. Ready. Speirs had two fingers of his right hand inside Lipton and his other arm wrapped tightly around Lipton’s chest, keeping him still as well as he could. It was bizarre, how strong his hold was but how smooth and soft his touch was, firm and as demanding as everything else about him, but his fingers curled and caressed and made his body yield. Lipton realized he was making a punched-out humming sound every time the fingers pumped inside. There was something building inside of him, a heavy heat he hadn’t ever felt before, couldn’t even have imagined before this. Then the finger gave one last twisting thrust, stilled and pulled out. “You can undress me now,” Speirs said straight in his ear, wet lips brushing against the shell of it. He had to gather his wits for a moment, but then Lipton turned to Speirs. His captain looked more dishevelled than he had ever seen him, a mess he had made of him, his cheeks red and sweaty, his hair out of place and his red lips draw slightly back, revealing his teeth. Even with weak, trembling fingers Lipton made quick work of Speirs’ uniform, undoing button after button under his dark gaze, then pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The undershirt followed, and after that the belt was unbuckled and pulled out of the loops, the sound of leather against the rough fabric loud in the room. He pulled down the fly, and Speirs shifted helpfully when he pulled the trousers along with his underwear down his thighs and legs and finally completely off. Speirs naked and aroused was a breath-taking sight that made his heart race. He was brawny in a wiry sort of way, strong but still lithe, his body hair was black against his skin that was flushed with arousal, and he basked under his partner’s gaze shamelessly and completely comfortable with himself. Lipton hadn’t even realized how he stared until Speirs broke the spell by leaning towards him again and laying a hand on his collarbone. There was no playfulness or patience left in Speirs’ gaze now, his expression was intent and greedy. “I want you back against me, back to my chest. Now,” he said, almost whispered, and without a question Lipton crawled back into his hold. From a storey below them the record player was playing a bright swing tune that sounded muffled in their room. It would forever be the song that played during his first time. His first time like this, his first time being taken by another man. It felt heavenly and striking at the same time, overwhelming in a way that threatened to turn into fear and bring him to tears, but Speirs was slow and steady, a constant that held him together through it. They breathed together and took the plunge, hands momentarily clasped together. They fit together. Their bodies curled and rocked together, finding a rhythm as natural as heartbeat. Lipton could only let his body chase the pleasure. He had been wound up so carefully and completely that there wasn’t a single clear thought left in his mind, he was perfectly within his body that wanted pleasure, wanted to keep winding and mounting the building heat until it would all burst into ecstasy. He had his head leaned back on Speirs shoulder, the leg he couldn’t bear to hold up anymore thrown over his thighs while his hips rocked back against the other man, his spine in an almost painful curve. He needed something, he needed something more, something his feverish mind couldn’t quite grasp. “Sir – “ he gasped without any idea what he wanted to say. Speirs gave a breathless groan at the title and his hips bore home more viciously. “Oh god, you’re so sweet… So, so sweet…” Lipton felt powerful then, in how he had lured Speirs to him, just as attractive to him as he had been to him. Speirs breathed into his neck, mouthing the sweaty skin and grazing with his teeth, as ravenous as ever. “I’ve been trying to get you alone for a month. You’re just so – oh Christ – so… so…” There didn’t seem to be a word fitting for whatever he wanted to communicate, and it was like his body was trying to speak instead: he thrust harder, grinding in deep, rubbing against all the right places, and Lipton understood. Speirs kissed his neck and then his jaw, open-mouthed and messy. “Do you want to come?” Something dark flared inside Lipton’s chest, an eagerness that turned him trembling and pliant and urged him reach behind him for the other, his hand curling around a hip as if it was possible to pull the other even closer. “Yes! Yes, please!” “Yes… What?” And damn him, there was a lucid streak in that, a wicked joy in the game, and Lipton wanted to play. “Yes, sir. Please, sir,” Lipton cried out. Speirs seemed to know exactly what he needed. His lips pressed into his hairline in the back of his neck while he rolled them just so that he could press him down and thrust into him harder. His movements were rough but fluid, and finally he pushed his hand between Lipton’s legs and curled his fingers around his achingly hard cock. “Go ahead and come then,” he urged. It was a matter of seconds, then. Pinned down under the weight of the other, trapped between a deft hand and grinding hips, writhing and flexing and a rough command still in his ears, it was so good it almost ached, and Lipton came with a keen he muffled into the comforter. He could do nothing, only shake through his release that made his whole body thrash and tremble, and then just collapse when the overflowing ecstasy washed over him. Speirs rode his release out with him and kept fucking him through it, keeping the high going until every last drop of it was drained and it turned into deep satisfaction. The heat finally died down, leaving behind only bone-deep warmth. Lipton couldn’t bring himself to move. He just lay where he had ended up, not even bothering to close his legs. He hadn’t even realized that Speirs had climaxed at some point, but only became aware of something wet dripping down the backs of his thighs, and then Speirs flopped down next to him on his back with a heavy sigh. It got quiet in the room. They lay side by side where they had collapsed, shoulders brushing and breathing slowly evening out. The muffled sounds of the party became clearer, music and conversation too far away to make out words with sudden bursts of roaring laughter or hollering when the mood soared or a game was won. A glass broke somewhere. The record player was playing a soft romantic tune where a sweet female voice crooned probably about an absent lover or missing home. With some amusement Lipton realised they hadn’t even pulled back the covers, just fallen on top of them and then been too preoccupied with each other to even make use of the pillows. Speirs’ clothes were in a bundle on the floor, and Lipton remembered his own folded over a chair by the desk. With a huff that had a spark of amusement over their absurd current situation Lipton rolled over onto his back, ending up pressed against Speirs’ side. He turned to look at the man besides him, who was languidly stretched out and still basking in his own afterglow. As Lipton looked, Speirs tilted his head to the side to him. Their eyes met and Speirs gave him a small smile, then turned on his side to face him and lay one hand on his chest, the backs of his fingers stroking his collarbone. All that had been dark and dangerous about him seemed to have melted away, and without his uniform Captain Speirs was just a man. His eyes were warm and his gaze as gentle as his hand caressing his chest, but even sated and lazy he was focused. Lipton looked back, trying to understand the thoughts behind the look but coming up empty. “Don’t be scared,” Speirs muttered. Lipton blinked. “I’m not. Why would I be?” he asked, baffled. Speirs took a deep breath and smiled, satisfied with the answer. He shook his head a little, then leaned closer to kiss Lipton’s shoulder. “It’s nothing,” he said and kissed him again, then sighed so quietly that Lipton wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t felt it on his skin. “We can’t stay here for long, but give me a moment. Just a minute.” Lipton turned onto his side to face Speirs and mourned when the hand on his chest fell on the covers between them. He didn’t like the distance in Speirs’ voice, the hinted apology and reassurances as if he needed any of it. It made him feel that all that had happened between them, not just now but everything (since Mourmelon, since Haguenau, since Foy) before was about to be left in this room, and he didn’t like it. He had gotten himself close to Speirs, across the distance and inside his defences, and he wasn’t about to be expelled now. Now that Speirs wasn’t touching him anymore he fixed the problem by reaching over to touch him instead, his hand ending up on his side, feeling the hard plane of the ribcage and letting his hand drift lower to the mild curve of his waist. He was soft and warm there, drying sweat and the rise and fall of breathing signs of life under his palm. “I’ll give you anything you want,” Lipton muttered, his hand moving from Speirs’ waist and around him, and then crawled in closer to the inviting heat of his body. Speirs sighed, something unreadable in his eyes, and smiled, sweet and relieved, and shook his head again even when he returned the affection and pulled Lipton into his arms. He let Lipton rest his head on his bicep, both arms around him in a secure embrace. “You are so…” Lipton waited for him to finally finish the sentence. After a heavy pause Speirs seemed to give up on it, huffed and cast his eyes down. When he looked up again, he had a spark in his eyes and he brought his hand up to Lipton’s face, smoothed a few overgrown strands of hair from his face, then curled along his jaw and pulled him into a kiss.

#speirton #band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #can of lemons #mun ficci

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mysticsparklewings · 4 years

Photo

Draw This In Your Style!

Draw/Recreate This In Your Style, post the original art alongside it (on platforms that support it, elsewhere you can just link back to the original instead), and either tag it with #dtiySparkle or tag me, MysticSparkleWings (xxMysticWingsxx on Twitter) directly and I'll retweet/share/etc. it! No deadline, just create at your own pace!

____

You know, I constantly go back and forth on "celebrate milestones!" vs. "don't be that person that won't shut up about how many followers they have and the numbers and etc." Mostly because I usually find it annoying from other artists, even if I don't find the artist themselves annoying. It's complicated. I know it's important and in many cases helps grow a following further, but it also just gets exhausting, you know? Both to see it and to try to do it.

Still, I've been wanting to make a "Draw This In Your Style" (DTIYS) for a while now, but it didn't seem like the kind of thing to just do on a whim. It felt like there should be a reason for at least the first one, provided it went well enough to make me want to do more. I noticed a few weeks ago that I was approaching 1,000 followers on Twitter* and I saw an opportunity, knowing that 1. It would take me a while to finish the artwork (go big or go home, yes?) and 2. It would take a few days for the numbers to stabilize so that I would actually hold steady at 1,000+ and not be 1,000 one minute and 998 the next. (Followers go up and down like a see-saw over there)

*Thanks exclusively to Art Shares. I'm very sure I'd still have less than 100 if it weren't for those--and please don't be fooled by that number. 1,000 isn't teeny tiny, but in-depth interaction from a handful of people will always mean more to me than zero or minimal-at-best interaction from thousands/millions/etc, and frankly, my interaction over on Twitter is basically non-existent compared to the interaction I get here on dA, which precisely is why I prioritize dA over all other social media. It means more to me; it feels infinitely less passive.

But...I kinda didn't want that to be the only reason for the DTIYS. It just seemed...I don't know, cliche? Not right, somehow. Fortunately, the Twitter milestone happens to coincidence with I think I've finally stabilized around 300 followers on Instagram (after being stuck between 250 and 290 for months, consistently going up and down 2-3 people at a time), and I've also garnered over 400 watchers right here on dA.

The Twitter milestone is technically the biggest, but honestly, the dA one means a lot more to me. I thank each and everyone one of you, my fellow deviants, for thinking my art is worth the watch.

And I especially thank those of you--I'm sure you know who you are, I won't name names just in case anyone's not comfortable with that--that consistently fav and/or comment on my work. Your support and encouragement are why I keep doing this, despite the frustrations I may have along the way and aside from an innate need to create.

Speaking of which, if you're a loyal Sparkler I think now I'll get to the part you might know me best for; the long description of the artistic process!

Like I mentioned before, I noticed the milestone stuff a few weeks ago and thought now would be as good a time as any to get started on a DTIYS, so I started trying to brainstorm something that would be both fun for me to make and fun for others to recreate. I was having a little trouble on this front, so I took a trip to Pinterest and re-visited some boards I use to save potential draw ideas/inspiration on.

I was thinking I wanted to include a fairy since I've been wanting to get back into drawing them more regularly and fairies-via-Winx-Club is where I got my start here on dA and indirectly into getting more serious about my art in general. I was also thinking something with galaxies since those are usually fun to make and are a good way to make an otherwise plain or simple piece more interesting. I didn't want this to be too terribly complicated if I expected other people to draw it, but I also didn't want it to be too boring. And, of course, I was hoping for something I could lean into my mixed-media prowess with.

All that turned out to be quite the balancing act, but after some scrolling, I had some ideas and ended up with a sketch of a fairy in a teacup, with place-holder wings and a place-holder rose on the cup. The wings I knew would be easier to do the lines digitally (even if the final art was traditional, which I was planning on), and the rose I wanted to be slightly more sophisticated than my typical stencil-made roses, which I thought would also be easier to experiment with digitally. I was right on that front, thanks to some of the public domain images on PixaBay.

Beyond that, my original idea was fairly different from what you see here; I was thinking black hair, a fairly vampiric look, for the fairy, more typical butterfly wings, a red rose on the cup, and then an abstract galaxy wash, more watercolor-y and less saturated, for the background. And to be fair, that's still an interesting idea that I might return to at some point, but even as I worked on and finished the digital linework (fully planning to print them and then do what I wished with them traditionally, as has become a norm for me) something in the back of my mind told me that vision wasn't the right one; Not for this project, anyway.

Fortunately, I was a busy enough bee in between working on the lines for this that I partially had to step away from it to meet other time constraints and I could afford to step away from it and have some time to ponder what I wanted to do.

In my pondering, I kept coming back to the galaxy/constellation thing I've been experimenting with lately (Exhibits A, B, and C ). I hesitated at first since I knew for sure I didn't want to do the whole drawing that way and I wasn't entirely sure how to decided what to do with what.

Of course, after thinking about it a bit more, I decided I'd take a risk in doing the background and wings in the constellation style, and then somehow do the rest in a more traditional way. I'd have some more time to think about that while I was re-tooling the wings digitally for said constellation style, after having discovered that made life so much easier during my previous experiments with it.

I'd know from the beginning that I wanted to do metallic accents (most likely silver) on the cup and saucer, which in this case meant I'd need to use either watercolor or heavy-duty mixed media paper for them, and I definitely had to use watercolor paper for the wings/background. The mixed media will work for the galaxy technique, but the colors don't blend quite as nicely and I was concerned about how that might affect the overall look here.

Still, I didn't want to watercolor the fairy herself at least, which left me with a choice of alcohol markers or colored pencils. I was thinking pencils for the hair for texture, markers for the skin for the lack thereof. But I typically don't like using alcohol markers on watercolor paper. The additional texture feels too rough on the nib and it's almost like I can feel the paper soaking up extra ink.

I also thought that doing the background and the fairy on the same piece of paper was asking for a very big watercolor-y mess, so between that and the paper concerns, that led me eventually to deciding to split them up.

And somehow in there, the idea occurred to me that I could get a bit adventurous (read: crafty) and actually separate the various parts of the fairy and cup out a bit and not only solve my paper problem, but also makes things a little more interesting.

After yet more pondering (if you can say nothing else about my art, you cannot say it isn't well-pondered by the time it's finished!) I settled on having the layers as follows:

background/wings (watercolor paper)

back part of the saucer (mixed media paper)

the fairy (with her arm and bit of hair carefully plopped over the next layer; mixed media)

the cup (mixed media)

the front of the saucer (mixed media)

Or at least that was the plan, and if I discovered problems in this plan then I could adjust as necessary.

So I got to work on the background, which was fairly straight-forward. I layered on paint and blended to essentially my heart's content, and then let it dry overnight since it was getting late by the time I finished it, or rather the first layer. I came back to it the next day and layered on some more paint to fix some blending issues and darken the whole thing up some more.

While that second layer dried, I got to making the lines for the additional layers and cutting them out--uncolored for the time being, as I figured the layering would need to factor into that a bit--and setting how exactly they'd fit together. The only modifications to my plans I had to make, which I, fortunately, had the foresight to do while I was cutting, was to leave two little bumps at the "bottom" of the fairy (where her body meets the cup) so that she could sit probably as both in the cup but also with her hair and arm hanging over it. The little bumps were a sort of "grounding" behind the cup to hold the rest of her in place while the other pieces were wedged on top.

I hope that makes sense, it's a little hard to explain without seeing it for yourself.

Anyway. I'd also had the foresight to transfer an outline of the fairy and cup lines onto the background before I started painting, which helped with making sure everything was placed...semi-correctly...on the final piece.

I say semi correctly because despite my best efforts when I went to glue everything together it looked right in-person, but the digital scan would later reveal to me that in fact, the layered bits had all shifted slightly to the left and curved inward a bit more, like a right parathesis: ) But I'll come back to that in a minute.

Once I was convinced my layering gambit was going to work out, then I started toying with colors and ideas for the layers themselves. The clearest idea I had out of the gate was to do the rose in a galaxy style too, rather than just plain watercolor like I'd originally planned (teal for the leaf though because green wouldn't have fit with the rest of the palette and blue would've blended too well); either way, I figured it wouldn't pose much of a problem on the mixed media paper since it's such a small area. The biggest challenge would be the stars, but even then you could say the same thing: It's such a small area that star dispersion with a pen really wasn't that big of a challenge to make look convincingly like random star placement.

I went back and forth a bit on the other colors, but I ultimately decided that I liked the idea of soft purple skin and dark(ish) blue hair, maybe soft pink lips and a little blush, for the fairy herself. And I also decided to do a little warm-gray shading on the cup with markers, as opposed to just leaving it white.

The lips turned out so nicely I was tempted to try doing the blush with the same markers, but I have very mixed luck with marker blush (sometimes it blends nicely, other times I get a nice line despite my efforts), and so I decided to play it safe and do it later with pencils instead. Fortunately, the rest of the skin and the cup (both done with Copics specifically as that's where I most easily found the colors I needed) went nice and smoothly, as is the nature of markers on this mixed media paper. (Seriously; Strathmore 400 series Mixed Media works wonders with alcohol markers for layering and blending!!)

The hair was a little more complicated because of the color I was hoping for, but that didn't matter too much because half-way through I decided to change things up a bit and I added little bits of pink and purple into the mix, intentionally following the rest of the galaxy-ness of what I was doing. It's not much, but I think it was the right choice.

While I waited to make sure the cup was good and dry, I went to splatter town on the now-dry background, as was necessary for the galaxy look, and then used my phone to shine some extra light on the paper so I could see my lines and dots for the wings. And after giving the white gel pen a moment to dry, I then went back in with my PanPastel, as is custom, to make the wings glow. I have also now learned that a blending stump/tortillon is good for blending out the pastel in a tight space, while a dry paper towel or tissue works to semi-remove it if it goes on a bit too thick.

Everything, after drying, was then assembled and attached to the background with some handy-dandy tacky glue which was fortunately fairly quick-drying for liquid glue, stuck fairly well without me having to add a whole lot of it, and also not a sloppy glue mess everywhere.

I did have to carefully go back over some of my lines for the cup and hair after everything was assembled because I forgot to do so over the metallic paint and pencil wax before assembly, but it also worked out okay since a couple of corners for the hair got snipped a little short, so I could sort-of fix it by extended the corner on the paper underneath. (In hindsight this works a lot better in-person; on the undoctored scan the placement looks pretty off or incomplete)

And of course, with everything assembled, that brings me back to what I was saying about the scan earlier.

Like mentioned, everything had shifted a bit during placement and gluing, and I could more clearly see the lines I had missed in that process on the scan. Unfortunately for me, while in-person everything looks relativity fine, on the (undoctored) scan this shifting made the balance feel way off, at least to me. The fairy and cup were too far to the left, meanwhile, the ring wing stuck out too far on the bottom.

I fiddled and fiddled and fiddled with the scan, using the content-aware move tool half a dozen different ways before I conceded it just wasn't going to do what I wanted, and then my next-best idea was the extend the background to the left a bit. In doing that, I discovered the warp tool worked to my advantage for that, and so I decided I'd trying fiddling with it and see where it got me.

It's still not perfect, but it's better than it was. In the end, I used the warp tool to tweak the angle of each part of the wings and that made up for some of the balance problems without also compromising any of the lines (which was the biggest reason why the content-aware tool wasn't working; it kept messing up the lines or other parts of the drawing in the process). At the very least, I was able to do enough that it only really bothers me now when I start looking for the off-balance-ness.

I also ended up doing some minor touches, mostly just smoothing out certain lines and small tweaks, but once the balance problem was finally somewhat solved it was pretty much done. (Aside from, of course, me then also adding the words on top so people know what this is at only a moment's glance.)

The end result, both scan and traditional. I'm really happy with. The piece is plenty interesting to look at, but it's also not too complicated, especially when you break down the individual parts that make it up. (Literally and more figuratively.)

Thus, I can only hope others find it interesting-but-not-too-complicated enough to try their hand at recreating it. Even if no one takes me up on my "Draw This In Your Sparkle Style Challenge though, I enjoyed making this all the same and I'm really proud to share the art itself with you guys.

Hopefully though at least a few people will take a stab at it and I can focus on that and not explode from impatience in regards to various not-really-art-related things I'm currently waiting on.

____

#drawthisinyourstyle #dtiysparkle

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dollsted · 4 years

Text

Rated: T

Pairing: JarethxSarah

Plot teaser: The Goblin King is dead...at least in Sarah's normal life he is...but what happens if that turns out to just be a rumor? Source: Archiveofourown.com/F0rce0fnatur3

Notes:

Hello my bebes. So just a little address to those who continue to read this. I have always been a fan of the Labyrinth and I know nothing could touch on or pick up where Henson left off but I've put a lot of thought into how my version of the story should go. I hope I can give fans back some semblance of what we've been waiting for since the story came out. I have read all there is and watched behind the scenes and rare footage on my favorite movie and so characters that are within the novel, concept sketches, and other works will be put in here. There may also be minor oc's as well as one big one. So I say unto you. I hope you enjoy my version because the goblin king may be watching over all of us in the heaven's and no one can take his place...I bring him back to life here on the pages before you.

Chapter 1: Rumors

When I was a child, I thought like a child. But I did not do childish things. In fact, I don’t think anyone could call what I went through childish. But that feels like a time long, long ago. Even now if I think back on it, my mind becomes a fog. And then one day I just---forgot entirely. I do remember the days after vividly. I graduated and parted with my drama club family. I struggled with my major but suddenly all these dreams and thoughts of harrowing tales wouldn’t stop springing to my mind like an unlimited fountain from a spring that burst and never dried up. At first I would scribble the stories down in notebooks when I was supposed to be paying attention to the lecture in front of me. Now at twenty, I’ve found my calling and have become one of the bestselling fantasy novelists of my generation. I’ve heard all the praises. To be so young and have one of the most sought after series. One scholar I met at a gala party in New York City told me fantasy novels were an elder mans game. The older the person the wiser the writing as if the pages were scrolled on ink and parchment paper itself. I gave them their props as they rightfully deserve, but I planned to hold my own. I’d rather contend with the older crowd than the young teen romance category. I had no interest following on the coattails of finding a way to weave a story about a werewolf or vampire. I’m just waiting for the mummy revolution to peak.

Now, I stare at a blank page. My well is congested and I need inspiration but a deadline for my eager fans want a rushed job. No one asks a baker to take the brownies out of the oven because they’re clamoring to eat it before its ready, mindlessly spooning the hot batter into their mouth. I understand the impatience but this is why the good writers have one hit wonders, or a series, and then slowly peter out for indefinite hiatuses. I can’t just expunge something onto blank pages without inspiration to fuel my motivation. So I gaze out my window on the reading nook watching the city life buzz about. I wish I could just reach down and pull their thoughts from them and manage to get something cohesive enough to send to my editor. I wring my hands around my coffee cup too jittery to even take another sip, the perfume from my eight o’ clock brew souring in my stomach. I can hear the battery warning on my laptop but I’m frozen where I sit. I came up with different plots but nothing made sense. I would need to cram at least four hundred pages into the novel and when I got rolling and tried desperately to fill the pages with random ramblings it came out in cliché bits and pieces that made no sense.

Tonight there would be another gala and this was a black and white only listing. I was prepared but that’s who I was. I was ready within seconds. If I was given three hours I would be ready in three minutes. Always itching to go. Why slow life down anymore? Maybe it was just my mindset as a writer, maybe it was the pressure from the public. I was already a book behind and itching to be at this gala, perform my part of dutiful famous author, and then slip away with a spoon of ice-cream in my mouth and my silk gray pajamas on my body. Suddenly a thought rolled over my mind making me feel suddenly ill. When had I become the mirror image of my stepmother? My insides coiled tight like a sailors knot and I couldn’t stand to have this cup in my hands any longer and be alone with my thoughts. I needed to keep busy to numb my mind and run on autopilot.

I glanced at the one newspaper clipping I saved of mom stuck to the corner of my corkboard. Around her ideas were peppered on yellow sticky notes. I was stuck in my fantasy that worshipping an absent parent who left dad and I behind for the stage, for fame and fortune, had abandoned us took precedent over reality. Before my epiphany I lived in a world where she would come back because daughters were invisibly connected to their mother’s right? Like sons and fathers. I had dreams she would ride through our suburban neighborhood on the whitest steed---well in a white limo, and she would come out with a plume of feathers in a pink boa around her neck and her finest ball gown and she would announce she was here to storm the castle and take me away with her where we would live in riches and in the lap of luxury. That’s the word she was, luxury. But that’s all she was. She wasn’t a dream that would ever come true. A mirage. She was just a word. One everyone knew how to speak, and only the rich could afford to. When I finally grew into myself and knew she was just another selfish story I made up in my head, I put my scrapbook and pictures of her away. Even now they’re packed in boxes I doubt I’ll ever open. The article is recent, her career had slowly plateaued when younger famous musicians rose to fame and glory on the stages of Broadway. And in some way, I had to thank her for popping my bubble of dreams because I didn’t want to follow in her footsteps in reality. Or dad. Or my stepmother’s assumption of what I should do with my life. I needed to do what I wanted. What my heart and head wanted.

But now I’m stuck. In a bog of eternal stench. I raised a brow. That was an odd way of phrasing something. What did that even mean? What did I even just think? Before I could grasp it and replay the sentence it was gone. I needed air. And possibly something to eat. Normally I would go for a jog before the night fell but I had an hour left to get ready so I did what anyone would do in my position. I took a much needed nap.

As I scan the crowd I notice little things. Another perk of being a writer. People watching. Noticing details. I watched couples stroll in, one couple shied away barely making it through the door when they realized they had forgotten or weren’t notified by the theme of the party. Even champagne colored attire wouldn’t fly in the mayor’s presence. The women who wore their hair down had coiled them in delicately hanging curls that bounced as they floated across the marble floor. There wasn’t a straight haired woman in sight. I was thankful I chose last second to throw it up in a chignon before I left from the house. I had to admit I still hadn’t mastered the art of being able to glide like most of these women had with heels and dress trains. My mermaid style dress was all in black and the design made it hard to take a good stride. I never cared for alcohol. I never developed the taste for it. The most I would take is a glass of wine, any color, and that was on my worst days. But I felt foolish just holding onto the flute of champagne clutched in my hand. Perhaps I could discretely slip it on a passing tray or abandon it in a less frequented area. I longed for my settee, ice-cream, movie, and pajamas. Depending how the night shaped, maybe I’d skip it all and just go straight to bed. Since I wasn’t stalled in conversation or mindless babbling I stole my chance to discard the flute. As I turned I became arrested by a form. I cursed wishing I had my precious solitude back. A bulky man towered over me. His jet black hair was slicked back and went against the grain of men who wore the signature penguin suites of stark black. He was dressed entirely in pure white. His hazel eyes bore into me seeing me and not just scanning over my bodice as most of the suitors that had pursued me during the eve had been. I spent more time dodging the men in heat that I barely noticed if there were any noble guests not just looking out for the single stragglers for a one night stand.

I shrunk into myself and flushed tearing away from his gaze giving a slight curtsy. As much as the restriction of my dress would allow me to bend my knees. And then I felt even more awkward because I did that. I felt my brows knit and I mentally threw myself out a window before grounding myself. I expected him to start the conversation but perhaps I was being vain. Not everyone knew about me even if I lived in a city packed with my fair share of fans. I was used to having others pounce on me with immediate greetings and questions. To stop my internal suffering I chose to open my mouth and end my misery of turning into an awkward child and reminding myself that I was an adult. Am one. Speak!

“Good evening.” Oh good, I just used the opening line to every gothic and creepy character would use. I really floundered instead of thrived in large gatherings. I wanted to wipe the slate clean, I hadn’t realized half of my champagne had been slugged back. I became aware of the stinging in my ankles and the pain on my feet as I balanced on my heels. He parted his lips revealing pearly whites. I could see his dimples and I found my hand busying itself by brushing a stray strand that had come lose from the chignon behind my ear.

“It is.” His smile was warm and inviting. But I was on high alert none-the-less. I wasn’t sure how to further this conversation. I’d give anything to have my joggers on so I could shift my weight side to side. It was my tell that I was uncomfortable. But I was restricted in these damn stilts.

“Are you here accompanying the mayor in his entourage?” Aside from the orchestra playing at the base of the stairs I could hear the soft chuckle in his throat.

“Unfortunately no. I was a plus one with the Matthew party.” I had no idea who they were but I nodded in agreement as if I did. “What about you, lady?”

“I only got my invitation because of my status. I’m a hot ticket item until my success runs its course and someone else comes along to claim the limelight.” I whisked my flute in the air toasting to my misery and draining the glass abandoning it on the wide railing. I was drowning. I wished for my friend from college to be at my side. She was excellent at steering conversations away from my failings.

“That’s usually how fame works. May I ask, what your profession is now?” ‘Now’? It was an odd way to say something but I disregarded it as a slip of the tongue.

“I’m a novelist.”

“Fancy.” He waggled his brow and now it was my turn to laugh. It came out more like a bark.

“Mind if we speak more but actually participate in this party by dancing?” I felt my face pale. I was meant to be a statue. One that showed up, soaked up the atmosphere, and then left without being drawn into something complicated. Like dancing. That was complicated. Especially in the prison I handpicked for myself. He offered his arm and I gratefully took it stepping as if I was made of china. I literally took baby steps painfully listening to the stairs announce our decent when the butt of my heel ricocheted in the scoop of the room. I could barely get one foot in front of the other, my dress demanding my steps be smaller.

He blessedly closed his stride into small boxy steps allowing me to move with him. He lead, and I floated in the weight of his arms. His palm spanned over my entire back horizontally. I felt like a small hill up against a mountain. The tempo slowed, the musician’s skill amazed me. They could transition from fast pace to slow and sensual within the beat of a note. Before I knew it, we too had slowed, the only glimmer of having been keeping in step to the upbeat rhythm was my fast beating heart and the bead of sweat on the back of my neck. Somewhere between that transition, his body had mingled closer to mine and now his lips were at my ear in a gentle whisper. My eyes widened. I was confused. What did he just say? Was that really what he meant to say? I felt my world splinter. I felt like a dark void inside my heart was going to swallow me whole and I would be rid of all the people and buildings around me.

I somehow made it back to my flat on the top floor. I slipped off my shoes, wormed my way into my pajama’s and when I came back to myself I was curled up in bed holding myself not caring that my chignon was half tamed and half wild. I didn’t even bother to wipe away my lipstick, clean the eyeshadow off with the liner above my lashes. I barely got my arm into the sleeve of my shirt. I hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on or button the shirt closed. My covers lay neglected at my back, my pillow barely touching the top of my head. I was staring into the black hole hiding the corner of my wall. Tears welling in my eyes. Why was I so tore up about this?

I felt the hot coals roll over my cheeks staining my silk sheets. My muscles were stiff, my circulation numb from sitting so still. Why was I feeling all these things that made no sense to me? The thing the man said didn’t even make sense. It sounded like a joke or something he stole out of a novel. What did he mean when he said ‘The Goblin King is dead?’ and why was my heart breaking?

I pulled my phone from the belly of my clutch opening up the web browser searching for anything that could connect me to those words. How was I supposed to react to that? Why was it even affecting me?! My mind was screaming. I found forums with geeks talking about video game references. Millions of results were nothing more than mindless ramblings of geeks and nerds. Broken phrases about movies, books, television, games. There was no viable information present. Frustrated I threw my phone against the wall but heard it hit my vanity instead shattering the mirror. I gasped at my own failings sliding off the bed to clean up my mess. My flat was empty. It was full of things that adorned the walls and filled the spaces so it didn’t look barren but---the truth was it was just me alone living here. I got to work brushing the pieces into the dustpan pausing when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a giant ragged shard.

Hadn’t those words meant something at one time? A title? I had an odd hazy thought that I was meant to remember something. Something significant. But my work took precedence. What that man said was nothing. If it was a message it fell on deaf ears. Maybe it was just highbrow humor I forgot to gloss in the New Yorker. But that was a business magazine and no imagination or right brained people were allowed to even grace those pages. I got the vaguest of feelings that I had been on the other side of this mirror once. A fleeting thought. I disposed of it climbing back into bed regretting the ruin of my mirror and phone. I was a person meant to be on call any time of day especially for my editor. I would rush first thing in the morning to the store to get a new phone and hastily set up my mailbox.

I stretched arching my back like a cat reveling in the warmth my flat offered through the central air system and gazed out to the skyline barely looking back at my with a slit eye of pinks and purples. No signs of orange yet. Coffee time. The heavens answered my thoughts. I heard the timer chime awake and the maker got to work gurgling the water I poured the night before come alive. All I would need to do is feed it creamer and retrieve my mug. I tapped a key on my laptop forgetting momentarily that the battery warned me the night before I needed to charge its juice. It wouldn’t matter. There would still be a blank page and a blinking cursor angrily ticking to remind me my own time was slipping away to start a draft. I couldn’t get what the stranger whispered to me out of my head. I paced feeling the ache in my feet from my heels from the night before. I had darted from the party wanting to stretch that space between me and my dance partner. Away from his words. Away from the mocking eyes that gave me a headache and dejavu.

It would’ve been easier to hail a cab but I felt like the world was crumbling down on me. I was choking and I needed to breach the surface and gulp lungful’s of air. And then I practically fell into the lobby before the doorman or desk clerk could barrage me with questions. I knew I was disheveled. I didn’t need to be prodded or gawked at. I clambered into the elevator fishing the key to activate my penthouse suite on the top floor. I wanted to get home. I needed my bed before I passed out here. Fifty stories up and I stumbled into my room listening to the whirling gears of the elevator haul itself back to earth while I stayed floating in space.

I escaped the footmen who were busy busing in luggage and packages of other residents. My main focus needed to be a new phone. With my laptop dead I needed access to the internet now more than ever. I knew my editor would be trying to get ahold of me. I tried to keep my thoughts singular but after I began setting up everything on the little device I found my curiosity drawing me back to the same spot I fled from. Who was the man that approached me and I danced with? Why did he single me out? Did he know me? Was he using code that I should know? Was it a password to get into somewhere?

All my thoughts were spinning in a jumbled mess worse than a tornado at level five and I wanted answers but only gained more questions.

#labyrinthfic #labyrinthfanfiction #labyrinth au #labyrinth 1986 #jarethxsarah #ao3 #archiveofourown #archive of our own #myart #myworks

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ayakashiramblings · 5 years

Text

If you came out - Dawn Faction

In celebration of Pride month (that is about to end and I lost track of everything because of work, ughh...), this is dedicated to everyone who wants to love!

Disclaimer though: I am a straight, cis girl so while I can write this based on my friend’s opinions, I won’t be able to fully capture the whole scope of being in the LGBTQ+ community. I am also a bad writer by nature, LOL. That said, if I have written anything harmful, please let me know so that I can correct it.

Also, this is technically in the Taisho era so like... I don’t know the history of Japan well enough. Plus, I can’t cover the whole spectrum here, I was hoping to do more with the other groups after gauging the reception here, LMAO.

Finally, Yura sucks for being too perfect.

Koga Kitamikado

His sweetheart is bisexual. And by the way? Very scared of telling him.

She has been dumped faster than burning coal all because it seems like MC would cheat with not just one but two other parties.

AND has also been hurled with accusations of not making up her mind and stringing people along so easily without a hint of remorse.

But he’s the second-most supportive man here. (We’ll get to the first later)

You, ever-the-intellectual knowing that, hit it for Russia when you thought you saw your ex-girlfriend and Koga turned his back on you for 10 seconds to tend to Masanobu’s new watch chain.

Fear does crazy things.

He and Kuya found you in 27 minutes, sobbing into an empty tub of ice-cream you stole from the tengu as your only food supply and frankly, the only item you brought along.

Even Kuya found it pathetic enough to leave you and Koga alone at the random bar.

Everything was pounding. Your head, people taking shots, and leaving with the resounding slam of the doors.

Again, and again, and again.

Yet, Koga was still there, letting you nurse your head against his burly shoulders and stroking your hair away from your face to look you in your bloodshot eyes.

His steady gaze returned some semblance of composure to your drunken mind.

"It's always been hard to look away from you... especially if I think you are troubled by something or someone."

Yup, that’s right. He has had his suspicions.

“Are youz gonna break up witz me...?”

“HELL NO!”

Ok so his calm mien was finally broken by that whispered question and his Japanese bellow had certainly garnered attention until he glared at the other patrons.

His control only returned when he said this.

“If they didn’t love you being bisexual, they didn’t love you. Period.”

... This is the first time you have ever heard of the term. Heck, you had always been too shy to ask Ginnojo for books on the topic but WOW KOGA KNEW? HOW?

You didn’t even know if that was the right term, how the heck did he even find it in the Taisho era of all eras?!

Boy was fully prepared to smother you with all his affections with just the hint that you haven’t been properly cared for.

“Lady Luck was on your side so many times. But here’s the thing; I knew you could love and have loved people. Not sides.”

“I would like to be on your side and your loved one now, in the next 1000 years and beyond.”

That night, you had celebrated coming out and being strong with the strongest man, vodka and of course, hangover in your life.

Kuya

Trans male who actually sees Kuya making an effort beyond wraith-fighting.

You lucky boy! He is a bit confused at first but not dismissive. Anything involving you and your happiness is serious business to him.

Takes some time getting used to the shift in pronouns, but the one in 2892019280923092 chances that he messes up, he will always apologize with ordering whatever you want from the Milk Hall.

Now you wished he would mess up more.

When he is too lazy to buy paper, he just writes on whatever scars you have from your gender reassignment (if you go for it... wait, did they have it back then?) or the marks left from your binder that would have made you self-conscious once upon a time.

And he keeps doing it on each new mark as you slowly transition.

One day, you decided to buy the most classy paper a writer could ever hope for. One that would ensure no bleeding, feathering, and basically ‘The Dream Paper’.

All he did was give a smile and thank you before dipping a feather... and writing on the 273rd scar.

“But why?”

“I need to write the 273rd page of my boyfriend’s strength.”

Yura

You are a trans female, that has been practising her coming-out-speech on forest animals...

... that you knew would know Yura.

You were so scared about seemingly leading others on and deceiving others. Every time some discovered any secret part of yours that you had hidden, suddenly EVERYTHING was exposed.

“Oh, my lady...”

“I am ever so delighted! You came out to me first AGAIN!”

... So it turns out, your past self was also trans. And Yura had been the proudest friend you had confided in first.

His part is so short because guess what? He is a perfect man. I seriously don’t think you would need to worry about him.

We just need him to be our boyfriend soon!!!

Ginnojo

Asexual acing everything but sitting down with the bae and talking about it.

Not that you have to, only if you are comfortable.

And you were super comfortable honestly. Maybe the whole quiet patrol at the park had lured you into a false sense of security.

... Into giggling at poor Ginnojo blushing at some shameless couples.

Seems like the birds, the bees and make-out sessions were in season.

“Can we agree to never do that?”

“Of course.”

“Like, ever? Like forever never?”

“Er, yes?”

“Like really no smashing of bodies also?”

“.... No? Wait, why are you asking? Come, let’s sit over there.”

This is probably the most Ginnojo has ever talked but you are so ecstatic that he can take it all in and without you feeling flustered over the occasional ramblings mixed in with serious explanations.

Checks the boundaries established like the following;

If you don’t mind him occasionally finding you sexually attractive, especially considering you are one of the few women he interacts.

Promises on telling when to stop.

Getting sexual relief from outsiders (No surprise that he shoots the whole premise down. Ginnojo without you, it wouldn’t be him to the ayakashi)

Kisses and the art of cuddling.

Ultimately though, he just needs 2 things and that would be enough.

“I want to love you like a book. Let me hold the pages and move with you when your story tells me to until the end.”

“And in return, I’ll share my cover with you to spread around any corner of the world you want.”

Aoi

Lesbian that chose to come out to the right ayakashi... but at the worst place possible.

To be fair, you had tried your best in luring him to sketch at a discrete, isolated place.

You had even pictured the scenario, which later turned to be a screenplay of all the disasters and worst reactions that could arise from the even the simplest, vaguest confessions.

Had Aoi known of this whole script, he would have probably said it was the writing Kuya could only dream about having.

It’s just that the Golden Week makes the Milk Hall super packed for once.

So there you were, with the milkshake that should have brought an annoyed satori seer over and scolding you for remaining with the probably-spoiled drink.

And everything snaps. His pen snaps, your straw snaps, you snap.

“What, I’m a spoilt milk bottle because I’m swinging the cap the other way? HUH?!”

By some miracle, Oji was too busy flirting with the onslaught of female customers and the aforementioned group was too preoccupied with giggling at that dork.

Aoi had heard everything though. You knew he had heard everything... so why wasn’t he responding?

Then you heard it, the girliest of giggles.

And the sweetest grin you have seen in the world.

Again, you couldn't blame Koga for mistaking him for a cute girl cus dayum...

Loving a man or woman, his tsundere mind and mouth finally cooperate to say the exact same thing.

That you are a lovable dork who had been the very muse for the painting he has been slogging over.

A whole triptych.

The first one was of you at the river, grabbing the rock to seemingly skip across the water. It was undeniably warm and set at dusk. So the transition to the next frame was jarring but somehow familiar.

The second depicted you walking away with the random stone, and being largely ignored by others and nearly engulfed in the darkness between you and the rest of the crowd.

And finally the last was someone's hand sharing the stone with yours. Curiously, it was only inked and without any palette.

“The only thing they all need is your colours, whatever you have chosen and wanted. I want to see them when you want to show me her.”

And you did, spending his 1-hour break just using all the paint supplies that you could find together.

#koga kitamikado #ayakashi romance reborn #arr #kuya #aoi #ginnojo #voltage inc #ayakashi: romance reborn #lgbtq #yura

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astarlightmonbebe · 5 years

Text

__April Showers

You fell for Choi Hyunsuk in April, head over heels in love, only to lose him as soon as the showers ended.

Pairing: Choi Hyunsuk x female reader

Word Count: 4,293

Featuring: Byunggon, Jihoon, Junkyu, Keita, and Yoshinori

Warnings: Some a-n-g-s-t

A/N: Hi, hello, I wrote this in the last four-ish hours instead of working on my other drafts. Obviously, this ended up being a whole 4k mess of words, so read at your own risk. Also, the ‘...’ indicate section end/scene change since sometimes the dividers don’t work. Sorry for any mistakes!!!

You fell for Hyunsuk in the beginning of April, when the air was thick with the incoming rain, everything humid. When fate had brought you to a small cafe as it had begun to sprinkle, a cafe that nobody ever visited, occupied by the one lone barista and customer, back to you and newspaper in front of him.

You remembered staring at his back as your ordered, the dark tips of his dyed blonde hair and the curve of his shoulder, swaying silver earrings. The kind of profile you wanted to draw with thin charcoal, outline in dark ink with a splash of glitter gel pen for his jewelry. You stared for so long that he eventually looked back, eyes connecting, hint of a smile.

“Sit with me.” He had called, and you had taken your drink and sat across from him without a second thought. He was your age; straight out of high school but not yet on his way to college, and so tiny you could fit him in your palm, like a little fairy with a hero’s face. “You’re a new face.” He had said, that same smile flitting across his face.

“I’ve never been here before.” You explained, sipping on your drink. He nodded, and you noticed the open notebook in front of him, the music notes doodled thoughtlessly across the margins. “Do you compose?” You asked, lifting your chin at the notebook. He moved his hand over the page, biting his lip.

“A little. Do you draw?” He motioned to the spirals of your sketchbook sticking out of your haphazardly thrown together bag. Blushing, you nodded. He grinned. “Draw me?” He asked, cupping his chin in his palm. You laughed, shook your head; though it was more of the sense that you never drew anyone, not that you didn’t want to draw him.

“Here, how about this.” He had said, reaching forward to tap the top of your sketchbook. “You draw me and I’ll write you a song.” You looked at him, dumbfounded, but he only smiled that blinding smile, all white teeth and lips. It was the type of smile that made you fall at first glance, head over heels in dangerous love with a boy you had just met.

“My name is Hyunsuk.” He, Hyunsuk, said. It was a name that fit him so perfectly, fit his raggedy black hoodie and flashy new sports shoes. His hand was small, thin gold bands tracing up his fingers, inlaid with jewels that were almost certainly fake, but nonetheless pretty. You stared at his outstretched hand, soft and warm.

“I’m y/n.” You introduced yourself shyly, shaking that warm hand. His skin smelled like flowers, violet rose. It made you think of petals blossoming in the winter, unfurling against white snow, ice dripping down in a messy aesthetic of sharp color. “And deal.” You added, taking out your sketchbook and one of your drawing pencils, the ones without an eraser so that you only drew and never stopped.

Hyunsuk smiled, biting his bottom lip, and it made your heart beat faster. You watched him bend his head, look down at his paper, already concentrating. Only moments ago you had been imagining tracing his profile on blank paper; now you were in control of the picture, a smudgy nose and soft eyes, messy hair falling in all the wrong directions over his eyes.

The two of you sat in silence as your drinks got cold, focused on each other and the art in front of you. Your sketch of Hyunsuk became a portrait, black and white shading and strokes, while Hyunsuk’s doodles became a song, the blank page filling up with notes over crooked lines and scribbled words.

Hours passed, and then the cafe was closing, and you and Hyunsuk were standing under the awning as it poured. The air was fresh and electric, ozone in the air, and Hyunsuk laughed, rain tangling in his bangs as he ripped out the song, folding it and handing it to you. You took it hesitantly, feeling flushed all over.

“You can keep the drawing. I had enough enjoyment watching you.” Hyunsuk said, waving and then looking up at the sky, thinking. He pulled his hood up, tucking his earbuds in and his phone away, and then dashed across the street. You watched him go in shock, the paper crinkling in your hand as you watched him disappear into the hazy gray night.

When you looked at the song, you saw he had written a number at the bottom, along with the words ‘call me-chs’.

...

You told yourself you wouldn’t call him, but you ended up dialing the number the next night, when the emptiness of your apartment stretched out a little too long. Silence was a lonely companion to have, your fingers tracing over the music notes, wishing you had a voice to sing the tune to you.

“Hello?” His raspy voice asked as soon as he picked up, and you smiled. “Hey, this is y/n. We met the other night, remember?” There was a beat of silence, long enough to make you feel nervous, hand curling around the frayed denim of your cutoff jeans.

“Of course.” Hyunsuk said sweetly. “How could I forgot such a beautiful artist such as yourself?” Warmth bloomed in your chest at the fact that he had called you an artist, not just a pretty human. It made you feel more like you were worth something, more than just your face or your curves.

“Ah, well, the problem is that you gave me a song but no way to sing it.” You admitted shyly. “I can’t sing to save my life.” Hyunsuk mmm-hmmed on the other end of the line, and you heard crackling static, voices mixing away from the call. You wondered if he was with other people.

A moment later he was back. “Hey, wanna go someplace with me?” He asked. “I can pick you up, if you like.” The you you knew didn’t jump into situations randomly, didn’t fall for strangers like a girl tripping on a dress. So why were you nodding, agreeing, falling for this stranger with a smile that would probably break your heart?

“Cool, I’ll text you my street.” You murmured into the receiver, hanging up before you could regret it. You’d wait at the corner, you decided, standing up and surveying yourself in the mirror. Faded and ripped jeans, a loose white shirt, and bare feet. Appropriate attire for a day at home, but you had no idea what this place Hyunsuk was taking you to held.

Moving to your room, you threw on a loose purple blouse and a pair of white shorts, as well as your knee length black socks and chunky white tennis shoes. A little mismatched, a little unordinary, but perfectly you. An artsy, paint stained mess of a girl with hair that was cut a little choppy, unruly bangs, but enough of a look to make you feel kind of cute.

You jogged back out of the room, grabbing your purse—which contained keys to a car you hardly used, your phone, and other essential items—and ran out of your apartment. You felt like you had been electrified, thinking of Hyunsuk running his hands through his blond hair, his rakish smile. Was this what people talked about when they said they fell head over heels in love at first sight? Maybe it wasn’t that bad of a feeling after all.

Hyunsuk pulled up five minutes after you had stationed yourself at the streetlamp on the corner, watching the dimming sunlight. The whir of his motorcycle broke the still air, and your hair fluttered in the breeze as he skated to a stop inches from where you stood. Pushing up his visor, he leaned forward, hands covered with leather biking gloves.

“You look nice.” He said, passing you the other helmet. You fitted it over your head, tugging the straps down and trying to fasten it with your clumsy fingers. Hyunsuk laughed, and it sounded like sunshine and late nights and too many stars to count. “Come here.” He said, motioning you forward. Reaching up, he did the clasp for you, hands brushing the bare skin of your chin. You shivered, not used to contact with others.

“Hold on tight.” He told you as you swung your leg over the back, cautiously wrapping your arms around his waist.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” You asked, your voice coming out strangely teasing and playful. Hyunsuk laughed and shook his head, eyes in half moons when he did.

“No, it’s a secret.” He said, kicking back. “Besides, I want to make our first date have an air of mystery.” You sat back, hands pulling tight around his waist, and the smile faded off of Hyunsuk’s face. “Why, did I say something wrong?” He asked carefully. “Do you not want me to call this our first date? Did I misread the situation?”

You shook your head, knowing that the helmet didn’t hide how red your cheeks were. “No, I’ve just never really dated before—but I do want this to be our first date! I mean, I’m willing to give it a try...I mean…” You trailed off, hiding your face in his back so you wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.

“Okay.” Hyunsuk said, starting the motorcycle up with a roar that shook you. “First date it is, then.”

...

The place Hyunsuk took you looked inconspicuous, a small graffitied entrance to a beat down club. He led you in the entrance, hand loosely holding yours, and you looked around in puzzlement as it opened up into a spacious room. Music was pounding, the lighting a soft pastel, fairy lights strung up. There weren’t many people, but the ones there were obviously enjoying themselves.

“What is this place?” You asked in awe, looking around with your mouth hanging open. Hyunsuk only let out another bright laugh, leading you to a round table in the back, near where the DJ was blasting music. He waved upwards, and the DJ waved back, headphones slipped around his neck.

“This is where I make the magic happen.” Hyunsuk said, letting go of you to spread his arms out, like an announcer. “You said you wanted to hear me sing you the song. I admit I can’t really sing—rapping is more my thing—but I’ll try my best for you, darling. He pulled out a chair at the table, motioning for you to sit down. Four other boys were looking at you, wide eyed and curious.

“Y/n, meet Jihoon, Junkyu, Yoshinori, and Keita. The angsty looking DJ up there is Byunggon.” You nodded timidly, shaking hands quickly with each one of them—except for Byunggon, who was obviously preoccupied. “Now, guys, take good care of her. I have a song to sing and a deal to fulfill.” Hyunsuk said, winking at you as he moved away as quickly as he had come.

“Ah, another girl who fell for him.” Junkyu said, giving you a wide smile. Though you were unsure of what he meant, you offered a thin smile anyways, trying to hide how uncomfortable you were. No matter how kind they were, you still didn’t enjoy meeting new people. Except for Hyunsuk, it seemed.

“She’s already head over heels.” Jihoon tsked, and you slunk down in your seat. Keita hit him. “Dude. I think it’s for real this time.” Jihoon scoffed, and you swallowed, deciding to not pay attention anymore.

There was the sound of a screeching mic, and then the music cut off abruptly. “Hey guys, sorry to interrupt your dance time, but I have a special song to sing tonight.” Hyunsuk said, the mic squealing with feedback painfully. He grimaced, leaning away and adjusting it slightly. You watched him, transfixed.

The lights faded out, darkness surrounding you, and you stared at the stage, the pool of light making Hyunsuk’s edges glow. He took the microphone from the stand, standing back a few paces, and started to sing, the very notes of the song you had written playing over the speakers. You wondered if he’d planned this just now, or had it planned already.

Hyunsuk was right; he wasn’t the best at singing, but his rap was amazing. You closed your eyes, taking in the sound of his husky, slow, sweet voice, like a soothing balm. It felt perfect to you, like a voice that would whisper ‘i love you’ in your ear, read stories aloud at night, play the radio and sing along under his breath.

When he finished, you opened your eyes, a smile spreading across your face. The other boys faded away, and you were only watching Hyunsuk hop off the stage, in his ripped jeans and silky jacket. He waved at you, running over to the table with an expectant look on his face. You slow clapped in his face, unable to keep a silly grin off your face.

“You were too much for words to express.” You said, standing so you were face to face. Hyunsuk practically beamed, grabbing your hands and giving you a quick spin. A chorus of ‘oohhs’ rose from the table as Hyunsuk dragged you down to the dance floor, spinning you out in a twirl.

You let out a loud laugh, feeling something unfurling in your heart, like you were letting go of a ten pound weight that had been holding you down. Your feet felt light as you spun back against him, the floor a moving pattern of squares all lost in a blur of color beneath you. Hyunsuk’s eyes were dark and captivating, and you let yourself spiral into them, dark pools of water with tiny crescent slivers of light.

Through his shirt, you felt the beating of his heart, slamming against his ribcage like a bird threatening to break free. Or maybe that was your own heart—maybe it was both your hearts, beating erratically together. Or maybe you two were sharing a heart now, a wild heart that beat for each other only.

“I’d write a million more songs for you, if I could.” Hyunsuk murmured in your ear, his voice exactly like you had imagined, and you smiled against him, feeling safe for once in your life. “What do you say you give me a chance to do so?” He added, pushing your hair back from your face.

You liked the sound of that.

...

Hyunsuk kissed you on the dance floor, hands cupping your face, bodies pressed together as everyone else revolved around you, a slow burn of emotion. It was perfect.

...

“What would you think of putting your artwork in this gallery?” Hyunsuk asked, holding the magazine up to you. It was a lazy day in late July, and you were sitting in your living room, Hyunsuk’s head in your lap was you both paged through various newspapers and magazines. The late afternoon sunlight was spilling in like honey, criss crossing his face. His hair dye was fading out, a messy patchwork of brown and wheat.

“Hmm, I don’t know.” You hummed, taking it from him and reading through it. “It sounds really hard to get into.” Hyunsuk smiled up at you, warmer than the sun itself, your one beacon of light.

“I think you could do it.” He murmured, pulling you down to kiss him. You ran your fingers through his short hair, feeling the cold metal of his earrings press against you. “Remember the girl who boldly demanded I sing a song for her? Channel that girl and go submit that artwork I know you’re hiding.” He let go, voice teasing.

You blushed. “I didn’t demand you do anything.” Hyunsuk quirked one eyebrow.

“That’s not how I remember it.” You hit him lightly, mood already passing, the entry in front of you seemingly full of possibilities. Hyunsuk was your magic, your inspiration. You had a sketchbook full of pictures of him; in charcoal and pencil, paint and oil, watercolor and crayons. You could fill a million more, all of him, his face and his hands and his necklaces and his jackets and his lips.

“I’ll give it a try.” You finally said, and the smile Hyunsuk gave you was reward enough.

...

For your six month anniversary, Hyunsuk took you for a ride on the highway. You rode with your arms firmly around his waist, watching the lights whip past, that feeling of being able to go anywhere. You fit into Hyunsuk’s shoulder now, head tucked there, feeling the sharp edge of his collarbone.

Hyunsuk pulled off the highway, coasting to a stop in front of the ocean. You hopped off excitedly, peering over the railing and smelling the salt on the wind. “How did you know I’ve always wanted to visit the ocean?” You asked excitedly, hooking your feet around the bottom and leaning out.

“Careful there.” Hyunsuk said, pulling you back. “Come on, let’s go down.” He jumped over the railing, slipping and sliding down the coast. You followed suit—though more carefully than him—and landed in the sand. It was cool when you steadied yourself, the sun having long left it.

Hyunsuk had moved down to the waves, leaving his shoes behind as he waded in. You hurriedly falling in, sucking in deep breathes, trying to keep some of the scent with you. Growing up you hadn’t been close to an ocean, and you’re one taste of the beach had been enough to leave you hungry for more. One of your dreams was a beach house, summers spent with golden sand and salty waves, surfing and swimming and floating.

“It’s cold!” You shrieked, dancing on tiptoes over the frothy tide. Hyunsuk pulled you in tight, arms interlocked. He didn’t say anything, just smiled, and you pressed yourself against the warmth of his body. He was staring out across the waves, and you followed his gaze, over the endless ocean.

“Something on your mind?” You asked, wrapping your arms around him and leaning in close. Hyunsuk smiled lightly, shifting in the slightest, his expression more distant than it had been in a while.

“No, nothing.” He said, and then he splashed water all over you, scooping up a handful and flinging it in a shower. You screamed, stumbling back and slipping. Hyunsuk’s eyes widened comically as you grabbed onto him, silencing him mid laugh as you both toppled backwards, water enveloping you.

You surfaced, bodies tangled together underwater, your faces so close to each other that you could make out every feature of Hyunsuk’s face clearly. He studied you, pushing wet hair back. “I love you so much.” He mumbled, kissing you, and you melted into it—into him—and everything was right again, because he was yours, and you were his.

...

Christmas was cold and loud, you in the center of all of Hyunsuk’s friends, gifts passed around and wrapping paper floating through the air. Hyunsuk had a ribbon tied around his wrist, a bow stuck on his head, and you pulled him close, giggling.

“What, are you my gift?” You teased, kissing his nose, and Hyunsuk laughed, adjusting the bow. His eyes said; I’ve always been yours, but the room was too loud for him to actually say something to you.

“Ugh, the two lovebirds are still going strong.” Jihoon said, wrinkling his nose, and the room faded into uproarious laughter, Hyunsuk throwing his gift at Jihoon, who barely caught it, doubled over at something that wasn’t even funny. Everyone was laughing, and you were laughing too, so much your sides hurt.

Something about Hyunsuk made you so happy it was painful, knowing that this happiness was only yours while it lasted. Still, you let yourself be taken over by this instantaneous joy, this feeling of being full of everything someone needed. Love and friendship and family, Hyunsuk’s hand in yours and his million dollar smile, his voice and the way your bodies fit together, like each curve had been made for the other’s. Two puzzle pieces, finally finding each other.

“You have a pensive look on your face again.” Hyunsuk observed, leaning forward to gently brush wrapping paper out of your hair. You were sure there was even more still stuck there, tape too probably. Junkyu had thrown a whole gift at you, and it had gone everywhere. You smiled at him, grabbing his hands gently.

“I’m just thinking that I’m so happy that I have you, that I have this.” You confessed with a soft smile. Hyunsuk didn’t smile, a vaguely sad expression crossing his face. “And I hope I have you forever.” You added with a whisper, trying to hold back years. “Because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Oh, y/n.” Hyunsuk exhaled, chin wobbling and tears glittering in his eyes. He pulled you in tight, hand on the back of your head. Face buried in the fabric of his shirt, you let tears slip free, wetting it. You felt Hyunsuk’s shaking shoulders, your own shirt damp as well, and clutched him tighter.

Please, never let me lose him.

...

Hyunsuk and you were never perfect. You fought about music and art and politics and what it meant to be in love. You fought about boundaries and limits, about the time Hyunsuk kissed another girl when he was drunk. You fought about getting drunk and going to college and futures that weren’t quite as mapped out as Hyunsuk made them see.

Hyunsuk wasn’t perfect, and neither were you, but your imperfect relationship was working out fine. It was fine, because you had confessed your heart to him, and he had given yours back.

...

One day, you opened the door to the apartment you now shared, and found it empty. Hyunsuk’s stuff was still strewn all over the place, opened notebooks and uncapped pens. Everything was there except for Hyunsuk and his motorcycle—it was your one year anniversary, and he had told you to come home, because he had another one of his spontaneous plans thrown together.

You called him, listened to the empty ringing, and wondered when he was getting home.

...

You waited, and waited, and waited. You called his friends, only to be met with answers that weren’t quite right, Junkyu stumbling over his words in a way that made you wonder if Hyunsuk was kissing another girl again, had his arms wrapped around some other stranger on the dance floor.

...

You called him again and again, but got tired of listened to the repetitive rings. Finally, you threw your phone across the room and slumped against the wall, burying your face into your knees, a curled up ball of pain.

...

Jihoon called you.

...

It was raining, but you ran anyways, slipping and sliding across the ground, tripping and ripping your jeans open, blood dripping down from your cut knees. You ran and ran, drenched and trembling in the emergency room, gasping sobs as you scanned every room for Hyunsuk, Hyunsuk, Hyunsuk.

When you found him, all you could see was red at first, then Jihoon standing at the foot of the bed, hands white and gripping the rails, face twisted into an expression of grief. “Y/n.” He said, and you knew, but you didn’t, you couldn’t.

Please, I asked you to never let me lose him.

“You’re lying.” You were screaming, your voice a crescendo of wavering notes, even though Jihoon hadn’t said anything more than your name. “No no no, you’re lying to me. Hyunsuk...Hyunsuk’s still here. He’s just hurt, right? You’re lying. He’s fine. He’s fine. He has to be fine—!”

You screamed, sinking to the ground, hearing the flatline on a monotone. There was nobody to grab your shoulders, shake you, hold you, because that was what Hyunsuk would have done. He would have hugged you and sung a song in your ear until you could breathe again.

Now all you could hear in your ears was a dull ringing, a repetitive pulsing of red lines behind your eyelids. You couldn’t breathe. Where was Hyunsuk to tell you to breathe? Who was supposed to help you catch your breath when he wasn’t here; when he was the one who was causing you to suffocate?

Your voice was raw, but you screamed on—though maybe you weren’t even making any noise anymore, maybe you had used it all up, maybe your voice had left when Hyunsuk did.

Hyunsuk.

...

“He wrote a song for you.” The funeral was dark and dreary, and you felt like you could barely stand, a swaying shadow on her feet, in the back of the crowd. They had asked you to make a speech. You had walked up to the podium and stared at the mic, remembered Hyunsuk singing to you the second day you had met.

Your voice was still gone. When you opened your mouth, nothing came out. No more ragged sobs, stuttered cries. Your eyes were dry now, too. It was like Hyunsuk leaving had sucked everything he had given back to you away. No more heart, no more soul, no more art, no more smiles.

No more magic.

...

In the darkness of your apartment, you listened to Hyunsuk’s last song, his familiar voice filling your ears. His one year gift to you, his surprise. The studio he had been coming back from, the one where he had finished recording. A story you had found out in bits and pieces, a goodbye you had never got to say and he had never got to tell you.

“Oh baby, I’ll love you forever.” Hyunsuk said in your ears, and you sobbed into your sleeves, the sadness overwhelming, the memories a crushing force.

...

It was April and it was raining outside, a shower that never ended.

[End.]

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