#cut me so much slack right now i just colored a sketch that still makes me moan. wait huh?

[artbyfuji]

let's all buy her concert tickets together 🤠

#500 boom sound effects #summer rose #strq #my art #lets also take ibuprofen together <3 #i truly need it <3 #FULL LEATHER OUTFITTT ‼️‼️‼️ *ripping shirt off* #everyone draw her beefy and sweaty and with a guitar. now. #cut me so much slack right now i just colored a sketch that still makes me moan. wait huh? #summer i'm your biggest fannnn RAHHHHH ‼️‼️ raven don't even look in my direction. you 🫵 youuuu🫵 i aM SICK OF YOU 🫵🫵🫵 #anyway. someone iv drip vocalist summer directly into my veins. heart emoji. (who got the defibrillator?)

[ventique18]

Generous

(Full image + fanfic under the cut)

Type: Fanfic + Sketch

Pairing: Malleus x afab!Reader

Warnings and notes:

Smut! 🔞 Minors DNI!!

Malleus POV

Oral (Y/N receiving), Dom!Mal, pseudo-public

Sketch: suggestive (MC in underwear) but not too graphic

Links to other works: https://ventique18.tumblr.com/post/686055226886832128/masterlist

- Fanfic start -

“Outrageous. Utterly odious.”

The heels of my shoes resound in the hallway in sharp clacks. I thunder across the stone floor; aware that the mere pressure of my stride is battering the poor, weathered pathway— and yet, not caring enough to calm myself out of my turbulent thoughts. Too impassioned to slow down if only for the sake of the footsteps behind me.

“Mal,” you breathe, frantically trying (and failing) to catch up to me, “I’m so, so sorry. We all thought you were just running late—“

“And you deem me not important enough to wait for, or even inform, before you all began your merry tea party? Diasomnia, my own dorm, downing tea and stuffing their faces full of cupcakes without their housewarden?” I whirl around to face you, and you stop abruptly, “What is the purpose of this cellphone you humans are so fond of, if you cannot even utilize it to send a simple notice?”

I see your body freeze, eyes wide in what I surmise is guilt. You bring your hands to the hem of your slack’s pockets; fidgeting and not meeting my eyes, “Grim borrowed it earlier to watch spelldrive videos."

“I believe other students have phones, Y/N,” I snap back.

You clamp your mouth shut, and I sigh. It’s not as if I do not grasp the concept of getting carried away by the moment, and indeed I am guilty of such in many moments of my daily life. It’s only that… Whenever I think of how happily you were chatting with my subjects— the way you chuckle at Sebek’s eating habits and how you prod at Silver’s arm to stir him awake…

If I were in that picture, you would be laughing with me instead.

Still, I suppose it IS rather unfair to put all the blame on you solely because I was… jealous, of my retainers. Ah, how degrading it is to admit such paltriness, even in my private thoughts.

I sigh again, “No matter. I’m quite used to such audacity,” I turn my back to you again, intending to return to my quarters at once, “Now, forgive my rudeness, for I wish to retreat for the day.”

In one stride, my hand was on the door to the dorm’s throne room. And then I stopped when you hesitantly tugged at my coattail.

“Mal,” you look at your shoes; likely stringing your words in your head, "I'm really sorry for earlier," your eyes flicker up to meet with mine, "I really thought you were just... busy in the restroom or something."

A faint blush creeps up your cheeks, and I do not know what kind of foolishness you're thinking.

I let you continue, nonetheless, "But I want to make it up to you. Twice, ten times, I don't know. I hope I'm still your favorite person even if I accidentally ate your share of cupcakes."

I blinked, "You ate my cupcake?" I asked, honestly not knowing what to say. I do not understand the relevance of this cupcake in this conversation.

Your face grew noticeably more embarrassed, "Any-anyway, if you're free, let's go on an ice cream date at Sam's? I'll treat you!"

I almost burst into laughter right there and then. Leave it to you to turn any situation twice lighter. I already forgive you, of course I always do, both for the lack of notice and for eating the cupcake I care so little about. And yet who am I to reject your gracious offer to make it up to me?

If I were a common man, I would have already taken your hand and pranced our way to your idea of a childish date. I would have kissed the cream off your lips and exchanged fruity flavors with you. I would have held your hands and whispered to you how much I loved you.

And yet that was not me. Such colorful imagery was not me.

You give me an inch, I'll take a mile. You know how the fae work.

"Ah, but I'm not quite in the mood for anything sweet," I gently pry your fingers off my jacket and into my hold, "But I have a different flavor in mind, if you would?"

I narrow my eyes at you; a heavy meaning deep in my tone. I watch your pupils dilate, and whether it be from fear or excitement, you do not voice. Yet, you nod greedily at me-- too quickly to be innocent, and my lips tug into a wide grin.

Thud. Your back hits the door with a dull sound, but you do not react at all to the pain-- too entranced by the pleasure brought about by my mouth on your neck.

I run my tongue from the base of your neck to the edge of your jaw; sucking and licking your plump flesh as if I'm melting a ripe peach on my mouth. I flick at your earlobe and watch you shudder. I chuckle. To see your trembling in my hold, your hands clinging onto any part of me you could hold, feet helplessly dangling and pressing against the door as I keep your weight from touching the ground.

Truly, seeing you so desperately depend on me sends a perverse wave of satisfaction to my core.

More.

My hand wanders to your stomach; squeezing tightly to inflict just a little bit of pain while my tongue massages the column of your throat.

I want you more.

And so my fingers, sinful as they are, glides between your thighs-- and you close them shut.

"My," I draw circles on your thigh with a finger, unimpeded by your action, "Do you dislike my touches, my darling?" I whisper languidly before blowing a hot breath to your reddened ear.

You shiver once again, eyes closing as your breath catches in your throat. You don't respond to me, however.

"And yet you seem to like my kisses, no?" I provoke, a low chuckle rumbling within my chest, "Very well. Luckily for you, I'm feeling rather generous today."

I drop you down, and you squeak. Not out of the sudden impact on your toes, I don't think so, but perhaps because of me suddenly kneeling in front of you on one knee. I laugh at your bewildered expression.

I see. I believe this is how humans profess their undying love to each other, correct? How adorable. The way your cheeks redden like round apples is adorable. Your innocent thoughts are entirely adorable.

Though, I am no such romantic.

Without bothering to comment on whatever it is that is running in your mind, I quickly bring my hands on your waist and undid the buttons of your slacks. I've done this a dozen of times, and so it didn't take long for me to bring both your pants and underwear to your ankles.

You gasp and throw a hand on my shoulder on reflex, "Malleus, what are you doing--"

Exactly what you see I'm doing, love.

My mouth opens, and your knees buckle at the hot breath that caresses your labia. I prod your bud, ah how small and cute it is, with the tip of my tongue and an unintelligible garble flows out of your throat. I sweep a circle around your bud before taking a straight line towards your awaiting hole.

A drop of salty honey drips in my mouth. Thick, viscuous, slick. Hot. I greedily suck at your folds; desperately extracting more of the heavy scent invading my senses.

My nose hits your bud and you muffle a scream. Why are you holding back?

Sing.

So my tongue stabs at your hole; mercilessly, impatiently. I run it through the ridges of your cavern. I explore urgently, wanting to taste every nook and cranny of you, drinking myself silly with the intoxicating tincture of your nectar and your sweat. I silently thank my anatomy for giving me quite the long tongue. Reaching the deepest parts of you proves to be fascinatingly easy, and the melody of your moans turns out to be an easy reward.

"Mal, Malleus!" You groan, and I feel a tightness in my underwear at the thought of you dirtying my name with your lustful mouth, "Public, we're in public..." You manage to choke out.

The door is tightly locked. The room is enchanted so that not a sound would escape through any gaps at all. I do not delight in the prospect of others seeing or hearing your lewd body.

But of course you have no awareness of that.

And I like that.

I like seeing you writhe.

Instead of answering, I close my mouth around your bud and give it a hard suck. You scream in surprise, but I do not let up and instead flick my tongue across it multiple times. Front and back, sometimes left and right. I put a light nibble in between, and then a light bite to throw you off the rhythm.

I watch in perverse satisfaction as you throw your head back and knock it against the door, legs shaking wildly as the balls of your feet lift off the ground. Your fingernails scratch at the wood. Your drool dribbles down your chin. Your chest, still clothed, heaves up and down to catch the air that escapes your lungs.

How annoying. That shirt is annoying.

And so magically it's gone, and you are left completely naked with your pert nipples completely exposed for me to feast my eyes upon.

Stiff and supple. Cute.

"Mal!" You yelled, embarassment amplifying your heavy arousal, "What if," you moaned again as I plunge two fingers inside you, "What if someone... someone.... Nhhn, ah!"

Three now. My fingers are long, and I reach the entrance to your womb. How cute the little button inside you is. I caress it, and you collapse forward, hands tightly grabbing on my horns.

I must punish you for that.

I send a shockwave to your womb, and you sputter. Your walls clench and unclench in such an erotic way, as if you're begging me for more. Holding tightly onto me like a death grip. Releasing copius amounts of honeyed liquid as if weeping for me to put my cock inside you, fuck you hard, and inject you with so much semen you're sure to wake up carrying my child in your stomach.

"Malleus!" You scream once more, loud enough to rattle your entire body against my hold, "I'm going to--!"

And then I pull out. Your eyes open wide. I let go of you, and you almost slide down to the floor with how weak your knees have become.

I turn my back to you and walk away.

You, using your bewildered, shaky voice, reach out to me with an echo, "Where... Where are you going?"

I stop, "Why," I half-look at you, a huge grin splicing across my face, "this is the throne room. My throne room. And I am to take a seat, as its King."

I see you tremble from the unsatisfied arousal leaking out of your petals. I laugh wickedly, "If you have any requests, I shall listen to them."

I lazily stroll forward, taking my time to lower myself onto the throne all the while watching you struggle, "But only if you prostrate yourself before me and beg, Child of Man."

I raise a finger and beckon. You lower yourself on the ground, as if glamoured. But you were not. Of course not. It was only you, and only your own lustful thoughts, only your lewd body, that obeyed my ridiculous words.

You inch forward, breasts swaying, naked. Plump ass up in the air. Your core exposed, reddened, swollen from how much nectar is leaking and dripping and oozing out of your desperate hole.

Such a beautiful, sinful fruit. Molded by me, ripened for me. Only for me.

I lick my lips, "Now, what shall it be? Luckily for you, I am feeling quite generous tonight."

#twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #smut #malleus x reader #twst fanfic #twst fanart

[moki-dokie]

I wish I had the same tools and resources as other artists my age did in their formative years. I wish I had some of the tools I have now back then. I wish my brain worked like most people's and that I could visualize light sources and how it interacts with a subject. I wish I had the time and money to go take some real university art classes. I wish a severe years long battle with depression didn't rob me of creativity so badly that I lost what little skill I had. I wish I hadn't developed a bad tremor and twitch thanks to medication meant to fight that depression. I wish I had enough time in the day to actually do art how I want.

There's a ton of things I wish I could change, have, or do in regards to art. I'll never not be extremely envious of artists decades younger than me that are already so insanely skilled that they can pitch a portfolio to studios. I'll never not be jealous of peers my age that continue to grow and get even better at something they're already so good at.

But, at the same time, I've learned to be gentler on myself. I've forgiven myself for the things out of my control. And instead of staying stuck in an endless negative spiral and lamenting all the what-ifs and could-bes, I choose to go forward and make art anyway. I choose to have fun with it again, to doodle and experiment. I allow myself the freedom to start over and learn. I still don't have all the resources available to me that I wish I did but I won't let that stop me. It can still be extremely frustrating when I want to draw something and simply can't figure out how or when nothing turns out how it looks in my head, but it isn't the end of the world. I'll make something else, learn something new, and continue.

It's hard to start over in your mid 30s, but I'd rather do this than bang my head against a wall forever and hate everything I do to the point of not doing it at all. Finding the joy in creating again has been key. And sometimes that means sketching studies of cats for weeks on end because their anatomy is pleasing to work with and I can find myself learning while I'm at it, to the point that soon I won't need endless refs and I'll be able to draw them mostly from memory. Sometimes that means turning a funny meme into a full comic page just to challenge myself with expressions and panel layouts or to play around with color or grayscale. Sometimes it means leaving something I was working on for weeks or months and then coming back to it with a fresh perspective, new knowledge, and rekindled joy that made me start it in the first place. And, sometimes it's merely finding a bunch of tutorials and trying them out to see what happens.

It's crazy how much this ipad has really boosted my creativity. Not being tied to my PC is a huge bonus, as is the feeling of drawing on paper (bless paper like screen protectors!) And drawing directly on the surface. A stylus that behaves like an actual pencil (or pen, or brush, or whatever) has been tremendously rewarding and fun. I think a lot of my frustrations before were purely because I just didn't have the right tools. My Wacom was a piece of shit that only worked with sai which wasn't ideal. This is miles better, I really can't even describe it.

Anyway all this to say that if you're struggling with your art, it's ok. Be kinder to yourself, cut yourself some slack, and maybe just doodle pages and pages of silly looking cats for the hell of it. Whatever brings some measure of joy.

#art #artists on tumblr #idk just some thoughts floating around

[lovelivingmydreams]

My king au headcannon Part two

So this is the follow up to this post  Which is a headcanon for this au created by @rondoel Enjoy!

Something to think about The king was meditating. He was trying to familiarize himself with the mindscape again, get a better feeling of it and see what his halves had done since the split. He was sorely disappointed. There were pages upon pages of ideas, but he found no evidence of them in the fantasy realm. No traces of the epic quests the ‘light’ half had envisioned, despite how well worked out they appeared. An ‘Ultimate Storytime’ should have left traces in the kingdom. Remus at least lived out his ideas even if they were only ever half formed and lacked substance beyond the initial impulse that brought them about. The results of these outbursts weren’t all that impressive either. He didn’t examine the ideas too closely. Obviously his perfectionistic half had abandoned them for a reason and so they weren’t worth his time. The one named Roman had spent some time in the fantasy realm, but he didn’t considered it his main duty. Instead he’d wasted time on crafting ‘ideas’ and ‘bonding’ with the others. Even the impulsive Remus had prioritized interacting with Deceit over expressing himself. Disgusting. Not that he could truly fault either of his halves. Other than his purpose every trace of him had been purged from their minds during the split. They hadn’t known to distrust the others the way he knew they should’ve. Obviously the others were to blame for all this.

As he thought of them he could feel his minister’s energy surging and subsiding in subtle burst and raging waves. One of Roman’s nickname for him ‘Stormy Knight’ seemed to suit the boy quite well at the moment. The minister was mostly alone, aside from morality. Someone had to babysit him he supposed. Suddenly he became aware of music… something strange yet familiar. “Disney. Medley.” A faint memory offered him. He remembered Disney. It was his aspiration to create worlds and adventures just as amazing for Thomas to escape to when the real world inevitably bored him. Clearly he hadn’t been gone long enough for that to change. Though he didn’t recognize the melody that was currently playing, even though he could tell that it wasn’t something obscure and nearly forgotten to Thomas. The entire imagination responded to the melody as if it was an old friend. Almost as if it was born here even. There were voices singing, a magnificent harmony. Powerful and foreboding. He followed the sound of the voices and soon saw a structure appear. As he approached he found it was a massive statue expertly carved from marble. Center stage stood a figure he recognized as Thomas holding his hands in front of him to form a heart. A brilliant smile on his face. It was heartwarming to see his boy like that. To Thomas’ left stood grown Morality with one arm thrown over his shoulder and another pulling the hooded side, Anxiety, his minister, into the group. The young side allowed it with a small smirk and gentle eyes directed at their protégé. On Thomas’ right stood Logic, a steady hand on the boy’s shoulder as he adjusted his glasses, which did not conceal the fond look on the man’s face. On Logic’s right stood Deceit, his back slightly turned to the rest and adjusting his hat, but also with a soft, caring expression gracing his features. Then right behind Thomas, standing slightly taller than they would have in reality, seemingly standing on a stage behind the group, but close enough to still be part of the ensemble, was him. Or the two sides that had been him for a while. Roman looked regal and was posing as though he had not a care in the world, his eyes proudly overseeing his subjects. Not minding the presence of Remus who was hanging of his ‘brother’s’ shoulders and making a face. It was an idyllic picture that never was and now never could be. There was beauty in it’s tragic impossibility. At the feet of the stone depictions were stone letters. Fam in cursive and then in big bold lines ILY. And leaning against the L was the minister, singing the song that had lured King away from his meditation. The shadows around him were aiding in his musical endeavor drifting around him and the statue. King took in the marvel once more, wondering how the nervous side had managed to create such a blessing with what should’ve been a cruel curse for at least a few more days before King would grant the young one his council and guidance. He hadn’t enjoyed being cruel to him. Not entirely. Sure, he had opposed creativity in the past and deserved to be disciplined. But king also knew how integral he was to the process. Roman’s discoveries regarding that weren’t lost to him. He couldn’t silence Anxiety completely. He would not get Thomas to go on adventures at all if he did so. But he had to teach him his place now, before he got any ideas of fighting him. The minister had been about to try just that and might have been successful too if he’d gone all out at once. But luckily he seemed unaware of his own abilities, or at least unwilling to use them on what he still thought to be the twins he’d known all his life. Alas he’d never get the opportunity again. “It all can be sold!” the shadows chorused around the teen-like side, captivating baby Morality with their movements as the little one clutched to the dark uniform and distracting King from his musings. “As a specimen yes I’m intimidating!” One voice continued, drifting around the side who was swaying to the music playing in his headphones with his eyes closed, holding onto Morality and then the dark clad side sang himself. “You can blame my friends on the ooootheeeer siiiiiiiiiide.” And just like that the shadows dispersed. Mostly anyway. They still swirled around the minister, but they were more of a dark aura than when they originally manifested. Anxiety seemed to be in better spirits than when he came to offer his ridiculous apology to Roman. King barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the memory. What a waste of time. Still it had been sincere, at least it seemed to be. And King wasn’t completely insensitive. He could understand that it would be hard for this young one to let go of his halves when he had never known them as one. Perhaps, King could cut him a little slack. Though he would have to remain vigilant… Hmmm, why did that word feel so odd when thinking about… Right, Virgil. Everyone had names now. Not that he cared much for those. Names were too… Names were for friends, allies. He didn’t need a name, nor did his subjects. Lest any of them forget who was in charge. King wouldn’t. Never again. The infant noticed that they were no longer alone in the room and tugged at Anxiety’s hair to get his attention. In response Thomas’ guardian pulled off his headphones and looked down at the heart. “What’s wrong popstar… or… Well, doesn’t really fit right now I guess,” Anxiety chuckled a little sadly. “Guess I’m more the dad now than you, huh?” he mused. “When this is all over, I promise I’ll never complain about you treating me like your kid again.” There was an uneasiness forming in King’s stomach. Anxiety was close with Morality, both Roman and Remus remembered that. But… how close was Morality with Anxiety? King knew that their ‘moral compass’ could be as two faced as Deceit. No, this could be part of an elaborate plan to gain his trust, he’d fallen for it once before. And of course they’d send Anxiety to do their dirty work now that all of them had already shown him their true colors. Little Morality pointed at King and Anxiety looked up, curious at first and then his eyes widened in fear. He put the child behind him and stood in a strange mixture of a respectful bow and a defensive stance. Arms slightly spread to shield his friend and head raised so he didn’t quite let his eyes leave King’s frame. “I…I’m sorry if I was too loud,” Anxiety offered with trembling voice, assuming he’d angered his king someway. Good. King approached, not sure if he was in the mood to scold or to praise just yet, but stopped about three steps in front of Anxiety as his foot hit something. He looked down and saw that the floor surrounding his minister was covered in sketches. He looked up at Anxiety with a raised brow, curious to hear what had brought on this little storm of creativity. And he found him staring at the sketches around them in horror. Then he seemingly felt the structure behind him, he turned and looked up in horror, trembling even harder. He looked back at King with wide eyes. “I…I didn’t mean to…” he started. “Then I look forward to see what you create for me when you intend to do so young one,” King mutters calmly, as he bids one of the drawings to come to his hand. As far as he can tell it’s two children playing in a forest. “Tell me about this one boy,” he instructs as he shows Anxiety the drawing. The side takes the sketch with a frown and looks at it for a moment before a small smile of recognition appears on his face. “I’d manifested for about two months. Remus felt it was about time I came on an adventure,” he starts explaining, and as he does the drawing rises up and gains colors and details that weren’t there before. Anxiety didn’t seem to notice, too captivated by his own memory as he described how freaked out he was by the forest and all its creepy creatures. Remus never let a single one touch him though. Still, it was stressful for him and he didn’t come along as often as Remus would like. The painting showed two preteens, Remus and Anxiety, the later clutching a comfort item, pillow or blanket, King wasn’t sure, maybe it was a stuffed animal. They were running around and laughing. But in their shadows Anxiety was curled up in a ball and Remus was making a gesture as if he’d just popped out and screamed ‘boo’. A lovely memory with a shadow side. But that was the nicest thing Anxiety could create with the power King had granted. Once the story was done and the painting finished, King snapped his fingers and conjured a dark wooden frame with a vine pattern around it and hung it on a non-existent wall. “I’m sorry, I know you said to get rid of the feelings, but I… I can’t… I always mess up like this please I…” Anxiety flinched when King reached out for him. Curling into himself, expecting another curse or some other punishment perhaps. Which is probably why his posture relaxed and his face was overcome with confused surprise when all he received was a brief pat on his hair. “You may not have gotten rid of those feelings but you did something even better,” King laid a hand on Anxiety’s shoulder and looked down on him. “You made something out of them. I am very pleased with you,” he informed his disciple. Anxiety looked up at him confused. “Really?” he asked, his voice breaking over the single word. Before King could answer, a displeased cooing pulled Anxiety’s attention away. He turned around and picked up the infant who immediately latched onto his neck and stared at King over his shoulder. Clearly the infant retained enough of Morality’s adult thoughts to be wary of him. Good it wouldn’t be a proper curse if the traitor wasn’t aware of the danger King posed to him and his precious family. King grinned menacingly at Morality, hoping it’d confirm the child’s worst fears about his intentions for who he apparently considered a son. What could be worse than agonizing over the fact that your sins would result in an innocent paying for them? For that innocent to be your child of course. “Please Pat, behave alright?” Anxiety muttered as he got up and turned back to the king. “Sorry… Your majesty. He’s a bit clingy,” the young man offered nervously. “Not your fault. I don’t quite understand why Logic and Deceit would leave the care for such a fussy child to their youngest.” Not quite true, King could perfectly see how they thought they had to concentrate on finding a weapon against him that they hadn’t tried already. But still. One would think that the two oldest should be in charge of protecting both their young ones, instead of letting them wander off into the territory of their enemy. If Anxiety had failed to entertain him with his tale, who knows what he would’ve done to amuse himself during this second visit? Maybe he’d put morality in a bit of a dilemma… He might still do so if he ever needed for Anxiety to see that his ‘dad’ didn’t love him as much as he always claimed. “Taking care of him keeps my mind occupied. I don’t want to give Thomas nightmares or anxiety attacks. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for our messes,” Anxiety explained. King might be mistaken, but that almost sounded accusatory. He elected to ignore it. Once his rule was properly reestablished, he could revisit the subject if at all necessary, which he doubted. “Well, creating art seems to do the trick just as well,” he mused as he called forth another picture. Anxiety guessed what he wanted, looked at the picture and started to talk about the movie night and a popcorn fight, then a duel with cardboard swords and laughing about memories of middle school. The colors once again revealed a pleasant day, with a shadow of self-doubt and fear of abandonment. The shadows showed Anxiety pleading on his knees while Roman threatened him with a sword. This time the frame King made was golden and held roses. “C…Can I ask something milord,” Anxiety asked timidly. “Questions are always welcomed in the realm of creativity,” King decreed. Questions created possibilities. “What happened? Before the split I mean? The other’s won’t ever tell me.” That surprised King. And from the way Morality stiffened, he had to assume it was the truth. They’d really not taken the chance to sway Anxiety’s opinion in their favor? For a moment he considers spinning a grand tale of betrayal and heartbreak, but he found the very thought of recalling the details of the events leading up to the split… unpleasant. “I trusted them and they turned against me because they disagreed with my vision for Thomas,” he informed Anxiety calmly, hoping it was enough for now. “I’m sorry. That… That is terrible,” he whispered hugging Morality closer. The young minister couldn’t see it but there were tears in Morality’s eyes. Which pleased King. Let the bespectacled traitor be afraid this may end up being the last hug he’ll ever receive from his precious Anxiety. Was this why they didn’t tell him? Because they knew that there was no spin they could give to their deeds that wouldn’t destroy the trust they’d built with the one among them who already feared being betrayed. “I… It was a long time ago. I think… Logan seemed very ashamed of what happened. Even Janus seems to feel bad. I’m sure… can’t we all…” Anxiety struggled to express his desires, but a new drawing showed what he wanted. King and Logic shaking hands amidst the others, all back to normal and smiling relieved. Faint shadows of Roman and Remus with an arm around one another’s shoulders right behind King. The fact that his minister’s powers had conjured it showed that the desire felt impossible. King dismissed this drawing in favor of another. Anxiety sighed, accepting that the subject was finished, and continued to regale him with stories of the twins. Sometimes it was a sad memory where the shadows revealed his care and worry for them both. Like a fight over a failed audition where shadow Anxiety was trying to patch up shadow Roman. Or a fight about a nightmare where the shadow of Anxiety was embracing Remus. Then memories of the other’s came. A debate about negative thoughts where shadow Logic laid a hand on shadow Anxiety’s shoulder as a gesture of pride. A staring match with Deceit but their shadows were reaching for each other. One memory had no shadows. The ‘lights’ were in Anxiety’s domain and reaching out for him as he sat huddled in on himself on the ground. The image was conflicted enough on it’s own. Then King picked up a drawing of Morality. “That’s the first time you came to talk to me remember Pat?” Virgil coed to the child who’d been rather quiet during the creation of this gallery. Anxiety recalled how he’d been upset about another fight with Roman and he’d come over and sat with him in silence. Then he’d offered him one of his cookies. It had surprised Anxiety, he knew how much Morality loved his cookies. Sharing one was his standard gesture of love and appreciation. But Anxiety felt like he didn’t deserve either at the time. He felt trapped in a role he didn’t want to play. And because of Morality talking to him that day, for the first time, he thought that maybe he didn’t have to be. Anxiety talked more about how the thought was quickly dismissed as unrealistic but King found that it was hard to focus. The colors revealed a painting of a side being offered a hand by Morality. He didn’t even notice the shadows this time. It was like he was trapped in his own memories. Then suddenly, he was back in the present and heard something beside him. A wailing child and someone gasping for air like they’d ran a marathon at full speed. He looked down and found Anxiety curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth with a crying Morality sitting next to him clutching onto his arm. Before he could wonder what had happened he could feel the others approaching at high speed. He stepped back, not wanting to be found too close to the distressed side. He could not allow them to think for even a moment, that he felt a second of worry for the minister. He didn’t, but he didn’t need the implications of such a show of weakness to bring his strength into question. “Patton! Virgil!” Deceit called out, causing Morality to calm down and just let out a few more sniffles. King set up a disinterested mask and turned to the approaching sides. “Oh good, deal with this. They bore me,” he drawled calmly as he stepped aside. He was barely acknowledged which he normally would take offense in, but he’d let it slide until he knew what had happened just now. And if it had anything to do with that terrible feeling that had struck him when he saw Anxiety’s drawing. Logic kneeled next to Anxiety and Deceit spoke with Logic’s voice. “Virgil, can you hear us?” The boy nodded. “May we touch you?” Another nod and Logic placed his hands on the side’s shoulders. “Breath Virgil, in for 4, hold for 7 out for 8, you can do it.” One more nod and the side started to follow the rhythm that was tapped on his shoulders, stuttering trough the 4th count of holding his breath. “That’s alright, try again.” King observed as the two patiently helped Anxiety to breathe normally again. Somewhere along the line the troubled side started to whisper ‘sorry,’ and ‘so stupid’. “You are not stupid, your feelings are valid and we are here to help you with them. We shouldn’t have left you on your own. Especially not with him around,” Deceit growled, now in his own voice, before turning to King. “I don’t care what you do to me, but leave Virgil out of this! He has nothing to do with this.” Before king could retort. Claim the responsibility and remind Deceit that he’ll play with his minister however he likes, the boy spoke up himself. “Not his fault. Just, random attack,” he muttered. Deceit and King looked down and found Anxiety holding onto Logic with Morality trying his best to stand on wobbly legs while holding onto the purple sash adorning the minster uniform. Logic and Morality were staring at him accusatory, but Anxiety was pleading with Deceit. “You don’t have to defend him Virgil. We know what he’s like… And we’ll do a better job at protecting you now. I swear. Let us look out for you for once, please,” Deceit pleaded. So interesting. For all Anxiety’s fears of being abandoned and betrayed, the others seemed to fear for his safety before their own. Had they changed? Or had Anxiety not yet given them sufficient reason to be muzzled? Or was it his drastic decision of muzzling himself that had made them cautious of messing with his part of their duties? “I’m not. Jan look at me. You’d know if I was lying. He was just listening to me. He didn’t do anything bad. I promise.” Deceit frowned confused. “He didn’t do this to harm you? To cause you to create…” Finally Deceit really looked at what King and Anxiety had been working on and the statue Anxiety had done all by himself. “Virgil what…” “I don’t know, I was listening to music and all this just sort of happened. His majesty was helping me finish some drawings,” he explained, confusing King. Was he… what’s the term? Covering for him? Then Anxiety got up, picking up Morality and looking at Logic who followed his movements, hands hovering around him. As if he were afraid that the younger side would fall apart at any moment. “Please, just go back alright, I’ll be fine. Thanks for helping but you should focus on making sure Thomas is alright,” Anxiety explained bravely, not quite looking at the others. Had recalling all his doubts and fears made him suspicious of the others? This could benefit King greatly. “Run along now. And take Morality. I have matters to discuss with my minister. In private,” King informed Logic and Deceit. Anxiety looked from King back to his tutor and confidant and offered him Morality. Logic shook his head with wide eyes. “Logan, it’s alright. You look after Pat for a minute. I’ll be back soon. Just… Please trust me?” Logic hesitated, sighed in defeat and took the child. He moved to leave, but paused. He turned and laid a hand on Anxiety’s shoulder, a moment passed while the two held each other’s gaze. Anxiety nodded and patted Logic’s hand. “I will be safe. When am I ever not?” Something that would have been a chuckle rippled through Logic’s chest as he stepped away and started walking back to the commons, glancing back every ten steps or so. “Virgil… I…” Deceit started, unable to finish the thought. “I know. I’ll be okay.” And with that final assurance and a distrustful look towards King the last of the traitors left. “Why?” King wondered. It seemed obvious to him that whatever Anxiety just went through was actually meant for him. And not only had he taken the hit, he had covered for him as well. “I’m anxiety, taking on the insecurities and fears of the others is part of my job. I don’t take it all, just the really bad bits when I can take it. And… it took me forever to open up to the others about my own attacks. It wasn’t my place to share about yours. It’s nothing personal. Just me being professional I guess,” he shrugged casually. King allowed himself a small smirk and once again reached out to pat Anxiety’s hair. Once more the boy’s first instinct was to flinch, but he still let him do as he pleased. “Well done my boy. You have potential,” he told him before returning his attention to another drawing, leaving the one of Morality frameless. Later he might tell the little one a bit more about the betrayal. But first. He needed to get to know him better. “Now how about this one.”Being petted like a dog was degrading, humiliating. Trying to not just be civil towards him but formal and respectful was torture. But it was better than what he feared would happen every time the King moved his hand towards him. Virgil didn’t like being changed against his will and this king would do as he pleased with him. Which is why he had to keep him happy and away from the others. He ignored the urge to smile every time he received the king’s praise. He is not going to develop Stockholm Syndrome just because off a few half-baked complements. This guy is still a threat to Thomas… Even if the others, maybe made a mistake in the past and have a hard time owning up to that right now. Fact remained that Virgil’s job was to keep everyone safe. That meant making them not want to decapitate the king over an anxiety attack he hadn’t triggered on purpose. Still… What had triggered the attack?

#Rondoel #king au #sanders sides #Virgil Sanders #king creativity #Patton Sanders #Logan Sanders #Janus Sanders

[mysticpetals]

Roses and thorns

Pairing: Jake × player (Nora)

Genre: fluff, angst

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Nora loves making Jake flustered but he isn't exactly complaining when he gets to see that smile on her face.

A/N: y'all....I finally finished it. Fair warning this diverges a little from canon but the Hannah disappearance and investigation arc is still there. The player doesn't know Jake is the hacker's name. I took some writer's liberty with Jake's character since we don't know much about him (except I'll die for him), so I hope that's okay! And lastly, I'm sorry for that ending butttt I'm not that cruel usually. It's just this once. Maybe. All the characters belong to everybyte, I have no claim over them.

Nora breathed deeply as she saw the 'Welcome to Duskwood' sign. She couldn't believe that she was really going through with it.

On the way to her aunt's house, she stopped at a flower shop. It had been a long time since she had seen her aunt and from what she could remember, she was a sweet lady who loved receiving flowers. Her dad told her to get lilies because according to him, it reminded her of her past girlfriend who had died due a chronic disease. After her, her aunt had never been interested in dating and instead, chose to live in Duskwood by herself, running her sweet shop.

Nora stepped out of the car and couldn't avoid the shiver due to the much colder weather. She should have brought some warmer clothes, she mused. The city was much warmer than here, maybe due to industries or the ever increasing cars but she had to admit that Duskwood had its own charm.

The gentle breeze that caressed her face made her feel more alive than she had felt in a long time. Maybe staying cooped up in her small apartment might not have been the best way to work but it's not like she had to go to an office or something. All she needed was her tablet and computer and she was good to go.

The bell chimed loudly as she opened the door to the shop. The interior was very colorful, as expected from a flower shop, and her eyes trailed over all the beautiful arrangements that were displayed. Along the wall, there were shelves filled with flowers of all types and Nora instantly felt her mood brighten.

"Hello and welcome to Plumes. How can I help you?"

Nora turned towards the voice and found a guy with tousled black hair and glasses, smiling politely at her. Though, once he got a good look at her, the smile faltered.

"Oh, hi! I was hoping I could get a simple bouquet of lilies, would that be possible?" She smiled at the guy and he quickly snapped out of his stupor.

"Yes, of course. Do you need it now or…?" He moved behind the shelves, ducking his head and looking for lilies.

"Now, actually. But please take your time, I'm in no rush," she said and proceeded to check out the rows of cards placed in the corner.

Jake couldn't believe that he was seeing Nora, in Duskwood of all places. Why was she here in the first place? The timing was really bad for someone to come here out of the blue, especially when they didn't have many visitors in the first place. At least she didn't know who he was. It was only a small relief but nonetheless, Jake decided to get to know her reasons for coming.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, what brought you here?" He asked, cutting up the larger stems to fit into the bouquet.

"Oh, I'm here to visit someone." Her reply came and Jake frowned. She wasn't here to visit Jessy or the others, was she? If so, it was incredibly naive on her part when any one of them could be Hannah's kidnapper. He didn't know what to say but thankfully, Nora saved him from accidentally saying something that could give out his identity.

"This is a cool place. A lot different than the city," she said, done with choosing a card and took a green pen from the stand on the counter.

"That's definitely a first. Usually, people are trying to get out of here," Jake said, finished with wrapping the flowers in the paper and proceeded to cut a ribbon to tie it up.

He heard her hum in answer and peaked his head from behind the shelves to watch Nora writing on the card. He quickly turned around when she raised her head, cheeks heating up at being caught looking. After decorating the paper with the ribbon and putting a few final touches to make sure everything was in its proper place, Jake brought the bouquet with him to the counter and placed it down gently. Nora looked at it with awe and satisfaction and he felt happy that his skills had lived up to her expectations. Well, one set of skills at least.

"That's really pretty, thank you…" she trailed off, waiting for him to supply a name. Since everyone knew everyone in the town, his employer hadn't seen any use for a nametag. He hesitated for a quick second before telling his name.

"Thank you, Jake." Her smile widened and Jake's cheeks blossomed with a rosy blush. It was hard enough trying to maintain his distance while chatting and now that she was here in person, looking at him with eyes full of merriness, Jake felt as if things had gotten a lot more complicated.

———

Nora's aunt loved the flowers she had gotten and couldn't contain her excitement at having someone in the house other than her pet cat, Nox. She made Nora tell all about her big city life and how her parents were doing. All throughout the chat, she was feeding her all sorts of chocolates and pastries, asking about their texture and flavour and Nora was only too happy to comply. Her aunt had been responsible for her sweet tooth after all.

At night, as she settled in bed after having a shower and drying her hair, her phone lit up with a text notification and she was surprised to see that it was the hacker who had messaged her.

Hacker [9:30pm]

Hey, Nora.

How was your day?

She read the message and raised an eyebrow in disbelief. He had never messaged her first and now that he did, he's talking as if he's greeting an old friend. She typed out her reply after thinking about it for a while.

Nora [9:32pm]

It was...fine. nothing too exciting

Oh! I met a cute guy today

Hacker [9:32pm]

Oh, you did? That's nice.

Nora [9:33pm]

Don't worry though! I only have eyes for you ;)

Her screen showed that he was typing and erasing his text and she chuckled, imagining him blushing and not knowing what to say. He was so much fun to rile up, especially since he got flustered so easily.

Hacker [9:35pm]

I'm looking up on another lead I found.

If you find anything on Hannah's cloud related to a therapist, send it to me.

Nora pouted. He was basically ignoring her very obvious attempt at flirting and she did not appreciate it.

Nora [9:35pm]

You're no fun :(

I'm pretty tired today but I'll search through her cloud tomorrow

Good night!

She received a simple 'okay' and 'goodnight' in return and the hacker went offline again. That had to be the weirdest conversation they had and their whole relationship was built on strangeness.

She shrugged off the messages and fluffed up the covers. Right now, sleep was calling and who was she to deny it?

———

The next few days were spent indoors, with her aunt busy with a birthday order, she opted to work on Hannah's cloud as well as her commissions at the same time.

Sketching out the last details of a virtual character, she sighed with exhaustion when she was finally satisfied with it. Her phone pinged with a flurry of new messages and she leaned back on the couch, picking it up.

It was from the group chat with everyone and Lilly was creating trouble. 'Voting' to keep her involved or not. Couldn't she and everyone else for that matter see that she and the hacker guy had been trying to help as much as they could, and in her case, not even knowing any of them in the first place.

It was rather hurtful to know that nobody trusted her enough to vote 'yes' the first time around. But Dan voting for her made a smug smile spread across her face. Lilly and Thomas were definitely not okay with that and logged off immediately. She began to wonder if the hacker hadn't sent that video message in their group, would they have the same reaction as now?

She wrote a reply, not really paying attention to her words and locked her phone, flinging it towards the other end of the couch. Running her hands through her hair in frustration, she debated on what to do. She had tried to be forthcoming about everything but it really irked her that this was what she got for trying to help.

Her pettiness won out in the end and before Nora knew it, she had already snatched up her car keys and phone, on her way to the only flower shop in Duskwood.

———

Jake had been slacking on the job and he wasn't afraid to admit it.

The past few day's events plagued his mind. Nora hadn't texted him, ever since a short 'thank you' when he sent that intimidating video to her friend's group chat. She was online but barely responded to any messages and it made him a little worried. She was not the quiet sort of person and he was anxious as to whether she was feeling okay or not.

He glanced up from his phone, debating whether to message her or not, when the door opened and in walked Nora herself. It was afternoon so she had forgone her coat and was instead dressed in a casual attire of hoodie and jeans.

She smiled as she saw he was looking at her and Jake quickly locked his phone, putting it on the counter and greeted her.

"Didn't know I'll see you again so soon here," he said, with a hint of teasing and Nora shook her head.

"Neither did I. But here we are." She shrugged.

"Do you want a bouquet again?" He asked curiously. He hadn't expected her so soon at all. Whoever she was visiting must be really fond of flowers. That or she just came to see him. He tried not to linger on that last thought.

Nora's lips curled into a smirk, a devilish glint in her eyes and Jake swallowed nervously. She looked positively sinful with that expression, leaning across from him and he felt himself flushing slightly.

"Oh, yes. But not something typical. I'd like to have a bouquet made of flowers that say 'I hope you go to hell' or 'fuck you'."

Jake couldn't help the surprised laughter that bubbled past his lips at her words.

"That's oddly specific."

Nora shrugged again but a playful smile still rested upon her face.

"Well, someone did piss me off so…"

"Someone from here?" He tilted his head and watched as she stiffened. At least she was careful with what she revealed.

"Not really. I'm going back the day after tomorrow and figured the flowers would be okay for a day. Will they be okay?" She frowned.

Jake tried not to show his disappointment at that. Was she really going back or was it just a lie because he asked who they were for? He was pretty sure they were for Lilly and now he regretted asking her and making her uncomfortable.

"Oh, yeah they'll be fine. Again, would you like it now or…" he trailed off.

"I can wait!" She smiled and plopped down on a chair in front of the large window.

Jake quietly headed for the backroom, chuckling to himself while choosing the flowers that would successfully deliver her rage from earlier.

Meanwhile, Nora quickly got bored of sitting around and decided to message the hacker guy. She hadn't really talked to him these past few days and was itching for any conversation with him. Snapping a photo of the floral display, she sent it to him, knowing he'll probably figure out that she was in Duskwood now. The buzz of a phone on the counter grabbed her attention. Jake must have left it here before going to get the flowers.

She hesitated and quickly sent another text saying 'hello', raising her eyebrows when the phone buzzed again. Curiosity won and she made her way to the counter and saw her name flashing on the screen.

She grinned.

It was fifteen minutes later that Jake came back with a beautiful bouquet in hand. How he had managed to make 'fuck you' look so good, Nora might never know. He was surprised to see that she hadn't moved from her position on the chair at all but let it go without much thought.

"Ah, thank you so much, Jake!" She chirped brightly, coming to stand in front of the counter and looking at his work.

"It's no trouble." He ducked his head shyly, not being used to the praise. The townspeople were much more distant and mostly parted with a simple thank you. It was refreshing to hear that someone appreciated his more known set of skills.

"Seriously, this is so beautiful. I almost don't want to give it up." Nora didn't have any trouble communicating her genuine thoughts and now that she knew who he was, she wanted to have a little fun.

She dashed to the shelves and picked out a fully bloomed rose and put in on the counter. Despite his confusion, he rang up the rose along with everything and relayed the total amount to Nora.

She paid him and picked up the bouquet, giving him a smile and headed for the door.

"Wait! You forgot the rose." He held up the single flower but Nora just grinned.

"Ah, did I forget to mention? That's for you."

She laughed in delight at the blush that spread rapidly across his cheeks and giving him a final wink, stepped out of Plumes.

Jake covered his face with his hands and groaned loudly. Nora was going to be the death of him but he found himself thinking that maybe he wouldn't mind it, after all.

———

Jake looked at the text Nora sent him earlier, sitting in front of his computer. The rose she had given him was in a glass full of water beside his bed. Why would she send him the photo of the flowershop? Did she want him to know that she was in Duskwood?

He didn't know what to reply so he simply sent a 'pretty' and waited for her to say something. He felt himself smile when he watched the three dots on his creen, signaling she was typing. They talked about Hannah for a while before the conversation took a more personal turn.

Nora [8:45pm]

I don't want you to go.

Jake's breath hitched at the message, heart beating rapidly. How Nora managed to have this much effect on him through a screen was almost unbelievable to him. He bit his lip and the events of the past week came rushing through his mind, making him confused.

Did she like the 'Hacker' or the flower shop employee 'Jake'? He felt frustrated with the situation and himself, not knowing what to feel. He wished they could talk simply, without any investigation involved.

Nora [8:46pm]

You know, I like you

He scanned the message with furrowed eyebrows. If Nora liked him, why was she flirting with 'Jake'? He poured out all his frustration and insecurities in his reply, watching as she still tried to convince him that this–whatever he and Nora had–was okay.

He didn't want to be hurt, nor did he want to hurt her, so he did what he thought was right. The messages were almost painful to write and he shut his phone as soon as he sent them.

Rubbing his palms over his eyes, he focused on the computer in front of him. His goal was to find Hannah, he didn't need any distractions.

It was morning when he picked up his phone again, eyes scanning the last text Nora sent.

Nora [9:00pm]

I'm sorry Jake

I won't bother you about this again.

His heart almost stopped at the use of his name. How did she know? More importantly, what had he done?

#duskwood #duskwood game #everbyte #everbyte duskwood #jake #jake × player #jake × mc #duskwood fanfic #duswook fanfiction

[ellewords]

(not me reading this back and thinking you could make a drinking game out of this ask because of how many times i say “because” lmaooooo)

i’ve never actually seen wgm but i really love the idea of hinata being on the show, because i feel like he would be so starry-eyed the entire time. literal ✨👄✨ at everything because he’s never thought about what being married would be like and now suddenly he gets to experience it??!!?! he fumbles through all of it, and the fans love him for it because a lot of the other participants seem so smooth and suave, but not with hinata! he blurts his thoughts out as they come, he’s clumsy in situations that would normally require him to be put-together, he makes a huge deal out of every little thing. the first time his partner brought him a bouquet of flowers, hinata literally turns bright red and starts rambling so fast the audio just barely picks it up—

“you didn’t have to but that was really nice of you, i’ll get you something next time, hey, the flowers smell sweet, oh no, that’s actually you, you smell so nice, have you always smelt that way, you should definitely tell me what body spray you use because i might just have to get some of that—“

and the fans eat it up. and so does their partner who absolutely adores him even if hinata doesn’t quite get/see it.

i feel like it would also be hilarious if the partner was someone who isn’t necessarily the biggest (by choice, they don’t want to be in the spotlight all that much) but because of a really big project they have out soon, their team thinks they should get some of that pr. maybe a painter or a sculpture? one that has gotten a lot of attention as of late because their art is a little controversial/suggestive but has somehow managed to keep most of the media on the actual art and not on themself. they come off as really shy and recluse, but the second they get on the show, hinata brings them out of their shell, and that makes the fans like them even more. they love getting to see the artist behind everything and they especially love seeing how their artist brain translates into the real world. and just the idea of hinata being the kind of person who would be able to make even the most introverted person go a little crazy is something i think would be hilarious on reality tv.

anyway, hinata gets a lot smoother as they continue on, and it absolutely floors the fans because he’s so different from when he started. he holds his partner’s hand like it’s nothing, he says super sweet things without missing a beat, he holds eye contact without looking like he’s trying to win some unproclaimed competition. but he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, and the partner is too nervous that he’ll get weird about it to say anything.

by the end of their time on the show, fans can see how deflated the partner is even though they’re really good at hiding it still, and hinata is off too, but he can’t tell why. he is still chipper and all over the place, and the partner is still more open and engaging, but their energy is off. hinata chalks it up to them going to miss the time they shared together, but even that doesn’t feel quite right.

after they leave the show, hinata is super excited to see that the partner has started doing more community stuff (charities where they show up in person, giving art classes to people that donate certain amounts to organizations and projects that they support, going out in public and doing sketches/paintings of people on the street for reference later and recording tiny interviews with them as they do it to make a new documentary of the process or something). he gushes about it all over his social medias and anywhere else he can get someone to listen because they don’t have the time to actually ever meet up with the way their schedules are. he even starts posting behind-the-scenes clips that he had taken (with the permission of the partner) to engage with both parts of their fan bases.

and the partner does the same for hinata. they do a bunch of pieces of the jackals and sells them to get both of their communities involved and supporting them even if they can’t go to the actual games. their instagram is flooded with designs of new projects for them and even more of them of just hinata, all of which have captions that target just hinata (“wow, my ex-husband is so fine 🥵” “that’s your man? mhm! look at him! yeah, that’s mine” and other stupid, cheesy ones that make the fans feral because damn, they really have come out of their shell, huh?!)

the internet loves it, and they love even more that hinata seems to become the person at the beginning of the show all over again, flustered and a mess and tripping over his feet. a new hashtag starts because of it about the two of them being in love still (as a joke) and people upload some of their favorite moments of the pair together. when hinata sees it, he tries to play it off (horribly) but when he finally gets to talk to their partner about it, there’s a calmness in their voice that eases him just a little bit, and suddenly he’s aware of why exactly leaving felt so wrong.

this got a little sidetracked, but i don’t even mind, lololol. also, i definitely need to check out the show after this because i love the fake dating/marriage idea. thanks for putting me on to it! make sure to drink water, have a snack if you haven’t eaten in a bit, and take deep breaths! -🌙

— from elle ! okay but hinata and a painter/artist!partner is literally such an amazing idea to dive into, this now lives in my head and i will continue thinking about it for days on end. i absolutely love everything that you’ve sent aaa i’m actually screaming, i had a difficult time picking which part of your hc to focus on bec so many things popped into my head. but i ended up choosing to kind of pick up where you left off for my little addition (under the cut as usual) tysm for this 🌙 anon ! take care <3

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

hinata’s blush grows redder every second he spent staring at his phone, his twitter mentions filled with photos, edits, and even fanmade animations of the two of you. your shipname was trending again, all after you posted a rare photo of yourself in msby merch. you looked cute, that much was evident to hinata. then again, he always thought of you as cute — from the second you walked into set, all shy and nervous, from the minute you left it, your arms wrapped wrapped around his neck. why was he acting like this? filming had ended months ago; he’d grown more confident around you, hadn’t he?

your name flashed across his phone screen, interrupting his train of thought — you were calling him. his heart beat sped up, fingertips immediately moving towards the ‘answer’ button.

“hey shoyo!” you greeted, enthusiasm very much evident in your voice, “did you see the picture i just posted?”

“i did! um...you look great.” he mumbled, unsure if you had heard him, heat continuing to rush towards the apples of his cheeks.

“thanks!” he hears your chuckling from the other end of the line, and a small part of his mind convinces himself that you were somehow teasing him. “you’re coming tomorrow, right?”

“what’s tomorrow?”

“my photo exhibit, silly.”

ah, that. hinata could imagine you shaking your head, biting your lip as you attempt not to burst out into laughter at his cluelessness. the beating of his heart is more rapid now, thinking of how you anticipated his answer, how you wanted him to be there. “i was only kidding, of course i’ll be there.”

“sure,” you replied like you didn’t really believe him, “i’ll see you then.”

—

hinata was the one who convinced you to get into photography. truthfully, you wanted to try and exploring other mediums beside your usual set of paint and pencils.

“maybe i should try taking photos.” you joked, gently nudging his shoulders as the two of you browsed various film cameras. the crew had taken a brief break from filming, but you and hinata still wanted to continue exploring the various antique shops that lined the street.

“go for it!” he replied without missing a single beat, quickly rattling off a list of potential subjects, “you can take photos of plants, or maybe animals, really pretty scenery...it’s not even going to matter because i know you’ll end up taking really amazing photos.”

and when hinata insisted that he pay for the camera you chose, you decide on a subject.

__

the gallery is empty. well, at least the reception area is.

hinata’s dressed in his finest button-down and slacks, black dress shoes clicking against the white granite tiles. the receptionist directs him to the floor where your exhibition is meant to be held — right at the very top.

his brows furrow, there should be more people here. photographers, critics, fans even. he should’ve been greeted by reporters, by the surely hundreds of people all excited to see your work. you had only grown in popularity since your appearance on wgm, the number of people going to your exhibits only ever increasing. he should know, hinata’s been to every single one over the course of the show’s run. he knew what to expect. and it was certainly not this.

the elevator dings, indicating that he had reached the top floor. still, not a single person there. the frown on his face only deepens. hinata catches a glimpse of the exhibition’s title, “beyond the cameras: a retrospective”

the glass door is unlocked, hinata pushes through them only to be greeted with pictures of the last subject he expected: himself.

framed on the white walls of what possibly was tokyo’s most famous gallery were photos of him, glossy and bright, colors vivid and alluring. and they weren’t just any photos too, they were photos taken on the rare occasions wherein cameras weren’t following your every move. there were photos of him from nights he snuck you in the gym to teach you how to play volleyball, ones of him covered in paint taken in your studio, ones of him attempting to make you breakfast. all of which had him looking away from the camera.

that is until he reaches the final photo, the only one that had you in it as well, taken the night before the final day of filming. he was looking at the camera, but you were looking right at him — your gaze soft, the corners of your lips forming the smallest of smiles.

“so maybe i lied,” hinata heard a voice speak from beside him, recognizing it as yours almost immediately, “the exhibition is actually tomorrow. i just wanted you to see it first.”

“but why me?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheek.

“just because.” you shrugged, not even turning to look at him, gazing at your final photo — just like he was.

but hinata feels it, the tightening in his chest, the tension that enveloped your bodies as the two of you continued to stare straight ahead. he hears it, the ringing in his hears, the hammering of his heart, the unevenness of his breath.

you stand next to him, just a few inches separating you. hinata’s hand is drawn like a magnet to yours. at first your knuckles graze, and hinata holds his breath. then his fingertips push in between yours, you bite your lip. finally he he grasps your hand, a quiet exhale escapes you both.

you tear your eyes away from the photograph at the same time he does; your gazes meet. and just like that, you finally reach the same understanding as him, of just why leaving felt so wrong.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

a question: how would the hq boys (specifically timeskip) act on a variety show like we got married?  |  written on the margins masterlist

taglist : @haikyuutothetop @crystal-lilac @tobioespresso @sushijimawakatoshi @itsmeaudrieee @pantherhappy @jesssobs @mysticstrawberryballoon @cloudedsky_29

join my hq taglist here. <3

#my lil scenario ended up so long #why do i keep getting carried away im so sorry #written on the margins 🔖 #hinata scenarios #hinata x reader #🎐 — 🌙anon! <3

[o-foramuse-of-fire]

Happy New Year! Here is my Secret Santa gift for @ubilupus! I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Alice Brandon has a massive crush on law student Jasper Whitlock. The only problem? She’s never actually spoken to him out loud. AH/AU

Title: Apricity

Words: 3,450

Rating: G/K+

Read on: AO3 or FFN

The snow fell in feather-light flakes in the crisp winter air. Alice chewed her lip as she gazed at the historic building across the street, almost mystical in the snowfall. She walked back and forth by the bus stop, hesitating to cross the street. A dark blue bus pulled up to the stop, its sign flashing yellow. Several students descended and the driver waited to see if Alice would board. She shook her head, shaking flakes out of her pixie-cut. The driver shrugged, closed the door, and drove off.

“What are you doing?”

Alice jumped at the voice. Sharp yet sweet, like a slice of key lime pie, with just a hint of caramel smoothness. She turned and plastered a huge smile on her face.

“Oh, hey, Rosalie!”

Rosalie Hale was one of Alice’s closest friends. The two had met freshman year signing up to assist with one of the many student theatre groups on campus. Rosalie, a Business major, wanted to get involved in marketing and Alice, who was studying Art and Design, was interested in assisting with designing posters or helping to paint sets.

“Don’t ‘hey, Rosalie,” me,” Rosalie retorted. “This is the third time this week I’ve caught you loitering out by the Law Quad.”

“Is it?”

“C’mon, Alice, something’s going on with you. And don’t just say you’re trying to plan out where to take grad photos because I know it’s something more than that.”

Alice quickly shut her mouth. That had been the excuse she was about to give. Everyone knew the Law Quad was in high demand for graduating seniors. In a few months, once the majority of winter was behind them and the temperature rose above freezing, Alice knew there’d be people crowding for the perfect cap and gown shot.

But that wasn’t the reason she’d spent more hours than she could count recently, wrapped up in her warmest--yet still fashionable--winter clothes and staring longingly at the gray stone arches. Alice heaved a sigh, her breath forming a tiny cloud in the wintry air.

“Okay. Fine. C’mon.”

Alice adjusted the strap of her cross-body bag and swung her scarf over her shoulder before leading Rosalie across the street. The two of them wandered into the Law Quad, looking more like Hogwarts at Christmas than it had any right to. Snow dusted the tops of the stone towers and turrets and coated the rooftops. Icicles hung from the mature trees like crystals. Students meandered through the Quad, ducking in and out of the grand arches, crossing pathways lined by Victorian-style street lamps. When they reached the door to the Law Library, Alice hesitated.

“Just don’t get me kicked out, okay?” The Law Library was notorious for having a strict no-talking policy.

“I won’t make a peep,” Rosalie said, her ruby lips curling into an intrigued grin.

They walked into the Reading Room, and no matter how many times Alice stepped foot inside there, she was always struck by its grandiose beauty and ambiance. The room was large and open, with a 10 story ceiling surrounded by beautiful stained glass windows bearing the seals of great universities around the world. The ceiling itself was intricately designed with squares of floral-like designs sculpted in gold. The Reading Room was illuminated with soft light from elegant two-tiered chandeliers, stylized to look like candles. Wooden shelves filled with legal books lined the long hall, interspersed with elaborate doorways and stonework. With finals fast approaching, students from all across campus crowded the oversized tables with curved reading lights, their books and notes stacked high. Anxious, academic energy crackled in the air. Alice walked down the aisle, Rosalie trailing at her side, until she came upon the third table from the back on the left. There, like he had been every day this week, sat a god.

A golden-haired young man with storm cloud eyes. Sculpted cheekbones and lips that Alice just knew were soft and kissable. A few strands of curly blond hair fell in front of his face as he pored over a thick tome, and the man pushed them out of his way with a flick of his long fingers. He was dressed in a knitted black sweater that complemented his tanned skin and accentuated his lean figure. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

Alice delicately pulled out the chair across from him, and slid into it as silently as she could manage. As she sat down, the man looked up from his book. His face lit up, eyes sparkling and lips stretching into a heart-stopping smile. Alice’s heart fluttered, and she returned his smile with an uncharacteristically shy grin. She opened up her bag and pulled out the textbook she kept in there for this exact purpose. She flipped through the pages until she came across the midnight blue bookmark denoting the last chapter she’d attempted to slog through. But before she could even attempt to read the first sentence, a crumpled piece of paper landed in front of her. Alice opened the note with excited fingers, her eyes eager for the words scrawled inside.

Art history again?

Alice’s mouth twitched. She scribbled a response on the paper, folded it up neatly, and passed it back across the table.

Yeah. My last final. I’ve been really slacking on the reading.

Maybe you know more than you think. You’ve been reading that book every time you’ve been in here.

Alice bit her lip. Had she done that? She’d meant to rotate her books, her excuses to be in his presence.

I keep getting distracted by the architecture. It’s just so beautiful in here.

It is. But if it keeps pulling your focus away from your studying, maybe you should try one of the less decorated spots on campus. Like Starbucks.

He shot her a smirk as he watched her read his words.

Never. I like the view here too much.

Me too.

Rosalie surreptitiously watched the exchange from a table across the aisle, quirking an eyebrow when Alice flushed scarlet and covered her mouth to hold in a giggle. She narrowed her eyes further as the note passing spanned a whole page. Then a second. Then a third. She didn’t think either of the two had touched their books in a while. Pursing her lips, Rosalie rose to her feet and sauntered back over to Alice’s table. Alice didn’t even notice her approach, she was too engrossed in whatever she was writing. Rosalie tapped her on the shoulder and crossed her arms. Alice gave her a sheepish grin, hurriedly wrote one final message, and passed the note to the blond-haired guy. He glanced it over, and the good-natured smile seemingly glued to his face fell ever so slightly. He gave Alice a wave as she stood, returned her book to her bag, and hoisted it over her shoulder. Alice returned his wave with her own, then tripped over her feet as Rosalie grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her to the exit.

As soon as they were back outside, Rosalie spun on Alice.

“Okay, spill. Who was that guy?”

Alice’s voice took on a dreamy tone. “Jasper Whitlock, first year law student. He’s originally from Texas and he went to Rice, majored in Political Science and History. He’s got a younger brother who’s studying Engineering at Rice now, and a little sister who’s in her senior year of high school. He likes horseback riding, Mexican food, and horror movies.”

“Wow, Alice, did you stalk the guy?”

A rosy blush colored Alice’s cheeks. “No. We passed notes. And then I Facebook stalked him.”

Rosalie snorted. “You’re crushing on him hard.”

“Except I haven’t said a word to him!” Alice cried, dragging her hands over her face. “I came to the Law Library to sketch last week--you know how I feel about Gothic architecture--and he was just there! Sitting at that table all gorgeous and studious. I don’t know how I worked up the nerve to pass him that first note, I swear my hands were shaking the whole time. But I’ve never actually spoken with him, like, words out loud, you know?”

“And he’s never tried to follow you out of the library to actually speak with you?”

“Nope.”

“Hm. He loses a few points for that. But maybe he’s just shy.”

“How could anyone that looks like that be shy? He probably just doesn’t like me.”

“Oh, he likes you, Alice. Trust me.”

“You don’t know that.” Alice whined.

“Did you not see the look he gave you? Like you were the sun and he was a mere flower. He bloomed in your presence. And practically wilted when you left.”

“I don’t know, Rose...”

Rosalie spun on her heels to stop and face Alice. She reached down to place her perfectly manicured hands atop Alice’s shoulders.

“Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Tomorrow, we’re gonna dress you up and make you look so goddamn gorgeous, that he’ll follow you outta there like a little lovesick puppy.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Early the next morning--earlier than Alice would’ve liked--Rosalie was in her apartment, clucking her tongue as she parsed through Alice’s wardrobe. Alice sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. Rosalie had roped their friend Bella into the scheme, and the brunette was sitting next to Alice, almost as tired as she was, her head falling onto Alice’s shoulder every now and then.

“You owe me Starbucks for this,” Bella mumbled.

“Yeah, Rose,” Alice agreed. “Jasper doesn’t usually make it into the Law Library until after 11.”

“Which means we only have four hours to get you looking jaw-droppingly sexy,” answered Rosalie. She picked out a black dress that was way too short given the current temperatures, shook her head, and returned it to the closet.

“At least she’s keeping in mind the weather,” Bella muttered under her breath.

Bella was the most practical out of the three girls. She and Alice had met in their first year English class and had become fast friends. It had taken some time for Bella and Rosalie to warm up to each other--Bella had a knee-jerk response to anyone involved in a sorority. But after Rosalie had chewed out a sleaze-ball who’d attempted to run his hand up Bella’s skirt while the three were out dancing one night, the two had forged a tight bond.

“Okay, how about this,” said Rosalie as she held up two hangers. In one hand was a black pencil skirt. In the other was a silk purple blouse with a deep V-neck. It was long-sleeved with bunching at the wrist. “Some tights, your black pumps and--”

“I’ll look like a librarian,”

“A sexy librarian,” Rosalie corrected, but she returned the items to the closet.

“We’re trying to get this Jasper’s attention, right?” asked Bella.

Alice nodded.

“Well then, what do we know about him? What does he like?”

“Ooh, good idea Bella. Alice, has Jasper ever looked at you more than usual or in a different way? And what were you wearing when he did?”

“Um, not that I can remember...”

“Does he have a favorite color?” Bella offered.

Alice straightened, like a jolt of electricity had run through her body. Her eyes sparkled and she grinned with exuberance. She hopped off the bed and rushed over to her closet, pushing aside dresses and sweaters with ferocity until she found what she was looking for. She pulled the emerald green sweater dress out of the closet and held it out in front of her proudly. Though unassuming on the hanger, it clung to her body like a second skin. It had a scooped neckline, which artfully showed off her delicate collarbones, and an intricate knitted design.

“Green,” she said with a joyful smile.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Girls, I don’t know if I can do this,” said Alice, clutching the front of her black peacoat with white knuckles.

“Alice, you look beautiful,” Rosalie assured her.

“Yeah, it’s going to be fine! You’ve got this!” Bella encouraged.

Once the emerald dress had been decided upon, Alice had spent the next few hours under Rosalie’s direct care. She’d picked out a pair of black leggings, as well as a pair of black booties, plus the black peacoat with silver buttons to complete the look. Bella had chosen the knitted white beret style hat that hung loosely off the back of Alice’s head, displaying her dark hair with contrast. Alice’s hair normally stuck out in all directions, but Rosalie had coaxed the energetic strands into becoming tendrils. Rosalie was an artist with makeup, and had accentuated Alice’s features without overpowering her. Black eyeliner and mascara heightened Alice’s doe-like eyes, and the silver eyeshadow shimmered with every blink. Alice’s cheekbones were highlighted and dusted with a soft pink blush. Alice had always thought her lips were small--just like the rest of her--but Rosalie had worked her magic and now the lips, painted cherry-red, appeared pouty and full. Bella had talked Alice through exactly what she was going to say to Jasper, filling her up with self-confidence. She gave advice to Alice on how to win over Jasper with her words, not just her looks.

Now, the three of them were standing in front of the entrance to the Law Library. Alice’s knees knocked together. Rosalie and Bella were on either side of her, practically pushing her in.

“You know, I think I might be coming down with something, I’ve been standing in the cold too long, maybe I should go home and we could try this another day--”

“Uh-uh, no way!” Rosalie stopped Alice from running away and turned her right back towards the Law Library. “We did not give up valuable finals studying time for you to back out now. You are going to go in there, and you are not coming back out until you have a date!”

Rosalie shoved Alice forward, causing the shorter girl to almost trip. Alice recovered and gathered herself with a determined puff of air. She brushed a stray curl out of her eyes, rolled her shoulders back, and strode into the Law Library with as much confidence as she could muster.

As expected, Jasper was there, seated at his usual spot. He was surrounded by piles of books, and hunched over a thick notebook. He looked very focused and very hot. Alice closed her eyes, thought back on everything Rosalie and Bella had said to her that morning, and began to walk towards Jasper’s table.

He heard her approach--the clicks of her black boots echoed in the silent hall--and glanced up from his notebook. At first, he gave her his usual genteel grin, but then Alice watched his eyes widen and his lips part as he took in her appearance. Alice slowly undid the buttons of her coat, feigning nonchalance as best she could. She shrugged the coat off her shoulders, and Jasper gasped. The big reveal, Rosalie had called it.

Alice slowly sunk into the chair, smoothing her dress as she sat down. Gracefully, she extracted the small notebook and ballpoint pen she’d hidden in her coat pocket. Her heart was beating a mile a minute but she forced herself to appear calm as she placed the notebook on the table, flipped open the metallic golden cover, and began to write out the words she, Rosalie, and Bella had planned.

I’ve really enjoyed our chats over the last week, but I’d much prefer to actually speak in person. I like you a lot, Jasper, and I want to get to know you better. Grab a coffee with me?

With a final flourish of her pen, Alice tore out the sheet of paper, folded it, and tossed it over to Jasper, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of her since she sat down. The note landed in the center of his notebook.

Jasper blinked dumbly at the sound of the paper hitting his book. He glanced away from Alice and nimbly unfolded the note. He smiled as he began to read it, and Alice’s heart skipped a beat. But then an odd expression came over his face. His smile fell. His jaw dropped. His eyes became pitying, disbelieving.

Alice felt her heart sink into her stomach.

He didn’t like her.

Feeling tears well up in her eyes, Alice haphazardly threw on her coat and hastily stuffed her notebook and pen back into her pockets. Biting her lip, she ran out of the Law Library as fast as she could.

She burst out into the Quad, her face stinging in the cold. Rosalie and Bella were waiting by the door for her, but she ran past them, ignoring their perplexed faces and questioning calls. She couldn’t talk to them right now. She wanted to run back home and hide under her comforter, forgetting every foolish action she’d taken today.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered under her breath.

“Hey, Alice, wait!”

Alice turned as a charmingly accented voice with just a hint a twang called her name. Jasper was running after her, his unbuttoned coat flying open in the wind. Alice tried to hide her gape as she took in Jasper. She knew he was tall, but she hadn’t realized he was quite this tall. He towered over her by over a foot at least. Alice sniffed and wiped away the few tears that had fallen.

“It’s okay, Jasper, you don’t have to humor me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw how you looked at me in there. It’s clear you don’t like me the way that I like you. And that’s fine! I’m fine! I--”

“Alice, what?”

“--really, you don’t need to let me down easy or anything, I got it, and--”

“Alice.” Jasper’s tone became more pleading. “I was just a little taken aback, is all. You surprised me.”

Alice’s breath caught. “I...surprised you?”

The edges of Jasper’s lips turned up. “Yeah. I’ve been working up the nerve to ask you out all week and you beat me to it.”

Alice’s mouth fell open. Her brain was a mess of white noise as she attempted to process his words

“You...you like me?”

It was Jasper’s turn to blush.

“But you never...I mean...all this time...and the way you are I...” Alice stammered.

“My apologies for not speaking up sooner. But I’ve never,” Jasper hesitated, “I’ve never felt like this before. The words we shared on those scraps of paper weren’t much, but they meant everything to me. I’ve actually been coming to the Law Library every day, hoping you’d return,” he added with a bashful grin.

Alice gave a little start. He’d been doing that, too?

“I’m not good at expressing my feelings,” Jasper continued, running his fingers through his long blond locks, “but I felt a connection with you right away. I just didn’t know how to deal with it, cause it’s been so long since I’ve felt anything close to that. I’ve had some pretty messed up relationships in the past,” he said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders.

“I don’t understand,” said Alice. “If you felt like this, why didn’t you say anything? Why did I have to do all this,” she motioned to her outfit, “to get you to come outside with me?”

“I came outside cause I could tell I’d upset you. And that ain’t right. I only ever want to see you smile.”

Alice flushed. Jasper took a slow step closer to her. Alice was struck again by his imposing stature. He had to duck and push snowy branches out of his way to get to where Alice was standing. And yet, with the way he was gazing at her, Alice didn’t feel small at all. In fact, she felt terribly emboldened by his adoring look.

“So it’s not cause I look amazingly sexy?” Alice teased.

Jasper chuckled. “You look beautiful today, really you do. But I think you look beautiful every day.”

Alice giggled, and her cheeks turned pink with new warmth. “So about that coffee,” she said, a hint of coyness slipping into her tone.

Jasper smiled sweetly. “I’d like that, ma’am.”

He took her hand, and Alice was surprised to find how well hers fit in his. Like they were made for each other, despite the height difference. Warmth raced through her body as he interlaced their fingers and gently ran his thumb over her skin. Alice hummed contentedly, and nestled into Jasper’s side. Another perfect fit.

#jalicesecretsanta20 #jalice fanfiction #jalice #my fic #twilight fanfiction #ubilupus #twilight renaissance #the twilight saga

[kai-n-ali]

In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter One

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his. 

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Season 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 5K

Chapter Two ❀ Chapter Three

                               Chapter 1: Citron (Ill-natured Beauty)

   The bell let out a series of chimes as the door creaked on its hinges, and in a small florist shop tucked between a gelateria and an abandoned butchery, Eleanor Blum officially met the devil of Small Heath.

   She wasn’t impressed.

   Flora’s, the little florist and botanical shop, had become a haven for the twenty-three-year-old in the time that she’d lived above Cora Evans’ storefront: only a few short weeks. Flora’s, partially named after Cora’s granddaughter, Florence, was a bright spot of color among the grit and grimness of Birmingham, with flower boxes brimming with asters and foxgloves, strawflowers and marigolds. Along the south-facing wall, honeysuckle crawled up the scratched brick, and the thick, sweet scent of the flowers almost washed out the stench of shit wafting up from the nearby horse stables or the sour-milk scent from gone-off gelato dumped in the dumpster, left to fester in the summer heat.

    Inside, the shop was cluttered, bouquets dotting the window display and trailing back in colorful bunches all throughout the front of the store, some put in ornate vases, others in ribbon-adorned mason jars, and a few placed into half-rusted buckets. Petals and leaves dotted the floor, and the room reeked of lavender and fresh-cut stems, grassy and clean. In the back of the store where the rare plants were, packets of seeds labelled in Cora’s handwriting, and now in Eleanor’s own scrawl, lined their worktable in rows.

    When he first came in, she didn’t bother looking up from her spot bent over one of the tables, hands streaked in dirt from potting snapdragon cuttings—they were very fashionable right now for front gardens, apparently—and the charcoal from her pencils. She’d plucked a honeysuckle bloom off its stem earlier in the morning and was practicing the loose lines of it on paper with strokes of a pencil. 

    The bell chimed, and Eleanor heard none of it, not until a voice cleared its throat a few paces in front of her. Eleanor jolted up, pushed a few curls out of her eyes.

    The man in front of her was beautiful in the way most wild things were when trapped behind glass. The way vines were beautiful when they were confined to the cracks of cobblestone, peeking out in glimpses of brilliant green. With cheekbones that looked like they’d split the pads of her fingers if she reached out to touch, that looked like they were meant for dinner parties as much as they were for being flecked in blood, Eleanor felt herself stiffen. She knew this man. Sort of.

    That newsboy cap was just ridiculous.

    Thomas Shelby, the husband of Grace Shelby, stood in her new place of employment. The last time she’d seen him, Eleanor had been at a gala in a new dress, gems dripping from her throat and beading trickling off her hem while she grilled his wife on her new orphanage and its living conditions for the second time.

    He was a ghost. Some half-wilted thing.

    Eleanor tilted her head, taking in the stiff lines of him, the strained civility held in the pale blue of eyes, and thought: how disappointing.

    She hadn’t taken Shelby for the kind of man to wilt.

    Meanwhile, it seemed Mr. Shelby was studying her as well. The startling blue of his eyes trained on her, cut across by the thicket of his lashes. He swept up and down her form, and she avoided fidgeting just barely. It seemed he recognized her, perhaps from the charity gala for the Shelby Foundation that went so wrong. Eleanor herself had only seen glimpses of him at said event, dressed in a black tux, the cut of his jaw severe and the stretch of his coat across his shoulders making her mouth go dry. She’d seen him as a dark shadow lingering behind his wife, his hand curling around her pale shoulder or tucking a loose, golden curl behind her ear before he was up and off again.

    Though, she realized she’d lied before. The last time she’d seen Thomas Shelby, it’d been a black-and-white photo shot from quite a distance, his back ramrod straight as he stood over the coffin of his dead wife. Surrounded by chrysanthemums and hydrangeas. His family stone-faced beside hordes of men in full military garb.

    The thought of Mrs. Shelby made her wince, and if anything, that made him stare harder. Something in his eyes questioned, how do I know you? Eleanor wasn’t obliged to answer.

    She locked her jaw and crossed her arms over the dirt-streaked cotton of her blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked, “or did you come just to ogle?”

    Somewhere from close behind, Eleanor heard a small squeak. She turned to face the noise. Florence, or Flora, sat on one of their many wooden benches, nearly toppling over a vase of petunias with every swing of her feet. Her eyes were very wide. “Ella,” she said, high-pitched, in a more-than-loud whisper. “Ella, that’s Mr. Shelby.”

    Flora was a girl of thirteen, with straight, dark hair cut right below her ears, and a smile that grew more lopsided the harder she grinned. When the chores were through and if the shop wasn’t busy, Eleanor would sit down and entertain her with little doodles, half-formed sketches.

    Right now, however, she was white as a freshly bleached sheet, her gangly legs jiggling with nerves. She hadn’t grown into them yet, but Eleanor found them endearing—almost coltish. Her eyes darted for her grandmother, but Cora was long gone on an errand.

    Mr. Shelby seemed unaffected, clearing his throat again with a cough. One hand rested on his pocket-watch, as though already eager to check the time. “Ella, eh?” She’d never heard him speak before, and the coarseness of his voice made her stomach flip-flop alongside the annoyance burning away at her. “Well, Ella—”

    “Eleanor.”

    There was a slight furrow to his brow now. It really was painfully fucking charming. He just sort of looked at her, head cocked, considering. Eleanor let out a gust of a sigh.

    “It’s Eleanor. My name. Not Ella.” Not to you, she thought. There was a pause, and she heard more than saw Flora place her head into the palms of her hands.

    “Tommy Shelby,” he said, as if she didn’t know that, and offered her his hand. Eleanor looked at that hand, the deceptive slimness of his fingers and the narrow taper of his wrist. His callouses were faded, softened with time.

    There was dirt under her nails and specks of dried mud up to her wrists, but she shook Mr. Thomas Shelby’s hand like she was wearing silk gloves. All lowered lashes and a coquettish flick of her wrist bone. The high-society ladies back home would surely applaud her if they saw.

    Then she ruined it.

    “What kind of grown-ass man still goes by the name Tommy?” she blurted before she could stop herself, her hand still in his. His hand had looked almost delicate before, but it engulfed her own. The shocked jerk of it against hers sent a vibration up her arm, and she suppressed a smirk. His eyes narrowed in on her face, a sudden intensity there he hadn’t possessed before. Like he wanted to peel back her skin and look beneath. Off-to-the-side, Flora let out a distressed little sound, akin to a mourner at a funeral. Viewing the body one last time before it lowered into the earth with the worms.

    The next sound past his lips was a huff that could’ve been taken for a laugh. If he were any other man. “One without a stick up the ass, I bet.” He tossed a glance Flora’s way, quirked up his mouth. He really had a lovely mouth. “Miss Eleanor.”

    And Eleanor couldn’t hold back a grin. “Hm. Agree to disagree, Mr. Shelby.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned over the countertop until her curls swung into her face. They were close enough now she could almost feel his breath ghosting the top of her head. “So, what’re you here for, then? Haven’t got all day.” Now, she sweetened her smile so the next bit wouldn’t bite, only sting. “Not even for the likes of you.”

    “Y’ know,” and his voice was a slow drawl that made her spine tingle and her hair stand on end, the way his lips formed around the words with the barest hint of threat, of teeth, “people rarely speak to me this way, Miss Eleanor.”

    “Not to your face, I’m sure.” She paused. “Mr. Shelby.”

    Was it just her, or was he almost smiling? “Fair enough. Just a bouquet for me.” His eyes hadn’t left her face. “Of your choosing.”

    “Right away,” she said, but something nagged at her. Taking a glance at his clothing—well-pressed and well-tailored, with a dark coat that had to be far too hot for the late July humidity and slacks with a crease down each leg—and thought he looked like a man heading to a funeral. Or a gravestone. Eleanor swallowed. Thought back to that black-and-white photo from near a year ago. Chrysanthemums and hydrangeas.

    Despite herself, she wondered if those had been Mrs. Shelby’s favorite flowers. They weren’t the flowers of funerals. Of mourning.

    Eleanor cast her gaze around the shop, but there was no arrangement that caught her interest, that fit the bill. She worried at her bottom lip. “Gimme a moment,” she muttered, almost to herself, and stepped out from behind the table. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck.

    Off-to-the side, pressed against the wall, were paint buckets filled with loose flowers, rows upon rows of color and texture, bunched together and stems kept in nutrient-enriched water. Among them, she found what she was looking for: chrysanthemums, white and ruffled with their pale green centers; hydrangeas, their purple petals in clusters. She also went for baby’s breath, as sparse and dainty as it was. A good filler for a bouquet, with the bonus of a powerful meaning. Everlasting love. Not that Thomas would know that.

    From a pail on one of the many counter spaces, she hunted for a ribbon. All knotted up in a ball, it took her a moment before she found the perfect one and managed to untangle it from the rest. Silky, sage green embroidered with indistinguishable little white buds. Perhaps a touch too long. Plucking and tweaking until it formed into a proper flower arrangement, if not a bit of a rustic one, she made a simple bow around the bundle before turning back to her customer. Taking quick steps to get back behind the main counter. “All done,” Eleanor said. She couldn’t look at him. With the heft of one shoulder, an almost-shrug, she offered the bouquet forward, level with his chest. She traced the pattern of his vest with her eyes, the stitching.

    The bouquet was smaller than a lot of the ones on display, less elaborate.

    But it felt right.

    Reaching into the pocket of her skirts, she rifled for the few spare coins she kept there for emergencies with her spare hand. He’d yet to take the bouquet. She slapped them onto the space in front of him with a clink. Just enough. Flora was strangely silent. “And already paid for.”

    Thomas’ eyes felt hot on her face. Almost a brand.

    He didn’t say a thank you, just gave a hum under his breath, and when he reached out to grab the flowers, his fingers grazed her own. She wondered what he thought of the scar tissue stretched across her knuckles, her fingers, if he could feel it against his skin, bumpy and rigid. This touch felt different than when he’d shook her hand, and it sent pinpricks of sensation up her forearm. When he let go, she shook out her hand away from view, trying to force the odd tingling away. It lingered.

    “Good day, Mr. Shelby.”

    “Eleanor.” And when he left, it was with a chime of the shop’s bell.

    For a moment, the whole shop was suspended in a hush, as if the world itself had paused, reverberating with that single chime. But then Florence was up in a flurry of movement, flinging herself into Eleanor’s space with a string of expletives that didn’t belong in the mouth of a grown man, not to mention a fourteen-year-old girl. Eleanor laughed despite herself. Threw back her head with the force of it.

    “Language,” she chided.

    “D’ you ‘ave a death wish?”

    Florence’s round eyes were roving over Eleanor’s face, her hands on her hips. She looked very serious—or would’ve, if not for the spot of dirt on the side of her nose.

    Eleanor smiled. “Not recently, no.”

    The younger girl didn’t seem to find that very funny, and a scowl twisted her features. “That’s Tommy Shelby you just ran your mouth off to, Ella,” she stated, jabbed a finger at her chest. Adorable, Eleanor thought. “Tommy. Shelby.” The stress on these two words was punctuated with another two jabs.

    “I know his name.” I’ve met his wife.

    “You don’t get it,” she said, and there was a franticness to her voice, her posture. Her hands twitched and fidgeted. “’E’s the leader of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders. People say ‘e’s worse than the devil ‘imself."

    “Language.” But Eleanor’s head was already tilted in curiosity. Worse than the devil? “Peaky Blinders, huh?" She snorted. “Cute.”

    “Not cute, Ella, not cute. Dangerous. Deadly. They’re the biggest gang in Birmingham. Turned businessmen. They own us.” She puffed a stray hair out of her eyes. “You get a glance at his cap?” At Eleanor’s nod, she continued. “They sew razors into the brim. You fuck with ‘em, they cut out your eyes.”

    Huh. “Is that very effective?” she asked, eyebrows raised high on her forehead. “I mean, that’s a bit of an awkward angle, isn’t it?” Flora groaned, flopping onto a stool besides her, propping her elbows on the counter and resting her forehead in her hands. Eleanor rubbed her back. She seemed to do this quite a lot when Eleanor was around.

   Her next words came out muffled by her palms. “The Blinders ain’t no joke, Ella. They set fire to The Marquis for messin’ with one of theirs. Their enemies get found in The Cut without their faces.” Her voice became very quiet, near trembling. Almost tearful. “You shoulda never spoken to Mr. Shelby like that.”

   Despite her best efforts, Eleanor felt a shiver run through her. Only she could be stupid enough to meet a devil and reach out to shake his hand. With a smile, no less. Well, it was too late now. She leaned until her shoulder pressed into Flora’s own. “Hey,” she soothed. “Look at me, huh?” Eleanor tapped at the girl’s cheek with a nail until she peered up at her, eyes a bit puffy. “Relax, sweetheart. I doubt he’ll be back anytime soon. Not with the warm welcome I gave him.” And she smiled until Florence couldn’t help but smile back.

    The second time Eleanor saw the devil of Small Heath, it was a week later. At Flora’s. And it would be the same as the first.

    That damn bell chimed.

    It was with relief that Eleanor noted Florence was out of the shop when a Mr. Thomas Shelby arrived for the second time, having been sent off by Cora to the gelateria with just enough money for scoop of her favorite, strawberry swirl. This time around, it was just her and Cora in the near silence of the shop, the record player in the back a mere whisper of jazz. Instead of being up to her elbows in damp soil, she had a paintbrush in her mouth and another clutched between her fingers and thumb, making a new display sign with some thick paper and her tin of watercolors. A sketch of Flora, blowing petals out of the palm of her hand. It was as she was halfway through mixing a color for the shadows of her face that the front door opened. At her side, using twine to bind their loose flowers for the paint buckets, Cora gave a sharp intake of breath.

    “Mr. Shelby,” the older woman greeted, hurrying to stand. A strong-featured woman of near fifty, Cora Evans wasn’t one to show fear, or much emotion at all beyond a muted amusement at her surroundings. This sort of “why the hell not?” air of being that she'd clearly perfected over her years. Yet, while her own blue eyes were unwavering on Thomas’ own, Eleanor detected the tense line of her broad shoulders, hiked nearly up to her ears and tickling the grey-brown of her hair. Thomas inclined his head at her boss, and if he looked her way, Eleanor didn’t see it, because she had already turned back to her work, watering down a vermilion for the high spots of color on Flora’s youthful cheeks.

    If she didn’t look at him, maybe she wouldn’t be compelled by whatever urge had struck her before—a sudden desire to pick at and tease, to wrestle up a smile on that pretty mouth.

    Eleanor shook her head, a minuscule gesture, and huffed a curl out of her eyes. Get it together.

    “’Ow may I ‘elp you, sir?” And Cora’s voice was polite, restrained, the normal warmth in her Brummie accent stripped into something foreign to Eleanor. “On the ‘ouse, of course.” At that, she felt her lips pinch despite herself.

    While Cora hadn’t been upset when her granddaughter had finally told her the story of Eleanor back-talking to a Peaky Blinder, she had gone a bit pale, setting down the pot in her hands with a heavy clunk on their scraped-up work table. Staring at Eleanor with new eyes. “Pretty fuckin’ stupid of you, love,” she’d said. “They’ve set fire to businesses for less.” And she’d shaken her head. “Messin’ with that Blinder Devil—thought you had some wits about you.” In the end, though, Cora shooed her off when she hastened to spill out apologies, holding out a hand to pat her on her shoulder.

    “That Thomas Shelby is more sensible than most of ‘em put together. Not like his mad dog brother. It’ll work out for the best, I bet.”

    But now he was back yet again, in a suit lighter than the one before, a pale grey waistcoat with no jacket in sight. His tie was missing, she could tell even from where she hunched over her work, the top button of his dress-shirt undone at the throat. Still looking unbearably hot for the weather. Even the thin material of her house dress clung to her skin with the sweat of being trapped in the shop all day. She didn’t know how he bore it.

    “No need,” he said in that already familiar rasp, and she ducked her head further down instead of looking up and catching a glimpse of his face like she wanted. “Found myself in need of another bouquet.” And she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Eleanor. If you would.”

    The empty space to the upper right of her drawing distracted her. Should she fill it with roses? Lilies? There was a pause that could be felt hanging in the shop, like a physical touch against her skin, but she kept her gaze to that expanse of untouched white.

    “Eleanor,” Cora said, touching gentle fingers to the bared skin of her upper arm. She very rarely wore short sleeves, but with the heat, it felt unavoidable. The circular burns that peppered her arms like kisses—they weren’t even that noticeable, not anymore. Still.

    (On another August day, one from over a decade ago, she recalled the press and hiss of the cigarette when it hit her skin, and the way the mud never dried in that miserable backyard back in New York. Before her uncle came and packed her off to London. The backs of her knees were slippery with it as she squirmed and kicked. But the older girl kept a firm grip on her, and Eleanor stayed in place, sinking into the mud and dead, yellow grass. The cigarette was pulled back, still fizzling, and with the click of a lighter, was relit again. And again.)

    Eleanor blinked. Blinked again and rubbed a hand over her eyes, eyes that felt much more tired than before. She pulled the paintbrush from her mouth, set it on the countertop. “Of course, I can make you another bouquet, Mr. Shelby. Anything in mind?”

    She couldn’t see him, no, but she knew his eyes were smirking at her. Her fingers twitched on her remaining paintbrush. Smug bastard. “Oh, just something to brighten up me office, I think.” And Eleanor clenched her jaw, because that sounded like such shit to her. Why’re you here again, Thomas? She nodded nonetheless, kept her eyes down. You make it very hard to behave. She set down the brush with a clatter.

    “I can do that.”

    She searched for the most spiteful fucking flowers she could think of. Valerian, an herb frequently used for insomnia, green stems bloomed with clusters of white flowers. Readiness. I could take you, Mr. Shelby. Borage, or starflower, brilliant blue with hints of blush from the blooms with their white spines. Rudeness. Bluntness. And buttercups, their delicate yellow blossoms. A personal favorite and a good splash of color against all the blues and whites. Childishness. And, finally, Love-in-a-mist, or Nigella damascena, with their needle-point leaves and rich indigo petals ending in jagged points. A confession more than anything else, not that he’d know it. You puzzle me.

    In her youth, she’d gobbled up all the books on plants and herbs that she could find in her botanically obsessed uncle’s extensive library, and that included tomes on the language of flowers. The knowledge had stuck. And now more than ever, she found herself grateful.

    Eleanor plucked all the respective flowers out of their different buckets, organized by color, and set to work gathering the right amounts of each. She took a canary yellow ribbon from the ribbon pail with a flourish, flicking it in the air to get the kinks out. Grabbing a random empty vase that had once housed a beautiful but boring bouquet of a dozen roses—bought by a very frantic man in worker’s clothes and sturdy boots an hour prior, who looked like he was running quite late—she set the mass of flowers inside and set to arranging them.

    Flora, who hid a chuckle with a cough at the sight of her flowers of choice, left with a quick word to the backroom and a warning glance that burned into the back of Eleanor’s head. She tried not to fidget.

    She was wrapping the ribbon around the hunk of stems when a throat cleared from right by her side. Fuck. Eleanor started, spasming fingers losing the ability to form a bow. Fuck.

    “What’s a rich socialite like yourself doing in a flower shop in Birmingham, eh?”

    But, God, she couldn’t help but spin to face the man now. Thomas stood with his hip propped up against the table she was using, head tilted and pieces of the unshaved part of his hair near falling into his eyes. Seemed he recognized her now. He looked curious. Hungry. Up close as he was, their shoulders near brushing, she saw the hint of freckles beneath his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. It seemed even devils tanned in the sun.

    Everything about him was all graceful command, words spoken in a way that showed he expected to be answered, obeyed.

    It reminded her of his wife.

    The first time she’d ever seen Mrs. Grace Shelby, it had been at a luncheon held at The Midland Hotel, for the sake of convincing the richest of London society to donate to her cause—the Shelby Foundation, whose first action was building an orphanage in Birmingham. When her uncle, Samuel Connolly, had told her the news, alongside the fact that he’d been invited to attend a luncheon on the subject, she’d begged to be brought along.

    “If anyone would have a stake in this,” she’d said at their breakfast table, pointing at his chest with a grapefruit spoon, “it’s me, don’t you think? Let me see how genuine this is.” Sam had set his hazel eyes on hers, lips pursed, but he hadn’t disagreed.

    “You’ll have to dress up,” he’d warned, and she’d stuck out her tongue at him, taking a stab at a section of fruit.

    Eleanor remembered the way the beading of her dress weighted her down that afternoon, and how all she wanted was to be back home in a pair of trousers, lounging with a book in her lap and Fennel, Sam’s Spinone Italiano, laying on the tops of her bare feet. Keeping her warm. But the rich had an ability to do any good works as half-assed as possible, and with all of her blunt Brooklynite manners from childhood, she had sworn to dig out the truth from this Mrs. Grace Shelby even if it meant pulling out the plyers and using some old-fashioned elbow grease.

    That hadn’t been necessary.

    The waitress that escorted them both to the hotel’s largest dining room was a near-silent woman, who meekly commented on the pale jade color of Eleanor’s dress before showing them to a room with a table longer than she’d ever seen. A rich, dark-colored wood leaning near black. The napkins were a fashionable rose, the plates rimmed in gold and dotted in florals along the edges. All the candles smelled of faint vanilla and sandalwood.

    Even for Eleanor, who had spent her teen years and beyond in Sam’s by-no-means-minuscule manor and had attended many a party due to his notoriety, it was extravagant beyond measure.

    At the head of the table, not yet seated and chatting with a plastic but pretty smile on her painted lips, was a woman with honeyed hair and aristocratic, well-bred features. She radiated old wealth in a way Eleanor never could, brought into the fold far-too-late.

    (“Oh my, it’s the little orphan bastard.” One of the wives of some business mogul whispered to her friends behind a glove. They all tittered away at her remark, and Eleanor, all awkward limbs and pale pink scars at fifteen years old, sunk back into the shadows of the sitting room. Uncomfortable in her new dress. Uncomfortable in her new life. “How quaint. It seems he really did pick up a new stray, after all.”)

    Most of the night was a blur, filled with soft, exaggerated laughter and mutual back-patting. In the dining room, the lighting was dim, almost sensual despite it being only two in the afternoon. Flattering everything into a near dream-like state. At the front of the table, Mrs. Shelby had glowed. Almost an hour prior, her hand had been soft and unblemished in Eleanor’s own. Even her handshakes felt soft as silk. But when Eleanor had cornered her later in the evening over a round of drinks, her own whiskey-sour in a fine crystal glass that felt like a paperweight in her hand, she had revealed pure steel beneath the refined veneer. Eleanor could barely recall her barrage of questions now, from over a year ago.

    “What of the orphans with surviving family? Will they be entitled to visitation? And the staff—what of them? Would they be receiving proper background checks prior to their employment?” It had gone on-and-on, and Grace Shelby had answered with assurance blanketing her tone, and a blade tucked beneath her tongue, ready to wield. Her eyes steady. Demanding trust. Eleanor had, though begrudgingly, given it. And promised to have more questions the next time they met. Mrs. Shelby had seemed, almost, like she was looking forward to it.

    But, well, the second and last time she’d seen Grace Shelby. Well.

    In the present, Eleanor zeroed back in on Thomas. He was studying her.

    She knew the red of her lipstick must be smudged. That there was surely charcoal streaked on her face from using her pencils earlier in the day. That the nape of her neck was sticky with sweat, soaking the curls there.

    Still, Eleanor arched her brow at who, apparently, was the most fearsome man in Birmingham. “I used the wrong fork,” she drawled. “Perilous mistake.”

    “Yeah?”

    “Yeah.”

    They locked eyes, and Eleanor wasn’t going to be the one to blink first. Without looking, she knotted the bow and pulled tight. “All done,” she said. She rambled off a price, perhaps one a little higher than necessary. She couldn’t help herself.

    He blinked at her before reaching into his pocket for the money, and Eleanor let out a gust of air when his eyes left her. How were they so blue? Reaching under the table for some tissue paper to wrap the bouquet in, she offered it forward, gripping it by the bottom of the stems. His own fingers grasped it above her own and tugged it out of her hand. He was oddly gentle about it. “Have a nice day, Thomas,” she told him, a clear dismissal, and he quirked a brow at her in a barely-there question. Whether it was because of the curt tone or the usage of his first name—it had just slipped out, she didn’t know why—she wasn’t sure.

    Either way, he left. And Eleanor slumped, boneless, against the countertop. What the honest fuck.

    Now, she knew better than to believe this would be the last time they saw each other.

    And true enough, they met yet again. This time at no fault of their own.

#tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby x ofc #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #bbc pb #bbc #thomas shelby #ofc #original character #arthur shelby #ada shelby #ada thorne #polly gray #michael gray #linda shelby #lizzie stark #lizzie shelby #charlie shelby #jessie eden #luca changretta #season four of peaky blinders #season 4 #fanfiction #fic #fanfic #bisexuality #lgbtq #tw child abuse #tw antisemitism

[lavendersoft]

My Soulmate’s Soulmate.

Part six

Soulmate! AU

Synopsis: Before you meet your soulmate your world is black and white, without color. When soulmates meet, their world glows with vibrancy. The reality, however, as harsh and uncommon as it is, is that you are not always your soulmate’s soulmate.

Pairings: Jungkook x Reader, Taehyung x Reader, Jungkook x Taehyung (poly!au)

Warnings: N/A.

Author’s Notes: N/A.

--

The rain that taps outside your window is the only thing keeping you calm.

It’s currently 5:47 pm and you just finished getting ready for your date with Tae. You really don’t know what to expect besides the dinner part, I mean you’ve only known him for a few weeks and you’ve spoken to him but a handful of times. What kind of person is he? Is he the serious type? Or maybe he’s more carefree? Is he spontaneous? Is he planning on taking you somewhere that’s not the decided restaurant?

The anxiety erodes at your confidence as you touch up your already perfect makeup yet again. You’ve opted for a more casual look, being that the restaurant is a pretty low key place. A simple white turtle neck sweater with black skinny jeans and black ankle boots. You peer outside the foggy window again,

“I should check the weather,” you mumble to yourself, knowing the temperature keeps dropping by the day. Turning the TV to the weather channel, you find there’s a high chance of the first snowfall tonight. Better bring that trench coat just in case.

“You look beautiful.” Jungkook’s voice calls from behind you. He can be so light-footed an sneaky sometimes, like a cat.

“Thanks, baby.” You turn to face him with a worried look,

“I’m nervous.”

He wraps an arm around you and grins.

“Don’t be, Angel. He’s really nice. If anyone is nervous, it’s probably him.”

You nod, knowing how nerve-wracking first dates are- especially with your soulmate.

“Can’t you tell me just a little about him?”

He pulls a strand of hair out of your face while he grins down at you.

“Nope.”

“Why?” It made no sense to you. He’s been refusing you even the slightest hints as to what kind of person Taehyung is.

“Because you have to get to know him the way I did. By talking to him.”

He giggles when you grunt in displeasure.

The chime of the doorbell brings you out of your pout.

“Ah! He’s here! Go and have a good time. Call me if you need anything, especially if he gets too handsy. He’s my soulmate but I won’t hesitate to kick his ass, let him know that,“ He rants as get guides you to the door, “Oh, and don’t forget your jacket! It’s gonna be really cold tonight.”

You’re face to face with the front door now. The doorknob feels almost hot to the touch.

Inhale. Exhale.

The old wooden door reveals a man that looks almost out of place in the slightly dingy hallway of your apartment building.

God, he looks like a prince. How does a person look like that?

He’s dressed in a simple white dress shirt and black leather jacket with ripped jeans. But what really catches your eye is the small silver chain that connects from one belt loop to the next on the side of his pants. It matches perfectly with the dainty chain that hangs from his neck. So simple yet so effective. How fashionable.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

He smiles so warmly at you, you feel a rush of adrenaline.

Oh. Oh, he smells good.

A gasp escapes your mouth as the lingering scent of his cologne reminds you that you forgot to put on your own perfume.

“Sorry, I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”

You hurry off leaving Taehyung and Jungkook alone.

You return in a haste to the pair of men staring at each other for whatever reason. The atmosphere seems almost stiff.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“Great. You said the reservation’s at 6:20, right?”

“Yep. And it’s about 15 minutes away so we should probably get going.”

“Okay,” Taehyung places a hand lightly to the small of your back while he turns his head to Jungkook, “I’ll have her back by eleven.”

“Ten.”

The older chuckles at the younger in response.

“Yes, Sir.”

-

You fidget with the promise ring Jungkook gave you some time ago. Taehyung looks almost intimidatingly handsome under the dim, soft light of the restaurant. The light catches on his earrings every time he moves and you have the hardest time prying your eyes away from his chest since the top buttons of his shirt are open, revealing just a bit of his collar bone.

God, it’s like he gets prettier with every passing second.

“So, have you been here before?”

“Nope. First time. Any recommendations?” he prompts.

“Well, it’s a bulgogi house so maybe start with bulgogi.” You quip.

A smirk crosses your face when he blushes. Taehyung didn’t seem like the type to blush over just anything so this was cute. You’d never tell him but you kind of like the power you have, making such a beautiful man blush so easily. However, remembering how nervous you were on your first date with Jungkook, you cut Tae some slack.

“I’m kidding. The galbi here is really tasty too.”

“Mm, that sounds good. I think I’ll try that.” He relaxes.

As if on queue, the waitress comes by and takes your orders. After, Taehyung turns to you, “On a serious note. Is this really okay? I mean, us meeting here. Is Jungkook angry? He seemed a bit... off I guess.”

“Oh, no it’s okay. Don’t worry about that. We’ve already talked about it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean,” You pause to collect your thoughts, “It’s only natural, right? You’re my boyfriend’s soulmate and I’m...”

“My soulmate.” He finishes the sentence when you trailed off.

“Yes. I’m your soulmate.”

Something flashes in his eyes that you couldn’t quite decipher.

“You’re right. It’s only natural all see each other more often.”

You hum is response.

There is a short, yet comfortable, silence between you two before he speaks again,

“Do you believe in destiny, Y/n?”

You can’t help but chuckle at the cheesy question. Definitely the romantic type.

“Hm. I don’t know if I did before but... this whole situation may have just turned me into a believer.”

The rest of the date was pretty standard. Simple, shallow ‘first date’ questions ensue.

“Where are you from?”

“What do you do?”

“What are your hobbies?”

“How many siblings?”

“What are your goals?”

By the time your meals are finished, you feel like you’ve made a good start in getting to know him. One of the most interesting answers you received was in response to the question about his hobbies. He loves motorcycles and has three of them.

Very interesting.

I’ll have to ask him to elaborate on that one.

“Okay, last question.”

“Go for it.” He seems much more confident than he was an hour and a half ago.

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” You grin brightly down at the variety of desserts on the menu.

His eyes never leave your face,

“Definitely.”

A sudden realization comes over you,

“Sorry. It kind of seems like I’m interviewing you or something. Any questions for me?”

He bites his lip as he ponders for a moment.

“How long have you known Jungkook? Oh, and how did you meet? And please don’t leave out any of the details, I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“Well, we met when we were still teenagers. He was still an intern for the record label he works for now and I... well I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life whatsoever. It was like he had everything figured out, you know? He knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. He knew where he was going. I’d never met someone so sure of themselves. That’s one of the things that drew me to him, besides the obvious reasons. Anyway, I was working in a flower shop at the time. I didn’t even see him walk up to me, I was too busy trying not to get pricked by the roses. He tapped me on the shoulder to ask me a question, I don’t even remember what he asked. All I remember was him introducing himself, and then everything around me coming to life. Stupid me, I didn’t even realize he wasn’t experiencing what I was, I was just so overwhelmed with all the colors. It never occurred to me that-“

You pause when you catch Taehyung’s face fall a bit.

“So, yeah, that’s how we met.” You finish your embarrassing monologue, picking up a spoon and shoveling in the ice cream you don’t remember ordering.

“Your eyes light up when you talk about him. It’s cute.”

If you weren’t cherry red before, you definitely are now.

-

The ice-cold air feels like a slap to the face when you step into the night, and the wind doesn’t help either. Your breath falls from your mouth like smoke as you wrap yourself tighter in your coat.

Where did we park again?

Tae steps beside you, jogging in place to stay warm.

“Hey, where did we-“

Something catches your eye when you peer up at him. Your mind goes blank when you reach up to glide your fingertips down his cheek.

“A snowflake? Is it-?”

Sure enough, you look up to the black sky to see small specks of white falling lightly. Tae doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, the warmth of your fingers still lingering on his skin.

“The car’s this way.” He takes the first move and you follow in suit. At least, you tried to.

The magical moment is ended when your back hits the cold, wet ground. You daze up for a moment, trying to process how the hell you ended up in an ice bath.

“Oh my God, are you okay? You didn’t hit your head, right?” Tae was by your side immediately, helping you up and inspecting the damage. He even slid a bit on the icy pavement.

“Damn, you’re all wet. You can’t wear this, you’ll catch a cold.” He gestures to your now soaking wet jacket. He helps you out of the garment and replaces it with his own.

“Hey, my studio isn’t far from here. I keep it pretty warm in there, let’s go there to dry you up.” It didn’t seem like a suggestion, more like a statement. You don’t care at the moment, though. It’s like the air around you gets colder by the second.

“Let’s do it.”

-

It feels like instant heaven when you enter the toasty building.

Taehyung flips several switches on revealing a huge, beautiful art studio. It was filled with unfinished paintings, sketches, and sculptures. You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen so many vibrant colors. Maybe the day you met Jungkook. Memories of all different types of flowers pass by your mind. This definitely reminds you of that day.

“Your sweater is still wet. Hold on.” He rummages through a tiny closet next to the entrance. He pulls out a crisp, white v-neck shirt. “Here. I keep extra clothes here just in case I get messy while painting. Um, there’s a bathroom down the hall on the left.”

You return in his shirt. It’s so loose it reaches your mid-thigh. Even despite wearing his shirt, you decide to keep his jacket on because it’s just so cozy.

“This is my main studio, where I keep all the unfinished projects.” He begins when he notices you. Then he places a hand on the small of your back, leading you to a door in the corner of the room witch you assume is another studio.

“And this-” He opens the door to a room about half the size of the first, but has a huge window that lets in the light of the city. The space is filled with painted portraits of people. All sorts of people, elderly, young, and everything in between. It also showcases statues, photography, and sketches. The experience felt as if you were stepping into a museum. The whole room looks like a collage of color.

“-Is the gallery.”

“You like to people watch, don’t you? Very observ...” You trail off when you look closer at a specific section of the back wall.

Sketches and paintings of all styles. All of you.

--

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#bts #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #taekook #taekook fanfic #taekook fanfiction #vkook #taehyung x jungkook #taehyung x reader #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #kim taehyung fanfiction #jeon jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts poly au #my soulmate’s soulmate #jungkook #taehyung #bts soulmate au

[mitterstorm]

Dance For Me

Chapter 1

“Finally we are here today to seek and to receive comfort. We would be less than honest if we said that our hearts have not ached over this situation. We are not too proud to acknowledge-

You couldn’t take it anymore, just by standing here listening to that preach addressed his departure. Your knees feel weak and your eyes burn, but you refuse to make a scene, taking deep breaths while clenching your fists is helping you calm down.

Still, it’s not enough.

You want to scream again just as you did when you saw his body limp against yours, scratch your arms in attempts of making the pain and hurt go away. To drift your mind from these ugly feelings.

A sick way of coping indeed, teensy bit of self-harm ain't going to kill you. It helps you somehow, preventing yourself from breaking even further in a public place like the cemetery.

Finally, you regain control of yourself and shift back to the preacher. Unfortunately, he concluded, now you have to prepare for the worse.  

Henry, who is your most precious friend, is dead. His body was being carried away in the concealment of a coffin; he said his last farewell to you early in the morning when you ate breakfast with him, offering your company so he wouldn't feel alone, regain some strength by appreciation itself.

Something was up that morning; the old fart was more talkative than usual and flashed a smile here and there. You are at fault for not noticing from the start. You should have been more perceptive and observant; you are keen on people after all, especially when he gave you that look as if he was parting ways with you. He didn’t fight death, accepted it as embracing a hug from an old friend. That thought alone fills your head with doubt.

Was he even happy when he left?

 Did he feel satisfied with the life he lived?

 Were you enough?

 Fuck, you never would've imagined his passing will affect you this much.

<<You old geezer, why were you so kind to me? Why did we let ourselves get attached?>>

The time is near, you will eventually have to confront him with all of these people staring at you, but you need to be strong for sake. You are what’s left of his loved ones. Linda died long ago. They never had a chance to procreate and bring a new life, Joey went mad or something along those lines.

Just like the rest of the crew, and he didn’t make any friends while he was on service for the military. If he did, they were dead. He didn’t like to talk about it.

<<I tried to make you happy, make you feel at ease as you did for me>>

Yet he kept secrets from you, of course, you respected his wishes and didn’t pry any further.

However, it stung.

<<Now it’s not time to reminisce, there’s nothing to reminisce for me at the moment>>

They called your name to the front; you ran out of time. It’s your turn. Is your first time burying someone, yes, you have assisted other burials besides this one, but now you are who’s lost a loved one. Those past times were favors people close to you had asked a long time ago; they said it felt nice to have somebody there when someone else is missing in their lives. In other words, you were there as comfort. A shoulder they could use to cry and lean on.

Hesitant, you take away from the burier’s grasp his shovel and with a gulp. You start shoveling some dirt into the hole were Henry’s coffin lies.

<<Shit, I can’t stop trembling! Come on, stop being a pussy and get over with this!>>

Despite that, your body wouldn’t obey, it made you look clumsy. No matter how much you lied to yourself.

You are scared.

After burying Henry, your vision goes black.

Waking up tomorrow morning at home without a clue of how you got there made your mind fuzzy.

How fun.

You try to get up, but end up failing.

“Fuuuuuck! Why do I feel like absolute shit! Everything hurts!” These feel just like a hangover. Why does it feel like one? Did you go to a bar once Henry’s funeral ended? How much did you drink?

“Enough to blackout it appears,” You say under your breath. Of course, your dumb ass would go to a bar and get drunk to cope with the pain! An upcoming headache awaits you for being arbitrary, instead of showing apprehension towards the situation and mourn, as you should, your voice of reason zonked out. “I reek of booze. Agh, it stinks”.

No more addressing what happened yesterday; feeling like trash isn't doing you any good. Henry would have called you out on your bullshit.

"Stop whining like a whore and man up, chum! I'll buy you a drink. Later we can relax and cut you some slack, nothing a magsman like myself can't do".

“Ok boomer,” You said in a humdrum tone, at least it made you laugh internally. “lo and behold, this will be a shitty morning-err afternoon, it’s 1 PM, I thought it was too early to be awake”.

That means it’s time for brunch.

Must compel your stomach desires, eat a lot little of food. Therefore, you'll have to leave the bed, go downstairs where the kitchen is; you force yourself out of the comfiness that are your covers. So you walk out of the room barefoot towards the kitchen. You open the fridge faking interest with whatever is inside and close it, then repeat, only that this time you pay a little more of attention.

You grab the water pitcher and pour some in a glass, then look for oatmeal and toss three spoonfuls of it at the water, after that you chuck a spoonful of sugar and mix it. A simple drink full of roughage. It’ll suffice for now.

*Clink clink*

Metal hitting porcelain serves you as a white noise to rearrange your thoughts. Yesterday was hectic and had your mind high wire, you were thinking about the old man; how long have you two been friends? Five or six years more or less, you met each other by autumn at a hospital. On that occasion, you were merely an intern in the middle of their practice and had to change sheets, deliver meals, give them their meds and reassure they took them at the time the doctors had said. Like a nurse or carer (the difference it’s you possess more knowledge than one and can prescribe medication, it was also part of your duty as a trainee assisting the doctors with whatever you could). That’s how both of you came face to face with.

Mr. Stein was sick and injured. He needed to tend some wounds since they required special treatment. Battle scars, you didn’t know at the time, however, as days passed, you became close to him, he told you how he got them; the biggest can be found on his back.  

Unfortunately, a sharp pain arose, preventing you from wandering further in the past. You had forgotten about your headache, which it’s more noticeable now, you are sure there aren’t any pills left.

“I ain’t leaving being this crappy, besides I don’t feel like moving right now…” Your eyelids are heavy and keeping them open, it’s such a pain, so you shut ‘em in hopes of relaxing for a little bit. Leaning your back on the kitchen island while drinking your beverage, its coldness helping you somehow with the throb.

Once again, your mind wanders.

Thanks to it, you know where to find some ibuprofen.

“Are these the ones?” You asked while holding a box for him to see, squinting Henry finally recognized the packet.

“What’s it called again?” He questioned, rubbing his head to ease the ache a bit. His voice raspy because of a dry throat. His normal soft tone replaced by a croaky. He’s clearly suffering.  

“Ibuprofen.” You read aloud as you’ve been asked and turn back to look at him.

“Yup, that’s the one, lass. I know I’ve bothered you enough, but could you serve me a glass of water?”

“You old coot, not a bother at all. I’ll be back with your water in a jiffy”.

The pills are somewhere inside Henry’s studio. You can do that, going upstairs isn’t as demanding as buying them, cuz leaving home means changing clothes that look presentable and aren’t dirty. Henceforth, you don’t feel in the mood for seeing the outside.

“I should stop thinking of how lazy I am and look for those meds…” Talking to yourself it’s quite common, so you ain’t no stranger to these situations.

Therefore, you took a break from your bullshit and went upstairs where Henry Stein used to draw; he passed most of his time in there, secluded from the outside world, before military service, he worked at an animation studio owned by the man he once considered his best friend, Joey Drew was his name if your memory doesn’t fail you.

Your friend called him a bastard, never explained why only responded by saying: “He lost his mind.”

Nevertheless, Henry kept drawing cartoons, and sometimes, he would let you watch him sketch and answered your questions. He carried on with his old comics he left unfinished long ago. The same he had drawn back thirty years ago. The main characters are three little fellas: Bendy, Alice Angel, and Boris. Henry said they animated their adventures and later on, added side characters. The Butcher Gang, if you recall, also consists of a trio: Charley, Barley, and Edgar.

When Henry started storytelling, you felt like a kid back again, he could’ve marked your childhood just as the rest of animators who made those toons while you were a child. Oh, how you treasured these memories, you’ll never forget the time you spent together.

Evoking past times has helped to soothe your headache an itty-bitty, yet you still need to find the ibuprofen.

“Where could it be…” You asked to no one, hoping the walls may respond, even though it’ll never happen.

Seeking everywhere you soon turned the room upside down, papers on the floor resembling a carpet, art supplies rolling across the table (pencils, colors, pens, paintbrushes, blending stumps, etc.) and some books based on anatomy and animation were disorganized on their bookshelves. It all ended after you opened a drawer (this one didn’t need your touch, it was already a disorder) and found what you were looking for, and because of your rashness, more papers fell on the floor.

“Damn, what a mess…” You muttered under your breath a little irritated with yourself for being so careless while searching. You collected the papers and put them in order back again one by one, because of it you grew curious and read some of them, a letter grabbed your attention.

It was one of those fancy letters with a seal and all (what does it say? Seems of importance).

You don’t consider yourself nosy, just interested in its contents.

<<From Joey Drew? Huh, looks like your old buddy send you his salutations after all this time>>

Oh, you had no idea.

Henry knew about the letter, he already read it and did as they told him. The old studio where they used to make dreams come true transformed into a living hell.

‘DEAR HENRY

IT SEEMS LIKE A LIFETIME AGO SINCE WE WORKED ON CARTOONS TOGETHER.

30 YEARS REALLY SLIPS AWAY, DOESN’T IT?

IF YOU ARE BACK IN TOWN, COME VISIT THE OLD WORKSHOP.

THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO SHOW YOU.

YOUR BEST PAL, JOEY DREW’.

You finished reading the letter.

*Snrk*

Well shit.

Did you just read a confession or a love letter? Why not both? You don’t know why, but it feels like one.

“Okay, let’s stop right there. I can’t make jokes on circumstances as these ones”.

What could be so urgent for Joey to write a letter after thirty years of silence?

Should you investigate?

<<The letter could’ve been sent years ago! Henry surely read it; otherwise, it wouldn’t be inside a drawer of his studio, though there’s a possibility he didn’t, I doubt it. He must have seen his friend has written message>>

Okay, sure. Let’s suppose he didn’t pay any mind to the damn thing, you can pretend, now the real issue it’s the location. Joey Drew Studios must be closed (or broken down into pieces, you didn’t know if they decided to demolish the whole building).

“Wake up ___! Face reality, you shouldn’t be fantasizing, this ain’t some silly story with you as a heroine…instead of wasting my time, I shall swallow that damn pill and take some zzz’s”.

You left Henry’s solace and went to bed once again after you swallowed the pill with some water. A dreamless sleep greeted you.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bendy’s POV

“ん乇'丂 ムの刀乇”.

Even though he should be celebrating, the Inkarnate can’t seem to find any joy in his being, no emotion tried to overtake him. Why? He doesn’t feel anything. True, he may not possess all the emotions a human has, but anger, joy, sadness, and hysteria weren’t unbeknownst him. There’s no satisfaction nor sorrow towards his creator’s death, not even an ounce of regret. Ok no, he won’t sense any guilt for what happened to Henry, he deserved to die just as much as Joey, but he was grasping straws in here!

How’s it possible to not perceive the slightest of emotion within himself?

The Ink Demon was turning apathetic in regards to the subject; he didn’t have an answer as to why. One thing he’s sure of, his world turned dull no longer exciting as he thought.

It was as if the little dancing demon had opened his eyes for the first time, after all those years blinded by the dripping ink, before that, he only saw what his mind showed him. He finally realized how monochromatic his world truly is.

All is black and white for the demon’s eyes.

A wave of indifference invades his mind and his mind is fuzzy, he dissolves into his inky form and rests.

However, not for much.

“-aHahaHAhahaHahaHAhaha!”

Alice.

That bitch.

He despises her nearly as much as those liars, yet the little devil darling couldn’t give a damn about her right now. Let her laugh all she wants as the malady she’s. The Angel probably got the word, celebrating, unlike him.

Immersing himself even more inside the ink, he found…peace. He can work with that, serenity aids his jumbled thoughts; darkness envelopes him and swallows his body whole.

<<In the end…I feel empty. Is this how revenge it’s supposed to be like?>>

He can’t respond to that, how could he? He doesn’t even know what’s life supposed to feel like.

<<Their imagination cursed us all with life, they couldn’t take responsibility for their actions and show us how to drive through it>>

Back when he was the small little imp everybody loved, there were all kind of colors, unlike now. The studio felt warm in contrast to all the ink that surrounds it now.

The remains of those old days lurk inside the deep abyss as ink creatures, husks who replaced the humans that worked here.

Thinking about it got him tired, Bendy finds himself drifting from consciousness, he’s falling asleep.

“Was it worth it?”

<<Again that cunt>> Despite his thoughts, the Inkarnate didn’t feel irascible towards the narcissist woman. Actually, there isn’t much for him to perceive.

She’s not in here, she wouldn’t dare to step a foot on his domain. The wench had the nerve of placing her cutouts and posters; he destroyed a few just as she did the same. She is communicating with him using a damaged poster with her face.

“I know you can hear me, demon, don’t fake pretend.”

“Wんﾘ りの ﾘのひ ᄃﾑ尺乇?” He hopes to scare her, even though he knows it won’t work while using his beast form for some reason his speech turns nightmarish. Yet he doesn’t wield it often because of how difficult is controlling his instincts. Thoughts become more primal, talking it’s hard after a few hours transformed in it gets tiring, and he can’t measure his own force. He favors his inky form best: practical and gets the job done.

“I don’t”. So she’s just shitting with him, insufferable.

“Then why ask?”

“Spirit of inquiry. Your relationship intrigues me, up there in Heaven, we get curious as to why you didn’t kill him yourself. And don’t even try to justify your actions. You had many opportunities. The little errand boy nearly ends up killing you, he tried the same with me”.

After listening to what the Angel had to said, his permanent smile turned slowly into a frown. It’s never a good thing when the Lord ain’t wearing one.

“…”

“Well?”

The fallen angel is laughing at him.

“Not even you know the reason behind your acts of mercy!” He remains silent, it’s not like she’s wrong, the little devil does not why he was so resilient with Henry.

After that fiasco, she left him be.

Thanks to Alice’s short visit, Bendy finds questioning why she dropped by. They hate one another, true. She has eyes here and there, but it’s to keep him in line, so he won’t cross an inky limb on her domain. Unlike the female cartoon, he does not have any cutouts, posters, plushies, or ink servants near her place. He wants nothing to do with her. That’s why he finds it so unusual, it’s not like her.

Unless…

She fancies something he has.

<<If that bitch knows what’s good for her, she won’t be picking her nose in my business>>

Later he’ll do his rounds throughout the studio, maybe, the imp will find what she’s searching before she does, whatever it may be, he won’t let her have it.

He’ll make sure of it.

Who knows what her deranged mind has planned; he’s tired of the gruesome scenery this place is in, corpses all around, clones of his ol’ friend bring back unsavory images from the past. Oh, Lawrence, he’s a madman, made satanic circles as a way of showing his devotion towards the black devil. Thanks to Sammy, he has eyes in nearly the entire place.

Yes, he’s aware the musician it’s alive, but Sammy Lawrence continues being of use for him.

<<I’ll take care of him when I wake up…>>

He’s exhausted. However, he stays on his beast form sunken in ink.

The demon’s slumber it’s a peaceful one…

.

   .

   .

   .

   .

   Until you enter his kingdom.

 An animalistic rumble shakes the tinted walls.

 He’s coming for you.

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three days.

You paced on the issue for three days, until you finally had an answer.

“I’m gonna pay a visit to your ol’ pal, maybe he’s still alive…or not…” You lowered your voice in the last part; Henry called Joey a bastard and accused him of being mentally unstable, you trust his word, but what if…what if he changed? There’s a possibility he redeemed himself and went through a rehabilitation process to help him with his instability.

<<I need to look for the address and from there I’ll see what can be done>>

You googled ‘Joey Drew Studios’ on your phone and within seconds Google Maps showed up, you were going to click at it, but then something catches your eye.

An article and it’s quite old.

‘Joey Drew Studios, also known as the workshop. Is an American corporation and an animation studio of the Bendy franchise, established in 1929.

Founded by Joey Drew and Henry Stein in an unknown full date other than the year of 1929, Joey Drew Studios is located at Broadway, Brooklyn, New York City, New York.

In 1946, Joey Drew Studios was under investigation after reports of hazardous work environments, missing employees, harassment, and excessive back pay, as well the company's danger of being bankrupt, all of which are a result of Joey's mismanagement of the studio. Anonymous employees threatened to make labor unions over the poor conditions, which included unpermitted buildings, hazardous electrical wiring, and a plumbing system prone to bursting. In addition, there were excessive work hours, most of which were unpaid and several animators were unable to see their families in weeks, after being threatened with disciplinary action and termination if they were unable to finish animations on tight schedules.

There were reports of barricaded offices, employees locked up in work spaces, and complaints of crazy malfunctioning machinery. Despite the evidence against the company, Joey Drew remained firm that the studio has done nothing wrong, calling the accusations "preposterous" and "ridiculous", dismissing them as either complaint from menial employees, or feeble attempts by competing studios to discredit Joey.

On August 16, 1959, the law firm known as Snooks, Spitner and Snooks sued Joey Drew, having heard the rumors of Joey's mismanaging of his own workers. 12 days later, the studio was closed down in accordance to legal regulation 11 U.S Code § 1125 (which forbids the misrepresentation of legally established companies) as evident by the bankruptcy report found in Joey's apartment, as well as health and safety concerns directly by the mention of a health and safety board meeting schedule found in the appointment lobby.’

Oof.

<<That’s a lot to take in>>

Why the fuck would Henry’s friend would want to meet at that nightmare show? Has he learned nothing after all this years? And not only that, the sucker it´s/was an abusive prick with his employees!

<<Man, you weren’t joking>>

You fear a screw lose isn’t Joey’s only problem.

<<He sounds like an asshole, I don’t want to put up with his shit...I’ve got enough dealing with people like him on a daily basis. Sure, not everyone it’s an ass and there’s some decent/kind people out there, but handling jerks as the likes of him tires me out>>

Sometimes you aren’t the most patient person, it all depends. But this whole ordeal it’s too much for you.

<<The studio is in the big city, New York it’s fucking expensive. I don’t have the money for travelling that far, I’ll have to bid on my savings and package supplies for the journey>>

Crap. Three days and you didn’t think all of this through! How can you be so stupid?!

Now this looks like one of those impulsive decisions you take for being careless and inattentive.

<<How could Henry put up with me when not even I can stand myself?!>>

You need an adult, that’s what you ought to have beside you.

Your life is such a mess sometimes…

“Before spending money on my idiocy I should read more and prepare myself.” You mutter angrily to yourself.

That’s exactly what you did the next two days, finally you are ready for departing.

You grab your backpack and the car’s keys. “Cellphone in the front pocket, all that’s left is open the door, lock it and call Abby, easy.”

During those two days you made a few calls and went up for gas, it was going to be a long trip from Miami to New York. Sure, it ain’t that extensive, but you’ll be driving by yourself for approximately 20 hours. A place to stay, money, gasoline and food are big girl’s problems. Not counting the money you’ll spend on a cheap motel to rest your head.

“That or make a few stops on gas stations…maybe sleeping in the car won’t be that bad…” The good thing is you have options; you aren’t tied solely to one alternative.  

<<Abby won’t charge me for doing me this favor, another plus>>

She’ll guard the house in your absence and will call if any emergency transpires.

Now, you are free to go.

<<I hope I made a good decision doing this>>

The first 8 hours were a torment, bored and your ass felt numb of sitting for that long, the last time you remained that still was in high school, since you made your schedule. Your feet hurt just as your arms did. You made a stop for eating and going to the bathroom, after that another 8 hours.

Overall, the journey was relaxing, while driving you admired the views offered to you, savoring each sight. It helped you keeping away some melancholy.

You miss Henry, no matter how much you tried to distract yourself with this excursion of yours, the emptiness stays in the back of your mind.

Your wounds are still fresh, you haven’t mourned properly, because you don’t want to. That’s why you are doing this, to keep yourself busy so you won’t think about it. You need it, you ain’t prepared for it yet.

Soon you’ll be.

After a short nap (before that you made many stops, ‘cuz you’re a whining bitch who ain’t strong enough to control her fucking bladder), you started driving again. You have three or four hours left on the road.

Time to listen some music, you activate Bluetooth and connect your phone to the car’s stereo, finally you found a song of your liking in Spotify and play it. You spent the rest of the trip singing along; sometimes you’ll speed up a little bit on the spur of the moment.

Soon you got to your destination, didn’t waste time changing clothes, you collapsed on the bed in the motel and slept for an hour. After that, you washed yourself and got ready for visiting Joey Drew.

“Here goes nothing…”

You regret already coming here, silly you just ruined a change of clothes! Why is there so much ink? You’ll never get out the ink of your shoes, fuck! You have been here for less than ten minutes and all went to shit for you! It doesn’t help this place keeps giving you the heebies-jeebies! Every time you take a step on the creaky wooden floor it feels as if someone is following you, like a slithering sound. The ink splashes keep creeping you out, if it wasn’t black you would think it’s blood, Jesus Christ.

<<Thank God, the lights still work; it would make this place spookier if they didn’t>>

As you venture further deeper into the studio, a beast rumbles, shaking everything around you, more ink drops fall.

At that moment…

…you knew you fucked up.

So you hide.

Your mind provides you one last thought before going high drive

‘WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!’

<<FUUU-

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #fanfic #bendy #boris the wolf #alice angel #bendyxreader #sammy lawrence #henry stein #reader #Dance For Me Fanfic #bendy fanfic #BATIM fanfic #batim fanfic

[thedyingmoon]

💜 This I Promise 💜

***

XXXV. Waltz

***

(F/N) and Jonas became confused upon taking a closer look at one of the rooms of their home. It was not its emptiness that caused their confusion, no.

It was its lack, thereof.

"What is this mess?" Jonas asked no one in particular upon entering the now messy room occupied by at least six unknown seamstresses, some of them happily chatting with each other while cutting various colors of fabric, one of them silently jotting down notes and checking some sketches, and two of them ordering his sister, Rosemarie, about, making her turn around then back again as she was being measured.

"Its not this mess, Jonas." Said Marie from the corner of the room. "They are here to make your sister and your cousin the dresses they'll wear during the Winter Season."

Dresses? Cousin?

"Aunt Marie," began (F/N) as she went closer to her. "I thought all these Winter Season thing is a joke. I didn't expect it to,..."

"It's not a joke, Miss." The one seamstress, who was formerly jotting down on a notebook, said to her while taking a closer look at her. "We're all here to make you and your sister the most desirable females in this year's special event. Yes. Particularly, you, Miss. For your engagement."

"What en - ?"

(F/N) was interrupted when the two ladies, who just finished measuring Rosemarie, came towards her and grabbed both her arms quite roughly. She was about to make the protest of her life when she saw Rosemarie grinning devilishly at her.

"Your turn, cousin." Her dear cousin said to her while patting her right shoulder, seemingly for support.

"I don't understand." (F/N) uttered as she was made to stand on the platform in the middle of the sunny room.

"Oh, you will, Miss." One stout seamstress answered her as she took out her measuring tape and began wearing it around (F/N)'s tiny waist.

For a few moments, the same thing that they did to Rosemarie happened to poor and confused (F/N), making her lift her arms, turn around, and so forth. And when she finally stepped down the platform, an unknown seventh seamstress came from the shadows and met her. She was a bit taller and looked more sophisticated than the other six ladies, who began catching Jonas across the room as they tried to take his measurements for a promise of the most perfectly tailored suit of the much awaited evening.

For a few seconds, the taller lady observed (F/N), looking at her up and down and making her very much uncomfortable.

"You have a perfect build, Miss Carlstead. Despite your small stature, you have an evenly balanced frame that will actually make you look taller on the right kind of dress." She said expertly to (F/N).

"Eh, thank you?"

"I was particularly instructed to make you a unique dress that should make you stand out among the debutantes of the noble Reiss ballroom. So, I will not let you choose whatever design you like. I will be the one to decide it."

"Okay." (F/N) simply answered, already hating the haughty seamstress.

"I will, however, let you choose whichever color you desire."

"The color I desire, huh?" (F/N) muttered as she glanced at the many fabrics that scattered about the room, of cotton and silk, satin and poplin, lace and sequins, from pastel hues to darker velvets. She couldn't quite believe her luck for being treated as such.

All in all, it looked like a dream come true to her. At least to her delicate and feminine side.

"How about that (F/C) pastel, or lace, whatever that is. I love (F/C)." (F/N) said as she pointed at the soft - looking fabric with the most alluring texture.

The seamstress looked at the fabric, smiled a bit, and nodded with approval.

"The (F/C) lace ensemble will do. Ladies!" she bellowed as she clapped her hands, gesturing for her assistants to focus. "We've got five months to accomplish the impossible. We'll do it in four!"

"Aye, madam!" the six ladies answered in unison like some pirates reciting in front of their Captain, giving Jonas ample time to get off the measuring platform and escape the clutches of the tailoring hags.

And just as both (F/N) and Jonas were about to escape the room, Marie caught up with them and pinched their cheek.

"Ouch! Mom, stop embarrassing me!" Jonas lashed out as he waved his mother's fingers off his face.

"You're not done for today. Especially you, (F/N). Someone wants to meet you."

"What? Why me?" (F/N) complained, having enough of the treatment she honestly felt she didn't deserve.

"You'll see." Marie answered her.

"And what about Rosemarie, huh? Why is she taking the easy way out of all of this?" Jonas said, pointing at his elder sister, who started prancing out of the room without a care in the world.

"I finished etiquette and social dancing while you two slacked." She droned and went out of the room like a boss.

"Such a cheater!" Jonas complained.

"I'm involved in all this?" (F/N) asked.

"There's no use backing out of this now, (F/N). Let's go. Lady Delilah doesn't like to be kept waiting."

And Lady Delilah really doesn't want to be kept waiting.

The tall, slim lady had her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the girl that her stupid younger brother asked her to tutor. And when the girl finally arrived at the mansion's modest, but vast ballroom, she gave her the most intimidating look she could muster to give a slacking student.

On the other hand, (F/N) was particularly freaked out when she saw the lady who was waiting impatiently for her. Freaked out and amazed at the same time, as she saw that the lady had striking blonde hair and the coldest blue eyes she has ever seen in her entire life. Her posture screamed out discipline in every way possible, and her clothes doesn't betray her status.

She really looked like the strict and highly - paid tutor that she is.

Marie, who was, indeed, very beautiful in her own, soft and graceful way, smiled at the guest, unfazed and unintimidated by the lady.

"I' am very sorry to have kept you waiting, Lady Smith." Marie said, smiling at the emotionless woman before them.

"I'm very sure it is not your own fault, Lady Carlstead." The woman answered her with a voice as cold as a winter night. "Now, let us not waste time any further and introduce my new pupils."

Marie ignored the fact that the Lady addressed her by her maiden name, seeing that the woman still has a grudge against her for not marrying her brother instead, and turned to face Jonas and (F/N).

"Jonas, (F/N), dears, this is Lady Delilah Smith, dance and etiquette tutor and honorary noble of Wall Sina." Marie said, gesturing politely at the lady.

"Professional dance and etiquette tutor, Lady Carlstead. Do not, for the love of the Walls, mishandle the facts."

And she is to be my tutor?! Thought (F/N) helplessly as she absorbed the awkward scene before her very own eyes, making a mental note to herself not to piss off this stoic woman.

Marie would not show her irritation at the heartless woman and, instead, smiled at her son and niece.

"Don't disappoint me, kids." Marie whispered at them. She looked at (F/N), winked at her playfully, and smacked her bottom, making the girl come closer to Lady Delilah Smith.

For a brief moment, (F/N) just stared blankly at the woman, then remembered to curtsy and introduced herself.

"I'm (F/N) Carlstead. It is such an honor to meet you, my Lady." She muttered the obligatory words.

Delilah appraised the girl and regarded her coldly.

So, this is the girl that my stupid brother has eyes on?

"Young girl, do understand that time is of the most important essence of being a perfect noble Lady. You cannot be tardy and just apologize to get your way out of embarrassment. The world of the nobles is a treacherous one, young girl. One simple mistake, and they'll have you thrown out of the Walls. Figuratively speaking. You are not to bring shame upon yourself, if not for the sake of your guardians and betrothed. You are expected to be proper, at all times."

"Yes, my Lady." (F/N) muttered her response, dumbfounded at what she just heard from Delilah.

"You are expected to follow all of my instructions while you are under my wing. You are not to disobey my words, for they will be the ones you will always remember upon stepping into the bigger world."

"Yes, my Lady."

"And I will not acknowledge you as a Lady, honorary title or not, until you pass all of my trials. Are we clear, young girl?"

"Yes, my Lady." (F/N) almost yelled her response, slightly slipping out of her pupil mode.

"Since you are a bit late for a student, we'll have to compress our time and teach you the most basic of all dances, the waltz. You will never get lost with a simple waltz. You learn it, and all the other dances would be a piece of tart, even for you."

(F/N) watched as Lady Delilah positioned herself in front of the large room.

"We begin by facing one side of the room. Place your feet hip distance apart and keep your arms relaxed by your sides. Step back with your right foot. Bend your right leg slightly as you step so you land on the ball of your foot first. Keep your upper body straight and relaxed. Place your left foot back so your feet are parallel. Make sure there is a foot distance between your feet and they are facing the same direction. Move your right foot next to your left foot. Your feet should just be touching, side by side. Step your left foot forward. Bend your left knee slightly as you step your foot forward so you land softly on the ball of your foot. Are you following closely, young girl?!"

"Yes, ma'am!" (F/N) yelled as she hastily did everything Delilah just did.

"Good. Now, move your right foot forward so it is parallel to your left foot. Your feet should be side by side, slightly more than hip distance apart. Place your left foot next to your right foot so they just touch. This is the final step in the box step. You will repeat these steps, forming a box shape with your partner, when you perform the waltz."

Jonas covered his mouth to avoid his laughter from coming out when he heard the words forming a box shape with your partner when performing the waltz. Delilah's eagle eyes did not miss this and turned her sharp gaze towards him.

"It seems that you are overly excited for the waltz, young man."

"No, no, I'm not - "

"Please, come forward."

Jonas had no choice but to obey the woman. Marie went closer to the pianist while observing the three of them. She smiled. It somehow reminded her of her own debutante days. Except that there was no infamous Delilah Smith around to tyrannize her whole Winter Season experience.

Jonas faced Delilah and it was (F/N)'s turn not to laugh when she saw Jonas looking up the very tall woman.

"Now, I do hope you have your basics already, young man."

"Yes, I - "

"Who told you to speak? In the ballroom, we converse by dancing. Maestro! The butterfly waltz."

"Yes, ma'am!" Now, it was the poor, old pianist's turn not to panic as he woke up from his nap and prepared himself to play.

As the music began, Delilah instinctively faced her short partner as Jonas reluctantly placed his right hand on her back and his left hand on her right. (F/N) watched in awe as the basic steps of the waltz unfolded before her own eyes, courtesy of her cousin and the Lady Smith.

When the music stopped, Jonas released his grip on the tall woman and got himself away from her as possible, which greatly irritated the tutor.

"You will never find yourself a partner if you act like that, young man!"

Jonas just rolled his eyes. Delilah sighed. The boy reminded her of his stupid father Nile.

"Now, young girl, you will repeat the steps I taught you. Young man, lead your cousin."

"I have a name!" Jonas whispered as he positioned himself in front of (F/N), preparing himself for another round of basic waltz.

(F/N) became nervous, as she never really danced before. She became even more nervous as she realized that her cousin Jonas stood a lot taller than her.

Jonas, upon noticing his cousin's uneasiness, smiled devilishly at her as he opened his arms, waiting for her.

"Don't step on my foot with your left feet, dear cousin." Jonas warned, or rather, challenged, like the time he challenged her in fencing.

"You wish." (F/N) answered back as she took her cousin's hand, considering the challenge as good as accepted.

Delilah sighed. The girl looked as though she was going on a battlefield rather than a ball. There's so much to be learned at a very short time. But, they'll have to make do.

"Now," Delilah said. "Let us see what you're made of."

******

Petra and (F/N) admiringly watched their mother as she finished the white dress for them. And when she finally finished, the two little girls cheered.

"Mom, will I be able to dance on a Winter Season ball?" Petra asked as she received the dress from her mother.

"Yes, darling. I'm sure that you'll be invited someday."

"Invited?" (F/N) asked as she played with the soft fabric and thin threads that littered their living room.

"Why, yes. During my time, nobody goes on a ball uninvited and without a partner or an escort." Mother said. "And for you to be invited, you must be the most graceful and most respected lady of all."

"How can I be graceful and respectable?" Petra asked as she pirouetted dreamily with the dress.

The mother laughed softly as she lovingly watched her daughter.

"Honey, you are already graceful and respectable."

"But, being a lady,..." (F/N) uttered as she attempted to put a thread through a needle hole. "How can I be a true lady?"

To this, the mother smiled affectionately, admiring her daughter's deep thinking.

"Well, one thing is you must keep yourself pure. Purity is the most beautiful treasure a graceful and respectable lady should always have."

"What will happen if I don't have it?"

"If you don't have it, you will never be respectable."

"Is it really that important?" Petra asked impatiently, not understanding the true gravity of her mother's words for them.

"Why, most definitely yes, my dear Petra."

"It is very important?" (F/N) repeated.

"Yes." She placed her hands on their cheeks and explained gently. She turned to (F/N) and said, "Always remember, my dear girl, that a woman's purity is to be cherished, and not be given away to anyone except for the man you truly loved."

"How can I know who that man is?" (F/N) asked her.

"It's very simple, my child,..."

"He needs to be a Prince, dummy!" Petra announced gleefully, never really taking her mother's words seriously as she went on playing Princess.

"Petra, you read too much fairy tales." (F/N) grumpily said, breaking the moment.

"And you spend too much time on the stables!" Petra said, then giggled.

The mother smiled.

"It is when your heart beats faster than ever before when you are near him. You feel as though some sort of electricity is connecting the both of you as you look into each other's eyes. And when you are apart, you feel as though you will never be happy again. That is how I know I loved your father." She said to (F/N)

Upon hearing this tale, the father stopped in his tracks on his way outside the house and stared at the trio of his beloved ladies.

"Eh, isn't it too early for them to hear that story, love?" he asked her.

His beloved wife just laughed at him. "Honey, I will never get tired of reminiscing that story."

That is how I know I loved him,...

***

~ @levi4mikasa , @unhappysap ,@shewolfofficial , @nerdyphantomlady , @super-peace-fangirl , @fangurl-ontgeside , @yepps , and @emilyackerman78 . 💜

***

💜💜💜

***

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman #captain levi #this i promise #levi x reader #levi x you #chapter 35 #waltz

[catgluue]

Chapter Five: Trapped

I’m back, babies!! And IT IS STILL ROYAI WEEK IN MY HEART. Basically this took forever because I’m writing this by the seat of my pants and I tried to make it work with the prompts in the order given (if we ignore the fact that I am loosely referencing the prompts at best) but you know what I give up, this is happening, it’s fine. 

Anyway big BIG thank you to everyone who reads and/or reviews, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. 

Read on A03

Chapter Five: Trapped

Come nightfall she tries to sleep on the couch, which seems the most promising spot given her limited success two nights ago. After tossing and turning - when did the clock become so unbearably loud? - she finds herself walking up the stairs seemingly aimlessly, until she’s back in the room that used to be Roy’s. She takes a moment to stand in the window, looking out at the moon lighting the tops of the trees and the lawn and the path she used to walk long ago, before she chose another path entirely. Settling down on top of the bed she imagines it still smells faintly of him and drifts off more quickly than she would have thought possible.

When she awakens suddenly the moonlight has shifted, and there are noises in the hall.

Silently she rolls off the bed, hitting the wood floor noiselessly, grateful for the old carpet that still sits under the bed that muffles the faint thud of her stocking feet hitting the floor. Someone is creeping in the hall. Someone is not as stealthy as they think. Two someones, she amends, pulling her sidearm from the holster at her back and holding her breath to catch the faint scuffling as they move along. When they enter the room in a burst of noise and light (what kind of burglars bring a flashlight , she thinks in annoyance) she’s ready, neatly grazing the shin of one and then the thigh of the other. They’re bleeding profusely with superficial wounds when she gets to her feet, having taken the cord off the curtain, and sweeps the feet out from the slower one with her leg. The other thunders down the stairs and she pays him no mind, flipping this one onto his back, her knee digging into his spine as she wraps the cord tightly around his wrists.

“Who sent you?” she asks, guessing that this wiry man in threadbare clothing isn’t here to rob her of his own volition. The house is in disrepair and everyone knows her family was all but destitute by the end.

“Bitch!” he spits, and she sighs, digging her knee in further as he lets out an involuntary yell against the carpet; he can answer or he can crack a rib.

“What is your name?” she tries instead and this time he gasps out an answer.

“Johnson,” he gasps. “Frank Johnson, and that’s all you’ll get, I hope it’s satisfactory.”

She gets to her feet, dragging him up with her, just as Fuery comes thundering into the room, gun drawn.

“Captain, are you hurt?”

“No,” she replies. “Did you get the other one?”

They did, as it happens, and he’s tied to a chair in the kitchen by the time they get downstairs. Havoc has his weapon drawn but looks unconcerned; the colonel has a single white glove on and an impassive expression that would be unreadable to everyone but her, and Breda is eating an apple noisily while regarding the robber with a stony expression. Their second captive’s face is nearly the same color as the glove that he eyes warily while he sings like a canary.

“-said there might be one woman in the house, didn’t say anything about the damn Hero of Ishval being here! This is well above my pay grade if you ask me-”

“Well did he mention that the woman was the country’s most renowned sharpshooter?” Roy is saying dryly. “You’d think that would be pertinent information. Hawkeye, are you all right?”

“Fine, sir,” she says, depositing Frank in a chair next to the other man. No one bothers tying him up.

“Good. Well, now you are both going to tell me what you were intending to do with my Captain,” he directs at the two men, expression dark as he fingers the end of his ignition glove with his other hand. “And I’d choose your words carefully.”

“We weren’t to hurt her,” Frank volunteers, “Just ah, apprehend her.”

“Idiots,” Breda mutters, rolling his eyes, and Riza appreciates this. She gives a quick half-smile as his eyes flicker to hers and he grins widely, taking another bite of the apple.

“Sir,” she interjects, but Roy is already standing from his perch on a barstool tugging on his glove reflexively.

“And why , exactly, were you sent to apprehend her?”

“Look,” the other man says, speaking up at last, “We weren’t told the specifics - clearly, or else we’d have been more prepared. I mean we haven’t even talked to this guy in the flesh-”

“ General ,” she cuts in, loudly enough that he turns to look at her. “What if they did apprehend me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out-”

“No, I mean suppose I go with them, and see what this criminal mastermind wants,” she suggests. Roy’s brow furrows.

“Absolutely not .”

“I dunno boss, that’s a pretty solid plan. She goes in as bait, with us as backup. We find out what exactly this person’s endgame is, and then we take them down,” Breda reasons, apple discarded as he carefully and conspicuously cleans his own gun, an action that Riza is certain isn’t altogether necessary but helps to set the mood.

“I’ll go ahead, find a vantage point, it’ll be safe as can be,” Havoc volunteers. Fuery is looking curiously at Roy, gun still in the arm that hands slack at his side.

“Sorry if this sounds insubordinate, sir, but since when do you not think the Captain can take care of herself?” he asks in a quiet voice. Riza cocks an eyebrow at the General and Havoc’s face lights up.

“An excellent point,” he says. “Why wouldn’t you trust your own bodyguard in this very important capacity?” They have him there. Roy is regarding his Lieutenant with a mixture of confusion and annoyance when Riza turns to Frank, hands on her hips.

“You’re going to take me to whoever this person is.”

“That’s it, you’re just gonna untie us and come willingly?” The other man asks incredulously. “You’ll be making our job real easy, thanks for that.”

“They really have no idea who they were trying to kidnap,” Breda mutters. “You’ll want to watch your mouth when you’re talking to a lady with five guns on her person.”

-x-

“Hmm,”

Riza lifted her head from where it had been laying on her arms and turned slightly at the sound of Roy’s hum behind her. She was sprawled out on one of the couches in the parlor, him seated in a chair next to her with pen and paper, mapping out the intricate tattoo that fanned out across her back. It was late afternoon on the second day of this study and she’d been dozing as he worked in silence.

“What?” she asked when he didn’t elaborate. “Find something interesting?”

“It’s all interesting,” he said earnestly. “I’ve been trying to sketch it first and worry about figuring it all out later but sometimes pieces just catch my eye.” She knew perfectly well that he hadn’t been diligently sketching for two days - for one thing it had been two days, and while it was a complicated array it wasn’tthat complicated. For another, the sound of his pencil scratching against the paper was often punctuated by long moments of silence while he contemplated whatever he had written down. She, in no hurry to end the process, hadn’t said anything, content to bask in the dreamy autumn sunlight and his presence.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she confessed. “I’m just the human sketchbook.” She didn’t mean for it to sound bitter but to her ears it was petulant, and she bit her lip in annoyance. She started as his fingertips brushed along her shoulder blade, down towards her spine. He had barely touched her during the whole process, excepting the few times he reached out without thinking. Riza didn’t know how to tell him she didn’t mind.

In a way the past few days felt like she was fulfilling the destiny her father set for her; a path she was bound to take regardless of what her own wishes might be. Her father told her that she was to guard his secrets and disclose them to a worthy alchemist who conspicuously remained nameless. In the years to follow she wondered, many times, if he saw her as some being of judgement, placed in his life to choose a worthy successor, instead of a very human daughter who only craved love and support. She saw herself as a train on a track, chugging steadily towards the only possible destination. Riza had been frustrated at times by her apparent lack of options but if the September sun, the worn, comfortable furniture, and the dark-haired man she trusted above all others constructed a prison, it was one she would have gladly spent the rest of her days in.

But the tattoo was only so big. She knew her days in the sun were numbered.

“It’s - I’m not done yet by any means, but considering this is flame alchemy we’re talking about I had wondered why there’s so much to do with air. It makes sense of course: fires are controlled by oxygen flow, among other things. But this part seems to indicate that a spark or some existing source of fire is needed.”

Riza half rolled over, holding the pillow to her chest as she turned to look at him. He snatched his hand back as she did so, turning pink as if just now realizing he was touching her.

“So it’s not about creating fire at all - it’s about controlling and directing it.”

“Exactly. I guess I’m just surprised, considering the secrecy surrounding it. There really is no such thing as creating fire from alchemy-”

“A spark has to already exist,” she finished. His eyes traveled up her body from the array to settle on hers, before quickly flicking back down to his notebook.

“It’s getting late, we can stop for the day if you want to,” he said. She turned her head and nestled her cheek back into the pillow, letting her eyes close as she breathed in deeply.

“No,” she told him. “I’m fine where I am.”

-x-

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what this is all about?” She asks as they lead her away from the old house and down the sloping lawn towards the forest. The moonlight illuminates the grounds a little, and she’s always had exceptional night vision, but she doesn't see anything ahead but trees. In fact unless things have drastically changed she knows for a fact that there’s nothing ahead but trees; not for five, six miles when they’d run into the O’Connell’s lands. But she doubts they’re taking her there, somehow. Wherever they’re headed is somewhere in the woods - her woods.

“Course not,” Aldman - she was able to get a name, at least - tells her almost cheerfully. “Not my business, anyhow. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“What’s in it for you?”  

“Money, of course,” he responds.

“Yeah, all Rainer wants is the alchemy, he said. We get anything of material value,” Frank supplies, and Aldman nudges him hard in the ribs as Riza lets out a quiet laugh.

“Anything of value? Sorry to disappoint you but there’s nothing there, alchemy or otherwise,” she lies. Well not quite a lie - everything she’s found so far of her mother’s jewelry is gone from the house already, given to the General this afternoon for safekeeping.

“What do you mean by that?” Frank asks sharply.

“What, do you think I would have left gold bricks in the house for fifteen years while I survived off an army salary? Unless you collect antique armoires, I hope this Rainer person has something else to pay you off with.” More than threats of shooting or incineration, this seems to give them pause. It’s one thing to be darkly informed that harming a hair on Riza’s head will result in immediate immolation but quite another to realize one might not get paid for a job one has mostly completed.

“No more talking,” Aldman growls, jabbing her with the one pistol they have between them, and she rolls her eyes in the darkness. “We’re nearly there anyhow.”

Riza peers through the trees, searching for any kind of a structure, or even a person , but still sees nothing, nothing but trees growing thickly around them. Aldman and Frank hang back and she balks, but starts walking again at a nudge from the pistol, though she walks slowly, scanning the forest carefully. She used to play in these woods as a child, but the same trees now seem unfamiliar, and despite her assurance that these criminals are blundering fools, faintly menacing in the near-darkness.

She’s almost past the tree when she sees the transmutation circle, carved into the bark just below eye level.

Riza digs her heels in and whirls around, reaching for her own gun concealed at the small of her back and as she does so she sees the same mark on another tree, feet away; she’d been about to walk between them.

“What is this?” she demands, pointing her gun at Aldman, who is pointing his right back at her.

“Keep walking,” he orders her and she decides all bets are off. Before she can yell for backup Frank moves faster than she thought he had the ability to, ducking under her gun and slamming into her midsection. She falls backwards, and has the wind knocked out of her as she hits the floor. She rolls, gasping, and jumps to her feet, pulling her gun up-

Only to find she’s aiming at her own back.

She sees herself suspended between the trees, arms stretched out to either side, mid-fall, for all the world like an insect caught in a spiderweb. The two men on the other side look about as surprised as she feels, Frank stepping forward to look at her face while Aldman grins, gun lowering. She holds up her hands and finds they have an odd, transparent quality to them, and sinks to her knees. The forest floor makes no noise as she settles onto it.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Frank is saying. “Rainer wrote ‘just get her through the trees’ and he’d take care of the rest but I wasn’t expecting this. Now what, we leave her? How do we get our cut with all those soldiers swarming the mansion anyway?” Aldman doesn’t answer, but lifts his pistol and puts a bullet between Frank’s eyes. The other man drops like a stone, and Aldman walks through the pair of trees purposefully, stepping out of his own body as though it was as comfortable as slipping off a pair of shoes.

Riza rises slowly to her feet, doing her best to ignore the yelling as Havoc and Fuery descend on the scene, guns drawn - she supposes that whatever she is now, they won’t be able to help her; their yelling sounds muffled, as though she’s hearing it from beneath several inches of water.

“What did you do to me?” she asks him. The pistol is a comforting weight in her hand, though she knows it won’t do much for her now, a shade of its former self. Just like her. Fuery takes off running back towards the house while Havoc inches towards her, delicately holding a hand up to her neck, feeling for a pulse. She turns her back on the whole scene, not wanting to see who Fuery would inevitably bring back. She doesn’t want to see the look on Roy’s face when he sees her hanging there.

“You’re not an alchemist,” he shrugs. “It’ll go over your head.”

“Try me,” she challenges. This feels like a test of some kind and from the way he grins, she feels both that she’s somehow passed and that this isn’t a good thing. There is one thing that she knows to be a universal truth about all alchemists; each and every one of them is at one point convinced that he alone understands the idiosyncrasies of the universe. She suspects that this is that moment for Aldman - Rainer, whoever - but she knows that like all the others, his moment of hubris shall be fleeting. Her grip tightens.

“Oh it’s impressive,” he tells her. “You see there’s a little trick I know - one that the military wasn’t much interested in when they learned the restrictions-”

“Let me guess, the restrictions involve you needing to seperate my consciousness from my body,” she says flatly. He doesn’t flinch away from her furious glare - with her being incorporeal, there isn’t a reason to.

“And I thought you were just the muscle and Mustang was the brains of the operation,” he purrs. “But unfortunately yes.”

“Well it can’t be permanent,” she says. “Or else you’d be trapped here with me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he tells her, fishing out a pendant necklace from a string around his neck. The pendant is an oval of beaten copper, and she can see a sigil etched into the metal. “I’ve taken precautions. I don’t think that I can say the same for you; I just needed to isolate your subconscious so we could really delve into things.”

“So I’m asleep,” she surmises, looking back at her prone body suspended between the trees. Three figures are running full-tilt from the house and she turns away again, taking an unsteady, shallow breath before she continues. “Should be easy enough to wake me.”

“Closer to a coma, so think again,” he corrects her.

“CAPTAIN!! ” The anguished cry breaks through whatever barrier hangs between her and her team as the men skid to a halt before the tree. Breda ducks to check Frank and Havoc waves him away, as Fuery prods at Aldman - Rainer - and her General walks up to where she hangs limply, lifting a hand and hesitantly holding it to her face, his confident mask briefly dropping to show a man utterly lost. Riza makes herself turn away.

“You haven’t explained what you want from me that you couldn’t get from me while awake,” she says, and he fishes around in his pocket, finally pulling out what seems to be a photograph.

“Think of it as being a little like hypnosis,” he explains. “But more hands on, a touch more visceral. We’re going to sift through your memories together.” She doesn’t like the sound of this one bit - sifting through her memories isn’t something she even cares to do alone. But she can’t see that she has much choice at all in the matter -  she’s been forced from her body and stands as a shade in front of him, the General calling to her behind her back, and there is nowhere to go.

#royai #royaiweek19 #riza hawkeye #Roy Mustang #fma #fmab #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #good lord this took a minute #sorryyyy #hg

[dbhilluminate]

DBHI: Redemption- "The Open Door", pt. 3

ARE YOU A FAN OF DETROIT? DO YOU LIKE GAY SHIPS AND COMPLICATED, LOVEABLE BOYS?? Then please keep up with our fic, you’ll love it, I promise!

(Chapter art by dark_dumb)

**Co-authored by grayorca15

Characters: Trevor Langley, Dylan Fleur, Dennis Lenore (mentions of Rhea Fleur, Dahlia Fleur, Spencer) Word Count: 6,875

A rocky introduction leads to the beginnings of an unexpected mutual understanding, and an unlikely friendship more welcomed by one than the other.

• Archive link • Chapter Index • • Related Works • Characters •

Previous Chapter

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July 4th, 2041 - 9:18 PM The remainder of the trek back to the house was surprisingly short. Compared to the winding, off-road path their chase had taken through the trees, this road they traveled was a straight shot with only a few gentle curves right, left, and another slight left. It ended almost right back where they’d started- the trees opened up to a hill that sloped down toward the house, where the balcony stairs led up to the studio. Now that he had a moment and wasn’t just blindly running away from the house, he noticed that a grotto has been carved into the slope of the hill below the veranda, and made into a nook furnished with several lounge chairs and a few stone fireplaces for illumination and warmth. Small, open archway entrances on either side ruined the potential for complete privacy, but with the hill blocking the view at a distance, it seemed like the kind of space he’d like to pass the time in. Dylan trotted up the staircase while skipping two steps with each stride, draped his soiled cardigan and shirt over the banister, entered the house barefoot and shirtless, then grabbed another sleeveless cardigan off the back of a chair and threw it on without stopping. Trev crept in behind him with his hands in his pockets while minding the globs of paint on the floor that were still a little wet (even after nearly an hour’s drying time), then stopped to examine the room. It was exactly as he’d glimpsed the first time through, more of a studio to work in than a chamber to rest, even if the couch in the far-right corner from where he was standing (which was covered in blankets) said otherwise. The beamed, vaulted ceilings framed out to beige and walnut walls, otherwise covered in abstract impressionist paintings, displayed whatever work-in-progress charcoal sketches he’d been working on in his spare time. There were at least three tables, each home to a different art medium, the perimeter dotted with cloth-covered easels. A number of empty paint cans held dozens of broken-in paintbrushes among other drawing tools. A large, plastic tarp had been strung up behind the largest canvas to the left, protecting the wall behind. The fourth wall, the closest to his right, was taken up by a brick oven, a tabletop anvil, a metalworking workbench, and a pottery wheel, of all things. Stacks of books littered the floor, handfuls of canvases leaned against the walls, piles of assorted paint cans were arranged in small caches beneath the tables, on shelving, or stored in cabinetry like the one in the middle of the room blocking a trapdoor leading to the room beneath it. In the back-right corner (on the other end of the couch) was a deep, well-loved stainless-steel sink spotted with countless layers of dried pigments that had never quite washed off. The last thing he noticed was a ten-gallon aquarium filled with greenery and scratchy substrate, resting on a table in the back-left corner of the room next to the door; what it could have housed was a mystery, because the animal wasn't present. Altogether this was clearly the space of someone who spent a lot of their time trying to find their muse, and it was by no means a cheap vocation. The many paint cans alone ran into the hundreds of dollars, budget-wise, but the clue that most interested Trev sat opened on one of the tables: a ripped plastic bag, still half full of unfilled water balloons, next to an old paint encrusted funnel- also known as an ammo dump, in tonight’s case. Lovely. Langley feigned rubbing at his chin to hide a reflexive twitch. Surrounded by this breadth of creative thought brought to inanimate life made him realize how foreign it all was. He felt more like the outsider here than at any time prior this evening. “If this is the part where I state the obvious... I’ll skip it, if you prefer.” But Dylan said nothing of the sort. “What I’d prefer…? Or what you’d prefer?” His tone piqued from around the corner of the wall dividing the side of the room to Trevor’s right, and he glanced up from digging around in a laundry basket to flash him a friendly grin. “Cause I’d prefer you say what’s on your mind.” Fleur tossed him a white V-neck top and a pair of black joggers as he passed on his way across the room, presumably to give him the space to change, at which Trev had only hesitated long enough to be reasonably sure he wasn’t being watched. When he was satisfied that he was not, Langley slipped the slacks and jacket off, meticulously folded them both, and briefly inspected the top beneath before he took it off and decided to bag it as well. If he was going to change into something clean and dry, he might as well have gone the whole nine yards. All the while, he thought on his reply. Dylan probably expected him to disclose something in return, but what was more benign than talking about the weather? “What’s on my mind is how much I prefer not to say what’s on my mind,” he replied idly as he pulled the shirt on over his head and fruitlessly tried to finger-comb his gummed-up hair back into something neat so it wasn’t sticking out at such odd angles. “I was only going to say your space suits you. Obvious as it gets, right?” “Obvious? Or observational?” Dylan countered as he fussed with the canvas tarp over a six-foot square canvas against the opposite side of the room, unfolded the corners and pulled them out from under the wooden frame. When he put it that way, Trev supposed, one adjective did sound more negative than the other. “Regardless,” he paused just long enough to grab two fistfuls of the canvas tarp, then yanked; the fabric fluttered through the air and settled onto the ground beside him in a huge heap. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” he asked with a smile as Trev stopped beside him to examine the piece.

Removing the cover revealed a painting obscured by a few random splotches of paint deposited by the impact of water balloons, a sensation which he had been intimately introduced to that night. Even with chunks of the painting covered by mostly opaque layers of gesso, he could see what it was supposed to be: a man doubled over, hugging himself, fingers rending deep, clawed cuts into the skin of his ribs, the punctures leaking inky black shadows rather than life-giving crimson. The face had been turned away from the viewer, intentionally left obscured against a foggy, muddled backdrop of red, black, and gray. It was certainly a far cry from the hyper-realistic portrait hanging just outside the room- the erratic, emotionally charged brushstrokes, vivid colors, and sharp contrast of this piece were much more in line with what he’d expected after hearing about Dylan Fleur from his family members. The style was every bit as edgy and eccentric as he.

“Do you make art or war with it?” he murmured as he approached, still distracted by the thought that the painting may have been a self-portrait. He could hear Dylan scoff as another stray balloon hit one corner of the canvas and splashed a clashing layer of green over the top of an existing spot. Trev flinched ever so slightly as it splattered just a few feet away; the movement reminded him to blink, not stare in such overt confusion. “What’s this supposed to be?” “Another failure, like me,” Dylan half-joked as he wandered away to find dry pants. With no reason to follow, Trev stayed where he was and gave the piece another slow look over. It counted as evidence of something- the act of depicting what he could only interpret as some sort of inner turmoil, rather than keeping it bottled up in one’s head, was a tried-and-true coping mechanism, but not something he himself could relate to. Trevor’s closest comparison was having a department sketch artist work with a witness to a crime to recall facial features and distinguishing characteristics of a person of interest, which was similar in its intent only to identify the concept of someone. “Only failure I’m seeing here are the new stains you added.” Tempting as it was to reach out and try wiping the unsightly green off the defaced piece, Trev contented himself with working out another stubborn flake of yellow clinging to his hair. “I mean, it wasn’t finished yet, was it?” “It was, but I didn’t like it anymore, I’m gonna start over with something different,” he explained, then added as an afterthought with a frown after checking a grouping of paint cans on the floor under the coffee table. “Gotta go buy more acrylic gesso before I can, though.” “And this is why you had balloons filled with paint? You were going to trash it?” “You almost sound offended,” Dylan teased, noting the way his brows lifted in reserved judgment at the idea. Trevor cast a corrective, brown-eyed glance at him, but stopped short when Dylan met it with a disarming smile. “I’m not, I just-... don’t understand why you’d put so much effort into creating something, only to destroy it.” “It’s common practice for artists to recycle canvases when they get sick of looking at old pieces and don’t want to stretch a new one,” Fleur explained in his most educational tone as he crossed his arms and turned to step toward him. “It might have been therapeutic to paint this at the time, but I’m ready to move on from what inspired it.” “And what was that?” Dylan swallowed the answer to that question; apparently, he hadn’t earned the right to know yet, but he was perfectly fine with that. It was just one less reason to get attached. Instead, the boy ventured another risk, his voice weaker with a hint of melancholy. “Can’t you feel it…?” Trevor clenched his teeth and shot him a sharp look, not in the mood for a guessing game. “You’re the one who painted it- so you tell me.” “I could, but that would defeat the purpose of painting it.” For a moment he gazed at the painting and seemed to lose himself in the feelings it evoked, feelings that were readable on his face clear as day, even if he didn’t want to see it. “Art is a wordless form of communication that makes it a hell of a lot easier to explain thoughts you might otherwise had a hard time articulating,” he explained with a sideways glance in his direction; already, Trev could feel the prickling sensation in the back of his mind, and he didn’t like it. “Why tell what you can show?” Trev scowled, more obviously this time. He could feel it, all too vividly, and he didn’t want to. That was the problem. It wasn’t the painting itself or who its artist was, it was the similarities of the imagery and the read-into meanings that hit too close to home for comfort. It was anguish if he’d ever felt it (and he had, after he’d lost everything he’d ever known to the rise of Purgatory, the day that Boston fell), and a deep desire to cut oneself open to bleed it out just to feel the release the bloodletting would deliver. It was dark, unnerving, and passively comforting to know they shared this common pain. And that was exactly why he refused to answer him. “Thing about art is, it’s not always meant to be permanent,” Dylan continued, undeterred at his audience’s voluntary silence. “Sometimes it’s transient, transformative- like pain.” “So, you’re saying that art is pain?” It was a suitable comparison, considering the subject matter of this particular piece, and just enough of a diversion away from the uncomfortable subject to merit a response. “Sometimes… yes,” Fleur answered thoughtfully, his green-eyed gaze too transfixed to pay him any mind as Trev eyed the ink on his skin one more time and took a closer look at the flowers on his left arm. In the case of tattoos, it was more than sometimes. “Why bother with it, then?” he asked, genuinely confounded by the contradiction. “Compulsion,” he stated plain and simple as he closed his eyes, shook his head, and lowered his chin. “The pain I suffer when I don’t create is often worse than briefly facing it to scream it onto the page.” “If you say so.” Much as he detested the urge to, Trev could relate. It was very tempting to go sour at the thought of someone at Cyberlife thinking to get creative enough to the point they would try to dupe one of their products (i.e., himself) into thinking it was the real flesh-and-blood deal. Had he the pleasure of making that person’s acquaintance, it would not have been a peaceable meeting of minds. To equate it to Dylan’s example, he was the canvas upon which something new had been redrawn. Then that second layer had been unceremoniously torn off, like garish wallpaper stripped away to reveal the bare panels underneath. No one ever asked the paper if it wanted to be removed, was the only difference. Far as it was concerned, who knew if it had simply been content as it was? Not a fan of the phantom ache that seemed to settle in between his ears, Trev shut his eyes to scratch at the leftover paint flakes above one ear. The oldest spot was turning stiff, and therefore itchy. “You sound a lot like your- sisters,” he commented, cracking an eye open once the scratching was done. “No coincidence, I’m sure.” Dylan attempted a faltering smile that spoke loudly of insecurity and he turned toward one of the tables covered in brush cans, and swiped up a chunk of brush soap. “If that were true, I’d be better off,” he mused morbidly as he returned to his side and reached for the worst of the clumps in his hair. “But I’ll take that as a compliment, ‘cause they’re the best people I know, even if they can be a little...” Trev smacked away his hand when he reached up to try and help get the paint out of his hair. He thought he had made it clear that with their game over, he wasn’t of a mind to be touched, but Fleur just chuckled in response and tossed him the soap and a comb before taking a step back. “...overbearing.” “You know a touch of that yourself,” the android countered with a grumble. “All the earnestness of you three combined…” He let the words hang unfinished and tried running the bristles into his hair, wincing as they stuck against the clumps before eventually pulling through with enough force applied. “It’s contagious in this family,” Dylan joked with a short laugh as he busied himself with filling a bucket with hot, soapy water and finding a couple of sponges. “Can’t really help treating everyone else the same ‘til I know their boundaries.” Boundaries. Trevor nearly snorted. If he’d really given a shit about those, he wouldn’t be wearing his loaned clothes and scraping paint out of his hair. If this was how Dylan treated family, then he actually felt sorry for Dahlia and Rhea. “My classmates rarely say hello to me outside of courses, yet here’s a whole evening full of coddling people to make up for it. Ugh.” He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful; it was just his reality. Even the instructors tended to give him a wide berth- with no official report delivered accounting for who he was, he supposed he couldn’t fault them for being leery of what they didn’t know, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt some days. “What are you, then...?” he diverted, after a brief pause. “A student, or a hobbyist?” “Third-year fine arts at Cranbrook Academy of Arts,” Dylan replied as he knelt to wipe as much of the paint off the floor as he could with some dry rags, then followed up with a wet sponge. “I do my schoolwork from home and video call to talk to my professors or participate in classes when I need to.” Another clue to file away in the growing dossier, one that sufficed to explain why he was such a homebody. The sight of him cleaning his own floors gave Trevor pause. If he’d grown up in a house this size, with a plethora of servants to do the work for him, wouldn’t it be logical for him to leave the mess for one of them to clean up? Yet here he was, humbling himself to scrub paint off the hardwood, already damaged by years of splashed oil and turpentine. “And when you’re not doing all that…? Pranks are it?” “Pranks are reserved for special occasions, and special people…” Dylan insisted as he crawled from one partial shoeprint to the next, dragging the bucket with him. “But I do a lot of this thing called sleeping, too… y’know?” He flashed him a small grin and popped his brows. “What about you? What do you do in your spare time that’s better than...” One hand gestured around the room at ‘all this’ was enough for him to understand the question. To immediately draw a distinction as one hobby being somehow better than the other, Trev didn’t care for that presumption. Not one bit. “I study.” He left his retort at two words and resumed brushing his hair, though the movements turned sharp and jerky, the more frustrated he became. As far as he was concerned, coursework was not inherently more rewarding than art, it was just what he knew; and by the numbers, he was already better at it than eighty percent of his classmates. Though, fitting in the occasional ride-along patrol with Dennis didn’t hurt either. It served to get him outside, at least. “And that which I’m expected to learn is as boring as it is privileged information, not for the general public to know. Not much else to it.” “So, you’re a student, too,” Dylan noted without looking up. The virility in Trev’s inner thoughts was lost on him, and for the best since he’d apparently misread his implication to begin with. “Believe it or not, I do like quiet nights in, it’s just that...” Dylan’s eyelids fluttered momentarily as he paused between cleaning spots on the floor. “...it does get really lonely.” That bordered on too close to his own thoughts. How was it their experiences could be so different, yet so universal? “And this is how you force people into spending time with you?” Langley growled quietly but a whine of distress slipped through as the comb finally snagged in the tangled knot he’d been brushing it all toward. Snagged and stuck. Fleur stopped what he was doing, walked over to the sink, and filled a brush can with hot water. “You know, you could have walked away the first time you tried,” he reminded as he strode back over, leaving it at that instead of further rubbing it in that he’d made the conscious decision to stay. In a wordless movement, he took the soap out of Trev’s hand, dunked it into the can, and lathered it into a frothy mess, then tried at touching his hair again. As expected, Trevor flinched away like a wounded animal; but instead of giving up, Fleur just took in a breath to steady himself, and waited for his feral instincts to subside. “You’re making it a lot harder for yourself than it needs to be. This will help, if you let it. Please.” In spite of the mess of mixed up feelings working overtime to push him as far away as they possibly could, Dylan still wasn’t intimidated by his snarling. How could he be so calm in the face of anger? Where everyone else would have given up, he’d persisted, against his better judgment. Whether it was just sheer stupidity or naivety, he couldn’t say, but the boy’s patience was admirable. Or, maybe, learned. Trev’s brown eyes shifted focus over his shoulder at the painting one more time and withered just enough to drain the tension out of his expression. He wondered just what his trauma could have been to have left such a deep, festering wound, and how he could have remained so patient in spite of it. Hesitantly, he lowered his hands, but not his guard; for the moment, he was tired of feeling so tightly wound. Fleur fingered the solidified chunk of hair and softly worked the soap into it from root to tip until he could feel the paint start to break down. The sensation of discomfort in Trev’s scalp subsided almost immediately, to his relief, but when Fleur reached for the comb, he snatched it out of the way and recoiled back to brush it out himself. No gloating smile or snarky grin came in response. Instead he just gave him the smallest hint of a smile as he watched him comb the knot out with considerably less effort. “Better?” A mumbled, disgruntled ‘Yeah, thanks’ was all he could offer in return amidst the combing. The paint came out easily now with the help of the soap, whether or not he wanted to admit that accepting his help had done him some good. The large, almost rubbery paint clumps rolled out with the lather in thin strands which dissolved into thinner pieces the longer it sat in the suds. As Dylan turned back to his cleanup, Trev made the short trip to the sink in the back corner of the room with the sofa and stooped to attempt to rinse the mess out of his hair. He took his glasses off to fold up and hook over the collar of his shirt. Even if it was only a partially-simulated shower, it still served to do what running water over the head at the end of a long, tiring day did best: it made him think, made him wonder… Trev reached for the faucet and turned it off, wrung the water out of his hair as best he could, then reached for a hand towel and rubbed as much of the remaining dampness as he could out of it. If Fleur was really such a misanthrope that he rarely bothered to come out of his studio, then what had made him want to try and get to know him? Or rather, what made him ‘special enough’ to want to pull such an infuriating prank? Somewhere between the boring and the interesting, he was on the more favorable end of that scale, and that necessitated investigation. “Why me?” he asked softly, his focus directed at the drain, towel still draped around his neck and hands gripped tight on the edge of the sink. Dylan paused mid-scrub and briefly met his eyes as Trevor looked his way. The look in them said everything and more, but Dylan answered anyway, in the simplest way he could. “...because you get it.” “Despite efforts to the contrary,” Trev noted pessimistically as he resumed brushing. This earned a quiet chuckle from his company, and Dylan paused to remain sitting on his knees for a few moments while cleaning up the last shoe print. “...you’re hardly the most difficult person I’ve encountered,” Fleur admitted, to his surprise. Privately, he wondered if Dennis knew this, and if he did, to what degree- the whole ugly truth, or just a partial account. Alternatively, to have anyone describe him as somehow not difficult gave Trev another reason to pause. He stopped brushing a moment to peel gathered paint crumbs from between the bristles and hesitated, the question hitched in his throat. “And if I was, would we be having this conversation?” “Knowin’ me…? Yeah, probably,” Dylan snorted as he dunked the sponge in the now-lukewarm water and wrung it out. “But it also depends on what you mean by difficult, because it takes a lot to piss me off- narcissism, chauvinism, egotism, prejudice, bein’ an asshole just because you can.” The last two terms actually drew a curl in his lip as he scrubbed harder to scratch the dried paint off the hardwood with the rough side of the sponge. “Fame chasing, glory-seeking, hurting someone because it’ll benefit you or because it just makes you happy to cut someone else down- that’s the kind of shit I can’t deal with in large doses, an’ I’ve met a lot of people like that in my life to know em’ when I see ‘em. So, you tell me, Langley.” He paused long enough to spare him a questioning look. “Are you any of those things? Or are you just hurtin’ and still a little too raw for comfort?” As he slid his glasses back on, Trevor swallowed, equal parts affronted and not that Dylan could see right through whatever he had passing for a mask. He blinked a few times to cover the involuntary twitch in his eyes, if not hide the nervous tremor in his throat that generated from nowhere to derail the sardonic retort he’d put together. And here he once thought getting away from Rhea and Dahlia would mean avoiding discussing this. A response to the former query and not the latter would be an answer in itself, no matter how he worded it, and that would have to suffice. “If I am those qualities in any measure, it’s not intentional. I… I’m still figuring it out.” Trevor focused on a stretched lock of hair and picked a few remaining paint clumps out, to avoid focusing on how hot his cheeks had become. “It’s- complicated.” “Well, take a breath, then, ‘cause as far as I can see, you’re not.” Dylan pushed himself up off the floor and stooped to pick up the bucket, then turned and looked over with a reassuring smile. “I can handle damaged, Trev. I’d be a hypocrite if I couldn’t.” The flush faded and Trev set his eyebrows in a flat line to mirror his mouth. It was nice to offer, but… “Not sure mine’s the kind of damage you’d care to hear about,” he deflected half-heartedly. “Then try me some time, you might be pleasantly surprised.” Part of him wished he hadn’t said it, but another, slightly larger part of him felt relieved at his offer. Persistence was starting to get through to him, or maybe he was just tired of arguing semantics. He watched as Fleur crossed the room, a rag and bucket in hand, and bent down to wipe up the small bits of yellow that had spilled out into the hallway. This whole encounter had started off so completely opposite, he was having a hard time believing he was still talking to the same person that had him so thoroughly pissed off an hour earlier. Instead of being at odds with a new enemy, he now found himself in the company of someone who was just as misunderstood as he- someone genuine, someone kind, someone with the potential to be a real friend if he was ever brave enough to venture out of his shell again. Which he had already begun to do, whether he wanted it or not. The charm had been one of the first things he had joked about, but self-deprecating or not, there had been truth in what he’d said: Dylan was magnetic and charismatic, much more so than he was repulsive. And out of the hundreds- hell, thousands of people he’d probably met and decided he wanted nothing to do with, he saw something in him that made him determined enough to dig his heels in and persist despite Trev’s resistance. In the end, he had taught him a valuable lesson about loosening up- and how accepting help wasn’t an admission of defeat, but a valuable tool in overcoming problems (as demonstrated by the comb now gliding through his hair with ease). He didn’t have to be alone if he didn’t want to be, he didn’t have to bury his trauma under so many layers of irritation and short-tempered reactions and never again trust another enough to open up. But he wasn’t quite there yet, brave enough to face the full scope of all that wasn’t on the agenda. Dylan had somehow managed to throw back the curtains on his gloom and doom and let the light in, but he wasn’t ready to open the window. “Not today,” he finally replied after several minutes of silence, not wanting to sound too much like he’d be willing to consider acting on his offer, if their budding friendship even made it that far; even still, the implication of his word choice was apparently obvious enough. Dylan smiled, more happy than mischievous initially, but because it was in his nature to not let things get too comfortable (which Trev quietly thanked him for), it tainted the otherwise lighthearted mood with coy suspicion. “You mean you might come back one of these days…? After everything I put you through…?” Instantly, Trevor backpedaled with a defensive finger point at his teasing. “Hey- don’t push your luck,” he warned, eyes squinty and head tilted. “It’s almost like I knew you were a good egg…” “Alright, that’s it- visitation rights have been revoked.” “What!?” Dylan’s fake-outrage was overpowered by laughter and a charming smile Trev found himself growing fonder of every time he saw it (and deep down, it terrified him). “But I just complimented you…!” “Keep it up, and I might just relocate to the next zip code, and change my name.” It might have been the best thing for him, if this kept up. “Oh, come on now, don’t be so dramatic…” Another ten minutes of idle banter elapsed before the world outside saw fit to make itself known again. Appearing with as little warning as he had the first time, Dennis Lenore didn’t knock. To find them right back where they began wasn’t a big leap of logic, having last seen them at the onset of the chase, although he probably did wonder why Trev didn’t simply return to the dining room. The sight of him perched atop one of the stools -in a fresh set of borrowed leisure clothes, listening to Dylan chatter on and on with a faint smile, a few stubborn flakes of paint still entrenched in his hairline- got an instant smirk out of him, though no questions were asked, about the fate of the suit or otherwise. “Well, I see you two are gettin’ along great.” His choice of adjective was enough to get a mildly-irritated glower out of both of them. This was, in part, all the older officer’s doing. ‘You’ll thank me later,’ he’d said, somewhat premonition-like. There was absolutely no way he hadn’t known what he was doing. Trev breached that new silence first with a mannerly stretch. “Yes, sir. Mr. Fleur is… different from what I expected.” “So, it’s Mr. now, huh?” Dylan teased with a sideways glance and a smirk. “Don’t get used to it,” he quickly amended once he realized how awkward it sounded, given how Dennis’ expression curdled a bit. “In any case, he was generous enough to not leave me a mess afterward.” “Hey, aftercare is important,” Dylan chimed in with a smirk and a ribbing nudge as he got up and passed Trev on his way to dump out the water bucket. The double meaning went over Trev’s head initially, but it came back around like a boomerang when it got an uncomfortable snort and a chuckle out of Lenore, and he flushed softly with an annoyed scowl. “Just glad to see you’re both in one piece.” “We had a rough start, but… we came to an understanding, of not understanding,” Fleur explained with a sideways wink in Trev’s direction that was met by a sigh and an eye-roll that somehow bordered on amicable. “It could have been much worse.” “Or better.” A sputtering choke on his next words at the evolution of Den’s expression from amused to devious did well enough to convey that the context had not been lost on him that time, but the blushing helped. “So does that mean you’re stayin’ the night, or do we need to get gone?” Trev sat up a bit straighter and practically jumped out of the chair as he made a note of the time. “I have classes tomorrow,” he reminded in nervous tenor, almost as if he’d completely forgotten. It was, technically, a few short hours away; even if he didn’t need to sleep, he could use a recharge after the events of the night. Thankfully, the courses were held during reasonable daytime hours, so there was still time. Looking less than compelled to back him up, Dennis shrugged and eyed him with no small measure of skepticism. “Don’t blow a gasket. You’ll only need a few hours’ recharge. Could stay and have a new uniform at the front door tomorrow morning.” “No, sir. I already-“ Trev’s stuttering insistence got the better of him momentarily, and he paused to take a calming breath. “Your suit is already going to need washing; I couldn’t impose any more expenses.” “Ah, give it a rest, Den… if he wants to go home, it’s fine by me. Wouldn’t want him to OD on my company the first night.” There was a twinge of disappointment in Dylan’s voice as he shut off the faucet and placed the bucket aside to dry. He crossed his arms and pulled the sleeveless cardigan shut over his bare chest as he crossed the room and set his gaze on the floor. The motion came across like curtains on a stage show being drawn closed. Reminded of the quiet, empty dorm room waiting for him back in the city, Trev was a bit taken aback at how he didn’t sprint right out the door. Given the chance, Dennis offering to arrange it so they might stay was and wasn’t tempting, for a multitude of reasons. On one hand, the realization that for the last half an hour, he’d felt more even-tempered and calmer than he had in months, insisted he stay; but on the other, paranoia that this wouldn’t (or maybe couldn’t) last compelled him to go and pretend none of this ever happened. Fleur’s upbeat mood suddenly deflating with the realization they’d have to pick this exchange up another day, was strangely not as satisfying to see as he’d thought it would be; if anything, it was a disappointment he understood, as much as he didn’t want to. But he hadn’t made any promises to come back, only to consider they stay in touch. That wasn’t necessarily a binding contract, or even a verbal agreement. Still, being the eagle-eyed detective that he was, Dennis read between the lines just fine. “I can always pull him off a patrol to send over as needed, Dylan. The socialization will do you both a world of good.” Trev hid another twitch by grabbing up the plastic bag containing his spotted garments, looked down at himself, then sidelong at Dylan. “I will need to return these at some point,” he debated audibly. The notion perked him up ever so slightly, and his eyes caught Trev’s flicker of brown with a sideways glance. “You can keep them if you want. You said you don’t have many clothes to begin with, right?” he offered as he meandered toward the painting and leaned one shoulder against canvas frame. “They’re not really my… preference,” he declined, but as expected, Dylan was un-dissuaded. One hand lifted and rapped a knuckle against the wooden stretch beam behind him with a grin. “Then maybe next time, we can throw this shit where it was supposed to go- maybe show you an old black an’ white?” Dennis squinted at the canvas, gleaning only a surface impression before mutely shaking his head. Nick probably wouldn’t have found this work along the same lines of ‘nice’, were he there to see it. Trev barely managed to not cringe; he still couldn’t understand his reasoning for why he’d want to wash away all that hard work with a new coat of paint. “I don’t know when that might be. I have- assignments to tend to.” Lenore called the excuse out for what it was and shot him a scowl accompanied by a light slap on the shoulder. “Stop lying, kid. It’s unbecoming of any policeman,” he scolded over his shoulder as he turned out the door. Dylan tossed Dennis an annoyed look that screamed ‘knock it off’ as he walked away, ineffective as it was when aimed at the back of his head, then turned back to respond to Trevor with an open-ended offer. His fingers nervously twitched and squeezed at his arm just trying to get it out. “Well… if you get lonely or want someplace else to chill, you know where to find me. I’m always here, don’t have much else goin’ on.” One hand extended to gesture around the room with a flourish and a chuckle to illustrate this. Decorated or not, it probably wasn’t as lively-looking as he made it seem. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” To Trev, it sounded ideal. A chamber within which one was pretty much guaranteed isolation was the best possible setting to ‘introvene’, as the made-up term would imply. Dylan made a face, clearly not of the same opinion. “It can be, when you start goin’ stir-crazy from bein’ cooped up inside for so long.” And...? He wasn’t already half crazy by default? Trev scoffed, pushed his glasses back into place. “That’s what walks are for.” His second favorite pastime- it might not be as exciting as some alternatives, but after what he had been through, monotonous was right up his alley. “Yeah, and we’ve got a lot of land to do that on, and you wouldn’t even have to worry about running into other people…” Fleur raised his brows, probably expecting him to come around to the idea. “How’s that sound?” “Almost perfect,” Trev replied with a slight smirk that dropped as soon as it appeared. “But you’d still be there.” Dylan rolled his eyes, smiled big and shook his head.  “C’mon… I thought we were past that.” “I also told you not to push your luck, but here we are.” “Who’s bein’ pushy…?” The coy grin lingering on his lips almost reached the apples of his cheeks. “I’m just gently planting seeds.” Artists had a penchant for using such poetic phrases, it was true. “So- what? You’re a gardener now, too…?” LANGLEY! YOU COMIN’ OR STAYIN’? “COMING!” Trev shouted back, almost jumping as he nervously made for the door. His own impulsive reaction to yell versus use the com left him cringing. “I mean- I’d say it was nice meeting you, but it was easily one of the worst introductions I’ve ever suffered.” Not the worst- it was up there, as far as he could remember. But it had also somehow segued into the smoothest recovery he’d ever witnessed. Not that he’d ever tell him that. Dylan chuckled again, perpetually amused. “Hey- Mom always said it was better to leave an impression than to be immediately forgotten…” “Yes, well, you’ve certainly done that.” Looking down at himself, Trev managed not to lose it to another flustered tirade. One way or another, these clothes would have to come back. “I’ll… drop these off when I can.” The look that crossed Fleur’s face was that of surprised contentment, even a little bashfulness. Somehow, he’d evidently gotten the response he’d been waiting for out of him, and it seemed even he didn’t expect to succeed. Before he could delay their departure any longer, he turned on his heel and made for the stairs, Dylan’s voice calling out to catch him just as he passed through the threshold of the studio. “Don’t feel like you need to bother with calling ahead, the door’s always open.” Letting Trev make the decision as to when that would be, compared to Dennis’ indirect attempt to force him into making a commitment on the spot, went a long way in fostering his slowly developing appreciation for Dylan Fleur, however irksome he was. Perhaps that was why he’d been finding it so hard to leave. After all, there had only ever been one other person he’d gelled with so quickly after meeting. Langley’s hand balled into a fist at his side as the tremor returned, his pace quickened to a trot down the bottom steps, and he nearly sprinted out the door to catch up with Dennis before he missed his ride home. He didn’t want to think about this right now, he didn’t need to be reminded of that gaping wound in his heart. That had been the real problem with this situation- the fact that he simultaneously saw too much and too little of a dead man in him. Maybe it needn’t have been so difficult, but he hadn’t wanted it to be this easy either.

#detroit: become human #detroit become human fanfiction #dbh #dbh fanfiction #dbh fanfic #dbhilluminate #dbhiredemption

[ladywinchester1967]

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Grace Drake

Characters: Dean Winchester, Grace Drake (OFC), Kenneth Drake (Grace’s husband), Lula and Sissy (Grace and Kenneth’s hired help), Sam Winchester*, William (Kenneth’s business partner)*

*= mentioned

Warnings: Cheating, SMUT, drinking, smoking, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), mentions of alcoholism, mentions of homosexuality, language, mentions of World War II (nothing too graphic).

A/N: This is the start of a BRAND NEW series; so the tag list for this is wide open. Takes place post-World War II (think late 40′s, going into early 1950′s) so I tried to use some of the slang and language that would have been used in that time period. Each part has themes from the song by Switchfoot of the same name (which I’ve ALWAYS wanted to use in a story!). Per usual; unbeta’d, all mistakes are mine, but the pictures are NOT. I found them on Pinterest and tumblr.

Welcome to the Planet

Welcome to existence

Everyone's here

Everyone's here

Everybody's watching you now

Everybody waits for you now

What happens next?

What happens next?

She shifted and the cold light of day invaded her closed eyelids.

“Mhhhh.” She grunted and opened them up.

She was naked, save for the sheet and the arm that was currently wrapped around her body. She rolled over and saw a pair of shining green eyes and a wide smile looking back at her.

“Morning beautiful.” He said

“No way I look beautiful right now.” She said as she reached out and touched his face.

“You always look beautiful Gracie.” He said and kissed her.

“Mh, I love it when you call me that.” She said sleepily and opened her mouth for another kiss.

He rolled, putting her on her back and making her giggle. He kissed down her neck and to her collar bone and then back up to her ear.

“My sweet,” kiss “sweet,” kiss “Gracie Lou.”

“Deeeeeean!” She whined slapping his bare shoulders and making him laugh.

“You’re gonna have to hit harder than that if you wanna throw me off doll face.” He said, pinning her hands on either side of her head by the wrists.

“Mhhhh, can’t get rid of you easily can I?” She teased as they kissed. She opened her legs and his hardened length ran up her inner thigh as she gasped.

“Nope.” He said as he pushed inside her waiting core. He kissed her again as he buried himself inside of her.

“Dean,” she sighed against his mouth, her nails pressing into his shoulders “Dean, you feel so good inside me.”

“Gracie.” he sighed back as he raked his hands through her hair, wrapping her up into his arms as he pushed into her. She wrapped her legs around him, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He thrust up into her, hitting her sweet spot, making her back arch and her nails dig harder into his shoulders. He took his time, slowly thrusting in and out of her, kissing every inch of her body that his mouth could reach until she was a whining mess under him.

“Dean, please!” She begged “Please!”

“What?” He asked playfully “Tell me sweetheart.”

“I wanna come,” she whined, raking her nails down his back “please, please let me come Dean!”

He growled and pushed hard into her, making her cry out. She writhed under him, he seemed to be hitting every nerve in her body until she screamed and came hard. Her clenching around him was exactly what he needed to send him over the edge. With a loud cry, he emptied his load into her, his hips stilling as he supported his weight on his knees and forearms. He gave her one last kiss before rolling off of her, both of them breathing hard. After a few minutes of blissful silence, she rolled to her side and kissed his cheek.

“What time is it?” She asked, rubbing the tip of her nose against his cheek.

Dean checked his watch.

“Ten thirty.” He said

“What?!” She asked

“It’s ten thirty.” He said and showed her the face of his watch.

“FUCK!” She exclaimed and darted out of bed.

“What’s wrong?!” He asked

“I’m supposed to be at bridge club in an hour! Fuck!” She yelled as she gathered her clothes and threw them on.

“Shit!” Dean yelled and got out of bed to help her, tugging on his underwear. She threw on her bra and panties, foregoing her pantyhose for now, and stuffed them into her bag along with her gloves.

“God damn it,” she said “I can’t believe I over slept. Where’s my dress?!”

“Right here.” He said and held it up with two fingers.

“Thank you!” She said gratefully as she stepped into it.

“You sure YOU weren’t the one in the Army with that foul mouth?” He teased

“Father was a Sergeant Major in the Marine Corps remember?” She asked as she pulled the sleeves of her dress up and he flashed recognition across is face.

“Ah, now I remember.” He said

“Zip me please?” She asked and turned her back to him. He did as she requested and planted a kiss between her shoulder blades.

“I’m so sorry,” she said “I’m running around here like a chicken with my head cut off. I'm gonna be late and those bitches will rip me to shreds!”

“It’s okay,” He said as she grabbed her shoes and buckled them “go play bridge and gossip, I’ll talk to you tonight.”

She pinned her hair back as best as she could and gave him a quick kiss.

“You’re the best you know?” She asked him

“Stop flattering me or I won’t let you leave.” He said and wrapped her in a breath stealing kiss. She moaned against his lips.

“I have to go,” she whined between kisses “Lula and Sissy are gonna have a fit when they see me.”

Dean laughed

“Go before Lula threatens to hunt me down. Again.” He teased and opened the door for her, watching as she blew him a kiss over her shoulder and took off down the stairs.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Grace thought as she caught the bus back to her house, pretending that she wasn’t wearing the clothes she’d worn the night before. She was supposed to hit the road with her high school sweetheart, Dean Winchester, and drive until they reached the Pacific Ocean. They would set up a dual building where he could practice medicine and she could paint, sketch and teach art classes. That’s what they’d always talked about.

That was before Dean got drafted into World War II. He’d been ripped away from her in the blink of an eye while she helped the local Red Cross with the war effort.

When the dust finally settled, Dean’s brother; Sam, showed her the telegram that bore the sad news. Dean was MIA and believed to be dead. It was a hero’s death, her father had mused. She mourned, for years she mourned for the boy she had loved. The one that listened when she talked, that always told her that her dreams of being a writer and artist weren’t stupid or misguided. The boy who away made her feel pretty, the one who always showered her with love and attention, who understood that she didn’t want to be defined by her marital status or that expected her to pop out as many babies as she could.

The girl she was died along with him, after that, she found it easier to just do as she was told. She dated the boys her parents set her up with. Even accepted the proposal of the man her parents deemed “a good match” for her. Kenneth Drake worked successfully in advertising, he made good money and was nice enough. He didn’t seem too happy when she voiced her opinions on social matters or offered her view on the current ads he was trying to run.

“Darling,” he had said and patted her on the back of the hand “I know you have a lot to say, but women are meant to be seen, not heard.”

She had sighed and resigned to the fact that she was supposed to be decoration. She was supposed to smile, look good when she met the boss and have dinner on the table by five thirty sharp.

That perfect illusion was shattered when Kenneth was admitted to the hospital two years after they were married. She got the call in the middle of the night and rushed to the hospital to be with him.

“Please,” she pleaded with the nurse “I’m looking for Kenneth Drake, he’s my husband!”

“Gracie?” She heard a familiar voice ask. The voice send chills down her spine, only one person on the planet called her Gracie and that person had died years ago. She slowly turned and saw him.

His hair was darker than she remembered, but his eyes, oh lord in heaven, those emerald green eyes. Their striking color hadn’t changed at all. He wore a crisp white lab coat with dark slacks and shoes, across his chest was the name

Dr. D Winchester

“Dean?” She asked

He looked like he had seen a ghost, his face went ashen, his full lips dropped open into a surprise O shape. He briefly shook his head and said to the nurse

“Betty, she’s okay. Let her through.”

The nurse, Betty, nodded and stepped aside as Grace rushed over to Dean.

“Kenneth Drake is your husband?” Dean asked, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. She nodded, a dark curl falling into her eyes.

“Yes, they said they found him in bad shape outside this bar,” she said obviously upset “please Dean, can you tell me anything?”

Dean paused for a second and then nodded

“Have a seat,” he said gently and directed her to a nearby chair “I’ll check it out.”

“Thank you,” She said “thank you so much.”

He gave her a small smile and took off down the hallway.

After some time, Dean returned and sat by her.

“Kenneth suffered a concussion,” he told her “he hit his head on the cement after he collapsed due to alcohol poisoning. They pumped his stomach and gave him some fluids, he’s gonna have a nasty headache and a hell of a hangover, but he’ll be fine.”

She let out a sigh of relief and hugged him.

“Thank you,” She told him, inhaling his familiar scent “Thank you so much Dean.”

He reluctantly wrapped his arms around her, the familiar feel of her hair under his hand filling the dull ache in his chest that he’d learned to live with.

The next day she’d returned to the hospital to check on Kenneth. She headed up to the roof to get some air and found Dean, sitting on a bench. He wore sunglasses and had a lit cigarette in his hand.

“I thought you would be up here.” She called to him.

He turned, startled, but his expression softened when he saw her.

“Gracie!” He called

That was how it started; they’d rekindled their friendship like they’d never been apart. One night, she met Dean for a drink, which turned into multiple drinks, and the truth came out.

“You couldn’t wait for me?” He asked, his eyes glassy.

“Sam told me you were dead Dean, he showed me the telegram.” Grace said, taking a puff from the cigarette she stole from him.

“The Army thought I was dead,” he told her “my unit got captured by the Italians and they kept us as prisoners of war. Then the Allies liberated us and brought us home. Imagine the shock on my mother’s face when I turned up.”

“Why didn’t you?” She asked and trailed off.

“Come looking for you?” He asked and she nodded “I did, your father told me he’d put a bullet in me like the Italians, Germans and Japanese had failed to do if I ever came near you again.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in shock as she handed back the cigarette to him.

“My God,” she said “my father, always the wordsmith.”

Dean smirked and snubbed out the cigarette.

“So Kenneth seems nice, albeit a raging alcoholic.” Dean said

She shook her head

“He’s docile,” she said “he makes good money, he works hard, he’s nice enough. I guess.”

“But?” Dean asked, downing the last of his drink and asking for another.

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her drink.

“My husband,” she trailed off and chose her words carefully “bats for the other team.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up

“Kenneth wears sensible shoes?” Dean asked and she nodded “Sure do know how to pick ‘em Gracie Lou.”

She slapped his arm playfully

“MY PARENTS picked him,” she said “I had no say in the matter.”

“So, where is he now?” Dean asked

She pursed her lips and thought

“At a late meeting,” she said and downed the rest of her drink “with his business partner William.”

“Does he often have late meetings with William?” Dean asked and she nodded.

“Nearly every night,” she said “he comes home for dinner and then leaves at exactly seven thirty.”

“When does he come home?” Dean asked

“Whenever he damn well pleases,” she told him “he's the man of the house. His words, not mine.”

Dean shook his head as the waiter dropped off another round for them.

“I can tell you something?” She asked, leaning into Dean. Her blue eyes were sparkling like they always had, he could smell her perfume and the alcohol on her, which just made her all the more enchanting.

“Of course.” He said

Their eyes met and she bit her lower lip. Not only had their friendship rekindled, so had to sexual tension between them. The last time Grace had sex with a man was Kenneth on her birthday; and even then, it hadn't been anything worth writing home about.

“The last time I had a decent orgasm? Right before you went off to war.” she told him

His eyes went wide

“You’re kidding right?” He asked and she shook her head.

“This is much too serious for me to joke about.” She told him.

Dean reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and said

“We’re fixing that. Now.”

“What?!” She asked shocked as he threw some money on the table and grabbed her hand.

“Either I just left a VERY generous tip or a dry cleaning receipt, let’s hurry in case it’s the receipt.” He murmured in her ear and she laughed.

Dean always had the ability to make her laugh, even when she didn’t want to.

He took her to his apartment and as soon as the door was shut behind them he said

“You have to tell me this is okay Gracie, I need to hear you say it.”

It was nice to see all those years away hadn’t changed that part of him. He’s said something similar when she’d lost her virginity to him what seemed like a lifetime ago. She put her purse down and stepped closer to him. Standing in front of her wasn’t the boy she’d fallen in love with. He was a grown and jaded man, but he still had all the love and compassion in him that she’d always cherished about him. She nodded and said

“I want this Dean,” as she reached for him “I want you. Make love to me, please.”

That night had been full of passion and romance unlike anything she’d experienced since she’d slept with him previously. He remembered every place to touch and kiss her that made her toes curl and drawing sounds out of her she wasn’t sure she was capable of making any more.

The next morning her eyes fluttered open and she found Dean asleep beside her.

“Oh thank god.” She said quietly “that wasn’t an elaborate dream.”

She heard Dean chuckle as he opened his eyes.

“Are you okay?” He asked, pushing her hair out of her face. She nodded

���I should feel guilty,” she told him “I should feel ashamed and disgusted.”

“Do you?” He asked, hesitation in his voice.

She smiled and shook her head

“No,” she said “I don’t.”

That was more than a year ago, Grace thought as the bus pulled up at a stop near her house. Since then, she and Dean has carried on discreetly, just as she knew Kenneth and William were. Neither of them mentioned the other’s fling and they kept up appearances. She was there to greet the boss at work functions and host dinners in their home. Though now she did it with a bit more pep in her step.

She rushed into the house, busting through the kitchen door like a bat out of hell and startling both Lula and Sissy, the ladies that helped her in her home.

“Mrs. Grace you look like something that got caught in a drain!” Lula exclaimed and Grace laughed.

“I do look a bit silly don’t I?” Grace asked “Lula, could you make me some coffee while I freshen up?”

“Yes ma’am,” Lula said and nodded to Sissy “help Mrs. Grace outta those clothes so I can get ‘em washed.”

“Yes Lula.” Sissy said and followed Grace up the stairs.

Sissy was Lula’s niece and needed work, Lula had been helping out her family for as long as she could remember and when she started to get on in years, Lula asked tearfully if Grace could help out her niece. Grace’s heart went out to Lula.

“Lula, you know you’re family to us and if your family needs help, this is the least I can do.” Grace had told her and covered Lula’s dark hand with her own pale one “How about this? You bring Sissy on and teach her how you do things? That way when you’re ready to leave, Sissy can take over.”

“You do that for me Mrs. Grace?” Lula asked, her brown eyes wide with shock.

“Lula, if she is anywhere close to as amazing as you are, we’d be happy to have her on.”

Sissy was terribly shy at first, she didn’t even look Grace or Kenneth in the eye for the first few months she worked for them. Slowly though, she’d come around and was a delight to be around.

“Tell Lula I’m sorry this smells like cigarettes.” Grace told Sissy as she turned her back. Sissy unzipped her dress and asked

“Doctor Winchester again?”

Grace gave Sissy a sly smile and Sissy returned it. She threw the evening dress over her arm and Grace headed for the bathroom.

“Sissy, could you find me something to wear for today?” Grace asked

“What do you want to wear Mrs. Grace?” Sissy asked.

Grace shrugged

“Surprise me, I always get compliments on the clothes you pick out.” Grace said and went into the bathroom.

After a shower, pinning her hair up and donning a floral dress, peach sandals, a strand of pearls and matching earrings, Grace did her makeup. Just a little bit of mascara, blush and lipstick to bring out her features. She looked in the mirror and realized Dean had left a hickey on her neck.

“Asshole!” She mumbled to herself and set to work trying to cover it up.

When she was ready, she went down into the kitchen and took a cup of coffee that Lula had waiting for her.

“Did Kenneth come home at all?” Grace asked Lula.

“He was here this morning for breakfast,” Lula said “which you missed.”

Grace hung her head, Lula chastising her wasn’t anything new.

“Sorry Lula.” Grace said and sipped her coffee before shoving a pancake in her mouth.

“MRS. GRACE!” Lula shouted “You eat like your Momma taught you some manners!”

Grace laughed and so did Sissy. “You hush over there and make sure that mantel is dusted.” Lula said to Sissy, who scampered away.

“Did Kenneth tell you where he was going?” Grace asked.

“Playing golf with William,” Lula said as she arranged the tarts on a serving plate just so “said he’d be gone until dinner was ready.”

“That’ll give me plenty of time to get dinner ready,” Grace said “meatloaf and potatoes?”

Lula nodded

“Mister Kenneth likes that.” She said with a grin.

“I'm late, I have to go. I'll see you two when I get home.”

When she arrived, fifteen minutes late, Sue, the hostess for this meeting was not pleased at all.

“Not like you to be late Grace.” She said as Grace stepped through the door.

“I'm so sorry Sue,” Grade said and handed her a bottle of her favorite wine “I lost track of time.”

In spite of her distraction, the rest of the bridge game went off without a hitch.

“Grace, are you wearing a new lipstick or something?” Mary Anne asked as she dealt out another hand.

“No, it’s the same as always, why do you ask?” Grace inquired.

“You seem so,” Mary Anne trailed off “different some how.”

“Glowing almost.” Catherine commented as she took a puff from her cigarette.

“I bet I KNOW what it is.” Louise said, adjusting her glasses “Kenneth DID just get home from a long business trip.”

Grace’s cheeks flushed and the ladies started to giggle.

“Oh, now that makes sense!” Mary Anne said with a grin.

Grace tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.” She said simply and went on playing.

After bridge, Grace made dinner. She made extra so that Sissy and Lula could have some as a thank you for their hard work. Kenneth strolled through the door at precisely five thirty, still wearing his golfing gear.

“Darling,” he greeted Grace with a hug “how were the ladies today?”

“Like hens in a hen house,” she told Kenneth “meatloaf and mashed potatoes tonight. Do you want brandy or whiskey?”

“Whiskey please, my sweet?” He asked, giving her a peck on the cheek.

They ate dinner, chatting about their respective days. Kenneth hadn’t done so well on the golf course and had lost a few dollars to William and their other partner, Jim.

“You’ll get them next week,” Grace said “I’m sure of it.”

Kenneth gave her a smile and took a sip of his drink, his eyes still on her. She looked back at him; he was indeed handsome. He had forget- me-not blue eyes, lush dark hair and a slight boyish grin on his face.

“Grace?” He asked

“Hm?” She answered as she took a sip of her wine.

“When are we going to talk about it?” He asked.

“Talk about what?” She shot back.

“What you’re doing.” He said

She blinked at she stared at him

“Eating my dinner?” She asked.

He shook his head and raked a hand through his hair.

“No, and don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot.” He said

“Kenneth, I wouldn’t-“ she started but he interrupted

“I KNOW okay?” He asked sharply

“About what?!” She shot back, even though she knew exactly what he was getting at.

“You and that doctor!” Kenneth exploded “You’re fucking him behind my back!”

Even though it was true, and she had been for more than a year, she still decided to play dumb.

“What doctor? I’m not fucking-“ she started and he cut her off again.

“YES YOU ARE!” He yelled as he stood “Shirley, the butcher’s wife, saw you with a man that wasn’t me last night!”

Fuming, Grace said

“Kenneth, sit down and we can talk about this calmly.”

“THERE’S NOTHING CALM ABOUT WHAT I HAVE TO SAY!” Kenneth shouted at her “HOW COULD YOU?! HOW COULD YOU FUCKING DO THIS TO ME GRACE?!”

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

SOOOOOO?! What do ya’ll think?? Are you excited to see where this goes? Because I’m excited to share it with ya’ll! 

As always, kind feedback is appreciated. Feel free to like and share with your followers. If you’re new, maybe consider following? My boxes are open, so if you want to request something, you are more than welcome to!

The Squad:

@waywardbaby @waywardnerd67 @familybusinesswritingbro @ain-t-bovvered @mrswhozeewhatsis @girlborninstorms @dacleverfox @emoryhemsworth @bobasheebaby @salvachester @myinconnelly1 @mogaruke @imma-winchester-addict @theworldiscolorful @dean-winchesters-bacon @animerose96 @l8nit-l0vr @thewaywardvalkyrie

#dean winchester #lady winchester writes #dean winchester smut #supernatural #Supernatural smut #supernatural au #1940!dean #wwii fic #18 plus

[project-ml]

Project: Lunar New Years 2018 Chapter Four

Concept/Plot: @qookyquiche, @chalala-chan, @panda013, @piikoarts, @purr-cat-stinate

Comic Version

Sketch Artist: @panda013

Line Artist: @aliensfordonuts

Color Artist: @trinity-nevermore

Fan Fiction

Author: @krzed | (Ao3)

Beta: Robin

Word Count: 1433

Summary: Fu continues his tale of the Nian to its thrilling, if not surprising, conclusion.

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Masterposts

Tags: Mild Violence, brief mentions of eating people

Marinette and Adrien soon returned to Master Fu, having had their fill of tangyuan and tea. Fu sat back down, smiling as Adrien attempted to help teach Marinette to say ‘thank you’ in Chinese.

He stroked his beard and pondered, “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The mysterious stranger, approaching the village just before the beast would descend upon it once again…”

Many were wary of the stranger who insisted on hiding his face, but after the first time that he effortlessly turned away the beast with little more than a spark and some black powder, the villagers came to trust him. The stranger explained that the beast only feared three things: fire, loud noises, and the color red. He then taught them how to properly mix saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur together to create the black powder he used against the creature. One of the villagers had the idea of putting the powder in bamboo tubes and using twisted threads to ignite it. The villagers and the stranger used these ‘firecrackers’ to keep the beast at bay for several years, but two weeks before the beast’s next coming, the stranger asked the villagers to stand down, and allow him to face the beast alone.

The villagers were, of course, worried for the stranger, but most were not surprised by his odd behavior. A handful of villagers had witnessed him sneak sweets into his cloak, but never saw him eat them. Several more had heard him speaking to himself in hushed tones when he believed no one was listening. Asking about the forces of chaos and destruction. Stranger still was the voice that responded, high pitched, speaking in an older form of Chinese that few understood and even fewer spoke.

Fu slants his eyes to Marinette as he tells this part of the tale, as though a tiny voice with an appetite for sweets would have some meaning to her.

It was the dawn of the new year, and the villagers could hear the guttural roar of the beast as it descended from its den, hungry and angry. Though the stranger asked the villagers to leave him be, many of the fighting-age men stood by with weapons and firecrackers ready, should the stranger’s plan-- whatever it was --fail.

Unbeknownst to the villagers, the stranger had been watching the creature, learning from it. For he knew this creature was not a monster, but a cursed human, plagued by otherworldly forces and powers he did not know how to control. Thanks to the voice he spoke to at night, he knew exactly how to put a stop to the beast once and for all.

The beast crashed through the edge of the forest, its acidic green eyes cut left and right, no doubt searching for the villagers that had denied it a proper meal for the past few years. But it only found the stranger. That damnable man who stood between him and the small comfort of food year after year. Rage boiled up inside it, making it forget its hunger for but a moment, and it charged, claws digging into the dirt as it pulled itself closer and closer to its mortal enemy.

The stranger flung out a string of firecrackers, the wick sparking as it curved through the air, but while the stranger had been watching the beast over the years, so too had the creature been learning from the stranger. It swiped its claws, a strange wave of blackness shooting from them, and knocked the firecrackers from the air. The bundle landed behind the stranger, its wick dowsed. It did not slow in its charge, black mane rippling in the wind, as it bore down on the stranger. He barely dodged out of the way when the beast leapt, another swipe from the beast tearing away his cloak to reveal...

A woman. She wore a bright red sleeveless gi and red pants that stopped at mid shin, both coated with black spots, and a red mask across her eyes. Hanging from her waist on a thin cord was a strange red disc with the same black spots

Marinette’s brow furrows, the word ‘Ladybug’ forming on her lips, but she does not speak it. Does that mean...the beast is the black cat? The Chat Noir of that time?

The beast turned to face his enemy and instantly recoiled at her red garb. The woman pulled the disc from her hip and swung it in a tight circle, faster and faster until it made a whistling sound that burrowed into the beast’s skull. It dropped its head to the ground and covered its ears with its paws, whining and whimpering.

One of the braver, or perhaps more foolish, of the villagers took this opportunity to charge forward with a pitchfork raised, but the beast had not fully dropped its guard. It swung its tail and knocked the villager off his feet, then turned his gaze down to the man. It licked its fangs, deciding that the stranger could wait until it had sated its hunger. It lunged forward, mouth wide and fangs gleaming.

At that moment, the woman threw her strange weapon into the sky and spoke more of the old Chinese. The weapon flashed a brilliant red and from it dropped a small stone, which she caught and immediately threw at the villager’s pitchfork. The stone scraped along the metal and produced a shower of sparks that landed on the nearby firecrackers, setting them off and stunning the beast. The woman pulled her weapon back to her hand and cast it at the beast, wrapping the cord around its legs and pulling it off its feet.

Several of the villagers cheered, for while they had previously succeeded in driving the beast away, they had never before captured it. They charged forward, weapons raised, but the woman held up a hand and wordlessly stilled the mob. She slowly strode toward the restrained beast, gathering the slack on her weapon as she went. She knelt beside the creature and rested a hand against its cheek, jerking back only slightly when it snapped at her. She spoke in that same old Chinese, and one of the villagers present that day, who could actually understand the ancient tongue, wrote down what she heard.

“You are not a monster,” the woman said. “I know these people believe that, and I know you believe that, but you are not. You are cursed. Cursed with a power you do not understand, a power that you fear. And it is that fear that has made you what you are.” She lifted her hand to the red studs affixed in her ears. “I know about having power and responsibility forced upon you, but I have learned how to channel and control it.” She dug into a small bag at her side and pulled from it a silver ring. “I can show you how to control your power, how to cope with this grand destiny. But only if you will allow me.”

The beast’s gaze softened, became almost...human. The villagers present could not believe the woman hadn’t killed the beast outright, and several of them demanded that she slay it. She ignored them, and when the beast nodded, she smiled and slipped the silver ring on one of his slender fingers.

Immediately, the beast roared as the ring glowed a brilliant green and seemed to pull the inky blackness of its fur into it. It’s feline features lessened, became more humanoid, and the horn on its head receded into its skull. Just when the figure seemed to resemble less a black cat-beast and more of a naked human, green light flashed around the form and left it clothed in a similar manner to the woman.

He-- for the villagers could now see the creature was in fact male-- wore a solid black gi and pants, tabi boots, and a black mask on his face, similar to the woman’s. Atop his head rested a second black mask shaped like a cat’s face. About his waist was tied a black sash with the slack hanging from the back much like a tail.

The man gazed down at his hands. How long had it been since they weren’t covered in black fur. Since they were his? He looked up at the woman, who was now smiling at him, and blushed. She took his hands in hers and gently squeezed.

“You may call me Xingyun,” she said. “What might I call you...partner?”

The man’s blush deepened, and he managed to squawk out his response. “Nian.”

#miraculous ladybug #adrienette #adrinette #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #lunar new years #project: lunar new years 2018 #themlgroup

[nagajb]

Flower Shop Au, pt 1/4

This is very long, and it’s late, and this is not edited. You have been warned.

——-

“Look, you need something to do outside of class. I need someone to watch the shop on Wednesday’s. It’s a win win situation.”

Keith thought it sounded more like a win lose situation to him, but he couldn’t argue with Shiro. The man was already letting him stay in his apartment for free while he attended university, helping him out one day a week at his girlfriend’s flower shop was really the least he could do. Shiro has met Allura while looking for a second job, and had spent the first few weeks of his new job at the shop tripping over himself to get her attention. Now, they’d been going steady for a few months and Shiro, between his last year of college, military work, and volunteer work at the local pet rescue, he couldn’t work his normal shifts. This left him with the choice of quitting and leaving Allura with one less employee during the busiest time of the year, or ditching his Wednesday evening classes. Or, apparently, making Keith pick up his slack.

Not like Keith had anything better to do. He was the first to admit, there wasn’t that much going on for him. He didn’t work, what with free room and board and being in school on a scholarship, and he devoted all his time to his art to keep said scholarship. Sometimes, Shiro would come home and find him still in the living room, hunched over his desk, scribbling our his hundredth attempt at an animation project. So yeah. No parties, no nights out, and, as Shiro and Allura frequently reminded him, no boyfriend.

Which wasn’t a big deal, but sometimes Keith wished there was something other than ten hours of homework and Shiro’s stupid cat, Black, waiting for him when he got home.

Which was probably why Shiro was bringing this up.

“Come on, Keith. One night a week, a break from the homework, maybe meeting new people, and doing me a huge favor. You could make some extra money!”

And really, there was no arguing with Shiro when he turned on the puppy dog eyes.

So there was Keith. Leaning on the counter, sketchbook laid out, sketching out another flower at 5 on a Wednesday evening.

It really wasn’t a difficult job. Water the plants at 6, sell flowers to customers, make sure the door was locked when he left. And the shop was never really busy. It was usually only visited by nervous college students on a first date, little old ladies, and new moms looking for something “to brighten up a space”. They all wanted something specific, meaningful, and Keith, not knowing the meaning behind every single flower like Allura did, just sort of bullshitted his way through each order. Which was fine. Not like it was his career or anything. Just a favor for Shiro.

Ding ding!

The cheerful ring drew Keith’s eyes up from his little doodles.

And Jesus Christ, was he glad it did.

Standing in the doorway, framed perfectly by the light of the setting sun and the soft blue flowers in the hanging planters above his head was the most beautiful boy Keith had ever seen in his life. Tan, freckles skin, curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, his frame hidden under a big denim jacket and very soft looking sweatshirt underneath, and fuck, those legs. Keith didn’t know he had a type, but damn, maybe he did, and maybe it was tall boys with cocky smiles and soft looking hair and freckles.

Oh god, how long had he been staring?

“Hi!” He chokes out, “what are you doing here?” He cringes as the words leave his mouth. Curse his gay brain, leaving him speechless at the sight of one beautiful man.

“Flowers?” The man responds, gesturing at the store, his face amused. Oh god, could he tell how infatuated Keith was with him? Pull yourself together, you useless homosexual, he thought.

“Right! Sorry, uh, how can I help you?” Keith said quickly. He mentally high-fived himself when his voice didn’t shake.

“Well, I need flowers for my new dorm, it feels all sad and lonely. My roommate suggested flowers might do the trick,” the man replies, still grinning at Keith.

“Of course! Uh, what would you like?” Keith replies, dragging his eyes away from the boy and digging around for a vase.

“You’re the expert, you tell me.”

Keith groans inwardly, regretting his nonexistent knowledge of flowers for the first time. What kind of flowers do you give the most beautiful man in the world? Is there something that symbolizes how much Keith wants to get a piece of that?

Maybe his reaction to the boy was a little strong, but it had been a while since he’d really paid attention to anyone, with all his business with college and homework. That’s what it was, he told himself. That’s why this boy was seeming so damn fine.

“Hey, you okay?” The boy said, snapping Keith out of his thoughts.

“Yes! Fine! Um, one moment!”

Keith grabbed the vase and ran to the back. Okay, flowers. He could do this. Just give him some pretty flowers like any other customer, and he’d be on his way.

He cut some red and white star-like things, threw in some red carnations, and then what he thought was maybe a peony? Whatever. It looked nice, soft, like the boy’s beautiful eyes...

Damn it. Not now, gay thoughts.

Keith shoved the bundle into the vase and hurried out to the boy. “That’ll be, um, five dollars,” he said, shoving the vase towards him. He had forgotten to check the prices on each flower that Allura had put out for him. She’d kill him later for it, but whatever.

The boy stares at the flowers for a moment, scrutinizing them. Keith waits. Oh god, did he hate it? Did Keith pick flowers that meant “I hate you” or something terrible?

The boy finally looks up, and Keith lets out a breath at the boy’s dazzling smile.

“Only five?” He says, cocking his eyebrow. Keith wondered how obvious it was that he didn’t know what he was doing. He nods convincingly, and the boy hands over a bill and takes the vase. “I’ll be coming back here, then,” he says, throwing a wink at Keith an walking out the door.

Keith thought he might be on fire.

———

“Hunk, you’re not going to believe this!” Lance shouts, slamming the door of their shared room open. Hunk drops the book he’s reading on the floor.

“Jesus dude, where’s the fire?” He says, stopping to pick up the scattered pages of his chemistry notes.

“In my heart, darling. I met a cute florist, and look at the flowers he gave me!” Lance stuck the vase right under Hunk’s nose.

“Red carnations, amaryllis, peonies? Damn, a guy gave you this?”

“Yes! God, Hunk, you should’ve seen him. Smoking hot, the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, a very unfortunate hair cut but I can work with that...”

“Slow down, loverboy, are you sure he meant to give you these?”

“What do you mean? He’s a florist, he should know more about flower symbols than a first year botany student and the friend he forced into taking his honors botany class with him.”

That was true, a florist should know what he was talking about, and he did give the flowers to Lance without any prompting, it seemed, and it wasn’t rare for Lance to be hit on by random people. Hunk was man enough to admit his best friend was incredibly attractive, yet cursed with a series of unreliable partners and overly romantic thoughts.

So, he let Lance swoon into his bed and talk his ear off about all the colors in his poetic florist’s eyes.

#voltron #klance #flower shop au #fic #fanfiction #vld #my writing #fanfic