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pickalilywrites · 3 years

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a mikahisu au inspired by one of my favorite shows~ please enjoy ^^

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Do You Still Dream of Me?

MikaHisu. Hotel Del Luna AU.

Like the Moon Loves the Ocean Series: Chapter 1

13252 words.

Read on Ao3!

Armin Arlert hunches over a stack of documents, nibbling on the end of his fountain pen. The pen costs more than his entire outfit — an oversized suit that Armin had fished out of a bin at his local thrift store when he was trying to find a respectable ensemble to wear for the interview that snagged him his current job. Even now, Armin isn’t sure how he managed to get a job as a finance manager at one of the most expensive hotels he’s ever seen in his life. Actually, this might be one of the most extravagant places Armin has ever stepped foot in. He still feels out of place when he arrives in the morning, his polyester suit looking even cheaper against the marble floors and gilded staircase, but nobody ever seems to pay him any mind when he sneaks through the door and scurries away to his office at the far end of the lobby.

His brow furrows as he looks at a particularly confusing set of numbers, numbers that don’t add up the way that they should. Or, well, they’re not adding up in a way that will be satisfying to the hotel owner when he reports the new estimated budget for next month. They’ll have to cut spending once again. At the very least, they need to stop splurging on unnecessary decorations for the hotel and personal luxury expenditures. It’s the same report he’s made every month since he’s been here, but always surprises the hotel manager nonetheless. And she’s never happy to hear it. Armin highly suspects that it’s a major reason why he’s her least favorite hotel staff member even though he’s really just the bearer of bad news.

Ah, how do I break this to her? Armin wonders, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face tiredly. He lets his arms fall to his sides and sits in his chair, his head tipped back and his eyes closed as he contemplates his next move. On one hand, the woman can’t possibly fire him because her assets would be entirely in the negatives if he weren’t here to keep her in check. On the other hand, the glare she shoots him as he delivers the bad news is enough for him to wish an abyss would appear and swallow him up on the spot. He briefly wonders if he can lie his way out of it - maybe fudge the numbers so that the woman can live as extravagantly as she desires - but that just seems like a disaster waiting to happen. There really isn’t any way out of it.

Armin sighs once more before opening his eyes ... only to see a set of cold, dead eyes staring back at him.

He’s not sure what kind of noise comes out of his throat as he jumps out of his chair, knocking over the stack of papers he’s been working on and tripping over his chair. He’s still shrieking as the thing approaches him, its hand outstretched as it walks toward him even as he crawls backward up against the wall. Armin can hardly look at it - this ghost of a person, a bloody wound across its neck where it had been decapitated before its untimely death - and he shrinks against the wall as it comes closer and closer.

The door opens just then and the sound of footsteps alerts the ghost, making it turn its head to see who has just entered.

“Excuse me, miss,” a voice says. A woman appears, completely calm even though Armin still sits huddled in the corner screaming. She ignores him, her focus entirely on the ghost, to which she offers a warm smile. The woman gestures towards the opened door. “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into the office of our financial advisor. If you can step into the lobby, our receptionist can assist you in checking into a room at the front desk.”

The ghost looks slowly from the woman and then to Armin. After a long pause, the ghost woman slowly bows to Armin — her form of an apology, Armin supposes — before departing, the door swinging shut behind her.

The woman stares at the closed door for a moment before shifting her attention to Armin. Gone is her professional smile; it’s replaced with an amused expression, laughter stifled behind lips closed in a thin line. She offers a slender hand to Armin to help him up. “I thought you’d be used to our clients by now. Hasn’t it been almost a year since you started working here?”

“Er, yeah,” Armin says sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning pink in embarrassment. He drags his feet to his desk, collecting his papers and dropping them into a messy stack on his desk before collapsing in his chair. Face in hand, he says, “I probably should, but it’s still weird. I can probably see a million ghosts for the next few years, but they’ll always make me jump in my seat. Maybe if they didn’t stop phasing through the walls of my office and sneaking up on me …”

The woman only laughs, and Armin feels a little more relaxed. Mikasa Ackerman, the assistant manager of the hotel, is one of the only hotel staff members Armin feels comfortable around. While the other staff members either roll their eyes or laugh when Armin encounters their ghostly clientele, Mikasa has always been patient with him.

“The next few years,” Mikasa muses, a lopsided smile on her face. She takes a seat in a chair across from him. She leans her elbow on the armrest, her cheek pressed up against her hand. Eyebrow raised, the manager asks, “You really think you’ll be working here for a few more years? Do we not pay you well enough?”

“You’re really underestimating the cost of student loans these days,” Armin sighs, slumping lower in his chair. He reaches for the mug on his desk, bringing it to his lips, and takes a long sip of coffee. It’s cold as it hits his tongue and slides down his throat, and he shudders when it hits his stomach. On second thought, caffeine probably isn’t the best decision considering the fact that he was almost scared shitless only a minute ago. He returns the mug to its coaster, an unsatisfied frown on his face.

“Poor, poor you,” Mikasa coos, eyes crinkling as her smile widens. She sits back, legs crossed and hands placed on her knees. She looks so comfortable here, so much like she belongs in her wool suit, the golden badge that lists her name and title pinned against her breast. If she weren’t so nice, maybe Armin would feel inferior. “It’s kind of your fault for going for a Ph.D. What do you need a doctorate in finance for anyway?”

“I don’t really know what I was thinking, to be honest. I thought maybe I could teach at a university somewhere down the line. Hoped the salary I earned down the line would make the investment worth it, but obviously I didn’t learn anything in my undergrad.” Armin waves his hand around the room. “Anyway, here I am now working at a ghost hotel so that I can pay off my student loans.” It’s probably the biggest mistake of his life next to taking a job at this hotel. Obtaining a Ph.D didn’t give him the salary bump he hoped it would and this was the only place that paid him nearly enough for his years at school.

“Could be worse,” Mikasa says with a shrug. “At least you don’t age while you’re here.”

“Ah, right,” Armin says. That was mentioned as an added perk when he had started to work here, but he hadn’t really believed it at first. Sure, some of his coworkers claim to have been working at this hotel for decades, although most of them look well under the age they say they are. Armin’s not even sure how that’s possible considering the demanding boss they work under. He supposes he’ll find out if it’s true in a few years, assuming he’s still paying off his student loans by then. Armin sits up a bit, eyebrow raised. “How long have you been working here again?”

Mikasa grins. “A little over twenty years.”

The answer isn’t anything new, but it’s always a punch in the gut whenever Armin hears it because it never makes sense to him. Mikasa can’t be older than twenty-seven — and that was pushing it. If she really were working for twenty years, she would have been a child when she had first been employed. Armin thinks she must be joking with him just like the other employees are, but Armin finds that strange too. Mikasa is always friendly with him, but she’s not the type to tell strange jokes.

“Right,” Armin says. He looks at Mikasa cautiously, but her expression tells him nothing.

“Don’t worry. It’s not so bad after a while,” Mikasa says. She leans back, staring back at Armin. Even though she doesn’t look at him threateningly, Armin still shrinks under her gaze.

“How’s your work going, by the way? Any good news for the boss?” Mikasa reaches over, a finger tapping on Armin’s stack of papers.

Armin groans, burying his head in his hands, although it’s more because of the mention of their boss rather than the work itself.

Historia Reiss is the hotelier of the Blutmond, the phantom hotel which Armin finds himself unfortunately employed. Her appearance is anything but intimidating. She wasn’t even close to being five feet tall. With hair of spun gold and aquamarine eyes, the petite woman could be mistaken for a life-sized doll if it weren’t for the terrible scowl on her face. In all of Armin’s time at the Blutmond, he doesn’t think he’s seen her smile once. She glowered the entire time during his interview, never opening her mouth except to ask whether or not he’d be able to balance her account in time for her to buy the latest model Porsche. The woman didn’t even congratulate him when she and Mikasa came to visit him with the news of his new job, only telling him that she expected him to come to work on time and not to make any mistakes with her finances or she’d have his head. He completely believed her and has always double-checked his work at least three times before finalizing his spreadsheets. His other coworkers have insisted that the woman isn’t nearly as frightening as Armin believes her to be, but the way they cower and scurry to put everything in place whenever she steps into the room doesn’t fool him. He’s also heard a curious rumor about her. His coworkers always mention that she’s been here the longest — over a thousand years — although he’s not sure if it’s just a way of them calling her an old hag because the woman doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

“It’s really not going so great,” Armin says with a pained expression. He flips through some of his papers, pulling out a small stack that documents Historia’s personal expenses. Most of the page is highlighted in bright red. Armin thought the severe color would help convince their boss about his budgeting suggestions at the end of the week. Handing the papers to Mikasa, Armin says, “It’s only been half the month, but Miss Reiss is spending way too much on her credit card already. At this rate, she won’t have enough to buy that caviar that she likes so much.”

“It’s fine. Historia doesn’t actually like caviar that much. She just likes how rich she feels when she eats it,” the manager says absentmindedly. Mikasa flips through the papers, an eyebrow raised, but she doesn’t seem surprised as she reviews Armin’s findings. Once through with them, she straightens them out on the desk. “Maybe I can convince her to get sashimi next time.”

“I’m serious. She really needs to cut down on her spending habits.” He hates how whiny he sounds, but it’s difficult for him not to whine when he’s imagining how infuriated his employer will be when he timidly suggests that she not buy anymore jewelry for the rest of the month. “I mean, does she really need to have twelve different sports cars lining her garage? Where is she even going?”

Mikasa sits with her fingers steepled, a pout on her lips as she looks down at the papers again. She reaches over to thumb through the papers once more before sitting back again. “I guess I can talk to her about it.”

Armin sits up, his mouth shaped in a perfect “O.” “Would you really?” His mind is already going a million miles a minute, thinking about everything he has to review with Mikasa before she presents the information to their boss. Maybe he can show her the presentation slides he prepared in advance. He thought having his notes on an elegant Powerpoint would be much better than him stuttering through his notes while Historia glared at him. A little more energized now, Armin is already clicking through his computer, pulling up the presentation slides for Mikasa to look at. “If you’re really serious, I have some materials that can help you-”

“I’m not,” Mikasa says, an amused smile on her face. She laughs when Armin visibly deflates. “Ah, I feel a bit bad seeing you so disappointed, though. Are you really that scared of her?”

Armin thinks about the little woman, the blue flames that ignite in her eyes whenever he so much as hints at the fact that her shopping sprees should have a cap on them. He shudders. “I’m terrified.”

The woman nods sympathetically. “Alright, I’ll try to talk to her. No promises, though. You know how she feels about these things.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Armin breathes, collapsing against the back of his chair with relief. He knows that most of Historia’s ire will be directed towards him, but he hopes that having Mikasa deliver the news will somehow soften the blow.

“Mhm. You’re going to get used to being in her line of fire though. It’s unfortunate, but it comes with the job of being her finance manager. She’ll always be bad with money no matter how much you tell her not to spend,” Mikasa tells him with a wry smile. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, the sound making Armin jump in his seat. She looks at him, snickering, and pulls her phone out. Mikasa glances at her phone before turning it so that Armin could see the name flashing across the screen - Historia. “Unless you’d like to practice right now.”

Armin, eyes wide and throat closing shut at just the sight of the hotelier’s name, shakes his head.

“Alright, alright,” Mikasa laughs. She stands up, straightening out her blazer. “I’ll stop teasing you and leave you to your work then. And don’t worry about Historia; I’ll take care of her for you.” The manager returns to her phone, swiping across the screen and taking the call.

“Thanks, Mikasa,” Armin says. He didn’t mean for his voice to come out as a squeak, but he finds that he can’t speak knowing that his employer might hear his voice on the other end.

Mikasa simply waves at him, walking towards the door. “Yeah, I’m free, but I’m surprised you’re not calling Levi for something like this,” she’s saying. She pulls open the door, her voice fading as she’s walking out. “No, the work is fine. It’s perfect, actually. I was hoping we could talk about your finances. I just talked to Armin …”

Armin winces at the mention of his name and, as much as he knows he shouldn’t because it’ll only make him feel worse, strains to listen in on the conversation but the wooden door proves too thick of a barrier to let him eavesdrop. Just as well, he thinks as he rests his forehead against the cool surface of his desk. He’ll just get back to work estimating next month’s budget. And, he thinks as he squeezes his eyes shut, praying that he won’t have any more unexpected paranormal visitors today.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Historia sits in the passenger seat of a slick blue Bentley, one of the many luxury cars that line her parking garage. Mikasa has tried to convince the hotelier that one car should be enough, has even tried selling them behind her back only for Historia to buy twice as many cars to replace them. Looking at Historia now, Mikasa understands why the blonde gravitates so naturally to high-end sports cars. In the passenger seat with her golden hair falling behind her back in waves, Historia looks like she could be a model for the luxury brand. Her pastel dress, one that Mikasa is fairly certain has been flaunted on a runway at some point in the past year, is probably worth just as much as the Bentley if not more. Mikasa doesn’t even want to think about how much jewelry that adorns the woman’s neck is worth, although she knows she should probably ask.

“What took you so long?” Historia asks, her scowl breaking the illusion of her pixie-like appearance. She sits up, holding her matching clutch purse in her lap. Her bottom lip sticks out, making her plush pink lips look even more like a doll’s. She looks cute, Mikasa could even say, but she knows the words would only cause Historia to narrow her blue eyes in an irritated glare.

Mikasa slips into the driver’s seat, fishing the car keys from the inside of her breast pocket. “My apologies. I was speaking with Armin before I came here,” she tells Historia. She turns the ignition, the engine purring as the car starts up. “He had some interesting things to say about your finances.”

At the mention of the man’s name, Historia hisses, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It seems to be a common reaction whenever the finance manager is mentioned in the hotelier’s presence. “I don’t want to hear anything he has to say,” Historia sniffs, as if not speaking about it will somehow help her avoid her financial issues. She reaches for the remote, clicking the garage door open so that they can make their exit. “He never has anything good to say to me. All he ever does is bring me bad news. I don’t even know why we hired him.”

“Because you’re terrible at budgeting,” Mikasa answers easily, ignoring the glare that she receives. After working at the hotel for decades, she’s quite used to being at the receiving end of Historia’s scathing looks. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road as she drives, maneuvering out of the parking spot and onto the driveway easily. “He mentioned that you might not even have enough money for an ounce of caviar at the end of the month.”

Historia whips her head so quickly that her neck might have snapped if she were a normal person. Mikasa doesn’t have to look at the woman’s expression to see that she’s horrified at the thought of not eating the overpriced salt-cured fish eggs. “Should I just fire him?” Historia murmurs, sitting with her back against her seat. She shakes her head, her brows furrowed as she considers letting go of her financial manager. “Or maybe we can cut his pay. I’ll have more money if I cut his pay, right?”

“If you cut his pay, he’ll be working here for longer to pay off his student loans,” Mikasa reminds her employer. “You could try hiring someone else, but he was the best in his class. Harvard.”

Historia’s bottom lip wobbles and, for a moment, it looks like she might even cry. Instead, she lets out a frustrated shriek like a spoiled child. “Ah, that kid! I hate him, you know. Out of everyone here, he’s probably my least favorite.”

“I know,” Mikasa says with a sympathetic nod, trying her best to keep her face stoic even though all she wants to do now is burst into laughter at the childish outburst.

These words aren’t new to Mikasa. In fact, she’s heard different variations of the same words over the years that she’s been here. Sometimes it’s Levi, the current general manager of the hotel. Other times it will be Pixis, the elderly but sweet bartender, or Colt, the receptionist at the front desk who looks barely out of his teens. Quite a number of times it has been Connie, the room manager, for swiping too many snacks from the kitchen in between mealtimes. Mikasa’s even been the least favorite every once in a while, although Armin has been given the title these past few months because he’s come in the way of Historia and the thing she loves the most - a luxurious lifestyle.

The funny thing is that Historia has not always been rich. It’s something that the woman likes to remind everyone, Mikasa included, every now and again. Mikasa doesn’t doubt that, but she does find it amusing that Historia turned her back on her past lifestyle so much so that she doesn’t have an ounce of frugality in her body.

“Who’s the client today?” Mikasa asks just as they’re about to hit the main road.

“Some man named Reiner Braun,” Historia says with a click of her tongue. She flips idly through her phone before inserting coordinates in the device. “His grand-niece reached out to us, but she couldn't tell me how rich he was. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous? You’d think someone so close to him would have a sense of how much money he has.” Historia frowns as she inspects her pearly pink nails.

“Children these days,” Mikasa tsks wryly, but Historia doesn’t seem to pick up on her sarcasm.

“They’re terrible. Terrible, terrible. Stupid and spoiled, all of them.” Historia clicks her tongue disapprovingly. The irony of calling someone else “spoiled” while she’s wearing a diamond choker around her neck hasn’t yet reached Historia.

“And I suppose you know what being spoiled looks like?”

It takes a moment for Historia to realize what Mikasa is saying. She sits up, clearly insulted. “I worked for this!” Historia says indignantly, smoothing out her skirt to prevent wrinkles. “I’ll have you know that I worked for every single cent that pays for my lifestyle. I earned all of this.”

“Of course,” Mikasa says with a nod. Beside her, Historia begins to settle down in her seat. “I’m sure the exorbitant prices you charge your clients also helps.”

Historia gives Mikasa a scathing side glare, one that would have made Mikasa flinch in her early days but now it’s like watching a kitten get angry after hiding its toy. She tosses her head, her golden tresses flying back in the wind. “I should have just brought Levi with me,” she mutters under her breath.

Mikasa remains unbothered. “You probably should have,” she replies in a sing-song voice.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“You know,” Mikasa says as they stand on the doorstep of a sprawling mansion fit for a lord, “you would think his grand-niece would have mentioned that he was loaded.” She reaches over to ring the door, frowning when she’s unable to hear its chime through the thick mahogany door.

“This?” Historia asks, gesturing around the estate. She shrugs, unimpressed. “This is nothing.”

Earlier, they had been stopped at the gate and asked for their identification. Mikasa had thought they would have been stopped there after Historia had gotten into a shouting match with the guard over the intercom until someone else popped on the screen — a young woman with thick dark hair tied half-up in a messy bun — and said they were cleared to come through, pressing open the button for the visitors despite the guard’s protests. As Mikasa drives up the road to the house, Historia hardly looks up at the sprawling green lawn, the freshly trimmed topiaries, or the sparkling fountain. The petite woman doesn’t even blink when Mikasa parks at the front of the house, throwing open the door and stepping out of the car without glancing back even as a valet hurries forward and asks Mikasa for the keys. Although not a fan of letting other people drive around in Historia’s cars, Mikasa grudgingly left the keys in the valet’s hand, chasing after the blonde woman because Mikasa knew Historia never likes to wait for anyone.

“I suppose since he’s living so shabbily we shouldn’t take any commission from him,” Mikasa says dryly. She doesn’t flinch when Historia smacks her sharply on the arm. “Or at the very least offer him a discount. I’m not sure he can afford our services otherwise.”

“Don’t joke like that,” Historia snaps. She reaches up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Money is money, so we’ll take what we can get.”

The door opens just then, the same young girl who was on the intercom with a bright smile waiting behind it breathlessly. She looks to be just thirteen or fourteen. Her hair is falling out from its little bun and her clothes — a ratty t-shirt and some cutoff denim shorts — look out of place in the mansion. Historia is no doubt looking at the girl’s outfit in disapproval, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she sticks out a hand towards the pair. “Hi, I’m Gabi! I spoke to you on the phone,” the girl says, oblivious to the maids and servants panting behind her that are trying to pull her back. “You’re Mikasa and Historia, right? From the Blutmond?”

“Miss Braun,” a butler hisses, grabbing at Gabi’s arm. “The guests haven’t been properly screened. You can’t just allow anyone to enter the Braun estate.”

“Relax. Uncle Braun said I could invite my friends over whenever I want,” Gabi snaps. She shakes the man off, scowling at him before turning back to Mikasa and Historia. “And these two are my friends, right?” She looks at them expectantly, silently begging them to play along.

Historia and Mikasa exchange a look, not confirming or denying anything. After a moment, Historia sighs, her arms folded across her chest. “For the duration of this visit, yes, we are Miss Gabi Braun’s … friends.” She looks as if the word leaves a sour taste in her mouth, but Gabi looks smug, happy that she’s managed to dupe the mansion’s staff members even though the majority of them look unconvinced. Of course, none of this bothers Historia, who just charges forward, looking around and not hiding the fact that she’s inspecting every inch of this place.

“Oh, um, let me show you around a bit,” Gabi says, shutting the door behind Mikasa and hurrying after Historia. “It’s easy to get lost here because it’s so big.”

“It’s not that big,” Historia snorts.

“Excuse me,” Mikasa mumbles as she pushes past the staff. It seems that they’ve either given up or just don’t want to bother with the Braun girl anymore because most of them just sigh before returning to their assigned tasks.

Although Gabi is supposed to be giving the tour, Historia is the one that leads the way while Gabi and Mikasa follow behind. Historia hardly says anything as she closely inspects the many statues and paintings that decorate the corners and walls of the various rooms they visit, but Gabi fills the silence with needless chatter of the art pieces. Every now and again Mikasa expresses some admiration for all the historical and artistic knowledge Gabi displays and the praise has the girl puff her chest out in pride, but Historia will sigh under her breath or roll her eyes at times. It really may be that nothing in this mansion really interests her because she never lingers on a painting for longer than a second or two before moving onto the next art piece.

“So, Gabi,” Mikasa says after a moment, making sure that the group was out of earshot of any eavesdropping maids or busboys that might have followed them. She makes sure to keep close to Gabi, her voice low as she speaks. “You called about your great uncle, is that correct? Can you tell us a little bit more about him before we meet him?”

Gabi bites on her lip and fiddles on a loose thread on her faded shirt. She nods before looking over at Historia, who’s halfway across the room frowning at a grand piano. “Er, yeah,” the girl mumbles. “I can … I can tell you about him.”

“You can talk from there,” Historia says without looking up. She presses a finger to an ivory key and a note rings out, echoing across the room. It seems that the note is unsatisfactory though because her frown deepens after hearing it. “I have impeccable hearing.”

Gabi looks unsure, but Mikasa puts a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder and smiles. “Go ahead, Gabi.”

“Okay,” Gabi says. She takes a deep breath, but she’s already shaking. Tears already forming in her eyes, she looks up, swallowing hard. “Uncle Reiner … he’s been strange for a while now. Maybe a few months. My parents say it’s just dementia because he’s so old but … I don’t think that’s it.” Tears roll down her cheeks and she’s looking down now, stubbornly wiping them away with the back of her hand.

“Take your time,” Mikasa says gently, rubbing soothing circles on the young girl’s back.

Historia is a little less sympathetic. She strides over, taking a seat on a nearby chaise lounge and sitting back like it’s an appropriate time to relax. “And what makes you think we can help? I don’t typically enjoy doing business with doddering old men.”

“Ignore her,” Mikasa tells Gabi, shooting a look at Historia. Historia simply sticks her tongue out in reply.

“N-no,” Gabi says with a shake of her head, sniffling. “I h-heard you could h-help people. That you h-have a special business. My uncle … I don’t think the th-things he’s seeing are hallucinations. I th-think what he’s seeing … they’re ghosts.”

Historia looks a little more intrigued now, sitting up on the chaise with her legs crossed instead of lounging back. “What makes you think that they’re ghosts?”

Gabi hesitates. “Well … he mentions these names sometimes… Bertholdt, Porco, Marcel…,” she says, brow furrowed. “He hardly ever talked to me about them, but sometimes their names would slip. Whenever I asked about them back then, he would just tell me that they used to be friends back when he was younger. He always looked so … sad whenever he talked about them like … like he couldn’t see them anymore.”

This story is enough for Mikasa to offer their services or at least give Gabi an offer to look at her great uncle, but Historia simply lets out a huff, pushing herself off the chaise and making her way out the door.

“An old man haunted by his old, dead friends,” Historia says with a toss of her head. She beckons for Mikasa to follow her, ignoring the horrified look on Gabi’s face. When the young girl runs forward, barring Historia from leaving, the haughty woman only sighs once more. “Look, if you’re worried he’s getting haunted by ghosts, why don’t you just run over to a church and get some holy water to splash on him? Or just buy some salt to sprinkle around his bed.” She waves her hand, gesturing for Gabi to move out of her way, but the girl refuses.

“I’ll pay you!” Gabi says. She stands resolute, her arms spread wide even as her lower lip trembles.

Historia raises an eyebrow. She steps back, a hand on her hip. “You’ll pay me?” she repeats. “You’re thirteen. What could you possibly offer me?”

“I could give you … my inheritance,” Gabi says. She sticks out her bottom lip, jutting her chin out and lifting her head. Her eyes are still red from crying, but tears have stopped falling down her cheeks. She clears her throat and continues, “Uncle Reiner hasn’t told anyone … but he’s made me the sole heir of his estate … among other things. I can … give you this mansion and everything in here if you just please help me.”

Mikasa wants to tell Gabi that it’s not necessary. Their services aren’t nearly worth that much and, even if it were, it’s illegal to make such a transaction with a minor.

Historia, of course, doesn’t care. She’s looking at Gabi with more interest now, her blue eyes shining as she looks at the girl. The woman isn’t even thinking about the logic of such a promise — when she would be able to collect the inheritance or what she would do with it. Her mind is occupied with calculating the worth of the estate and the many statues and paintings that decorate it. “I hope you know,” Historia says, her eyes glittering, “that any contract you make with me is binding.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” Mikasa begins to say, but Historia cuts her off with a snarl.

“No, I’ll do it,” Gabi says with a shake of her head. “All of this stuff … it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never been very materialistic. All I really want … is for my uncle to be okay.” She lowers her arms, looking at Historia with uncertainty.

“How very noble of you,” Historia says, but she isn’t really listening. She’s busy fishing something out of her clutch purse, reaching in and pulling out a document filled out in the tiniest font. Even though the contract could have never fit perfectly in Historia’s purse without being folded up, there isn’t a wrinkle in sight when the woman presents the document to Gabi. The woman fishes out an expensive-looking fountain pen, one that Mikasa is only half-sure had originally been in the hotelier’s purse although it might be more likely she had snatched it off of a desk from the mansion when nobody was looking. Historia holds up the contract with a lipsticked smile, a perfectly manicured nail tapping at against the line where Gabi should sign. “Just sign your name here, darling.”

Gingerly, Gabi takes the pen from Historia, staring at the document with uncertainty. The pen sits uncapped in her hand, hovering over the dotted line where her signature should be. Her eyes scan the document, but the words begin to blur and she begins to gnaw at her lip.

Mikasa steps forward, lowering the document from Gabi’s face. “You don’t have to sign it.”

“Mikasa,” Historia hisses. An angry glare flashes across her face for half a second before switching to a more composed, reassuring smile directed at Gabi. “Don’t listen to her. Just sign it, sweetie. It’s harmless.”

Gabi looks from Mikasa to Historia, her expression uncertain, but she glances once more at the document and grips the pen in her hand with more conviction. The tip of the pen hits the paper and Gabi scrawls her full name — Gabrielle Mariella Braun — in an illegible, childish print before handing the fountain pen back to Historia.

“Perfect, perfect,” Historia says in a sing-song voice, squinting as she inspect’s Gabi’s signature. She turns her head slightly to Mikasa, lowering her voice a bit but not enough as she asks, “They don’t teach children cursive these days, do they? This girl’s signature is terrible. It’s like a toddler let their crayon wander across the page.” Historia takes another look at it before rolling up the contract and stuffing it into her purse.

“Cursive?” Gabi repeats with a knitted brow.

“It’s just connecting all the letters with a line, really,” Mikasa tells the girl, patting her on the shoulder to show that it’s not that big of an issue. A small part of her regrets not talking Gabi against signing the document, but she figures Gabi’s at more of an advantage than Historia is since the former is a minor and any contract she signs could be deemed void. She’ll just leave the problem for later, preferably when Armin is at her side so he can drive Historia mad enough to leave the poor girl and her inheritance alone.

“Right then!” Historia says, a lot more lively than she was a few minutes ago now. She flicks a lock of golden hair away from her face and smiles brightly at Gabi. “Be a dear and show us where your grandfather is. We’ll help him in any way we can.” It’s become quite obvious to Mikasa that Historia has long forgotten Gabi’s name despite being introduced to the girl a little while ago and having just seen her name written on a document not a minute before. Gabi doesn’t seem to have noticed. She’s more taken aback by Historia’s change in character. Mikasa can’t really blame her. The hotel manager had seen the woman do a complete 180 after being offered a yacht for her services once and thought new yacht-owner Historia was a completely different person from the usually crotchety hotelier.

“Er, yes. If you follow me, right around here …,” Gabi says, her voice trailing as she leads them out of the room and into the hallway.

Mikasa and Historia follow the girl, Historia with a new spring in her step as she lets her fingers trail against every vase and statue that they pass by with renewed appreciation for the artwork. As they walk, Historia hums a song that Mikasa almost knows by heart, but she knows it’s a song that hasn’t been sung in centuries.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Gabi leads them to a room at the end of the east wing. The room is much smaller than Historia and Mikasa anticipated. Historia had almost walked ahead and yanked open the largest double doors in the hallway before Gabi hurriedly pulled the woman away and rushed them over to her great uncle’s quarters. The door was considerably less extravagant — a single mahogany door with simple square panels and a gilded doorknob — and Mikasa could see the frown returning on Historia’s face.

The girl opened the door just a crack, leaning in to whisper, “Uncle Reiner? I brought some visitors for you. They’re … friends of mine. They said they might be able to help you.” She waits a bit for an answer. Even when Mikasa strains her ears to hear, she can’t hear a thing. It seems that Gabi does, however, because after a pause, she finally opens the door, allowing Historia and Mikasa to enter before her.

Mikasa isn’t quite sure where to look when she steps into the room. The bedroom is every bit as lavish as the rest of the house, the furniture all in deep reds and browns with highlights of gold here and there. There’s a noticeable lack of decoration, the walls instead adorned with photos of an elderly man with a wide jaw, snowy white hair, and milky white eyes. In most of the photos he stands alone — many times posing next to some art piece that he has lying around the house — but other times he’s seen with other members of his family including his grand niece. Mikasa is so busy looking at the pictures that she almost doesn’t see the man himself buried under a mountain of pillows and blankets in his bed. He looks so still that there isn’t much difference between his real self and the version of him in pictures. The ghosts that stand beside his bed look livelier than he does, Mikasa thinks.

“Uncle Reiner,” Gabi says, her voice quiet so as to not disturb her great uncle too much. She approaches his bed, Mikasa near her side while Historia wanders around the room unbothered. “This is Miss Historia and Miss Mikasa. They come from a special place … the Blutmond Hotel. They help people like you … people who can see ghosts.”

The man’s eyes flutter open but he struggles to keep them open. He sits up and his head turns towards Gabi, following the sound of her voice, but his gaze is fixated on something past her. It’s not a ghost, Mikasa knows, because there are only three in the room right now. One is currently hovering around the old man, unsure of what to do with his ghostly hands even as his face is filled with worry as Gabi’s great uncle sits up. The other two stand on the other side of the man’s bed eyeing Historia warily as she carefully inspects the room for any valuables.

“Ghosts? Have your parents been talking about me again?” the old man asks before coughing violently into his hand. He hunches over, his whole body heaving with every cough. He pounds his chest pitifully with his other hand as he wheezes. He shakes his head when Gabi runs over with a tissue box from his nightstand. One hand is clutched to his chest, but he’s still breathing heavily when he tells Gabi unconvincingly, “I’m fine. They just worry about me because of my old age.”

The man at Reiner’s side kneels down next to the old man. His ghostly blue hand reaches out to touch Reiner’s, his taut young skin such a stark contrast from the old man’s thin, veiny hands. All of the ghosts are significantly younger than Reiner, Mikasa notices. If she has to guess, they were probably in their late twenties when they passed. Judging from their military garb and the bloodstains that bloom across their chest, they died in a war. She wonders about their relationship to the old man, why they’ve stayed with him so long when it must have been decades since their death.

“Your names are Historia and Mikasa?” the old man asks, a tired but polite smile as he looks from the two women. He sits up in the bed, his back resting against the headrest and his hands folded in his lap. Unbeknownst to him, the ghost who had held his hand earlier sits beside him, gazing cautiously at both Mikasa and Historia. “I’m sorry to say that my relatives have a habit of spreading unnecessary rumors. They seem to have worried my grand niece.”

“They’re not untrue,” Gabi insists. She tugs on the elbow of Mikasa’s suit, her lower lip trembling dangerously. Her eyes are moist as tears begin to form and she sniffs loudly before turning to her great uncle. “I’ve seen you talking to … them. I’ve heard you call their names. Bertholdt, Porco, Marcel… You’re always talking to them when you think I’m not listening, but you always tell me it’s nothing when I ask you about them.”

At the names, the ghosts stiffen, but they don’t move from their positions. They look at Mikasa, wondering if she’ll give away their existence. She tries her best not to look at them.

“Because it’s nothing,” the man says, laughing it off weakly. He gets into another coughing fit, banging against his chest. The ghost at his side, eyes wide with worry, can only look at him helplessly.

Historia’s voice pops up, the hotelier speaking for the first time since stepping into the room. “Were you in the Second Great War, Mr. Braun?” She observes a glass case with different medals, leaning forward as she inspects the engraving on all of them. Historia hums, “I didn’t realize you were a veteran.”

“Ah, yes,” the old man says belatedly, surprised at the sudden jump in topic.

“You have quite a lot of medals and honors.” Historia’s finger traces the glass edge of the case. “You fought well.” The words should be congratulatory, but Historia says this almost coldly.

The old man must feel it too because he begins to fidget under the young woman’s gaze, his silken sheets tangled in his fists as he begins to stammer a “yes” under his breath.

The ghosts must dislike Historia’s tone because the two that had stood at the side of Reiner’s bed stand up, walking over to Historia and staring down at her petite frame. They tower above her, identical expressions of repressed fury on their faces, and Mikasa wonders for the first time if they’re brothers. With only a slight difference in height and hair color, the two could be identical. Despite the two spirits that are glowering down at her, Historia doesn’t waver, not even sparing them a passing glance as she continues to peruse the other items around Reiner’s room.

“You’ll have to forgive my partner. She’s quite interested in … history,” Mikasa lies. She wrinkles her nose as she says it — partly because she’s a terrible liar and partly because the thought of Historia being interested in anything other than money is ridiculous — but Gabi nor her great uncle seem to take notice. Mikasa fishes for the little business card in her breast pocket before presenting it to Mr. Braun, making sure to hold it at an angle for the nearby ghost to see as she hands it over. She clears her throat, glancing back at the other two ghosts to make sure they were paying attention before saying, “Miss Historia and I are from the Blutmond Hotel. We provide services for those who have passed.”

All the ghosts look at her, their necks turning so fast that they might have cracked if they were alive.

“For those that have passed?” Reiner repeats, eyebrow raised as he takes the business card gingerly between his fingers. He frowns and is about to toss the card on his nightstand before seeing the upset expression on his great niece’s face. He drops the card in his lap instead before running a tired hand through his thinning hair. “I’m hoping that won’t be until a few more years yet,” he jokes, but he’s the only one that laughs. It sounds strange echoing alone in the quiet room.

“Uncle Reiner,” Gabi says, her voice rising into a whine that Mikasa knows will make Historia grate her teeth.

Mikasa puts a hand on the young girl’s shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze and reassuring smile. “It’s fine,” she whispers before turning once more to Mr. Braun. To the ailing man, she says with a soft voice, “Mr. Braun, how many ghosts do you see in this room right now?”

His eyes flicker for a bit, roaming around the room but never resting on the ghost that sits beside him nor on the ghosts that stand near Historia. His gaze finally stops somewhere above Mikasa’s shoulder, eyes watering as he whispers, “Three.”

Gabi’s grip on Mikasa’s arm is vice-like and the hotel manager has to pry the girl from her arm for her blood circulation to return. “It’s alright, it’s fine,” she says to Gabi again, brushing her off gently. Mikasa looks at the ghost beside Reiner and watches as the young man shakes his head ever so slightly, his eyes begging her not to tell the old man of his existence. She opens her mouth, but Historia speaks first.

“Those aren’t ghosts,” Historia says, finally strolling across the room to stand beside Mikasa. She ignores Mikasa’s eye roll and instead bounces about on the balls of her feet, speaking casually as if talking about the weather. “Ah, I should clarify. Those things that are haunting you … I guess you would say they’re your own memories. There are ghosts here too, but it looks like they’re only here to keep you company.” She waves her hand as she explains, trying to find the right words. Historia looks quite proud when she’s done, but everyone (with the exception of Mikasa) looks at her with a bewildered expression.

“You mean there are ghosts here?” Gabi asks with wide eyes.

If Gabi grabs onto Mikasa’s suit any tighter she’ll tear the fabric. Mikasa doesn’t particularly mind, but she knows Historia would be infuriated if Gabi ripped such expensive clothing in her presence and the hotel manager carefully pries the girl off her arm.

“The supernatural world is quite complicated,” Mikasa says gently. She’s worked in the supernatural business for years and she still hasn’t grasped it entirely, so she can only imagine the confusion that Gabi and her great uncle feel right now. Mikasa sucks in her cheek as she tries to think of how to explain the situation in layman’s terms. “There is a myriad of things that can haunt a person, not just ghosts. Spirits, demons … even deities if they’re angry enough.”

“And next you’ll be telling me werewolves and vampires exist,” Mr. Braun scoffs, but his eyes still roam aimlessly around the room for something they can’t see.

“Don’t be silly. Werewolves and vampires are another thing entirely,” Historia snorts with a roll of her eyes, although she doesn’t confirm or deny the existence of either. She points a painted finger at the old man. “What you have haunting you are your own memories, Mr. Braun, although I imagine they’ve grown horribly distorted over time.”

Mr. Braun’s mouth is tightened into a thin line, all laughter gone from his eyes. He fixes Historia with a steely glare, but she doesn’t waver. He doesn’t speak, not even to ask her to clarify. Perhaps it’s because he already knows what memories she’s alluding to.

“What’s she talking about?” Gabi hisses in Mikasa’s ear.

“Mr. Braun, how old were you when you were drafted for the war?” Historia asks, stepping closer to the bed. She ignores that ghost closest to Reiner’s side even when he stands in front of her. She stares right past him as if she can’t see him at all and continues her questioning of Mr. Braun. “Perhaps in your twenties, judging from the looks of your companions. Mid- to late twenties, even. Life was just beginning for you. Being caught up in a war you had nothing to do with must have been frustrating to you.”

“No, it was an honor to fight for my country,” Reiner murmurs, but his eyes begin to cloud over and his expression grows grimmer.

“Did your friends share the same sentiment?” Historia continues to inquire. The ghost brothers from before each put a hand on her shoulders, their expressions just as dark and dangerous as Mr. Braun’s. Still, Historia presses on. “Were they just as brave as you when they camped in those trenches with corpses of other soldiers? Did they die with honor, their bodies rotting in those holes for weeks before whatever remains of them are shipped back to their loved ones? And were you honored to be one of the ones that made it out alive, standing tall even though the guilt was slowly killing you all these years?”

The ghosts are hostile now, their hands rough as they pull Historia back from Reiner. With a flick of her wrist, Historia sends them flying against the wall, their presence only detected by the way the portraits on the wall shake slightly. It’s enough to make Mikasa flinch, but Gabi and Reiner are too distracted to notice.

It’s the last ghost, though, that has Mikasa the most worried. He stands in a protective stance, his eyes flickering with a dangerous blue flame. On his face is a terrible glower, a stark contrast from the worried look he had worn earlier. His fists are clenched against his sides, shaking slightly with suppressed rage. Historia has faced her fair share of ghosts over the years. Mikasa doubts that this one is any more powerful than the malicious spirits that Historia has gone up against, but a ghost powered by violent anger is not something to be underestimated.

“Historia,” Mikasa warns, her voice low.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Mr. Braun whispers in a hoarse voice. He seems to shrink into his bed, his silken sheets pulled tight around his body as if trying to protect himself from something. His wild eyes continue to wander above his head, looking at things that don’t exist to anyone else but him. The old man pulls the sheets over his head, but the tremble in his voice can still be heard as he whimpers, “Every day they’ve plagued me, haunted me, but they never leave.”

“Uncle Braun-“ Gabi begins, but Mikasa holds her back after Historia gives her a subtle gesture to restrain the girl.

“Mr. Braun,” Historia says, stepping through the ghost easily. She reaches over and pulls the sheets from the man’s hands, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. She grasps the man’s face in her hand, lifting his chin up, and forces him to look at her and only her. “You said it yourself that it’s not your fault. Why have you gone so long doubting your own words?”

It’s the first time the man’s gaze was fixed on something, his eyes no longer wandering aimlessly at things unseen. He licks his chapped lips as he struggles to find the answer to Historia’s question. “Because I lived while they died,” he tells her in a voice dripping with grief. His eyes grow glassy, moist with tears. “I believe that warrants some guilt, don’t you?”

Historia is silent, holding his gaze. Even when the man’s tears begin to fall, dripping down his cheeks and spilling onto her hand, she still holds on. After a moment, she finally lets go a little too roughly, throwing Mr. Braun’s head back with unnecessary force. The movement earns an indignant squawk from Gabi, who struggles to break free from Mikasa’s grip, but the hotel manager manages to hold the girl. The ghosts move towards the hotelier too, their faces alight with anger, but she waves her hand again and all three are pinned against the wall with much greater force than last time.

“What if I told you that you could see your friends one last time, Mr. Braun?” Historia asks as casually as if she were asking about the weather. She digs through her purse, humming that little tune as she does so. She pulls out a little silver pistol, her slender fingers wrapped against the gilded grip, and loads a single bullet into its chamber. She speaks again, her words light and honey-sweet as she points the barrel at the old man’s forehead. “Mr. Braun, would you like to see your friends again?”

“Historia,” Mikasa growls with narrow eyes.

“What’s she doing? Why does she have a gun?” Gabi asks, voice rising. Her head whips back to Mikasa, eyes wide with horror. She tries to break free from Mikasa’s grip, but the woman holds the girl back tightly. With more urgency, Gabi thrashes more violently, trying to lunge towards Historia’s gun. “Let me go! She’s going to shoot him!”

The ghosts have broken free, all of them clambering for Historia with arms outstretched, but the blonde stands there with her gun aimed as if she and the old man are the only two in the room. Historia ignores the ghosts even as they grab at her, her arm remaining steady even as they try to pull the gun from her fingers. She keeps her gaze fixed on the old man who only stares back at her. While Gabi screams and Mikasa struggles to keep the young girl out of the line of fire, the old man appears calm, a look of resignation on his face.

“What do you say, Mr. Braun?” Historia asks quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he rests his head against the headboard, eyes closed as if he’s about to fall asleep. His answer is adequate enough for Historia to fire the gun.

A piercing shriek cuts across the room just as Historia pulls the trigger, but it’s the only sound that can be heard. There is no whistling bullet. There is no bang as the bullet makes its mark upon the target’s skull. There is no dull thud as a corpse falls to the floor. There is only Gabi screaming for her great uncle as she finally manages to pull away from Mikasa’s hold, her screams only halting when she reaches for the wound on Mr. Braun’s head only to find him fully intact and unmistakably alive as he blinks back at her.

“What …?” Gabi asks, turning slowly to look at Historia and Mikasa.

“It’s a special gun, sweetheart,” Historia explains as she blows at the tip of the barrel. It’s for show, really, because the gun isn’t smoking at all. She drops the gun in her bag, patting it happily before looking back at Gabi and noticing the girl’s stunned expression. Historia frowns, leaning over to Mikasa to ask, “Did I not make that clear?”

“Not at all,” Mikasa replies. Her employer is many things, but clear is not one of them.

“Ah, it’s so troublesome to explain though,” Historia grumbles. She looks at Gabi, watching as the girl slowly loses her mind trying to comprehend everything unfolding in front of her. Her lower lip sticks out in a pout and Mikasa can already see the wheels turning in her mind as she tries to find a way out of dealing with the young girl. If there’s something Historia dislikes almost as much being told how to handle her money, it’s dealing with people on the verge of a mental breakdown. Historia looks over to Mikasa, her face hopeful as she waits for her employee to step in and take the lead, but Mikasa shoots her down with a dirty look and Historia sighs. “Look, Gabi,” Historia says impatiently, hands folded across her chest and foot tapping already. “It’s really not that difficult to understand. You see, the bullet I shot your Great Uncle Braun with allows people to see ghosts. Now, Mr. Braun can finally interact with the ghosts that have been watching over him for so long, all thanks to yours truly!” She waves a gracious hand and waits expectantly for the praise that she believes is deserved of her, but it never comes. Gabi is too busy staring at the empty air around them to give Historia any sort of thanks.

“What do you mean?” Gabi asks, her voice reaching a terrible whine that makes Historia sniff disdainfully. She looks at Mikasa, her expression making it quite clear that she thinks that Historia is speaking nonsense, but the woman offers her no further explanation. Her eyes land once more on her Great Uncle Braun and she notices that his eyes no longer roam. Instead, they are fixed on something in front of him, something that she cannot see. Horrified, she turns to Mikasa, gripping the woman’s wrists so hard that her knuckles turn white. “What’s wrong with Uncle Reiner? Why is he like that? He’s even worse than before!”

“He’s fine,” Mikasa says soothingly. She breaks one hand free from Gabi’s grasp and pats the young girl’s head gently.

“We could make this a lot more simple, you know,” Historia says. She pulls out the gun from her purse once more, twirling it carelessly in her hand. “Shall I shoot her too?”

Mikasa shoots Historia a hard glare. “You are not shooting a child.”

Her employer rolls her eyes, grumbling under her breath about how she was simply suggesting an easier solution, but she puts the gun away.

The ghosts are speechless as they cautiously approach Mr. Braun. The two brothers keep their distance but the other ghost — the tall one that had looked so murderously down at Historia when she had pulled the trigger — is the only one to stand right in front of his old friend. Both the ghost and Mr. Braun stare at each other as if they are the only two in the room. The soldier holds up a hand, reaching for the old man but too afraid to touch.

“Bertholdt.” It’s not a question that comes from Reiner, but a statement of disbelief. As he gazes at the ghost, the old man looks more awake than he has been this entire visit. He sits up, reaching for Bertholdt’s outstretched hand. Their fingetipsrs touch, then their palms, and then their fingers lace together. Ever since he had first laid eyes on Bertholdt, the real Bertholdt, Reiner hasn’t looked away once. “It really is you.”

“It’s true, then? He can see me now? He can really see me?” Bertholdt asks, staring in awe at his fingers interlaced with Reiner’s. He looks to Historia, eyes begging her to tell her that this is all real and not some cruel trick.

It’s a heartwarming scene, but Historia stands there with her arms folded across her chest. She gives him a curt nod before looking away disinterestedly, an inaudible sigh slipping from her lips.

Mikasa gestures for the ghost and his companions to get closer. “Go on,” she says with an encouraging smile. “He hasn’t seen you in so long. It must be overwhelming to reunite with you after all this time. Tell him everything and banish the nightmares that have been plaguing him for so long.”

Reiner continues to converse with Bertholdt as if nobody else is in the room. “But have you been here all this time?” He looks behind Bertholdt, a genuine smile now on his face. Although he has aged, his grin is as youthful as a young boy’s. He gestures with his free hand, waving his friend’s over. “Marcel and Porco, too? After everything I’ve done, you’re still here?” Tears are beginning to well up in his eyes once more but Bertholdt hastily wipes them away with a tender thumb.

“We were worried about you,” Marcel says. He takes a seat on the edge of Reiner’s bed. His expression is much softer now, filled with affection as he gazes down at his old friend, and rests a gentle hand on Reiner’s arm. “After the war … we were sorry we abandoned you. We couldn’t find it in ourselves to leave you again until we knew you were alright.”

It must have been torture for them to stay by Reiner’s side all those years, observing him helplessly as he screamed at distorted visions of them that blamed him for their deaths. It takes a certain type of strength — a certain type of love, Mikasa thought — to stay for someone for all those years. It had already been over half a century and still they had never left him. It must have been a similar pain for Mr. Braun too, Mikasa thinks, to have been tortured by the memory of his fallen for all those years. All those years he had suffered alone. Not anymore.

“What’s going on?” Gabi whispers, eyes wide as she tries to take in a scene she can’t understand.

“We’ll explain outside,” Mikasa whispers back. She places a hand on Gabi’s back and leads the girl towards the door, Historia dragging her feet as she follows behind. In the background, Reiner and his old comrades continue to talk.

“We were so worried,” Porco is saying, voice quiet as he takes a seat beside his brother Marcel. “You blamed yourself for things that weren’t your fault. It didn’t feel right to just leave you when you were suffering so much without us.”

“Did I worry you? I’m sorry. You stayed because of me instead of moving on like you should have,” Reiner says with a wry smile. He gazes down at the hand that holds Bertholdt. “But I’m glad I could see you all one last time… I missed you.”

Bertholdt gives Reiner’s hand a quick squeeze. “We missed you too.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. It fades a little bit, affection replaced with concern as he asks, “But the things you were seeing … are they still here?”

Reiner doesn’t even look around to check, keeping his eyes on Bertholdt instead. “No,” he says with a shake of his head. His smile is spread so wide, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I only see you.”

Mikasa shuts the door gently behind her, a small smile on her face.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“So let me get this straight,” Gabi says slowly. She holds up a fist, bringing up a finger every time she brings up each new topic she’s had to process. “There were no ghosts haunting Uncle Reiner. The things he was seeing were just hallucinations that were conjured up in his mind due to his own guilt. But there were ghosts — the ghosts of his old friends — that were watching over him all these years because they were worried about him. And I can’t see them because I wasn’t shot with a magic bullet?” She looks at her three fingers with a frown and then at the two women beside her.

“That’s pretty much it,” Mikasa hums. She’s only had to explain it a handful of times to the girl, so she’s quite pleased that Gabi’s grasped it so quickly even if the young girl’s expression grows more and more troubled with each repetition.

“Please don’t make us go through it again,” Historia says with a grown, knocking her head back against the wall. She bangs the back of her head against the wall a few times in frustration, her expression one of tired impatience, before letting out another exaggerated sigh. Although Mikasa has been patient throughout, Historia has been growing more and more impatient, only offering a few words here and there while Mikasa took care of most of the explanation.

“Well, it’s hard to believe you when I can’t see anything! How can I even trust you guys? I might have signed over my entire inheritance to a bunch of frauds!” Gabi points out, her gaze more suspicious of them than it was when they first met. “For all I know, you might have just made things worse bringing up his past!”

Historia stiffens at the young girl’s words and for a moment Mikasa thinks she’s going to get up and leave, but the woman opens her mouth to say quietly, “Darling, would you have rather he been haunted by his past until his last breath?” Gabi doesn’t respond and Historia continues, her eyes a little less icy now as she leans against the armrest. “You don’t understand because you’re so young. You don’t have things that you regret or lost things you can’t live without, not the way your uncle has. You should be thanking me, really, for allowing him the ability to reunite one last time with his old friends. Some people aren’t so lucky.”

The young girl’s cheeks blaze a bright red and she looks down at the floor, her eyes bright as they begin to fill with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared,” she mumbles, lower lip trembling dangerously. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before. So sad, but at the same time … so happy.” The tears begin to roll down her cheeks one by one, her shoulders shaking as the girl tries to suppress her crying. Mikasa is about to reach out and offer Gabi a shoulder to lean on but, surprisingly, Historia beats her to it.

Gently, the blonde wraps an arm around the child’s shoulders before guiding her onto her shoulder. It’s a rare sign of sympathy, one that Mikasa usually doesn’t see Historia display, especially towards clients. It’s even more surprising when Historia begins to stroke the girl’s hair, brushing stray locks away from the child’s face as she hums that song that Mikasa still can’t fully recall. “Farewells are like that,” Historia murmurs, looking into the distance as if remembering something. “They’re always sad, but they’re not entirely sad. Never entirely sad.” There’s something wistful in the way she says this and Mikasa almost opens her mouth to ask why, but now isn’t the time. Maybe another day when they’re alone and there isn’t a child between them that needs comforting.

The three of them stay that way for a while, silent save for Gabi’s sobs and the muffled conversation on the other side of the while. As Mikasa rubs circles on the young girl’s back, she focuses her gaze on Historia, who has that faraway look in her eye that she sometimes gets when she isn’t thinking. It’s not one that Historia wears freely around others, but she’s gotten more careless around Mikasa over the years. Mikasa notices that such a distracted gaze tends to appear during businesses such as these where a client with ghosts that should have left a long time ago. There’s no ghost that haunts Historia now, at least none that Mikasa can see, but she has a feeling she already knows the memory that keeps Historia up at night. Why Mikasa never asks the woman herself, she doesn’t know.

The door to Mr. Braun’s room finally creaks open and the ghosts — Porco, Marcel, and Bertholdt, who is still holding onto Reiner’s hand as the old man follows them to the hall — trail out. They look much calmer now, their expressions serene and no longer hostile as they look first at Mikasa and Historia.

“Did you have a nice talk?” Historia says, getting up to meet them. She looks over at Mikasa and Gabi. Although the young girl is still crying, Historia beckons her forward, a twinge of annoyance on her face that’s replaced with a polite smile as she looks at Mr. Braun. “I hope you’ve had enough time to say your goodbyes. Goodness knows you’ve probably had a lot you wanted to say to Mr. Braun for the past half a century, but you’ve stayed here far too long, don’t you think?”

They nod in agreement, but they all look reluctant to go, Bertholdt especially. Still, Marcel steps forward with a gracious smile and says, “We have to thank you, Miss Historia, for allowing us to meet with Reiner one last time before we pass.”

Historia waves away his thanks with a wave of her hand, although her smile grows into a smirk after hearing the praise. “Not at all. It’s the least I could do.” She turns to Mr. Braun, her gaze more patient than it was when she was dealing with the elderly man’s great-niece. “Are you ready to say goodbye, Mr. Braun?”

He doesn’t look at Historia, his gaze lingering on Bertholdt whose hand he still holds. His withered hands cling to the spirit, eyes wistful like he never wants to let go. “Will I ever see you again?” he asks.

“If there’s ever a way, then I’m sure we’ll find our way back to each other,” Bertholdt replies. Mikasa can’t see the ghost’s face, but she knows he means it. She doesn’t know if it’s possible — to meet someone again after death or if reuniting in another life is feasible — but she believes his words now. If anyone can make it happen, it will be him.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Mikasa and Historia drop the ghosts off at the hotel, leaving Connie and Levi to assist them and introduce the ghosts to the hotel’s rooms and various facilities. Mikasa had taken a few minutes to assure the ghostly trio that all of their accommodations (within reason, she added) would be met to the best of the staff’s ability. She would see them all again soon, the manager assured them even as Historia impatiently dragged her away to meet their reservation at the dim sum restaurant Mikasa had placed earlier today.

“So,” Mikasa asks, watching fondly as Historia shoves an entire BBQ pork bun into her mouth, “how is the food?”

“Incredible,” Historia answers with her mouth full of food. Despite how elegant the woman might appear on the outside, Historia — much to Mikasa’s amusement — always eats as if she’s starving. It doesn’t matter if they had eaten hours ago or thirty minutes ago; Historia will shovel food into her mouth until her cheeks are filled and doesn’t stop until every dish is licked clean. While others have found the woman’s table manners atrocious and even frightening at times, Mikasa can’t help but be entranced whenever she watches Historia eat.

“Come, eat more. The shrimp dumplings are absolutely divine.” Historia plucks a beautifully wrapped shrimp dumpling with her chopsticks and offers it to Mikasa.

“Thank you,” Mikasa says, holding out her plate to accept the dumpling. She takes the extra time to admire the delicate pleats in the translucent skin and the gorgeous pink of the plump shrimp sitting inside. When she takes a bite, the delicate wrapper breaks apart and her teeth dig into the shrimp with a delightful crunch, her mouth filling with the shellfish’s sweet flavor. Mikasa easily finishes the dumpling in another bite, savoring the taste of it as the starch wrapper melts on her tongue and mingles with the savory-sweet filling. When she’s done, she looks up to see Historia looking at her with a smug smile on her face.

“Delicious?”

“Very.”

“You’re very welcome,” Historia says, her chest puffed out proudly as if she was the one to suggest they eat here tonight. She goes back to inspecting the dim sum dishes laid out in front of them, her eyes latching onto a plate of chicken feet. She nibbles on one, spitting the bones out onto a napkin. When she’s done, she gets another, her lips shining pink from the grease. “It’s lovely, but it would have been better if you had let me change like I had asked.”

After dropping the ghosts off at the hotel, Historia had thrown the door open and rushed out to go change before Mikasa had caught her by the wrist. The woman needs to have a wardrobe change almost every hour of the day. It’s another one of Historia’s eccentricities that Mikasa lets slide half the time, but she had made reservations earlier and changing it would have been inconvenient.

“Would the chef’s cooking be any different if you were wearing a different outfit?” Mikasa asks. She takes a gentle bite into a soup dumpling, making sure not to slurp the broth too noisily. It almost burns her mouth, but the tender pork filling inside more than makes up for it.

Historia frowns, discarding the bones from her third chicken foot onto the table. She licks the sticky sweet black bean sauce from her fingers before wiping them on the napkin that sits across her lap. “It would taste better if I were wearing a different outfit,” Historia replies before plucking a fried crab ball from its plate. She digs her teeth into its crispy exterior with a loud crunch and swallows before continuing. “Things taste better when you’re dressed for the occasion. You should know this by now, Mikasa. We’ve been together for over twenty years, you know.”

She doesn’t need the reminder. Mikasa has been counting the days just like her cousin has been counting down the days. He’s been with Historia for almost an entire century. Mikasa wonders what it’s like to know someone for one hundred years. She can’t fathom it.

“And what would you wear instead?” Mikasa asks.

“Mmm.” Historia brings her chopstick to her mouth to nibble at thoughtfully. The woman has entire rooms filled with clothes — all organized by color, season, and style — and yet she’s still able to remember and assemble entire outfits complete with shoes and accessories. She grins when she’s finally thought of the perfect outfit, pointing her chopsticks at Mikasa with a grin on her face. “The Majorica pearls. They look like little dumplings. And the blue tulle dress, the one with the trailing skirt.”

Mikasa knows exactly which ensemble Historia is referring to, although it’s admittedly been a while since she’s seen the blonde hotelier wear the fairy-like tulle. With its shimmering skirt that seems to be a different shade of blue every time Historia moves and its long billowing sleeves that hang off Historia’s shoulders, it’s a piece that’s far more suited for a runway or an elegant wedding than a casual outing to a dim sum restaurant, but Historia wears such extravagant pieces with such confidence that it would seem out-of-place if she were to wear anything less luxurious.

“I think you look beautiful right now,” Mikasa replies.

Historia hardly bats an eyelash. “Of course I do. I’m always beautiful,” Historia says, brushing off the compliment as easily as she always does. It used to bother Mikasa, but she’s used to it now. “That blue dress would really suit the atmosphere of this restaurant better though.”

Mikasa only hums in response.

The two continue eating — Mikasa in delicate bites while Historia gorges herself with buns stuffed with succulent meats and crispy deep-fried shrimp balls but somehow never dropping a crumb. Mikasa doesn’t even eat much. She’s never had much of an appetite, but Historia cleans every plate. By the time Historia cleans off their last plate, there’s a mountain of dirty dishes stacked high on the side of the table, and yet Historia is still hungry enough to call over a nearby waitress and order nearly every dessert on her cart.

Mikasa doesn’t touch any of the pastries that are laid out in front of them, but Historia plucks a crispy durian cake and breaks it in two, the flaky crust crumbling underneath her fingers and spilling onto the table. The intoxicatingly sweet scent of the durian custard is fragrant enough to fill the whole room. Historia stuffs one half into her mouth, savoring the delicate taste of the durian custard as she chews and swallows. She follows with the other half before wiping her fingers on the cloth napkin in her lap.

“Do you still dream of me?” Historia asks nonchalantly. The question comes out of the blue, making Mikasa look up from where she was staring at Historia’s fingers.

I do, Mikasa wants to say. I dream of you every night. But she doesn’t say it. She never does. Instead, the manager replies with a simple, “Yes.”

“Hm,” is all Historia says.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

That night, Mikasa dreams of Historia in a garden. She wears clothing from a different time, the material like that from a rough burlap that has been bleached white from the sun and stitched into a plain dress. She’s younger in this dream, her face a little rounder and her blue eyes less guarded. Historia lays in the garden, staring up at the starry sky. She doesn’t stir even as another girl joins her.

“Historia,” the girl says, freckles sprinkled across her olive skin. Her hair is chopped unevenly in a short cut that frames her thin face, but Historia still smiles when the girl leans over her. It’s not the first time Mikasa has seen this girl in her dreams. “I dreamed of you again.”

“Did you?” Historia asks. Her mouth always curls upward whenever she sees the girl. She’s probably not even aware of it.

“I always dream of you,” the other girl replies.

“Was I beautiful?” Historia asks.

“Of course, you were,” the other girl replies. She lies down beside Historia and the blonde curls up against her, Historia’s blonde head resting against the other girl’s shoulder while their fingers intertwine. “You’re always beautiful.”

It’s painfully intimate. The two look so happy together, curled up against each other as they stare up at the sky. Mikasa doesn’t think she’s ever seen Historia smile like that. It makes her heart ache.

#mikahisu #mikasa ackerman #historia reiss #krista lenz #snk #hotel del luna au #like the moon loves the ocean series #ltmlto

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keelywolfe · 4 years

Text

FIC: The Rose and the Thorn: Chapter 5 (Mafia AU)

Summary: So where was Blue while Rus was off getting kidnapped and how did he end up with Red, anyway?

Tags: Spicyhoney, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings

Warnings: Some violence. A wee bit of unwanted touching and some innuendo.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

~~*~~

Read on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was barely afternoon and Blue was already tired. He’d spent the morning coaxing a variety of flowers in their garden into bloom, gently forcing them to quickly travel through their growth cycles until they were ready to be cut and added to a bouquet.

Normally, their garden had a rigid schedule to keep from pushing the plants too much; stimulated growth could only go so far, after all. But losing most of their stock was forcing Blue to abandon it. Using so much magic in such a short amount of time was exhausting and when Blue parked in their assigned spot, the elderly van wheezing to a stop, he took a moment to sit in the sagging driver’s seat, ignoring the spring pushing through the cheap vinyl to poke at his coccyx as he closed his sockets for just a moment.

There really wasn’t time for a rest. Papy was waiting on these flowers, likely working hard since this morning readying the baskets for Blue’s delivery. There were funerary floral arrangements to be made, birthday gifts, romantic gestures, and every one of them added desperately needed profits back into their coffers.

Rest would have to wait. Instead, Blue pawed through the glove box, past the yellowed owner’s manual and an odd collection of fast food napkins to find a granola bar in its depths. Tastelessly stale, the chocolate chips cast in a white haze and Blue ate it anyway, chewing without tasting. It would help revive his magic and he’d be able to paste on his sunniest smile for Papyrus when he got inside.

His little brother was working so terribly hard, so many long hours on his own. Blue’s soul was so tight with pride, it felt as if it were ready to explode and shower his Papy with it, even as he kept the underling guilt hidden away, tucked back where his brother wouldn’t have to deal with it.

This was his fault. Papy shouldn’t have to deal with the brunt of the stress. He’d abandoned his own faint hopes for college to help Blue with the business, worked hard without a fuss. He learned to make flower arrangements from bouquets to corsages, how to run the registers, how to smile and charm their customers into buying more than they intended. This was Blue’s dream, not his, but he’d thrown himself in entirely, and Blue didn’t want him to know about the bills rubberstamped in red ‘past due’ ink. He didn’t want Papy to worry about their dwindling savings.

The insurance money would help, quite a bit if the representative he spoke to yesterday was correct, and they only needed to last the few weeks until it came.

A little hard work hadn’t dusted him yet, Blue told himself as he got out of the van and retrieved the first heavy bucket of cut flowers; lilies, for the funeral arrangements. A few weeks more wasn’t going to do any harm.

When he got to the shop door, for a moment Blue didn’t understand why it wouldn’t push open. Then he realized the open sign was off, the door was locked tight. The shop was closed, on a Friday afternoon when all the lovesick swains got their paychecks and were ready to pick up flowers in hopes of a romantic weekend and they’d be purchasing their bouquets elsewhere because his shop was closed.

Later, Blue would be ashamed his first instinct was largely irritated; had his silly brother forgotten to leave the door open for customers, they did have some stock! But that was not for more than a startled second, long enough for him to see the broken mug scattered across the stoop.

He leaned down to pick up a shard of the plastic, absently noting the tremble in his hand. It had been his brother’s favorite travel mug, a silly thing he’d gotten it at the thrift shop, leftover from some Halloween or another. The skeletons that danced around it would dance no more, the piece Blue held had lost its legs, and he took very little comfort in the fact there was no dust on the broken pieces because there was a single splotch of redness, a near-perfect circle of dried marrow.

Someone had hurt his brother, Humans, perhaps the same ones from yesterday and how had he ever believed in his naiveté that Humans would welcome them to the surface with open arms.

“now thems some pretty flowers you got there.”

Startled, Blue turned towards that voice, ready to tell them with as much forced politeness as he could muster that they were currently closed, and would the police even come if he called them, would they even care, who else could he possibly—

Then he caught sight of who spoke, and his soul felt as if it froze right in his rib cage, icy fingers digging in and oh, his little brother was in far worse trouble than Blue could have ever guessed.

He’d never met the Fells, neither on the Surface or below it. The Underground was a big place and the madscrabble life they’d grown accustomed to in Ebott did not lend itself to making new acquaintances. Not that Blue frequented the sorts of places where one might meet the Fells. No, he’d never met them, but he knew them by reputation. Thugs, whispered along the gossip-line, loan sharks, racketeers, even murderers said the quietest rumors, though not for very long.

This one could only be the older brother, Red. He stood only a bit taller than Blue and nearly twice as broad, with little resemblance past the fact they were both skeleton Monsters. His teeth curved into a jagged, shark grin, unlike Blue’s blunted smile and his eye lights were the burning crimson of an ember. His dark expensive suit with its rich scarlet shirt boasted of handsewn silks, and the fingers holding his cigar were circled with gold rings whose stones were too garishly large to be anything but real. His other hand was tucked into his pocket, oddly threatening for its nonchalance. Flanking him were two large Dog monsters, white on white ties and shirts, and Blue was suddenly struck by the absurdity of it all.

His little flower shop along with his brother had somehow been transported into some ridiculous Godfather-esque alternate, only proved by Red exhaling a billowing cloud of smoke as he said, “but it looks t’me like you’ve got a lil’ trouble bloomin’. lose somethin’? or mebbe someone.”

Inappropriate laughter bubble up, choked away, and Blue heard himself say, “I suppose I did.”

Red nodded as if Blue had offered not a stream of wisdom, but an entire glistening fountain. He started pulling his hand out of his pocket and Blue tensed, angel-only knew what thoughts about guns or knives shooting through his mind. But that hand was empty and Red only plucked one of the lilies from the bucket, running a razor-tipped finger along the satiny petals.

“Are you here to help with that? My…my missing person?” Blue asked at last. Not that he wanted to, he didn’t, but his options were few, any choices dwindled away. There was no one else to ask and with every second that went by, the danger his brother was in could only be growing. This had something to do with yesterday, Blue was sure of it, and he couldn’t even imagine what sort of trouble his sweet, funny brother had gotten into to cause all this.

Rumor had it Red never broke his word, that he had a twisted way of keeping it, a monkey’s paw wish. But for his brother, Blue would have bargained with the devil incarnate.

He wondered if he was.

“could be,” Red said idly. He twirled the flower stem between his fingers. “you got quite the green thumb, dontcha.”

“Yes?” Blue agreed, warily. He’d heard that before when they’d first come to the Surface, and his refusal to grow drugs had been a costly one, losing him possible allies. He wondered dismally what conundrum he was about to be balanced on for his brother’s safety.

“hm.” Red gave the lily a considering sniff, “might have to see if we can drive your posy sales a lil’ better, after we get past this oopsie daisy.”

Blue didn’t know what that meant but he was sure he wouldn’t like it.

“tell ya what,” Red gave him a conspiratorial wink and a finger gun, as if they were close pals and not a known criminal chatting with a simple florist, “me and the neighborhood watchdogs here, we’ll take care of it. you hang tight and we’ll get your bro back to you.”

Blue didn’t ask how they knew it was his brother. He didn’t ask a thing. He simply crossed his arms over his chest and said, “No, I don’t think so. I’m coming with you.”

That earned him a deep frown, “baby blue, i think mebbe you didn’t hear me so good.”

“I heard you perfectly well,” Blue told him and didn’t bother with any astonishment over what this…this person might know or not know about him. Nicknames and whatnot were not important. Papy was. “And I don’t care. I’m coming with you and I’m staying until I see my brother.”

A low growl came from one of the Dogs, silenced instantly when Red held out a hand. Those jagged teeth curved into an unpleasantly wide grin, “you think so, eh. and if i say no?”

It was not particularly difficult to work up some tears, they’d been hovering thickly beneath the surface the moment Blue found that broken coffee mug. He let them loose now, wailing as loudly as he could, “How can you leave me like this!” Fat droplets rolled down his cheeks, huge sobs gasped out, “and with a baby on the way?”

Red froze, his cigar drooping in his teeth as his grin fell away so abruptly Blue half-expected it to shatter on the stoop with the remains of Papy’s coffee mug. All around them the people on the sidewalk who’d been previously been looking discreetly away were abruptly watching with avid interest, aghast and greedily outraged as Blue wept loudly, one hand pressed against his apron to his belly over their nonexistent child. A few people were shuffling their feet as if considering playing the hero, weighing their odds against a cruel wealthy ex-boyfriend and his friends casting aside a tiny pregnant clerk.

“get in the fucking car,” Red muttered. He tossed the lily on the ground, trodding on it as he turned to do the same. Blue tried not to see the mangled flower as a metaphor and followed, hopping through the open door that one of the Dogs closed firmly behind him.

He settled into the enormous leather seat, buckling his seatbelt to at least make it more difficult if Red decided it might well be easier to simply shove him out of the car on the next block.

Not that Red seemed to be considering it. He was rummaging through a small bar installed in the side door, pouring a finger’s worth of what was probably very expensive whiskey into a crystal glass, knocking it back in a single gulp. He poured another then settled back in his seat with it, crimson eye lights targeting Blue.

“you got some balls, kid,” he grumbled. It almost sounded grudgingly admiring but there wasn’t time to worry about that.

“Can you promise me you’ll get my brother back to me? Safe and sound,” Blue hastened to add.

“sure, toots. we’ll get your bro back in mostly one piece,” Red said. He grinned again, all jaggedly sharp teeth as Blue’s gorge rose, purring out, “nah, he’ll be all safe and sound. got someone on it right now, and not one of the usual mutts, neither. he’ll get your bro. meantime, we got some things we can discuss, you and me.”

Blue lifted his chin defiantly. He’d known what he was getting into. If there was a price to be paid for saving his brother, Blue would offer his own soul on a silver platter. But there was no reason for Papy to know. “I’m sure we do, so long as it’s a private discussion between us.”

Those crimson eye lights gleamed and Blue could very nearly hear the invisible chains of fate closing around him. “good boy. now, let’s talk about you, baby blue. how’s business?”

-fin

Read Next Chapter

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #mafia au

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brelione · 3 years

Note

I am pretty tall (near 5´7) and I can be very self conscious, I am really good at baking and cooking, I love to shop and do my makeup Im bi, im pretty smart (im pretty sure its bc im a Virgo), i have like a brown shoulder length hair that is straight, im a hufflepuff, I like crystals and plants, I dislike rude people and people who arent considerate. Thanks Babes!

OF COURSE, YOU’RE A VIRGO

OF COURSE

BUT OOOH IF YOU HAVE A CRYSTAL COLLECTION AND YOU DONT SEND PICS I WILL BE OFFENDED

BUT I SHIP YOU WITH KIARA

Two inches. She was only two inches taller than you yet she made it seem like a foot.

“Yeah, so then I smacked my head off-oh, wait. You’re too short to understand.”She teased, making you roll your eyes and kick her chair lightly.

She loved spending time in your bedroom, looking through your crystal basket, and admiring all your plants. “Wow, I’ve never met such an unorganized Virgo.”She grinned.

She loves shopping with you at thrift stores or antique shops since they were smaller businesses and didn't contribute to the pollution problem

The antique shops had plenty of crystals and carved sea glass and some nice teapots and mugs

The afternoon after shopping the two of you would fill a fancy teapot with soil and seeds, surrounding the area where the seeds were with crystals before placing them by your windowsill.

She doesn't wear makeup often but she still lets you practice on her, making fake freckles with golden eyeliner and highlighting her nose and cheekbones. She’d always giggled at the feeling of the brush against her skin.

She loves to play around with her hair, brushing it, braiding it, and adding cute little butterfly clips.

You two bake cakes every Saturday after going berry picking. Usually its yellow cake with whipped cream frosting and fruit between the layers.

She gets all pouty when you’re talking bad about yourself, eventually yelling

“LOOK HOW CUTE YOU ARE! LOOK IT! LOOK AT YOU CUTE FACE!”She squished your cheeks. “AND LOOK AT YOUR NICE EYES AND YOUR NICE HAIR YOU DUMB BEAUTIFUL IDIOT! LOOK AT YOUR NICE ASS NOSE!”She poked your nose, grabbing your face and kissing you.

She tends to come to you about questions when it comes to science or math instead of Pope because you explain things in a less condescending tone.

She has a few basil and thyme plants, one of which she named after you.

She loves whenever you cook for her

Usually its pasta or jalapeno poppers or salmon

She loves all of it and will literally start clapping when you put down her plate

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lovelyirony · 4 years

Note

'i’m the best worst thing that hasn’t happened to you yet' - for winter13 please? :)

Winter Soldier is a freelancer now. It’s surprising given the ironclad grip that Hydra had held over him, but it was...nice. To escape from their grasp, to be on the run and choosing jobs for himself. There was no RSVP checkpoint, no orders that had to be exact.

He got a job, executed it well (forgive the pun), and sometimes had coffee afterwards.

Of course, he took jobs from all over. As long as payment was discreet and so was the job, people were happy to pay a man who had once been a machine.

Jobs from all over meant that there were always requirements. He had no problem disposing of members of Hydra, but SHIELD was a bit trickier. Winter Soldier reserved the right to refuse a job, and had countless times now.

(Countless. Almost made him giddy.)

Agent Thirteen. The newest assignment.

The hit came from someone inside SHIELD. Which isn’t as suspicious as most would think. SHIELD is many things, but thorough is not always one of them. There are people that slip through the cracks because they get a second chance, something that Barnes thinks they could learn from ever since Jasper Sitwell has become...ill-disposed of. And Pierce has died mysteriously with files about Hydra’s involvement plastered to his chest.

But Agent Thirteen is born-and-bred into SHIELD. Her great-aunt was the leader of it all, and she ruled with iron in her bones and a heart that cared genuinely. She stayed late nights at the office, kept a knife on her at all times, and was...surprising.

There was a reason Hydra laid as low as it did throughout the years.

He had heard that Agent Thirteen lived up to the expectations set upon her. But he wasn’t sure that she was deserving of the fate that someone else had in store for her.

So he decides to move next door. Whoever was living there has moved out, so he’s moving in as Jim Wetzel. Typical first name, not last. SHIELD is the absolute queen of taking generic names, having a “just-moved-in” neighbor that’s a little too tense, a little too observant.

Jim Smith wouldn’t do. Jim Smith is too generic. No one names their kid Jim Smith anymore, it’s like sirens wailing loudly.

So he’s Jim Wetzel. He shakes with his right hand, smiles at the woman who says her name is Kate--it most definitely isn’t--and they exchange pleasantries.

“When did you hear about the place? It seemed awfully...fast,” Thirteen says.

“A friend of a friend knows some people a couple floors down, got the message from them,” Jim says with a shrug. “And now here I am. How long have you been here?”

“Almost a year now,” she responds kindly. “Keep an eye out for the washer on the left, I don’t trust it.”

“Good advice,” Jim says with a laugh. “See you around, Kate.”

Kate. What a bad name in the mouth. He’s not sure if it just sounds fake or if it’s because he knows she’s not a Kate.

He has never really moved in before. Not at this level, not for this long. He has furniture, and he went to the thrift store and bought an eclectic collection of plates and mugs, most of which are very weird. One mug might be cursed, he’s not sure yet.

Then he sets up shop. SHIELD’s hours run from six a.m. to about eight at night, or later if you’re a very good employee. Or a very bad one. Either way, Sharon may stay later. So he has ample time to place bugs.

The problem is that she will know all the typical places. Under the television, underneath the bed. (Which he wouldn’t do anyway, because you get...interesting noises.)

So he has to be sneaky with places, think outside the box.

Her apartment really is quite nice. Tasteful decorations, small portraits that are obviously faked. He finds her guns and knives, and one set of poison darts that are innocuously disguised as toothpicks in a jar. He thinks it’s cute.

Meanwhile, “Kate” is pretty fucking sure that her next-door neighbor is either a spy or a model. Potentially both. But no one that hot just “surprise” moves in, and no one can hold two boxes with one arm unless they’re Natasha, but Natasha would be smooth if she was struggling. This guy didn’t even look like it was a problem.

So she is suspicious.

But she is also interested in this guy. He’s her type: a little bit dangerous, nice smile, and probably looks good in navy blue.

So when she comes home at eight-thirty, she does check her home.

She finds one bug. She’s sure there are more in places that she would never check, and this means that this guy has been in the business a hell of a lot longer than she thought. It also means she’ll have to run facial recognition on any chance that he’s recognizable, and those chances are slim.

But she cannot dismantle the bugs yet. She has to leave them there until she has enough evidence to be a nice neighbor and confront him with a nice dish of brownies.

It’s odd, living in a place that you know is bugged. She knows that he didn’t touch the bedroom. Hmph. She would have.

She smiles at him in the hallway when they wake up the same time.

“Where you off to, Jim?” She asks, holding her briefcase.

“Gym,” he answers. “Gotta get it in somehow, you know? What about you, work?”

“Boring office job,” Kate answers easily. Kate does have a boring job. It’s all paperwork and accounting and the classes she would have failed if she had taken them in college. “Where do you work?”

“Private security firm,” he answers. Which is kind of true. He is independent. “Just making sure people stay safe from threats.”

“Important work,” Kate says lightly. “Ever go wrong?”

“Rarely.”

She nods, stepping forward as the elevator door opens. “Good luck today, Jim. Hope the workout goes as planned.”

Okay. Bucky knows she’s onto him now.

Shit.

Sharon has important shit to do.

But she is not an art student.

So she is trying to convince Agent Jenson to draw someone for her.

“I will buy you the good donuts,” Sharon begs. “You know I wouldn’t be doing this for any other reason.”

“One time when you were bored you made Thea on third floor photoshop Clint into a McDonald’s ad just to see if you all could get it to Times Square and you did,” Jenson says, deadpan. “I’m not sure how Barton doesn’t get recognized, he’s gotten on national news twice.”

“The marketing team describes him as a Florida man, we got lucky,” Sharon argues. “And Barton isn’t involved in this.”

Agent Jenson cannot be convinced.

But Sharon gets lucky because Coulson loves history.

James fucking Barnes.

Jim.

Goddammit. She’s screwed. And it’s only Thursday.

When she comes home at ten o’clock (yes she did procrastinate going home, it’s not like you can’t procrastinate death), she has a gun trained on her door.

Right on Jim, who has a knife raised.

“You know, why aren’t we both rational about this?” Sharon asks. “I’m sure you can talk diplomatically, Barnes.”

“I can. But I find more truth in threats and statements rather than diplomacy. Politicians aren’t known for telling the truth.”

“Good thing I don’t have a plan to go into politics,” Sharon says. “So let’s sit down. I’m not gonna hold this gun for twenty minutes.”

And then they sit. That’s awkward.

“I need to know something,” Barnes says. “And I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“Of course you will. I’d be concerned if you didn’t,” Sharon says. “So. Why were you sent to kill me?”

“There are rumors of you being disloyal to SHIELD. I need to know if you’re working for anyone else.”

“No. Not ever.” He nods.

“Who hired me?” she asks.

“A man who goes by Crossbones,” Bucky says.

“Oh my god,” Sharon groans. “Of fucking course it’s Rumlow...”

Bucky freezes. He knows that name. He remembers that man.

“New plan,” he says. “You’re gonna help me get rid of Rumlow.”

Sharon blinks.

She’s used to decisions being made over a series of days. This is...this is new.

“This is personal, isn’t it?”

“You’re smart,” Bucky says bitterly. “He’s an asshole. And I hate him a lot.”

“Got it,” Thirteen says. “Then let’s switch it up. Draw him to where I am. I’ll take care of the rest. You’re on clean-up.”

“I’ve never had a team-up before,” Bucky says. “But I usually think we know each other’s names.”

“Sharon,” she says. “Bucky, right? Or do you seriously go by Jim?”

“Not like Bucky is any better,” he mentions. “But yeah. Bucky. Pleasure doing business with you, Sharon.”

“Better get started,” she says.

(Oh, he’s in love.)

#lovelyirony writes #winter13 #sharon carter #bucky barnes #buckysharon #i love them.......they #sharon #bucky #winter soldier #agent thirteen #they are both capable!#and a little bit too good for their own good!

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vxnicebxtch · 3 years

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I have been so inactive lately, but it’s felt so good cause I finished classes and I haven’t been on my phone a whole lot lately. I spent a lot of time reading, working, painting, crocheting and doing other things that give me great peace of mind. Spring semester starts tomorrow and I’ll be back to early morning coffees in pretty mugs and handwriting pretty notes.

But anyways, I’m back from my little hiatus, and I’m going to try and post more regularly and build more of an identity here, maybe interact with the world of dark academia and literature here on tumblr, I guess.

Here’s a pic of my current to read list, some of them I have already read and want to re-read, others are books I have yet to pick up despite owning them for a long time. The books at the top of the piles, I just picked up from the thrift store and I’m so excited to now have them added to my book collection.

I think soon I need to buy a real bookshelf for my room. My existing one is in our spare room already overflowing with books.

I can’t wait for the day I can live with my boyfriend and he can build me one that will take up the whole wall, but that day is far away.

#dark academia #academic #photography #aesthetic #read in 2021 #reading #to be read #book collection #thrift store books #art #reading challenge

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eliasbouchardisarobloxthot · 4 years

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you keep your socks on in bed

i wrote more fic! this is jonmartin, au where Everything Is Fine, contains mild spoilers for s3 and s4 but nothing plot-related or major. it’s very soft and fluffy and contains gratuitous descriptions of minuscule details about the apartment jon and martin share. also they’re both trans

The flat is small. One bedroom, one bathroom, half a kitchen, and a room that was probably meant to be a closet that they've converted into a makeshift recording studio for Jon. There's an empty corner in the kitchen where a table might fit if they really pushed it in close, and another empty corner that's big enough for a couch.

The bedframe is cold metal, bought from a local Ikea and put together with great difficulty even after Jon used the power of the Eye to read the instructions. Their mattress is used—a gift from Georgie after a sponsorship—and their sheets are brand new, ordered online. Martin had insisted on ordering a novelty bedspread, one with cats and a galaxy print, and Jon hadn't protested, so their bedspread currently features a very dramatic-looking cat staring up at a planet orbiting above it. The pillowcases match, two cats wearing astronaut suits gracing their pillows with their helmeted heads.

The walls are mostly bare, aside from a large abstract painting bought secondhand from a thrift store. It's vaguely orange, with a blue circle beneath it that Martin said looked like a blueberry—which was, of course, why they'd bought it. Jon has absolutely no taste in art, so he hadn't protested when Martin had taken the lead and bought everything he liked. Besides, the whole store was quite cheap, and he didn't mind if Martin wanted to decorate.

Their kitchen, too, features some abstract art. Something that vaguely resembles bread, arranged in aesthetically pleasing uneven lines. The table crammed into the corner has a secondhand wooden napkin holder in the center that reads "Bless This Mess" in curling white cursive. Jon still laughs at it whenever he sees it. Martin insists that it's "homey", though they do usually agree that it is quite cheesy.

Martin's poetry collection is stacked up in one corner of the living room, boxed up neatly and lovingly. They're each painstakingly labeled in slightly smudged pen, the same handwriting that labels most of the other tapes in the house—though those tapes have dates and statement numbers, and these have titles with tiny hearts filling wherever there's an empty space. The boxes themselves are labeled by year, again in the same handwriting, neatly arranged in the corner by the couch.

The couch itself is dark red corduroy, secondhand from the same thrift shop where they’d discovered the kitschy napkin holder and the bread painting. It’s missing a button from the decorative buttons on the arms of the couch, and the bottom looks like it’s been chewed by several different varieties of tooth, but it was cheap and it fit, so it was perfect. Martin’s decorative style could generously be described as “eclectic”, and so their apartment looks like it’s been decorated by a grandmother with a penchant for keeping absolutely everything.

One of the pillows appears to be made by hand, cross-stitched with a gorgeous picture of bluebirds on a tree. The pillow itself is white with tassels, and sits comfortably on the couch where it can easily be picked up for impromptu pillow fights or tossed aside to make room for cuddling. The other two pillows are from a matching set, which would be perfect if not for the fact that they match nothing else in the house. They’re magenta and teal and covered in slightly matted faux-fur, and most likely belonged to a middle schooler with a penchant for bedazzling things, if the rhinestones along the side of the pillows are anything to go by.

The blankets they’ve piled up on the couch do not match anything—not the couch, not the pillows, not even the terrible curtains they’d put up. One is all black and crocheted, and one reads “THIS IS MY HALLMARK CHRISTMAS MOVIE WATCHING BLANKET” in all capitals. It was on clearance, and the whole way to the checkout Jon made jokes about how awful it was to sell this for such a low price, how undervalued this poor blanket was. Martin had just rolled his eyes and sighed, but though neither of them would admit it, the terrible blanket had somewhat grown on them.

Moving in had taken them nearly a full week and the help of Georgie and Melanie—with some additional comments on how ‘even though I’m blind, I can still tell this apartment looks like shit” from Melanie. They didn’t spend a night in their new apartment until everything was fully moved in, and when they finally did they were too excited to sleep. Jon had scoffed at this at first, saying something about how they were just like kids at a sleepover, but the realization that he and Martin were finally, really, actually living together struck him as soon as he had, and it had taken him far longer to get to sleep than he will ever readily admit.

He wakes up first. Not from nightmares, which surprises him greatly. He actually feels well-rested, too, which surprises him even more. And then he rolls over in bed and his face is centimeters away from Martin’s and he can feel his heart skip a beat because oh god, they’re really doing this, they’re really living together.

Leaning in, he presses his forehead to Martin’s. It’s early enough that he’s still sleeping, so Jon can curl up as close as he likes without having to worry about the gentle teasing he would otherwise get.

Jon’s hand finds its way around Martin’s waist and he nestles into the blankets with a soft sigh. Though the apartment is a disaster and he’s a disaster and life is a disaster, there is still a sense of calm in this, in a morning undisturbed by anything other than the gentle sound of cars whooshing by outside and the rhythm of Martin’s chest rising and falling, his heartbeat steady against Jon’s.

He stares up at Martin until he feels like he’s nearly going to cry, because god he loves him so much, and then he only looks away for a moment before he returns to gazing up at him. Without his glasses, Martin is hazy, and Jon reaches over to find his glasses before he starts to think too hard about what that means to him. Glasses on, and Martin is in focus once again, and though Jon knows it’s ridiculous, he actually breathes a sigh of relief.

The blankets shift, and Martin wakes, blinking the sleep from his eyes and smiling as soon as he sees Jon.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs quietly. “You sleep well?”

Jon nods, leaning up to give him a kiss. “Your hair’s a mess,” he says, ruffling the sleep-flattened curls that are sticking up on the side of Martin’s head.

“So’s yours,” Martin replies, sitting up and climbing out of bed. “I’m going to go make us some tea, alright? We can go get breakfast if you’d like, too.”

“Yeah. Just… let’s stay in a little while longer. Just give me a minute.”

Martin nods, leaving to start making them tea. From the bedroom Jon can hear him in the kitchen, the teakettle clattering against the stove as he places it down, the hiss of the burner, the bubbling of water, the clink of the spoon against the sides of the mugs as he stirs. There’s something magical, Jon thinks, about the honey-golden light filtering in through the bedroom window, the city waking up, the quiet of a weekend morning. There’s something magical about being in the same apartment, sharing a space, waking up side by side in a place that’s theirs and only theirs.

He gets up, throwing on a cardigan over his pajamas, and walks into the kitchen. There are two mugs of tea sitting out on the counter, and Martin’s adding sugar to his as steam rises from them.

“Jon!” He turns around, beaming as if it hasn’t been literally two minutes since they’ve last seen each other, and Jon can feel his heart melting. “I made tea!”

Jon takes a mug and sits down at the table, smiling softly. “I noticed.”

They sit in silence for a moment as Martin finishes up with his tea and joins Jon at the table, running his fingertip along the edge of the mug as he thinks. A car horn honks, but it sounds distant—like they’re somehow separate from it, on another plane of existence altogether.

“It’s nice,” Martin says. “This. Having a home with you.”

“Yeah.” Jon can’t think of anything else to say, because it is nice. There are other things, but how can he say that he loves the way that nothing matches, the way Martin always looks so happy when he sees the boxes of cassette tapes Jon organized, the stupid napkin holder and the awful throw pillows and the ridiculous space cat pillowcases? How can he describe in words the way that it makes him feel to know that it’s their stupid napkin holder, their awful through pillows, their ridiculous space cat pillowcases—the way that it makes him feel to know that they’re together?

He doesn’t have to say it. Martin reaches across the table, like he knows what Jon’s thinking and agrees, and takes his hand with careful affection.

“I love you,” Jon says under his breath, the very act of saying it curling his mouth into a soft smile.

“I love you, too,” Martin replies, brushing his thumb over the ring Jon wears on his right middle finger, turning it gently. A small, quick reminder that he’s there, present and solid and real, and Jon could cry from just this simple thing. It’s not uncommon—Martin does this nearly every time they hold hands—but now it feels different. Like he’s promising something, promising to stay here with Jon, promising to love him no matter what.

The morning draws on, and they get dressed. It’s intricate, the way they somehow already seem to anticipate the other person’s routine and make accommodations for it. Jon somehow knows the order Martin does things in, the way he takes a moment to fix his hair before putting on his shirt and then fixing it again. Martin can somehow tell what Jon’s going to do, can somehow hand Jon the right bottle at the right time when he’s finished shaving. They fit into each other perfectly.

As Jon struggles into his binder, Martin puts a hand on his shoulder and gently helps him into it. A tiny gesture. Nonetheless, it’s comforting, and strangely meaningful.

“You ready to go?” Martin’s voice is blocked by the wall as Jon looks through his shirts.

“Just a sec.” He finishes getting dressed, then heads out into the main room. “Where are we headed?”

“There’s this coffeeshop and cafe that I saw on my way here yesterday—looked really cute. I think it’s open this early, we could go get something to eat there and then maybe let everyone know we finished moving in? If you want we could do a little housewarming party, I feel like that’s fun.”

“Yeah. That sounds nice.”

And with that, they start off from their new home.

#text #original work #fanfiction #jonmartin

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shawnsvalentine · 5 years

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business + pleasure : one

description: shawn’s always been into older women but sloan is the exception that drives him wild

warnings: language, failed attempts at humor [2.6k]

It was a rarity for Shawn not to get what he wanted when he wanted it, and she made the mistake of adding to his perfect record as soon as she saw the white cylindrical box engraved with CHRISTIAN DIOR PARIS. There was an elegant note card attached at the top that had been sealed with a golden Giorgi Armani sticker. She made sure to open it while Cassandra was out with a client, knowing that the box wasn’t a care package from her mother.

For your collection. If you have one.

— Shawn xx

She couldn’t stop herself from gasping at the gift inside, the beautiful silk feeling foreign against her finger tips. The Strength mitzvah scarf, that she knew costed more than the thrifted one she was wearing when Shawn first approached her, every bit as gorgeous as it looked in the pictures. She knew that it was no coincidence that he’d chosen the S scarf, but she had no idea how he’d came across her name; she certainly hadn’t told him.

“Good afternoon, Sloan.” Her head snapped up to see him, just as alluring as usual in a plum button up and tight slacks. His eyes darted to the Dior package and he smiled, his whole face brightening at the sight of it opened. “I wanted to get you the whole ABC collection, but I figured you’d think it was excessive.”

“The only thing I thought was how odd it was for one of the board members of Giorgio Armani to gift me a Christian Dior scarf. Something you’re not telling us about your brand?”

He shook his head, his teeth glistening as a smile broke out across his lips. “Our scarves are just fine, you just struck me as a Dior woman.” Shawn wanted the next few moments to be scripted, for Sloan to wrap the scarf around his neck and pull him in so close that he could smell her signature fragrance personally. For her to mold her lips around his and grab onto his arms, moving on to moan sweet nothings into his ear. But of course, all she did was smile at him, thanking him for the gift. “Why don’t you wear it to dinner tonight?”

“Dinner?” What about Cassandra? was the subtext that both of them knew was written in invisible ink.

“A friend of mine just opened a restaurant about a month or so back, it’s in Brooklyn. Neither of our circles run in Brooklyn.”

She smacked his chest playful, taking note of the hard muscle underneath. “Excuse you, I live in Brooklyn.”

“Even better, we’ll be in your borough.” He knew he was playing a risky game by reaching out for her hand across the glass top mahogany desk, eyes fluttering up to catch her reaction. “Just one date. And if you genuinely think we’re nuts for sneaking around, then I’ll leave you alone. But at least let me buy you dinner before you turn me down.”

She laughed lightheartedly, using her free hand to point back at the color splashed creme scarf. “You already bought me a two-hundred dollar accessory,” He pouted, completely unprepared for her to shoot him down. “But yes. Dinner sounds nice. Pick me up at nine.” Sloan scribbled her ten digits on a loose sticky note, stuffing it in his pants pocket before sashaying her way to the break room for a cup of coffee.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t positively giddy at the thought of spending a few hours with Shawn in public, completely uninterrupted by her boss or one of her colleagues. It meant actual conversation and not hushed whispers in between meetings and body language of strictly platonic professionals in case anyone barged in while Shawn was paying a visit. It meant getting to kiss him for the first time.

Sloan blinked back to reality as the Keurig began brewing her coffee, the black liquid filling up her boob-outline mug that she got on sale from Urban Outfitters. “Isn’t this like your third cup today?”

“What can I say, Kimmy, I love coffee.” Whenever Kimmy added her two cents where she didn’t bank, Sloan wanted to roll her eyes so far back they could get stuck. She couldn’t even drink coffee safely.

Kimmy disregarded the snark and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, glancing through the door as she sipped from the ice cold bottle. “Aren’t they just the cutest thing? Cassandra’s so stinking lucky, I’d give my right arm to date Shawn Mendes.”

“You’re left handed.” Sloan grabbed her mug and tried to return back to her desk in peace, but the sight of Shawn cozying up with Cassandra in the middle of the department’s floor had her sick to her stomach. They looked far too sweet giggling over nothing with one another, him practically nibbling on her ear, and all Sloan could do was wish that it was her. She hated feeling like a side piece, and even though she knew Shawn’s angle, she still felt like one. The girl he had to keep hidden.

Maybe: Shawn: It’s Shawn. I saw you watching us. I’m sorry. Will try to keep the office encounters to a minimum. SM.

Sloan: No, it’s not your fault. It’s on me

Besides, if you stopped showing up I’d never see you

Shawn: Fair point. I’m still sorry though. Going to try to wrap up this deal as soon as possible. SM.

Sloan: What the fuck is sm

Shawn: My initials. I initial all text messages, force of habit. SM.

Sloan: You didn’t have to— nvm. SS.

Shawn: SS?

Sloan: Sloan Spelman

“You have a shoot tomorrow morning and you’re texting? It better be with your Gucci connect to secure that cowboy hat.” Cassandra. Most everyone has complained about a fatal flaw of their boss, but Cassandra Rosen? She was all flaws. Sloan often wondered how the hell she made it to where she was, the Editorial Director of the Vogue Magazine, talent be damned. How could anyone put up with one hundred and sixty pounds of pure mean just because she got things done? It was an answerless question Sloan had been asking herself since the day of her interview.

“Y-yes, I was just confirming it for the New Age Western shoot.” Sloan made a mental note to double confirm the hat for the shoot, otherwise she’d be out on her ass for telling such a boldfaced lie. She was still a bit baffled they were doing a shoot around a custom made Gucci cowboy hat for Lil Nas X all because he snuck it into one of his songs. It was kind of crazy how a guy younger than her had managed to wrap brands right around his finger, and he couldn’t even drink yet.

Shawn was practically staring her down from the doorway, fighting the urge to defend her against Cassandra’s sharp tongue. He knew his way around Cassandra by now, and saying anything to help Sloan would only increase her raging paranoia. It was just better to sit this one out. “I’m about to head out, I’ll see you tomorrow, Cass.” He wanted to say goodbye to Sloan but he settled on a polite nod as he turned to leave.

The rest of her work day was utter hell with Cassandra’s constant bitching about how Sloan’s first editorial shoot had to be perfect, as if Sloan wasn’t already stressing herself out. The only thing that kept her above float, aside from her coffee and Toblerone bar, was the reminder that her date with Shawn was mere hours away. She kept pushing aside the overwhelming anxiety surrounding getting caught and focused on daydreaming little scenarios about the two of them in some obscure underground speakeasy with total strangers.

Sloan spent extra time in the shower, shaving everywhere just in case, and making sure she was fully lathered in her coconut meadowfoam body wash. After a solid ten minutes of back and forth, she decided on keeping her curls out and wild, scrunching her bangs so she’d actually be able to see Shawn. She was still deciding between a tight black dress and a silk tank top with floral patterned bottoms when he texted her. It was longer than his normal and she was fairly sure he was nervous.

Shawn: I’m on my way. Took a while to decide on car or subway, but ultimately picked the subway because I wasn’t sure about the restaurant’s parking. He may have mentioned something about a nearby parking garage but those scare me. See you in about thirty minutes. SM.

She started to panic watching the minutes tick by and she grabbed the top and pants, letting her towel drop as she dipped into her body butter. Her underwear was barely on when her doorbell dinged, her hand reaching out to throw on her fuzzy purple robe before shouting out that she was coming. She figured it was her friend Alicia coming to hype her up before her date, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. It was Shawn. “Is that what you’re wearing? Bold choice.” He handed her the bouquet of peonies he was holding before kissing her temple. It gave her chills.

He looked absolutely... delicious. The maroon button up he was donning was showing off a bit of chest hair and his lucky pendant, and he’d rolled the sleeves up to the swell of his forearm. His hair was slicked back perfectly, his brown wavy locks framing his face in a way she thought should be illegal. She gulped at the sight of him towering over her, the urge to mount him oh so very real.“You said a half an hour? I swear it’s been only five minutes or so.”

Shawn shoved his hands in his pockets, his feet tapping against the welcome mat. “I had terrible reception at the terminal, it probably sent the second I resurfaced.”

“Well, come in. You can wait on the couch while I finish up.”

He shut the door behind him, showing himself around the coat rack to her living room. She followed a concise color aesthetic from room to room, the living room obeying the laws of pink and gold. There were plants surrounding her plush pink couch, and white throw pillows to match the rug beneath the golden coffee table. He felt like he was sitting in a Vogue interior design spread. “How long have you lived here?”

“Since junior year of college.” She kept her makeup to a minimum, light foundation with eyeliner and mascara, using extra caution so her outfit didn’t get stained. “It definitely beat paying that expensive ass room and board.”

She completely forgot about shoes as she left the bathroom, Shawn’s attention immediately on her and his jaw on the floor. Sloan tried not to pay any attention to it as she slipped into a pair of black pumps. “What? Is this not venue appropriate?”

“I-It definitely is, it’s just that I wasn’t exactly, I didn’t expect...” He rose from the couch, eyes still fixated on the way the silk clung to her body and how her curly afro graced her shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever been legitimately speechless in my entire life. Until now.”

They walked to the restaurant, taking advantage of the warm air and quiet street, using it as time to warm up to one another. The overwhelming lust wasn’t enough to make them fall for one another, but the conversation was. She led, and he followed, a dynamic neither of them were quite used to but most certainly suited them. He was chivalrous, almost too much so, but she basked in the unfamiliar feeling of being treated like royalty. She wanted to get lost in him.

The restaurant was fairly busy but not at all chaotic. Patrons stuck to their tables, keeping conversation at appropriate noise levels for the ambiance, and the staff floated about as if they defied gravity. The architecture was fawn worthy with its sleek modernity meets upper class design. “Your friend owns this place?”

“Maybe friend is too generous a term, but we went to college together. We keep in touch, get together every now and then for a drink. He called me when it opened.” He gave the hostess his name for the reservation and she led them to a staircase that led out to the rooftop. There were only two other parties up their with them.

“Shawn, this is absolutely insane. Semi-private seating?”

He waved it off, opening his menu as he pretended to browse. “It was nothing, I promise. Jalen insisted it was the perfect first date table.”

She watched him closely as he went off on a miniature tangent about how he and Jalen met. They went from hostile roommates to close friends who jammed out together on the weekends, and that sparked their years long friendship. He was quite the storyteller, animated and engaged, careful about each and every word he strung with the next. Her senses were in overdrive the whole night, watching him be absolutely gorgeous without trying whilst actually listening to every precious word that slipped past his lips: and he made it far too obvious that he was doing the exact same thing.

“I know I’m getting ahead of myself but… what about a nightcap?”

Sloan tried not to laugh at his obvious attempt at a different date night activity. “You? In my apartment? Drinking? Nuh-uh.”

“What? Why not?”

She searched for the words to sugarcoat we’re not in the same tax bracket, that their shred of a relationship didn’t need an introduction to class divides this early. “I live in a rundown brownstone that I most certainly wouldn’t be able to afford if my nana hadn’t left it to me. And I’m willing to bet you live in a two-story penthouse on the upper east side that you can afford because Armani treats you a little too well.”

He took a longer sip of his drink this time, placing it back down with a bit more conviction. “Alright, touché. But just because I live like a douchebag doesn’t mean I am one. I’ve already seen your place, what’s the big deal?”

She took a moment to think about it, twirling her fork in the last few noodles on her plate. Maybe she was judging him too harshly. Maybe she was the one who was uncomfortable with the class divide and he wasn’t even thinking about it. She shook it from her thoughts, going back to the good time they were having all on their own on the rooftop. How good her looked staring back at her awaiting her response, the faintest hint of a grin on his rosy pink lips as he shifted his weighted onto his forearms. “Admit it, you’re just trying to get in my pants.”

Shawn gasped, his hand flying up to press against his clavicle to feign shook. “Me? Try to get into your pants? We haven’t even gotten dessert.”

She rolled her eyes, tapping her fingers against the table as her leg crept up the side of his. “You’re such a dork.”

He was suddenly that much more aware of their proximity, her arm flush against his and her body heat radiating onto him. Shawn flagged down the waiter for the bill in a split second, reading between the lines of her body language as well as her hand that and snaked its way to his thigh. He’d never signed his signature as fast as he did right then and there, shooting up from his chair to help Sloan up. He leaned down to whisper in her ear about what the night held for them when the most obnoxious, ear-splitting shriek stopped him.

“Sloan! This is so crazy, I was hoping us Fort Greeners would cross paths one day!” Her eyes were focused on Shawn the entire time, flickering back to Sloan only to shoot her an all-knowing smirk.

“K-Kimmy, hi.”

taglist: @shawnase , let me know if you’d like to be added!

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes series #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes x black reader #shawn mendes x black original character #business + pleasure

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purplesurveys · 3 years

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1237

disclaimer I’ll be taking into account the last 24 hours for the first part because it’s 3 in the morning and I haven’t really done anything yet lmao anywho

survey by chasingghosts

Have you today?

Looked in a mirror? Yeah I took a shower earlier so I couldn’t really avoid the mirror in the bathroom.

Watered a plant? I don’t do plants. Can never take care of them to save my life.

Worn denim? I did, actually. Some package came for me earlier today and I didn’t really look the most decent, so before heading out to meet the delivery guy I grabbed the first jacket I saw, which was denim.

Washed your hair? Yes, when I took said shower a couple of hours ago.

Been in pain? Yup my back and shoulders feel like hell from sitting on my ass all day while at work.

Had a nap? Kinda, I guess? I fell asleep at around 9, 9:30ish...woke up at around 1 AM, and here I am now. I don’t plan on sleeping anymore.

Brushed your teeth? Yup.

Kissed someone? Just my dogs.

Used a cheese grater? No, I don’t think I’ve consumed any cheese today either.

Eaten something sweet? Nah, it’s all been salty/savory for me today.

Spoken to a stranger? Sure.

Dropped something? I drop my vape pen at least once a day, so yes.

Felt upset in some way? UGH yeah. Our internet disappeared at around 2 in the afternoon and it still hasn’t come back, and our service provider’s social media has been unsurprisingly unresponsive and useless. I’ve been using data since then and I’m just worried about how long this would take because I don’t want to keep spending just for extra load. I also have my Korean language classes this afternoon which will for sure require a lot of data :/

Drank coffee? I have a full mug of it beside me right now.

Walked for more than thirty minutes? LOL no, I’ve only stayed indoors.

Signed up for something? Hmm I don’t think so.

Travelled in a car? See two answers above this.

Opened a can? Nopes.

Thought about doing something crazy? Just me thinking about dropping another couple thousands on merch until I mentally slapped myself and told myself I’d be fucking stupid if I spent on one more piece of stupid merch.

Listened to a new song? Yes, I tried listening to Love Shot by EXO over dinner since my sister had started humming it. It was okay but I quickly shifted back to BTS right after hahaha.

Written in a notebook? No. I only do so when I practice my Hangul but I have yet to work on that today.

Fed an animal? Yes, I have pets.

Checked your emails? I mean that’s kind of the standard in my job lol I have my Gmail tab up throughout the 8 hours.

Told someone you love them? No.

Made a phone call? No, I’m rarely the one who makes the call.

Have you in the last week?

Travelled on a bus? I’ve never ridden a bus solely for commuting by myself. I’ve only been on them when it’s the arranged vehicle, like for school field trips or our family vacations. Our public buses are quite bleck and unsanitary and the drivers maneuver the buses like it’s their last goddamn hour on the planet, so I don’t get on them myself.

Washed your face? I mean yeah, when I take showers. I don’t really have a skincare routine though, if that’s what you mean.

Used a blender? We rarely have a use for a blender at home so we don’t even have one.

Received a phone call? No. My biggest pet peeve is when delivery riders call me up once they’ve arrived at our place just to say “I’m here,” but fortunately the one assigned to me today to deliver my package knew how to use the doorbell.

Talked to someone you dislike? Yeah I have to deal with a client I absolutely fucking despise everyday.

Consumed alcohol? I’ve thought of it, but then I thought of how sleepy I get whenever I drink alcohol and decided against it because I wanted to stay up tonight.

Eaten pasta? Yeah, my dad made Filipino-style spaghetti for dinner the other evening.

Planned for an event? Not an event per se but sure, I made some plans? Punk is slated to make his debut on AEW/return to pro wrestling next weekend or sometime soon, idrk - and this is a big fucking deal omg, 15 year old Robyn has arisen from her grave - and Andi and I made plans to watch it together so we can freak the fuck out.

Asked someone for a favour? Yes. I borrowed cash from my mom since the delivery fee for my packaging earlier was apparently cash on delivery.

Watched something funny? I mean I watch BTS clips pretty much everyday and a gigantic chunk of them are hilarious.

Trimmed your nails? No, but I did bite on them multiple times.

Browsed Reddit? I did actually! After a super long time of not doing so...I just decided to randomly check out r/bangtan to see what’s going on there. It’s mostly Americans though so idk if I’ll make a habit out of browsing.

Talked to yourself? Oh this happens a few times a day.

Purchased tickets for something? Nope.

Felt like you were annoying someone? Just about everyday.

Cleaned a toilet? I have not.

Reminisced about the past? Not really. I’ve made references to the past with friends, but we didn’t ~reminisce.

Used headphones? Yeah I always use my headphones when playing Rhythm Hive so I can hear the beats better.

Laughed with a friend? Many times. Always just virtually, though.

Cooked dinner and then didn't feel hungry? I don’t cook.

Written a list? LOL yes. My period had been coming and I noticed I was crying over the smallest, stupid things, so I started a list of the things I cried over the last week. The funniest item on the list is probably an ad that was shown to us during a campaign briefing...

Played an instrument? Nope.

Felt jealous or envious? I will sometimes feel the tiniest tinge of envy and wistfulness when I see my friends in happy and fulfilled relationships, but it passes in a second.

Ignored a text message on purpose? So many hahahahahahah

Congratulated someone? Yes!!! Graduation season was last week so I congratulated a shit ton of friends.

Have you in the last month?

Made a piece of art? Making art was never made for me, so no.

Rewatched one of your favourite tv shows or movies? Yep, I rewatched Friends a couple of weeks ago.

Called a plumber? Nope.

Been to a see a doctor? I mean, technically I guess yeah? When I had to get my vaccine shot.

Finished a book? I haven’t done that in a while.

Had a crush on someone? Just celebrities but I won’t count those.

Travelled on a train? I haven’t.

Worn heels? Haven’t done this either.

Been to a friend's house? I’ve been to Angela’s house semi-regularly, yup.

Shared a bed with someone? Nah.

Been to see a movie at the cinema? I haven’t been to the cinema in like a year and a half.

Paid attention to celebrity drama? Erm not really. I also haven’t been up to date with that, especially with American celebrities hahaha.

Felt anxious? Maybe not anxious but nervous.

Taken an elevator? Yeah in Mega since that place is so goddamn big.

Given someone the cold shoulder? Yep, my mom when she is being extra annoying/condescending.

Purchased a new book/game/movie? I guess you can say that? I bought a subscription pack on Rhythm Hive because I was using it regularly anyway.

Applied for a job? I already have a job, so no. I did get a job proposal on Linkedin a couple of weeks ago with another PR firm, but I took a look at their clients just to see if the offer was something I could sink my teeth into - and even though their brands were quite high-profile, they were in industries I didn’t particularly find interesting.

Used a printer? Nah.

Had lunch in a park? No.

Gotten a manicure or pedicure? I have not.

Made an appointment? Just for my shot but that’s it.

Had a blood test done? Noooooo not another one of those plz.

Suffered from a major bruise? Not a major bruise but a huge bloody gash on my thigh after a particlarly rowdy play session with Cooper. There’s still a very visible scar on me.

Researched a topic in-depth? I do this quite a bit in my work, yes.

Have you in the last year?

Been to the beach? No, I’ve mostly stayed at home since July 2020.

Visited someone in the hospital? I haven’t. Too risky.

Played pinball? No, it’s never interested me.

Travelled on a plane? I haven’t. :(

Worn a costume? Sure, for Halloween last year I went as Dora.

Been thrift shopping? Not that I can recall, no.

Thought about getting pregnant or got pregnant? Definitely not at this point in my life.

Made a big life decision? Uh yeah this past year was both the worst and best rollercoaster I’ve ever been on. I can’t believe it’s almost been a year since that shitty breakup...

Changed a lightbulb? Nope.

Framed something and put it on your wall? No but I have been meaning to do this for months. I just never get around to buying some actual picture frames lol.

Been stargazing? Not the professional kind of way with a telescope and all. I’ve just lied on my back at the rooftop to gaze at the night sky and the stars.

Made a new friend? So many!!! Reena is probably my bestestestest new friend <3 I mean we’ve met a while ago, as Angela’s mutual - even had a few drinks or so together - but we didn’t become closer until just a couple of months ago.

Added to a collection? I’ve had merch that arrive every week or so these days because I bought a ridiculous amount of shit between May and June when I was a new Army. I’ve substantially calmed down now, but I should expect to receive my running list of ordered merch up until September LMAO. At first I used to bitch about the really long shipping period considering all the products come from Korea, but after 3 or 4 fulfilled orders you kinda get used to it.

Been to the dentist? No.

Broken up with someone? Yessss. I didn’t know it at the time but it would turn out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Held a baby? Nah.

Created a budget? Yeah...doesn’t mean I’ve been successful. I always go over, hehe.

Confessed feelings for someone? There isn’t anyone to do that for.

Had surgery of any kind? Nopes.

Quit a job? No and I have no plans to anytime soon.

Been in a car accident? Nah but my dad has, c/o some stupid and unattentive motorcycle driver.

Purchased something worth over a grand? So in US dollar conversion, around P50,000? Hell no.

Been on vacation at least 500km/300mi from home? No. :( The farthest we’ve been to was Tagaytay and I think that’ll remain the same for a while.

Applied for an academic course? Yes, my Korean class.

Had your photo taken by a professional? No, it’s been over a year since my last professional shoot for my senior photos.

#survey #surveys

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stampington · 6 years

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Get Published: May Calls and Challenges

Our Stampington publications want your submissions! If you are an artist or writer looking to have your work featured in one of our magazines, here are the May calls and challenges that our editors are looking for. We encourage you to submit your work again even if you have tried before. The following magazines have upcoming deadlines of May 15th (unless otherwise noted), so this is your chance to see your name in print and get published!

Have questions about submitting your artwork? Leave us a comment below!

~Artwork by Carrie Todd

In every quarterly issue of Art Journaling, artists open their journals and share creative techniques for capturing their emotions. From stamping and collage art to painting and sketching, each journal is filled with innovative techniques and inspirational stories. If you have an art journal that you would like to share with our readers, we would love to hear from you.

Deadline: May 15th

~Artwork by Robyn P. Thayer

How do you carry it? That’s the question Somerset Studio would like to help answer through our new and exciting special publication titled Haute Handbags. Whether we use purses, clutches, totes, portfolios, sacks, bags, or attachés, there are many styles made with an astounding array of materials emerging from all corners of the creative world – all vying to be carried and used with style. You are welcome to construct a bag from scratch, or to purchase one that you embellish and alter with paints, beads, rubber stamps, ribbons, buttons, transparencies, and more. No medium or material is ruled out so use your imagination to make bags of leather, wool, fabric, paper, plastic, wood, glass, or any other materials that you love. Deadline: May 15th

~Artwork by Brooke Bock

For that added touch of glamour without the complexity, Jewelry Affaire is a quarterly publication dedicated to the art of understated, yet extraordinary jewelry. You don’t need to be a master craftsperson to create wearable art that makes a statement. The refashioning of a vintage piece into something new, embellishing a chain, the placing of a pendant, adding beadwork — anything that exemplifies sophisticated chic on an easy to understand level can be submitted.

Here are some of our ongoing departments we feature in every issue:

Whimsical Wares

Jewelry that is out of the ordinary and extraordinary

Natural Revelry

Adornments that are otherworldly

Vintage Jubilee

For lovers of heirlooms and findings, celebrate with classics that make time stand still

Artistic Affaire

Innovative to wear and uncomplicated to share

Black Tie Affaire

Dripping with jewels, pearls, and other sumptuous materials, these sophisticated statements pieces can make every day feel like an occasion

If you’re interested in being our artist for the Feature Article, please email a link or pictures of your jewelry collection.

Deadline: May 15th

~Event by Jenny Keller

Unique gatherings take center stage with our now-quarterly publication, Mingle! From intimate art retreats, to creative, one-of-a-kind celebrations, Mingle provides the inspiration you need to plan extraordinary gatherings with an artistic flair. For this publication, we are looking for stunning photographs and stories from unique gatherings such as the following:

Intimate Affaires Do you get together regularly with close friends for a night in of crafts? Perhaps you have a tradition of going to the park for a knitting circle or a picnic.

Art Retreats Do you plan art retreats for others to come participate in? Have you attended one that had a profound effect on you?

Handcrafted Weddings Was your wedding completely crafted by hand? Did it take place somewhere unique?

Birthday Parties & Anniversaries Did you throw a party for a friend that was simply over the top? Maybe you thought of an interesting theme.

Party Details Did you take a couple pictures (or maybe just one) of a stunning aspect of an event that you think Mingle readers need to see?

This is just a sampling of the items we are looking for to publish in each issue of Mingle. Submissions and questions can be emailed to the editor at [email protected], or saved on a disc and mailed to our physical address. If selected, we will need hi-res versions of your photographs.

Deadline: May 15th

Click here to download our guide for how to submit photographs. It will also show you how to convert images to the correct size and resolution for this publication.

~Artwork by Melinda Barnett

Handcrafted Projects for Christmas & the Holiday Season Christmastime is where most crafters truly shine — it is the time to create beautiful handmade gifts, lovely wrapping and cards, and artful decorative pieces. In this upcoming issue of A Somerset Holiday, we are aiming to create an inspirational, instructional companion for the holiday crafter with an abundance of simple projects, covering everything from artwork and gifts, to creating the packaging and tags labeling each memorable gift item. We invite you to join in the celebrations and submit your very favorite holiday-themed artwork, gifts, and more. Projects that might spring to mind are Christmas cards, gift wrapping paper, wreaths, advent calendars, and quick and easy gift ideas (i.e. face scrubs, gift baskets, imaginative gift card holders, stocking stuffers, candles, food/beverage ideas, and so on). Start a lasting tradition by giving gifts straight from the heart and made with your own hands. Please submit your most festive DIY projects to be considered for this stunning, full-color 144-page publication. Deadline: Every May 15th.

A Little Bit Handmade The holidays are a very busy time, so it is not always easy to have the time to make something by hand. In this department, we aim to take a purchased item and personalize it in some way. For instance, taking a thrifted coffee mug and turning it into a hot cocoa kit, making a scarf in 20 minutes or less from a yard or two of fabric, or altering a Moleskine journal for the recipient with their monogram in a faux-calligraphy style. These are creative, inexpensive, simple projects that ideally take 30 minutes or less to make. Deadline: Every May 15th.

~Artwork by Melony Miller Bradley

Somerset Life aims to demonstrate how easy it is to add a touch of beauty to our daily lives, whether it is through a simple craft project, or an inspiring essay that shares how to find the beauty that already exists. Our mission is simple: make the ordinary extraordinary. For those looking to be a part of this bestselling publication, we have a number of ways to do so. We are currently looking for artwork submissions in the following categories:

Locales of Intrigue This special department features stories about truly unique stores and boutiques across the globe. Stores that would like to be featured in this department are asked to submit digital images of the store with a brief written query to the Editor-in-Chief at [email protected]. If the submission is accepted, professional hi-resolution digital images (300 dpi at 8″ x10″) will need to be furnished by the store. Deadline: Ongoing.

Life Creative Spaces Where do you create? Whether it’s a small table or breakfast nook, cleared-out closet, or an actual room dedicated as your creative studio, we want to peek inside. If you think your creative space is something that Somerset Life readers would like to learn more about, please submit digital images of your space with a brief written query to the Editor-in-Chief at [email protected]. If the submission is accepted, you will be asked to furnish professional hi-resolution images (300 dpi at 8″ x 10″). Deadline: Ongoing.

Miscellany Sometimes, an image of something lovely is all we need to feel inspired. Have you taken a photo of something that makes you feel inspired? Perhaps it is a photo of your collection of vintage handkerchiefs. Or an old stack of books. Or your treasured stash of ribbons. Please submit your favorite digital images (5″ x 7″ @ 300 dpi) to be considered for Somerset Life’s special Miscellany department to the Editor-in-Chief at [email protected]. Deadline: Ongoing.

Artful Kits We all love to collect papers, ribbons, embellishments, and other bits and bobs. More fun than collecting specific elements is finding creative ways to juxtapose the pieces together to create unique kits. Whether you create them to give away or to sell or offer to students in a workshop setting, we’d like to see your favorite kits. Please send in kit samples directly to the Editor-in-Chief as outlined in the Submission Guidelines. Deadline: Ongoing.

Creative Living Ideas In each issue of Somerset Life we share 10 Creative Living Ideas, and we show quick and easy ways to add a touch of beauty or creativity to your life, or perhaps someone else’s. Maybe you have a clever way of packing a sack lunch, or you have a developed a creative way of saying “Thank You” to a friend. Please send in samples directly to the Editor-in-Chief as outlined in the Submission Guidelines. Deadline: Ongoing.

The Magic of Friendship Bracelets Where would we be without our friends? We all need a tribe with a common goal where the bonds are strong and the friends are amazing. One way to show your friendship is by creating a gift for someone special, and this got us thinking about friendship bracelets. This symbol of friendship given from one friend to another has been around for a long time. They’re often handmade from embroidery floss or thread, but we thought it would be fun to elevate the ordinary friendship bracelet and see what our talented readers can come up with. Maybe add some pearls? How about tying on tiny words of inspiration? We’re looking for beautiful friendship bracelets that celebrate not only friends, but an authentic and creative life! Deadline: May 15, 2018

MICA INSPIRED! Who doesn’t love mica? Johanna Love showed us how some pretty gold mica flakes could add glittery pizzazz to nails in her article in our Jan/Feb/March 2018 issue, but we know the use of mica goes much further! Mica flakes add instant luminosity and sparkle to any project as well as texture and dimension. They come in different colors from silver, white, frosted to mulberry, charcoal, and a range of tones in between. This versatile product can be layered, mixed with paint, incorporated into snow globes, added to cards or mixed-media projects and much more. What can you do with mica flakes? Show us how you can incorporate them into artwork that personifies a Somerset life! Deadline: May 15, 2018

Click here to download our guide for submitting photographs. It will also show you how to convert images to the correct size and resolution for this publication.

The post Get Published: May Calls and Challenges appeared first on Somerset Place: The Official Blog of Stampington & Company.

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champig · 3 years

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GALLERY WALL IDEAS: 5 KEY DESIGN PRINCIPLES TO KEEP IN MIND HOME

Ready to take your bare walls to the next level? A gallery wall in the living room, office or even bathroom shows off a curated collection of

paintings, prints or photographs

in stylish frames. No need to overthink the design too much, either: the cardinal rule of gallery walls is this: choose what you like. If you want to sit and contemplate monochrome photographs over a mug of black coffee, go with it. If you’d rather let bright abstract paintings lighten the mood, that’s perfectly fine. You do you. Not sure how to how to turn your wall decor dreams into reality? Keep reading. We’ve listed our favorite gallery wall ideas below.

CURATE YOUR COLLECTION

Simple Watercolor Green Plant

Take things slow. At least half of the fun in designing a

gallery wall

is collecting art that speaks to you. So, whether you settle on prints, paintings, photographs or a combination, don’t worry about acquiring your whole collection at once. It’s a process.

Animals Chinese Style Round Home Decoration

If you’re not sure where to start, choose something you like to look at. Another option: find colors that fit your space. There’s no wrong way to choose art.

One idea is to use your

gallery wall

to tell a story of your adventures and experiences, and print photos from your favorite trips for a personalized touch. Not a photographer? Buy prints online, or stroll through a few art galleries or thrift stores in your area to get a feel for what you like.

It’s okay to start small. Hang one larger piece in a central location and build on it over time—adding medium and smaller pieces alongside it as you find them out in the wild. If you change your mind about placement, you can always swap things out and find homes for them in a different room.

Prefer a more casual relationship with your

prints, paintings or photos

? Rather than adhering them to the wall, try arranging art on a shallow

wall shelf

or hanging photographs from clips. Then, rearrange or remove to suit your evolving taste. You don’t have to get too attached, unless you want to.

ARRANGE IN ADVANCE

Before hanging your

gallery wall,

do a trial run first. The easiest way is to arrange your pieces on the floor before making any holes in your wall. Move them around until you find the right flow. Not confident in your ability to use a level and drill? No worries, that’s what professional help is for.

Abstract Curve Statue Nordic Poster

If you’re taking the plunge yourself, hang frames at eye level—57-60 inches from the ground or 6-8 inches above

furniture

. Whether you have your full collection at the ready or just a couple pieces on hand, balance different sizes for maximum impact.

To maintain balance, try adhering to the following ratio: follow every extra large piece with two large, two medium and three small ones to fill in the gaps. Keep the spacing between each

picture

consistent. Trust us, it will tie even the most eclectic collection together. If you have the wall space for it, wider spacing makes each piece stand out.

So, your landlord won’t let you drill into the walls? No problem. Just look for larger pieces you can lean from the floor or a credenza. Aim for height to make an impact.

KEEP IT SIMPLE WITH COORDINATING FRAMES

The easiest way to keep your gallery wall art cohesive is to use a consistent frame color. No need to get frames in exactly the same style (unless they’re calling to you). Instead, aim for similar tones—whether black brushed metal, metallic gold or rustic unstained wood. That way, your collection of art and frames can grow over time without a new addition looking out of place. Go with

frame materials

that gel with the rest of your

furniture and decor

. In a luxe space, aim for bold metals and moody black hues. For a different style, use white or unstained wood frames to call to mind a more natural look.

Flair for the dramatic? For a cultured look, try introducing a smaller print to an oversized frame with a large mat. This contrast adds gravity to an avant-garde photograph or vivid painting.

Minimalist? We got you. Try a linear or grid arrangement of a few prints or photos in grayscale for a sophisticated take.

MAKE A STATEMENT WITH AN ECLECTIC SALON WALL

If you prefer singing your own tune, let art imitate life. Combine frame colors and add a touch of whimsy to your

picture wall

by mixing and matching traditional rectangular frames with oval-shaped vintage finds. Granny-chic is in. This salon-style approach packs a punch and doesn’t have to be limited to one wall. Over time, let your collection curve around corners and up toward the ceiling.

With an eclectic collection, rely on your art to tie the aesthetic together. Think: photos and drawings with a common color palette, subject or theme. If you’re going for a truly unique vibe, position your art off center for a more casual feel.

Ready for the finishing touch

? Take your gallery wall up a notch by mixing mediums. For some wall decor ideas to work in, try brushed silver mirrors, quirky wall hangings and textiles to infuse style and charm. Or for a bold take, turn your reflection into art with a

mirror salon wall

. You could even go full bohemian and add objects that tell a story like old letters, postcards, sheet music or even historical relics.

ROOM-SPECIFIC GALLERY WALL IDEAS

Give the dining room a little oomph with oversized artwork in natural hues. Elevate the experience with one or two large pieces surrounded by a trio of smaller ones. For a simple look with big payoff, stick to monochromes with a single color accent.

For modern living room decor, display a movie poster from a beloved classic film or a still of your favorite leading man or lady beside the television. More of a music-aficionado? Style the wall beside your turntable with vinyl record art or a framed candid of an influential musician. If you prefer a more personal touch, create a photo gallery wall of memories above your sofa with modern frames.

In the bedroom, aim for a more chill vibe. Try a pair of coordinated abstract paintings in soothing hues above the bed to ease you into dreamland. Step up the display by adding an infinity wall mirror.

For a unique setting for a gallery wall, hang quirky prints in your bathroom. The small space makes it a great place to experiment and make a big impact.

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wishfulfanficing · 7 years

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Tiffany

Harrison walked through the double doors of Tiffany and Co. as he had many times before. This time was different, though: he had his girls with him. Well, two of them anyway. Carrie had been burning through her energy lately between writing a new novel, editing a screenplay, and undergoing a new course of treatment. She’d cried in his arms the night before, and had tearfully asked him to take the girls out to the movies for the day over breakfast. He obliged, but decided to use the time for another purpose.

“Good afternoon Mr. Ford,” the attendant greeted him. The Ford family, and Harrison in particular, were frequent visitors to the Beverly Hills Tiffany and Co. “Shopping for Ms. Fisher today?”

“Yes!” his older daughter, Emma, piped up.

“We’re getting something for our mom,” her sister Billie added.

The attendant smiled at the precocious children. “Any occasion?”

Harrison shook his head. “Just because,” he said with a smile and wink in his daughters’ direction.

“Right this way,” the attendant said as he led the three coconspirators over to a display case full of colorful gems. “These are some good ‘just because’ pieces.”

Billie broke away from her father and pressed her tiny nose up to the glass. “Billie!” her sister exclaimed, pulling the back of her shirt.

“Careful, love, you’ll smudge the glass,” Harrison said gently, putting one hand on Billie’s head and the other on Emma’s shoulder. He turned back to the attendant. “Can I see the blue… the sapphire one? The solitaire with the diamonds around it?” His mother in law had taught him some of the language of fine jewelry, but he still wasn’t fluent.

“Absolutely. Here’s the sapphire solitaire with the diamond halo on a platinum chain.” Harrison bent over the table to get a closer look; in an instant, Emma and Billie were on their tip-toes next to him.

"Do you really think Mom will like that?" Emma asked, cocking her head to the side.

Billie did the same. "Yeah. Do you?"

Harrison looked down at the necklace. "I mean, she wouldn't mind it..." He tapped on the glass thoughtfully, then turned around, lips pursed, to look at his daughters. It struck him in that moment how much like their mother they were growing up to be. Both had her dark eyes; Emma had her mother's face, and Billie had her laugh, her smile, and her singing voice. But there were deeper similarities: they had her wit, her sense of humor, her deep kindness and compassion. “You two have a better idea?”

“We can go the Rainbow Room,” Billie said with a shrug. Harrison stifled a laugh - clearly this had been their plan the whole time, and Billie’s attempt at a casual suggestion made that more obvious than anything.

“They have weird stuff there. Mom LOVES it,” Emma chimed in.

“Mom loves it, huh?” He snorted and turned back to the attendant. “I’m so sorry, sir, I think I’m being outvoted.”

“No problem at all Mr. Ford… I’m sure we’ll see you soon,” the attendant said with a smile.

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he called behind him as the girls dragged him out of the jewelry store and toward the thrift shop.

Harrison held his breath every time they entered, not out of fear or disgust, but as a way of preparing his senses for the all out assault that was The Rainbow Room. “Eclectic” was one way of describing it, but that word didn’t go far enough. Strange things were plucked from their contexts and brought here. The first time he’d been there was with Carrie to help her decorate her apartment. She’s bought a red sign that said “Beware of Trains”; it still hung in their home and earned a chuckle from Harrison every time he saw it.

“Dad… look at this.”

Harrison followed the sound of Billie’s voice to find her and Emma staring up at a painting of a child. Or, at least, that's what the tag said it was.

The head was round and bulbous - and took up half the painting. Beady, lifeless eyes stared down at Harrison and the girls. The body was tiny in comparison, with hands drawn like claws at the end of tapered arms. Judging by the costume, the artist must have been attempting some kind of medieval look, but failed.

It was grotesque. It was hideous. It was perfect.

"Jackpot," he said with a smirk as he took the painting off the wall. "Let's go purchase this monstrosity."

The girl at the checkout stand seemed genuinely surprised that anyone had bought the painting, but she knew that Harrison Ford was a celebrity, and that celebrities could be strange. Besides, she was too excited to be waiting on him and his adorable little girls to really care. Still, she wrapped it in twice as much butcher paper as one normally would, just to make sure no unsuspecting people would see it between the shop and their car. Harrison thanked her, took each of the girls by the hand, and walked out with the painting under his arm.

"Do you think she'll like it?" Harrison asked as the girls buckled themselves into the car.

"Dad," Emma said in a matter of fact, dry tone that reminded Harrison of his own, “It’s so ugly. She's gonna love it." Sitting next to her, Billy nodded vigorously and craned her neck to sneak excited peeks at the package in the passenger's seat.

While Harrison, Emma, and Billie drove home, each one excited to give Carrie the gift they found for her, Carrie sat at the kitchen table seeping her tea. She’d been going so fast for so long, it felt strange to sit down. The doctor had started her on a new medication and therapy regime, and the effects were taking little getting used to. She sent Harrison and the girls to run an errand not because she didn’t want them around - in fact, the opposite was true - but because she didn’t want them to be around her when she was like this. They don’t deserve this, she thought, inhaling the steam from her mug. Sighing deeply, Carrie pulled her knees to her chest and curled into herself. She didn’t feel depressed, or manic, or out of control - she felt numb. She was used to feeling either all her emotions at once, or just one extremely deeply, but feeling nothing was new for her. The medication worked faster than the therapy, her doctor had warned. She’d have to practice emotional regulation and other cognitive behavioral techniques before she felt the full effect.

Still, she smiled when she heard the car pull up to the driveway, and her smile widened when she heard three sets of footsteps pad down the hallway. Billie reached the door first and threw it open, running to her mother and throwing her arms around her shoulders. Her sister wasn’t far behind. Carrie scooped both girls into her embrace as best she could, then spotted Harrison, grinning and effortlessly carrying a bulky package. “Hey, beautiful,” he said with a wink. “Miss me?”

“I did,” she cooed, reaching past Emma and Billie to slip her arms around his neck. “I missed all of you.”

“We brought you something!” Billie squealed, barely able to contain her excitement. Harrison felt a twitch of pride in his heart. That was another thing Billie, Emma, and their mother had in common: they loved giving gifts and took care to find things the recipient would truly enjoy.

Carrie seemed to share this observation. “I don’t know who’s more excited: me, who’s getting the present, or you, who’s giving it.” She shot Harrison a loving glace as she kissed Emma’s forehead and reached for the package, which Billie now held in her tiny arms. “Thank you, baby,” she said, stroking her youngest child’s cheek before turning to open it. The sisters giggled excitedly, and Harrison, too, grinned both at his daughters’ excitement and the anticipation of his wife’s joy.

“Oh my God.” Carrie gasped as she tore through the paper to reveal the masterpiece underneath. At first she just stared, but then she started to laugh. It was one of Harrison’s favorite sounds, and he loved it even more when he was its cause. “It’s so ugly,” she wheezed between cackles. “It’s exquisite… where did you find this?”

“At the Rainbow Room,” Harrison said.

“They have the ugliest stuff,” Emma added with a smile.

“Does she have a name?” Carrie asked, removing the last of the packaging and holding the painting away from her to fully take in its glory. The girls giggled again and looked at their father.

Harrison smiled his lopsided smile, his real smile that only his family ever really saw. He leaned into his wife and placed one hand on her cheek. “Tiffany,” he said, then kissed her deeply. “I love you and I’m proud of you,” he whispered to her.

They ignored their daughters’ chorus of “ew!” and “ick!” as she kissed him back. — AN: Carrie really did have a collection of ugly paintings of children, and she named each one.

#carrison #rpf #carrison rpf #carrison fanfic #peanut 'verse #one shot #tw: medication mention #tw: therapy mention

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mgnemesi · 7 years

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Fic: Moment Of Peace (MBKVerse)

Ok...I’m trying this. Let’s hope I keep writing. Expect updates to be sporadic, though. I’m also gonna put this on AO3, I think??

Title: Moment Of Peace

Verse: My Brother's Keeper.

Fandom: DCU- Batman.

Rating: PG-13/R-ish.

Genre: This part: introspection, slice of life.

Wordcount: 2631

Characters: Jason Todd and Tim Drake.

Warnings: Old-canon AU.

Summary: The following morning, Tim wakes up alone.

FIRST PART: A Simple Question

PREVIOUS PART: There’s a yellow brick road (that we follow back home)

NEXT PART:

* * * * *

The following morning, Tim wakes up alone. It's only to be expected, considering that he has been waking up alone ever just about every day since the accident; and yet, seeing the empty bed on the other side of the room, corners militarily-made and no trace of Jason whatsoever sends a twinge of disappointment spearing though him.

Ignoring the tightness in his throat, Tim pushes himself out of bed. He is briefly tempted to go and sort those out-of-place books now, but in the end he opts for a detour towards the kitchen. Once inside, he makes a beeline for the coffee-maker, like a fish being reeled in ashore.

That, or a zombie that has smelled brains. He's not quite sure which comparison is the most fitting.

He's already grabbed the pot of coffee (and adding “Coffee Addict” to the “List of Things I Know About Tim Drake”), when he notices the post-it attached to the side.

“Drink me”, the bright square of paper tempts him in sturdy-looking block letters. Scribbled underneath, smaller but still bold, it says: “I promise I'm good. Hopefully still warm, too. A Brazilian blend and unsweetened, which is always a plus with you.”

Tim sniggers a little to himself, feeling the disappointment dissipating inside his chest, just like mist under the first warm rays of sunlight. He hobbles to the cupboard, reaching inside for a mug. He grabs the green one without thinking, and is greeted by a second post-it:

“You'd better eat something with that coffee,” with the word “better” underline twice.

Tim blows the hair out of his face with a little puff, but the look on his face is far from annoyed. He tries to school the giddy little grin into something more appropriate to his status of disgruntled, just woke-up alone, severely-wounded vigilante, but then remembers that he's home alone, and graciously allows the grin to stay where it is.

Pivoting on his heel, he goes back to the coffee-maker, fills his mug to the brim and takes a long sip. He turns toward the fridge, wondering if there's food stacked inside, and whether it's still within date, since they've been away for so long. He notices a third post-it. This time, the message is just a doodled arrow. Tim dutifully moves his eyes in the prescribed direction. A trail of post-it notes leads his eyes across the wall and towards the kitchen table. A cluster of doodled arrows greets him, each one arranged as to point to a brown bag sitting innocently between a bottle of orange juice and a little pile of napkins on the table.

“Eat me”, invites the post-it attached on top of the bag, and then, added underneath as if as an after-thought: “You know you want to.”

When Tim is done chocking on his laughter and opens it, he finds a final note (“Stop chortling, Alice, it wasn't even that funny.”) and a blueberry muffin that melts on his tongue as if it were made of the same stuff as clouds.

He's sucking the last crumbles from his fingers when he notices a quick scribble on the bottom of the muffin's cup, this time in blue ball-point pen ink. It's short and to the point.

“You're welcome,” it says.

Tim murmurs a soft “thank you” before he's even aware of it.

After breakfast, he's tempted to reacquaint himself with the apartment. Explore around, search the cabinets with the hope to spark a memory, rearrange those books. But he's equally as tempted to prop his ankle on the armrest of the couch and tinker the day away on that laptop he glimpsed the night before. Temptation aside, though, he does nothing for a long, long while. Just glancing through the kitchen door at the living room makes his stomach churn with unease.

This is his house, he supposes. This flat, it's where Timothy Drake used to live. But it's not home. Not now. Not yet. Not to this amnesiac boy sitting helplessly at the kitchen table, with a crumpled muffin-cup sitting in his palm. He doesn’t feel entitled to do anything. Even wondering about this or that secret compartment (and boy, he can see a lot from where he is sitting) makes him feel like he's overstepping his boundaries, doing something forbidden.

Reading is not off-limits.

He thinks.

Hopes.

So he cleans after himself, carefully collects all the post-its (throwing away the arrows and pocketing the scribbled messages), and slips into the living room. He's chagrined to see an imprint of his body on the couch - the contours of his ass, his back and legs are sketched in big, black strokes of coal dust on the pale fabric. It looks a bit like a Michelangelo sketched with charcoal on parchment. But Renaissance genius he is not; couches aren't canvases to draw upon, and all in all it's not a pretty sight. At all.

He has no idea where the cleaning supplies are, or even if he's up to the physical strain, which means that cleaning it is out of the question. He throws the couch a last guilty look and veers towards the bookshelf. It's brimming with classics. Not that he'd pegged either Jason or himself for the sort to read cheap harlequins, but it's staggering to see several copies of prize-winning novels in several different languages. Which one of them can read fluidly in Arabic, he wonders. And is that Russian?

He's engrossed in page 197 of a pocket-sized copy of Paradise Lost, when Jason comes in.

From the window.

Bright red domino mask on his face, a backpack on his shoulder and a number of bags festooning both his arms.

“Oh. Hi,” he says, voice and face utterly blank. For a loaded, absurd moment, it feels like between the two of them the one who is doing something strange and unusual is Tim. (And now panic settles in. Is he doing something strange? Wasn't he supposed to touch the books? Did he not enjoy reading before the accident?).

Carefully, Tim lowers his foot from the upturned box he'd used to prop it, tucks the book away and clears his throat.

“Uhm. Hi,” he echoes.

Jason is sitting astride the window, one leg inside the apartment, the other outside, looking rather like a strange cowboy. The heel of his boot is tap-tapping a circle on the floor. He keeps looking at Tim as though trying to get the other boy to read into his mind.

“You went shopping?” Tim prompts before the scene gets any stranger, his heart beating a nervous staccato against his ribs.

Jason ducks his head a bit, raises his hand as if he wanted to rub the back of his neck, but the weight of the bags impairs him, so he aborts the motion on the third try. He seems to weight his words very carefully for a long moment; then offers: “Just. Collected some of your stuff from... err... other safe-houses we've got in town.”

Tim leans forward, all eagerness all of a sudden.

“Tell me you've got a toothbrush in there?” he says, voice lilting hopefully at the end, eyes roving hungrily from bag to bag to backpack and then starting anew.

Jason blinks slowly at him, ducks all the way inside, and carefully sets his loot down.

“Why a toothbrush?“ he asks, eyebrows furrowing together. “There is a perfectly fine one in the bathroom. It's even your favourite colour and all.”

“Yes, Jason,” Tim says patiently. “I'm sure there's one toothbrush. But there's two of us.”

Jason snorts, straightening up and running a hand through his windblown hair, messing it all the more.

“No, I meant. There's one for you as well. You didn't even check the cabinet? Christ, for a moment I thought you'd gone and used my toothbrush to clean the toilet seat or some other shit.”

“I wouldn't do that!” Tim protests, wavering between amusement and horror. Jason folds his arms across his chest and quirks a challenging eyebrow at him. Tim drops his face in his palms, but his shoulders are shaking with repressed laughter when he says: “I totally would, wouldn't I?”

“Your words, not mine,” Jason answers, raising his hands and looking the perfect picture of innocence.

Tim snorts, gets an eyebrow-wiggle in return and retaliates with an eyeroll.

“So, if not a toothbrush, what did you get?”

“Well,” Jason looks down at the bags, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Bandages and medicines, some weapons, gadgets. A few changes of clothes.” He lists. “I also got some food. Soap. CDs – all work related, though. Some stuff we can use to go undercover, uniforms and the likes. I—I got you a laptop. Not yours, but. I got it at a thrift shop And... and a couple books, too. Some folders and shit on the last case you were working on.” He's massaging his fingers as if they ached. There are burned marks on his gloves, and dark smears across his shirt. When he notices Tim staring, Jason says: “Got troubles with the alarm system,” and leaves it at that.

Tim nods dubiously, not quite believing that Jason would have to resort to force the security of one of their own safe-houses, but doesn't ask. Jason probably ran into trouble on the way and just doesn't want Tim to worry. Tim doesn't like and doesn't need to be babied, but if Jason doesn't want to share, Tim can respect his need for silence.

For the time being, at least.

“Is that food I smell?” he asks, instead of pressing about the alarm system.

“I grabbed some take out on my way,” Jason answers, looking smug. “You hungry?”

It's a tricky question, and it shouldn't be. Tim takes careful stock of his body – he is aware he hasn't eaten in hours, and yet, he doesn't feel the pangs of hunger. He's also aware that this lack of appetite is not normal. All things considered – that he's wounded and in need of energy to recover, that he hasn't eaten properly in weeks – he should be famished. But he's not. Hunger is like an afterthought tucked like a secret far, far away in the back of his mind, a bad puppy that's been locked inside a closet in the farthest wing of the house. No one can hear it whine. No one will take it out.

Tim's eyebrows dip together into a frown, but it's not a lie when he says: “I could eat,” because he's been trained like that, to ignore his body needs, but also to force himself to satisfy them when the situation allows.

Jason frowns right back at him.

“We're gonna burn this food aversion right out of you,” he warns. He rips off the mask – literally rips off, rather than just peel it away like a sane person would. Doesn't he feel the pain? Doesn't he care?– grabs one of the bags and goes to Tim. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, the bag balanced between them, exuding strange and wonderful smells.

Tim peeks inside, and is genuinely taken aback when he doesn't see cheap fast food containers, soda bottles and a spill of greasy fries filling all the empty spaces in-between.

“What's this?” he asks, poking at one aluminium container. It's not burgers and chilidogs, it definitely is not pizza, and it's not a carton of Asian food either. What the—-?

Jason shrugs, reaches inside the bag, and takes out two container as if they were holy relics.

“Eggplant Parmesan” he says, taking the lids off both containers. He weights them in each hand, then hands over to Tim the biggest portion. “The good stuff,” he adds, as if Tim couldn't tell that by smell alone. His stomach went from being into knots to roaring with hunger in 0.12 seconds sharp. The smell is so good.

“Wha—is—I mean--Parmesan?” Tim asks, flabbergast, after the first mouthful. Oh, dear. And he thought he wasn't famished? This – whatever it is – is melting in his mouth like – like – like – he has no term of comparisons, sadly. He quickly shovels in his mouth another forkful or seven of steaming heaven, waiting for Jason to answer.

“Italian recipe. The original one,” Jason stresses, waving his plastic fork menacingly. “Nothing of that boiled-eggs-in-the-stuffing crap. This is fried eggplant, homemade sauce and a shit-ton of cheese.”

Tim blinks, fork balanced before his open mouth.

“We – are we of Italian origins?” he asks.

Jason is silent for a long moment. “The old house was in the Italian ghetto,” he says at long last, as careful as if he were weighting each word. “Which explains why the old man got involved with Two-Face in the first place. A contract with the mafia lead to more contracts and then bam! Prison for life.” Tim makes a non-committal noise, wondering if Jason remembers that he has no idea whatsoever who Two-Face is.

Jason must've noticed something in his face, because his eyes flicker up and away. He wraps his tongue around the fork and sucks it clean, the motion somewhat pensive.

“Bottom line is-” he pauses, licking his teeth; then seems to give much too stress to the following pronoun - “ I grew up eating this stuff.” He angrily scraps some sauce from the bottom of the container – fuck, is it finished already? - but then his eyes go a bit wistful. “We didn't always have enough money. But mum always insisted I eat much, and that I eat well. Not that you'd hear me complain. She used to be the best cook outta the whole block. And for a while there, I thought that if I ate big I'd grow big and strong and be able to take care of her the way she took care of... me.”

His voice grows faint on the last word, and he has to force himself back on track with visible effort.

“As for being Italian... well. Maybe? I don't know the numbers, but the old man was at least part Italian and part Greek, and his Grandfather was Jew. There was from Irish blood from mom's side. Plus, I think she'd got some Arabic blood. Funny story, once I asked the Demon brat if he thought we might have a common grand-grand-something, and he sorta went ballistic. You should've heard the pitch his voice reached. I thought he was gonna shatter all the glass in the house.”

Tim makes another wondering noise, and Jason waves his fork once more, this time dismissively.

“Long story. One you'd rather not remember, I bet.”

“Is this Demon brat someone I don't like?” Tim asks, chasing with his tongue a runaway drop of sauce that's trailing down the inside of his wrist.

“Is the sky blue, Baby B?” is Jason's reply. To which Tim, being Tim, answers:

“Most of the time, though the exact hue changes with the time and the condition of the weather, shifting between basically all the colours of the spectrum.”

The eyeroll he was expecting, the fork aimed at his forehead he evades with his ninja reflexes, but the cap of the Parmesan container gets him square in the nose, splattering sauce across his cheeks and eyebrows.

The World War III that follows sends sauce stains all over the carpet, the couch, their clothes, and even the walls. A fork gets stuck in the chandelier of all places, and by the time they call a truce (they're both too proud to give in), Tim is in dire need of a shower.

#Jaytim #JasonxTim #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #MBKVerse #Nemestories

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