#they have a sandwich artisan who like. All he does is come in and make sandwiches | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ppersonna · 4 years

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planning forever - myg

↳ summary- you have special news to deliver to your husband, yoongi. and you find your inspiration to do so in a unique way.

↳ rating- PG

↳ pairing- min yoongi x reader

↳ word count-

↳ genre- fluff, oh my god the fluff

↳ warnings- mentions of sex, some swearing, min yoongi is D A D D Y

↳ a/n- happy birthday to @carly-bean-blog ! my sweet angel who has been with me through nearly my entire blog life. you’re so special to me! myself, @chimoona and @sombreboy wanted to do something special for you. together, we created your future ;). we hope you enjoy your day, sweet peony!

"You forgot your lunch.”

The voice of your husband, Yoongi, chuckles lightly through the phone in an amused tone.

“Shit,” you sigh, walking into work with arms packed full. Keys, your jacket, nametag, and an energy drink fumble in your grasp.

“Good thing you’re married to the nicest man in the world,” he goads. You roll your eyes, but he’s right. Min Yoongi is simply the sweetest, most kind man you’ve ever met. It’s why you married him.

“Hmm,” you tease as you shove your items into your locker, “Did I marry Namjoon?”

Yoongi grunts through the phone and it forces you to laugh.

“Not funny,” he sighs. You know he’s holding back laughter, maintaining his stoicism.

“I love you, Yoongi,” you smile. “My break is in about four hours.”

“I’ll bring it then. We can eat together.”

Your heart warms at the idea of sharing your simple sandwich and chip combo with the quiet man—the one who so easily captured your heart. You love that he’s willing to spend time during his day to sit at your boring job and eat lunch with you, all to make you happy.

“I’ll see you then.” The smile that's on your face nearly makes up for the fact that you have to suffer through a grueling eight-hour shift. Yoongi makes all the bad things in your life good. He takes those bad days and holds them tight in his arms until the bad melts away and you’re simply left with nothing but bliss.

“I love you.” He says it so easily, so much easier than when you first met him. Yoongi’s icy demeanor quickly melted after he spent time with you. Your infectious laughter, kind heart, and easy-going attitude had the man falling fast.

“I love you too, Yoongi.”

As you press ‘end’ on the phone, one hand drops to your stomach. You rub it idly. Consciously, you know it’s early and that you’re showing no signs of growing a life inside of you, but you can’t help but smile at the tiny fluttering in your belly.

---

Work goes by slower than you’d like. You’re excited at the idea of seeing Yoongi, but four hours suddenly seems too far away.

It’s as you’re arranging the new shipment of artisan, 100% organic cotton diapers that you’re forced to pause.

On the box of the far-too-expensive diapers, is the cutest baby model you’ve ever seen in your life.

You stare dumbly at the box for what feels like hours, unblinking as you take in the baby’s chubby cheeks and silly grin.

Maybe it’s the new pregnancy hormones coursing through your veins, or maybe this baby is sincerely so cute it’s making you cry—either way, tears slip down your face and a dumb, deliriously happy grin spreads across your face.

You’re pregnant. You’re going to have a baby with Yoongi. Maybe your baby won’t look like the tiny one on the display box, but it doesn’t matter. You’re going to have a child with the man of your dreams and you suddenly want the next eight months to go by faster.

The only problem that remains is, well, you haven’t told your husband.

It’s not like you two meant to get pregnant. You weren’t opposed to the idea but having sex was never with an end-goal of conception in mind. Yoongi wanted kids and assured you of that before you agreed to marry him. You both knew they would come at a time that felt right, when the universe and stars aligned.

And it appeared that they had. You noticed the symptoms a few weeks ago. Missed period, a little nauseated in the mornings, increased hormones. So, during a lunch break at work, you bought a pregnancy test and scurried to the staff bathrooms, only to come out with a positive reading and a grin on your face.

It wasn’t that you were scared to tell your husband. Frankly, you were far from it. You wanted to make sure the moment was just right. The pressure of telling your husband he was about to become a father was overwhelming. You couldn’t just tell him casually, as if discussing the weather. No, you wanted something more. And you agonized for weeks about how to make it happen.

But now, standing in front of the diaper section with tears pouring from your eyes, you throw any need of extravagant celebrations aside. Seize the day—it’ll happen at lunch and there’s no use backing out now.

The next fews hours creep by painfully. You take note of every ticking minute as it passes, practically hopping on your heels with excitement, waiting until you can pop the news. You finish stocking the nursery aisles with a happy heart and a smile on your face. You’re so engrossed in stocking shelves and running through the dialogue in your mind that you slowly lose track of time.

Hours pass and—

“_____,” Yoongi’s low voice bounces off the tall aisles behind you.

You turn on your heel and come face-to-face with the most familiar, welcoming pair of deep brown eyes.

“Baby,” you laugh, amused at how domestic he looks with both hands full of sack lunches like a father at a soccer game half-time.

He pulls off the look well. It reminds you why you fell in love with him in the first place. So kind and doting on those he loves most. Gosh, he’s going to make a great father.

“I knew I’d find you here,” he says with an eye-crinkling grin. “You love this department.”

“Love? I’m assigned to this department.” You close the distance with a small peck and tug your lunch from his hand. “But I guess you can say I have a fondness for it.”

He takes a step back and reclines in a nursing glider, motioning for you to join him in a neighboring seat.

“It’s the graveyard shift—do you think anyone will mind if we eat here?”

You look around the completely vacant store like a covert agent, then answer in a hushed tone. “For the time being, it looks like we’re off their radar. The coast is clear.”

“You’re an idiot,” he laughs, “I love you.”

“Love you too, rule breaker.”

It felt good to be bad in the most wholesome way in the most wholesome department of the entire store. Well, aside from the home decor section. Those fragrant eucalyptus candles and plush throw pillows in the shape of wild animals melts your heart to no end.

The two of you empty your bags into your laps and make small talk about your days. While you were toiling over the display case for Jessica Alba’s latest line of gluten-free, non GMO shampoo for thin baby hair, Yoongi watered the plants and did the dishes.

Real riveting stuff.

No, really, there is nothing sexier than a man who takes care of the home. It only makes you want to pop the news sooner, but the sandwich clutched in your hands makes for a less glamorous prop in your otherwise fairytale picture-perfect moment.

“Oh! I also did the laundry and folded it the way you like.”

“Bunched up and tossed in the drawer?”

He winks and points his finger at you. “That’s my girl—nothing gets past her.”

“Nothing does, nothing does…” You stare off blankly at the display behind Yoongi and notice a package of diapers is slightly askew. You begin to make a mental note to fix it later, but are abruptly snapped from your thoughts at Yoongi’s words—

“Nothing gets past me either, ______.” He sighs and reclines, belly full of sandwich. He closes his eyes and rests his head against clasped hands. “I know you’ve been keeping a secret from me, I can sense it like a bloodhound.”

With that, you pop the rest of the sandwich into your mouth and chew quickly. It seems the moment to savor has quickly evaporated and it was time to come clean.

“I wanted to tell you sooner, but—”

“—You got me that Pioneer DJ System for my birthday. I knew it! When I saw a purchase on our credit card for $500, I knew I caught you red-handed,” He looks at you for confirmation and assumes he’s right based on the reddish hue of your cheeks.

“You’re the idiot,” you snicker, nervously biting your lip between your teeth. “That wasn’t a DJ System, that was a crib.”

He holds up his finger in an AH-HA moment of victory, but pauses mid-celebration and looks at you with a crooked smile. “C-crib?”

“I’m pregnant, Yoongi.”

You can’t keep the butterflies from fluttering, seeing his face slowly shift from slightly amused to tear-dabbed and nearly shaking.

“You’re...you mean...we’re…” He stands from his seat and takes a knee beside you on your rocker and places his hand gently on your stomach.

“Yes,” you confirm through a strained voice, edging back tears of your own. “We’re having a baby.”

“This is, I mean,” He stammers and verbally struggles to come up with the right words to say that properly shows the multitude of emotions coursing through his body.

“Are you happy?” You ask despite the answer being written plainly on his face.

Of course he’s happy. It’s the happiest moment of his life and it’s all happening under the watchful gaze of a Peppa Pig cardboard cutout.

“Beyond,” he confirms, stroking your belly gently as if you were made of glass. “And excited, and scared.”

“Me too.”

“But mostly happy.” He strokes his hand through your hair and curls the loose strands behind your ear to place a soft kiss on your cheek. “God, I can’t wait to spend forever with you two.”

“Already? You haven’t even met the kid. What if he/she is a brat?”

“Too late, I love them already.”

You lean forward and kiss your husband, capturing his plush lips with your own. It’s warm and soft and reminds you of home.

“I love you,” you whisper, lips still touching his.

“I love you too,” he smiles, “Forever.”

#bts fluff #min yoongi #yoongi fluff #suga #suga fluff #bts fic #bts imagine #min yoongi fluff #bts sfw #agust d #agust d fluff #bts imagines #min yoongi imagines

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lady-of-glass-and-bone · 4 years

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How do the slashers close the bread bag?

Because I had a sudden urge to know while making a sandwich at 1:30am.

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

🎃 Michael Myers

Doesn't close the bag. At all.

Watches you take the time to use a twist tie only to swoop in and undo it once you are out of sight. Just to mess with you.

You end up with a lot of stale bread ಠ︵ಠ

🌲 Jason Voorhees

When/if you actually have a loaf of bread in the cabin he uses a twist tie like his momma taught him.

Stale bread who?

Possibly even finds or has a bread box.

If it's stolen from some unlucky campers and the tie is gone, he'll improvise with a close pin.

He's crafty like that.

🔥 Freddy Krueger

The bag and the bread is shredded.

Look Babe, now you can make stuffing! Ha!

Just get a kid proof container and hope for the best.

Also, burn all his toast and make a joke about how the two of them match. He will half appreciate it and half be pissed off.

It's totally worth it.

🍖 Bubba Sawyer

Twists the bag and tucks it under when he remembers.

But hey, he mostly deals with what goes in-between the slices of bread anyway.

☎️ Billy Lenz

Who let this rat boy near the bread?!

Bites it open and leaves you only the crust. Did he even make anything with it? We may never know.

CRUMBS. EVERYWHERE.

Get him a baguette to naw on for a few days. Get two and have a sword fight!

Who needs bags?!

🦋 Asa Emory (The Collector)

Twist tie and one of those plastic standing bread holders.

Don't you dare leave it open, that's why they come with the ties in the first place!

Artisanal bread can occasionally be found because he appreciates the process that is baking, thank you very much.

🤡 Pennywise the Dancing Clown

Eater of Worlds and Children.

Has no time for bread unless it's human flavored.

Or sweet. Give him sweet bread and tell me he won't love the absolute shit out of it.

Or those bagels colored with food dye.

Finishes the whole bag at once, no need to worry about closing it!

🔪 Norman Bates

Do you even have to ask?

If you don't already, you will pick up the habit of always using a twist tie.

Possibly keeps it in the fridge. Whatever his Mother did works best and why fix what ain't broke?

🚬 Bo Sinclair

Don't tell him how to handle a bag of bread! He knows what he's doing, he's a grown ass man!

Also complains about why the bread is stale sometimes.

Make this man some homemade bread and watch him melt. He will treasure that goddamn bread like it's the last loaf on Earth.

🎨 Vincent Sinclair

Remind this boy to eat!!!! Bring him food, snacks, anything.

Drag him upstairs to sit and eat with you, even if it's just something simple.

When he does make his own food, he probably uses a twist tie unless it's already been lost or he's in a hurry.

👗 Carrie White

You want bread? She'll make some. You want to learn how? She'll show you so you can do it together and experiment with new recipes.

Uses a twist tie more out of habit than anything else.

You'll pick up on that and start to do it to so she doesn't get that look on her face every time she sees something her mother wouldn't have 'liked.'

Secretly, you sometimes think 'fuck you Margaret' every time Carrie smiles at something new she never got to do because of her mother.

Even if it's just twisting the plastic bag of the bread and tucking it underneath.

👻Billy Loomis & Stu Matcher

Billy will twist tie it when you're in the vacinity. It's not like you hover but hey, everybody has pet peeves, he gets it.

Otherwise he doesn't really bother and when you discover it and ask him, he blames Stu.

With Stu it's a 50/50 chance and you take the wins when you can.

Billy knows you're secretly using kisses as a reward for Stu and damn if it doesn't start to work at some point. God he loves you.

Catch him leaving the bread bag undone on purpose just to get the same treatment.

Stu will get you a million bag clips in a million different varieties. Happy Birthday Babe!

☕ Brahms Heelshire

You make all his meals. ¯\_ʘ‿ʘ_/¯

Boy doesn't even know closing bread bags in different ways was a deal.

Do not attempt to change this unless you are a well trained professional.

#michael myers x reader #jason voorhees x reader #freddy krueger x reader #bubba sawyer x reader #billy lenz x reader #the collector x reader #asa emory x reader #pennywise x reader #norman bates x reader #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #carrie white x reader #billy loomis x reader x stu macher #brahms heelshire x reader #slashers #slasher imagines #slasher x reader #slasher community #duck did it

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daughterofposeidon18demivergent · 3 years

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Okay so I found a short story Uncle Rick wrote ( it was originally in Italian ) so , i broke google translate and wanted y’all to read it ....

here’s the link :(in Italian) https://rickriordan.com/2020/12/un-natale-mezzosangue/

P.S : All the demigods in the pandemic .. you’re gonna need 6-feet long sowrds to fight monsters ... the monsters have started ‘social distancing’ *coughs*

THIS IS RICK RIORDAN’S SHORT STORY .. SIMPLY SHARING IT

A Half-Blood Christmas

For those who could not read La Repubblica in paper format last Friday, here is a surprise for you: my first (very short) story about Percy Jackson originally written in Italian. Have fun and merry Christmas to everyone!

A Half-Blood Christmas

"Where are we?" said Percy.

"Florence, " said Nico.

Percy frowned. "And why?"

Hades' son snorted. "You never need a reason to come to Florence. But you told me you'd like to find a perfect gift for Annabeth, didn't you?"

"True." Percy put his hands on his stomach. He never liked to travel in the shadows. "But I thought we were going to the Christmas market in Times Square. There are many stalls -"

"Times Square!" Nico shuddered. "You're a romantic. If you want a gift worthy of your girlfriend, you need an Italian gift, as everyone knows. Let's go."

The streets of Florence were empty. The winter clouds stretched out heavy and gray. Directly in front of Nico and Percy, the cathedral's massive cathedral stood like a huge medieval spaceship, ready to take off.

"The shop is close," Nico said, crossing the square. His face was difficult to read because of the mask that covered his mouth.

"What shop?" asked Percy.

Nico did not answer.

Percy looked at the shutters of the shops, the few people in the square running here and there. Even the tall Christmas tree seemed to glitter sadly in front of the cathedral. In Italy, as in the United States and everywhere, it was obvious that this year had been very hard. Demigods, like Percy and Nico, could not get sick from the pandemic, but they could spread it, so they wore masks to protect mortals in their lives, because that's what the heroes did.

However, Poseidon's son was tired and ready for a new year. Recently, monsters were also practicing "social distance," and it was very difficult to fight monsters with a six-foot sword away.

'There we go, ' said Nico.

The façade of the shop was not much different from the others. It was at the entrance to an alley, with an iron grate through the closed door and advertisements painted on the dark windows: Jewelry! The best deals!

"Seriously?" asked Percy.

"When we enter, " said Nico, "be kind and respectful."

"As always, " said Percy.

Nico coughed. "Anyway, the shopkeeper can sell you the perfect gift for Annabeth, I promise. But... "

"But?"

"It's kind of weird."

"As always, " repeated Percy. He checked his pockets. "And how can I pay? I only have dollars and an expired voucher for sandwiches."

"Don't worry, " said Nico. "The shopkeeper does not accept money. He has other ways to make you pay."

"Now I'm worried."

Nico opened the grate, pushed the door and walked in. Percy followed him.

Inside the store, the walls were lined with lockers with jewelry and trinkenols of all kinds. Behind the counter, with his back turned, was a man in a huge red cloak, his hair like a wild white avalanche. He was working on a work desk, repairing a diamond necklace.

"Impossible, " murmured Percy. "Santa Claus?"

"Where?" exclaimed the man, turning alarmed.

It wasn't Santa Claus.

His cloak was explained, becoming red wings. From his white hair sprang pointed ears like these of a lynx. From his beard, also white, boar fangs rose. His nose was a beak like that of a vulture.

Percy swallowed. "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Percy," Nico said, "meet Charu, the Etruscan god, guardian and guide of the dead."

"Pleasure, " said Charu, his eyes blazing with flames. "How can I help you?"

"Excuse me, " said Percy, "but are you an Etruscan god?"

"Yes, yes, " said Charu. "Before the Intruder Romans, these lands were the home of the Etruscans. For that reason, this region is called Tuscany, you know?"

"But why --?"

"Percy, " interrupted Nico, "Charu is the last Etruscan god. He remained after the passage of the others, to keep the passage of the dead."

"Alas, " said Charu. "It's true. I'm still waiting, hoping some of them will come back, but it never happens." He pointed to his shop windows. "Over the centuries, many have passed through my shop, heading for death. Nobody's coming back. Well, there was that one guy, Dante, but other than him, no one. People, and the deis, leave me their most priceless items for custody, as you can see. What are you looking for?"

Percy wasn't sure he wanted to get Annabeth a present that belonged to a dead god, but he didn't want to offend Charu. She explained the different things Annabeth liked.

"Does your girlfriend like strategy?" Charu smiled, showing off his fangs. "I have the perfect thing."

The ancient god took something from his locker. It was a gold bracelet, made of tiny keys. "This, " he said, "was done by Sethlans, the Etruscan god of artisans. The keys around ... well, I'm just saying they can open up a lot of things and solve a lot of problems."

Percy was stunned. "It's perfect," he admitted. "But the price must be high."

"That's all," Charu said. "Tell me the right answer: why would ancient gods like me celebrate Christmas?"

Nico seemed nervous. Maybe he didn't think Percy would be good for an oral exam. But Percy thought carefully about the past year and his friends, like Nico, who had helped him get over it.

"Why, " said Poseidon's son, "Christmas is for everyone. It represents hope. Especially in dangerous times, all of us — the dei, the demigods, the mortals — must help each other. We remain vigilant and optimistic, like you, watching over the ways back. "

The god smiled. "Well said. Here's your present. Maybe we'il see each other again, huh? Merry Christmas!"

Back outside the store, Nico said, "Impressive, Percy."

"Thank you, " said Percy, holding the bracelet. "But I suppose the perfect gift is not a gem. It's a good friendship. Merry Christmas, my friend."

"You too, Seaweed Brain."

Percy laughed and, together, returned to the shadows.

#percy jackson #nicodiangelo #demigods in pandemic #rick's new short story #pernico as platonic friends #they r back #pjo fandom #seaweed brain #ghost king #rick riordan

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highgaarden · 4 years

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Lizzie/Landon - "I think I'm the first girl to break a bed with a guy, without even having sex with him while doing so." (pls let them break a bunch of other stuff while actually having sex)

two-shot! read and comment on ao3, please!

where you cast those stones you wear;

rating: explicit chapters: 1/2 characters: lizzie/landon; background klaus/caroline, background hope/landon, background josie/penelope; the whole SS gang.

where you cast those stones you wear

part i

----

“There you are.”

Lizzie’s smile is the fakest ass fake smile he’s ever seen, and he’s seen a lot of them.

It’s how she smiles when Wade asks her for donations to his Anime club. Or when Dr Saltzman caught all of them at the Old Mill trying to make moonshine (Kaleb’s idea). Her smiles are especially at their fakest when she wants to pull Hope away from him for some magical assistance to whatever trouble she’s managed to get herself—

—and Josie, and Alaric, Raf, MG, (himself, though she’ll never count him) and probably half the school along as well—

—that week. “Just the person I wanted to randomly bump into in study hall.”

“Really,” he deadpans, not believing her one bit.

He shifts his book just a little closer to his chest. He’s not nervous, but her energy is full of it sometimes, and sometimes it’s just energy personified that bounces off the calm he tries to fill his study hall with.

You know, where they’re supposed to study – in silence, preferably – but with Lizzie, there’s never much of silence.

It’s with a bit of a niggling discomfort that Landon realises he’s learned her tells: Lizzie can talk up a storm, always, but it’s in tense moments that she can’t seem to shut up. Not that he’d ever tell her to shut up; he doesn’t know why he always just wants to be nice to her, despite her printing out posters of VOTE ARTISANAL JAR OF MAYONNAISE FOR HOMECOMING KING last semester and sticking them all over school.

—

“Well?” Lizzie prompts, clicking her tongue.

Landon’s just sitting there, and for all his humble bragging about being at the top of their classes he’s just… sitting there, with a look that tells her he’s not quite registering what she’s just said to him.

“I’m—I’m sorry?” he finally says.

Lizzie sighs loudly enough for the entire study hall to send glares their way. Landon attempts to tamp down on their aggression, but all Lizzie does is just sigh louder.

Sorry, Landon mouths apologetically again, raising his hand at Wade, who looks close to crying over exam revision.

“Landon,” Lizzie says with finality.

“Lizzie,” Landon matches her tone. “I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to repeat yourself.”

Murder is the only word that comes to mind with the glare she sends his way. But she decides to humour him.

“Wow, that’s so weird. I feel like I’m just mishearing you. Again, please—hey, I said please.”

Lizzie’s mouth moves around the words she’s telling him.

Landon continues to stare at her blankly. “Sorry, there’s just this weird ringing in my ears. It sounds like you just asked me to be your boyfriend?”

—

Elizabeth Jenna Saltzman.

Asking him, resident emo-boy, a marginally competent bird as she always ‘fondly’ calls him, to be her esteemed partner.

“Am I hearing this right?”

Lizzie hisses right through her teeth, “Do not insult me, you moderately competent bird.”

See?

He lifts his book as if to deflect the blow of her mighty glare. “Look, I’m not! I’m just – are you feeling alright? Been getting enough sleep?”

“Two weeks have passed since my mom’s come back, and I have thoroughly exhausted every single mother-daughter bonding activity ever, and she’s moved on from Oh Lizzie, my favourite daughter, I’ve missed you so much snuggling to Who is this Sebastian your father keeps mentioning lectures.” Lizzie adds flippantly: “I’m not vibing with it.”

“Sebastian?”

“Super sexy perma-teen vampire but a complete misjudgement of character on my end.”

“And this isn’t?” Landon mumbles.

“I need to get my mother off my back, keep up.” Lizzie inches forward in her seat. The ends of her hair graze the table with how much she’s leaning towards him, making him look her in her wide, blue eyes. Always with the theatrics. “You’re just about at the exact opposite end of the Sebastian spectrum. Mopey, dependable, not obviously good looking, but your other qualities probably can make up for that. And you’re the kind of guy would probably wake up super early to get me a coffee and croissant before school, because that’s just how cheesy you are.”

“Thanks?”

“Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, it’s not just for my benefit either.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

Lizzie’s smile widens just a touch. “Heard your little crush on Hope just went up in flames.”

So is his face now, all puffed out and embarrassed. He lowers his voice and hisses, “How do you know about that?”

“Oh Landon. My sweet thrift store hobbit,” Lizzie sighs. “Everyone knows about it. You wear it like a badge of constant glumness. You didn’t speak to Jed for a whole week after he bought her a sandwich last week.”

“I could’ve bought her a sandwich too, big deal,” Landon mutters.

Lizzie raises a sharp finger and looks smug. “Ah, but you didn’t! See, my boy, you’ve got no game. Now imagine how much cooler your image would be if you were seen with resident popular girl,” she gestures to herself. “Your reputation would shoot up the ranks.”

“There are ranks?”

“Duh,” Lizzie says like it’s the most obvious thing. “And you, being a phoenix without actually possessing any unique phoenix qualities other than resurrecting – ”

“That’s not unique enough?”

“—looking like a pale artichoke in gym class doesn’t help, either. I am your salvation!” Lizzie finishes, hands on her hips and jaw raised like she’s standing centre-stage at their annual talent competition.

Landon narrows his eyes. “You think people will like me more if it looks like I’m dating you?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Move a little.” She takes a seat next to him gracefully, tucking her skirt under her thighs. “Listen. I need my mom to stop breathing down my neck. She’s been looking at me like she wants to give me the birds and the bees talk, with visual aid, flash cards and mini-theatre and I’d rather not go through that again. Once was more than enough. Pretty sure Dad wants her to exact power over my social life, since he doesn’t really have any say in that, and I’m looking at two semesters of constant surveillance. Or a twelve-step programme. And Professor M isn’t helping either—”

Landon shuts his book. “How does Professor M know about your love life?”

“Everyone knows about my love life, Landon. I’m interesting.” She rests an unwilling hand on his shoulder with a grimace. “And soon you will be too.”

“Because I’ll be dating you.”

“Fake dating,” Lizzie corrects primly.

“And you think Hope will like me, even though I’ll be unavailable?”

“There’s something to be said about wanting the unattainable, Landon. And trust me, you will be unattainable once you’re standing by my side.”

“Yeah, because everyone will think I’m nuts.”

“I resent that. Say yes.”

“Lizzie, I—” a panicked, helpless sort of look crosses Landon’s face. “This is really dishonest; I don’t think we should be…”

“Let me do the thinking for both of us, alright Little Bird?” Lizzie snips. “Getting back in my parents’ good books, the teachers off my backs for any sort of inevitable breakdown, and you… get to be Professor M’s potential son-in-law one day.”

“This is extremely coercive, you know,” Landon points out, but the protest is feeble at best. “And making me really uncomfortable. Nobody will buy it.”

“We’ll just have to put on a really good show,” she swears. “Say yes.”

—

Two things happen the next two days:

Landon attempts to say hi to Hope, who looks right through him to greet MG a good morning.

During lunch break, by some kind of miracle, he joins Hope and Lizzie for lunch just in time to hear Hope say, “You were right about the bio homework, by the way. Your ideas aren’t that bad, Saltzman.”

Lizzie cocks an eyebrow at Landon. “Welcome, Kirby.”

“Oh, hey Landon,” Hope greets warmly.

Landon takes all of thirty seconds to make up his mind.

Lizzie’s phone vibrates in her bag. When she checks it, it’s from Landon.

Just one word.

Yes.

—

Every Friday evening, the rag tag group of upper-secondary students meet for some dumb study group Emma had made them all participate in, in an effort to like, ‘bond’ as ‘one’ ‘community’ or something.

It’s astonishing that all of them consistently make it every single week, but no one will admit it’s because they appreciate each other’s company. They’d chalked it up to Stockholm Syndrome.

Rafael comes when he feels like it, but he’s usually stuck in detention helping Dorian jar newton eyes or something, but even he tries to be on his best behaviour so he doesn’t miss much of these.

It’s during one of these study groups that MG, having been not-so-discreetly been spying on Lizzie and Landon whilst they all parroted off chemical equations to each other, demands: “Why are you touching him?”

He’s probably been watching them really closely since the Bomb had Dropped.

Lizzie makes sure to have Josie walk into them in the courtyard one day with her hand placed very carefully on Landon’s thigh, and shocks her twin so much she goes running through the hallways until she bumps into Penelope, and blurts out the scene she just witnessed, swearing her to secrecy.

Penelope, of course, tells everyone else.

Lizzie pretends to fidget with the hem of her shirt. “Excuse you?”

MG narrows his eyes. “You just… keep putting your hand on Landon’s arm. Willingly. Why.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Penelope smirks, whilst Josie turns red and avoids Lizzie’s glare, “they’re the Salvatore School’s It Couple right now.”

“Fake news,” Jed coughs into his notes, and Kaleb guffaws.

Hope doesn’t do anything but watch the entire exchange with curious eyes.

“Look, Penelope, you don’t have to believe it,” Landon begins, but he’s making mopey eyes at Hope, so Lizzie decides to cut in.

“As devastated as I am to admit it, Frodo’s been growing on me,” Lizzie sighs, the vision of a woman distraught. “Who knew I was into nerd porn?”

MG’s ears might as well be whistling, and Jed’s cough sounds like a choke now.

“Girl, say what,” Kaleb says in one disbelieving breath. “Tell me you’re not serious. You okay? Been getting enough sleep? Is this a breakdown thing, ‘cause Emma said we have to like, show solidarity and help you visualise your inner child and shit—”

Lizzie smarts at that, just a little. Her lips part to shoot some of her automatic sass bullets, but surprisingly nothings comes out. Landon secretly puts his hand on her knee in a secret show of solidarity.

“Kaleb,” Josie says sharply. “People can change.”

Lizzie eyes Landon curiously. He shoots her a small smile, which she looks away from.

“Exactly,” Penelope nods, but she’s smirking in a way that says she doesn’t buy a single thing, and is enjoying every second of watching Landon squirm under everyone’s scrutiny. “Who’d you lose the bet to, Lizzie?”

Lizzie, despite herself, starts to feel annoyed. “I’ll have you know, Penelope, Landon isn’t the short end of an already short bunch of sticks—”

Landon tries to figure out the compliment there.

“Then – then prove it!” MG blurts out. “Kiss. If you’re really a couple, then – Kiss!”

That stops Lizzie short. “Milton. Ew.”

“Really gross, MG.” Hope shoots him a look of distaste.

“Voyeur much?” Penelope smirks.

“Nah, I’m with MG,” defends Kaleb. “This is really entertaining and all, but it’s kinda starting to weird me out. Suck his face. No way you’d do that willingly.”

“You’re all wrong,” Lizzie tells them politely. Or as politely as she can. Things are a-movin’ and she’s excited; she can already feel her legs tingling when she accidentally siphons some of Landon’s magic from his hand on her knee under the table. She swallows down the smugness in her voice, because this is exactly where she’d hoped the day would go. She turns to Landon, and wills him not to look so pale.

“Pucker up, ‘90s,” she coos.

Keeping her face as forced-smiley as possible she leans forward and gives Landon a peck on his lips. A small little one. A peck really, bird to bird.

Landon, to her discreet pleasure, kisses her back.

When they part their chaste, publicly-acceptable form of display, everyone is looking at them, shell-shocked.

Penelope steals Jed’s can of Coke just so she could do a spit-take.

—

“That plan worked out awesome. Score one to Saltzman,” Lizzie sighs victoriously as she plops down onto her bed. “Now on to Phase 2.”

“I really don’t want to know what Phase 2 is,” Landon mumbles. He’s got his arm slung over his eyes as he slumps three inches down into Lizzie’s plushy pink armchair.

“Phase 2 is Mom walking into us. She’s about to start baking downstairs. I know. It’s Tuesday. Ready?”

Slowly, Landon removes his arms. He stares at her. For like, a really long time. “What do you mean,” he widens his eyes, “by walking into us.”

Lizzie smiles deviously. Without warning, she lets out a very soft moan.

“Lizzie,” Landon hisses harshly.

“Yes, exactly, keep doing that,” Lizzie responds in a breathless voice, whilst she grins manically at him and flaps her hands, motioning for him to go louder.

“Lizzie,” Landon groans now, completely exasperated. “It’s barely been two days, I really doubt we’ll be having sex right now—”

“Yeah, keep talking dirty to me!” Lizzie all but bellows and jumps up on the bed, the mattress squeaking. She glares at Landon, who sighs, and very reluctantly joins her.

They jump up and down, and every so often Lizzie punches Landon in the arm so he lets out a believable grunt.

The mattress springs keep squeaking. Lizzie keeps up her panting.

After four more minutes of that, Landon’s a little out of breath, puts some spring in his jump, and lands in a pile of Lizzie’s haphazard pillows.

“Give it up, Lizzie,” he says, resuming his previous moping position of arm-over-eyes. “I think I pulled a muscle.”

“Sexy,” Lizzie says the way one might say ‘rancid foot’, but drops down next to him anyway. She stares at the ceiling, and they let out a long sigh.

After about another four minutes of moping, Lizzie turns to her side and swats Landon’s arm off his face. “Enough! Tomorrow night is another day.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” he points out, before propping himself up on one elbow to face her. “About that kiss just now—”

“They totally bought it,” Lizzie can’t resist interrupting.

“You sure you okay with this?” he mumbles in that Landon way of his. He studies her face. She notes the dark circles framing his obsidian-blues.

“Getting cold feet already, Kirby?”

“No, it’s just that—”

Her door swings open. “Elizabeth, do you remember where your mum put the…”

Lizzie and Landon whip around to see a very livid Professor M, staring at them, at the space between them, at the sweat beading on Landon’s forehead, at Lizzie’s once-sleek French braid that has now shaken loose, at the two of them again, at the space between them, and once more at Landon.

“Professor Mika-Mikaels—” Landon squawks, turning white as a sheet.

The growl that emanates from Professor M seems to make the room tremble, and Landon all but stutters to a stop. Lizzie, however, is coming up sunflowers. She practically bounces to her knees and throws her hands up, eyes crinkling warmly, exclaiming, “What did you need of me, my beloved stepfather!”

“Well, darling, I was looking for your mother’s ridiculously expensive sea salt but now I’m looking for something else entirely,” he grits out through clenched teeth, despite being slightly mollified by Lizzie’s welcome.

“And that is?” Lizzie all but croons, making a very conscious move towards Landon. “We’re kind of in the middle of studying right now.”

“Banishing objects, hm? Your books are missing.”

“Invisique,” Lizzie sings in reply. Landon just wants her to shut the fuck up, right now.

Landon’s head disappears, which is a good thing, because he looks like he’s holding in from puking his guts out, the way Klaus observes him like he’s a piece of meat.

“You’re the phoenix, yes?”

“Yes,” Landon says squeamishly.

“Alright,” Professor M seems to deliberate, before flashing over to Landon, grabbing him and throwing him out the room and right down the stairs.

“Niklaus Mikaelson!” comes her mom’s furious bellow.

“For FUCK’S SAKE, KLAUS!” She hears Dad yell. “WE JUST TALKED ABOUT THIS.”

Screams erupt, there’s a clattering of feet, and Lizzie falls out of bed in a perfect traumatised swoon, back of her hand rested delicately on her forehead. “Stepfather! Can we not with the dramatics!”

“We’re going to have a talk about this later,” he warns with a finger wagging her way, his undisguised rage making his accent thicker.

“I’ll miss you when you’re suspended again,” Lizzie pouts.

He groans, already hearing Mom’s boots stomping up the stairs. “As shall I, my sweet.”

—

At least Landon’s gotten used to resurrecting. Cause of death: the ire of Professor Klaus Mikaelson.

Lizzie’s waiting for him with a warm blanket when he starts to stir, her head facing the sky like she’s enjoying the sunset. Blinking groggily, he turns onto his stomach and rubs the back of his neck. He feels the weather-worn wood of the docks pressing into his face and he groans. That’s going to leave a mark.

“Welcome back,” Lizzie quips.

“Just because I can’t die doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate some sympathy, Lizzie,” Landon mutters, throwing her a murderous look. “So what’s your damage.”

“Let’s see,” Lizzie says as she drapes the blanket over Landon’s crumpled heap of a body, face and all. “Two weeks of grounding. Mom suggested making it three weeks, but Dad intervened and said he’d rather us be on library duty instead for the rest of this semester.”

“Us?”

“Professor M also suggested throwing you out the window and have me try to levitate you before you hit the ground—”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“—but Mom was all Oh, maybe that’s a little too harsh,” Lizzie continues thoughtfully.

“A little?” Landon squeaks underneath the blue and white embroidered quilt. “Literally dying wasn’t enough?”

“But on the plus side, they were yelling so hard the entire school now knows we were caught post-doing the dirty.” Lizzie shoots him a grin. “On to Phase 3!”

“No!” Landon yells and clambers to his feet. “Lizzie, so far all your plans have kind of sucked for me, you know? How the hell is Hope supposed to like me now that she thinks I’ve slept with you!”

“Easy, lover boy,” Lizzie says, frowning. “This is the 21st century, she’s not a prude.”

“You don’t — you don’t know her like I do,” Landon says, burying his face in his hands and turning towards the water. “She’s not like y…”

He whirls around, hands already halfway lifting up like a gesture of apology but Lizzie’s already standing up, facing him squarely. Her eyes are narrowed as she takes him in coolly. “Not like?”

“Nevermind,” Landon says quickly. “Let’s grab some dinner, I’m starv—”

“Finish your fucking sentence, Frodo,” Lizzie says in a voice that is low and dangerous. Is it weird that he’s seeing some Klaus in the shadows of her face right now?

“Lizzie… let’s drop it.”

“No. Let’s hear you say it. Not like what? You were saying she’s not like me,” she hisses. Her fists are bunched into tight fists and he’s so glad she doesn’t have anything to syphon right now. He really hasn’t tried dying twice in the span of 12 hours.

“Look, I’m sorr—”

“Invisique,” she whispers.

“Lizzie!”

He hears the wooden boards squeak as she runs away, and when her feet hit grass there’s no telling where she might be.

“Fuck you, Landon!” he yells and heaves a rock into the water with a loud splash.

—

tbc

#lizzie saltzman x landon kirby #lizzie x landon #legacies fanfiction #legacies #ishenwulf #hannah writes things #drunk writing: a series #otp: why are you carrying a sword #fic: where you cast those stones you wear

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harianadimples · 5 years

Text

Highlight of My Life

Warning: none 3.0k+: fluff, university!au (harry is a fashion design major; y/n is an english major)

| – | – | – |

“So, what’s so special about this new collection? Don’t you already have like three of her highlighters at home?” Harry asks, sounding genuinely curious and interested.

“New shades. I love the formula. I’m wearing hustla baby on my cheeks today, see,” she says as she tilts her cheek for Harry who nods intently. “I like that one, it’s like subtle. Makes me look like a glazed donut. I love glazed donuts,” he trails off.

“It’s my every day, go-to, I want to blind everyone I encounter on campus, highlighter,” she laughs. “I’ve hit pan on that one I might get the mini of it. It comes with a mini gloss bomb you can have so you can stop stealing mine.”

“Thanks. There’s that highlighter I really liked, the one you put on my eyes before,” Harry says.

“Trophy wife?”

“Yeah, but no, I was thinking of the pink one?”

Confusion sticks to them both. They stare at each other for a while, combining both their sleep-deprived braincells together to figure out what Harry was talking about.

“Highlight of My Life”

The one where Fenty Beauty is launching a new highlighter collection and the Sephora downtown is doing an event for it where the first hundred people get a goodie bag so Y/N makes Harry wake up at 6 a.m. for its 10 a.m. opening. The things Harry does for the person he loves.

-:-:-:-

“Remind me why you had me wake up at six in the morning and drive you all the way downtown on my off day?”

Harry’s tone is chastising, which was amusing to Y/N when they were pulling out of their shared apartment, but now that they’ve been sat in the car for a while and it’s probably the fiftieth time he’s asked, she’s a little annoyed. Still, she can’t fully commit to being annoyed by Harry for too long. As she looks up from her phone, turning to Harry who’s looking at her expectantly for an answer, his tired eyes sunken in by his interrupted sleep and his mouth looking all pink and plushy, she finds herself completely endeared by his prettiness and quickly lets it go.

Harry gulps down the rest of his coffee, chasing the dryness of the caffeinated beverage with more gulps from her water. He’s watching her, and can tell from how her eyes momentarily dart to the right of her, that she’s thinking of something witty to say.

“Cause you love me,” Y/N pouts in a sweet, singsongy voice, the voice he’s more than aware that she uses when she’s playfully manipulating him into doing something she wants, such as, waking up at six in the morning to drive her downtown.

Harry’s eyes quickly express how nonsensensical her response is though she still finds him endearing, which makes her press her thumb over his puffed, water-filled cheeks. “And,” she continues, “because Rihanna is launching a new highlighter collection and the Sephora downtown is holding an event for it. If you’re within the first hundred people there you get a goodie bag.”

“Will Rihanna be there?” Harry asks. His question resonates through a single monotone note.

“No, I think it’s just the store doing something for the collection launch. She does proper parties for influencers and celebrity friends ahead of releases too but, there’s no way we’d get invited to one any time soon,” she sighs.

“When’s the store opening?” Harry asks, glancing at the time on the dashboard. “We’ve been here since eight-twenty.”

“Ten,” Y/N sighs as she glances at her phone again. “At least we got here early enough before a line started. We can eat while we wait.” She gestures to their breakfast: two large coffees and a sandwich to share between them because $7.99 for an ‘Artisan’ sandwich sounded almost blasphemous for the two uni students.

“When you see someone approaching the front, forming some kind of line, let me know,” she says as Harry nods, taking a bite from the sandwich as he looks to the front of the car.

“So, what’s so special about this new collection? Don’t you already have like three of her highlighters at home?” Harry asks, sounding genuinely curious and interested.

“Thanks. There’s that highlighter I really liked, the one you put on my eyes before,” Harry says.

“Trophy wife?”

“Yeah, but no, I was thinking of the pink one?”

Confusion sticks to them both. They stare at each other for a while, combining both their sleep-deprived braincells together to figure out what Harry was talking about.

“Oh, Wattabrat!” Y/N says with realization.

“Watt-a-brat. Yeah that one. I just love the name. She’s brilliant with the shade names,” he says. “If I could I’d name a shade Styles.”

“Just Styles?” Y/N raises an eyebrow at her boyfriend who nods thoughtfully. “Yeah it’s not product-specific and it’s kind of a great name, don’t ya think?”

“Well, I think the word Styles existed long before you did,” she says, laughing, “but it’s very on-brand for you to name something after you if you ever consider expanding your fashion brand into more business ventures. But you should call the full collection itself ‘Styles’. It’d be like when a musician releases a self-titled album. And the songs in this case would be the shade names, and they can be named after things important to you or whatever you think sounds cool.”

Harry nods thoughtfully, staring at the cup as Y/N drinks from her coffee. He waits until it’s far enough from her face to take it from her and drink from it as well. She takes it back before he’s even done, smiling as she playfully pushes his outstretched hand away. He sighs and takes their sandwich and bites into it.

“Did you finish the paper for Rockwell’s class?” Y/N asks him.

“Yeah, I stayed up until one writing it. Haven’t gotten a chance to edit it yet, I planned on doing it later, but… maybe you could look at it first?” Harry figures he might as well ask, otherwise what’s the point in having a girlfriend who majors in English literature.

“Sure,” Y/N nods, frowning sympathetically as she hands him her coffee. She recalls the night before, going to bed before him while he sat at their kitchen island hunched over his laptop. The screen, even at its lowest level, still bright enough to cast a silhouette on his figure. She remembers not hearing him come in, but feeling the bed dip all of a sudden as he indiscreetly fell into bed, throwing his leg (and cold feet) over her legs while his arm draped over her middle.

Y/N could tell Harry’s been stressed lately because of midterms. She figures it’s especially difficult since it’s their final year and naturally everything is that more stress inducing. There’s few areas here and there where Y/N can lend her assistance and support since she’s in a different program.

Harry is in the fashion design program so he hardly has any courses in the English program, but they happen to be taking The Language of Love, Sex and Gender english course this semester and are in the same class. Despite them both being natural creatives this is her comfort zone and where she naturally shines. Harry used to have a habit of over-saturating his brand descriptions with hyperbolic terms and (sometimes) useless jargon that wouldn’t captivate the eye of a prospective consumer. She does nothing but read and write for her english courses, and occasionally prepares presentations or paragraphs for class discussions, so, if she can help Harry in any way, it’s helping him with his writing. She merely helps him rephrase his thoughts from a different perspective she felt would be more hard-hitting. In return, he gives her style advice and occassionally styles her himself (he has an eye for pieces that suit her and flatter which are her weaker qualities). Harry swears that her dedication to an oversized sweater of his that she wears nearly every day with a pair of boots is the bane of his existence.

They had met in the School of Fashion Design building at the end of their second year.

A mutual friend of theirs in the photography program had included several images of her in a pop-up exhibition held by several students from the program, and she was invited to attend. Harry had come as well and was with a girl he’d been seeing for a while. Harry wouldn’t be able to tell you the name of the girl he’d been seeing, because he swears that the moment he saw Y/N he’d fallen in love. She’d come in a Guy Fieri type collared shirt that was about five-sizes too big, and black platform shoes.

‘I liked that you didn’t give a fuck,’ Harry once explained when she had asked him why he became interested in her after they became friends.

Yet she remembers that he often teased her for her sense of style, taunting her for her lack of pants (she wears bike shorts underneath) or the lack of change to her silhouette (what, she likes it, why change it), but now she relays the same comments in a self-deprecating way. Somewhere between then and now their sense of humour had evolved, as did their relationship. Her style for one thing has evolved, but she’s still dedicated to her brand of oversized clothing for their comfort and Harry hardly teases her except for when he needs a lead-in to ask her to fuck him.

‘I don’t remember ever making fun of you for never wearing pants when you wear my clothes out,’ Harry would say, but his words held as much truth as a ‘my truth’ post-scandal video.

It never actually bothered her, because she knew from being friends with Harry for a while that his humour tended to lean on ignoring the obvious and being heavily sarcastic. Like the time she was nervous about showing him her work and had him read a poem she wrote in her senior year of high school which won her an award, and he told her it was ‘terrible’ and that she should consider dropping out.

‘I couldn’t write this good until this year, I swear,’ Harry had scoffed.

‘This well…’ she had corrected him.

Their dynamic was pretty much set in stone that day too. Y/N tended to be the one riddled with self-doubt and low self-esteem from her overthinking, overly intuitive brain making her second guess a lot of things, while Harry brings out what it’s true in what she believes about herself by ignoring the obvious, making her think for herself; a surprisingly productive way to get her to remember her worth and talent. And sometimes, when he’s being too cocky, she’ll knock him down a peg.

But clearly their dynamic has evolved as well, because she finds herself being the one to remind Harry ‘who the fuck he is’ (as Harry fondly says when he’s in this position trying to uplift her) and Harry’s humour has spread to her as well. She doesn’t spare any opportunities to tell Harry that she loves him, and to remind him that she’s only with him because ‘one day he’ll be a fashion designer for socialites and the Hollywood elite, and she’ll take her one connection and run with it straight into Keanu Reeves’ arms’ (obviously she’s only kidding…unless…).

In the one class they share the midterm is a take-home exam in the form of an essay question. Harry’s a decent writer, having been cordially assisted by Y/N before they were dating until now, to better himself and tweak his style to be less robotic and more human. He really shouldn’t be worried about doing poorly on the paper, but his fashion design senior project is part of his requirement to graduate and has drained him of most of his creative energy, making it difficult to piece together intellectual thoughts into a riveting paper.

His brain must look like a prune by now. He mustered whatever was left and squeezed it onto that horrendous paper. He just knows it’s horrendous. He didn’t have the heart or energy to re-read it, opting instead to get some sleep, forget about it for the day, then return to it in the afternoon.

Of course now he’s here in the car, having been woken up at six in the morning by his overly perky girlfriend cutting off his air supply, yammering on about some makeup thing. All cynicism aside, it’s making for a reasonable distraction for not working on his paper. He’d still prefer to be at home, asleep, cuddling his girl, but he figures any way he spends time with her is good enough. He hardly sees her during the day given that they’re not in the same program, but he sees her every night which is not among his list of complaints.

Realistically, she could have come downtown alone, but Harry and her both knew how much she hated commuting. It seemed really important for Y/N to be here, who Harry knew was also dealing with her own slew of stressful days full of due dates and expectations, so he caved.

‘Makeup is just really therapeutic to me. When I do my skincare and do my makeup, I’m kind of meditating at the same time. When I see the finished product I feel confident and ready to take on the day… once I get my iced coffee, of course,’ Y/N explained to him once when he’d asked her about her interest in it.

He knows most of that was true though he recalls one time, finding her in their bathroom, sitting in their sink, sobbing while doing her makeup, blending her tears into her skin. It was quite the picture for Harry to see, and he’d taken off her makeup for her (against her insistence that she was fine and needed to finish getting ready) since it’d been ruined anyway, and decided that that day would be a mental-health day for her and brought her back to bed.

He re-did her skincare for her, sitting next to her body as she told him what products to use and in what order. He used mostly the length of his fingers and finger tips to work the products into her skin because his hands were much too large for her face and he was afraid of messing something up.

It somehow became a tradition for them to have a self-care day, pampering themselves with skin care, a bottle of white champagne and take-out from their favourite restaurant after one of them has a breakdown.

Harry reckons he’s due for one, but nothing has come up to push him over the edge yet. Sometimes, before he could exhaust his brain into that state, Y/N would figure out some way to save him from himself, reminding him who the fuck he is.

“Hey,” Harry hears Y/N speak. He looks up, humming thoughtfully as he meets her gaze. Her cheek rests on the seat as she speaks, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry smiles, as he kisses her. “Even though you woke me up at an ungodly hour.”

“Heeey,” she pouts, “you better keep that same energy with our baby.”

“You’re having my baby?” Harry’s mouth suddenly dries, and he must look foolish with his eyes bugging out the way they are, because what–.

“Oh– I was kidding!” Y/N quickly shakes her head as Harry shuts his eyes for a moment. “Y/N,” he mumbles, drawing out each syllable of her name.

“I’m sorry,” she giggles, trailing off, “it was a joke.”

“Please. I was about to have a full on breakdown,” Harry mutters.

“You don’t want a baby with me?” She asks candidly, looking at Harry who hasn’t opened his eyes. She wonders if he’s fallen asleep because he isn’t moving. She pokes his face to make sure. “Harry, don’t you wanna put a baby in me? You say that every time we have sex,” she teases him as Harry snorts through his nose, which her finger takes most of the damage from.

Harry’s eyes flutter open again at the sound of Y/N’s squealing as she wipes her hand on his leg. He laughs at the reaction he receives from her which brings that adorable angry pout on her face.

“Obviously the objective still stands, just not right now. I also, for a second, believed you had the audacity to tell me you’re pregnant while we’re waiting for Sephora to open because you wanted to be early for a Fenty Beauty goodie bag,” Harry says as Y/N continues to pout, though her brief frustration subsides, making her look more like a puppy yearning to be pet, so he kisses her pout figuring that’s close enough.

“Don’t worry, you’ll know I’m having your baby because I’m literally the worst at keeping secrets from you, or maybe you just know me too well,” Y/N says thoughtfully as she looks at Harry.

“I think the growing bump will give it away, but okay, that too,” Harry says.

“We won’t be apart like this once we graduate. You’ll have no excuse to avoid me, so you won’t miss the moment I find out I’m pregnant the way you missed me learning that I got that internship I was trying for,” Y/N laughs.

“I was stuck in traffic, and you’re much too impatient!” Harry shakes his head. “Whatever, we still celebrated that night though.”

“And the next morning,” Y/N hums.

“Hey, I think they’re here for the event,” Harry points towards a group of three, all of them wearing full-glam which sets of Y/N’s fight or flight response. Harry sees her entire demeanour change as she quickly grabs her water and stuffs it into her bag before kissing Harry goodbye. “I’ll go wait in line for us. You go ahead and get some more sleep and I’ll call or text you,” Y/N tells him in one breath before shutting the door.

He chuckles as he watches her run like Bambi ahead of the group, taking her place at the front of the line that formed once the three others stood with her. She throws him two thumbs up and a toothy grin, clearly proud of herself for being the first in line. It’s highly amusing to Harry to see her so excited, but mostly he’s happy to see her so happy.

| – | – | – |

Hello, thank you for reading ! I’m a huge supporter of the idea of Harry wearing makeup, from soft-glam to highly conceptual Louvre worthy looks, so this was written out of that love of mine and my wish to one day beat Harry’s face the house down boots. I was also inspired by my literal desire to buy more makeup, but can’t, because I have loans to pay back, bills to pay 💀

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this one ♡

+ masterlist

#harry styles #harry styles one shot #harry one shot #harry styles imagine #harry imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles concept #one direction fanfic #one direction fanfiction #1d fanfic #1d fanfiction #writing

178 notes · View notes

clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Destiny II, part 1 ― Chapter 3: The Truth

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny II, part 1 ⥽

While struggling with nightmares of lives she’s never lived, a shadow from the past looming over her city, and the proposed idea that her life may just be a little bit too weird to handle alone, Nadya makes sure to tell herself that everything is perfect just the way it is. If only. When the self-proclaimed King of Vampires (and Maker of her sometimes-girlfriend and always-boss, can’t forget that little tidbit) Gaius Augustine returns intent on claiming Manhattan as the throne that was promised, she and her friends find themselves forced into the task of saving the world. But with millennia-old vampires and an Order of hunters on their heels as well as allies hiding catastrophic secrets at their backs… it won’t be an easy task. Too bad destiny didn’t exactly ask for her input.

Bound by Destiny II and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny II tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

As it turns out the Trinity is still in New York. A desperate Nadya agrees to meet Valdas and his promise of answers, but is she ready for the truth behind her visions?

[READ IT ON AO3]

Nadya, Lily, and Jax agree to wait until the seventh and final night of Valdas’ offer.

So, naturally, Nadya goes the night before on her own.

The vampire watches her with an uncomfortable curiosity. It doesn’t carry the usual weight of immortality she associates with him. A year ago he moved like every limb was dragging Atlas’ burden by iron chains but now he’s… well he’s just different.

“You know, I was convinced you would wait until the last day to come.”

Nadya shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “I can go if you want,” though she really can’t and hopes he doesn’t take her up on it, “and come back tomorrow.”

“No no, that isn’t what I meant at all. I’m merely surprised. Help remind me to ask for cash back when we’re finished here, would you? I owe Isseya a few hundred for the bet.”

There’s something just… so wrong about a man over two thousand years old talking about ‘cash back.’ Maybe that’s why Kamilah always insists on paying where Nadya can’t see.

But the mention of his partner makes Nadya uneasy. They’ve always been joined at the hip. “She won’t be joining us?”

Valdas shakes his head. “No, not tonight at least. I thought it best we keep this an intimate affair.”

“Ew.”

He gives her a chastising look but says nothing more on it.

Nadya doesn’t know what she was expecting; what she would have done if she had waited for her friends to come along as backup, or if she’d sucked it up and told Adrian and Kamilah about going behind their backs in the worst way. It’s not hard to imagine their looks of disappointment.

Even not knowing what to expect, though, didn’t mean Nadya had prepared herself for a place that’s actually kind of cute. An inside that smells like fresh coffee grinds and vanilla and a surprisingly decent bit of sidewalk real estate gated off with a wooden fence painted glossy black.

Not that any of that eases her worry. She’s prepared herself for the worst — tenses up at every passerby, catches herself halfway reaching for the stake in her purse when the vampire across so much as shifts in his seat.

Only Valdas is the epitome of a gentleman. He plays the part he’s dressed for almost too well. Still, Nadya reminds herself not to be fooled, not even for a second. She’s seen what he can become; what he can do. Sometimes she still tastes Vega’s ashes tickling at the back of her throat.

He glances up at the strings of yellowed lights crossed aimlessly over their heads. “It’s a rather charming place, wouldn’t you say? And, I hope, agreeable to your anxieties. Though I wish you would have let me take you somewhere —”

“Somewhere what,” interrupts Nadya; words bursting with accusation, “somewhere secluded and private, or with leather and torture devices?”

Valdas raises a single dark eyebrow in an ‘are you quite finished?’ way and no, she’s not — not by a long shot. But she’s willing to admit (silently, to herself, not out loud whatsoever) she might be making it worse for herself at this point.

Especially when he answers.

“Somewhere proper; with enough courses to get us through what I’m sure will be a difficult if enlightening conversation for you and I to have, Nadya.”

Yeah, especially then.

“Oh. No — this is fine.”

Someone clears their throat behind her; makes Nadya almost jump out of her seat in a heart attack. The barista does his level best not to laugh at her while he adjusts his tray bearing a steaming mug on a saucer and a plate of tiny finger sandwiches. “Oh, we didn’t —”

“Here will be fine,” Valdas pushes his folded newspaper aside, “thank you.”

He’s young; one of those obviously-New York types with several studs in his ears and a streak of blue in his blond hair, and likely a long-time server judging by the way his face goes red at Valdas’ simple act of common decency. Run, she wants to shout because she’s seen that darkly alluring smile before and nothing good can come of it, run while you still can.

Instead Nadya mouths a voiceless thanks. They are left alone.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“I took it upon myself.”

“But you didn’t know which night I would show up.”

“Indeed. After the third night they knew my order by heart.” He glances appraisingly towards the inside cafe — Nadya on the other hand can’t focus on anything but their reflections in the glass. “It’s hard to find attention to detail like that these days outside of hired help.”

With pursed lips Nadya pushes the latte away. “You really shouldn’t have. I can’t —”

“It’s soy milk, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Uhm, what? Yeah — only one of them finds her surprise funny and hint; it’s not Nadya.

“At the Awakening Ball, shortly after our first introductions. You were rather loudly threatening Raines and Sayeed with what I believe was a platter of artisan cheeses?”

“That’s… very diligent of you.” Creepy. It’s creepy. It’s so so freakin’ creepy.

Valdas gives a soft snort of amusement. “I’m old, Nadya, but not antiquated. In fact I’ve been looking for someone to discuss the latest season of The Crown & the Flame with, should you have time after our business is concluded.”

“That’s not —” This is so getting out of hand; more than that its wasting time.

She can’t let this chance slip through her fingers. “What are you trying to do? I didn’t come here to have small talk or drink coffee or talk TV, and I’m pretty dang sure that’s not why you invited me but if it is then tell me now because I don’t have time for it.”

“Very well,” he says just a little too flippantly for her growing irritation, “I thought you might be more comfortable this way. I apologize.”

“Apology only accepted if you start talking.”

The vampire leans forward a little too quickly for Nadya’s liking. All that arrogance, immortality; suddenly so plain on his expression he might as well have ‘VAMPIRE’ painted on his forehead.

It takes everything in her not to move away.

So many questions and now she can finally get her answers. But it leaves Nadya a bit stalled on where to start. But Valdas stays eerily patient.

Okay, big questions. “Am I dying?”

“You’re mortal, you are dying from the moment you’re birthed.” Which is not the answer Nadya’s looking for and he knows it. “But no, not more than any other.”

“Do you plan on killing me?”

“No; you are far too valuable for that.”

“What does that mean?”

Valdas carefully chooses every word to answer; “It means… that we are very happy you are alive, Nadya.” And his not-answers feel a little too close on the family tree to Nadya’s mostly-truths.

Though if he thinks she missed that “we” thing he’s very much mistaken.

“So my nightmares, what exactly are they?”

He’s too casual — plucking one of the sandwiches on the tray and nibbling it idly. Nadya entertains the image of her throwing it in his face… it’s a nice one.

“Nightmares, you say? So the visions only come to you when you sleep?”

“Visions?”

“Visions, mental images, nightmares — name them what you will but they are the same thing. Events you never witnessed, lives you never lived…”

“People I’ve never killed?”

The words come out of her so scared, so broken; and Nadya’s almost angry for it. A sound so pitiful that even Valdas — the same man who threatened Jax so easily, hurt Adrian and Kamilah so easily, killed Vega so easily — lets sympathy slip through the seams of him.

“And those, yes. They are all a part of you; they have been all your life even if you were once unaware, and they will remain that way from this day to your last day.”

Nadya shakes her head so hard it hurts. “No. No way I — I can’t feel like this forever. I won’t survive it. I… I won’t. I feel less and less like me every time I wake up. There won’t be enough of me left.” I worry there isn’t enough already.

And he really sits there without an answer for her? Two thousand years and this is all he’s good for; making her feel like her life is already over? What good is it to live for so freakin’ long if it can’t help her; save her?

“What did you do to me,” it feels good to ask; really good — better than she’s felt in a while, “why did you do it? How do I stop it, or make it hurt less, or make it happen less, or —”

“Forgive me —” —she doesn’t— “— but… you believe I am somehow responsible for these visions? When I just told you they were yours from your first breath.”

“Well what else am I supposed to think?” Nadya snaps. “My head almost explodes, you do some weird psychic mojo that makes it better but also makes it worse, and the last thing your bonkers girlfriend—who conveniently isn’t here—says to me is “enjoy my gift?” I gotta say — that all seems pretty freakin’ responsible to me!”

The last time she raised her voice at Valdas, Nadya had Kamilah and Adrian combined to back her up. Yet here she is, no immortality at her back, and honestly she doesn’t even care.

“I am scared, okay? So, so scared — scared enough that I’m doing stupid things that I know I shouldn’t be doing, lying to the people I love, going behind their backs and putting myself in danger and you know why?”

“Because fear is an irrational motivator.”

“Shut up. It’s because I would do all of that again and again and again if it helps me find a way to make this stop. If it takes away all of these horrible feelings that aren’t even my own and… and stops tearing me up inside.”

Who are you, Nadya asks herself, because they may be her words in her voice but they’re so wrong — so not Nadya. And that just adds onto her already existing fear.

It’s not fair.

None of this is fair.

Valdas waits until Nadya catches her breath; until he can hear the slowing down of her heart. “Are you quite done?”

“I dunno,” her face is still flushed, “but… sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“For telling you to shut up.” Because she’s pretty dang certain if anyone else had tried that they wouldn’t have gotten to finish saying their piece.

But she did. Valdas let her get it out until she was pink in the face and more than a little hot under her coat collar despite the bitter night breeze. Why?

“No one should ever feel the need to apologize for their grief.”

Nadya glances up from her white-knuckled hands; but Valdas isn’t there — not mentally, anyway. His focus is far off and distant… millennia away. “Grief is a complex thing felt in complex ways. It kills us inside… but the pain of it is proof we are alive, too.”

“I’m not grieving though. I can’t grieve. I have to hope there’s a way to fix it.”

“If my efforts to ebb the storm still leave you this way Nadya, I must admit I’m doubtful of it.”

How is it something so bleak leaves her so breathless?

“What do you mean,” she chokes out, “what—what efforts?”

“The ones you would so quickly write off as malice. Though I suppose I’ll give you one thing — my beloved Iss’ has a knack for making most things sound malicious.”

“That’s an understatement…” and apparently the only bad thing he’ll ever say about her, “so—so wait. I don’t… I don’t understand.”

Valdas does the decent thing and turns his face away, but that doesn’t mean Nadya misses the color me surprised raised brow.

“Psychic prominence can be innate, yes, but when you reach a certain age most talents are easily learned. I had hoped the web I was allowed to spin in your mind that night at the Musea Sanguis would hold long enough to bring us to this point naturally. Sadly this was not the case.”

He offers his hand out palm-up between them. He could just as easily take what he wants from her but no, he’s offering.

And the more she thinks about it the more Nadya realizes Valdas had done the same that night. “I thought… when I touched this—this column I could’ve sworn I… that something to do with you had…”

Valdas nods with growing understanding.

“Well that’s to be expected. When psychic abilities grate up against one another it’s a bit like grit-paper on stone; the outer layer of the stone crumbles into a fine powder, yes? The influence that was being pressed unto you turned you into the grit — the rest of the world; your stone.”

“So it’s all in… in touch?” Nadya looks down at her hands as she asks.

“No, but given the borders of your capabilities…” The curl of his fingers draws them both down to watch. “Physical contact is a tether in any instance. But objects have memories just like people do, Nadya. And we vampires are an odd in-between of the two.

“I could show you — if you wish.”

Their fingertips couldn’t be more than four—five inches apart. But to Nadya it looks like miles; like ages stretching out across the tabletop.

Two thousand years of history, of life; of love. And the very idea of inducing this terror upon herself has Nadya actually questioning her sanity — and rightly so. But there’s a power in it, too; in controlling it, not letting it control her.

The last of her reservations are dashed when her mind unhelpfully supplies the memory of Kamilah in the penthouse kitchen — hands hesitant to hold her, to hurt her; fear hidden in the familiar dark of her eyes, fear both of and for Nadya. Because she’s not torturing herself enough already, apparently.

“You don’t have to. The choice is yours.” Really though — is it?

No. “No, it’s not.”

Nadya sucks in a deep breath and dives in headfirst by giving Valdas her hand.

In his dreams they do this bathed in sunlight. But dreams are for the young and the innocent. He is the Made-God Valdemaras and he is neither.

The rapier catches in the grooves of his vest and bends dangerously close to snapping. Behind him, Isseya laughs giddy and without care.

“You know, you really should be cheering on your Maker, darling girl.”

Valdas rounds on her but she meets him petulantly prideful. “Should I? Lucky for me that I am free to champion whomever I wish.”

“Fair enough. I would champion him too, if I could.”

They both look to watch him pull the ribbon from his hair; it falls damp around his shoulders — little golden wisps clinging to the sweat on his forehead. The exhaustion of his efforts flashes bright in the deep red of his eyes but his smile is as unwavering as his beauty.

“I’m flattered, truly,” Cynbel croons to the pair of them, “but that would leave me with no one worthy of a good spar and you know how troublesome my spells of boredom can be.”

Likely that he thinks the wink he gives their girl is a charming one. But taken with him as they are their love does not blind them — not anymore.

“Indeed.” Valdas clicks his tongue and begins to undo the clasps of his suit. “But that is enough sparring for tonight, I think.”

“And what of my prize?”

Before he can say another word strong arms embrace him close; hold him in the rough-hewn fingertips that claim Valdas’ body as easily as they cradle it. When he looks up it’s to the familiar sight of adoring eyes; of endless devotion.

As if the kiss Cynbel steals from him doesn’t say as such enough on its own.

“Satisfactory?” Valdas asks his Golden Son — though he already knows the answer.

“Rather I would call it divine.”

He decides he will commit this, right here, to the parts of his memory that will never wane with the ages.

At the very least he is owed that. They all are.

Nadya and Valdas realize it at the same time. The trembling of their joined hands isn’t Nadya’s fault at all, but rather the rarest and greatest slip of the vampire’s composure.

But he doesn’t let her go. He can’t, she accepts solemnly, because this wasn’t about showing me anything. It was about seeing.

It was about him.

So Nadya spares him the indignity and brings her hand back to rest in her lap. Valdas startles as if from a deep sleep; runs his hands over his face and Nadya can’t help but hurt for him as she watches that careful mask slide back into place.

“Forgive me,” he clears his throat abruptly, “I wasn’t expecting you to be this, ahem, advanced — for you to be able to project the, erm —”

“‘No one should ever feel the need to apologize for their grief.’”

The vampire focuses on her sharply — the look he gives her makes her feel complex and worth studying. Or maybe she’s just feeling him still; feeling the things that break his heart with every passing day. When he realizes then that she’s sincere — that Nadya repeats his earlier sentiments because she believes they will heal him somehow — he visibly eases.

“You are wiser than your years, you know.”

“Lately they aren’t exactly my years though, are they?”

In her lap Nadya digs around in her purse and pulls out a small journal. Even just the sight of it makes her queasy but she has no one to blame but herself. When she tries to toss it down between them Nadya finds her grip only tightening — her fear of its discovery so innate she has a hard time letting it go even willingly.

Valdas sees this and reaches out; strangely careful to avoid touching Nadya directly as he pries it free. “What is this?”

“A journal.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He begins flipping through the book; eyes roaming over Nadya’s neat scrawl. Page after page of it; filled from top to bottom in various colored pens and then some. Tabbed notes and scribbled margins — but the closer he gets to the end the more chaotic the entries become.

Careful recall hours later turned into hasty ramblings in the throes of panic. The ravings of a mad woman.

“I don’t always remember,” explains Nadya, “but I write down what I can.”

“What you can remember?”

“What I can stomach.”

If anyone understands it would be him. He’s practically dripping in blood; it oozes from his pores just like his infallible persona. And Nadya hates that she knows this with certainty.

Valdas stops on a page near the end; leans forward intensely as he tries to decipher her cursive’s best impression of wet noodles. Do you know how hard it is to write with gel pens, hands shaking and slippery from sweaty palms, in a blacked out room when you can’t tell the difference between the pages and the bodies piling up before your eyes?

Pretty freakin’ hard.

The way he reads it though — like some riveting tale to stand the test of time. In a way it does, maybe. “I was here for this,” and he sounds a little too amused for her liking; nothing in that awful book is amusing, “we all were, even dear Kamilah. From the tone with which you write I would say this is the petit Lafayette’s account of the siege of his township.

“You write with great passion; ever considered a career in fiction?” He pushes the journal back her way with a single finger. Nadya practically snatches it up to be buried back in her bag. Underneath the work notepad and pens, her glasses case and the stake she is never without.

Only when her secrets are six feet under does Nadya relax.

“I wouldn’t dream of exposing the world to those terrible things.”

“The world has already been exposed to them.”

“Well I shouldn’t have been, but I didn’t really get the chance to choose did I?” Nadya stares at him hard. Valdas has the good sense not to justify a reply.

Already the city is well into bed with the night around them. The cafe window bathes the pair and the sidewalk in soft yellowing light but directly across the street neon pinks and blues flicker out of the corner of her sight.

How long have they been here, she wonders, but can’t muster up the courage to look at her phone. They have to know by now; they have to. Lily’s probably already GPSed her and they’re all on their way, crammed into Jax’s fake plumbing van, ready to jump out and hog tie Valdas while shoving a dirty rag into his mouth… actually maybe he’s on to something with this ‘fiction writer’ idea.

“Why didn’t I get to choose, Valdas?” Because he’s old — he’s so old which means he has to know. He has to. That’s why she’s here. That’s why she’s risking everything to be here.

“Rarely are we given the opportunity to choose our own destiny.”

“But it’s possible, right?”

He gives a reluctant nod. “Yes… for others. But not for you, Nadya. I would have thought this, here—tonight—had given you clarity of that.”

Clarity? More like the exact opposite. Nadya feels deeper in the fog than ever and that’s just fact. But is it so wrong for her to hold out even a crumb of hope?

Valdas sees this — her resistance — and maybe he even admires her for it. The man lifts his hand and Nadya readies herself to flinch away—don’t touch me pleasedon’ttouchme I don’t want to see any more please—but he hovers it just shy of her skin. So close he can feel the heat of her cheek against his palm.

“It’s unfortunate what little control you did have was taken from you so soon.”

“I don’t understand.”

His brow furrows. “I said as such, remember? You were always meant to walk this path but Jameson’s influence sped the world up beneath your feet; sent you along farther than you were meant to be.”

Shut the front door.

Nadya recoils so hard her chair legs scrape against the concrete loud and jarring. Suddenly all the little beautiful things around them — the lights, the baristas winding down inside, even the people just passing by beyond the gate — seem dull; lifeless.

“Ja—Jameson? What are you talking about?”

He had even agreed with her: it made sense to think Valdas was the one doing all the pulling of the strings. But okay — so it isn’t him. Jameson, though? “Jameson. Jameson, Jameson. Like the weird little librarian guy; the one from Adrian’s trial. That. Jameson.”

“Yes…” answers Valdas, and Nadya really isn’t a fan of how hesitant he says it, “He’s the only prominent psychic in the country. Moreso than myself, even.”

Holy… crap. Totally not a conclusion she would have even put under the ‘Extremely Unlikely Possibilities’ category — like at all. But the wild thing is the more the idea has time to marinate the more Nadya’s starting to get it. The more she’s starting to believe him because somehow it makes… sense?

“No,” no, remember who this is, remember how he lied so easily and condemned Adrian to death, “no no, that’s not… he’s a member of Kamilah’s clan!”

Which apparently is news. “Is he really? That’s surprisingly deceptive of him.”

Surprisingly deceptive. Ha!

This is too much to process. Nadya’s still reeling — she’s still him in a way, still feeling the pressure of his eternal life crushing her own heart in a stone grip. It doesn’t make sense and it also makes total sense; she just isn’t certain which one of them is real.

That doubt screams at her through the pain still growing. How dare you trust him, it growls; a monster hiding under the bed, after what he did to Adrian, after what they did to Adrian, to Kamilah, to you! Are you really so desperate and so far gone?

Of course she remembers his lies. So easy and flawless and done on the thinnest whim because of what — a rumor; a ghost hidden behind another man’s face? The pain he’d caused them all…

“You can’t expect me to trust you.”

“Perhaps not ‘expect’ so much as hope I’ve proven enough to you tonight that such trust comes willingly.”

“Do you really think it’s that easy?” She bites the words off her tongue in chunks of anger; frustration. “Or is it that you think I’m still just some dumb human who will believe the scary old vampire without even a question otherwise.”

“Quite the opposite. I think you resilient, resourceful, and yet reticent to act on impulse — when you’re of sound mind that is.”

“So you’re calling me nuts.”

“I’m saying the fault isn’t yours. And if you’re still hesitant to believe me then there’s a very simple way to prove the truth.”

The second time Nadya holds his hand is much less reluctant. Maybe part of her wants to get it over with. Maybe whatever’s left hopes she’ll find something wrong in him; his intentions. Like a validation.

She squeezes so hard it hurts her palm but what is feeble mortal strength compared to, well, him? And…

“Nothing?”

He keeps them connected — really just completely dedicated to this whole proving himself trustworthy thing, apparently. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

But really; there’s nothing. Not the low-key anticipatory bombardment of visions and the feelings that come with them. Not voices or sensations that aren’t her own. And not even some weird warm glow of altruism either.

It’s comforting as much as it is worrisome but in the absence Nadya realizes just how tired she is.

“You’ve helped me, tonight.” There are so many things to tell Kamilah, Adrian. Finally a step closer and she gets to rub being right in their faces on top of it. “Really… really helped — maybe more than you know.”

His chin raises slightly. “Is that a ‘thank you?’”

“It’s a question.”

Why did you do it?

Valdas’ thumb tickles the bare skin of her wrist in gentle motions. It’s intimate — weirdly so. Which means Nadya is completely justified when she takes her hand back.

Until he squeezes tighter, that is.

“This was the last act of my own free will. Perhaps not forever—hopefully not forever; I’ve had quite a few forevers already and they are dreadfully long.”

Nadya tugs again in vain. It’s like a completely different man sitting across from her, now. Darker; deeper and digging deeper still. She doesn’t want to dig deeper, though, but the longer Valdas holds on the more the choice is taken from her.

Another thing taken from her.

Her voice cracks slightly. “Valdas… please let me go.” They’re still out in the open air but it breathes heavy and stifling in her lungs. Reeking of dust and mothballs and other old, ancient things.

It’s the Musea Sanguis all over again. The onyx coffin that haunts her nightmares — the ones that belong solely to Nadya Al Jamil.

She meets Valdas’ eyes and the fathoms of them are too many to count.

“I wanted to help you, Nadya. I wanted this, the act before the sin, to be one that mattered — one that meant something.”

“W-What sin?”

“Forgive me.”

“Val—”

He’s holding her too close — Nadya can’t pull back far enough. But someone, probably Kamilah — definitely Kamilah, should be proud of her that she struggles every moment.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I wish that were the case.”

All the way up until his fingertips brush her temple and the world goes dark.

LINEHERE

In between waking and being awake there is a place where all is calm and well. Where she feels safe and warm and at peace. How often does she get that these days? Is it any wonder she clings to it desperately?

Long fingers brush through her hair. There is a warmth about them, even dark as they are — even though they haven’t seen the sunlight in so many years.

Lost, lonely — yet they comfort her even now.

Nadya opens her eyes and the first thing she sees is the shifting canopy of leaves overhead. No—not leaves. Dark green fabric, sheer and draped around the four posters at each corner of the bed and over her head like an old ritual dance. One that called upon forgotten things and spoke in relic tongues. She can taste the words of them; bright mint and heavy sage. All she need do is open her mouth.

“Ssh… not yet, my darling.”

The hand slips from her hair and Nadya keens at the loss. Turns towards where the touch might have come from like a child comforted in a storm.

The woman beside her has been wandering the dark for so long. Nadya can smell crisp groundwater on Her skin; salt on the back of Her tongue. The rich caramel of Her covered in the brightest white she’s ever seen.

“I’m scared,” Nadya tells Her. Is it possible to know a stranger all her life?

Perhaps it is. Just as it’s possible for the woman to laugh above her, face just out of sight, and for it to sound like every song she’s ever known or loved and also like nothing she’s ever had the luck to hear before.

“I know. But you must be brave.”

“I’m tired of being brave.”

“I was, too,” Nadya sighs as she feels an arm come around her shoulders; strong and more certain than she’ll ever be, “but that does not mean your trials are done. Be brave for yourself; and be brave for the both of us.”

She’s about to protest when the door opens on the other side of the room.

Nadya sits upright at the sound; fights through the waves of nausea and vertigo that wash over her and blind her with colorless spots of light behind her open eyes. She reaches out — waits for the stranger woman’s touch — but it doesn’t come.

When she can see everything right again Nadya doesn’t understand why she was waiting for someone there, anyway. The bed is barely rumpled. She’s alone.

“Ease yourself, Nadya. Your heart sounds like a racehorse.”

Oh, hell no.

She doesn’t have to see him to know the dark figure that watches her with the closed door at his back.

Valdas crosses the room in several long strides and holds something out to her. She knows the glint of her glasses in the otherwise dim light and snatches them from him; but tosses them onto the bedspread to be abandoned.

She doesn’t want to see him; the false sympathy in his eyes. He’s lied to Nadya enough already.

“Where am I?”

“Putting your glasses on might help.”

“I don’t want to look at your face.”

Valdas sighs. “Nadya…”

“Don’t you dare,” the rage that seethes from her clenched teeth surprises them both but gotta say — Nadya’s kind of a fan of it, “don’t. you. dare say my name like that. When you…”

She looks around again. Tries to keep dignified through wide eyes even though everything is a blur. Now it’s the principle of the thing. She can just make out the cut frame of the door beyond him.

Nadya spreads her fingers out on the coverlet like she’s searching. Can’t see Valdas’ face but she knows—she knows him maybe a little better than she knows herself right now. Just like she knows when he thinks he realizes what she’s doing and reaches out to grab them; to help her.

She clutches a blind hand desperately around the tassel of a pillow and whips it at his face as hard as she can.

“Asshole!”

The pillow does about as much damage to the millennia-old vampire as, well, a pillow would. But it gives her an opening and Nadya takes it.

Launches herself from the bed and hits the ground running; stumbling — her depth perception absolutely shot — but clear of him and with the black seam of freedom just barely in her sights.

It takes two steps for her to feel an ironclad weight clasping around her arm to pull her back.

“No—no nono!” Nadya screams; struggles against Valdas’ hold but the vampire is too strong. She might as well be trying to tear down a skyscraper with her bare hands.

He wraps both arms around her middle and knocks the breath from her lungs. But desperation — it’s a funny thing. Gives Nadya just that little kick of adrenaline she needs to keep fighting even if she chokes on every effort.

“Please stop this,” he growls in her ear, “the only one you’re hurting is yourself!”

“You’re insane. You’re a psychopath!” I’m a fool for trusting you.

“Nadya I can explain —”

“Don’t wanna hear it! Guh— lemme go!”

“I was the lesser of two evils I assure you!”

“Bull!” She pops her ankle and feels it collide between his legs with a fleeting satisfaction. Valdas crumples slightly, hisses at the pain that lances through him. Just enough for her to pry free and make another, equally mad dash for freedom.

The moment Nadya clutches at the door handle it jerks open; sends her flying backwards where she collides painfully with the rug.

“Grief, Valdas, she’s a fucking human child. How hard can it be?”

She almost doesn’t recognize Isseya at first — the proud woman of the abyss Nadya had last seen in the Council Chambers barely even a shadow flickered on her face.

In the time it takes the other vampire to assess the situation, though, Nadya is already scrambling ready to crawl her way out if that’s what it will take.

Valdas growls around his injury. “Iss’—”

“Yes yes, I’m not a fool.” Then Nadya screams, loud as she possibly can — tries to tear through the claw raking its way through her hair such a violent touch where was the kindness of the dark from before but it hurts too much too much and no matter how hard she hits Isseya’s grip doesn’t let up in the slightest.

She yanks Nadya up by her hair like a puppet on strings. “And I think you’ll find it a little bit harder to incapacitate me in such a way.”

“Let me go!”

“Need I even humor that with an answer?”

Valdas comes into view through the pain prickling at the edges of her vision. “Let her go, beloved.”

Behind her Isseya’s voice drips with irritation. “But —”

“Isseya. You know our orders.”

“Well I’ve harmed more than a few hairs on her head. Better to ask forgiveness, no?”

“No.”

Finally she’s released and the suddenness of it sends Nadya flying forward. Her hands and knees burning against thick wool fibers everything blurrier than blurry from the tears and she tries not to think too hard about the hairs she had felt torn from her head.

But, really, it’s her fault in the end — for thinking it was gonna be that easy.

When is anything ever that easy?

“Are you mostly unharmed?”

His legs come into her smudged view before Nadya can even blink. Valdas reaches out a hand in offering; she smacks it away instead. “Like I’d fall for that twice,” she mutters ragged; feels the last breaths of her screams for help itching in the back of her throat but knows, ultimately, they’re of no use. Standing alone is an effort but she manages it because she will not look weaker than she already is.

“Am I…” Nadya’s scoff is a bitter surprise in her mouth, “are you really doing this right now? Good vampire, bad vampire?”

“You think this is bad, just wait until the appetizer,” says Isseya — too close says Nadya’s entire nervous system and every hair on the back of her neck; has her jumping back but that puts her closer to Valdas and crap on a cracker they have her pinned.

“The appetizer being me, I’m guessing?”

To her surprise, the vampiress laughs. “No, I’d be looking forward to the evening far more if that were the case.”

The evening. It has Nadya running across the room to the large fuzzy shape of floor-to-ceiling curtains. There’s no way — absolutely no way it isn’t dawn yet.

And she’s kind of right. But this is one of those situations where that means about as much as being wrong.

The sherbet gradients of the setting sun bring a fresh wave of tears to her eyes. “It’s been… a whole day?” And they haven’t come for me? Not Adrian, not Kamilah… nobody?

Valdas, ever vigilant of the sun, is careful as he comes up beside her. Nadya’s glasses catch the light in his hand.

He almost sounds relieved when Nadya finally takes them, practically crushing the lenses against her face. “I confess I had hoped extending our evening would give them time to find you. But the years have made your friends soft and trusting.”

“What does that mean?

Isseya comes around to join them — awkward, all of them, too domestic for the pain she still feels at her failed escape — and keeps to the shadows too as she sits. She nods to the window. “Open your eyes, see for yourself.”

Nadya has to shade her eyes with her hand to see much of anything. Wherever they are there aren’t any buildings to block the path of light.

When the garden finally comes into view down below Nadya chokes on her own breath.

It takes a bit of searching but she finds the bridge and familiar pond just at the edge of her window’s view. It had been over a year now but suddenly it feels like no time has passed at all; like the Ball is still in full swing and she’s still Cinderella before the apocalypse.

At least she knows where she is now. Upstate New York; five hours’ ride by old-fashioned locomotive. She remembers the journey to Marcel’s castle and the Awakening Ball like it was yesterday.

#bloodbound #bloodbound fanfiction #kamilah x mc #playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #bloodbound mc #mc: nadya al jamil #oc: valdas #oc: isseya #rheya apostolous #fic: oblivion bound #oblv: bound by destiny ii #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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storm-of-aegis · 3 years

Text

Art Club leads

Name: Naoko Hokusai Age: 15-16 Nationality: Japanese Year: Sophomore Ability: Light Manipulation Gender: Female Club: Art Bio: Naoko was born near the northern coastal town of Ishinomaki. She never knew her parents. Her father was completely unknown, allegedly a soldier from another country stationed in the country for a while who left the country when he was stationed elsewhere. Her mother abandoned her within the childcare system, stating that she wishes for the child to find a proper home. Naoko was always a quiet and shy child. Many of the other children would make fun of her largely due to her never wanting to fight back. She just wanted to be invisible, so the torment would stop. Because of the constant harassment, she generally kept to herself. That was until Yui came to her orphanage. Yui had been taken from her home at a young age and moved from around through several orphanages do to her having special and unique abilities. Upon arriving at the orphanage, Yui frightened the other kids, even Naoko. She was an older girl, and a bit brash. One day a boy tried to push her down to prove she was nothing to fear, only for her to grab his hand and flip him over her head onto a table. With her strength she broke the table, and his arm. If anyone wasn’t afraid of her before, they surely were now. Naoko was bound and determined to avoid her from here on out. Time past as it always does, and the abuse for Naoko began to get worse. That was, until one day when a group of kids decided they were going to get back at Naoko for something someone else did, but since they didn’t know who it was, it had to have been Naoko. Naoko began to cry as the other kids pulled her hair and called her names, only stopping when Yui picked the biggest kid up and threatened to use him to beat the others. That alone was creepy enough, but the smile she had didn’t help matters much. As Yui began to walk away, Naoko stood up and introduced herself. Yui stopped, turned to face her and said that she knew, and introduced herself as Yui. From then on the 2 became good friends, almost inseperable. They read comics, and played games and Yui was even introduced to art by Naoko. One day Yui got into a fight with the headmaster who was hitting another student because he had a candy bar. Yui threw a trashcan at him, knocking him over. Befuddled, the man stood up, looked around and then ran right past Naoko and Yui. He never even saw them. Unbeknownst to Naoko, she had grabbed onto Yui to try and pull her away, when in a startling awakening, her power had materialized. She warped the light around them, making them seemingly disappear. Naoko never let anyone else know about her ability, and often used it to go see and read manga with her friend as she was punished for various deeds she had and even ones she had not done. Naoko unfortunately had to say good bye to Yui one day, as she was pushed off to yet another orphanage, and soon after Naoko was adopted by a salaryman and his family in Tokyo. Naoko lost contact with Yui, but always hoped she’d be able to meet her “Big Sister” again.

Name: Eugenio Bianchi Age: 16 Nationality: Italian Year: Sophomore Ability: Ventus-Kinesis (Air) Gender: Male Club: Art Bio: The youngest of a long line of artisans, Eugenio carries on the tradition of bringing beauty into the world, except for one small problem, Eugenio’s less of a visual artist as he is a literary one. While talented with paint, and even with sculpture, his true calling is with the written word. He can begin a work on a canvas, and quickly lose his motivation to see it through. So many statues started, and left to nothing short of unfinished rubble. Such skill and artistry sealed behind a door, that only opens fully when he had his book and pen in hand. His mind opens and the creative flow can barely be contained. He envisions worlds of fantasy and whimsy, chivalrous knights, cunning heroines and powerful artifacts of unimaginable might. But he toils away, trying to find that which his siblings has, that his mother has, that his grandparents had all the way through the ages past. Perhaps a new setting will help his lethargy at play, or help him prove he knows what’s best for him.

Name: Ainsley Maclachlan Age: 17 Nationality: Scottish Year: Junior Ability: Vibration Manipulation Gender: Female Club: Art Bio: Ainsley grew up in the town of Skye. Her parents were often off on various forms of business, so she lived with her grandmother much of the time. She learned much from her, like working in the garden, building and repairing various items ranging from barbecues to walls, horseback riding and even how sing. Her grandmother was an opera singer in her youth, where she met the man who would eventually become Ainsley’s grandfather. After having 2 boys and a daughter, her husband passed away. While she knew what to teach her little girl, she had to learn how to raise her boys and what to teach them. All of those years of knowledge, now passed on to her Ainsley. But the one thing Ainsley loved most was riding her Clydesdale along with her Gran, and spending hours over looking various structures and castles and even the lakes drawing what she saw as her Gran would sing to her to pass the time. When Ainsley was 11, her Grandmother began to turn gravely ill, forcing her mother to return home. Ainsley was deeply worried, to which her Mother told her that everything would be fine. As they awaited word of how her Grandmother’s condition was, her mother asked if she would like to travel with either her or her father so she’s not so stranded her in Scotland, to which Ainsley surprisingly told her, “Why would I leave. Gran’s here. Would she be going with us?”. While her Grandmother’s condition was still unknown Ainsley’s mother, fearing the worst, tried to convince Ainsley to travel with them as to put less stress on her mother. Ainsley refused saying that if her Gran was left alone, who knows what could happen. She wasn’t going to leave, no matter what. Ainsley’s mother asked, would she prefer that she move back instead then. Ainsley surprised said she would love to have her mother stay there. Then there’d be her, and Gran and mum. Only thing missing would be her Da, and her uncles and aunts and all her cousins. Ainsley’s mother began to explain how Gran may not necessarily be able to stay with us, to which she told her daughter that she wouldn’t be going anywhere but to her home. And that if her cousins were coming by, she’d need to do some shoppin’, them boys eat like locusts after a famine, and she’s not feedin’ them anymore drywall. Barely enough walls as is. Overcome with joy, Ainsley ran over and hugger her Gran tightly, to where she told Ainsley that she needs to be careful, she’s still a bit wobbly, but she’ll be headin home soon. Ainsley’s mother transferred to a nearby office so she wouldn’t have to move about so often. Ainsley’s Gran began to slow down a bit after her episode, but always made time to go off on an adventure with Ainsley whenever the wind had the sweet scent of mischief about it. Eventually, Ainsley grew up and was offered an opportunity to go to a prestigious school in a vastly different place. Sensing Ainsley was apprehensive to leave her Gran behind, her Grandmother told her that this wasn’t the Granddaughter she raised. That the Ainsley she knew would never turn down an adventure. That she’d walk down to that airport and tell the pilot to sit back, she’d get this bird to that island herself. Concerned, Ainsley stated that she didn’t want to leave her Gran behind, but didn’t want to miss out on what could be a grand adventure. Tearfully, she agreed to go, but swore she’d call every day. To which her Gran told her, that with her voice and singing, I’ll hear you clear as a whistle from here. With tears in both of their eyes, and one last hug goodbye, Ainsley took off to begin an adventure, all on her own.

Name: Rachel Matthews Age: 15-16 Nationality: American- Caucasion Year: Freshman Ability: Pyrokinesis Gender: Female Club: Art Bio: Rachel grew up in New York City, eldest daughter to a major film composer and a stay at home dad who translated books into other languages from home. Rachel loved sitting in the window of her fathers’ office reading her favorite books. During the more intense parts she would begin to read out loud, only to realize her volume was so high and to find her father sitting back and watching her smiling. Immediately after, he take her to the kitchen to get a snack. “You can’t fight the Jabberwocky on an empty stomach.”, he would always tell her as he made her a turkey sandwich. They’d then go back to the office and continue working. At school, Rachel never had much of a problem making friends, but she preferred the company of her own thoughts. She loved books, and learning and dreaming about fantasy worlds. She was a dreamer, who never wanted to wake up. To her, the real world was less exciting than the books she had. But much like in the books she would read, there would be a dark twist to her story, when she developed her abilities.

She was barely 7 when, at school, her powers awakened. She was reading a rather intense section to her book in the library, when she began to speak out loud. The book was so impassioned her that she began to almost yell what she was reading. An enraged librarian walked over to her to get her to quiet down, startling the young girl by slamming his hand on the desk. Frightened she threw her book and from her hands erupted a massive ball of flame. The fireball set fire to the walls, demolished desks and lit so many of her beloved books aflame. The librarian had his arm burned, but was able to put it out quickly. Rachel’s attack was so powerful, using it knocked her out. When she woke up, she saw her mother and father running towards her. She didn’t know what happened, but she was wrapped in a silver blanket, and the fire dept was putting out a fire at the school. She saw kids huddling around, when suddenly one of the boys who was a friend of hers, pointed and yelled that she killed Mr. Bronson. Soon after all of the kids started pointing and chanting, “MONSTER! MONSTER! MONSTER!”. After her parents found out what happened, they pulled Rachel and her brothers from that school. Her brothers went to a new school, trying to hide their old school as much as they could. Rachel was home schooled from then on. They had a plethora of books, and could focus on a broader array of educational points for her. And her Father worked from home as is, so he would just cut back on his projects to work on her education, and then work on his job during “off” hours. Her family maintained, and no one blamed her for what happened, but now that she had what she wanted, she realized how much she really did enjoy being around others. But she was afraid that if she lost control again, what would happen. She got older, and after years of trying to figure out how to use her abilities, with little progress, heard of a school where she could attend classes with people like herself. She talked to her parents, and explained how she’d be able to go out and be normal again. How she wouldn’t have to be afraid of hurting anyone, or being judged. Although pricey, Rachel’s mother pulled some strings, and got her enrolled at the academy. Rachel kissed her parents goodbye, and she left for an adventure all her own.

#MyYearAbroad indieDev PersonalHistory

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recurring-polynya · 4 years

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How did the sourdough turn out? ❤️ I've been wanting to do this forever but now that I'm home of course there's no flour or yeast to be found.

Here we go again, @kari-izumi asking me about my hyperfixations, lol!

I’ve been baking with sourdough since about 2007, when my now-husband’s aunt gave me a bit of her starter. Getting starter from someone else is the best way to get started with sourdough, but obviously, that’s a little tricky in these current times. An interesting fact is that starter refreshes itself with ambient bacteria from your kitchen, so there’s no point in ever trying to get “San Francisco Sourdough” starter, because it will just turn into Your Kitchen Sourdough within a few months (unless, of course, your kitchen is in San Francisco). Also, the more you bake, the more free-floating flora you’ll have in your kitchen, so as you’re becoming a better baker, your kitchen is also becoming a Better Place For Bread.

Back to the story! I baked with that for a few years, and then I guess I fell off it, and neglected my starter and it went Bad and I had to throw it out. (I don’t exactly recall the circumstances, but I am sure it had something to do with having a baby). A few years later, when I was on maternity leave with my daughter, I decided to try and make my own starter from scratch, here it is, on what is approximately its sixth birthday:

I made it using the method described in Peter Reinhart’s book, the Bread Baker’s Apprentice, which is my go-to artisan bread book. You basically mix up water and rye flour and keep refreshing it until it catches some yeast. I’ve heard of other methods using ripe fruit and stuff, I have never tried that. I know this worked (look at that bubbly bastard!), although it took several months before it became powerful enough to really rise a bread. If you have it, you can always spike a young starter with yeast until it comes into its own.

I am not the best sourdough person in the world. As you can see, I keep it in a plastic Rubbermaid instead of glass or ceramic. It usually lives in my fridge for 2-4 weeks at a time, then I take it out, remove some for baking, and refresh. If want to make a bread, I will try to take it out and refresh it a day before starting the bread.

For the last year or so, the main thing I make with the discard is pizza. My kid doesn’t like tomato sauce, so I make a lot of pizza at home and just roast garlic down to mush instead as sauce, and then throw a bunch of vegetables on to pretend its healthy. What it is, is delicious.

The reason for this is that most of my bread recipes take a 2-3 day build and I’m just not that organized. But I’m home all the time now, so I have been doing it.

Here is the first one I made, which is just a very standard white sourdough loaf (there were actually 2, a lot of recipes make multiple loaves):

It was, as our friend Paul Hollywood would say, massively underproofed, and this picture was strategically taken to hide the huge rip in the bottom. I made those nice slashes, but noOOOOooo it had to explode itself from the bottom. It was also delicious.

A few days later, I decided to make a sunflower rye (both these recipes are in that Reinhart book). I had the sunflower seeds, I just forgot to put them in:

This one was supposed to be in the shape of a couronne (crown) which is supposed to be a ring with four creases, but it outrose its creases. Also delicious.

I then remembered that I used to make English muffins with discard all the time, so I did that, too. If I owned a proper biscuit cutter, I would have made nice circles, but I usually just cut the dough into 12 squares and then they get all funny shaped when I try to scrape them off the counter. I am lazy and life is too short to re-roll scraps, just avoid making scraps in the first place. These make excellent egg sandwiches, but I also ate a few with beans and cheese on them.

The other thing we do with discard a lot is that my husband makes waffles. I don’t know why this has become his thing, but he is waffle guy (for the record, he does the lion’s share of cooking in general, I do the baking) Sourdough starter is a really useful thing to have around the kitchen! I don’t really care for carrot cake, but my husband and son do, and this is probably the best carrot cake I have ever made.

I just want to say, I’ve seen a lot of people on Twitter making fun of folks who are trying out sourdough for the first time, and I strongly disagree: I’m really proud of anyone giving it a go! My philosophy toward things that sound hard has always been, “Eh, why now, what the worst that can happen? I’m bad at it?” So you’re bad at something, and then you work at it, and then you get better. I was real bad at sourdough when I started and I am so, so grateful to my friends and husband who ate so much of my bad bread, especially this one guy I know who would eat ANYTHING, no matter how much of a brick it was. I am a pretty mediocre baker, but I will try anything, and mediocre homemade bread is still really delicious, and it honestly doesn’t take a whole lot of skill to impress your friends. (I have also found this to be true for drawing, gardening, hockey playing and computer programming)

If you’re looking for baking resources, I learned a lot about bread baking from the Fresh Loaf and that Reinhart book that I mentioned. For all-purpose baking, King Arthur is my fav. I took a cinnamon rolls class at their Vermont Baking Center once, and it might have been the best day of my life.

#baking #sourdough

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spacegaywritings · 4 years

Text

CoS - Chap 14 “A sky full of stars (but you are the only light I see)“

Summary: <<he asked whether it is a date and Logan is pulling the "i am hereby asking for your consent to call this meeting a date - in the romantic sense" card>>

TW: crying, drama (bit), panic, gay gay gay shit, stargazing, soft stuff, sappy logan, past abuse, trauma mention, talks of past abandonment, mentions of past cheating, mentions of trust issues, mentions of violence, empty threats, weapon mention, stabby threat mention, dry humour, mentions of arson, demiboy virgil, thoughts of being broken, questioning (logan and Virgil).

The drama is short and necessary for HURT AND COMFORT

ao3 : 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16+ // all

Tumblr: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 (u are here) / 15 / 16 +

My KoFi - Support me ♥ or Commission me

Story under the cut: (Wordcount: ~4,7k)

“Ri, please. I will be home in time, I promise.”

Virgil pushed the cup of coffee closer to Remy in an attempt to appeal to him and somewhat sweeten the deal. The elder sibling eyed the offer with suspicion. Maybe the coffee was not poisoned but Remy might as well treat it as if.

“Alright, alright. Just .. please be here around midnight? I want to be with you when the next day starts. Just this one thing?”

Virgil jumped up and emitted a loud squeal.

“Thanks!!”

Their dark eyes sparkled with warmth. In no time, Remy was met with a bundle of Virgil in his arms and he giggled.

“Now now, what is going on with you?”

He chuckled. His hands brushed through Virgil’s dyed hair.

“Logan asked me out! We will do things tonight!”

They giggled more and snuggled up to their sibling with an energetic smile on their lips.

“Logan? Library kid Logan? I think you told me about him.”

Remy hummed in thought, still carding his fingers through Virgil’s messy hair.

“V, do you feel ready to date already? I don’t mind if you do. I will support you, no matter what.”

Virgil pursed their lips and shrugged.

They wanted to nod but their head did not want to comply.

“I.. I want to try it. I can, um.. I can tell him I don’t want to go further. At least now. I - I don’t know. I really like him. I like him like I like Dee, you know?”

Remy nodded sagely and patted their head in support.

“It’s okay. I don’t wanna roast you about this, anyway. You learned enough in life and if you want advice, I am here for you. I am your wise sibling after all!”

He smirked.

Virgil groaned and leaned away.

“Ewww, don’t do that! You’re just old, Ri!”

Virgil jumped up again and skipped away.

“I need to, like, fucking dress up and shit!”

Remy’s laughter echoed through the rooms.

“Stop laughing you jerk!”, Virgil yelled back from afar, their hurried steps echoing in Remy’s head. He smiled at the rapidly shifting figure.

Once they were in the bathroom to take a shower,, or whatever Virgil did in there, then in their room, in Remy’s room to probably steal clothes, then in the bathroom again.

Virgil seemed to be seconds away from prom.

Speaking of which, Remy thought they never really had a real prom.

He got up to make a small meal for his dramatic kid sibling. They might be about to become a legal adult - one who could drink alcohol, too, not just sign contracts - but they were still such a young baby to him.

Probably, Remy would always see the neonate in Virgil he had been marked with when they “met” for the first time.

He pressed his lips together. He frowned at the toast he prepared.

The professor actually sounded like a suburban supermom who could not cope with the idea of their kid growing up or whatever.

Not that he could cope with it but still.

“Riiii, I am stealing your jeans!”

The addressed adult snorted as soon as he heard it. It took him a moment to compose himself and gain enough breath as he dissolved into the tickling giggles and the light-hearted sensation of situational comedy.

His mouth gasped for breath and sucked in the sweet sweet oxygen so he could laugh even more.

Once he had calmed down, he sighed and put the sandwich together with cheese and put it into a pan to grill it because Virgil liked this kinda stuff. Remy at least gave the kid some fresh fruits too. He glanced at the little bowl of fruit salad he had made earlier.

Yeah, he was not feeding the kid purely bullshit food or anything. He was not a dummy neglectful idiot.

He was supportive. So he would not laugh and go be a supportive sibling.

“Sure, just turn up the legs, so you don’t fall over or walk on them. I want my pants back as they were - please don’t cut them, I will eat your hair dye.”

Virgil passed him in the kitchen.

They were so fast, Remy did not even have the time to turn around to properly look at them.

He flipped the sandwich in the pan, letting the heat sizzle and seize the cooler piece of white bread.

“Yeah, sure, like you would know”

They stuck out their tongue and Remy half-heartedly glanced at them with no fire in his amused eyes.

He did not have it in his heart to poke fun at Virgil when he knew they could boil over at any moment, considering they were probably anxious about this date thing. Well, Remy assumed this but with Virgil tugging at their sleeves and looking at their hands as they sat there in the most oversized clothes that looked punk yet comfortable enough to hide them away.

Honestly, they were a walking fabric storage.

The ripped black jeans were too big and gave them an odd artisan air. Virgil also wore a black dress shirt that looked big enough to accommodate the siblings together. It was kept together by their tie with was loosely tied around their neck and had black and red stripes with little metal chains closer to the tip.

They were shiny and silverish.

As always, Virgil had their black and purple, stitched-up mess of a jacket on that served as a mobile cave for them to retreat to.

They had their piercings on as well. Black rings around their lips, purple gauges in their lobes, one gauge each ear. These were hollow inside but one could barely see through them. One of them had a thin, golden hoop through it and the rest were regular piercings: simple golden studs in line with their naturally warm skin tone.

They were everyone’s emo nightmare and Remy appreciated it.

“You look great, kid,”

Virgil rose their eyes to look at Remy for just a moment before tearing their gaze away and back onto their fidgeting fingers.

An audible sigh could be heard. It was short, void of breath, if that made any sense. Almost as if they were physically exhausted from running a long distance without break. Sprinting, perhaps.

“Oh, Virgil. What is wrong? Who do I need to beat up because I am strong and taller than you and I will take a bitch!”

Remy flicked his wrist majestically, slowly and ever so dramatically to reveal one single finger sticking out among all other peasant fingers bowing to the Queen of Middle Fingers.

“I can and will fuck up a bitch because there is no bitch meaner than me.”

The punk looked at him, eyes weirdly distant. It slowly faded into something like a glare rather than an empty stare into nothingness.

“If you get arrested for some shit, you would just, like, get your teaching license revoked or something. Sounds like bullshit to me, to be honest.”

A grin appeared on their lips, it flinched onto them but disappeared as fast as it came up.

“No, it is okay. It.. just... Anxious and all”, Virgil admitted in a tired voice. They sounded as if energy was lacking but jumped into a rash and pumped up statement after just one moment of pause, “and before you ask, yes, I went to therapy - remember? I texted you and brought you coffee from there.”

Remy nodded carefully and shut the stove before moving over to approach Virgil. The air smelled of salty cheese and it was as alluring as it was sickening but Virgil was not sure which feeling was overpowering at this moment.

They nodded and patted the table. Remy nodded back and gave a small smile in appreciation as he sat down with Virgil, keeping his respectful distance.

“I am scared, um.. just.. anxiety bullshit - not that I am, you know. It is just irrational. Logan is not like this, is not like,, like him, like Nate. Fuck Nate. Logan is not even into chicks, I think. I don’t.. I don’t know, you know? I don’t even know this about him and I am trying to date him and I slept in his bed. Ri, we fucking shared a bed and I don’t even know whether he would cheat on me!”

Something in Remy’s face changed when Virgil spat out the last part, voice getting red and hot in all-consuming anger and.. betrayal.

They hugged themself and buried their head between their knees.

“Breathe, please. Are you with me?”

Virgil shrugged but silently breathed instead of getting further into the conversation. Numbers were counted slowly, it felt like a dragging of time and it was a never-ending burn in their lungs. Their sibling patiently moved closer to hug them and Virgil cuddled up to his chest.

“I am.. I am being irrational. I know I .. I don’t know all about him but neither does he about me and that is okay because it is just dating and I am not obliged to do anything. I-it feels nice to think about being with him and to be with him and if he gives me red flags, I will shoot him down. I just don’t think he would.”

Virgil sighed, looking at their hands again.

“I.. I am doing the right thing. He agreed and we will just have some fun doing dumb things and such. No obligations, no relationship, no stupid cheating.”

They got up and sighed again.

“I, um, smell food..? Please tell me you are gonna feed me, I am a beast when hungry.”

Remy chuckled.

“Get a snickers, you hoe”

Their shoulders trembled as they silently snickered.

“You should eat one. I can bring you disgusting fast food when I come back. Hot cakes?”

Virgil got their hands onto the plate and plopped the toast onto it in silence. They squipped in happiness and got some cutlery.

“I will eat everything you have, Ri, just you wait”, they promised with a sense of playful threat. They settled on their chair, silverware clattering as they dropped it onto the wooden table.

In seconds, the toast stuffed their mouth completely and effectively prevented them from communicating any more comprehensive speech.

“Jwuft fwuh wayt!”

Not that they did not try it anyway. No mortal piece of bread would be able to withstand their sheer will to fucking do it because they could and were not supposed to.

Remy rolled his eyes at the performance.

“Yeah yeah, keep going with your threats. But thanks, I don’t need hotcakes.”

The smaller sibling nodded.

Remy licked his lips seriously. The air changed from a light-hearted playfullness to another shade of depth once more.

“You can text me”, he took a small break to smack his lips. Virgil looked up at him in an unidentifiable mixture of feelings. “if you feel anxious, that is. I will get to you in an instant if you even have a remotely bad feeling. If your friend, date dude or whatever hot bitch you are excited about, is as kind as you perceive him to be, he will understand anything that will come up even if he does not expect it.”

Virgil cronched the toast loudly and hummed.

“Being close to you is about being able to be spontaneous and patient. You know what you need and you know not every person is ready to be this patient and kind. That is okay.”

Their shoulders slouched but they nodded dejectedly. This was like reading the same story over and over but it still affected them every time they got to its synopsis.

“ “m nutt yur problm”, they mumbled in reply and curled up on their chair, still chewing. Remy smiled and nodded sympathetically, his heart on his tongue.

“You are not a problem at all, my heart. You are a stubborn little fuck and you just refuse to die and we will drink on that - as people who refuse to fucking die at all.”

“Evwer!”

Virgil swallowed and grinned at Remy, hands suddenly full of energy as they dynamically scooped up the trophy that was a bit of fruit salad.

“Do I at least look hot? Because I gotta have to blow a nerd off his socks tonight and I wanna do a great job at it. Skirt too much?”

Remy chuckled but shrugged.

“I like you dressed this way or in anything else you feel comfortable in. You definitely are staying true to your aesthetics. You and your date will steal for the homeless, I see?”

The smaller sibling got up to put the dishes into the dishwasher. Their fingers trailed over the machine for a moment as they got lost in thoughts for a bit. Just a moment.

Their phone rang again.

Oh, yes. The alarm.

“Imma get going. I will steal your keys and a hot fucker’s heart.”

The keys fell against one another, creating the sweet melody of arrival and departure, endings and beginnings.

Remy looked after them, a little bitterness weighing their smile down.

Well, it was time to make a cake and wait for Virgil to come back. It would just be a few hours.

***

Virgil slowly walked the last few meters to the door Logan had told them to go to. It was a weird feeling to be visiting the university so late at night. They had not even noticed this had been Logan’s intended meet-up point but once they had closed in, they started growing suspicious.

The science building was not exactly the place they would usually hang around but alas, it was time to test the waters and get into new things and just dare stuff again, right? Life was about daring new stuff all the time and just going a bit further again and again.

Their right hand formed a fist around their phone. The display kept shining into the night, showing them the room number they had sent Remy. The chat was open and they would be able to call or text him within moments, if need be.

The fingers were ready for everything.

They stopped at the door, eyes glancing over the screen to check the number.

Yeah, seemed about right.

Their left hand rose to form a fist and knock the tall door.

Within less than a second, the door swung open and Logan stood in front of Virgil, towering over them.

He.. he looked special this day. No tie, no pretty shoes. He was in a comfortable set of pants, a loose band shirt of Bunny Smashskull with the eye strain of their neon logo version. Even the shoes were just regular old shoes, sports shoes - they looked and worn yet rather comfortable.

Virgil was nearly leaning against his chest. They were so close..

“L-Logan-”

DAMN IT. They had not been ready for this, apparently!

Well - STOP THE STUTTER! WE ARE ALL GAY HERE, TIME TO STAND UP AND BE A REAL GAY HOE!

….go get him, tiger.

Ew, no, Virgil. You are not a tiger, you are a tiny human and you will go get a Logan-date. Uh, like.. wow, Virgil. Just be a normal dude and be .. you… who is not normal.

Hey wait, is that dude talking? Fuck, fuck, talk to him!

By the time Virgil caught themself again, Logan’s lips were moving and they did not listen at all. They shifted from leg to leg and coughed into their elbow awkwardly.

“Uh- Log, I .. I did gay-out for a sec. Wha’did ya say?”

Logan smiled and nodded. One of his hands moved away from the door handle after a last squeeze and instead closed in on Virgil.

They flinched, staring at the intruder.

He only offered to take their hand. Just a hand. Nothing else.

Virgil’s heart was beating fast.

“I was just saying you are stunning as always, Virgil, if not more so.”

Logan cleared his throat. The smaller of the two gave themself a last mental pep talk before brushing over the insider of Logan’s warm, big hands. The upside of their fingernails scratched against his palm, starting from the naturally caved-in middle and slowly tracing over the Logan’s fingers until they reached his nails.

They swallowed and looked up at Logan, fingers stretched out, still. Then, they slowly crooked them to wrap them around Logan’s patient hand.

His face lit up like turned-on fairy lights at the gesture. Instinctively, he squeezed.

If anyone else had been there, Logan could never pretend to not care about feelings-y things and interpersonal relationships. The smile on his bright, vivid face was significant and it changed everything Virgil had ever seen about him.

Their right hand was still clutching their phone, ready to call Remy.

They let go and followed Logan inside, a smile mirroring the taller man.

Now, their heart was beating for a whole other reason.

Panic was only a nightmare in this room.

“Let us watch the stars again”

Logan tugged the smaller emo along, fingers entangled. Hearts beat together like in a drum circle, forming one rhythm and one string of melody.

When they came to a stop, Virgil took in the room properly.

The older of the two looked at Virgil, blocking their view.

“Huh? Whaddup, Log?”

“Can you trust me enough to close your eyes right now?”

Their right flinched a bit.

Logan was too observant of a person to miss even a single bit of detail about his date, especially. They shrugged.

“If you scare me, I might break your nose or stab you. You have been warned.”

Logan shrugged as well.

Apparently, he cared about the lights more than his ribs but who was there to blame him? For him it was a matter of hurt or Virgil and he was more than willing to take a risk for them.

Virgil was not drunk, was not stupid. They were broken and confused and always scared, vigilant and ready to fight. They were feral.

But they were also just a simple person, wanting love, wanting to be surprised and be courted.

Eye lids shut down, heavy and trusting.

His arm rose, one knuckle extended just enough to brush over the light switch and nudge it barely yes just so much, it moved and the light was gone.

“Thanks. You can open them again.”

His voice was low, low like the light in the room. They dimmed down together. When Virgil opened their eyes, the world of little like lights and soft atmosphere was opened up to them. The room, the machines and walls, everything, even they and Logan were immersed in the lights of a thousand stars. They were a part of the universe, they were right in it and surrounded by nothing but the darkness of the night and the light of life.

“...w-wow.”

They muttered, barely audible.

To be honest, they literally had no more breath. It was away, taken and forever with the stars only. They would not get it back but it was okay. It was an exchange.

Virgil got to stand amidst the myriad of lights in the vast darkness of the universe and they paid the tribute with their own breath.

Just like it would be if they were in outer space for real.

“Let us watch the stars we are standing in, Virgil. I want to watch the stars with you.”

The two laid down and stayed quiet and just relished in the view, in the feeling, in being together.

They were lost but did not need to be found.

After a while, Virgil spoke up.

Their voice was timid before the stars and planets of the universe.

“I am sorry about being a little shit last morning. I just.. this was not about you at all and I did not mean to and I know you said it is okay but it is never okay to be shit to someone, even if you have a reason. It is just not an excuse and I was being shitty to you for nothing you did. I just .. I can’t talk to you without feeling guilty and bad, so I got upset.”

Logan was silent as Virgil squeezed their eyes shut and took a deep breath.

“I know you only want to assure I am fine because you are worried and that is cool, it is.. it is nice to be cared for, cared about.. it is just still a bit new to me and such a weird concept. The fact you guys took me in within a moment of just.. seeing me? That is so nice and I cannot understand how complete strangers, new people in my life just become friends this loyal and -and kind.”

Their voice broke. This time, they broke out into sobbing. Instinctively, Logan wrapped his arms around them and hugged them close.

Virgil hid their sloppy self in Logan’s chest. They hugged back with a passion while the taller one had expected a slower and more anxious reaction. The young adults melted into the universe, the the stars and the light of each other.

“It is okay”, Logan murmured into their hair, “it is okay. It is over now. We care about you. We will continue to care about you, even much later in life. Even if things go wrong. You still deserve a nice life and kind people and every bit of love you can handle or have to learn how to handle.”

A torn cluster of giggles worked through their sobs.

The waterfall of tears started flowing harder, wetting the band logo of their beloved band Bunny Smashskull.

“I-I’m sorry”, they cried, “ I.. I mean..”

They curled up against Logan, suddenly being nothing but a small and fragile being in the middle of the universe.

Lost.

No need to be found.

But still found and still appreciating it.

“Don’t be sorry for bad things and people happening to you. In life, people experience a lot of aversive events they would rather not witness yet sometimes we cannot do anything about it, especially in younger years of life. Aversive childhood experiences are actually not rare. Usually, everyone experiences at least a few of them. Your way and effectiveness in coping with it depends on your safety net and other positive or healthy experiences to build your self-esteem and other things among this.”

Virgil snuggled up to Logan and hummed over their sniffles and sobs.

“I .. I know.. I am coping now and h-ave, like, all this therapy stuff and crisis talks and all this shit with friends and all. It.. It is better but you know, like, a little more than one year ago I would get piss-drunk and set buildings on fire and break people’s noses and fuck shit up and be a whole fucking asshole and hack and fight and break any law I could find. Now I am.. so nice and stable..”

Virgil sighed and slowly wiped the tears away.

“I um.. I set something on fire while I was drunk and dumb, I did not mean to do it - anyway, I actually did a good job doing it. I have no regrets. Nobody was hurt but a fraud was uncovered in this whole mess.”

They shrugged.

“If you wanna ditch me, ditch me now, I mean.. I am giving you the official permission to throw me out of space-nirvana. Go, on.”

Virgil lightly pushed against his chest.

“I am not even sure what kinda sexuality I have. I am just saying gay because I don’t know what else to say and because I know I like dudes and I am not even a dude, like, not fully. I- I am a demiguy and I don’t even use he/him all the time, not even right now. I am a mess.”

The emo brushed through their hair and snorted.

“Forget it, you are... you are too good and prefect and great and nice for a messy arsonist and poly-amorous mess of imperfections and societal rejections.”

“Virgil”

They shook their head.

“No. No, it is okay. It is alright. I... I am sorry for just putting this on you all of a sudden and expect you to make a decision. Like, wow, way to be a dick. You are a nice dude, Log. Thank you for the date and the stars. This is the nicest date I ever had in my entire life.”

Their voice was warm with the wonders of the world.

Logan melted at the idea.

He carefully brushed over their jaw, still holding them loosely.

“I will love you, whether you are a man or not. I will love you now and later and when you dropped a book when I made an unfunny joke about chemistry and you laughed. You looked so happy. When you called me for help, you were shattered but you were still full of life and will to live. You met Patton and you two hugged. You never fail to surprise me with your talents. I never knew you were so clever and skilled you could hack, I never knew you fought the government. I never knew but I wish I will never stop to learn more about you.”

He licked his dry lips and glanced at their lips, at their eyes and pursed their own mouth, letting out a whispered “may I?”

His voice was soft. It was soft and Virgil blinked, smiled and stormed forward to experience soft lips. Lips softer than anything Virgil had ever felt before.

It touched them deep inside, brushed their heart, let their chest bloom and glow in feelings, in comfort.

They carefully leaned against Logan and closed the gap their stupid outburst had put between them. Within a fast heartbeat, they rolled over and straddled him.

Chests brushed against one another, pounding themselves into oblivion.

But together.

When Virgil pulled back, their lips were flushed and tingly from smooching so much. Even Logan’s usually pale face was tinted with rosy colours and warm tinges of affection and contentment. The two lazily smiled at one another.

“Consent is sexy, Log.”

Logan snorted, chuckled, laughed out loud and lost himself in the surge of dopamine. He threw his arms around Virgil and tugged them down so they could press their foreheads together and nudge each other’s nose as if it was the only way to communicate his intense feelings for them, the butterflies and glistening tears of happiness in his mortal body.

He was happy.

Really, Virgil seemed happy, too.

For the first time in forever, everything just seemed .. okay. The two knew they had found each other to be the thing they did not need but wanted so bad and deserved as much as any other great good in life.

They had.. arrived.

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caffeineivore · 4 years

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Commission #1

For @ellorgast

Prompt: A Very Spirited Wedding

Ships: Usagi/Mamoru, Senshi/Shitennou

Rating: PG

Get your own commissions from me here or check out other people offering commissions here!

Something Old…

Her dress is spotless white satin glimmering with seed pearls and a flowing overlay of chiffon embroidered with rosebuds. Angela has just finished dressing, and makeup, and had kicked out the well-meaning army of her mother and future mother-in-law and bridesmaids and photographer after the requisite pictures and champagne, just to take a moment for herself. The woman in the mirror glows with excitement and the flush of love, but there’s always a hint of nerves, of the finality of tying oneself to another person for the rest of one’s life. She knows, more than most, anything can happen. Countless tragedies spring from a single blink-of-the-eye catastrophe, or one bad decision.

A knock, a harmonious, familiar voice at the other side of the door. “It’s Jay. Are you decent?”

He looks exceedingly handsome and somehow a bit stately, dressed in pale grey linen with a sprig of sage and ivy— silvery and lush green— pinned to his lapel. It’s not a typical choice for a suit or boutonniere, but it suits more than black-tie would, and he’s holding something in his hands— gleaming silver.

It’s a delicate tiara, wrought branches of metal so intricately worked as to look like the slender stems of living flowers and vines twisted together. Drops of clear crystal like dew glitter against the silver, along with fantastical flowers carved out of jewels— blue irises, pink rosebuds, yellow daisies and red poppies— an effect which should’ve been crass, but when he places it on her head, over the filmy lace veil, she looks like a fairy princess. The metal feels slightly warm and almost alive against her hair, and she smiles up at this surrogate brother, this forever friend. “How did you know I’d looked in every single boutique in this city and couldn’t find anything?”

He grins, and the stately, somewhat remote look vanishes. “Well. For one thing, this is super old. But I am firmly of the belief that it will bring you good luck, you little ball of sunshine. I brought it out of storage.”

She thinks art nouveau, circa 1920’s, perhaps out of a safety deposit box somewhere in a bank. He knows, but doesn’t say, that it had been wrought by the masterful hands of his clan’s greatest artisans, in moonlit smithies high up in mist-shrouded mountains back before the first ships had ever even crossed the ocean, blessed by starshine and magic and centuries’ worth of romantic hopes and dreams. She just knows that it fits perfectly, and her eyes shine a bit brighter in the reflection, and she reaches up, impulsively, to give him a hug. “Something old, right? Thank you.”

“I wish you all the best and brightest of this world’s blessings, my friend.” He presses a brief, grave kiss to her forehead, right under where the metal meets skin, and it feels like the strangest of benedictions, almost solemn and formal. But then he steps back, and he’s Jay again, and he makes a cheeky comment about how beautiful she looks and how Adam is going to swallow his tongue when he sees her, and he leaves as quickly as he’d come on quick and silent feet.

Something New…

The blind date with Jareth’s friend had gone surprisingly well. Zhen, with his indolent green eyes and roguish smile, is well-spoken and courteous, with an almost-dangerous way of looking and listening to a woman as though he’d been waiting all his life for what she had to say at any given moment. Raina considers herself immune to such foolishness for the most part, but that Jareth considers him a friend is a point in his favour. It’s unspoken, but not unknown, that she and Jareth are both a bit out of the realm of the ordinary mortals who surround them.

When she’d mentioned the wedding, he’d cheerfully agreed to go as her date. “I love weddings. Such an optimistic sort of atmosphere, no? Whatever storms the happy couple may face in the future, for today they are deeply in love, heads and hearts full of rose-coloured dreams and hopes. And then they almost always have fabulous food and delicious cake. That cannot be overstated.”

She’s not as optimistic, perhaps, about the concept of marriage. But she rather likes Adam King, out of her colleagues at the hospital. He’s intelligent and capable, as is expected for his profession and academic record, but furthermore, there’s a soul-deep, untarnished light of compassion and empathy in the blue of his eyes. He had not become a healer because it was his birthright, like her, but because he genuinely, in his quiet, mortal way, felt and wanted to heal the pain of his fellow humans. It stirs a long-dormant feeling of fond protectiveness in her, and when she and her date go to wish the happy couple well at the start of the reception, she means it genuinely.

Zhen looks keenly interested in the proceedings, and though she’s quite sure that neither the bride nor groom had ever met him before, he greets them both with the cordiality of a socially-adroit man intent on befriending them both. He had not brought a gift-- (she had picked a popular programmable coffee and espresso machine out of the online registry, knowing Adam’s fondness for mochas)-- but he’d brought a card, and tucked in a scratch-off lottery ticket. He hands it to Adam, in person, rather than adding it to a pile left somewhere, and the groom opens it, reads the message aloud.

“Best of luck with your love and your lives together. Blessings upon you both.” It’s a nice enough message, and written in exuberant flourishes of looping script. Good-humouredly, Adam claps Zhen on the shoulder, and scratches off the silver wax on the lottery ticket, then his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he scans the ticket again.

“Did you win something?” Zhen inquires pleasantly, his lazy smile playing across his lips.

“Three matched sevens across, and then these two numbers mean…” Adam furrows his brow, and glances around before lowering his voice. “I’m not much for playing the lottery. But if I’m reading this correctly, did I just win $5000?!”

“Well, well.” Zhen’s voice is low and pleased as an animal’s purr. “How lucky for you, my friend. I do think that is a fantastic beginning to your new life together, wouldn’t you say?”

Raina hears pleasure and something close to triumph in her companion’s voice, but not even a little bit of surprise. This man, with his scintillating gaze and effortless charm, is much more than he seemed. She’d have to keep an eye on him.

Something Borrowed…

Linden Thorne does not often work in the role of caterer, but on impulse, she had accepted to provide both the cake and food for this wedding, and she had found herself pleasantly surprised at how much she’d enjoyed it.

The bride and groom were perhaps two of the most pure-hearted, genuinely good mortals that she had ever come across. A doctor and a social worker, both working tirelessly to help and heal the physical and emotional damage of any of their fellows that crossed their paths-- and humans are a fragile lot, indeed. They had been pleasant, easygoing, not at all demanding, and so deeply in love that both of them all but glowed with it. The bride especially, with her boundless energy and equally irrepressible sweet tooth, took particularly well to any and every thing that Linden had her sample.

So, she’s not entirely surprised when Angela-- who had been Angela King for all of perhaps an hour-- peeks into the kitchen area where the wedding reception is taking place. Linden has a half-dozen sous chefs and assistants putting together delicate canapés with the efficiency of a battalion following the directives of their commanding officer: a lanky young man is on top of a step-stool putting the finishing touches on the top tier of the wedding cake-- translucently thin slivers of gold leaf, velvety rosebuds in shell pink and scarlet, a woman with a severely pinned bun is garnishing exquisite smoked salmon toast rounds with glossy black caviar and eyelash-thin fronds of fresh dill. The bride, still in her gown though sans veil, grins at her with a good-humoured yet half-embarrassed look that Linden interprets in an instant.

“You’re starving, aren’t you?”

“A bit, yeah. I had a salad last night for dinner. Then it was my fault this morning because I was too excited to eat. But now I’m shamelessly begging in here like I have no sense. You can totally tell me to buzz off.”

Linden finds herself laughing, unoffended. “It’s your wedding, so it would not make much sense for me to tell you to buzz off, wouldn’t you agree?”

“But you’re busy, and this is probably rude of me, so…”

“I will forgive it this time.” Linden steps away from the buzz of activity, digs through the pantry and fridge. The bride is a silly, bright-eyed slip of a girl, sweet and pure as vanilla buttercream, and if the world has yet to break her spirit, who was Linden to take that onerous task into her hands. She cuts two slices of rye bread, then adds Dijon mustard, peppery arugula leaves, generous slices of red tomatoes and sharp cheddar and cold chicken breast. A sandwich is probably the least glamorous meal that she could have put together in that moment, but the girl’s eyes light up like stars nonetheless.

Linden, with an indulgent smile, slips her own chef’s apron off of her neck, and carefully ties it over the bride’s flowing white gown. “Okay. Eat up.”

“Oh, God, this is the best thing I’ve ever had, and I know I’ll be saying that again like twenty times tonight after everything else you’ve made, too,” Angela says in between bites, looking like a mischievous fairy princess who’d snuck down to the palace kitchens in that borrowed apron. She finishes the sandwich with rather unladylike haste, but then gets up, with her usual endless energy, and reaches up to give Linden a hug. It’s such a human gesture-- warm and impulsive and sweet and unexpected, and Linden pauses awkwardly before returning it.

“Feel better now?”

“Oh yes. Thanks for the apron. And the sandwich. And everything.” Angela slips the apron off, mussing her hair just the faintest bit, then beams up at Linden again. “I really hope that you’re as happy as I am today. Forever. Does that sound silly?”

Forever is a long time, far beyond the scope of what this silly mortal bride could fathom, but Linden knows that the bright-eyed, perhaps foolish girl means it with every beat of her kind and affectionate heart. And so she lets the genuine goodwill of the wish warm her spirit, like a borrowed candle shining valiantly on a dark night, far after the party is over and the bride is well on her way to her honeymoon.

Something Blue…

The late September breeze filters through the tall, slim boles of a tall aspen decked in autumnal gold outside on the grounds of a Manhattan church, the sound soft and gentle as whispered prayers. Inside, a wedding ceremony is taking place, a young man and woman exchanging their vows to their God and each other to live the rest of their lives together in love and unity and devotion.

Contrary to popular belief, Kafziel does not spend the majority of his time on the premises of churches in the city. But this morning finds him on the rooftop of this particular building, a stalwart sentinel visible only in the fleeting, ever-changing reflections of the panes of the intricate rose window in the facade of the building. Of course, there is no one around to see him-- all the visitors to the church are well enough inside to watch the happy couple getting married.

Kafziel knows, of course, the history of the bride and groom, as he knows the history of every other man, woman and child currently living in that great city, and even by his exacting standards, both of them live decent, upstanding lives above reproach. Neither of them were born here; indeed, the young man in particular had been the product of a most unpromising beginning. And yet, they had found their way here, and to each other, and flourished in love and light and goodness despite everything which might conspire to tarnish the kindness of two such spotless souls.

The pane of leaded glass reflects, at that moment, a face of stark, stern beauty and foreboding. “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good.” The words are familiar and easy, but Kafziel knows, more than any, of the way great darkness follows great light with dogged, demoniacal tenacity. There is a chill in the air; winter is coming, and with the frost portents sharp strife, perhaps even great trouble. Those who would engender all which he abhors would feed, frenzied, upon the darkest, basest impulses and sins and actions. The happy couple who are even now enjoying their first kiss as man and wife have no idea that their union portends any number of potential catastrophes of a dark and sinful world rebelling against their very radiance. Kafziel’s reflection squares its shoulders, firms its grip on the mighty, fire-tipped sword that throws jewel-like beams of light through the stained glass into the building.

But even as he braces himself for what must inevitably come-- perhaps a day, or a month, or a decade from now-- he feels the presence of others crowding in, like a ragtag bunch of plucky soldiers summoned to a war they might have no call to fight and yet taken on with every bit of courage as such a troop might muster. The chaotic whimsy of a shifter. The primeval fire-and-wildwoods magic of a nature goddess. The calm, steadfast wisdom of a healer and the tireless, graceful agility of a brace of wandering Ælf-kine. Others, too, all gathered here, converging by luck or fate. Kafziel pauses, and allows himself a faint, almost-hopeful smile, and overhead, the sunlight breaks through the clouds as the sky turns a brilliant blue.

#ellorgast #senshi/shitennou #mamoru x usagi #commission #fanfiction #fanfic #sailor moon

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theartworksinc · 4 years

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Meet The Artists – Sarah McMenemy

London based Illustrator Sarah McMenemy has been with The Artworks for over 30 years! Joining the agency as one of our first ‘Startworks’ artists during her time at Brighton School of Art, Sarah is best known for her delicate use of ink and collage.

Sarah’s favourite project since joining The Artworks has been the series of mural illustration’s she created for Shadwell underground Station in London. Working with Transport for London, Sarah created a series of gorgeous Illustrations that reflect the surrounding area and explore the rich history of Shadwell.

We had a chance to chat to Sarah and find out more about her life as an artist…

Where do you live? Where is your studio located?

I’ve always lived in London, and the architecture, the colours, the people and visual stimulation of the city has had a strong influence on my work. As a teenager I used to draw the beautiful Georgian terraced houses of Hampstead and Highgate on commission. I am often asked to create images of the city, some of my favourite and most successful projects have been based here. I have a broad client base from the London Underground network to City law firms, and Publishers and have depicted many London pubs, restaurants and city institutions. This type of work has lead to a wide travel portfolio and I enjoy capturing the atmosphere of different destinations worldwide.

My studio is in the mean streets of De Beauvoir Town in Hackney. I work in a Victorian artisan studio. There are eight of us including architects, graphic designers and illustrators. Plus, a rather chunky studio cat.

Can you describe your creative process?

I’ve got a thing about paper – its physicality, the sometimes-unpredictable way paint behaves on it. I like creating abstract, graphic elements and rich textures through collage, paint and ink; combining fine line details with loose brush strokes and abstract shapes. The enjoyment of the physical process of making images is central to my work. It has an intrinsic optimistic and uplifting character giving it wide appeal across many areas of the industry.

What does a typical working day look like?

I usually go for a walk or a run before I get in to the studio, and I like to make sure everyone knows about it before getting on with my jobs. At lunchtime we sit down together to eat our overpriced but convenient sandwiches from the local deli.

I work through to the end of the day, sometimes into the evening if the deadline is tight. If I’m on my own, I may play some dance music. Come to think of it I may do that even when I’m not on my own. If there is a music god I think his name is probably Nile Rogers.

Do you listen to music or the radio whilst you work? If so, what’s on your playlist?

I like it when it rains as it makes a loud noise on the roof and I feel like we’re camping in a tent (aka UK camping). We generally listen to NTS, the local Dalston radio station. I also like 6Music, a bit of Radio 4, and sometimes Pop-master – yes, Radio 2.

How long have you been with the Artworks for? What drew you to Artworks?

I have been with the artworks since before I left college, only a few years ago now. Ok 33 years. I started in their Startworks group when they visited Brighton School of Art to give a talk, and we met when they looked around our studio in the lunch break. Actually, I missed their talk as I was shopping at Miss Selfridge but it doesn’t seem to have harmed my career much.

What books or programmes did you love as a child? Have they influenced your work in any way?

Books were a big influence on me as a child and there is certainly a flavour of them that comes through in my work now. Edward Ardizzone’s illustrations for Stig of the Dump and Jean and Gareth Adamson’s Topsy and Tim, Richard Scarry, Beatrix Potter, Shirley Hughes and Miroslav Sasek are a few that come to mind.

Loved all the Oliver Postgate children’s programmes Bagpuss, The Clangers, and Noggin the Nog. Mr Benn was endlessly fascinating. Trumpton, Camberwick Green and, of course, The Magic Roundabout.

If you weren’t an artist, what would you be instead?

If I wasn’t an illustrator I would be a Club DJ playing exclusively Funk and Disco.

What was the most important lesson your learned at Art School, if you went!

Art school taught me to interpret a brief in a way that I can enjoy and therefore do my best work. And that the fine art students are top of the pecking order, in their eyes (love them really)!

What inspires you the most to create?

I find inspiration in the big skies of the Norfolk coast, the gently rolling hills of Hertfordshire, as well as noticing beautiful colour and shape combinations in everyday life. The energy of cities, particularly Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice, London. And of course a bit of studio cake helps.

Name three artists that you admire

I can’t name three. Here are eight. Some favourite artists are John Piper, Raoul Dufy, Abram Games, David Gentleman, Toulouse L’Autrec, Humphrey Ocean, Saul Steinberg, Saul Bass.

What kind of commissions do you enjoy the most?

I really enjoy collaborating with clients and other creative professionals. I enjoy seeing my work at large scale in public places. Writing and illustrating a variety of children’s and adult’s books. It is exciting to have my work animated. I also like working in branding, visualising architecture and interiors, book covers and editorial. I enjoy the thrill of working live, at conferences or events. Short deadlines, long deadlines, they’re all good.

What would your dream commission be?

Dream Commission would be a set of stamps depicting beautiful skies around the or the grand international hotels like Claridges, The Savoy, The Ritz.

Do you have any pets? If so, what and what are they called?

We have a studio cat who walks along the roof light above our desks. It’s always nice to hear the soft thud of his paws on the polycarbonate. Purposeful, like he knows where he’s going, but sometimes he just stops and has an altercation with another cat, or soaks up some sunlight.

What 5 things could you not live without?

I cannot live without houmous, my mini, trees, tea and 6music.

What is your very favourite meal?

Fish Pie and peas.

What do you like to do in your spare time?

Singing in a choir, dancing, walking, running, exhibitions.

What is your current dream travel destination?

Quite fancy Barbados at the moment, but Copenhagen, Seville and Northumberland are on my list.

See more of Sarah’s work here.

#meet the artist #illustration #the artworks #Sarah McMenemy #illustration agency #art

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meetmeatthecoda · 6 years

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New Lizzington fic!!

Hey y’all! Here’s a new fic for ya! It’s a little plot bunny that bit me quite a while ago and something I’ve been working on piecemeal for like a week or two and I’m kinda excited to post it. It’s just kind of a drabble type thing where Red is being a complete sap and just totally in love with Lizzie. So, his natural state basically. LOL. Anyway, there’s kinda no plot, it’s just romantic and the tiniest bit angsty? But not really. Idk what to say about it really, I’m not selling this very well, it’s super late here, so I’m just gonna leave this below and hope you enjoy this somehow! It’ll be posted on FF.net and AO3 in a hot sec so look for it there if that’s your preferred reading platform! It’s called “Domestica” and any feedback would be incredible, like always! I love y’all! <333

“Do you want to come in?”

In a long day of pursuing one of the most disgusting criminals on his blacklist, a day fraught with peril and danger, now permeated with fatigue and hunger, this is the one instance that surprises him the most. Lizzie, standing in front of her apartment, facing him, dark circles under her eyes that he wants to kiss and caress until they disappear, asking him this question.

Red blinks in surprise, feeling the considerable difficulty with which he pries them open again. He feels as exhausted as she looks.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

The temptation is strong, as tired as he is, to accept her invitation, but prolonged contact between them, especially non-work related, has not been a good idea lately. Eventually one of them will jump from the relative safety of inane conversation to the unsteady ground of more sensitive topics. Tempers flare, patience is lost, and someone ends up yelling.

Usually her.

And after the long day they’ve had, running around in constant danger, Red worrying every second for her safety, he doesn’t think he can hold his own with her in an inevitable argument. He’s more likely to let something important slip or just give in completely and lay himself down at her feet.

And as much as that should bother him, he’s more worried about her. From the looks of her, he doesn’t think she has the energy to scream and yell and throw him out of her apartment like she usually does, and he doesn’t want her to collapse out of sheer exhaustion and frustration. She hasn’t been taking care of herself and he doesn’t want to her hurt herself even more on his account.

(The fact that everything bad in her life is all his fault anyway weighs heavily on his shoulders every moment of the day.)

But she’s still standing there, looking at him, and sighs exasperatedly.

“Red, come on,” she says on a heavy exhale. “I’ve been with you all day since half past eight this morning and I know I’m starving, which means you have to be too. It’s already quarter to ten so please just come in and have some food.”

And she turns around without waiting for him to protest or accept or splutter indignantly and strides right into her apartment, leaving the door wide open behind her.

All right then.

(And although this is surely an awful idea, bound to blow up in his face, he finds he can’t stop himself wanting to prolong his time with her at this late and vulnerable hour, and his hallmark trait of self-destructive curiosity propels him into the apartment after her.

What’s new?)

He shuts the door gently behind him, feeling a familiar sense of foreboding as the lock clicks. He takes a fortifying breath before turning around, trying in vain to prepare himself for whatever comes next.

(And he wonders why he’s trying.)

Red moves forward into the living room to peer around the partition and look into the kitchen, taking in the sight of Lizzie puttering around, moving from stove to fridge and back again, gathering ingredients for some kind of meal, before he blinks and his brain processes exactly what he’s seeing.

She’s different.

Lizzie has tossed her bag near one of her armchairs and shed her shoes not far from that. Red’s eyes trip down to her feet to see socks instead of shoes. It’s a simple thing, and it’s certainly not meant for him, but he becomes mesmerized by it anyway.

(The fact that he’s privy to the sight of Lizzie’s sock feet is a wild and exhilarating thought.)

Red’s eyes move back upwards as Lizzie’s hands catch his attention and he watches in breathless awe as she pulls a hair tie from her slacks pocket and quickly twists her hair up into a loose bun. The motion is so natural and graceful and like nothing he’s ever seen before that he just stares like an idiot.

(He loves her hair. Sometimes he wonders what it feels like.)

After a moment, Lizzie speaks without looking up, busy with something at the counter.

“Are you going to come and sit down?”

Red almost laughs out loud. Lizzie is asking all the difficult questions tonight it seems. The sheer absurdity of it all, the thought of being invited to sit at Lizzie’s kitchen island, awaiting a meal made by her, in her sock feet and a messy bun, no less, is…

Well, not what he expected from tonight.

He moves forward like a zombie, following her lead and shedding his coat, slinging it over the back of one of her tall kitchen chairs before perching gingerly on it.

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“Uh,” she thinks for a moment. “No, that’s okay. I’m making the one thing I’m pretty confident I won’t burn. Grilled cheese sound okay?”

Red cranes his head to look at what Lizzie is doing at the counter and sees her buttering bread smoothly and quickly, setting each piece aside as she finishes them. He notices a frying pan heating on one of the stove burners next to her as well as a pack of artisan cheese and a sliced tomato on the counter.

Red feels his stomach growl.

“That sounds just fine, Lizzie.”

He continues to watch her, his mind in a bit of a haze. It seems as though his vision is a little blurry around the edges of her, as if she is in the center of his focus, the most important part, and every little thing around her irrelevant in comparison.

(Well, he supposes that’s not wrong.)

Here, now, he relishes in the opportunity to watch her undisturbed, no third-party frowning at his unshakable focus, his disarming gaze as he looks at her how he prefers to. Even more rare is the chance to see her without any awkwardness permeating the air around them. She tends to get uncomfortable when he stares too long or too hard, as he is wont to do.

(He doesn’t blame her. He supposes that devotion is a little like headlights. Difficult to look at straight on.)

Right now, with her back to him, surely, she can feel him staring (and the thought makes him warm pleasantly) but he detects no trace of stiffness in the line of her shoulders and he certainly can’t see a frown on her face, none of her normal indications that he’s unnerving her. She must be too tired to pay him any mind tonight.

(What a rare gift this night is.)

Red’s gaze drifts down from her soft-looking bun, ghosting over the elegant line of her neck, to the fabric of her light blue blouse, such a gorgeous color with her skin, so unlike the drab black she has taken to wearing lately. Over her pale, freckled arms revealed by the short sleeves of her blouse to her delicate wrists, now bending this way and that as she picks up bread and places it gingerly on the frying pan. Across to her hands, long-fingered and able, wrestling briefly with the package of cheese before she manages to peel it open and pull a slice from inside, turning to add it on top of a piece of bread. To her face, now in profile to him as she stares at the half-made sandwich on the pan, waiting for the cheese to get warm, her brow slightly furrowed and her tongue absentmindedly running over her lips.

Tell-tale signs of impatience, for once not directed at him. She’s hungry. Red feels his lips turn up slightly at the corners, quite without his permission. He could watch her for hours. She’s fascinating.

(And beautiful.)

She moves again now, reaching for the plate of tomatoes and taking a slice gingerly in between her fingers before moving it quickly to the sandwich on the pan, then adding another piece of bread to the top with her other hand. But she’s not quite quick enough and he sees a few drops of tomato juice run down the side of her hand, leaving little paths in their wake.

This is a sight in itself but then his wide eyes follow as she quickly brings her hand up and swiftly licks the juice off her hand, apparently without a thought for his sanity, which is rapidly deserting him.

(How is he supposed to handle this?)

Her tongue appears again, this time just peeking out from between her lips as she picks up a spatula and holds it determinedly like a weapon, staring down at the sandwich sternly before placing her fingertips on the top to hold it still, slowly sliding the spatula under and then quickly flipping it over in a flash, a beautiful golden-brown color appearing as the uncooked side goes down.

And Lizzie’s little triumphant grin to herself almost has Red melting out of his seat like the cheese in the sandwiches, completely at her mercy, anything she wants, he’ll do with question, all she has to do is ask and –

“Red, can you pour drinks for me? Glass are in the upper left cabinet above the sink.”

That will do.

Red pulls himself together enough to stand from the island and move to the sink, reaching up for the two glasses, Lizzie successfully flipping more sandwiches as he does so. He pauses once the glasses are on the island, frowning to himself.

“Lizzie?”

“Hm?”

“What do you want to drink?”

He feels a thrill at the simple question, immediately berating himself for his stupid reaction. What should such a basic question be exciting to him?

(Because it’s something intimate to ask, something people who eat together ask, something people who care about each other ask.

Something new.)

“Milk, please. There should be a half gallon in the fridge.”

Red blinks at her answer, taken aback.

“Milk?”

“Yeah,” Lizzie says simply, moving past him in a sudden rush to get plates from the cabinet next to the one with the glasses. “I always drink milk with comfort food like this.”

It’s this little fact that punches him in the gut, this little tidbit about Lizzie that he would have no way of knowing otherwise, if she didn’t choose to tell him about it while making them grilled cheese sandwiches in her apartment at ten o’clock on a Wednesday night.

(He wonders how much more of this he can take.)

“I think I have some wine in there too, if you’d prefer.”

Her suggestion pulls Red from his moment of awe-induced silence.

“No, no, milk is just fine.”

Fine, fine. Everything is ‘just fine’ tonight. The kind of ‘just fine’ that a shooting star is on a dark night or a rainbow on a sunny day. ‘Just fine’ mixed with a little wonder and beauty and stunning.

(He thinks he feels himself quickly approaching some sort of invisible limit.)

Red pours milk in both of their glasses and sets them on either side of the island, just in time for Lizzie to whirl around and set two plates down, each with two sandwiches, perfectly cooked, complete with gooey cheese and ripe tomato.

“Ta da.”

She says it with just a touch of derision, fatigue bleeding back into her voice as she sits down to eat.

“They look delicious, Lizzie.”

He says it warmly, sincerely, because they do, his mouth is watering just looking at them and he wants her to know how much he appreciates this, this amazing gift she’s giving him tonight.

The sandwiches and everything else.

She murmurs her thanks at his praise without looking at him and he takes the cue to sit as they both dig in. Too hungry to talk or communicate, they just eat, companionably in comfortable silence, together.

(Together.)

He can’t help but occasionally glance up at her in between bites, just cautious little looks that she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes remain trained on her sandwiches, disappearing quickly from her plate, in between swigs of milk at regular intervals. She only gets up once to get them both napkins, handing him his without a word. He keeps up with her, matching her almost bite for bite so they’ll be finished at the same time, not wanting to outstay his tenuous, magical welcome.

As they start on their second sandwiches, he sees her eyes begin to droop a little, looking heavier than they did before. The sight makes his own eyes ache and his him hurting in other places for her, like his heart and soul.

(He’s much too soft tonight.)

Once they’re both finished, Lizzie takes their plates and glasses without a word and places them in the sink. Red is about to protest, tell her he’ll take care of the washing, but she turns and leaves them there, presumably too tired to bother with it tonight. She leans on the sink and faces him instead.

“Thank you for dinner, Lizzie,” he murmurs to her. He’s feeling warm and fuzzy now, sleepy as well as the exhausted he was already, two completely different sensations muddling his mind.

“You’re welcome.”

He gazes at her, his own eyes drooping a little. She’s so pretty, leaning there, looking at him, soft and open. He’s all kinds of tired now and he can’t wait to just lay his head down somewhere and close his eyes, he really can’t –

“Do you want to stay?”

And there it is, there’s the line he was quickly approaching. He knows without a doubt that that’s the most he can take tonight without something happening that shouldn’t right now and it’s time for him to leave.

(It’s rather like he’s just finished an indulgently rich piece of cake, chocolate and delicious, and someone just came and set another one down in front of him. He can’t take any more without getting sick from the sheer joy of it.)

Lizzie seems to see the panic in his eyes.

“The couch,” she hurries to clarify unnecessarily. He never assumed she meant anything else. “The couch is really nice, and I have some spare pillows and blankets, you could –”

“No, thank you, Lizzie.”

It’s best to cut her off, she’s struggling to make sense with her words, and him, well, the images she’s conjuring in his mind are just too incredible to handle and yes, it’s time for him to go.

He gets up, takes his coat, and heads for the door and she follows wordlessly, seeing him out, even though she clearly wants nothing more than to turn down the back hallway and go to sleep. That makes him happy.

(She cares tonight, at least a little.)

The reach the door and he opens it before turning around the take her in. This night has been incandescent in its domestic way and he’ll be thinking about it for days, analyzing all the little idiosyncrasies he observed from Lizzie tonight, letting it all sink in slowly, too much to absorb in one short night.

“Good night, Red.”

Lizzie is standing in the doorway, watching him, and he feels odd leaving her there because he’ll probably see her again tomorrow but things will be different. Maybe not for her but that’s not unusual.

(He’s used to being the only one invested in this. It’s a cross he bears.)

They’ll see each other again tomorrow and they’ll be rested and alert and back on the defensive and the softness from tonight will have disappeared with the light of day. When the sun rises, so will their normal states of being, the Red and Liz they are with one another, and she will poke and prod and pick until he has to snap because he only wants to protect her, even if she doesn’t understand. Tomorrow, things will be different and tonight will probably never happen again.

“Good night, Lizzie.”

Tomorrow, they’ll start again.

#The Blacklist #Lizzington #mine #fanfic #domestica #casually dropping a new 7 page fic at 4am #LOL #i hope you guys can maybe like this #:D #let me know what you think i literally live for comments #:)#much love everybody!!!#<3

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chezzkaa · 6 years

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Numb pt 3

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Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 1650+

You don’t remember making dinner, only knowing you did based on the potatoes and sliced meat bundled together in the fridge. And the mess you’d left all across the countertop. It’s the same with falling asleep - stinging and dry mouth the only remnants of a dead night. That, and the pain twinging up and down your neck, leaving you wincing. What you do remember is eying up the large grooves tracing the side of the lodge, grating against your door. Just animals, Ryan had said. No need to worry.

You’re not sure you believe him, but you’re too tired to care.

With a groan you stretch out of the armchair you’d somehow curled into for hours, thick blanket slipping to the floor with a muted thud. Everything refuses to cooperate. Stiff and sore as you force your limbs to work. It takes a while but you manage to stand, unsteady on bruised feet before a stumbled steps sees you lurching for the mantle. Clumsy fingers stop your fall, forehead resting against the wall. Beneath you embers smoulder in the hearth, wood charred and cracked like burning scales buried in the fireplace.

It's still dark. Window humming with cold and garden doused in the incredibly deep blues of night. Thick like a choking film, impenetrable with such sore eyes. You consider your room, thinking of the bed you'd made yesterday in the hopes of curling up in it, and the path you'd mentally prepared yourself to forge. It would be so easy to bunker down for days, eyes trained to the treeline and chin burrowed in blankets. But you can't sleep anymore, not with the eerie shapes lurking in the corners. And certainly not with the beams of light emanating from the bulb you've hastily flicked on. Besides, you'd promised yourself that it'd be different here, that you wouldn't let the world pass by from the confines of your duvet. Wouldn't let self loathing leave you bedridden. You were going to take life and run with it, willing or not; which means recognising the fact that if you can't sleep, you might as well work. Still, your body has other ideas, rebelling against your efforts.

4:47am, insists your phone. Far too early to start anything, but too late to work in more sleep. At least, not with a day as packed as you've forced it to be. There's nothing else to do besides coax yourself into moving, one foot falling in front of the other and a forearm diving into the closest box. It shouldn’t be hard to do some unpacking before leaving for Hay Woodworks, you tell yourself sternly, and if you start before the sun rises you should be able to get at least one room finished before lunch. But that process can wait for another hour, argues the monumental growl of your stomach and the dry aching of your abdomen. First comes food.

Breakfast passes in a daze. Scrambled eggs and toast you're lucky you didn't burn, nothing but plastic cutlery and paper plates until you're able to find the crockery. You almost forget about the tea sat on the side, caught up in the memories you've long since chosen to forget and the packing paper scattered across every surface you can find. Almost. Cup pressed to your lips, tepid warmth wasting no time before radiating in your chest. Gentle at first, creeping through your limbs until you can feel your fingers for the first time today.

Its with the rising of the sun hours later, and splashes of washed pinks and blues, that you feel more like yourself. Hopeful again, and as determined as ever. Snow can’t dampen your mood, and not simply because there is none. The sky remains a clear crystal blue, so bright that what remains on the ground in patches shines. Even the greens of the trees look happier, deep forest hues coming alive. The promise of a new day seeps across the floorboards with the morning's fresh light, touching your toes and working across your back while you busy with unpacking. Tedious exercises of interior design, a guessing game of what goes where and who’s is what.

Another hour and the kitchen is completed far sooner than expected, no longer home to only the necessities of a kettle and cup. The cupboards are lined and pantry packed, fridge brimming healthily in the now cozy space. Pride thumps with the beat of the speakers you’d found midway through the process, music now marrying with the warmth of the roaring fire, flooding the corners and burrowing into the rugs. You'd celebrate the accomplishment with another cup of tea if you could, but the muffled tone of your phone, buried beneath empty boxes, stops the idea short. Disheartened, but only for a moment, the once forgotten flash of Jeremy's name across the screen reignites the possibility of taking a much deserved break.

And with his name the world feels alien, like the years haven’t passed and the tears that’d littered your bed sheets over countless nights were never shed. The warmth of the room twists into one of the many summer’s days you thought you’d never experience again, bringing with it an uncomfortable tightness in the skin spanning your shoulders. There had been numerous times when you’d considered deleting his number, erasing his existence and all the memories that come along with it.

But, god, you’re glad you didn’t.

Jeremy: I clock in @ 10. Coffee at the place opposite Geoff's Mercantile?

Y/N: I'll be there in 30.

You take the steps two at the time, all suitcases long since allocated to rooms and the banister overlooking the kitchen and living space finally free of everything you’d tossed over it. Barging into your room, you swim through the clutter, wrestling over books and battling to the bathroom. Looking around, you’re glad you’d thought ahead and kept it relatively clean. Swiping your toothbrush and working through the motions, you’re halfway through your hair when the next text arrives.

Jeremy: Still drink chai?

You can’t believe he has to ask.

Y/N: Chai is the love of my life.

Too busy pulling on the thickest cable knit sweater you own, the reply goes muffled until you return with a hat in hand. On the screen flashes a photo that must’ve arrived just before you hit send on your last message, Jeremy smiling between two steaming drinks.

Jeremy: You have 10 mins before I drink it and you buy your own.

The path into Motbury’s town centre is incredibly familiar at this point. Traversed so frequently in the past few days that you can recount every dip in the uneven stone, and know when to let your hand drift in the hopes of touching the spongy moss that waits to greet you. Eventually, and rather regretfully, you say goodbye to the isolation of your home and it’s expansive nothingness lined with trees, welcoming the warm smell of baked goods and hum of civilization. It creeps from the bottom of the hill, sandwiched between the banks and gently smoking with the puff of tens of chugging fireplaces. The clusters of homes and stores are almost indistinguishable from one another, doused in lackluster snow and looking as though they belong in one of those expensive Christmas decorative towns your Grandma used to collect.

Gripping the gnarled wooden fencing, you take the stairs will little regard for the ice lying in wait, dampness leeching the warmth from your fingertips. No longer does that damn near invisible grass bank trip up your exit, triumphant as you leap across it under the watchful eye of the children gathered in the square. You don’t even stumble. Bent knees catching your descent, body rocking into standing and smile plastered across your face. A spin sees you staring back up the hill you’ve mastered without incident, path curling up the grass fighting its way through the snow, oblivious to the fact that the night will most likely cover it again.

Locating the coffee shop is just as easy, retracing your steps past the fountain you doubt has ever been running, venturing a little further than the well trimmed floral displays struggling through the cold. You must have passed at least two bakeries and a handful of artisanal shops by the time you get there, eventually standing with you back to Geoff’s Mercantile and taking in the tiny store slipped between a teahouse and antiques boutique.

Through the windows you catch a glimpse of ice blue, your fingers tapping playfully on the glass and a childish smile splitting your cheeks. Jeremy jumps in the booth he’s claimed, whirling on you with accusations in his eyes. He huffs, deliberately reaching for the cup sat opposite and bringing it to his lips with a slurp you can hear from outside. Offended, you clutch your chest, glaring before pushing through the door with a musical jingle.

The scolding of the barista is the first thing you register, clambering over a cluttering of tables and mismatch of chairs. He’s glaring at Jeremy, forcing a thick mane of dark hair from his face. Hands so expressive you can practically see them shaking the detective inspector by the shoulders. In the display cases cakes and pretty pastries span out, glowing rich and fetching the lining off your stomach. The monumental growl goes unnoticed, man glowering at Jeremy.

“You’re a terrible person.”

Jeremy looks insulted, continuing to sip from the cup he’d intended to be yours. “How dare you, Jon. I should arrest you right now.”

Jon looks unfazed, eyes sparkling. “For what?”

“For… err…” Jeremy has to think, taking a moment to compile a response. “For unruly behaviour.”

Spotting you, Jon shoots a glare at the man sitting falsely triumphant in the booth. “We’ll talk about this later. For now, hello!” He offers you an overwhelmingly bright beam, opening his arms like he’s welcoming you home. “Welcome to the ‘Coffeemonger’! I’m Jon, and that,” he points to Jeremy, who yelps in response, downing the rest of your drink, “is the asshole that owes you another drink.”

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