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aurorafables · 6 months ago

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From the Grey, Chapter 2.

First of all, thank you for the likes and reblogging 😊 you just made my day when I saw any activity on my post. The story will be more than 20 chapters, so it's time for the second part. Enjoy! 😉

Pairing: Noah Sebastian X Nicholas Ruffilo

Warnings: 18+, Explicit, Angst, Past character death, Suicidal thoughts

Tags: M/M, Slow burn, Childhood friends, Friends to lovers, Family drama, Band fic

Word Count: 3.7k

Cross-posted: AO3

All four of us hated interviews, and no matter how much we tried to take some of the burden off Noah's shoulders, as the main lyricist and music writer, as well as the lead singer of the band, most of the time it fell to him to answer the questions. Over the years, he got better at it, and he took the hurdles more easily from interview to interview. He could dissolve in a few minutes, and if asked about the process of creation, he could talk for hours.

We were in one of our label's offices between two concerts. Noah was called from a magazine, and they were talking on video call, and I, out of the picture, stretched out in the mustard yellow faux leather armchair with my cell phone. I was only half paying attention to the conversation, but sometimes I got lost in Noah's soothing voice while I was replying to my girlfriend's messages. When the possible connection between his lyrics and his experiences came up, I looked at him a little worried. I could only half see his face from behind his laptop screen, but I waited with bated breath for an answer. Noah thought for a moment, then revealed as much as he could, but gave as vague an answer as possible. “ … I'm trying to find the limit so that everyone can relate to what they’re going through, at least for the most part. And I also think it’s kind of corny sometimes to be like too specific and… it takes out the fun of it, the whole thing loses its effect and its poetry. In addition, I don't like to express my life and personal experiences too much through the lyrics. I want them to talk about my music, not me.” I was damn proud of him, and I think it was written on my face, because he glanced over at me and gave me a thumbs up under the table where only I could see. I was afraid that he would be put in an uncomfortable situation, that things he didn't want to talk about would be taken out of him, but he solved it professionally and then steered the conversation to slightly lighter topics. I remembered the moment when he was afraid and pushed the little notebook in front of me that hid the pieces of his soul.

We were both at the tattoo parlor trying to pass the time until closing time. Noah had finished a nice bathroom cleaning that I had done when I was a newbie, and was sitting on the corner sofa, holding a notebook that I've seen him carry a lot lately. I looked up from my sketch and watched him bite his lip as he wrote something down. Then he drew out a line, brushed a strand of hair that hung in his face behind his ear, and resumed writing. It was always good to spend time together, even if we were just sitting in the same room and lost in our own things. The silence was also pleasant with him. I really realized this when Noah spent the night with someone else a few days earlier. I had a hard time falling asleep, and even when I did, I woke up an hour later. It was five in the morning when I checked my phone for the umpteenth time and put it back on the windowsill in frustration because he hadn't texted me. I mentally forbade myself to ask him if he was okay, but it cost me to wake up the next morning as a zombie and go to work. It wasn't until the next night - as I listened to Noah breathe softly on the mattress - that I realized that I was missing it. The sound of his breathing. I glanced at the clock—we still had at least twenty minutes—then closed the sketchbook, stretched out, and sat down next to Noah on the couch. The corner of his mouth turned up as he realized I was there, but otherwise he didn't bother, continued to write, only looking up again when he seemed to have reached the end. Whatever he was doing. I didn't know him as someone who writes a diary, so my first guess would have been song lyrics. But I didn't really have to grope in the dark for long, because he opened his notebook and handed it to me. I raised my eyebrows questioningly, but took it from him without a word. I detected a slight nervousness in his dark brown eyes, and he added to it when he started biting his lower lip. I knew it was a big deal that was happening and I just felt I was the first to read into his notebook. Noah pulled up one leg, rested his chin on his knee, and looked at me as I began to read between the transcribed, drawn out lines.

"I see through you I know what you are I've seen the Devil more than I've seen God And when he has you by your neck I hope you choke on every fucking word you said" "You've dug your grave and you have no one but yourself to blame I see the world in black and white Because true color always fades under the right lights"*

“Wow,” I said with a big sigh, and staring in front of me, I tried to process what the lines were saying. I guessed who it might be about, it wasn't hard to figure out who he was so angry with, because these words almost oozed hatred. Then when I got over it, I could finally appreciate it all. "Noah, that's pretty good," I looked at him, and I can only hope that he saw in my eyes how sincerely I said this. Because in my opinion there was no trace of bias, only admiration. “Why don't you show it to your band?” Noah snorted and took the notebook back. “I'm not even seventeen, Nick. Why would they listen to me? Why would they want anything to do with a kid's lyrics?” “Because it's fucking good?” I asked back in disbelief. “No,” he shook his head and threw the notebook and pen into his bag. “It wouldn't make any sense if someone else sang it.” I watched as he quickly packed up and sullenly sank into the soft couch with folded arms. Oh…he never mentioned that. “Do you want to sing, doe?” I asked him with a smile. Noah rolled his eyes at the nickname I had given him a few years ago when he suddenly grew and was all legs and arms. “Why would I want to, when it looks like we'll soon get our first record deal as guitarists?” “Because you are young, full of dreams,” I whispered to him while I leaned my head on his shoulder. “You can be anything else. Just imagine… the audience standing at your feet and singing along with you word for word the songs you wrote.” Noah didn't answer right away, I'm sure he was toying with the idea of what it would be like if… "Nick, you are crazy," he finally said, laughing in confusion. “I'm just fucking tired,” I defended myself, during a yawn. “But I still mean what I said.” I pulled away from him, and Noah just shook his head in disbelief. In the four years we've known each other, I've noticed that he reacts strangely when I tell him he can do something big. It hurts to think that the reason for this could be that in his childhood he was constantly trying to destroy him to such an extent that he simply cannot deal with encouragement. It's like he expects me to laugh at him after that and tell him to forget it, he'll never be able to do that. And yes, it still hurt a little that he assumed that about me, but I understood it was unfortunately coded into his DNA. Words and their amazing power… However, there is something more here: his desire to prove himself, his determination and perseverance. “I hate so much that I can't put these in her face anymore,” he spoke after a while, almost muttering. It's like he's tired of all this a long time ago. Our eyes met and without a word I slid closer to hug him. "I know… I know," I whispered into his hair, then kissed his head. His dreams trumped everything, which makes me very proud of him. He started to build his life nicely, and before our first album was completely finished, our song Glass Houses also received the last touches and expansions on the text, just to make it all round:

"You said I'd never make it You said I'd make a mistake But now I'm right where I belong and you've got nothing to say"*

Noah founded a new band that was all his own, he started singing, and the audience is already singing along. And his mother has been rotting in a cemetery ever since, but perhaps not so deep that if thousands of people were shouting at the same time, she wouldn't hear the message intended for her.

We stepped out of the air-conditioned office into the Californian heat and the hustle and bustle of the street. I put on my sunglasses and waited for Noah to find his before we hit the road. People went to lunch, and at that time they poured out of the offices, and although we didn't fit in with the figures in suits and costumes, we still tried to remain invisible. Jolly and Folio were waiting for us at a Mexican restaurant just a few blocks from the Sumerian Records office. We stopped at a red light, and as the asphalt almost steamed from the heat, I regretted not tying my hair before we left the office. I ran my hands under my thick curls and lifted my hair a little. Noah looked at me and smiled. "There are advantages to having short hair, you know," he remarked, and I just stuck out my tongue. “Maybe some people can do whatever he want with his hairstyle, but I think my magic lies in my hair,” I answered him. “I can't believe that. When I met you, your hair was still short, and even then…” he began, but the light turned green, so we set off in the rushing crowd. “What then?” I asked him when we got through. Noah glanced at me from behind his glasses and shrugged. “Even then, you were you.” I furrowed my brows at his answer, but did not pursue the matter further. We were approaching a Starbucks, and I had already guessed that we would have a stop there. I was right, because Noah touched my arm and motioned with his head towards the entrance. I followed him, and I didn't mind that there were a few ahead of us, because at least we could cool down in there. "I'm getting the key to Steven's lake cottage next week," Noah said unexpectedly, while I squinted at the list of iced drinks on the wall behind the counter. Then I turned to him and waited for him to continue. “If you think so, of course, only if you want to… it would be great if you could join me.” Noah had pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, I could see his eyes full of hope. I don't even remember the last time we went somewhere without the boys. "The thing is…" Noah continued while I was lost in my thoughts, "I miss you. Since I've been living in California with the others, we don't hang out much outside of the band.” He spoke my thoughts out loud in their entirety. We had another concert on Saturday this week, then two weeks of rest, which I would have liked to have spent with him, but then something came up to my mind. “I promised to come to Maya's mom's birthday party next week.” Storm clouds appeared on Noah's face. As fast as being doused with a bucket of ice water. He's always had a hard time with rejection…and besides, he's never waited to find out if it really was rejection. “Then…” “I have to be at the party organized by my girlfriend. But that doesn't mean I have to stay with them for the second week,” I told him with a small smile as I ran my palm over his forearm. “So yes, you can count on me, along with a dozen mosquitos.” Noah finally smiled genuinely, flashing his white teeth as his eyes narrowed and his small laugh lines deepened. I was instantly euphoric, but the thought that I would still have done anything to see him happy was terrifying. It was soon our turn to order, but for some reason I got really stuck studying his face. I watched him speak — I couldn't even remember what I ordered in the end — and I thought to myself what a strange coincidence that Maya is Asian. Until now, I didn't even pay much attention to this, but then our tour in Japan a few years ago popped into my mind.

Noah was lounging in a towel in front of the bathroom mirror, drying his hair. I sat on the bed in his hotel room and waited for him to finish, because we had to go to the rehearsal. I fumbled with my phone when I found a picture from the day before with both of us tagged. When we went sightseeing, some fans came up to us and we took a picture with them. Back then, it was still rare to be recognized on the street. I grinned and got up to go to the bathroom to show the picture to Noah as he had been in a weird mood all day and I expected it to cheer him up a bit. I raised my cell phone in front of his face. Noah stopped brushing his hair and put the hairbrush on the counter, then took the phone from me. He looked at the photo with critical eyes, then looked into the mirror, where our eyes met. He returned the mobile and said nothing. He turned on the hotel's hair dryer and began the operation with complete resignation, and I stood beside him, confused. “Is something wrong?” I asked in the loud noise. “What did you say?” he asked back after turning off the hair dryer. I sighed and leaned against the counter. "I thought you'd like it here," I admitted. ”It's a big adventure that we got this far with the band, and besides, hey, we're in Japan!” I spread my arms in confusion. Noah looked at me silently, his eyes shining darkly, then finally just shook his head. “Should I get more excited because we are in the birthplace of Manga and Anime?” he asked cynically. I wanted so badly to understand… I wanted to know what was going through his mind. I wasn't satisfied with that answer. "Your roots lead back here," I said quietly. Noah snorted and ran the brush over his hair again. “I have no roots. I'm just going with the flow.” “Do you mean you hate Japan?” “Why should I love it? Nothing binds me here except my mother's devil plan to not rest until she gives birth to a half-breed child.” I've heard this story before, and since then I haven't been able to understand what kind of person is, who is able to wade through all emotions and reason for the sake of a fixation. “This place… it just confirms to me that I don't fit in completely here either.” I remembered the bullying he received at school for being different from the others, which must have contributed to his dropping out of education at the age of fifteen. The blue bruise on his cheekbone and how he wouldn't even admit to me that one of his idiot classmates had laid a hand on him. Things got a little better when he started hanging out with us, the graduates who were three years older, but after graduation I couldn't protect him anymore. Freak, bastard, mix, little girl because of his long hair, fag… and these are just the adjectives he told me, who knows what words were thrown at his head. I have already received some of these, but it hurt much more to know that Noah had to face this every day. I looked up at him, because he was already half a head taller than me, and I only spoke when he was finally paying attention to me. “I don't know how much my opinion matters, but I think your mother's only good decision is that you exist.” I turned away and left him alone in the bath. Let his rage some more if he felt he needed to, but first I wanted to let him know how important he was to me. The next day, when we were in Nara, the city of deers, Noah finally smiled after a week. Indeed, his whole face brightened and he fed the animals as happily as a small child. As he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and tried to hold back a burst of laughter as he idly watched me being torn apart by some naughty deers for a few morsels of food, I realized that digging into things the day before had been worth it.

Noah was a step ahead of me, checking on his phone if we were going in the right direction, and I was behind him sipping my shake, which turned out to be chocolate flavored after the first taste. My gaze drifted to his broad shoulders, then to his tattooed biceps, which tensed slightly as he gestured with his iced coffee towards a street where we had to turn. I would have bet that none of his old classmates would have dared to bully him again. The others were already sitting at the table when we arrived. Jolly noted that he was already starting to starve, which didn't seem like much of a problem since the appetizer was already on the table. Noah immediately threw himself on some roasted, spicy peppers while I browsed the drink menu. “How was the interview?” asked Folio, his cold beer in hand. I glanced up at them from behind the little notebook. “The usual," Noah shrugged, then licked his finger. “Don't worry, it wasn't mentioned that you fell on your ass on the way down the stairs at the last concert,” he added with an evil grin, for which our drummer punched him on the shoulder in return. We all started laughing. I remembered walking off the stage two days ago, exhausted, Folio coming after me, and then after a big thump - which I could hear clearly even through the loud shouting of the audience - I looked back and thought he was gone, but then I saw him sitting on the metal steps. Fortunately, he was not harmed. “I thought I would rest a bit,” Folio defended himself. “Some people hold only one microphone the whole time, and I am the one who trains hard on stage for an hour and a half. You should try it sometime, Noah.” “I'm still perfect the way I’m,” Noah looked at me and we smiled at each other. “You don't want to hear my drumming skill,” he added horrified. "Personally, I don't want to hear Folio sing," I interjected, and the others laughed and nodded in agreement. “Great, then everything will remain as it was,” concluded Jolly. The waiter came out and took our order. Noah asked for half the menu because he wanted to try everything, so I only ordered a burrito. I felt that I would have leftovers from his order.

“And what are your plans for the break?” Folio asked. "I'm meeting Maya," I answered. “I am going home to the family in Sweden,” said Jolly. “I have to record some vocals, then I will rest,” Noah answered. “With Karin?” Folio asked back. The mood at the table suddenly became frosty. Noah snorted but didn't say anything, just poked at the napkin. I felt that somehow I had to save him from this unpleasant situation. "That wouldn't be about rest," I said, the first thing that came to mind. It seemed like a good idea to play it off with a joke, but when Noah turned his head toward me, he looked at me like he couldn't believe I just said that. I already regretted speaking. "I'll be right back, guys," Noah said, still staring at me like I'd grown a second head. He headed for the bathrooms and I was so damn tempted to follow him and find out what was wrong, but I couldn't. I didn't want to run after him in front of our friends like I was his puppy, so I sighed and put my hands on my knees as if I could hold my legs back from the walk. "It would be good to neglect this Karin subject, Folio," said Jolly, then turned to me. “Don't feel bad about it. We didn't know we couldn't even joke with him.” I actually felt bad because I didn't know… I had no idea what was going on between Noah and the girl, so I didn't even think about hurting my best friend. Noah acted like I didn't exist that day. He quickly finished his lunch and said he had work to do and had to go. I stayed there with the boys and a pile of food. The tension eased a bit for our weekend concert, but it was still fucked up.

Suddenly, I found myself on the plane home, still not sure what happened at the restaurant. I've regretted a thousand times that I didn't go and find out what was wrong. I could only hope that we would be able to discuss it next week, and that was only one of the reasons why I couldn't wait to fly back to him in California.

*Bad Omens - Glass Houses

#bad omens fic #bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian #nick ruffilo #nicholas ruffilo #jolly karlsson #nick folio #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fic #bad omens band #bad omens smut

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eddiemunsonspantschain · 2 years ago

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Hidden Away - Ch.1

Note: This was previously posted with an OC. I have since decided to go reader insert friendly as it seems people prefer them more (can’t blame you). So if you’ve read this before, it’s all pretty much the same just the name and specifics taken out. Enjoy!

Pairing: Eddie Munson x secretly alternative!reader

Warnings: Eventual smut in later chapters, absent parent, upside down related stuff later, minors DNI

You do not have permission to copy, translate or repost my works onto other platforms. 18+ only.

Hawkins was about as small a town as it got. All the times your parents took you into cities, it was like a whole other world. You preferred Hawkins. The cities were too big. Too many people. In Hawkins? You knew everyone. Maybe not personally, but you saw the same people every day. You knew what to expect. Like every day in math class, Robin Buckley would drop her pencil and she’d mutter a fast apology if it got anywhere close to me. Like Jason Carver taking every chance he had to send a wink, smile, or blow a kiss to Chrissy during games so long as it didn’t affect how he was playing. Everything was predictable. Boring. But it was nice knowing what was coming.

“Do you guys have dates yet for the Spring dance?” Chrissy asked, not looking up from the braid she was making in Bianca’s hair.

A few of the girls answered. Some with hopeful prospects from the guys off the basketball team, others confirming they had indeed found their dates. You didn’t look up from your sketchbook. You had been trying to get this line down for what felt like forever, but every time you drew it; it was slightly slanted. So you had to erase it and start over.

“Y/N?... Y/N?!”

You looked up. Chrissy was looking at you expectantly. “What?” You asked, and she laughed.

“Do you have a date for the Spring dance!?” she asked, reaching over to shove you.

You roll my eyes and look at Chrissy. “You know I hate dances.” You answered her.

“Yeah, but you love Halloween and didn’t go to the Halloween dance. And you never go to any of the dances! C’mon! Why not come to the Spring dance?” Chrissy pleaded, “It’s one of the only ones we’re gonna have before graduation besides prom.”

You weren’t girly, really. You didn’t dress like the other girls in the squad did when they weren’t at school. Darker colors over lighter ones and a couple pieces that others would deem as ‘freak clothes’, as Sally and the girls called it. You only joined cheerleading because you couldn’t do gymnastics anywhere else. With that, though, you fell into the popular crowd. You kept your interests to yourself, though. The music your dad got you into, the horror movies you loved. Why spend four years being teased when you hid perfectly fine among the populars? The only one you really liked was Chrissy. She was nice and never condescendingly. She’d been that way with you since middle school. The other girls sometimes were mean, even if they wouldn’t outright admit it. “Cause that requires having a date or looking like a loser.” You smiled and reached over to tap the tip of her nose.

“So? I’m sure any loser would go with you.” Bianca said, as she flipped the page in her magazine.

“Thanks.” You murmur and roll your eyes.

“Seriously, you’d think any guy would agree to go with you because of being a cheerleader alone.” Sophia agreed with a shrug.

“I think any guy would be honored if you asked him.” Chrissy interrupted, reaching out to grab your elbow, “Or hey, one of them might ask you.”

“They’re too afraid of her to ask her!” Bianca laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t blame em. Ice queen over here.”

“As always, your input is enlightening, B.” You shot Chrissy a look, and she looked back at you apologetically.

“Whatever. I’m sure a guy will have the courage to ask you out one day.” Bianca shrugged and shut her magazine, stuffing it back into her bag.

The bell rang just after that. You shoved your sketchbook into your bag once you closed it and got up, helping Chrissy up off the floor. Bianca had a problem with you since you joined the squad. Why? You had no idea. It wasn’t like you didn’t fit in. Did you act out of place? Sure. Occasionally. But you kept all of your music interests and everything else to yourself so as ‌to not be labeled a freak, so you could survive the rest of high school. Once you graduated though? You were outta here.

Chrissy and you broke off from the others to go to science class. You had biology together. “You ever think Bianca will get off my case?” You asked Chrissy as you walked into Mr.Hawthorns class together.

“I’m not even entirely sure what her issue is with you.” Chrissy admitted, sliding her bag off of her shoulder before sliding into her desk.

You slid into your seat beside her and sighed. “One day I’m gonna snap at her. I swear.” You grumbled, and Chrissy giggled.

“I mean, she does say everyone is afraid of you. Maybe she will be too. You are marked as the ‘mean cheerleader’.” Chrissy answered as she used air quotes when she called me the mean cheerleader.

“I just don’t like people. Especially people like Michael Barrows, who thought it was ok shoving his hand up my top.” You shrugged. You didn’t like our classmates. Except Chrissy. Somehow, her sunny disposition never bothered you. How? You weren't so sure. There were others whom you interacted with that barely bothered you. Robin Buckley was one, for example. You both had English class together and worked on projects together. She rambled, but she was nice.

A second before the bell rang, another figure walked into the classroom. Mr.Hawthorn shot the young man a look. A mop of brown curls nodded to Mr.Hawthorn before walking to the back of the classroom towards Chrissy and you. On Chrissy’s right the figure sat down heavily. Eddie Munson. Hawkins Highs resident Freak and leader of the Hellfire Club. A group of nerds and freaks, frankly. At least that has been what they said about them.

“Alright, listen up. Turn to page 87. We’re going over genetics today.” Mr.Hawthorn started writing on the blackboard.

You flipped to page 87 and took out your notebook to start your notes. Chrissy started doodling as Mr.Hawthorn spoke. You and Chrissy lived down the street from one another. You had been friends since middle school. It was only natural that in high school you stuck together. She had spent a number of nights in your house. Especially when she had wanted to get away from her mother. Her mom had a thing about Chrissy’s looks. You thought Chrissy looked beautiful. Perfect. What every girl wanted to look like. What you wish you looked like as Chrissy was a natural beauty. Just perfect features without even trying. Her mom always had something different to say. Chrissy spent a lot of time at your house, crying after her mom made a comment about how her cheer uniform fit or told her she couldn’t have a birthday cake that year. You guessed no matter what, you all had your pains. Your parents weren’t perfect either. You barely saw your dad. You guess you could thank him for what genetics he gave you. Your mom and you had one another when your dad wasn’t in town.

“Now, we’re going to have a project on genetics. And we’re gonna make it fun. So in here,” Mr.Hawthorn picked up a fishbowl he had on his desk. He smiled and shook the bowl, making all the folded pieces of paper inside move around. “I have the names of the gentlemen in this class. Ladies, you will pick a name from here and they will be your partner. You both will figure out genetically what your kids would look like. Tell us a bit about them. Get creative.” He announced and approached a girl in the first row with the bowl.

“Why can’t we just pick our own partners?” Sally asked and Mr.Hawthorn chuckled.

“Well, that makes it less interesting. This is more random like life would be.” He answered and moved on to the next girl.

Mr.Hawthorn got to the back row and held the bowl out to you. There were only four other pieces of paper in the bowl. You reached in and picked the first piece that touched your fingers. Mr.Hawthorn moved to Chrissy and held the bowl out to her. You unfolded your piece of paper and your heart sank.

‘Eddie Munson’

You folded the piece of paper back up. Chrissy leaned over. “Who did you get?” she whispered and showed you her piece of paper. She got Patrick. At least he was her boyfriend's friend.

You looked at her and licked your lips. Then you looked past her. Your ‘partner’. Eddie was carving into the top of the desk with his pen, too busy to notice anything. You nodded at Eddie. Chrissy turned her head and stared at Eddie before quickly looking away before he could notice. This couldn’t be worse. She mouthed a ‘really?’ to you and you nodded. “Alright! Everyone has their partners. Girls, if you could read your picks aloud.” Mr.Hawthorn grabbed his clipboard he always wrote down group partners on. Oh, it could get worse! Each girl began naming the guy they were paired with. As it got closer to you, you began nervously chewing on the inside of your cheek.

Then it was your turn. You took a breath. “Eddie Munson.” You called, not looking at him at all. Immediately, a few snickers sounded in the classroom.

“Patrick McKinney!” Chrissy immediately called, trying to stop the reaction in the room. She knew how much you hated people laughing at you. You avoided any teasing, but something about people laughing at you just got to you worse. Being paired with Eddie didn’t help you hide away from everyone else and their teasing. You just had to get through this project.

Once every girl claimed their guy, Mr.Hawthorn smiled. “Alright, kids. You all have until next week to figure out your future kids' genetic makeup.” He announced, and a moment later, the bell rang. “Class dismissed. See you all tomorrow!”

You shoved your textbook into your bag and got up, following Chrissy towards the door. “Have fun with the freak.” Sally giggled as you both passed her. You shot her a look, and her smile faltered a bit. You grabbed Chrissy’s hand and tugged her out of the classroom.

“This is humiliating.” You hissed, and Chrissy sighed.

“It isn’t that bad, Y/N!” She argued as you stopped at your locker. “It could be worse. Besides, Eddie has always been nice to the cheerleaders. He just doesn’t like Jason. Or the rest of the basketball team.” She laughed, leaning on the lockers as you opened yours and shoved your biology textbook into it.

“You know, I worked hard to avoid teasing. Stay out of the spotlight! Stay away from being gossiped about and bullied.” You explained to Chrissy, and she nodded.

“I know, I know. But you aren’t a freak. You’re one of us.” She reassured you.

A person walked close to you and Chrissy but before you could even realize it, you jumped from a loud noise behind your head. You turned to look at the figure looming over you. Eddie Munson stood there with a big, goofy smile on his face. His arm was behind your head with his hand resting on the locker beside yours, where he had just slammed it down onto the metal. “Ladies,” Eddie began, dropping his arm and stepping back to give you space.

“Munson.” You murmur, looking up at him.

“Hey,” Chrissy waved awkwardly.

“So, partner,” Eddie began, shoving his hands into his pockets. “When do you wanna work on this thing? I’m sure you wanna get this over with as quickly as I do?” He asked, rocking back and forward on his feet.

You looked at Chrissy and she grinned. “I’ll see you at lunch!” She cheerfully said and started backing away.

“No, no! Chrissy!” You hissed at her as she turned on her heel, green and white skirt swaying as she turned away and started down the hallway. You sighed and looked up at Eddie. Again, that smile. “Library. After school.” You murmured your instruction, turning to shove your locker door closed.

“See you there.” Eddie agreed with a wink as you turned away from him and quickly walked away. Already, people were whispering in the hallways.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things reader insert #eddie munson reader insert

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palmofafreezinghand · 3 years ago

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hi! I recently read "Safe landing" again, and I was wondering if you have any specific ideas with these two parts "“Everything is going well?” He asked, doing his absolute best not to slip into his 'clinical' tone" and "The time I sported a fake mustache in the '70's." this would be so much fun to read and imagine.

The story in question.

Oh boy Anon do I have specific ideas!

First off, thank you so much for reading and asking about my story!! ‘safe landing’ is one of those stories I was terrified to post because it felt so full of my own ideas and then surprisingly other people read it and went ‘neat!’ Which is always shocking and humbling.

“Safe landing” in particular has a lot of hidden easter eggs, some of them are to things I just know happened, some are to stories I’ve written, most are wacky little ideas I have but have never written. They’re there because ‘safe landing’ looks at a couple of eighty-six years doing a dance they’ve done before to a different song. When you’re dealing with a relationship, of any sort, with that sheer amount of time there’s going to be history and well-worn elements. (Hell, my grandparents who have been married for fifty-four years still ‘fight’ about who stood the other up on their first date).

I’m going to nickname the two easter eggs you asked about as “The Mustache” and “The Clinician.”

Mustache:

“Name one thing I haven’t fully processed.”

“Edward, in general. Rosalie’s change. Your suicide attempt. My suicide attempt. Edward’s suicide attempt. Edward leaving. The first time. The second time. The third time. Any of your slips. The time I sported a fake mustache in the ‘70’s.”

I think the idea of Carlisle with a fake mustache first originated here and I just sort of ran with it. It makes complete sense. There was an astounding amount of mustaches in the 70’s. It would make him look older. It would help him blend in. Why not try a little face toupee?

Carlisle had only seen his physical appearance change slightly over the centuries and he loved this change. He’s been trying to be older than twenty-three for a really long time and now he looks a solid twenty-five!

In short, Carlisle was a huge fan. Others were not.

Esme hated it, absolutely loathed this thing. She tried to burn it a half dozen times and he just kept getting new ones. But she saw how happy it made him so she kept her complaints under a humorous veil. “I won’t kiss you with that rat on your lip.” “You look like you make those films they sell at the corner stone, but not one of the good ones.” “I’m going to leave you for a man who can afford a razor.”

The mustache lasted for a solid year until Carlisle was flipping through one of Esme’s sketchbooks and landed on a spread of dozens of sketches of a blonde man with a mustache, at first glance the man shared a striking resemblance to himself. “Study of a husband,” scrawled on the bottom corner of the page.

He almost boasted about how this was proof she did like the mustache until his eyes landed on the date under the description. April 4, 1921. Decades before he bought the hairpiece, months before they were married, weeks before they even started courting. He is not the husband she drew.

They never actually talked about it but the mustaches went in the garbage that very day.

So while it’s posed as a joke in ‘safe landing’ it is slightly not a joke at the same time. Esme hadn’t processed that, hadn’t dared even bring it up in fear of stepping on her husband’s toes, and Carlisle knows that and calls her out for it decades later which is how their relationship works.

Her response was “Well, that was just traumatic.” Which isn’t giving him confidence she even realizes he knows; and she doesn’t even realize why she hates it so much but he does and so it remains something unspoken and unprocessed between them.

(Carlisle’s vibes in the seventies).

Clinician.

“Everything is going well?” He asked, doing his absolute best not to slip into his ‘clinical’ tone. The tone that got him a screamed ‘Jesus H. Christ! I’m not some case study, Doctor!’ Or worse, a repeat of the ‘How does that make you feel?’ incident of ‘78.

Now before we talk about this line we need a rudimentary understanding of American Politics & Society during the late seventies into the eighties. This is when we really see the peak, and end, of second wave feminism. The materialist feminism movement gains mainstream traction, and we get 9 to 5, powersuits, and the term ‘glass ceiling.’

Now I have a lot of thoughts about the Cullens and American Politics but that’s not this post. But it’s safe to say this is going to play a critical role in Esme’s life.

In the Cullen house during the late seventies into the eighties Alice and Jasper are now both confident enough to venture into public. Rosalie is off in medical school, Emmett follows and is doing a puppetry degree. Edward couldn’t let Rosalie show him up so he is also off at medical school. For the first time in many decades Esme is home alone.

At this point she has sold houses and art, always under a male pseudonym and never for what they’re worth. One of her pseudonyms has a cult following but she’ll never capitalize on it, she doesn’t think she deserves it. Her houses gained recognition in the height of the "mid-century" / the 50's. She had the connections with both designers and affluent society but she refused to give up the pseudonym, and knew if she did it would ruin everything, but the pseudonym could only go so far. So her houses were rarities and coveted as a gem from an unknown designer. She’s earned two college degrees, speaks eight languages fluently, and has four dozen hobbies. But she doesn’t consider anything a ‘career.’ She’s been a housewife for decades, partly for her own good, and largely because it was the part her family needed her to play. But now, well now it wouldn’t be obscene for a doctor’s wife to be a lady who does more than lunch.

But it’s not that easy. Esme has been playing this role for a long time. It’s not going to be easy for her to quickly identify what element of her life she’s unhappy with and change it. Instead quiet resentment builds, and as I think ‘safe landing’ really illustrates Esme neglects her own feelings. She believes an object that stays in motion stays in motion, a person who keeps moving will stay happy. So she doesn’t acknowledge her feelings and instead tries to bury them down and things just grow. (I have a theory about Esme’s mental health here).

Plus, while Esme does not embrace all the traditional roles of her time (ie. with the timeline and backstory Meyer gave us she was a single working mom with a child out of wedlock before she could vote) she does care about being a good wife to Carlisle. In the early years being a good wife to him was an act of resistance. It was the one thing she could never do right for Charles and maybe she didn’t want to, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try her hardest to give Carlisle the life he deserved. She can still hear her mother’s voice clear as day, coaching her on all the ways she is responsible for her husband’s happiness. So she doesn’t say a word about that little hope that started to bloom for the first time in years.

Now, where does the line “...Doing his absolute best not to slip into his ‘clinical’ tone. The tone that got him a screamed ‘Jesus H. Christ! I’m not some case study, Doctor!’ Or worse, a repeat of the ‘How does that make you feel?’ incident of ‘78.”” come in?

Well, Carlisle notices the discontentment. He can tell she’s hiding something, his guess is memories are resurfacing and she’s attempting to power through like she does. He sees an opportunity, he really wants to be in medical school with Rosalie and Edward, and figures school would be good for her too, and plus women can go to grad school now. So they go back to school.

However, this time Carlisle doesn’t go back for emergency medicine or general surgery. He wants to give Rosalie and Edward their space, while still learning himself. And he sees a perfect option in a study that he’s both professionally and personally interested in. Psychology.

Carlisle has always been a curious guy, a nerd we could say, he turned into an immortal creature and immediately thought of all the things he could learn. So in the past century he’s watched the rise of psychatriary, he’s read a few journals, he’s watched how over the years it’s gone from absolute babble to the mind being responsible for the body’s health.

But that’s not all.

I’ve said it before I’ll say it a hundred more times Carlisle saw Esme Platt as a victim first and foremost. From the moment he found the happy, inappropriate, spirited girl dead in a morgue, and then learned she did it herself, he was dead-set on fixing things. That is an undertone of their relationship that I think matures into something more meaningful and realistic but I don’t think ever goes away.

When they first got married he was completely and utterly unprepared to deal with the sheer amount of trauma and history that is the 'Charles Evenson issue.' He couldn't prescribe a treatment plan and fix things. Esme didn't seem to want him to fix things. He was utterly helpless, a feeling he loathes.

All these years later he still hasn't fixed the issue and maybe an academic understanding of the brain and how it works will help him fix his wife! Now we all know that sounds like a bad plan, and part of Carlisle does too which is why he doesn’t tell his wife his precise area of study.

So they continue on. Esme gets a fellowship shockingly quick, her professors pick up on what’s crystal clear talent and a wealth of knowledge. She’s doing really well professionally, but her family falls on the back burner just a touch. She feels so incredibly guilty for neglecting them, for succeeding in work, and for having almost everything she ever wanted and still the memories are flooding in and she’s still feeling discontent.

She doesn’t say anything because how ungrateful can she be? But Carlisle notices, he’s been working in clinics, he’s been doing research, he knows the signs and so like a good scientist he starts tracking data. He starts by writing down everything he knows about how she reacts when triggered. Then he isolates variables, he studies different stories she has told him. This man has so much research he could write a doctoral thesis on his wife’s trauma.

The good news is he does learn a few helpful coping techniques, and how to guide someone through tough conversations. Bad news, he had books worth of notes studying his partner without her consent. One day Esme does reveal something, something pretty darn major that she told herself she would never told another soul but a man slipping his hand down her back and calling her “Toots” made her cave. Carlisle responds with “how did that make you feel?”

She does not respond well to that question because she is not his patient, and he is not her physician, he’s her husband and that is their established relationship, not a cold detached “how did that make you feel?"

He recovers from it well but she’s still a little on edge. A few weeks later she’s cleaning his office as an “I’m sorry for being curt with you these last few weeks I know you were only trying to help.�� She stumbles upon an open notebook on his desk, and she automatically reads it as she picks it up, just to know where it goes. Staring back at her is the story she told him a few short weeks earlier. “Responded poorly to questioning. Positively reacted to assurance, in line with known personality. Will revisit.” She doesn’t know what she’s looking at but it’s about her so she feels she’s allowed to flip through it.

More and more and more notes about her are written down in clinical detail. She’s not sure what she feels but she needs to look through the others because the book in her hands only dates back to ‘62. She finds eight more books. She’s halfway through Book 2 of 3 of 1921 when Carlisle gets home.

She’s still not sure what she feels except she would rather be married to anyone else at that precise moment. Carlisle realizes she’s mad, he doesn’t realize why she would be mad about this at first. He was being a good husband, he was trying to make sure he never made a mistake. He was just trying to be a good husband (see ‘Carlisle’s abandonment issues and insecurities). He’s trying to explain this, he’s frantic because he’s seen that look in someone’s eyes before and it ended in the worst four years of his life. Esme is indifferent.

She shuts down when she’s overwhelmed by emotions, situations, environments, whatever. She becomes completely shut off. Her tone is the clinical one. She is the one with sharp questions in a pragmatic tone.

The conversation escalates, Esme launches accusations that cut Carlisle to the bone. She calls him out for nearly every single time he has mishandled the Charles situation, but it’s in a voice that makes it sound like she’s completely done with this marriage, with Carlisle, like this is all just a conversation.

Carlisle gets nervous and starts defending himself by launching accusations back at her. He vents about how she never tells him anything, how she runs to Rosalie or Edward, how he has to write it down and study because she won’t let him be a good husband. How maybe this whole going to work thing is their problem, maybe she needs time to herself, this is too much stress. She wants him to fail, she is so afraid of someone loving her she can’t let him help her. She doesn’t love him. Well the cold facade crumbles right about then and she realizes what she feels is anger, a book clatters to the ground, “Jesus H. Christ! I’m not some case study, Doctor!”

It’s their third to fifth biggest fight depending on who you ask. It takes a really long time for them to rectify things they said during it. They make small changes, they make big changes. Esme puts her foot down that working is one of the first things that has made her feel alive in years and he will have to deal with it, he’s the one who helped build her confidence he’s going to get with the program or leave the theater. He gladly will, as long as sharing and communication comes with it. She agrees, they start researching communication techniques as a couple, not as a therapist. Carlisle returns to emergency medicine for everyone's benefit, but shockingly mostly his own.

This fight is a big turning point and gives us what we see in 'safe landing.' Carlisle points out his concerns as someone who loves her, who knows she's not 'fixable', who needs her to be okay for him to be okay. She listens and compromises, she doesn't share freely but she's comfortable enough to not freeze, to stop him when he goes too far, and to slow down and just sit with him, the rest will come later.

Thank you so much for asking!

#thank you so much for asking!!! 💖💖💖#carlisle cullen #esme cullen #analysis #this is so so long i'm so sorry #my stories

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10-porgs-in-a-trenchcoat · 3 years ago

Text

What I See

Pairing: Clone Medic Kix x GN Medic Reader

Premise: My musings here resulted in this. You're a medic in the 501st who works closely with Kix. At first you think the crush you have on him is one-sided, until one day you look through his sketchbook and are surprised by a portrait he drew.

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: G

Other notes: gender neutral reader, no pronouns, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like clones

AO3

Being an army medic had its ups and downs, its slower periods and bursts of intense stressful activity. You wouldn’t trade it for anything though. The pay was better than what you earned as a civilian medical worker, your patients were much more agreeable (even though there was the occasional trooper who insisted he was fighting fit when he was still far from being so) and your coworkers were professional and easy to get along with. One coworker in particular was your favorite, and you looked forward to the shifts you shared with him.

When you first met Kix, you admired him for the love and care he showed his fellow clones and commanding officers. The two of you quickly developed a rapport; he always laughed at the bad jokes you made, and you liked to challenge him to competitions to see who could restock supply shelves in the med bay the fastest … he always won, but every time you’d stick your tongue out at him and say “I’ll get you next time!” and he would only respond with a knowing smirk.

During down time, when there were no patients and paperwork was handled, Kix would sit at his desk with a leather-bound book and a pencil. It was an odd at first, seeing the rich brown leather and sheets of paper in an austerely sterile all-white setting filled with holopads and technology, but it also looked right in his hands. Without meaning to, you’d sometimes watch as he focused intensely on whatever he was scribbling into the book, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked.

“Jesse teases me and tells me I should just take pictures,” he explained one day as he showed you some drawings in his book, “but I find this relaxing.” He flipped to a sketch of a grassy plain with mountains in the background. You marveled at the details: the colors and shading on the mountains looked like sunlight glistening off their stony faces, the grass looked so realistically textured you thought it would feel like the real thing if you touched it, and he even added some wildflowers as well.

After seeing the meticulous designs he shaved into his hair, it was no surprise that Kix was an artist.

“Looks like it could be a picture,” you commented.

“Fives said something similar once, when we were down on Felucia he caught me drawing this-“ he flipped through the book to show you a drawing of a wide-trunked tree with large drooping leaves. “I just draw what I see,” he added with a shrug.

“You’re really talented though, the best I can draw is a stick figure.”

Kix cracked a small smile. “That was once the best I could do too,” he said.

The way his lips curved in his smile, the way his eyes shone as he looked at you - in that moment you realized just how beautiful he was. Sure, he was good-looking – all the clones were – but he stood out to you.

There was no use denying it, you had a crush on him.

Before there was a chance for your thoughts to betray you in any way, Kix’s comm beeped. “Duty calls,” he said, closing his sketchbook and stashing it in a drawer under his desk. He then stood up and made his way to his station, and you followed suit. Whatever was about to come into the med bay, it would keep you busy enough to distract yourself … so you hoped.

It had to be strictly professional between yourself and Kix, you reminded yourself as the first wave of injured troopers came into the medbay. Besides, given how quickly he could turn on a heel from artist to medic like that demonstrated how dedicated he was to his work, you knew he would never let anything get in the way of his duty.

Four rotations went by. Kix went on a mission with the rest of Torrent Company, leaving you to manage the med bay on your own during your shift. It was more of the same, really … but you thought about him more than you would care to admit. Of course, you always thought about him when he went on missions, you told yourself. Everyone worried about their coworkers, right? Especially if there was a chance they might not come back?

He always came back, you told yourself. This time wouldn’t be any different.

Only it was both more of the same and different. You were working on paperwork when the med bay doors suddenly flew open, and troopers began pouring in. As soon as you commed some off-duty medics to report to the med bay, you manned the triage station so you could tend to the more critically injured troopers first. It was hectic, a flurry of stressful activity, making sure everyone who needed a bed had one and every wound and scrape was patched up. It wasn’t until everything quieted down that you found Kix in one of the beds.

Your heart dropped into your stomach when you saw him. He was asleep, undressed from the waist up with bandages and bacta patches affixed to spots on his shoulder and the side of his head, and his lower half covered with a blanket. Nodes attached to pulse points on his inner arm connected to a machine by his bed that recorded his vital signs, and everything looked normal at first glance. His chart reported a direct blaster hit to his shoulder and a graze on his head, with an expectation of a full recovery, signed off by one of the medics you called in to help. You owed that medic big time, you thought.

A glance at the nearest chronometer revealed that your shift ended three hours ago, but you couldn’t leave. You didn’t want to leave. So you grabbed a chair and pulled it over to Kix’s bed so you could sit by him. Someone had to keep an eye on him after all. It was professional courtesy, you told yourself, that was all. Besides, even though your body ached and felt heavy with exhaustion, your mind was too active and on edge for sleep.

On the floor by his bed were his things: his armor, neatly stacked and organized, next to his medical pack. Inside his pack you found his sketchbook, and you figured you could pass the time by looking at his drawings again. You found the sketch of the plain and the mountain again and took a few more minutes to admire the detail. Then the tree on Felucia, and then a tooka cat, and when you turned the page you nearly dropped the book in surprise.

Kix had drawn you. In the picture you looked off in the distance, chin propped up on your hand. The detail was incredible: the shape of your nose, your mouth, your eyebrows, all rendered with magnificent accuracy. You wondered if he drew it from memory, or used a picture as a reference, or sketched you one day on duty when you weren’t paying attention.

It had to be a picture, you decided. What you saw before you … it was an idealized version of yourself. Better-looking than anything you ever saw in the mirror.

Before you could dwell on it any longer, you heard a weak drowsy voice calling your name. You looked up and saw that Kix had woken up, his head turned towards you and his half-lidded eyes meeting yours.

“Oh- you’re awake!” you stammered, your cheeks flushing with heat as you slammed the sketchbook shut. You sprang to your feet and came to his bedside – to tend to him as a medical professional, you reminded yourself.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

“My job,” you answered plainly. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got shot,” he answered glibly. “But I meant, what are you doing with that?” he nodded his head best he could and glanced to the sketchbook that was still in your hand.

“Oh-“ You froze for a second. “I- sorry, I just really like your ….” Your sentence trailed off as you saw apprehension flash across his face.

“It’s fine,” Kix murmured as he averted his gaze away from you.

“I … I saw you drew me.”

“Yeah … drew that when I was away … was missing you.”

Oh. Maybe he was crushing on you too … the idea was equal parts exciting and scary.

“Missed you too,” you returned, reaching down to give his wrist a gentle squeeze. “And it’s a really good drawing of me too. Did you use a picture for reference or something?”

“Memory,” Kix said plainly.

“Wow …” You opened up the sketchbook again to your drawing and gave it another lookover. “And you made me look better than I actually do.”

“No. I told you before, I draw what I see.”

Your mouth fell open slightly in surprise, and you looked up to meet Kix’s gaze again. Tired as he was, he looked at you with a soft admiration, as if he was appreciating a fine work of art standing directly in front of him. Your mind was both full and blank at the same time, feeling flattered and treasured but at the same time unsure of how to respond to him.

“I … I’ve been putting off telling you how I feel about you,” he continued, “because –“

“Your duty comes first, I understand,” you cut him off as you sat down on the edge of the bed, turning your torso to better face him and setting the sketchbook down by his head.

“No, not that. Well, it has to, but – but that doesn’t mean I can’t want more out of life.” Kix paused. He raised his hand and reached it towards you. You responded by raising up your own hand, taking his in yours, and holding it in your lap. Your other hand came to rest on his wrist. He was so warm under your touch, soft and solid and steady. You knew that you would eventually have to let go, but you didn’t want to.

“My favorite part of the day is when I get to see you, whether it’s here or in passing somewhere on the ship,” he continued, “and on the battlefield after I got shot, as I was lying there, all I could think about was how I might never see you again.”

“Kix, I-“

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted you. “Except, if- if after the war’s over you wanted to give it a shot? You and me?”

“Yes.” The words immediately fell from your lips as your mouth widened into a smile. You didn’t even have to think about it, and the potential consequences that the higher-ups in the GAR might inflict upon the both of you for even entertaining the idea didn’t matter. It just felt right, the idea of you and him. You couldn’t begin to explain it.

Kix returned your smile. You raised his hand to your mouth and softly kissed the back of it before lowering it back down to your lap. Before you could disentangle your hands from his, he returned that gesture as well, pulling your hand that was intertwined with his to his mouth and pressing little kisses into your knuckles. The feeling of his lips on your hand sent pleasant little tingles through your skin.

“Let’s talk about it some more after you’ve recovered,” you suggested.

“Yeah, of course,” he agreed absentmindedly. He shifted slightly in bed but suddenly stopped and froze in place, his face twisting into a pained grimace and a hiss escaping through his teeth.

“You okay?” You asked, pulling your hand back to you and scanning his body for any other signs of distress.

“Yeah, just hurts is all.”

“Let me get you some painkillers.”

“No need, I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Kix, I insist.” You told him in the sternest voice you could muster.

“I have the right to refuse treatment, especially if the treatment is better spent on my brothers who are in worse shape than I am.”

He was right, he did have the right to refuse treatment. But you couldn’t bear the idea of him being in pain.

“Okay … how about a sleeping aid then? Or some water? Can I get you anything?”

“If you want to do something for me, go get some rest. I’ll still be here when you report for your next shift.”

“Ugh, fine. You drive a hard bargain.”

“Ah come on, you know you love me.” Kix said teasingly, punctuating his statement with a smirk and a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Giving him a small laugh and a half-hearted eye roll, you pushed yourself up onto your feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Before you turned to leave, you took his hand in yours again, and took a moment to gaze in his eyes. It took everything in you to not immediately start imagining a life with him after the war. There wasn’t even any guarantee there was going to be a life after the war – the cruiser you were on might be destroyed tomorrow by the Separatists for all you knew – but the idea still filled you with hope and joy. Something to look forward to with him. Something else to fight for.

#kix x reader #kix x you #clone medic kix x reader #clone medic kix #clone trooper #clone wars #star wars #my writing

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gumnut-logic · 3 years ago

Text

Wire (Bit 18)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5 | Bit 6 | Bit 7 | Bit 8 | Bit 9 | Bit 10

Bit 11 | Bit 12 | Bit 13 | Bit 14 | Bit 15 | Bit 16 | Bit 17 | Bit 18

This is the end, technically, but I need to write an epilogue to tie it all up, so one more bit :D

As always, thanks to @tsarinatorment and @janetm74 for the read through. I was a bit nervous about this one. I’ve had to jam it into so many tiny snippets of time, that it felt patchy and wonky. I’ve been assured it is okay, so hopefully you enjoy it anyway.

-o-o-o-

It took some time and some exhausting work on Virgil’s part, but eventually he could sit up and Scott arranged a press conference. Apparently, it was against his better judgment and he wanted Virgil to wait longer, but it had already been over a week and the presents kept rolling in.

So with a handmade Thunderbird Two themed beanie on his head to hide the mess of bandages and mangled hair - it had been Scott who flew in their barber to tidy it up, but the result was definitely still beanie worthy - he prepared to face the media.

Gordon respected his hair, but the beanie was definitely up for grabs on the joke front.

Virgil claimed he was just jealous he didn’t have a Thunderbird Four version. It turned out even more hilarious when Virgil discovered that the beanie did have a Thunderbird Four partner...that was tiny and barely fit his handmade doll.

Gordon was very put out.

Virgil made a point of wearing the fan made hat along with a blanket to hide his belly - who had time to make him an entire blanket? Again, green with red tassels, thin yellow stripes and a white number Two in its centre.

He might have gotten a little over-emotional over this one.

He was blaming the painkillers he was on.

Stupid drugs.

Scott, with Gordon and Alan on one side and John on the other, pushed Virgil’s hoverchair down the hall. Gordon had declared he wasn’t missing this for the world and Alan agreed. John, Virgil suspected, just wanted to keep an eye on him. His space brother had been hovering a little and it was odd John would voluntarily attend such a public gathering.

Virgil could count John’s attendances to this kind of thing on one hand.

But it was good to have all of his brothers with him. After all, they worked as a team.

As for himself, he wanted to do this, but it wasn’t easy. His health was something to be reckoned with. Scott wasn’t far wrong. His brain wanted, but his body didn’t have the resources to deliver and a simple thing like getting into the hoverchair in the first place was frustrating and exhausting as all hell.

The moment the doors opened to the pandemonium outside the front of the hospital, he realised just how much he was asking of himself.

But he was going to do this, goddamnit.

The lights from holorecorders and flashes from cameras were blinding. A sharp word from Scott dulled it all down a bit, but the noise of so many people and the brightness of the day along with those still determined to photograph him was overwhelming.

“You don’t have to do this.” Scott quiet voice in his ear was ever so protective.

“Yes, I do.” And Virgil forced himself to face the people.

Fortunately, by the time they made it to the podium and his brothers sat down beside him, the majority of the crowd had quietened down, eyes pinned on Virgil, waiting for him to speak.

But it was Scott who spoke first, dressed in his suit, impeccable as always. Virgil had a suit jacket and loose shirt on, but that was all he had been able to manage. He looked like an idiot, but hopefully a dedicated one at least.

“Good morning. As promised, my brother Virgil is here to speak with you. As you can see, he is on the mend and we are ever so happy to have him back with us. He would like to make a statement.”

And Scott turned to him.

Virgil fingered the torn-out page of his sketchbook with his notes on it and looked out at the crowd. The media hovered expectantly at the foot of the podium staring up at him, but beyond that were the group of people that he had come here to speak to. Most were average, likely interested townsfolk, but in the centre there was a swath of green clothing. Several held signs and placards that said things like ‘Get Well Soon, TB2’ and ‘Thunderbirds 4ever’. There was even one sign that declared ‘We love you, Virgil!’.

These were the people responsible.

The mic stared at him.

He pulled on the speech training they had all had and straightened his shoulders the best he could.

“My sole purpose of speaking to you today is to thank all of you for all your support and for all the gifts that have been sent to me. I wanted you to know that every gesture is valued and...” He placed a hand on his heart. “...I am ever so grateful.” Said heart was doing a royal dance behind his breastbone. He pushed a smile onto his face. “I would particularly like to thank Gavii for the hat. I needed it.” The smile became a grin. “Kat’s playlist was a beauty, and JB’s TB2 was an utter delight.” He looked down, his mind rifling through all the gifts he had been given. Looking up, he stared across the crowd to the bunch of green people in the centre. “If I named all of you, I would be here all day, but I wanted you to know how much I appreciate and value all your contributions. I will be passing the majority onto those who need them much more than I do, but I will keep your well wishes in my heart for all time.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

Scott’s eyes were an intensity off to his left. Gordon had already placed a hand on his arm from his right.

Now what he had wanted to say had been said, exhaustion was having a good go at winning the war. He knew this would happen, but screw it.

His eldest brother shifted in his seat. “I would like to express my thanks alongside my brother. We are very grateful for all the support shown to Virgil and our family during this difficult time. International Rescue will be returning to operation as soon as possible.”

“Who will be flying Thunderbird Two?”

Scott eyed the reporter at the front of the crowd. “Plans are in place. IR operational procedure is not what this conference is about.” The commander’s protective nature regarding the secrecy of their organisation automatically coming to the fore.

“It won’t be the same without you, Virgil!” A woman in the midst of the green patch yelled across the crowd. The people around her murmured agreement.

Virgil twisted his lips, the need to defend his brothers foremost in his mind. “My brothers are quite capable of providing our services without me. You can be assured of that.”

“I have to agree with them on this one, Virg.” Gordon’s fond smile shone at Virgil and then across the audience. “It won’t be the same and we are all looking forward to having you back.” That hand on his arm squeezed tight.

Virgil’s lips had to curl into a smile.

“Three cheers for International Rescue!” It was yelled at the top of someone’s lungs and suddenly the crowd was cheering like crazy. Virgil’s name prominent, but also the other brothers, all topped off with a ‘Tracy, Tracy, Tracy!”

Beside Virgil, Gordon jumped up and joined in, Alan not far behind him. John smirked and Scott tried to stay serious, but his eyes were sparkling.

Cameras started flashing again, holo-recorders buzzing around, but despite the overwhelming noise, Virgil’s smile just got bigger.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Gordon Tracy #nuttyfic

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mintaka14 · 3 years ago

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This is the start of my newest multi-chapter Lukanette story, and a Dammit Quick! fic. To the LBSC crowd - you’re all a pack of enablers, so have some Disney music-nerd angst/fluff with a Julerose wedding for good measure.

See the Light

A Miraculous Ladybug fanfiction

By Mintaka14

Chapter One – All Those Years

Luka Couffaine got the shock of his life when, six months before his sister’s wedding, his past walked onto the boat. She moved with an assurance that she’d never had at fourteen. A little older at twenty-four, a little less arms-and-legs and a little more rounded curves, but still with those same devastating blue eyes.

Her hand curled on the rail, and he realised he was staring.

“Luka,” she said. “Hi.”

“Ma-ma-marinette,” he managed, and that mouth of hers lifted in a tentative smile. “It’s been a while.”

“It’s been a while,” she agreed softly. “How are you?”

He said something, he wasn’t sure what.

“I take it Juleka didn’t mention that I was coming,” she said. “I’ve offered to design the dresses for the wedding, and she suggested I come round today to talk about them. Are you… is it okay that I’m here?”

At that, Luka jolted out of his distraction and offered her a more genuine smile.

“Marinette, it’s more than okay. It’s good to see you again. You’re looking well.”

Her own smile grew a little brighter, and she flicked a quick glance down and back up to meet his eyes again. “So are you.”

“Marinette! You made it!” Rose’s shriek cut off any response he might have made. Rose barrelled up the steps from the galley and past him to engulf Marinette in a tight hug, with Juleka not far behind. Luka had a moment to collect himself while they caught up. All in all, he thought he’d handled it pretty well. He hadn’t actually swallowed his tongue.

Marinette flashed a brief, rueful smile at him over her shoulder as Rose towed her below deck, leaving Luka to pull his scattered thoughts together. He hadn’t seen her in ten years and she could still bowl him over at first sight. He turned absently to the stack of papers he’d been working on when she arrived, barely seeing them.

He hadn’t made much progress half an hour later, and gave up, heading down to the galley. A burst of laughter drew his attention and in the other room he could see Marinette wielding a tape measure around his sister with brisk efficiency, while Rose sat on the table, swinging her legs as she flicked through a plain black sketchbook. He’d seen plenty of the same type of book back when he’d been spending a lot of time with Marinette all those years ago. He leaned in the doorway, unnoticed, watching Marinette at work.

It had always been hard to define exactly what made Marinette so overwhelming whenever he saw her. Maybe it was the sense of intensity and creative fire, as if her skin could barely contain everything that she was, or the fierce, giving heart that shone within her. Maybe it was the endless blue of her eyes that spoke to him of a limitless horizon. It seemed like none of that had changed.

What had changed was the dizzying rush he felt as she bent to pick up something and he found himself following the tight curve of her jeans and the contour of her strong, lean legs. He jerked his wayward gaze away, trying to fight down the heat in his cheeks and the fleeting speculation about what it might be like to have those legs wrapped around him, and those beautiful eyes of hers on him while he … God, Couffaine, get your mind out of the gutter! It had been ten years since he’d last seen her, and these were not appropriate thoughts to be having barely thirty minutes and less than a handful of words of conversation after she’d turned up in his life again.

She had always been a pretty girl, but that was nothing to the gorgeous woman she’d grown into.

He would have bet money that the jeans hugging those legs like a second skin were her own design, and the silky red shirt sliding artfully off one shoulder but never quite falling looked like it had come straight from the fashion week runway. The way Marinette filled it, though, was far more distracting than any model could have ever made it.

The pigtails were another thing that was gone, but he didn’t spare them more than a moment of nostalgia, because the blue-black satin of her hair was caught up in a knot that left the smooth line of her neck bare, and that was a whole other train of thought that he cut off quickly. He looked up to find that she was watching him with a quizzical expression, and he managed to answer it with a smile of his own before Rose noticed him standing there.

“Luka!” she called out. “You have got to see what Marinette’s come up with for us!”

She was practically bouncing, and shoved the sketchbook at him. He looked at Marinette, one eyebrow raised in a question, before he opened it.

“If Marinette’s okay with that,” he said. Marinette’s mouth lifted in a smile at that.

“Marinette’s okay with that,” she told him, and he opened the cover. The slim book was full of designs and scribbled ideas and notes on wedding dresses. He’d seen her fourteen year old designs, and been impressed by them, but this… this was a whole other level, which, he supposed, wasn’t surprising. He turned through the pages slowly. He paused on one that was clearly meant for Juleka.

“Wow,” he said softly.

“That’s one of my favourites, too,” Marinette said. She’d come to look over his shoulder, and he was finding that rather unsettling for some reason. “Juleka’s so elegant, she could wear just about anything, but I like that structure for her.”

“It feels like her.” He glanced up at Marinette. “Dangerous edges, with just a bit of sweetness underneath.”

Marinette turned another few pages, and waited for Luka to find it.

“Rose,” he grinned back at her. “Channelling her inner Disney princess?”

“The brief was Sleeping Beauty, live action, but more -” Marinette gestured extravagantly, opening her eyes wide, and from the table where she was perched, Rose stuck out her tongue at them.

“It’s my wedding, and I’ll princess if I want to,” Rose sniffed.

Luka glanced back at the sketch, and was impressed all over again. Marinette had somehow turned flowers and glitter and pink and Rose into a few lines of charcoal and caught it on the page. Her own special brand of magic.

On the other side of the room, Juleka looked up from her phone.

“I’ve just ordered takeaway, and Ivan and Mylène are on their way,” she told them, and levelled a look at Marinette. “You are staying, aren’t you?”

By the time Marinette had been talked into it, and Ivan and Mylène had turned up in a bustle of exclamations and hugs and chatter, Luka had recovered something of his equilibrium. As darkness fell over the river and the lights strung up across the boat spilled a soft light over the deck, Luka handed Marinette a glass of wine and settled into the deck chair beside her.

“You’re wearing a tie these days,” she said with a hint of mischief, and he glanced down at the shirt he’d rolled up over his tattooed forearms and the tie he’d forgotten he was still wearing. “I never pictured you in the kind of career that would need a tie.”

He pulled himself together enough to smile easily back at her. “Well, it’s been a while. A few things have changed. I see you’re not wearing those pigtails anymore,” he teased her, and her hand went to the soft satin twist of her hair.

“No.” Marinette leaned back in the chair, her wine glass in hand, and her eyes were on Rose and Ivan arguing amicably about something. There was an indefinable sense of distance in her that had never been there when they were kids, and he wondered what had happened to put that there.

“So when did you get back in touch with Jules? She didn’t mention that she’d seen you.”

“I was showing a couple of pieces at something Juleka was modelling at a while ago. We bumped into each other backstage, and when she mentioned that she and Rose were getting married I offered to make up the dresses for them. My wedding present to them,” she said with a self-conscious smile, and Luka couldn’t help a soft laugh.

“Only you would do that for someone you haven’t seen in years.”

“They’re still friends.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Like you wouldn’t do the same.”

Rose was standing on a stack of crates now, singing something about rainbows, while Juleka hooked an arm around her to keep her from overbalancing and Mylène snorted with laughter. Marinette looked over at them a little wistfully.

“It’s nice to be back in touch with the old Kitty Section crew,” she admitted. “It was nice to reconnect with Juleka… and you. I’ve missed that.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Luka said quietly. “Do you see much of the old school crowd?”

Marinette shrugged. “Not really. I run into Adrien from time to time. I see him at the fashion shows sometimes, but honestly, once we get past the awkward reminiscing about collège, and industry stuff, we don’t really have a whole lot to talk about these days. I’ve sort of lost touch with everyone else.”

“How about Alya?” he asked. Luka had never really warmed to the brash journalist-in-the-making, with all her Adrien-schemes, but she’d been best friends with Marinette back in the day.

“No.” The one word was oddly expressionless. “I haven’t see her in a few years.”

There was a heartbeat when he thought she was going to say something else, then those lashes of hers dropped. Instead, when she looked up again there was that mischievous spark in her eyes again, and she said, “So what convinced you to put on a tie? Although I notice you didn’t get rid of your blue hair.” Was that an approving note in her voice? He ran his hand a little self-consciously through the longer, teal-tipped sweep of his dark hair, rubbing at the shorter hairs at the back of his neck. “What are you doing these days?”

“Playing the occasional gig whenever I get the chance, selling my music from time to time, teaching…”

“Teaching?”

He named the lycèe.

“Lucky students.” Marinette tilted her head to regard him speculatively, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I’m having a hard time seeing you as M. Couffaine, though.”

“Just Luka. I’m the cool teacher that half the faculty hates because I undermine authority.”

“And the other half madly crush on,” Marinette suggested, and Luka felt himself flush. She could still throw him off-balance, all these years later, although it was in a different way now. The fourteen year old Marinette he remembered would never have been able to say something like that without self-combusting, but here she was, watching him with that mischievous glint in her beautiful blue eyes, and it was just another reminder that things had changed.

“What about you?” he deflected. He gestured at the sketchbook she’d left on a nearby table with her handbag. “Following the dream?”

She gave a wry little smile. “Oh, I got through my degree in fashion design somehow, and I’ve been running a bespoke atelier out of my bedroom. It’s not huge, but it pays the bills, and at least it gives me a certain amount of … flexibility.” Luka couldn’t understand the slight twist of her mouth at the word, but she had it smoothed out before he could be sure he’d really seen it. “And Ja… a few high profile people have been very kind and sent work my way.”

Luka felt certain he knew who the celebrity had been. For that alone, he could forgive his father a lot. There was a long silence while Marinette contemplated her empty wine glass, then she met his eyes.

“You have no idea how sorry I am that I broke up with you like that, right when you were going through everything with... I just made everything worse, and it wasn’t fair on you. I never really found a way to tell you that I was sorry for everything.”

“Marinette, no!” Luka straightened in his deckchair, a faint frown crossing his face. “We were kids. I’ve always felt badly that I put you under more pressure when you were clearly having a hard time with something.”

“There was a fair bit of that going around,” she conceded, and let out a shuddering breath that he didn’t realise she’d been holding. “But you have nothing to apologise for, you had every right to be upset about how I treated you. I regret a lot of things about back then.”

“I don’t regret that we tried,” Luka said with unintentional intensity, and Marinette’s eyes widened a little. “But I do regret that I lost you out of my life altogether. You always had the most fascinating way of seeing things, and I missed just hanging out and talking to you.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me after all that. And I thought it was saf -“ she cut herself off abruptly, changing what she’d been going to say, “- better if I stayed away.”

He shook his head, but didn’t say anything in response.

She gave him a sidelong look. “I never really got the chance to ask you, did you… how did things go with Jagged in the end? Do you talk to him?”

Luka’s expression turned wry. “It’s complicated. It’s always complicated with Jagged, but we talk a bit. He’s going to be there for the wedding. Not sure how that’s going to go.”

Marinette made a sympathetic noise. He thought for a moment that she was going to ask him for the details, but instead, with another swift, perceptive glance from those blue eyes of hers, she changed the subject.

“So what’s teaching like, M. Couffaine?” she asked lightly, and he settled back to tell her some of his stories, enjoying the ripple of laughter he drew from her over his students’ antics, and the chuckles she surprised out of him with her own tales about clients and their most outrageous demands. He had no idea how late it had grown when the conversation was interrupted by a chorus of phones chiming all at once from various corners of the Liberty. Ivan was the first to reach his.

“Akuma alert,” he sighed. “Aw, man, they’ve shut down septième. Traffic getting home is going to be hell.”

“What’s the bet that it’s the Eiffel Tower again?” Juleka muttered.

Mylène was shaking her head. “Hawkmoth, and now Swallowtail, and there was that weird thing with the rats a few years ago, and the government keeps pretending that there’s nothing they can do as long as they can just dump it all on Ladybug and Chat Noir to deal with the problem. We’re still working on getting subsidies for mental health therapies, but they keep stonewalling us.”

Marinette was getting to her feet.

“I really should go,” she said reluctantly, and Luka stood as she gathered up her bag and sketchbook. “It was… really nice to catch up again, Luka. It’s been far too long.”

“Oh, but you’ll be back again soon, right?” Rose cut in before Luka could say anything. “There’ll be fittings for the wedding dresses, and we’re not letting you lose contact again like that. We’ve missed you, right, Luka?”

Luka ignored Rose’s unsubtle nudge, and Marinette said her goodbyes to the rest of their friends.

“It’s good to see you again, Marinette,” he told her, and accepted the light bise she brushed against his cheek. He caught a hint of vanilla and sugar as she leaned in, and oh hell, it suddenly hit him why the smell of cookies had always left him with a faint and peculiar sense of homesickness when his mother had never baked a cookie in her life. He closed his eyes briefly, and let Marinette go before he could do something stupid.

Luka watched her safely down to the dock, and he absolutely was not fixating on the sway of those jeans as she walked away, holy crap, and turned back to meet Rose’s hopeful and utterly transparent look.

“So-oo,” his future sister-in-law said with overdone nonchalance. “You and Marinette looked like you were having a good time together.”

“Don’t go getting ideas, Ro.”

“Rose,” Juleka muttered warningly from the bench where she was sitting, but Rose ignored her.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently. “I just want you to be happy Luka. It looked like you were really happy tonight. And it was great to see Marinette again.”

“No ideas,” he repeated, and Rose gave him a look of deep disappointment. She started collecting the empty takeaway containers, while Luka rounded up the glasses. Rose dropped a kiss on Juleka’s mouth on the way past, and flitted down into the galley. Juleka heaved a put-upon sigh, and swung herself gracefully to her feet, scooping up a couple of stray cushions.

Luka picked up Marinette’s wineglass, with the soft pink imprint of her lipstick.

“You didn’t mention that Marinette would be coming round,” he said, his back to his sister. “You didn’t mention that you’d been in touch with her again.”

Juleka shrugged, and dumped the cushions in one of the storage boxes on the deck. “Didn’t think it mattered. It was ten years ago. You’re not still hung up on what happened back then, are you?”

“No, of course not.” And he was pretty sure that was true. This felt like he’d been blindsided by Marinette Dupain-Cheng in a whole new way.

#lukanette #pro lukamari #see the light #this is disney nerds #julerose wedding #they're still idiots #tangled

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porkchop-ao3 · 4 years ago

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A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 65)

“I Miss You”

It’s been so long again, at this point I think it’s expected 😅 Anyway, I’m here and I’m bringing smut! I have my ending all planned out now so hopefully it wont be so long until the next chapter, but I’m not promising! 😬😅😘 Enjoy!

Tagging @emily-strange and @actuallyhansolo ❤

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

Between the pages of his journal I smiled, I pouted, I frowned, I slept, I had a picture for every emotion it seemed. The drawings were sometimes accompanied by little notes about what happened that day, and gave clues about why he drew me in such a way.

We spoke about Isaac today… it seems Dutch still hasn't figured out how to knock on a door... O'Driscolls found our camp, damn near slit her throat… I hope her dreams take her away from this god awful place…

I couldn't bring myself to read much of what he wrote. Just the first few words. I felt like I was invading his privacy a little too much, even if he did write about me. But as I moved through the journal I noticed that his drawings became different. The first few were portraits, mostly, and they pertained to a story from the day, almost like illustrations in the book of his life. But as it went on, the words disappeared and I found pages of studies, drawings of hands and lips and feet, different features and body parts like diagrams in a biology encyclopedia. Sometimes the same thing would be drawn three or four times. A mouth, in varying stages of completion, as if he kept giving up halfway through and starting again until he reached the final drawing, which was more complete.

I thought nothing of it at first. Practice, I guessed. But I noticed a few things that made me realise that I was looking at my own features. I realised it when I noticed the expanse of a neck leading up to a chin, and there was the scar given to me by the O'Driscolls. I saw a pair of hands holding my own Schofield revolver. I saw a pair of crossed ankles wrapped in boots the tips of which had scuffs in exactly the same place as my own boots did. The pages and pages of what I thought was anatomy practice was all of me.

Then my cheeks burned in a streak all the way up to the tips of my ears when I turned one page and was confronted with a drawing of my own body, laying naked atop sheets I recognised from our hotel room in Saint Denis. I was not posed in an artificial manner, I was sprawled, laying on my side with one knee hitched up, my arm laying limply on my waist. I was asleep. My heart pounded because there I was, as naked as the day I was born, and I'd never seen myself like that from such a perspective.

"You didn't say you'd drawn this," I breathed dumbly, then turned the book to show him. His eyes widened a little and his face immediately began to redden.

"I'm sorry, I'll toss it on the fire if I shouldn't have–"

"No, I don't want that at all. It's a surprise, that's all," I smiled.

"That day you said you'd like to be drawn like that so I… when you was sleeping I thought you looked real beautiful, so I drew that. I had every intention of showing you when you woke up but then I–" he paused and exhaled a laugh, "in the light of day, I just felt like a pervert."

I tutted and rolled my eyes playfully, "you're not a pervert, Arthur. You're the love of my life."

Something about it seemed to startle him, he looked at me suddenly, his mouth twitched. Then he smiled.

"You really mean that?"

"Is it only just sinking in how much I love you?" I chuckled.

I put the sketchbook aside then leaned down over him, sunk my chest to his and kissed his lips, framing his head with my arms to hold me up and not put my weight on him while he was still recovering from the wound on his torso. He pulled at my arm and patted my leg, encouraging me to swing a thigh over so my legs settled either side of his hips. His arms encircled my waist as he kissed me back, humming softly against my mouth, his chest subconsciously arching up to press more firmly against mine as if he wanted to feel the way my heart would beat when we kissed. It would always race, no doubt about it.

Our lips parted enough for him to whisper; "so, what do you think of that drawing?"

"I think you made me look good, thank you," I chuckled softly.

"I didn't make you look anything, that's just how you are, princess. I don't think I even fully managed to capture how incredible you looked that night," he whispered, sending warmth to my cheeks and my ears. His hands slid over my waist, rested low on my hips and I welcomed the feeling of his hands on me and closed my eyes, pressing my lips to his again.

I was so very tempted to get carried away, absorbed in the taste of his tongue and the sound of his breaths picking up and the smell of him so close in the confined space of the tent and– I pressed our foreheads together and broke the kiss.

"You should sleep, you got a lot going on," I began and a sound came from Arthur's throat that was almost like a scolded dog.

"I got too much going on to sleep right now," he murmured, his lips brushing against mine before he bared his teeth to give my bottom lip a cheeky nip.

"It'll keep you awake?"

"Mm," he hummed a lazy affirmation, "plus there ain't a part of my body that's ready to sleep now you been sitting on top o' me like this."

"Arthur," I breathed a laugh and kissed him again. His hands came from my hips to my backside, holding me and encouraging me to put more weight on him. I was worried about hurting him but his goal was apparent when he positioned me such that he could show me a part of him that was very much awake. "Are you crazy?" I laughed.

"Most likely, at this point," he muttered, hips shifting below me, as if eager to grind.

"After all that's happened these past few days, with that hole in your side– with the tatters of the gang just outside–"

"I don't care about any of that, princess, I miss you," he cut me off with a breathy whisper, and one hand came up to cup the back of my head, and he hugged me tight to him. My face naturally nestled into the space between his shoulder and his neck and he hummed a quiet sound when my lips kissed him there on their own.

"You miss me?" I questioned, words muffled but audible.

"Being in your embrace. In every sense, not just your arms. My love–" his words came out with just a little bit more emotion than he must've intended, given the sharp cut off he gave them. My heart dripped with a bittersweet warmth that settled in my belly. It wasn't exactly arousal that I felt, it was a sudden ache, an emptiness, a need. One that ought to be filled as quick as it appeared and could only be filled in one way.

I moved without hesitation, gathering my skirts, moving the fabric out of the way, scooping it into a pile and hugging it to my hip as I sat up. Movement pulled at the wounds on my legs but it didn't hurt in the moment. Or maybe I was healing quicker than I thought. But three hands descended upon Arthur's belt, and we worked together to open it up and free the buttons of his trousers. He hadn't anything on underneath his jeans – his last good union suit ruined by the gunshot in his side – so closing my hand around his hard length was an easy task. I thumbed the head and shifted the skin back and forth, earning a hiss of pleasure and a few moments later, a flow of clear stuff that I smeared, knowing the extra lubricant would help.

Then I let him go and brought my fingers to my tongue, coating them generously in spit that I then passed between my folds. This was happening spontaneously enough that I'd appreciate the help, but my own arousal was beginning to slick me enough so that when I lowered down–

"Jesus Christ–" Arthur gasped. He held his cock for me as I took him in, inching slowly down until I was settled, my insides hugging hım entirely. Something akin to the growl of a timber wolf built in Arthur's throat as he adjusted to the heat of my body, and his hands settled on the space between my hips and my thighs with a tight grip that put indentations in my flesh.

I wasn't planning on making this a slow and lengthy affair and I was quick to start moving, rolling my hips back and forth and guiding his cock in and out. The slow pull, rub of the tip passing over the most pleasurable spot inside me took my breath away and urged my movements to become more frantic. It was happening quickly, we were moving fast, Arthur's hands pushed and pulled and helped my motion with just as much vigor as the pace I had set. The tent bounced our breathless sounds back to my ears and somewhere in my mind I hoped that they couldn't be heard on the other side of it.

I wasn't ashamed enough to stop, however, even if they could be.

I pulsed and squeezed around his cock and Arthur released shaky little grunts, strangled sounds that wanted to be louder, I could tell. But he did a good job of keeping the volume down and I was hell bent on doing the same. I bit down on my bottom lip, trapping it between my teeth almost painfully. It tingled and I thought of when Arthur had nipped me there before and a moan threatened to escape.

"Let– let me see you, please, princess," his words were clipped and breathless, coming out in short and jerky bursts as one of his hands reached for the buttons on my blouse. I sat up and shakily unbuttoned them down to the waist of my skirt, and I pulled on the drawstrings that gathered the fabric of my corset cover until it opened up to reveal my corset and chemise.

It was far too spontaneous of a situation for me to fully undress and show myself but it seemed just the sight of my underthings was enough to rile him up. A tightly tethered moan just barely left his lips and his large hand roughly skimmed up the front of my corset, over the smooth material and firm boning, until he reached the top where my breasts were lifted, giving him enough of the soft flesh to grab at. He cupped one breast and gave a gentle squeeze over my chemise and the warmth of his hand through the fabric had me arching towards him. It changed the angle of his cock inside me and I gasped, my own hand flying down between my legs to rub and chase my orgasm.

"I'm almost there," he stammered breathlessly, his head clawing back into the sheets of his bedroll, his long hair messily splaying out like a halo above his head. I slipped my free hand between the buttons of his shirt and kept my hand in the warmth. My fingers skimmed sideways and I found his nipple, rubbing over it thoughtlessly and receiving a buck of his hips and a slackening of his jaw in response. He was going to cum and unless I wanted him to do it inside me, I knew I had to do something.

I quickly lifted my hips and wrapped my hand around his cock, keeping it nestled warmly between my thighs as I jerked him quickly. He moaned once, only once but it was a loud and thoughtless one that could absolutely be heard by anyone who happened to be awake. But he clamped his own hand over his mouth as he spilled, marking my thighs and his own body, his seed flowing down until it was caught in the hair surrounding the base of his cock. My hand was slick with the stuff and the wet sounds of its motion was almost as loud as Arthur's moan but I kept going anyway, until I could wind him down and slow to a stop.

He panted with exhaustion despite having been laid back the whole time, and I smirked down at him, letting out a tiny laugh. His eyes peeled open and up to me, his long lashes catching the light of the lantern and glowing a brassy blonde.

"I finished too quick for you, didn't I, my darlin'?" He said, his tone a little playful and a little more self deprecating than I liked to hear. I rolled my eyes a little but he reached between my legs, ever so gently rubbing at my folds, coating his fingers in my wetness before finding my favourite position over my clit.

I shuddered and sagged forwards a bit, holding myself up with arms either side of his broad shoulders. His fingers rubbed me rhythmically and quick, quickening my breaths and heart rate. My orgasm had been fast approaching before we stopped and he easily brought me back to the brink, and I mewled softly under my breath, tilting my hips to lean into his hand as he whispered to me.

"That's it princess, let me see you cum," he said, "show me them pretty eyes," he added, and I lifted my gaze to him. In the low light, his eyes appeared a darker blue than they usually did, looking deeper and hungrier than I had seen in a while. So full of want and love that I wanted to kiss him, but I was close to my climax and I was soon too distracted to get my body to move.

"I'm gonna cum," I breathed, my hips fidgeting, almost rutting. Arthur made a low, vibrating hum deep in his chest that sounded deliciously indulgent and dirty. He sped up the circles he made on my clit and the pleasure built. It built and built until it peaked, and with a gasp my body shook as my orgasm exploded. He rubbed me through it, prolonging the pleasure as I breathed heavily, and try as I might to keep quiet, small mewles of pleasure escaped me as my hips rocked against his hand.

I leaned over him, my hands holding me up above his head, his eyes followed me, fingers still sliding through the wetness between my legs. He had a small smirk on his face, just a flash of his teeth exposed. I exhaled a small laugh through my nose at the expression, it was almost a proud one, pleased with himself. I leaned down and kissed him once, but his free hand pressed into my belly and pushed me slightly.

"Don't mess your shirt up," he warned in a whisper, and I was reminded of the mess we'd made. In the distance, I heard the rushing sound of a geyser erupting, and I could've laughed at the timing.

"Yeah, let's clean up," I nodded. Arthur exhaled heavily, reaching into his satchel to retrieve a handkerchief stained with gun oil, using it to mop away the mess on his belly and fingers. I took it from him and cleaned my own hands, making a plan in my head to heat up some water for us in the morning to clean up properly before Arthur left to run his errands. For now though, it would have to do, and I adjusted my clothes and rolled off of him, settling in beside him.

"Thank you, princess," he exhaled, his eyes closing as he rested a hand over the wound on his side delicately.

"Thank you?" I chuckled.

"I needed that," he added, and I watched the corner of his mouth lift.

"Yeah, I think I did too," I laughed softly, and took hold of his other hand where it lay beside me.

"What a God damn mess we're all in," he laughed as well. It was like he was too tired and too at ease in the afterglow to take any of our recent problems seriously.

"Just a few days and we'll be gone sweetheart, don't you worry about it," I told him anyway, squeezing his hand.

"Yeah. Just a few days," he repeated.

I lifted his hand to my mouth, pressing kisses over his knuckles, each finger, the side of his wrist… his breaths were steadying out and I kissed him until he fell asleep, the weight of his hand increasing as it grew limp in mine.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #fanfiction #arthur morgan x female reader #atink #rdr2fanfic #arthurmorganfanfic #reader insert

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anjuschiffer · 4 years ago

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Following the Unknown

Okay, so sometime ago, I wrote something up about another soulmate au that was inspired from a dream I had (and for some reason I can’t find it in my archives...f* you Tumblr! And if anyone remembers what I’m talking about, think you can send me a link? Cuz I can’t find it QQ).

So the AU concept went something like this:

Some people know they have soulmates because they can hear their soulmate’s voice. If you’re lucky enough, you can actually see them, or rather their silhouette in the form of a swarm of leaves, that trail away once your soulmate stops talking to you. These leaves fly off and sometimes if you chase them, lead you to your soulmate. However, if they go on, that means that your soulmate isn’t close. Some people have feathers as guides, however, those who have seen these feathers and followed them are guaranteed to see their soulmates...but only at the brink of death. People dread to have feathers guide them to their soulmate, despite their gold color.

The only con of this soulmate bond is that only those with the bond can see the glowing white leaves, no one else can see the leaves but those with that type of bond.

And I haven’t touched the au until I was listening to Into the Unknown...

With that explanation out of the way, I hope you enjoy it!

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Song: Into the Unknown by Idina Menzel | Daminette Soulmate Au

Context: Damian is 17 years old, never once telling anyone he had a soulmate bond. Mari is 16, her soulmate bond appearing that very year, something she always wanted, but hated that it was at the worst time to receive a bond. After all, defeating Hawkmoth was her top priority.

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Tag: @theatreandcomicfreak @damianette-is-life

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AO3

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Damian stirred in his bed, a whisper ringing in his ears. Attempting to block them out, Damian wrapped his pillow over his head, his knuckles turning white as he did so.

Damian threw the pillow to the side, wincing at the voice that echoed within his head. Struggling to get up, Damian quickly drew out his sketchbook, flipping to the back of it. There, a meticulously set of dates were written and organized, a tip of a quill meeting the page, Damian writing down a new date.

Ever since his 16th birthday, he had been having these effects, a voice whispered to him.

It was soft, soothing, but annoying all at the same time.

Hello. It would whisper. Can you hear me?

I can hear you but I won't.

Of course he was able to. It bothered him to the ends of the Earth, causing him to become distracted at school and during patrols.

He regretted ever answering back to them after they kept trying to contact them for four solid months.

With that single response, he had been able to hear the voice clearer, causing the noise to grow stronger, something that Damian hated.

Because of it, his grades slowly slipped, but Damian had managed to keep them up. Patrol, however, was another story.

He kept getting a scolding from his father and brother, causing his mood to sour even more.

He already had a pretty shitty sleep schedule and the noise just made it worse.

He would awaken at random times during the middle of the night, ranging from one in the morning to four. He rarely got them at five and six, but nonetheless had them then as well.

Ignore your whispers which I wish would go away

Damian got back to bed, hoping to fall back to sleep as he heard the noise stay with him. Damian didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but he did, nonetheless when the noise had whispered to him.

Sorry.

And the voice remained quiet for the remainder of the night.

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“-and only one in every three million have this type of soulmate bond.” Damian paused the video, writing something down in his notepad, circling the new piece of information.

The Wind Bond.

A bond that those who had it describe it to be like a wind itself.

It caused you to hear the voice of your soulmate, ever so softly heard like a midsummer breeze.

The soulmate’s voice would only grow stronger if they were close by.

Those who had a romantic version of the bond would also see their soulmate’s silhouette in the form of leaves, scattering into the air if you managed to see it.

However, only the people with the bond were able to see and hear their soulmate.

It was also because of this that people called it the Wind Bond; many only faintly heard the voice of their soulmate and almost never got to ingrain the silhouette of their soulmate, causing them to lose all hope in ever seeing their soulmate.

It was hard to catch, hard to believe, just like the wind.

As Damian tapped in pencil against the table, the noise returned, Damian dropping his pencil to cradle his head.

You're not a voice, you're just a ringing in my ear.

With shaky hands, Damian reached for the headphones laying on his desk.

Damian paired them to his phone and put music to drown the noise, his shoulders relaxing when he could no longer hear it.

I'm sorry, secret siren, but I'm blocking out your calls.

Damian looked at what he had written, huffing at the paper.

Why would he ever believe in this?

Soulmates?

Damian ripped the paper and tossed them into his metal trash can. Seeing that all of the pieces were inside, Damian opened his desk drawer, rummaging through it until his hand found a small rectangular-like item.

Flicking the lighter, Damian took the final piece of his ‘research’ and lit it on fire, tossing it in with the rest, watching as smoke rose from the can.

Soulmates…

Why would he ever think he had one?

Even if he did have one, he shouldn’t care.

They were unnecessary, a hindrance to him…

At least his mother and grandfather told him.

As he watched the last ember die, Damian went back to studying, the ringing fading from his mind.

------

Damian’s eyes widened as his eyes caught the thing behind him.

He had just gotten past the manor’s gates when he heard someone call out to him.

Turning, Damian found a girl made of softly glowing bluebell leaves.

He watched as they soon scattered into the air, Damian taking a step forward before going into a sprint.

He had the Wind Bond. And the romantic type at that.

Romance…

Love…

Chasing…

Damian quickly came to a stop, watching as the leaves finally left his view.

I'm afraid of what I'm risking if I follow you

Damian didn’t know for how long he was standing at where he was, but when he was done accepting what had happened to him, he let out a long deep sigh.

A soulmate, huh?

He would just have to try his best to ignore it.

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Damian dug his nails into his hands, the noise coming back inside his head, and at the worst possible time.

What do you want?

He was busy trying to concentrate on the math problem in front of him, the clock ticking as his professor reminded the class of the time constraint.

“There’s ten minutes left!”

Are you here to distract me so I make a big mistake?

Damian wanted to scoff at the answer, racking everything he learned to solve the integration before him. It was the only thing left, but for some reason he just couldn’t seem to figure it out.

Just breath.

He did.

Recheck your fourth to last step. That’s where-

“Five minutes!”

Damian quickly rescanned his work for the twentieth time, finally noticing where he had gone wrong. Reworking that step, Damian began to internally grin as he confidently finished the rest, smiling when he placed his pencil down and the professor called time.

Damian hated to admit it, but was glad to be able to hear her voice clearly this time around.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the next class, Damian quickly walking out to get to it.

Thank you.

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“-I simply did what I had to do!” Damian yelled, a snarl present on his face.

“You endangered the civilians inside the building!” Dick yelled, throwing a glare at Bruce. “And you allowed him to-”

“It was necessary for the mission.” Bruce simply stated, walking out the cave, leaving Dick with his feelings.

“I thought you had changed B!” Dick yelled, grabbing his coat. “Seems like you haven’t.”

Damian watched as Dick left, wanting to call him back, but knew that he shouldn’t. Instead, he went off to his own room, heading straight to the shower to get rid of the sweat that made his shirt cling to his body as if it were a second skin.

As he stood under the steaming hot water, Damian pondered to himself.

While he always held his father in high regards, Damian struggled to follow his standards, finding himself to lean more towards Dick’s. Who was right? Who did he have to follow? To please? Who’s standard should he even begin to follow?

Neither.

But he had to.

But don’t you already have your own set?

He did.

Then follow it.

Damian pursed his lips, turning off the water.

Why should he follow his own instead of one laid out before him?

Because if you try to meet the standards someone placed for you, you’re going to burn out quicker. You will start to lose yourself. Believe me. I’ve been there and hated it. Every. Second.

Damian kept wondering about the words the voice told him, catching the resentment behind them.

Despite having lived under the same roof as his father and older brother for seven years, Damian could still measure the tension between themselves. The air was suffocating, made his breathing heavy and felt off.

Or are you someone out there who's a little bit like me?

They did mention having to choose a decision and regretting it.

They had been through it…

Was it when he told them to take the ring from the other person she was fighting with?

If so, were they once like him? Did they once have these unwanted thoughts? Thoughts of fleeing?

Who knows deep down I'm not where I'm meant to be?

Damian shook his head, throwing himself onto his bed, Titus laying beside him.

As he laid in bed, Damian closed his eyes, replaying the day he stopped chasing the bluebell leaves.

Damian found himself reaching towards the ceiling, grabbing one of the leaves. He watched as the bluebell turned red before it slipped out of his hand.

Damian quickly chased after it, stopping as he reached the edge of the manor’s garden, watching as the red leaf turned bluebell once more and disappeared into the distance.

His hand reached out in an attempt to grab it again, despite knowing it was futile.

Don't you know there's part of me that longs to go

Into the unknown

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Are you out there?

“-you alright Bugaboo?” Ladybug blinked as she registered what Chat had said, finally facing him after scanning their surroundings. “Is there something-”

“You didn’t hear that?”

“Hear what?” Chat asked, tilting his head, his ear twitching in anticipation.

Marinette looked to her side once again, wondering what the hell was happening to her.

Migraine? No, definitely not.

“Do you really-” Ladybug was about to ask, only to get interrupted by Chat.

“Seems like you can do it with a day off.” Chat said with a grin, twirling his baton. “You know, maybe a date at-”

Marinette zoned out Chat’s voice, wondering what was going on. She swore she had heard someone call out to her, a smooth voice that sent chills down her spine. But despite that, she felt curiosity behind that whisper.

“-and who knows? We might find out that we’re actually-”

“Soulmate.”

“You mean soulmates.” Chat tried to correct, watching as Ladybug’s face pale. “Bugaboo. What-”

“My soulmate bond.” She whispered, feeling a lump in her throat. “I got my soulmate b-”

“Does that mean-!”

“No.” Ladybug said, sternly looking at Chat. “We’re not soulmates.”

“How are yo-”

“When I asked if you heard that, you said no.”

“And what does that-”

“My soulmate bond has to do with hearing each other’s voices. Our thoughts.” Ladybug watched as Chat’s smile dropped, his eyes turning dull. “You’re not my- Chaton!” Marinette yelled out as Chat ran away from her, using his baton to launch himself to who knows where.

Sighing, Marinette called off her transformation, Tikki flying up to Marinette’s cheek. “Why now? Why now of all times?”

“I wish I had the answer to that Marinette, but even we have no knowledge on how soulmate bonds are assigned and given. If we did-”

“I always wanted a soulmate bond.” Marinette confessed, Tikki giving her a small smile. “But to think I would get one right now, with Hawkmoth-”

“It’s going to be alright Marinette.” Tikki assured, snuggling closer. “It’s going to be alright, you’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right Tikki. I really hope you are right.” Marinette said, embracing Tikki in her own way.

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Do you know me?

Or rather do you remember me?

Marinette had not heard back from her soulmate in a solid month, wondering what was going on.

Was it just a fluke?

“I don’t think so.” Tikki said, munching on a cookie. “While we may not know everything about soulmate bonding, we do know some basic principles. Using those, I’m pretty sure you have a soulmate bond. It’s just taking a while to settle into your life. Well, lives.”

Marinette sighed, placing her head on her desk, attempting to reconnect with her soulmate for the umpteenth time.

Months continued to pass, Marinette now dealing with a tantrum-throwing Chat and an unresponsive soulmate.

Yes, the soulmate bonding was supposed to be the least of her worries, but how can Marinette ignore the fact that she hadn’t heard from them in three months?

In attempts to push it to the back of her mind, Marinette focused on retrieving the cat miraculous from Chat.

Another month passed when a miracle occured.

Marinette was sick and tired of playing cat and mouse with Chat, promising herself to try this one last time before she officially gave up on taking back the cat miraculous.

They were once more fighting an appearance changing akuma, the akuma changing the appearance of any person they touched, Marinette doing everything in her power to avoid being touched. What should she do? She didn’t want to be a useless fish nor-

Take it when he gets hit by his opponent.

Marinette stiffed at those words, feeling as if he knew then from experience himself.

Marinette didn’t get a response, but stuck with their advice, watching for her opportunity to rise.

An hour later, there it was.

As she flung him out of harm’s way, she slipped the ring off of him, her eyes closed as she renounced his ownership of the ring and of Plagg.

A single tear slipped as he heard him scream at her. As he begged her to reconsider.

Ladybug simply ignored the growing guilt in her chest, but knew it was for the best.

With a final tug at her yo-yo, Ladybug took down the akuma and prepared herself to be the hero Paris truly needed.

Back at home, Marinette hugged her pillow, crying her heart out as she started to doubt her decision from earlier that day.

Sorry.

———

A month had passed since that day, Marinette slumping into her bed as she de transformed. Plagg and Tikki quickly checked on their Guardian before going off to replenish their own energy.

With a heavy sigh, Marinette threw her arm over her forehead, feeling the tension in it.

Hawkmoth was still out there, searching for her, using all her allies against her. All but two.

Rena Rouge has the first out.

Then Carapace.

Lady Guêpe was forced to resign.

Then Chat Noir.

Ryuuko and Viperion remained, but at what cost?

But she couldn’t keep burdening them with her duties, with her life.

The trio were the only ones to protect Paris, although it was majorly Lady Chat in the scene.

Announcing to Paris that Chat was no longer going to aid with the defeat of Hawkmoth ended up turning for the worst, half of Paris wondering why Ladybug would ever do such a thing.

Why would she ever let Chat go when she needed him the most?

She ignored them, knowing it was for the greater good. She knew that what she did was necessary.

She wasn’t going to allow Chat to continue to corrupt Plagg, even Viperion and Ryuuko agreed with her.

And yes, she did always meet up with them...in their slightly hidden civilian forms.

While the previous guardian told her the importance of keeping their identities, Marinette’s morality began to waver.

If they wanted any chance of defeating Hawkmoth, they needed more trust with each other.

Yes, they can potentially leak out each other’s identities if akumatized, but she was willing to risk it.

So with Ryuuko and Viperion’s help, Ladybug sought a way to take down the enemy, once and for all.

Marinette’s thoughts soon became muddled, equations blurring into her mind.

She sat there, cradling her mind as math flooded her head, a concerned Tikki rushing to her.

They are rushing it.

They had to use substitution there, not the answer they got in the first part.

What do you want?

Are you here to distract me?

No.

Just breath.

Recheck your fourth to last step. That’s where-

The voice faded, becoming a soothing hum. Mari felt as her shoulders relaxed, only then noticing she had then square and tense.

She decided to sit up, eyeing her sketchbook.

When was the last time she opened it?

Just as she turned to a clean page, Marinette started to sketch, writing the word red at the side.

That’s when she heard her soulmate say something she thought they were never going to say to her.

Thank you.

Giddiness filled her imagination, Marinette got to designing, Plagg and Tikki smiling as they watched her emerge herself into her work.

———

Marinette placed a final pin into her alterations when her head began to angrily hum.

Who’s standard should I follow?

Marinette wondered what was going on with her soulmate that made them question and doubt the morality standards around them. But if she went off experience…

Neither.

But I have to choose a side.

Don’t you have your own set of morals? Principles?

I do.

Then follow them.

Why can’t I just choose one of the ones laid before me?

Because if you keep trying to choose one of them, you’re going to burn out. You’re going to lose yourself. And you’ll hate it. Every. Second. That passes.

Marinette began to panic when she didn’t hear anything said back, looking at Tikki for some type of explanation.

Tikki simply looked at her with sad eyes while Plagg purred against Marinette’s cheek, Marinette deflating upon not getting an answer to her situation.

———

Can you feel me?

The voice asked, Damian debating on whether to answer it.

Because, no. He couldn’t feel them, but certainly did feel their emotions

He had been for the past half year.

And he knew that whoever they were, they were either a hero or vigilante.

He was able to clearly feel their emotions and hear their thoughts when they finally defeated someone called Hawkmoth.

He had tried to ask them who it was, but they never responded, quickly changing the subject.

Mostly about their upcoming schedule.

Something about having to make a dress for some event they were invited to.

He remembers telling them about him being in the same boat, having to get his measurements taken for a new suit for the gala.

Can you show me?

Their bond only allowed them to hear each other.

And our silhouettes. They added.

“Master Damian, there you are.” Alfred spoke, Damian looking over at his grandfather (not that he would ever say it out loud).

“Is this about the gala? I presume Father wants me to do something for him.”

“More like remind you of how-“

“I won’t let some random harlots try to seduce me.” Damian stated firmly, picking up Alfred the cat. “They can try, but I will not waver.”

Alfred let a smile out, giving a few words for thought before leaving.

Damian sighed, going back to his conversation. Or at least attempted.

He tried to say something to his soulmate, but never got a response…

Not even as he tried to talk to her for the next few weeks.

———

Marinette stood by the punch bowl, watching as everyone around her talked like old time friends, chatting away into the night.

She rubbed her hands against her bare arms, wondering why someone like her was even at the Wayne Gala.

Oh right. She was personally invited because of her other identity: M.

M - the mysterious designer that had taken the fashion world upside down with their presence and style.

Marinette sighed, taking her glass of champagne and walking towards the balcony, not a single set of eyes following her crystal embedded red dress that stood out like a sore thumb.

Leaning against the stone railing, Marinette huffed, twirling the glass between her fingers, watching as the champagne sizzled as it swirled.

Finding herself bored, Marinette hummed to herself, wishing she was still able to talk to her soulmate.

Ever since that night a few weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to contact them, even Tikki growing worried as to why it was happening.

Marinette missed talking to them, even if their relationship did start on the wrong foot.

She missed them...dearly.

As Marinette continued to hum to herself, something caught her attention; a single emerald glowing leaf flew into her line of sight, her breath hitching.

It continued to fly away, into the hall in which the gala was taking place.

Where are you going? Don't leave me alone

Without a second thought, Marinette quickly followed it, not caring about the stares she was gathering as she pushed her way through the crowds.

She stumbled a bit as she saw the butterfly take a corner, almost losing it in the process.

How do I follow you

Into the unknown

Marinette quickly called out Kaalki, giving out an order to bring Mullo to her.

As soon as she had made it out into the open, Mullo quickly joined Marinette into the chase, multiplying to help with the search.

Marinette’s heart beat louder and stronger as she watched the butterfly begin to pulse brighter than ever before, a smile growing unbeknownst to Mari.

The joy died done when the butterfly stopped going, hovering in the middle of the garden which Mari found herself at.

Finally having a moment to breath, Marinette looked around herself, hedges and rows of flora surrounded her, shades of camellias encircling her. In the distance, she noticed some blue salvias, the tips peeking from under bushes.

Why was she brought here?

Here of all places?

Her thoughts were broken when she heard a pair of shoes click their way towards her, Marinette watching as the shadowed figure became another person.

When their eyes met, a group of leaves burst around them, the soft bluebell mingled with the emerald ones, dancing around each other.

“So you’re my soulmate.” He started, Marinette wondering how he wasn’t breaking a sweat in the layers of formal attire. She also couldn’t help but notice that his suit had kevlar integrated.

“I must be if the leaves guided us to one another.” Marinette responded, wondering what to do next.

The two looked at each other, wondering who was going to take the next step when the man broke into a smile.

“Damian. My name's Damian Wayne.”

“Marinette.” She followed. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’m glad I found you, Damian.”

She really was.

She was happy to have followed the wind bond into the unknown.

Epilogue/Bonus:

Dick watched as Damian ran through the crowds in the gala.

“Damian! Where-“

“Somewhere!” Damian yelled, peaking Dick’s curiosity.

Dick waited until he saw him leave the hall before tailing him, having to pick up the pace when he almost lost sight of the boy a few times.

Dick wondered where exactly Damian was running off to, worry growing stronger when they had left the manor and were running into the garden.

He quickly tumbled into a hedge when he watched Damian slow down, following his gaze.

There, a few meters away, was a small stature girl with the most captivating red dress. The off-shoulder dress perfected fitted the girl’s small frame, Dick watching with the utmost glee as he saw Damian approach the girl.

Just as the two were three feet apart, Dick watched as a kaleidoscope of butterflies burst around them, leaving Dick starstruck.

He’d always heard of the wind bond, some of his friends telling him they had it. But this was the first time he’s ever seen it, let alone seen actual soulmates-

Soulmates…

HIS BROTHER HAD A SOULMATE AND NEVER TOLD HIM?!

Filled with hurt, Dick curled into a ball and stayed there in shock.

“Grayson. How long do you plan on staying there?”

Dick raised his head, watching how Damian attempted to keep a smile in check while his soulmate was wrapped around his arm. “Come on, the gala’s about to end. I need to make an announcement as it does.”

It took a quick second for Dick to figure out what he had meant by that.

“Damian! Don’t you dare-“

“Watch me.” Damian said with a grin, watching as the girl looked at Dick in confusion as Damian led her back inside.

Dick, however, didn't make it in time to warn their father, watching as Damian announced to the world about his soulmate… right as his own father was going to propose to Selina on live.

“That idiot.” Dick muttered, a smile still on his face as he watched Damian glow alongside his newfound love.

#maribat #daminette #maribat song inspired fic #daminette soulmates #maribat soulmate au #daminette soulmate au #anju writes

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thewritewolf · 4 years ago

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Well-Worn Note

Summary: When Adrien hears about a drive to give back to the heroes of Paris, he writes a heartfelt note telling Ladybug how much she is appreciated.

Years later, he finds that same note again in an unlikely place.

This fic has two reasons for existing! The first is that it celebrates the one year anniversary of my favorite server on Discord being created, and I have truly grown to love and appreciate it. Not to mention all the friends I've made through it!

The second reason - and what provided the specific inspiration for this story - comes from this post by @lnc2.

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

Adrien’s fingers wandered aimlessly among the keys of his piano. Sometimes he did it to think, to let his mind drift in a trance, but most of the time he just needed a reprieve from his thoughts altogether. To let himself be completely immersed in the music as it unfolded in front of him, changing from moment to moment.

The music was a great escape. It was hard to hold onto frustration and anger when he was at the piano. Adrien suddenly froze and groaned. At least, it was a great escape as long as his mind didn’t circle back to what he was trying to get away from in the first place. Thoroughly back in the present, he walked over to his computer to look for another distraction.

Naturally, his first stop was the Ladyblog. He was only two articles down when he saw her announcement for a special event for Heroes Day. There was going to be a drop off box where the grateful citizens of Paris can send gifts and notes to their favorite heroes. Alya had apparently already gotten Ladybug’s permission and Adrien wondered when that had happened.

“Yeah it was like two or three akumas ago.” Adrien started before noticing Plagg, who continued talking with a smirk and a satisfied swish of his tail. “You were running out of time, but she had lots of it so she hung around to answer questions by the adoring public.” Plagg took a bite out of his cheese. “Guess that was when.”

“Huh…” Adrien said, the gears in his head already turning.

“What’s up? Already looking forward to all that cheese you’ll be getting?”

Adrien scrunched up his forehead. “Why would I be getting cheese?”

“Well what else are they going to send you? Cheese is obviously the best call.” Plagg tossed his wedge into the air and caught it with his mouth. The kwami floated off the desk.

“There’s loads better stuff than that! Like-” Adrien’s eyes widened. “Wait. This is a great opportunity!”

“What are you on about, kid?”

Adrien turned around in his seat to look at Plagg. “I could send Ladybug a present through the drop off!”

“...Kid you know her. You could just give her something next time you’re on patrol or something. Heck, you’ve done that before!”

“Yeah, but this is a chance to give her stuff she’d never accept from Chat Noir,” Adrien said, turning back to his desk. He pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen and started writing.

The gifts he could figure out later - maybe a flower or some jewelry or clothes - but the critical thing was getting his emotions onto paper. Several crumbled up failures later and he was carefully finishing his masterpiece. If that didn’t make her feel loved, nothing would.

“Well, don’t forget to sign it I guess,” Plagg reminded, sounding bored.

Adrien shook his head as he folded up the paper. “It’ll stay anonymous.”

“Huh? What’s the point then? I thought you were trying to get her to fall for you or whatever?”

“No. I just… I want her to know she’s appreciated and, well…” Adrien rubbed the back of his neck. “If I don’t sign it, it’ll be like if all of Paris sent her the letter, you know?”

“Not really, but whatever floats your boat, kid.”

By that time the following day, Adrien had picked out a few presents - a rose with a ribbon, a charm bracelet, and a few other things besides. Storing them and the note in a box, he wrapped it and dropped it off with Alya as soon as he could.

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

Years passed and before he knew it, Adrien and all his friends were graduating from school. It was a strange new world they were heading into - Nino had gotten a great opportunity to follow his dreams of being a DJ in Nice. Likewise, Alya had landed an internship as a journalist there. By the end of the summer, both of them would be moving out of Paris.

But not everything was changing. There were still akumas, which meant that Adrien needed to stay close at hand to keep Paris safe. At least he’d be in good company - Marinette had been accepted to a Parisian university where she could pursue her ambitions of becoming a great designer. Not that she wasn’t already, Adrien thought with a smile.

Their last summer together was bittersweet. Friends had come and gone over the years, but those four had stayed the best of friends for that entire time. Now it seemed to be coming to an end, even as they all tried to find their way in the world. Who knew when the whole gang would come together again?

Maybe it was helping Marinette move today that had gotten him thinking about it so much. Which was itself a nostalgic trip as they helped pack away mementos of their times together. How often had Adrien come over after school to play Ultimate Mecha Strike with Marinette? The movie nights all four of them had spent there?

Things got quieter when Alya and Marinette left to buy more boxes - even Marinette had underestimated just how much stuff she had to pack. Nino and Adrien joked around like usual, but there was a somberness under it all that they just couldn’t shake no matter how hard they tried to keep things lighthearted.

Adrien almost welcomed it when Nino fumbled one of the boxes and took their minds off of it. At least he would have if the box hadn’t torn open and disgorged its contents onto the floor.

“Dang, dude,” Nino said as he stared at the mess he’d made. “M’s gonna kill me for sure if this stuff got busted.”

“Don’t sweat it, man.” Adrien put a comforting hand on Nino’s shoulder. “See if you can scrap up another box somewhere. I’ll pick all this stuff up and get it ready.”

Nino tipped his cap at him. “Thanks bro. You’re a real everyday Chat Noir!”

Adrien rolled his eyes at the phrase. After he’d thrown that party for Marinette and made his little speech, everyone had started using it.

“No problem. Take your time, though,” Adrien added as he sat down on the floor. “Looks like I’m going to be here a while.”

“Right on.”

Something didn’t seem quite right when he got to work sorting through the stuff. It must’ve been one of the boxes that Marinette had already packed by the time they got there, since he didn’t recognize any of it at all.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. All of them stirred up memories - old sketchbooks that were filled and forgotten. Scraps of fabric from pieces that Adrien remembered her finishing years ago. An old black umbrella.

“She still has this?” Adrien murmured to himself in awe. He laid it back down reverently - if it weren’t for that umbrella, the two of them might not have been friends, after all.

That was when he saw it. At first, he thought it was just another notebook, but there was something poking out of the bottom of it that caught his eye. Curious, he reached for the book.

The final date was from three years ago, but he could tell from the wear on the spine that it had been opened and closed many, many times. He flipped open the book and the faint scent of a rose reached his nose. The book naturally opened up to a page that had a pressed rose tied with a ribbon on it. That must have been what was poking out of the bottom. Taking the flower, he spun it between his fingers and watched the ribbon dance around it. There was something oddly familiar about it, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

Something fell out of the book and drew his attention away from the preserved rose. It was a folded piece of paper. As he picked it up, he could feel from the softness of the paper that it had been unfolded and refolded many, many times.

Following in Marinette’s footsteps, he unfolded it once more.

At first, he could only cringe at it. Whoever had wrote it clearly had a crush on Marinette, but some sense of curiosity had gotten the better of him and he needed to keep reading. As he continued, there was a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that he’d seen this letter somewhere before. But that couldn’t be right, could it? Unless he-

His eyes widened. Unless he was the one who wrote it! But that made even less sense - he couldn’t remember ever writing Marinette a note where he thanked her for ‘saving the day more times than he cared to count’ nor where he called her ‘an inspiration to all of them’. Granted, he’d probably said stuff like that to her over the years but-

Then it hit him like a clap of thunder. The rose and its ribbon only confirmed it for him. As clear as day, he could remember writing this very letter years ago, but it wasn’t for Marinette - it was for Ladybug!

It all made sense. No one could figure out why Marinette had declined going to that school in London she’d really liked. Most of them had assumed it was just because she would miss Paris too much. But she could hardly fight akumas while she was in London, could she?

The door opens and Adrien looks up to see Marinette standing there like a figure from a dream.

She glances down to see the letter in one hand and the rose in the other. A blush spreads across her face, but he barely notices as he stands up. She is stammering something, but he can’t hear it over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Her bright blue eyes look up at him as he finally crosses the distance between them. He drops the note, forgotten immediately once again so he can cup her cheek with one hand. The rest of the world falls away as well as he whispers to her, quiet and sure:

“...My lady?”

#Miraculous Ladybug #Adrien Agreste #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Ladrien #ml fanfiction #my writing #Aged Up AU #(technically)#aps first anniversary #aps anniversary #Well-Worn Note

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modern-inheritance · 3 years ago

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Modern Inheritance: Art Therapy (Short)

(A/N: I still don’t know how to write Islanzadí but I needed to get my ‘Arya has always kinda been that person you don’t expect to have a sketchbook but does’ headcanon out of my brain. Have some really badly written, forced-out-at-11PM Islanzadí trying to be good!parent during MI!Eldest. Again, sorry for the quality, but I pushed myself to write this and I’ve been away from MI so long that it feels a little clunky to be writing it. Izzy is inconsistent and her reasons for doing things are all over the place and make zero sense. So yeah, you’ve been warned that it’s a jumbled cluster.)

MODERN INHERITANCE

ART THERAPY

Islanzadí paused at the door, inspecting it as one would inspect a patch of earth suspected of concealing a minefield.

It was too early in the morning to be called late, but too late in the night to be called early. While it wasn’t unusual for the queen’s daughter to be up at this hour due to recent events and their lingering after effects, it was unusual for the light to be on. Islanzadí could see it now, a faint line beneath the door. Two conflicting beams, the soft red glow of a teardrop lantern and a bright slash of white light, settled across the mossy floor at her feet.

Islanzadí did not hesitate out of fear. A mother did not, should not, fear facing her own daughter. She told herself that she hesitated out of respect. This was Arya’s room, her sanctum, after all. She called it a ‘base of operations’ in a close-to-home joke, the place she always returned to if she disappeared into the night to fight her inner demons side by side with old fyrn breoal. After everything that had happened the queen was loath to breach one more place of peace for her daughter.

Then again, it would not be the first time Islanzadí had entered in the dead of night, once more attuned to the natural instincts of a mother when her child is in danger. Finding her daughter curled in a corner with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees was painful, and the nights the queen had to wake the younger elf from the clutches of her dreams were worse.

The light on was something new. Something that she did not know how to react to. If Arya was awake then she didn’t want to intrude.

But if she was having trouble again….

Islanzadí carefully opened the door, just enough to peer inside.

Like many nights before, the queen saw that the bed was still made, corners tucked tight in the strict, military efficiency that Arya had picked up in years spent alongside Varden soldiers. A sleeping bag was on the floor beside the bed with a spare blanket bunched at its end from restless sleep. The makeshift indoor camp was lit by the teardrop lantern on the nightstand above, cast in strange, ruddy shadows.

Compared to the gentle glow of the lantern the white light was almost startling. A simple white werelight hovered just above the knotted, cup-like roots of the stand at Arya’s desk, bobbing and turning lightly with the imperceptible changes in the air.

Islanzadí breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she didn’t even realize she was holding in. Arya had an arm folded on the desk and her head rested on it, her left hand laid over a page and pencil still loosely in her relaxed grip. The woman had fallen asleep in the middle of her work.

With soft footsteps the queen padded into the room. It wouldn’t do to sleep in such a way. As she reached out to gently wake the younger elf though, the sight of what scattered the desk gave her pause.

What had to be over a dozen sketches littered the usually tidy surface. Islanzadí had known that Arya often drew when her mind was troubled, but she had never seen the results for herself. As gently as she could Islanzadí collected the papers together, curious at what had driven her daughter to such a late hour.

Brom started back at her from the first page, gruff around the eyes and holding his pipe up to his lips. The hard line of his jaw gave the impression that he had clamped his teeth down on the pipestem, soft clouds of smoke wafting up around his nose. It was the face of a man who was thinking and grumbling to himself in equal measure, but there was a softness to it that led Islanzadí to believe that whatever was giving him such trouble was something he deeply cared about.

One was of a campsite. Brom was still present, perched on a rock with his ever-present pipe in hand and using it as a pointer as he called criticism to the two young men that danced around the burned down fire at the center of camp. One was obviously Eragon, Zar’roc a sudden streak of pastel red in an image that was dominated by only two other shades: the ebony of the pencil and the expanse of shaded blue that made up Saphira where she crouched beside Brom. The other man was unfamiliar to the elvish queen, but she suspected the lean youth with near-black hair and hand-and-half sword was Murtagh.

Islanzadí’s chest tightened when she shifted to the next page. It, and the one following, were done in what appeared to be frantic, almost manic motions. Most of the paper was dominated by deep grey, walls and barred windows all almost black cut through by patches of startling crimson red and the pearly, muddied white of a single light fixture high on the wall. The floor was a cooler tone but puddled with the thick red pastel, which collected under the iron cot and shredded, sooty sheets.

It was one of several views from a personal hell. A view from the corner.

And then it was a portrait again, another from frozen memories of travel. The light silvery tones that dripped from the foliage signaled an early morning, but half of the occupants of the work were asleep. Eragon lay sprawled comfortably beside Saphira, one of her wings draped over his form. Above him, the dragon was watching him carefully, as a mother would a sleeping cub, her gaze protective and gentle all at once.

Another page almost overtaken by dark ebony. A sliver of moon cast the starless sky into faintly silvered darkness, reflected by the path below. Trees arced and bent over the strip of earth, monstrous shapes boiling up from between their trunks. At the end of the path, a lone figure wreathed in ghostly red tendrils that coiled up and around their body like ethereal smoke.

Glenwing was next in the line of art, and beside him, arm tossed casually over his shoulders in friendly companionship, was Fäolin. Both were smiling, laughter playing at their lips. Fäolin had his free hand around the neck of a bottle of dwarvish beer, and by the fading background it was clear that the memory took place in a bar. Even without color the neon of the signs flickered and hummed, bringing a sense of welcome despite the clear signs around that indicated that the war was never far away.

Saphira’s egg, the edges of the carry bag that was her home for over two decades puddled around its base. A gentle pulse of life and warmth in the blue and white that decorated the marbled surface. A glow of hope, all contained inside a single layer of shell.

A view from the branches of the Menoa Tree, looking down at the sprawling expanse of roots that raced away from the great monarch of the forest. Light played through the needles above, pinpricks of dappled sunlight that strained to reach the forest floor.

Eragon, his forehead pressed against Saphira’s snout as the Rider and dragon shared a moment of quiet peace. The rigid hold of his far shoulder compared to the slope of the other indicated it was not long after the battle for Farthen Dur, a time of chaos, tumult and new realities. It made the frozen scene of simple yet deeply primal comfort that smoothed over Eragon’s features that much more poignant. Reminded those that saw it that he was still a growing youth and Saphira was not yet a year old, yet they had been thrown into a world that required, demanded their lives for the sake of millions of others.

“One of these days we will give each other a heart attack.”

Islanzadí couldn’t suppress the sudden jerk of surprise at her daughter’s bleary words. The younger elf lifted her head and stretched, tossing down her pencil as she did. Arya winced when the light of the white werelight caught her eyes, and with a tap on the floating orb the color changed to the same muted red as the lantern on the nightstand.

“I was going to suggest you move to your bed before you strained your neck.” The queen gave her daughter a slightly forced, gentle smile, heart still fluttering at the start.

Arya nodded, still appearing half asleep as she rose from her desk and tapped off the light. She waved groggily over her shoulder to indicate to her mother that she was fine before she tumbled onto the bed, not bothering with the covers. It was a good sign. The younger elf was heavily in sleep debt as it was, and Islanzadí did not want to be the source of another night of under four hours of rest.

Islanzadí placed the stack of sketches back on the desk with a newfound reverence before following Arya towards the bed. She gathered up the discarded blanket on the floor and draped it over the woman’s body, smiling again at the muffled mumble of “Thanks, mum.” that drifted from where Arya had buried her head under the pillow.

She touched the lantern by the bed, lowering its intensity till it winked out. Gently pulled the door shut behind her.

And gave a very quiet, very tired, sigh of relief.

#modern inheritance #eragon #inheritance cycle #modern inheritance cycle #the cyclists #modern inheritance stories #arya #brom #saphira #islanzadi #queen islanzadi #war trauma #flashbacks #art therapy #PTSD #islanzadi is just a clusterfuck to write ngl #woman does not know how to parent #everything is just awkward as fuck #mic shorts

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msraven929 · 4 years ago

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**** Another of my TOG minifics. Joe x Nicky ****

Nicky woke suddenly, unsure what had pulled him out of sleep. It was still dark outside and he hadn't had a nightmare. Then it registered that the bed behind him was cold and empty.

Over the past few weeks—after Merrick and Booker and Copley—Nicky had only fleetingly noticed that Joe had begun separating himself. He stayed back when they walked and kept out of conversations unless directly addressed. Nicky had been so distracted by Andy and Nile that he let himself believe Joe was only taking extra time to adjust to having Nile with them. Now, Nicky was starting to realize his mistake.

Joe was so outwardly explosive in his joy and his anger that it was easy to forget how deeply his emotions truly ran. Nicky was more pragmatic and able to channel his negative thoughts to something useful, like caring for Andy or training Nile. Joe tended to internalize and often allowed his emotions to swirl into a dark maelstrom that was difficult to escape without help.

Nicky stayed in bed for another minute, but the house remained still and quiet. He slipped out from under the blankets and out of the bedroom. He passed the empty bathroom as he walked through the hall, then down the stairs into the small living room. The remnants of the fire they'd lit in the fireplace provided just enough light for Nicky to see Joe's sketchbook sitting open in front of the hearth. He stepped closer to crouch over the book and flipped through several pages, all of them blank. Joe never sketched when he was upset, unwilling to bring his darkest thoughts onto the paper.

The barest sound reached Nicky's ears and drew his attention to the far corner of the room. He stood and turned on the small lamp, unwilling to have this conversation in the dark. Nicky mirrored Joe's sitting position, their backs to the wall and knees up for their wrists to rest on. Nicky sat close enough so that their sides touched, but was still able to turn and watch Joe's face. Joe continued to stare, unseeing, in front of him.

"Will you tell me what's troubling you?" Nicky asked.

Joe took a long breath that sounded painful and constricted to Nicky.

"I'm afraid," Joe answered.

"What of?"

"Of loving you so deeply. Of what I'd become if I lost that love."

The words and the pang it sent through Nicky's heart were both familiar and unexpected. It had been so long since either of them had been conflicted about their love.

"Why?" Nicky prodded.

"Booker—" Joe choked on the word and his face twisted in pain. For a moment, Nicky wished that Booker were here so he could see the devastation his betrayal was still causing.

"We cannot understand what drove Booker to do what he did," Nicky reasoned calmly.

"But I can. I can understand because I am no different than Booker."

"No," Nicky replied with vehemence. "I don't believe that despite what you've convinced yourself to think."

"If you hadn't woken from that last shot—"

"If you lost me, you would suffer and never be the same," Nicky conceded, "but you would not turn to cruelty or sacrifice the others."

"How do you know?"

"You forget that my love for you runs just as deep. I know you better than I know myself. I know your heart. I know that you were the first to offer your hand to me in peace. You were also the first to offer me your friendship and then your love. After all the bad we have seen in our lives, I watch you, time and again, lead first with gentleness and I love you more each day because of it."

Joe shook his head. "I am also capable of brutality."

"Yes. So am I. So is Andy. There is always some brutality in fighting. But we have always tried to do some good with what we fought for. That does not make us evil or cruel."

"And Booker?"

Nicky sighed because he hadn't spent any energy trying to understand Booker's actions.

"I cannot explain Booker," Nicky replied honestly.

"He saw our love as salt to his open wounds."

"That is his failing, not ours. We never flaunted ourselves and I will not denounce you to soothe his selfish heart."

Joe finally looked at Nicky, eyes wide with surprise. "You're angry."

"Of course I'm angry. I watched you be stabbed, tortured, and killed several times in that lab. Did you think I wasn't?"

"You didn't act as if…"

"I didn't want to add to Andy's conflict and I've never shown my emotions as outwardly as you. You... do know I love you?" Nicky hated how the end was posed as a question.

"I never doubt it," Joe answered sincerely. He reached out to take Nicky's hand and Nicky's shoulders sagged with relief at the action.

"Then never doubt that your pain won't leave me unaffected." Nicky was beginning to see what had started Joe down this path of self doubt. "I'm sorry if you thought you were alone in your anger. Does it help knowing I feel the same?"

"Yes. I… I thought maybe I was wrong to be angry."

"We have every right to be angry. No matter his reasoning or his pain, there is no excuse for Booker's betrayal. He knew neither of us were looking for death, even if he thought Andy was."

Joe nodded and then sighed. "I want to understand how Booker could do what he did."

"We may never understand."

"I understand his despair. I felt it in that moment before you woke from that bullet."

"But knowing you could feel the same does not make you a reflection of Booker's failings."

"I'm not as sure."

Nicky turned to face Joe fully and gripped Joe's hand in both of his. "I do not lie to you. Do you believe me when I tell you that I've seen nothing in our long lives together that makes me think you're like Booker? And most definitely not like Merrick or Keane or any of the other truly cruel men we've known?"

"I believe you."

"Are you still afraid?"

"Yes. I am."

"I am too," Nicky confessed. "Not of our love, never that. If I lost you… I am most afraid of forgetting, in my grief, of what it feels like to be loved by you."

Joe looked at Nicky as if the thought had never occurred to him. Their fears were different, but rooted in the same place, in the same love. Nicky was confident that neither of them would be willing to discard their love just to keep the fear at bay.

"As always, we are two sides of the same coin," Nicky said and Joe smiled at the sentiment. "It also seems that we still have things to learn after all our years together. I should have voiced my own fears and anger. You are never alone, my love."

"I'm sorry for worrying you."

"I'm sorry for forgetting how deeply you take things within yourself. I've been neglecting you."

Joe shook his head. "The others needed you and it helps you to care for them."

Nicky smiled at Joe's understanding and leaned forward to give his cheek a kiss. "That is no excuse. However, it is repairable. You should get cleaned up while I pack our things."

"Are we switching safehouses?" Joe asked as they both stood. Dawn was just starting to break outside.

"No. You and I are going away for a bit."

"But—"

Nicky kissed Joe to stop whatever he was about to say. "We both need it. Andy is fine. Nile is good for her. They're safe here. We won't go too far or be gone for too long."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm very sure." Nicky hadn't realized how much he wanted time to themselves until he'd said it. He'd been neglecting himself as much as he had Joe.

Joe smiled and leaned forward to give Nicky a lingering kiss before he moved away.

They were close enough to head to the sea, Nicky decided as he watched Joe pick up his neglected sketchbook and head upstairs. Both of them had been born near a coast and the water still had a way of lifting their spirits. Even if Nicky couldn't find them a boat to rent, he'd find a house near enough to the shore that they could let the sounds and smells of the water soothe their souls.

Andy would understand Joe and Nicky's need to be on their own. Nile had been helping Andy find new life, but Nicky and Joe needed time to reaffirm their faith in themselves and each other. Nicky and Joe would return in a few weeks with Joe's sketchbook full of pictures—the small cabin with a leaky roof, the sailboat they'd rented for a few days, a family of stray cats, the view out their bedroom window, and a multitude of Nicky.

Back together, the four of them would cement their friendship and find their way to a new peace.

#the old guard #joe x nicky #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #minific #my fic #immortal husbands #x-posted to AO3

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ladyanput · 5 years ago

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Clues to My Heart

This is based off of a prompt I read from @thanks-captain-obvious back in December.

Thanks to @chocolate1721 and @2sunchild2 for finding all of my stupid mistakes.

---

Adrien didn’t know when he realized how cute Marinette was, but he came to realize that he was watching her a lot more than usual. He liked how when she was really deep into her designing zone, she stuck her tongue out in concentration. He adored how when she was getting nervous or embarrassed, she’d tug at one of her adorable pigtails.

As soon as he entered the classroom that morning, Marinette was making her way down the steps. She tripped over her own foot and went tumbling forward, a look of horror washed over her face as she went plummeting. Adrien bolted forward and caught her in his arms, causing them to be nose to nose, gazing deep into each other’s eyes. Adrien couldn’t help but stare into her large, sapphire blue eyes staring back at him.

“Are you okay?” He breathed out, feeling his cheeks burn from embarrassment as he steadied her, then took a quick step back. “Good thing I was there to catch you.”

“Lucky me. Thank you, Adrien.” Marinette gave that warm, perfect smile before she picked up the pencil she had dropped and returned to her seat.

“Marinette looks really cute today.” Adrien mumbled to himself in an almost dreamy tone, quickly catching both Alya and Nino’s attention. Before the model could say another word, the duo grabbed him and dragged him to the back of the class, while Marinette was lost in her drawing in her sketchbook while she waited for class to notice them leave.

“You think she looks cute?” Alya pressed a hand to Adrien’s chest, giving him a stern look as her eyes watched his expression carefully. Then she saw the look he got on his face, the look she had seen on Marinette’s face for the past four years every time she thought, saw, or talked of Adrien. It was like seeing a little lovesick golden retriever and Alya wanted to laugh at the irony. But her eyes sparked with excitement at the thought of her ship finally, at long last, would come to life. “You need to tell her, Adrien.”

“Wh-what? No, I can’t do that, she thinks we’re just friends!” Adrien squeaked, drawing the attention of their other classmates. Thank God Lila was off on another one of her ‘trips’ in Brazil or whatever. Rose suddenly ripped part of her shirt, making sure it was a decently sized one before she darted down to Marinette, tapping her shoulder.

“Marinette, I ripped my favourite shirt! Do you have your sewing kit with you today?” Rose’s sweet voice took on a pleading tone as she grasped Marinette’s hand tightly, giving her a kind smile.

“Oh, I should have it in my locker, but class will be starting soon…” Marinette trailed off, but when she saw the pleading look on Rose’s face, she let out a defeated sigh and got up. “Alright, I’ll go grab it right quick. You don’t mind telling Miss Bustier, right?”

“Don't worry, Mari, we’ll cover you!” Kim called out, having a plotting grin on his face as well. The entire class had that look in their eyes, thinking something they had been hoping for for so long would finally come to light.

When Marinette did leave the room, everyone swarmed around Adrien with big goofy grins on their faces.

“Marinette has had a crush on you for years, dude.” Kim wrapped an arm around Adrien’s shoulder, grinning like a fool as everyone else nodded in agreement. ‘We kept quiet about it out of respect, but since you feel the same way…”

Adrien’s mind felt like it was suddenly spinning. Marinette liked him back. Marinette liked him, Adrien Agreste, while he had thought she had hated being anywhere near him! And here he thought that she had been in love with Luka…

“Marinette is quite romantic at heart.” Alya’s voice pushed away his thoughts and made him refocus on the conversations going on wildly around him. The reporter’s eyes were full of mischief and Adrien could practically see the gears turning in her head, her grin growing more and more devious. “You should do a grand gesture, Adrien, something that will sweep her off her feet. Then when she accepts your confession, it will be like a fairytale!”

“Like prince charming declaring his love for his princess.” Rose sighed dreamily and leaned into Juleka’s embrace, who kissed her forehead with a smile. “Oh Marinette would love that! She’s told all of us all of the things she’s wanted to do for you, Adrien, how many times she’s tried to confess…”

“How about a scavenger hunt?” Adrien blurted out, then felt his cheeks go rosy as he felt several eyes land on him, he gave a nervous smile as he ran his fingers through his hair. "You know, send her to places that were significant to her and I? Stuff like that?"

"That sounds pretty great, actually." Alix grinned as she thought it over before nodding. "Yeah, that'd kick ass."

With wide grins, the class began to plot the entire thing with a flustered, starry eyed Adrien.

…

They set it all up on Friday, so that if something went horribly wrong, they'd have the weekend to do damage control. Extra precautions never hurt anyone.

Alya managed to convince Marinette to clear her schedule for that evening, since she had a special game planned. Marinette, not wanting to turn her best friend down, wholeheartedly agreed. One afternoon never hurt anyway, she needed a bit of a break from everything that was going on.

As soon as the last class of the day ended, Alya handed the girl a piece of paper and told her to just follow the clues.

Marinette glanced down at the scrap of paper and carefully read the words.

'To where you have your secret Garden of inspiration, I often see your beautiful face light up in joy.'

Marinette's brows drew together at the wording of the note, then wracked her brain to where this 'garden of inspiration' could be. Then it hit her. The Trocadero.

She giggled as she made her way towards the location, curious at what kind of games Alya was playing. Her friend always came up with these random types of things on occasion, so she didn't look too much into it.

Marinette quickly arrived at the Trocadero, then smiled to herself as she made her through the crowd, enjoying the activity of people around her. She hadn't been here in months and she had missed it greatly.

"Excuse me, Miss Marinette?" The girl blinked and turned, seeing a tall, lanky looking woman stride up to her, holding a pink envelope. The woman grinned and tipped her tiny top hat as she held out the envelope. "I have your next clue."

"Oh, thank you." Marinette took the envelope and opened it, scanning the contents of what was written.

'While pyjamas were not the right thing to wear, so to say

Seeing that movie with you made my day.'

Marinette glanced heavenward, silently groaning at the state of these riddles. Alya certainly wasn't at her best today.

Besides, Marinette could think of only one movie she had seen in her pyjamas that wouldn't be appropriate, so she made her way to the cinema. While very glad she hadn't made many plans that evening, this scavenger hunt seemed to be taking her all over Paris. As soon as she saw the cinema in sight, she picked up the pace,

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng?" A tall man wearing a suit strode over, holding out a familiar looking pink envelope. He gave her a jovial grin and bowed. "I hope you find your next location swiftly."

"Thank you very much." Marinette called out, then had to chuckle at the outfits these clue holders had to wear. Fancy suits and top hats were a bit much, how had Alya been able to pay for all of this?

'To where we first met, with gum on the seat

To think today, you make my heart skip a beat.'

"Tikki, I can't quite make this one out." Marinette sighed as she made her way down the street, Tikki poking her head out of Marinette's purse. "I think it means DuPont, I mean, that's where I first met Alya."

"Are you sure these are from Alya, Marinette? Maybe they're from someone else." Tikki smiled up at her chosen, having a fair idea who exactly these clues and this entire scheme was from, but she decided to keep quiet about it. It was best to simply let Marinette experience this on her own, have a bit of fun for once in a while.

So Marinette jogged her way towards DuPont, beaming as she reminisced in the memories. This was the starting place for everything in her life; her friends, her designing career, her backbone, and even becoming Ladybug.

This place was special to her. So imagine her surprise when she neared the front of the school and heard the sound of a bell. She stopped, and watched in surprise as Andre's ice cream cart made its way towards her, Andre having a huge smile on his face. He stopped right in front of Marinette, blocking her view of DuPont.

"Hello, my dear Marinette. It has been so long and look at you! Grown into a beautiful flower and who knows? Perhaps she will see her soulmate very soon" Andre said cheerfully, hugging the surprised girl, before giving her a long, calculated look. He had a gift, a gift of seeing one's soulmate. And Mr. Adrien Agreste had begged the man to be at the front of DuPont Françoise to give Marinette a serving of ice cream to show her who her soulmate was.

And who was Andre to get in the way of love? He had happily agreed, so eager to bring two souls together that were meant to be, bound by the red string of fate.

"Matcha for the eyes that makes your heart flutter, blackberry for his life cast in such chaos, and strawberry for the lips that makes you stutter." Andre said cheerily as he scooped up the ice cream, noting as the girl took out her phone and replying to a text, then happily handed it to Marinette, then patting her gently on the cheek. "I see great happiness for the two of you, for you both see each other with a love so true."

With that, Andre let her by, motioning her to the steps of DuPont. Marinette, considering just to go with it, took a taste of the delicious ice cream and went on her way, not before giving Andre a gracious thank you.

What she saw at the top of the steps of her old middle school was not what she had been expecting. She had been expecting Alya and a few of their friends with some weird prize or an explanation to all of this.

Instead there stood Adrien, holding a bouquet of roses and dressed dark khakis and a button up shirt. At the sight of her, his smile grew and his cheeks reddened, his excitement skyrocketing once he saw the colours of her ice cream. The rest of the class stood around him, looking eager as they took a few steps back as Marinette began to ascend the stairs.

"Adrien, were you the one behind all of this?" Marinette smiled at the blushing model, taking another spoonful of her ice cream, noting Alya recording them from the corner of her eye. "I have to say, that was a pretty impressive scavenger hunt you did. What's my prize?"

The words caused Adrien's blush to get worse and he began to fiddle with the bouquet, trying to get out the speech he had practiced over and over in his head.

“Marinette… I um… I’ve always thought of you as a friend, you know? But not just any friend, my best friend actually…You’re just…” He tightened his grip on the bouquet. “You’re just so amazing, and kind, and wonderful. You’re like an everyday Ladybug to us, always there to help, even when it’s for something really stupid. And you’re always there for me… I’ve been told you’ve done a few things for me that I’ve … I may have been too blind to notice. It uh, it took me until today to realize that you’re the most important person in my life. You’re the first one to really, truly understand me."

"Oh Adrien, that's so sweet. You're just as great, you're always so kind. That's what I love about you." Marinette smiled her brilliant smile and Adrien felt his heart thundering in his chest. Her words gave him courage and he puffed out his chest.

Finally, he'd tell his Princess exactly how he felt.

Many of the girls squealed and hugged each other, while the guys gave Adrien thumbs-ups or fist bumped each other.

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng, I- I am in l- love.."

The revving of an engine cut him off, making the entire class stare as an expensive looking motorcycle parked at the base of the school steps.

The tall figure on the bike got off and took off his helmet. Adrien met the most piercing pair of green eyes he had ever seen. The young man was handsome, with spiky black hair and a jawline that could certainly cut glass.

"Who is he?" Alya whispered to Nino as the guy set down his helmet and seemed to wave at the group, a smile crossing his handsome face. "Does anyone here know him?"

As everyone began to give their negatives, Adrien watched as Marinette's face lit up and she bolted down the stairs.

"Damian, you're here!" She cried as she launched herself into the guy -Damian's- arms, though was careful not to spill her ice cream. She giggled as he kissed her cheek, then kissed his in return. "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to find the place."

"You do give perfect directions, Angel, I was able to find it easily enough." The two of them shared a quick kiss and Adrien felt his heart drop to the floor and shatter.

"Marinette, who is this?" Alya piped up, carefully putting away her phone as she made her way down the steps, everyone else following suit.

"Oh, sorry Al, this is my boyfriend, Damian. He's visiting this week from America." Marinette beamed as Damian casually wrapped an arm around her waist. "I was going to introduce you all to him once we got him settled."

"You have a boyfriend?!" Adrien blurted out before he could stop himself, then flushed in embarrassment as Marinette and Damian focused their gazes on him, the former curious and the latter observant. "I mean, um, you've never mentioned him before…"

"Well, we met a few years ago, around our second year at DuPont actually, when I went away for the summer with my grandmother, and we kinda hit it off." Marinette explained happily, holding up her ice cream to allow Damian to have a taste.

The second year of their time at DuPont Françoise.

The very year he began to date Kagami in order to get over Ladybug.

Oh.

Oh no.

"Really? I thought you were still keeping your eye out for someone." Alya motioned towards Adrien with her eyes, only earning a small, though slightly tired smile from Marinette.

"Well I decided that you can't wait around for miracles to never happen." Marinette shrugged, and Damian met Adrien's gaze. Then he merely rose a brow and smirked a bit.

Those who acted too slowly lost the game.

"Anyway, that was a fun game, Adrien, I had a lot of fun. Now Damian and I have to get back to the bakery, Papa wanted to show him how to make the perfect palmier tonight to finally outclass Alfred's cooking." Marinette tossed the empty cone into the nearby trash, then caught the helmet that Damian tossed her. The couple shared another soft kiss before both got on the bike.

Marinette gave her friends one final wave before Damian drove off, leaving the class in stunned silence.

Adrien watched dejectedly as the girl he had fallen in love with drove off with her new boyfriend.

But he had seen the colours of her ice cream, that meant he was her soulmate.

That he wasn't too late, that maybe… He still had a chance with her?

Right?

---

Taglist: @vixen-uchiha @ravennightingaleandavatempus @crazylittlemunchkin @bee-wrecker @souleateralicestein @loysydark @kceedraws @realrandomposts @alienjoyful

#maribat #daminette #ml x dc #maridami

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ravenbrenna09 · 4 years ago

Text

Jij Verliest - Chapter Four: Clip 1

master list previous

...

Zaterdag 9:31

Robbe was used to waking up alone.

It had become something he was well-accustomed to. He missed the feeling of waking up with two arms around his waist and of holding someone to his chest. He was used to groggily waking up, slowly and surely becoming aware of his surroundings, turning over and stretching with eyes shut, the silent reprieve and internal pleading of ‘five more minutes’ of sleep that would certainly turn into two more hours. Some mornings, he woke up without a fuss, immediate and alert. Other mornings, he never slept.

However, this morning, he woke up slowly like the drowsiness was slowly and ineffectively wrung out of his body. His dream—whatever it might have been—vanished from his mind like smoke in the air. Robbe stretched against the silkiness of the sheets and the plushness of the mattress before whatever fight to get up and start the day vanished like a light and he collapsed against it again. There was something in his arms, soft and full, but Robbe’s tired brain knew right away that it was one of his pillows that he had grabbed overnight. Turning over, he pulled the sheets higher on his shoulders and snuggled into a pillow that smelled like Sander’s cologne.

Sander.

Wait. What was Sander’s cologne doing in his bedroom?

Even as sleep sang its gentle siren song, trying to will him back to sleep, Robbe forced his eyes open.

Immediately, Robbe spotted the navy blue sheets that were twisted around his legs and his waist, keeping him warm and comfortable. Next, he found the nightstand next to his bed with his phone and his watch sitting on the corner. When he checked, he saw the number of notifications, but his brain was still taking in the sights around him. Lastly, Robbe spotted the black joggers and the black t-shirt with a white building that he was wearing. Both articles of clothing weren’t his own.

And, like that, his brain woke up with a snap and his memories of last night returned to him in full force.

He remembered finding Sander looking up at the stars behind the warehouses—spotting the ocean mural hidden in the shadows, the ocean mural that Sander had created, the one that Sander was nervous to show him. He remembered the kiss that melted his thoughts, curled his toes, and surged new life through his body. He remembered how they kissed against the wall until their lips were red and bruised and the rain started falling. He remembered how they fled for shelter, giggling and laughing and unable to stop touching each other on the bike ride to Sander’s apartment, which was closest to the warehouses.

Despite the gentle rain, they had somehow ended up soaked by the time they reached the fancy apartment complex. As soon as they arrived, Sander had wasted no time in hunting down clothes for Robbe to wear. Once all of their soaked clothes had been thrown into the dryer, Sander was dragging him into a bedroom. It was dark and Robbe wasn’t focused on the details of the room as they laid on Sander’s bed.

As they waited for their clothes to dry, facing each other with their hands intertwined, Sander told him about how his mother used to make croques on weekend mornings. While Sander traced featherlight patterns on the back of his hand, Robbe told him about how his mama created an annual Valentine’s Day movie marathon because she didn’t like celebrating it anymore. Sander learned that his mother was incredibly partial to discovering all of the ways to make vegetarian dishes for Zoë. Robbe found out that Sander’s mother loved sunflowers more than anything.

While the dryer had continued and their yawns increased, the two of them had traded stories, whispers, and kisses. He wondered which one of them would fall asleep first or if they would both be up all night, unable to stop talking to one another. Of the two of them, Robbe had been the first one to be lulled to sleep while Sander traced the outline of his face with his ringed finger.

Sitting up, Robbe glanced around the room, taking it all in now that he wasn’t focused on Sander.

The bedroom was larger than Robbe’s bedroom. The bed itself was at least a queen-size and there seemed to be more room than his room at the flatshare. Overall, the bedroom seemed immaculate. There was hardly any laundry on the floor or trash on the nightstand. Across from the bed, there was a large wooden dresser with a record player resting next to a Bluetooth speaker and a television mounted on the wall. There was a large, spacious window on the other side of the room, but it was covered by gray curtains to protect the room from the morning sun.

Beneath the window, there was an artist’s table that was the messiest place in the room. There were three mason jars filled with a variety of paintbrushes, bristles up, and a sketch pad with an empty page resting on top. Beside it, there was a bookshelf filled with art supplies and what looked to be different kinds of paints, sketchbooks, and canvases. On the other side of the desk, there was an easel standing on a tarp with paint splattered across the wood and a leather jacket hanging off the back.

But the walls quickly drew Robbe’s attention. The walls themselves were painted with a light cream color. There were a handful of David Bowie posters hung on them. But the rest was covered by what Robbe assumed to be Sander’s creations. Everywhere Robbe looked, there was something new to look at and absorb—sketches, paintings, photos—all hung up by a thumbtack or a string of tape.

Robbe tossed the sheets aside and climbed to his feet. He moved around the room, looking over each of the sketches and photos in turn. Near the nightstand, he found a photo of Senne with Sander and Amber at Christmas time. There was a sketch of a park and another of the night sky. Robbe found half a dozen professional-looking photos from around Antwerp stuck on the walls. There was a photo where Noor was used as a model, one with Senne, and another with both of them. Hidden amongst them all, he had even spotted one or two sketches of him.

In the midst of the realistic sketches of friends and people he didn’t know, Robbe also found a handful that looked like creatures from a cartoon. Some of them were paired with a similar-looking figure that looked like a video game character. Near the desk, he spotted a great bird on one of the sketches. It was standing with its wings folded beside him. But his dark feathers looked sharper than normal. It looked like it was wrapped in armor.

Curious, Robbe grabbed his phone from the nightstand and typed “armored bird” in the search engine. Even as his phone pinged with notifications, he ignored them all. Flipping over to the images, Robbe scrolled past the Assassin’s Creed and photos that initially popped up. Thankfully, he didn’t need to scroll something before he found a photo with the creature that he was looking for. The photo didn’t seem to have been drawn by Sander, but Robbe could tell that it was the same creature: Corviknight.

As Robbe moved to search for the word, the bedroom door opened behind him. There was a gentle patter of footsteps before two arms circled around his waist and pulled Robbe back against him. Sander placed a kiss against his clothed shoulder. “I thought I heard you shuffling around in here.” Robbe leaned over to press a kiss against his temple before returning to his abandoned search. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out what this is,” Robbe said, pointing at the sketch with the bird—Corviknight.

“It’s a Pokémon called Corviknight,” Sander said matter-of-factly. “It’s one of the Pokémon from the newest generation of their games.” Robbe bit down at his lip, staring at the sketch in question. Sander shifted against him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and placing a kiss against his cheek. “Have you never played Pokémon, Robbe?”

“I have played,” Robbe said. “Just not recently. I played back in primary school. But I haven’t played it in years.” Sander nodded, snuggling closer into the crook of his neck. Robbe glanced at him, curious, and asked, “Do you play it?”

“Yeah, I’ve always gotten the games as soon as they were released,” Sander said, his breath brushing across the skin of his neck. Sander smiled, a small sad smile that Robbe felt against his shoulder. “After school, my little sister and I would play it all the time. She loved to play pretend and be a Pokémon trainer with all the cutest Pokémon.”

Robbe nodded, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Will you teach me how to play?”

Sander glanced at him, his green eyes wide in confusion. But soon, the corners of his lips tugged up in corners in a bright, dazzling smile. “Really? You want to learn how to play?”

Robbe nodded.

Sander’s smile brightened further before he ducked down to press their lips together. Sander’s hands cradled his jaw and Robbe turned so he could wrap his arms around his neck. This kiss was more like the ones once they had reached the apartment, laying together in the bed and exchanging stories. It was sweet, simple, and overwhelmingly chaste, but Robbe didn’t mind at all. He loved the sweet, chaste kisses as much as he loved the passionate ones that ended up with him out of breath and pinned against a wall.

Almost too soon, Sander pulled away, looking down at him over the tip of his nose as his lips curled into a bright smirk. “Later,” he said. “Right now, we’re going to have breakfast and then we’re going to lay in bed all day.”

“I can’t do all day,” Robbe said shyly. While the thought of laying in bed with Sander all day and night sounded amazing, Robbe knew that he promised a stream for this afternoon. He could always cancel the stream or move it tomorrow, but he had moved enough streams. Plus, he was supposed to be studying with Yasmina at the library for their remaining exams. “But I can lay in bed all morning and afternoon until 14:00. If that’s alright with you.”

“14:00,” Sander mumbled, his breath ghosting against his face. There was a part of Robbe that wondered if Sander was going to ask what plans he had. But Sander simply smiled down at him and said, “Laying in bed until any time is alright with me, Robin. I’m sure that you have to study your beautiful brain out for your remaining tests.”

Robbe flushed at the compliment, thankful that Sander didn’t ask.

Sander seized Robbe’s face rather abruptly. He placed a peck against Robbe’s lips, fleeting and quick. Then, he repeated the motion before moving on to his jaw, his cheekbones, his eyebrows, and all over his face until Robbe was left squirming under his lips. Then, Sander returned to his original destination, giving him a long kiss that made Robbe’s knees melt, before he pulled Robbe off his feet—literally. As Robbe latched onto his waist and shoulders like a vice grip, Sander was moving out of the room, taking Robbe with him. “Come on, I made pancakes.”

Robbe leaned back and beamed down at him. “You left me alone in bed to make pancakes?”

“Yes,” Sander said, sounding almost sheepish as he grinned. “I didn’t want you to wake up with an empty stomach and no food to eat!” Robbe smiled, leaning down to kiss Sander. He paused in the middle of the hallway, putting all of his focus on kissing Robbe back. Then, as soon as the kiss broke and Robbe hovered over his lips, Sander was moving again, holding Robbe a little higher on his waist, and walking like he never stopped. “It’s not very nice to not have food for such a treasured guest.”

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foreveralwaysanauthor · 3 years ago

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I Could Be Every Color You Like

October 3, 2021

Prompt - Full of Colors

Characters - Bentley and various others

Notes - This gave me so many ideas for one-shots.

“Why does that kid like art so much?”

He'd heard that question a lot over the years. It was a simple question and, to be frank, not many knew the answer. The youngest of the Murphy brothers was a chatty fourteen-year-old who was usually seen holding a pen or marker to something. It was only natural that people asked questions, he supposed. It wasn’t normal for people to walk around, drawing everything in sight, but that’s just the way Bentley was.

Bentley was an enthusiastic artist and had been for as long as he could remember. Of course, he usually did so for fun, coloring on napkins and such, but his art was always meticulously done. He’d learned to draw from his mom when he was really little. Miles recalled once that Bentley had drawn all over one of their bedroom walls when he was three, but his mom was so happy with how it looked that she refused to wash it off or paint over it. Bentley was just an artist through and through - it was what he was good at.

In school, the teachers that knew Miles and Royce expected Bentley to be just like one or both of them. First was the oldest - Miles, the hardworking, above-average student who had excellent manners and was part of both the automotive department and the school newspaper before graduating early. Then came Royce, the kid with straight A’s since kindergarten who spent most of his free time studying in the library or writing in a journal. But, when Bentley came along, their expectations went out the window.

Bentley was far more artistic than his brothers, doodling in the margins of his paperwork and turning it in, only to receive a note from the teachers, telling him to please stop. While he kept his grades up, even after Miles left for Florida, he could never seem to meet the precedent set forth by his brothers. His teachers tried to talk with his father about his attention problems and constant drawing, but the man never answered the phone. When he did, he’d answer in the same manner every time before hanging up - “Did he kill someone? No? Then leave me the hell alone.” After a while, the teachers stopped caring as much and left him alone, which was nice.

The only teacher he’d liked was Mr. Samuel Hatfield, his art teacher in middle school. The man was a giant at six foot seven but had the biggest heart in the building. He took his time with each of his students, making sure they understood what concepts he was teaching them and could handle their own. For once, Bentley could claim the position of teacher’s pet with pride. The teacher took pride in Bentley’s artwork, using them as examples for other classes and, occasionally, the upperclassmen who needed encouragement.

It felt good to be appreciated.

So, when Royce whispered to him one night in the confines of their bedroom that they’d set aside enough money to move in with their older brother, he felt torn. He desperately wanted to move in with Miles, far away from their father, but he also wanted to stay so he could continue feeling special for his art. It was all he felt he was good at and he loved feeling important, but his love for his brother outweighed that a million times over so his decision was nearly instantaneous.

The next day, after working his busboy job at the diner on the edge of Main Street, he took off on his bicycle for the art shop next to the library, using his collective tip money for the day - a whopping seven dollars and fifty-four cents, nearly triple what he usually got - to buy a small sketchbook and a discounted paint set. The rest of his money, he planned on pocketing. He and Royce would be leaving soon anyway, what did it matter what he spent the extra cash on now?”

The cashier frowned at Bentley as he counted his money, coming up just a couple of quarters short. He sighed, debating on which item he wanted to buy more. Just then, the door jingled next to him and he instinctively looked up, meeting gazes with his art teacher.

“Hi, Mr. Hatfield,” Bentley greeted quickly before turning back to his purchase.

“Well if it isn’t Bentley Murphy,” the art teacher greeted. “Why am I not surprised to see you here. Buying anything good, kiddo?”

“A goodbye gift,” Bentley claimed with a grin. “My brother and I are leaving town to be with our big brother.”

“Ah,” Mr. Hatfield exhaled. “Is this a gift for your dad or your older brother?”

“Nope,” Bentley exclaimed. “This is for me. Something to remember Myrtle Beach, I guess.”

The teacher nodded slowly, taking in the information as Bentley spoke. “So, where does your older brother live again?”

‘Uh oh. Too much info,’ Bentley thought to himself. ‘Don’t get caught. They’ll call the cops if they know where we’re really going. Be smart like RJ. Think, think, think.’

“California,” he lied in feigned excitement, sending his teacher a brilliant smile. “He moved there a couple years ago to be with a girl he liked who moved to Los Angeles.”

The teacher nodded again and smiled. “Well, since this is a parting gift, I’ll cover it, kid.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet.

“Actually,” Bentley began, “I think I’ll put the paint back-”

“Leave it, Mr. Murphy,” Mr. Hatfield stated firmly, setting down some money. “It's just some paint. I have no problem helping you to further your talents. Save your cash for spending time with your brother.”

The cashier took the money from Mr. Hatfield and bagged Bentley’s items before handing them to the fourteen-year-old. Bentley and the man said their goodbyes before Bentley went outside and hopped on his bike, riding quickly toward home. When he arrived home and found only Royce there, the two boys packed their bags and left not long after, leaving only a simple note in their place. The next fifteen or so hours were spent biking to their Uncle Tommy’s house - a man who had despised his sister’s husband since he’d met the man and had been encouraging the boys to leave. Once they arrived, they took the man’s car - with his permission and knowledge, of course - and took off for Florida. Ten hours later, they arrived pulled into the town, a sign with bold letters saying “Welcome to St. Pete Beach” being their only welcoming committee.

Royce pulled Uncle Tommy’s car into what they believed was Miles’ address, if his letters were anything to go by. They got out of the car and knocked on the door a few times before anyone answered. It was just barely eight in the morning so it wasn’t unexpected, but the anticipation was killing them slowly. Bentley was mildly surprised to see his oldest brother - who looked like he was just woken up by them - whip open the door, wiping his eyes a few times before pulling them both into a tight hug. They were shown to their room, finding it decked out in just about anything Miles had found that he’d thought they would like. To Bentley’s surprise, a brand new art book and some canvases were laid out on his bed, accompanied by various types of paints, markers, and pencils.

Their brother’s friends became family to them and they were accepted fairly quickly. Lela set aside time every day just to paint with him on the beach. Mick would teach him and his brothers photography in her spare time. Butchy took him and Royce for walks to the park so Royce could write in peace while Bentley drew in his sketchbook. Tanner took him to an art gallery on the edge of town just for fun. It was like being an artist was something to be proud of. Like there wasn’t any competition to have better grades or better abilities. It was an air of tranquility that the fourteen-year-old hadn’t felt since his mom approved of his artwork as a kid.

Over time, he began noticing the colors of people he spent the most time with. Whether it was the color of their eyes or in the things they surrounded themselves with or their favorite colors, Bentley saw them each in a different light. If he said them out loud, it would make sense to absolutely no one, but that was fine by him. He made sure it came across in his artwork instead of in his words.

For instance, Miles gave off rays of baby blue with a hint of red - calmness, safety, and love - so those were the colors Bentley used to draw his oldest brother with most. Royce was a brilliant, sunset orange - smart, vibrant, and playful - and it suited the middle brother better than he ever cared to admit. Mick and Butchy together were green with dashes of lavender, a colorful combination of love, strength, and balance - a source of protection and love that was unending and reliable. Lela was pale pink, full of innocent love for those around her.

So, when asked why he loved art so much, Bentley had only one answer to give: the colors.

#foreveralwaysprompts #writing #writing prompt

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