#(but would he wear green or stick with simple white?)

[martianbugsbunny]

That's How He Knows He's Yours (A Lokius Fic)

Would you like a little bit of self-indulgent Lokius to heal from the finale? You would?!?! Good!! Because I just so happen to have some! *opens green coat to reveal a fic* All the context you need, which is little to none, is in the fic, so just read on and enjoy and patch up your little broken heart!!!

The TVA was having a party.

That wasn’t really the important thing, but it was interesting anyway. Mobius couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a party—but they needed to keep their spirits up after finding out that their entire lives were, in fact, lies, so a party it was. Every sector was having its own shindig, because the TVA was immense, and all of the employees couldn’t have fit in a single room if they’d been threatened with death to do it.

Well, anyway, the important thing was that Mobius wasn’t going alone. He’d convinced Loki that it would be more fun to go together than to go separately, or not to go at all.

The other important thing was that Mobius had offered to braid Loki’s hair, which had grown considerably longer than it had been the first time they’d met, and that Loki had taken him up on it.

He’d spent hours studying both Jotun and Aesir braiding styles—not just the actual construction, but also the meaning behind them. In the end he’d picked the Jotun style that signaled “I’m taken” because it was beautiful, and because he was pretty sure Loki didn’t know enough about his own culture to know what it meant himself, so Mobius could convince himself it wasn’t that much of a presumption.

“I’m not so sure about this suit,” Loki said, patiently waiting as Mobius brushed his hair before twisting it together. “The gold stripes are a bit much, don’t you think?” “What happened to the guy who used to strut around wearing gold armor and a cape?” Mobius teased, beginning the first braid. Left under the middle, right under the middle, he muttered to himself.

“I’ve been wearing your boring TVA clothes for months,” Loki said. “The drab must’ve rubbed off on me.”

Mobius rolled his eyes. The truth was, he was outside his own comfort zone in a fancy suit. His didn’t have metallic pin-striping on it like Loki’s did (because it was a bit much, although Loki wore it well) but it was black, and a much sharper cut and a much more dashing style than he was used to wearing. He’d been just an analyst in a plain brown suit for centuries, and now here he was all dressed up like he thought he was Prince Charming or something.

He tried to focus more on the different strands of dark hair in his hands than on the way his fingertips brushed against Loki’s temples as he gathered new locks to add to a braid.

He failed.

As he began to pin the completed braids up using glittering golden hair pins, he tried to focus more on not stabbing Loki’s  scalp than on the brush of his hands against the nape of Loki’s neck.

He failed.

Loki was built like a prince, Mobius sometimes caught himself thinking. It didn’t matter if it was princedom of Asgard or of Jotunheim. There was an elegance in the set of his shoulders, in the movements of his hands as he wielded his magic, and a determination in the curve of his back and the way he stepped, that was just plain regal. Gold, like the simple rings he was wearing that night and the hair pins Mobius had found for him and the single slim chain around his neck, seemed to have been built into the cosmos for no reason other than to have Loki wear it.

That was waxing poetic. Mobius didn’t do that often—only for Loki and Jet Skis. What could he say, they were both remarkable singularities in the universe.

He finished setting the last braid into place, nestled among the others like a crown across the top of Loki’s head. “All done, puss,” he said, patting Loki on the shoulder.

Loki’s head turned slightly to the side at the use of the nickname, and Mobius could just see a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Do I dare look?” he asked.

“I didn’t mess it up that bad,” Mobius said. Loki chuckled and got up from the floor in front of Mobius’s couch to go check his appearance in the mirror on the other side of the room.

Mobius could see the reflected green eyes widening as he caught sight of himself. For some reason Mobius’s heart was in his throat.

“I didn’t know you knew how to do this,” Loki said.

“What, braids?” Mobius managed to speak past his racing pulse. “It’s not that hard.” (It was, actually, quite hard, but learning it for Loki had made it seem easier.)

“No. The Jotun style.” That quick pulse stopped altogether. Mobius sat there, stock still, feeling very much like he was going to throw up if Loki didn’t break the sudden silence.

He turned from the mirror to look Mobius in the eyes properly. He was smiling, his eyes glittering beneath the faint liner he’d applied earlier that evening and a light dusting of shimmery white eyeshadow. “Seems the pussycat has caught himself a guilty little mouse,” he said, his voice sultry and honey-smooth, dripping into Mobius’s soul. “You didn’t realize I knew what these braids meant,” he stated. There wasn’t a hint of doubt on his face.

“You caught me,” Mobius said. He was impressed with himself for being able to get any words out at all, with Loki’s gaze focused on him like that.

“I’m taken, am I?”

Now Mobius found himself entirely unable to speak. What could he say, after all, other than "we’ve been spending a lot of time together and you don’t mind when I call you ‘puss’ and I catch you staring at me sometimes in a way nobody ever has"? It seemed stupid even in his brain. None of that meant he and Loki were…whatever he’d been subconsciously thinking they could be when he’d picked the style.

Loki walked back across the room, a new sway in his hips that Mobius was positive hadn’t been there before, and sat down on the couch to lean directly into Mobius’s personal space. For a long moment, far too long, far too breathless, he simply studied Mobius’s face, as though he could see everything single thought that had ever crossed his mind.

“We’ll see about that when we get back from the party,” he said finally, gaze flicking briefly down to Mobius’s lips. “Maybe you’re the one who’s going to be…taken.”

He crossed into that last bit of personal space and pressed their lips together, his touch surprisingly light, stunningly tender, as one arm came up to drape across Mobius’s shoulders and draw him even closer.

“Don’t be so sure of yourself, puss.” Mobius finally found his tongue again after the kiss (although in a few moments, he was sure the cat would have it) and flirted back, laying a hand on Loki’s thigh. “You’re the one with the fancy hairstyle to prove it.”

As Loki laughed, Mobius captured his lips in another kiss, just as soft as before but oh-so-many leagues more passionate, and he thanked his lucky stars he’d been fool enough to pick a Jotun way to call Loki his.

[eternaldecisions]

˙ . ꒷ slytherin!matt . 𖦹˙—

slytherin ! matt spots you at a party.

"Are you sure I should go to that party? I mean..." the words hang in the air, your hesitation palpable. The idea of the party itself wasn’t dreadful; it was what—or rather, who—you might stumble into that made you hesitate. The very thought of running into Matt sent a shiver down your spine. You opened your mouth to say his name, but before you could, Sarah cuts in, her voice a sharp contrast to your uncertainty.

"Please! It’s going to be fun, I swear. I’ll stick by your side the whole time," she promises with a grin that you recognize all too well. You wanted to believe her, but you knew better. The moment she caught sight of Regulus Black walking thru the door, the promise would dissolve faster than mist in the morning sun. Still, a small part of you clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, this time she’d keep her word.

“And then, what should I wear?” you sigh, your voice carrying the weight of resignation. Your wardrobe isn’t exactly brimming with choices, and the thought of rifling through the same old options feels as tiresome as the decision itself.

Sarah, as the fashion enthusiast she, lights up at the question. "Let’s go for something that screams 'effortlessly cool,'” she suggests, already pulling ideas out of thin air. “How about those black plain skirt you love? Pair them with that silky white green top—it’ll make your eyes pop. And those ankle boots with the silver buckles? Perfect balance between edgy and chic.”

you picture it in your mind: the way the white would contrast against the dark material, how the boots would give you that extra edge of confidence. Suddenly, the idea of the party doesn’t seem quite so daunting.

the music thrums through the air, vibrating against your eardrums—louder than you'd prefer, but not unbearable. It’s a Hogwarts party, after all, and despite your initial reservations, it’s not as bad as you’d imagined. The Great Hall has been transformed into a pulsing sea of lights and sound, the usual grandeur swapped for a more chaotic energy that somehow suits the occasion.

tables are laden with a array of food—everything from pumpkin pasties to chocolate frogs—and a few scattered bottles of butterbeer and beers, a tame selection considering the strict no-hard-liquor rule for students. Not as that stops the Slytherins, you spot a few of them huddled in a corner, undoubtedly plotting their next heist from the staff’s private stash. But that’s a problem for another time.

“I’m going to grab us drinks, alright?” you say, your voice a little more confident than you feel. You make your way to the long, enchanted table draped with a velvet cloth that shimmers like the night sky. On it, bottles of Butterbeer, pumpkin juice, and goblets of ice-cold pumpkin water are laid out, each drink sparkling under the floating candles that light up the Great Hall. You pick a goblet of pumpkin water for yourself and a frothy Butterbeer for Sarah—simple, but comforting.

as you reach for the drinks, your eyes wander, almost by instinct, to a corner of the hall where Matt stands. He’s draped in a black oversized hoodie, the silver horse pendant hanging from his neck catching the soft light, his black baggy pants and boots give him a rebellious edge that you can’t help but notice. You find yourself staring a second too long, admitting, despite your efforts to resist, that he’s not just good-looking—he’s more than that.

you find yourself drawn in, unable to look away, as if a spell has been cast upon you.

his eyes, sharp and almost hypnotic, suddenly catch yours. A jolt of panic rushes through you—how long have you been staring? Blood rushes to your cheeks, the warmth of embarrassment spreading as you realize you've been caught. His lips curl into a smirk, one that’s as much a challenge as it is an invitation. With deliberate steps, he begins to close the distance between you, his presence growing more potent with every inch.

the air seems to thicken as he approaches, the ambient magic of Hogwarts itself reacting to the silent tension. As he draws near, you can almost feel the energy radiating off him, a subtle mix of mischief and something deeper, something that pulls you in even as it warns you to stay away. His eyes never leave yours, and that smirk, oh, that smirk, it tells you everything and nothing all at once.

“How nice seeing you again, starer,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet drawl, smooth yet edged with teasing. He steps closer, far too close, the space between you shrinking to nothing. You roll your eyes at his comment, trying to mask the flutter of nerves his proximity forming within you.

“Does the cat always bite your tongue around me, sweetheart?” he mocks, his tone light but laced with something deeper, something that sends a shiver down your spine. With a practiced ease, he reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your skin just long enough to make you tense.

annoyance flares within you, and you swiftly bat his hand away, breaking the brief contact. His touch lingers in your thoughts even as it leaves your skin. He chuckles, a dry, knowing sound that only deepens your frustration. The sound seems to echo in the quiet corridor, a reminder of the power he holds in these fleeting moments.

but beneath that chuckle, there’s something else—a challenge, a dare hidden in his eyes as he watches you, waiting for your next move.

you steady yourself, refusing to let him get under your skin any further. With a dirty look, you meet his gaze, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you reply, "I'm sorry, did you say something worth responding to?”

his smirk falters just for a moment, a flicker of surprise passing through his eyes before he recovers. “Feisty today, aren’t we?” he remarks, clearly amused by your defiance. But there's a spark of something else in his eyes now, curiosity, or maybe respect.

You cross your arms, standing your ground as you add, "I’m just not in the mood for your games, so if you’re looking for entertainment, you’ll have to find it somewhere else."

for a second, he studies you, as if reassessing the situation, the tension between you simmering just beneath the surface. Then, with a low chuckle, he steps back slightly, giving you a sliver of space. “You’re a tough one, I’ll give you that,” he concedes, though the playful gleam in his eyes tells you he’s far from done. “But don’t think I’m letting you off that easily.”

his words hang in the air, a promise or a threat—you can’t quite tell. But as he turns to leave, that smirk still playing on his lips, you can’t shake the feeling that this is far from over.

you stand there for a moment, watching him walk away, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor. His parting words linger in your mind, swirling like a potion brewing with too many unknown ingredients.

but you’re not one to let things slide so easily. You take a deep breath, your resolve hardening as you call out after him, your voice clear and steady. “If you think this game of yours is going to get you anywhere, you’re sorely mistaken.”

he stops mid-step, slowly turning back to face you, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. It’s clear he didn’t expect you to push back, at least not so quickly. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the way he’s weighing his next move.

“Is that so?” he drawls, his tone teasing, but there’s a hint of something more serious beneath it now. “You think this is just a game?”

you step forward, refusing to let him regain the upper hand. “I think you like toying with people. But I’m not here to play along.”

for a moment, there’s a silence between you, thick with unspoken challenges. Then, to your surprise, his smirk softens into something almost genuine—almost.

“Maybe you’re right,” he admits, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But it seems to me, you’re just as interested in the outcome as I am.”

you open your mouth to argue, but the words catch in your throat. There’s something in his gaze that’s different, something that makes you pause. It’s not just arrogance or amusement anymore, it’s curiosity, a genuine interest that catches you off guard.

he waits, as if daring you to deny it. But instead, you meet his gaze evenly, refusing to back down. “Don’t mistake my curiosity for anything more than it is,” you reply, your voice firm. “I don’t play by your rules.”

his eyes glint with that familiar mischief again, but there’s a new respect there, too. “We’ll see about that.”

with those final words, he turns and walks away, but this time, it feels less like a retreat and more like a promise—one that you’re not entirely sure you’re ready for, but one you know you won’t be able to resist.

as your gaze follows him, lingering on the spot where he disappears around the corner, you barely notice Sarah slipping up beside you until she speaks.

“Hey—the drinks!” she chirps, her voice pulling you back to reality. You blink, shaking off the lingering thoughts as you turn to face her.

“Sorry, got a little distracted,” you say, forcing a smile as you give her one. You can still feel the tension from the encounter thrumming in your veins, but you push it down, trying to focus on the warmth of the drink in your hands.

Sarah tilts her head, her brow furrowing as she follows your gaze to the now-empty corridor. “Distracted by what? Or should I say, by who?” she teases, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “Let me guess, someone from Slytherin?”

you let out a light laugh, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing, really. Just some…annoying conversation.”

“Annoying, huh?” Sarah raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Well, whoever it was, they’ve definitely got you all riled up. Should I be worried?”

“Worried? No,” you reply, shaking your head, though you can’t quite banish the image of that smirk from your mind. “Just…caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Sarah takes a sip of her butterbeer, her eyes still studying you curiously. “Well, whoever it is, just remember: don’t let anyone mess with you, okay? Especially not some smug Slytherin.”

you smile, her words bringing some much-needed reassurance. “I won’t, promise.”

“Good,” she says, clinking her goblet lightly against yours. “Now, let’s get back to the common room before Filch decides we’re breaking curfew again.”

as you walk away, side by side with Sarah, you can’t help but glance back one last time, the faint echoes of your earlier encounter still playing at the edges of your thoughts. He has you in a trance, and you can’t deny ir.

a/n: i have no idea if this is good sorry baes

taglist: @fawnchives @pearlzier @et6rnalsun @mattscoquette @carvedtits @sirenedeslily @mattslolita @flouvela @jetaimevous @archiebabiesworld @bella-loveschris @lovingregulusblack @sarosfilms @annsx03 @eliana-4200 @wakeupitschrizz

[maounteighn]

Overanalising Moral Orel: Clay, Bloberta and the Colour Theory

p.2 Bloberta

p.1

In p.1 we have already established that Bloberta's colour is red and it remained red throughout her whole journey. Her sense of Self was untouched neither by marriage nor by parenthood. When we are taking about relativity of her identity, she doesn't base it around or against anyone in her current family.

Her style barely changes, always containing red and white. However, she gradually loses white in her garments the more she decides to walk on her own. Her younger self up to that wedding in Help wears the most white – visually it softens the boldness of her red skirt. At the reception party she wears mostly red, white is only her belt and headband – red is also more saturated. The same red remains in her post-wedding daily wear. While white is not only in her collar, but also her apron, it is a completely different piece of clothing. Underneath the apron there's still her red dress. White apron dilutes red too, making it look less assertive, but it's only for the time she wears it. It's like a mask of a housewife and a mother, that she willing puts on for a meantime. Underneath it it's still her real, very persistent Self, that she is not particularly trying to hide. She also water down her true Self to appear less threatening to the society – she is a woman who has desires, attitudes and strength she shouldn't demonstrate. So not to apper a deviant, she has to adopt a socially acceptable Persona for herself.

Despite common beliefs that woman's true identity is of a wife and a mother, Bloberta is never changed by acquiring these statuses. Quite opposite, it's Clay who shapes his identity in relation to her (against her). It a simple visual storytelling, he is nothing significant to her, he is an instrument to her goals and desires, a tool. And a useless tool, too.

What has actually influenced Bloberta's sense of Self had done it way before she and Clay met. Take a look at her family.

Her mother Regina wears a mix of brown, red and very dark-green. Everyone else wears a variation of her colours. Modella – red and yellow-green, Lunchbox – green, Raymond – brown. Together they look very homogeneous too. They don't stick out, they don't clash, they don't take attention away from Regina. In comparison, their wardrobes are also similar and very simple, mostly plain l, while hers is quite busy and speckled, ornated. She is the center of attention. Raymond blends with the background, Modella and Lunchbox are like an extension of her perfect aesthetic. And all together they look classy, a very much dark academia family. That to be said, literally no one on the picture is allowed to diverge from the selected route (even their interior is in gren/brown/red) – they HAVE to be inside the borders of The Family Aesthetic or else...

In other words, they are constantly putting up a show, a collective Persona. The are not a perfect family by any standards, but Regina tightly manages their public image. Even at the reception the are like this.

But Who we have across the table? Bloberta. Her bright red skirt and white patterned blouse. She doesn't fit in the family approved hue of red, she wears too much white – she reflects too much light, her red looks even brighter again it. She is just that bright. Her reception dress is also bright red. If she was ever allowed to stand closer to them, they would look dull. So she never is. She is a family outcast. It's also reflective of a talent that she possess so naturally but is never able to utilise bc no one is interested. Despite her constant search of love and acceptance, she adopts this identity of a black – or rather red – sheep of the family that functionally casts her aside. She doesn't change to appeal to her mother's taste, probably bc it's senseless. Regina is not interested in Bloberta or her success, so it wouldn't matter anyways.

See, also, if her father was truly affiliated with her, he would have won a bit of her red maybe. It would've been a nice touch. But we know that he was too reluctant to defend his daughter even if he felt sorry for her. Her siblings are not on her side either. Lunchbox is actually her antipode – completely in green, a contrasting, complementary colour to red from the opposite side of the colour wheel – a son, a youngest child, a talent her mother actually wants. He is everything Bloberta is not. Modella, despite being closer to Bloberta in colour theme, in tone is closer to their mother. She may be not so aggressively opposite, but she is too reluctant to align with her. She has softer colour, she might be on good terms with her personally, but wouldn't risk standing up for her to Regina. Thus, Bloberta is completely alienated from her family.

Also, Bloberta's clashing style can be interpreted as her subconscious attempt to separate herself from her siblings in a desperate attempt to get attention too. Bloberta is a middle child, moreover she is a middle daughter inbetween an older sister and a younger brother. It's socially acceptable to deem her invisible – you already have an excellent daughter and a son™, this one is spare. Red is a very noticeable colour, it attracts attention. In Bloberta's case, it can also be so that she is noticed even if looked at passively. This way, her bright red is imprinted on someone's retina, even if they barely acknowledge her presence. This way, her mother, despite looking past her every day, never forgets that she is there. Thus, red is her only chance to be noticed by somebody, anybody. It's a survival tactics for her. Her depressed, meek attitude at home, and everywhere where she is with her family, doesn't allow her to come to her own character. To avoid being an afterthought, she wears bright red and contrasts it will white.

Now, let's take a look at her friend group. They all seem to have a similar style of colour combination. Pastel tones, dark-light, no more than two colours etc. But you see, no one is so on the nose like Bloberta. Even that one girl, that wears red too – it's not the same. Her red is darker, closer to brown and contrasted with light green, that is also with red plaid. The all are colourful, of course, but tame. It's just Bloberta who is standing out, and not only bc she's the only single friend now.

Also, there's another character, who stands out just like Bloberta, but in an opposite technique. Censodoll and her in this instance actually (and in general) share some similar characters despite such a dramatic difference in colour identity. They are both single, their Self shaped by actions of their mothers, the Self so strong, that they keep it throughout the whole life. However Censodoll approaches her existence with black – colour that absorbs light. She is not susceptible to the influence of her environment, but she is acutely aware of it – subsequently she can exploit it for her own gain. (Censodoll deserves her own separate paragraph).

White is a very reflective colour, it reflects light from its surrounding. Pre-Help Bloberta is very much receptive of what her surrounding thinks and expects of her and she reflects back exactly that. The slow decline of white elements in her clothes can signify gradual maturing, jadedness. Young Bloberta is still sensitive, naïve and youthfully innocent. She's of course already lost most of her expectations, learned to accept that little consideration she's given and not object or ask for more. At the reception she wears mostly red because the earlier encounter with her friend group gave her a motivation – to get engaged asap to be included again. The tone is more saturated, the white belt or headband does very little to counteract it – she drops the act she does without her family around, she is confident in her actions too. Subsequently, this becomes a colour of her victory and her downfall.

I have to say, the only time Bloberta ever abandoned her significant red was during her affair with Stopframe. It's a sportswear, so it's usually white. But on a storytelling side, it tell us about her (and his) motives a lot.

She wears all white with a tiny bit of blue. You see, we already established how white is a reflective colour. Story wise she is trying to be someone different too, just this once. It doesn't necessarily mean that it's unauthentic for her, just that it diverges greatly from her original and by that time setted colour identity. Its probable, that she is also putting a very strong and exaggerated act – she's desperate after all. It's been at least 4 years of her marriage to Clay, that was a horrible mistake from day 1, she knew it instantly, too. So this act here is targeted to secure her a better relationship (or so she thinks). It's actually the same approach she used on Clay in Help + longevity. The one thing she definitely has learnt was that she shouldn't immediately jump to a conclusion. So here, she is expanding her act in time and also putting more effort in her reflection. A tiny bit of blue is her way of associating with Stopframe, blue is one of his signature colours, especially to her. (Notably, he also has a tiny bit of red – he is also putting up an act here, they are quite the same in their tactics. He wears white, just like Bloberta, for the effect of reflection – he is whatever she wants him to be, an affinity to her. But notably, he keep an element of his own colour, while she drops it completely. He is not that dedicated to the initial act, not as much as she is.)

So, Bloberta holds her identity in a death grip and wears red as a trophy. However, she became a product of her own environment first, and locked it on herself second. Red is what she needed to survive among her family and friends, not necessarily what she truly was. Now, of course, it's what she it, the Self she accepted and built up.

Her red is very different from Clay's red too. She has a potential to be whatever she wants actually, she has much more agency than Clay in terms of independent existence. She is versatile and resilient, she is flexible and capable of big achievements if she puts her mind to it. In her case, red = strength, power she actually has, and, in extension, the power of Self that Clay actually desires but lacks.

They are different in their approaches and attitudes, routes the took etc., but in the end they arrived to the same result. They are two parts of the same disaster, one whole broken system.

Orel is next.

[autisticclownfromhell]

A New Look?

Alternative title: What I would give genshin guys to wear

Basically Reverse isekai but now you gotta make normal outfits for the characters so they don't stick out like a sore thumb. It can also be read as modern AU outfits if you prefer

Characters in order:

Heizou, Xiao, Albedo, Zhongli, Wanderer, Kaeya, Venti, Ayato, Diluc, Kazuha

Honestly heizou would be an easy pick. Old fashioned British detective style. Sherlock Holmes, trench coats, shades of brown, all that jazz. Also, give him access to true crime podcasts, he'll never be bored again. 

I'd give xiao the ol' hot topic skater fit. Black, band tees, lots of rings and jewelry, fake pieces, ripped jeans, yeaa. It matches his personality too. Not with fashion but if you do get band t shirts tell him alot about said band just incase one of those "name five members or your not a true fan" people talk to him. 

Albedo gets the light academia scholar outfits. Kinda chill, collared shirts, lighter colors, shades of brown and blue. Some gold every once in a while. Loose fitting stuff. Flowy sleeves. Lots of rings. Maybe one or two gold necklaces that he wears every once in a while. The type of outfits you see those aesthetic college student wearing. Maybe a bit of cottagecore. Lots of white shirts. 

Zhongli would look like that one professor that everybody has a crush on tbh. Not as formal as what he wears in game but still, collared shirts, suits once in a while, always wears a tie, owns one dark brown trench coat that he wears everywhere at all costs. Lots of darker browns with gold accents here and there. Not a necklace kinda guy but wears a good amount of rings. Totally has reading glasses. Has alot of custom hair pins for some reason? Idk I just feel like he does. Has 100 pairs of dress shoes, and like one pair of black boots. Nothing else. Also If you give him his own closet it's so organized. Spotless, everything fits in the closet right, its honestly impressive. 

Wanderer would be alot like Xiao. Hot topic's no. 1 customer. He'd have more of a blue and purple color scheme than black though. Actually listens to all the bands he has shirts of. Big punk fan. Wears this one black beanie with a skull on it basically every day. His shoe game is good, like really good. Had alot of platform shoes so he can look taller. Lots of cropped shirts that looked ripped. No long sleeves, short sleeves and sleeveless tees. An absolute MASTER at makeup, specifically eyeliner. Lotsssss of turtlenecks. 

Ooohoho now Kaeya would be f u n to style. Has a more simple style. Those pinterest dudes?? Yeah, think of that. Plain colored shirts, turtlenecks alot, almost never sleeveless. Lots of long sleeves stuff.

Give him one of those black corsets that I always see, since he wears one on his original outfit. Wears necklaces, but doesnt layer them or anything. One simple necklace at a time. A TON of silver rings. Hes got those pinterest guy hands. Wears sheer black gloves. Has this one cropped blue jacket but it's more of a sweater and he always wears it when layering clothing. 

Hanging earrings are necessary for him. Has a belt with a snowflake design on it that he uses alot. Almost never wears sweaters. Wears blue, grey, and black almost religiously. 

Ahhh venti :) Think similar to albedos but more Victorian than college student vibes. Again, long sleeves, flowy, lotssss of ruffles, has a generous amount of green accents. Has this one emerald necklace that resembles a vision somewhat and he adores it. Never takes it off. Not a giant ring person, but has around a thousand hats. Paper boy hats in green, might own a bucket hat or two? Hes got the whole hat-universe. Always wear white socks that go just below his knees with EVERYTHING. Has multiple pairs and some are a bit more sheer than the others. Has a pair or two of white fingerless gloves to wear with long sleeves, and full, white and sheer gloves he wears when he isnt wearing long sleeves. White button ups are his life. Usually doesnt tuck said button ups in.   (Totally not a walking mitski reference) 

Ayato isnt THAT complex. And he's got similar style to Zhongli, but complety different color schemes. Wears suits often, and they follow a pattern. White shirt, black tie, light blue suit jacket. The icon of white pants, he basically never wears anything else. For smaller accessories they're usually dark blue or black in color. Not a ring person either, but wears one or two black rings occasionally. Has earrings but not dangly ones. Just black studs. Has alot of dark blue hair pins to keep his hair back. Theres no way his hair naturally just stays that way ok?? Every single boba place within 40 miles knows his name and face by memory. Wears the same looking black shoes all the time. 

Diluc is probably another trench coat kinda guy. Less suits, more trench coats for him. In the fancy looking suit and tie gang with Ayato and Zhongli. Usually wears black button ups instead of white ones, with a crimson red tie and a brown trench coat, or a white tie and a darker red coat. Totally not an accessories guy. No necklaces, earrings, and maybe just one single gold rings he wears once every century. Another black shoes only person. I feel like the coats he wear have some fur on them in places. Just a thought. Always carries around like 3 extra hair ties in his pocket just in case he need one. 

Kazuha is a comfy clothing icon. Not one for a thousand things on his outfits for aesthetic purposes, just wears what he likes and adds accessories if he feels like it.  And absolute king of the fall outfit aesthetic. Outfits usually consists of slightly baggy autumn colored shirts, always short sleeves. Sweatpants or just light colored/bleached cuffed jeans. (Yes I said CUFFED) And occasionally has a darker colored orange and red knit sweater over him. Probably has one or two necklaces on at a time. Always wears this one necklace with a gold chain and a maple leaf charm on it. A gold colored accessories person. Most of the rings he has are gold. Has his ears pierced and usually wears black or gold studs. Sonetimes he wears dangly earrings but nothing to crazy. Ties his hair back a lot less. 

(I wrote this on the train lmao)

[prettyboykatsuki]

OMG OKAY ochako megumi sakura and wyll king 🥹🥹

doing this made me realize how actually insane i am and how much ive thought about this. its something i do in relationships all the time but wow the amount of time i spent curating these is crazy

also once again this is not how i think THEY dress but how i would dress them. like how i pick their clothes out.

my beautiful princess ochako:

i think ochako usually sticks to a more athleisure sort of look and keeps it simple in general. jeans, sneakers, basics etc.

i think she gets a little self conscious wearing cute things on her own lol so in my mind i am mostly encouraging her

i dress her in stuff that's a little frillier and brighter. specifically i try to style her with the himekaji subtype of gyaru in mind which is like dressed down princess attire. stuff that accentuates her waist and hips... i like her stomach pudge...

i normally pick things in pink for her but i think she also suits green + some light brown.

megumi my beloved

i think megumi probably dresses a little closely to what i've picked here. he likes to wear simple stuff and sometimes layers but it's mostly monochrome. black + white

i like to pick out things that are only slightly more experimental and that play with androgyny for him. sometimes a skirt if he's feeling generous ++ a lot of accessories.

i also like giving him a tighter silhouette. think of what i dress him as like a dressed down techwear with some more edgy details.

him and sakura i thnk can't be pushed too far out so i try to keep in the realm of basic with some flair thats not too intimidating

i would love to put him in a mesh shirt sometime.

sakura my sweetheart

tbh... i think i pick out all of sakuras clothes in general KJSDJK.

i keep his tastes in mind and then adjust. i overall like to dress him in the soft boy aesthetic and play around with more patterns since anything above that is beyond him

he rarely wears accessories but i think he gets his ear pierced so sometimes i will choose matching jewelry for him

I COULDNT FIND ANY GOOD PICTURES BUT I DO PUT HIM IN MORE COLOR. pinks, lavenders, light blues etc. ALL OF THE PICTURES WERE UGLY BUT THE SAKURA IN MY MIND IS WEARING MORE COLOR... i stick to monochrome tho too for his sake

i mostly dress him in oversize two layer shirts and hoodies with black jeans. my main agenda is to dress him in sleeves that go past his hands <33

wyll my husband

for wyll in a modern context, i don't think i change how dresses much at all!!

he dresses well and it's what i would want to see him in anyways so i rarely do more than just help him with the outfit

he suits neutrals and browns, and also dark greens which i put him in frequently. i like muted colors on him i think.

the only thing i style for him is jewelry though once again... unlisted... all the pics weren't doing him justice.

but imagine gold rings + a few necklaces and some earrings to top the outfit off.

overall dresses neat and stylish without much help.

[toasttt11]

my au’s facts and favorites

connie bedard

favorites

sushi and anything seafood

lettuce wraps

not a big coffee or tea person

really likes smoothies

she likes lilies

blue is her favorite color

favorite season is winter

facts

she’s always kept her hair really long but the first time she cut it short she never let it grow out long again.

connie is very very superstitious with her hockey stick and absolutely does not like anyone touching it before a game.

connie hates the summer because hockey season isn’t going on and she does not like not playing hockey.

connie is allergic to any type of nuts.

spencer tkachuck

favorites

pasta and chicken

pumpkin bread

seafood boils

favorite season is fall

doesn’t really have a favorite flower

blue is his favorite color

facts

is a pretty amazing cook and has helped quinn, connor, jack and luke all get a lot better at cooking.

spencer never lets any facial hair stay on his face because it irritates him and he doesn’t like the feeling.

he’s always had a big soft spot for animals and if he didn’t play hockey he would of wanted to become a veterinarian.

spencer has a really hard time sleeping and is use to getting very little sleep, the only thing he has every found that helps him sleep is sleeping next to quinn.

oscar bedard

favorites

chicken and steak that jack makes

any type of fruit

orange is his favorite color

any flower that’s orange is his favorite

favorite season is winter

facts

he loves fruits and one of jack’s favorite things is cutting up fruit for oscar.

he does not have any care for fashion and just buys simple things or lets his sister buy his outfits.

oscar is a big dog person and adored growing up with their a family dog.

oscar hates pretzels, he always has but it’s jack’s favorite food.

oscar can quite literally sleepy anywhere no matter where he is and where he is sitting or laying down.

wyatt johnston

favorites

loves anything that has bread

cinnamon! anything cinnamon is her favorite

cinnamon french toast

cinnamon lattes

green and purples are favorite colors

loves tulips

spring is her favorite season

facts

wyatt is a really good juggler and it’s one of her most random talents.

she does not like cooking and is not very good at it, she can make enough things to live alone but doesn’t like it.

she is always cold and most of the time is wearing a long sleeve and a oversized hoodie or jacket.

if she is on the ice she is always chewing on her mouth guard or her gloves.

she has always loved being out by the water and fishing with her dad and grandpa.

greyson hughes

favorites

chocolate he has an extreme sweet tooth

brownies are his favorite cheat meal

mocha lattes

favorite season is winter

likes white daisies

doesn’t really have a favorite color

facts

he’s had a ring since he was young from his parents and has always fiddled with it, eventually he gives it wyatt and wyatt knows it’s very important and takes good care of it.

tends to be very anti social and is alwyss wearing his noise canceling headphones especially when he reads in public.

has always sat alone on flights for road games, he likes being alone and it’s become a routine for him and the stars all know to let him sit alone.

greyson gave his love to reading to quinn too, quinn always ask for new books for greyson and the rare occasion that luke snd jack read that ask greyson too.

remington zegras

favorites

isn’t a big sweets person and likes savory more

gets just a plain cold brew coffee no sweetener

pizza is one of his favorite foods

favorite season is definitely summer

not a big flower fan and usually the one giving the flowers

favorite color is blue

facts

he loves starting his day with a workout or a run and tends to wake up early.

has always been a big water baby and would happily stay in the water all day.

feels very restless when he doesn’t do anything in a day and at least needs to workout.

remington can speak fluent ancient greek, he learned when he was younger having wanted to learn because of his heritage.

he’s always loved anything percy jackson since he was younger and was obsessed with the books and movies growing up and he loves the show now.

[lorna-d-m]

Gingerbread

Word Count: 4,870

Rating: E

Warning: wine drinking, swearing, breast play, some dry humping

Author's Note: happy thanksgiving! Now that it's passed I can officially say: Merry Christmas y'all! Timeline wise, this takes place between chapters six and seven.

Alice missed the days of elementary school when the last day before winter break was reserved for nostalgic movies, hot chocolate, and wearing your pajamas to school. Instead, students completed their end-of-term exams. Instead of relaxing, kicking up her feet and putting on a movie, she graded first periods’ exams during second, and so on and so on. Those who finished before the end of the period could read or study for another exam. 

Stevie approached her desk, and she looked up assuming he had a question about the exam. Instead, he handed her a small envelope and whispered so quietly she could hardly hear him, “Merry Christmas, Ms. Greene”. Stevie turned on his heels and returned to his desk.

Curiosity piqued, Alice examined the envelope. She would recognize Stevie’s handwriting, so she assumed it must be Laszlo who scrawled her name on the front of the envelope. Alice noted the fancy stationery: the thick off-white envelope with a red wax seal. 

It was a simple but elegant Christmas card depicting a winter scene. Before she read it, she looked at the gift card tucked inside. It was for her favorite coffee chain and $15, plenty for two drinks or a drink and a snack. Inside the card, Laszlo wrote a brief thank you, Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays. He signed, as well as Stevie. 

Stevie watched her open the card. Not wanting to distract any students or draw too much attention, Alice mouthed thank you to him. She wondered if any other of Stevie’s teachers received a card. When she checked her phone at lunch, Bits answered her question. 

Nice Christmas gifts from the good doc 🎄🎁 I’m assuming you’ll get more than a card from him? 😏😉

Alice chuckled, knowing all the innuendos Bitsy meant with a simple wink and smirk emoji combination. They made plans for Saturday when Stevie was supposed to be hanging out at a friend’s house.

Oh hush you 🤫A lady doesn’t kiss and tell

She went back to grading, worrying if the gifts she bought him were enough. Saying he was difficult to shop for felt like a lame excuse, but Alice couldn’t think of anything else to get him. Unless… well she supposed it was more of a purchase for her, but he would certainly appreciate it.

Laszlo deliberated for two days about what to cook for dinner. It was not his first time cooking for Alice, but it was his first time in his kitchen amongst all his tools and familiarity. The expectations were higher. He wanted to do something delicious for her, showing her how much he cared for her. Once decided, he went to the markets in the morning. It was his guilty pleasure. Laszlo enjoyed carefully perusing all his options and leisurely strolling around. He could never stick to a list; he always bought things he didn’t need but decided at the moment he wanted. 

He returned, carefully holding a brown paper grocery bag to his chest. Stevie stood over the stove, cooking a late-morning breakfast of eggs and toast. Laszlo had to tease him as he slipped into a winter break sleep schedule. 

“Good morning. Any later and I would tell you good afternoon.” 

“Ha ha,” Stevie laughed dryly. “I’ve never heard that one before.” 

Laszlo unpacked his groceries and handed a party-size bag of chips to Stevie. “For tonight,” Laszlo thought it rude to go to someone’s house emptyhanded. “Do you need a ride or is Jake picking you up?”

“He said he’d pick me up at like four, and then…” Stevie trailed off, but Laszlo waited expectedly. “I was going to ask you how late I could stay.”

Curfew was, Laszlo didn’t like to call it a debate, but a matter of discussion. On school nights Laszlo stuck to 9:30, wanting Stevie home at a reasonable time. On weekends, however, he was more flexible. So long as Stevie was transparent about his plans, telling him where he wanted to go and who he would be with, Laszlo was willing to adjust the time. 

Laszlo trusted Stevie and he had yet to disappoint him, but for emergencies and peace of mind, they had each other’s location shared on their phones. It went both ways, Laszlo could see if Stevie was at school, home, or a friend’s house, and Stevie could see if he was at the university, the Institute, the police station, or the courts. As a show of faith, Laszlo told him he would only check if he had a legitimate concern or cause. He had yet to check, knock on wood. 

And of course, if Laszlo coincidentally had plans with Alice the same night, then perhaps Stevie could stay with his friends a bit longer.

“That depends,” Laszlo huffed a sigh in thought, “Will he be dropping you off, or will I pick you up?” 

Stevie didn’t bother to plate his food or sit at the table. He stood at the counter, scooping the scrambled eggs onto a piece of sourdough toast with his wooden spoon. At least he didn’t create many dishes… Stevie answered with a mouthful, “He can drop me off.” 

Perfect. “How does eleven sound then? Take it as an early Christmas present.” Then Laszlo could enjoy more time with Alice. “And text me when you’re on your way back.” That way they had a reminder when she needed to leave. 

“Thanks!” Stevie was a quick eater, a result of his childhood, and already he finished his breakfast. After cleaning the few dishes he used, he went back to his room.

Alice pressed her lips into a thin line in focus. It was an unconscious habit as she piped details on gingerbread cookies in royal icing: delicate buttons to the little men, twinkling lights on the trees, and fine lines on the snowflakes. Flour and icing smeared her cheek and dusted her clothes, and she was sweating from the residual heat of the oven. 

The timer on her phone startled her, making her smear the line of the snowflake. She cursed and set the cookie aside. Alice didn’t want to give Laszlo an ugly cookie. And, she sighed while brushing away an errant lock of hair, she didn’t want to look like an ugly cookie either. The timer reminded her to step back and start getting ready.

After hearing Laszlo had no Christmas plans, other than little celebrations with Stevie since John and Sara were on a much-needed vacation, Alice wanted to make sure their night was perfect. She debated what to wear, settling on a red low-cut sweater and a tight skirt. Classic, but enticing, and she could show off one of her gifts for Laszlo.

***

Alice parked on the street and waited in her toasty car. It was her first time visiting Laszlo’s house. She pulled out her phone, and rather than text Laszlo that she arrived, she typed a message for Bitsy.

Oh shit. He’s rich rich 💰

Bitsy responded quickly. oh??? 👀👀That’s good because you need to marry rich you’re a teacher

She took a picture of the front of the brownstone house and sent it. That should tell Bitsy all she needed to know. Then, she texted Laszlo that she had arrived. Taking a deep breath in, she left the coziness of her car and braved the cold night air. 

The front door was off street level; it was up a set of stairs. Alice was careful, her hand gliding over the railing as she ascended them. The last thing she wanted was to slip on icy steps: embarrassing herself and ruining her hard work that afternoon or Laszlo’s gifts. Before she could knock on the old brass knocker or ring the decorative doorbell, Laszlo opened the door. 

He radiated warmth, and not just because of the heat escaping the house. Laszlo wore a white apron over his clothes, a lock of hair fell across his forehead, his sleeve was rolled up, and he smelled like the delicious food he cooked. It made Alice’s stomach growl and her heart flutter. 

“Please, come in. You can put your coat there,” he gestured to a coat rack in the corner of the vestibule and took the platter of cookies from her hands, “and I can take these to the kitchen.”

He had a vestibule and a foyer beyond that. Alice knew he had money, but she did not realize how much until she saw his home. She shed her coat, and she caught Laszlo’s eyes appreciating the neckline of her sweater just as she intended. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t quite finished, but please, feel free to wait in the parlor and nibble on the cheese board while I return downstairs.”

“Your kitchen is downstairs?” Alice almost asked “you have a parlor?” but that was a less pressing matter.

Laszlo chuckled. “Yes, it’s an old house, so the garage, kitchen, and ironically Stevie’s room are all street level. I promise I won’t be long.”

“Good,” she pressed a kiss to his cheek, “I’m hungry and I’ll miss you.” 

His cheeks flushed, and he kissed her properly. “Then I won’t keep you waiting.” He disappeared down the stairs, readjusting the apron tied around his waist. Alice admired his ass as he left. 

Alice did as Laszlo suggested and wandered to the parlor. She nibbled on a cracker with brie and thinly sliced apple while she surveyed the room. A heavy, ornate fireplace warmed the room, and she relished its heat. Her sweater and skirt did little to keep her warm. Alice noticed there were no pictures on the mantle, just a television mounted on the wall. It was one of the fancy ones disguised as a landscape painting, complete with a gilded frame. 

Two bookshelves bookended the fireplace, and Alice skimmed through the titles. Some she recognized, like classic novels, whereas the psychological essays and journals were far from her realm of familiarity. Where did he find the time to read, she mused. A record player nestled in the corner, made to look like a vintage gramophone, filled the room with traditional Christmas music. Alice hummed along to the familiar song. Laszlo was a maximalist, filling his home with as much as he could in his eclectic style.

Alice heard footsteps coming up the stairs, so she went to the formal dining room. As she wondered how often Laszlo and Stevie ate there, he answered her silent question.

“We rarely use it, but I wanted tonight to be special.” 

“Please, let me help you,” she offered. Laszlo held a heavy tray laden with plates and bowls with one hand.

“There’s no need,” he insisted, setting it on the table.  “It’s part of why we don’t use the dining room very often.”

“I can imagine, but it looks lovely, Laszlo.” He dressed up the space with formal dinnerware and linens. He lit a candelabra on the table, and pitchers of water and bottles of wine waited to be poured. 

“Thank you.” He blushed again, clearly unused to praise. Alice wanted to make the tinge of pink darker. 

“You’ve put in so much effort, and I appreciate it. You’ve made tonight special and memorable, and we’ve barely begun.” 

Laszlo returned downstairs for the rest of the meal, and Alice stole a glance at what he brought up already. A basket of dinner rolls, small bowls of soup, and salads. This was meant to be the appetizer, and she wondered eagerly what the main course could be. With perfect timing, he brought the entrée: roasted vegetables, seared duck breast with a red wine sauce, and creamy mashed potatoes. 

Once everything was settled on the table, Laszlo could settle himself. He removed his apron revealing a white button-up and a Christmas-themed waistcoat: dark green with white detailing and gold buttons. Laszlo pulled out her seat for her, and then he poured them both a glass of water and a glass of red wine.  

“Please, enjoy. There’s plenty.” He offered her the basket of warm dinner rolls glistening with butter.

Laszlo was an excellent cook, and she was excited to try it. He waited until she tasted it and smiled before he ate anything.  

Over dinner, they reminisced on past Christmases: best presents, worst presents, family drama, vacations. Alice thought long and hard about the best present she ever received and decided it must have been when she got a Barbie dreamhouse. She knew what it was as soon as she saw the gigantic wrapped box by the tree, but her parents made her wait until the end to unwrap it. Laszlo smiled saying he had something similar happen when his parents bought the baby grand piano for the parlor.

“Do you play?” She noticed it, but the keys were covered and the music books were nowhere in sight. If he did, he left no clues. 

“No,” he frowned, “not since I was a young boy.”

Alice didn’t want to upset him, so she did not press it. She found it odd since he was the one who mentioned the piano, to begin with, but this was a happy night. From then on, Laszlo was more inclined to listen to her than share his memories. 

Alice insisted upon helping him clean up after the meal, and Laszlo found it hard to refuse her. He enjoyed simply being near her, and he admitted it was easier with an extra set of hands. Laszlo rinsed the dishes from dinner while Alice unloaded the dishwasher. 

“I wasn’t sure about making Christmas cookies,” Alice confessed.

Laszlo raised an eyebrow in playful alarm. “Why ever not? Your cookies are delectable.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m a one trick pony. You’ve had my cookies before at open house and the conferences, so I thought I should show you something new.”

“But they’re delicious, and I presume gingerbread to fit the season. I’ve not tasted those.”

“Which is why I went with it. You can really only do gingerbread this time of year. But I think next time, I’ll make something totally different.”

“I look forward to it.” Since his hands were covered with soapy water, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Speaking of dessert, do you want it now or do you want to wait?”

Alice smirked. “Well, if dessert is a real kiss, I want it now.” 

How could he refuse? Laszlo kissed her again, his tongue slipping into her mouth. Alice pinned him against the counter, and since her hands were dry she ran them through his hair and rested them at the back of his neck. Laszlo leaned into her touch.

Abruptly, Alice ended their kiss. She stayed close to him, pressed to him. “But if dessert is the cookies, they can wait until we’re watching a movie on the couch.” Laszlo hardly understood what she said. He was too distracted by the way Alice kissed him. She giggled, clearly amused by his love-drunk expression, and smiled. “Come on,” she teased, “let’s finish this up.” Laszlo did not need any more encouragement. 

***

They set out all their gifts on the coffee table along with the platter of cookies and two mugs of hot chocolate. Laszlo insisted on preparing it for them, his recipe using dark chocolate and rich milk to create the most decadent drink. Stevie preferred the instant Swiss Miss powder, no doubt due to his unrefined palette, and Alice surprised Laszlo by asking for a sprinkle of cinnamon and nutmeg. Curious, he had to try it for himself.

Alice shivered once on the couch, so Laszlo found the red knit blanket he kept in the living room and draped it over her shoulders. She looked comfortable like she belonged there.

“Can I go first?” Alice volunteered, “My gifts for you require a little bit of explanation.”

“Well now you must. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

She handed him one slim box, one wrapped present that could only be a book by its shape and size, and a flat, rectangular box. All were wrapped in delicate blue and white snowflake wrapping paper and finished with silver bows. Laszlo reached for the smallest box first. He tore the paper at the tape and lifted the lid from the box. It was a black and gold fountain pen, weighted in his hand.

“It’s supposed to be smear proof. All the reviews said it was left hand certified.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” He reached for the book next, sliding his thumb under the edge of the wrapping paper. It was a well-read, well-loved paperback copy of her favorite book. Laszlo glanced at her before skimming through the pages. 

“We talked about books before, and how a person’s favorite book can tell you a lot about them, so I thought I would give you my favorite filled with all my thoughts and annotations.” It was a deeply personable gift. Laszlo was shocked, and he immediately tried to give it back to her. “I already bought myself another copy, please, keep it.”

The final present was a rich golden-colored cable knit sweater. Laszlo held it up, modeling what it would look like, and he saw her eyes light up. He would have to wear more gold…

“I had to guess your size, so I put the receipt in the box in case you need to return it or exchange it. But I thought the gold would suit you, and I see I was right.”

“Thank you, darling.” He kissed her cheek again. Laszlo enjoyed seeing her cheeks flush whenever he did. “It’s all so thoughtful.”

“Technically,” Alice said with a sly grin, “there’s one more gift, but you’ll have to wait to unwrap it.”

“Oh?” Laszlo checked the coffee table wondering how he missed it. Alice nodded, removed the blanket from her shoulders, and sat up straight, pushing her plentiful chest out. “Oh!”

Intentionally, her sweater slipped off her shoulder exposing a touch of lace. His eyes followed the movement. “It’s more of an investment, I think, but mutually beneficial.”

“Certainly,” he agreed, unconsciously licking his lips. 

“But not yet.” Alice fixed her sweater and re-wrapped the blanket. Laszlo blinked twice, refocusing on the moment. She knew how to tease him, draw him in, and turn his head all around. It was maddening and enthralling. He thought carefully about the order in which to give his gifts to her. Start small.

“The poinsettias on the table are yours to keep, so long as you keep them away from Georgie. I read they’re not good for cats, so put them somewhere high and out of reach for him.”

“They’re gorgeous, Laszlo, and I appreciate the research. All the other flowers you’ve given me have been Georgie safe, so I’ll have to find somewhere special for these.”

Next was a little gift bag filled with imported German chocolates, the best in his opinion, and cat treats for Georgie. Treats for both of them, he explained, with a sheepish smile at the pun. These were all small gifts, trivial really, but they all brought a smile to her face. It was time to step it up. He handed her a slim, unmarked envelope with two tickets to the Nutcracker, on Christmas Eve no less. 

Alice’s eyes glittered. “I thought this had been sold out for months! How did you get these?”

“I have a box, so I get the first pick of any tickets…” he trailed off. He always bought at least two tickets. In years past, he would take John, Stevie, or John and Sara and play the third wheel. This year, Laszlo would have a date. 

“Fuck off,” Alice said indelicately, but still alluringly to him. “You have a box?”

“I do,” he snickered, “It was my family’s before it became mine.”

“That’s incredible.” She still held the tickets in her hand, looking them over and over. His eyes met hers, a silent question. What are you thinking? “Honestly, I’m trying to think if I have an outfit worthy of this.”

“Whatever you wear, I’m sure it will be divine, and I hope you pair it with this.” He slid his final present over to her: a small jewelry box. 

Tentatively, she set the tickets down and picked up the box. It wasn’t wrapped; Laszlo thought the black velvet spoke for itself. Now he feared it was too much too soon. Jewelry set certain expectations. It announced intention. 

“Oh, Laszlo.” Her thumb rubbed along the edge of the box, and she tilted the necklace and earrings toward the light. “It’s- I don’t know what to say other than thank you.” Alice’s wide eyes met his, and he thought he saw the shadow of a tear.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” The troublesome tear slipped down her cheek when he asked, and more threatened to follow. Given the nature of his work, Laszlo was accustomed to tears, but he did not know what to do when Alice cried.

“You’ve done so much and given me such wonderful gifts,” she tried to steady her voice but was unsuccessful, “and I’m worried I didn’t do enough.”

“Don’t say that,” he rushed to assure her. In the unspoken silence, Laszlo sensed her true fear was that she wasn’t enough. He struggled for words, so he took her hand in his and squeezed it. “You have given me plenty.”

Alice smiled, tears still in her eyes, and nodded to herself. “Thank you, Laszlo, just-” she paused again, registering her hand in his, “Thank you.”

After Alice dried her tears, embarrassed she cried but comforted by Laszlo’s words, they dimmed the lights and turned on a movie. All playful bickering about what to watch stopped when Alice spotted an old stop-motion classic about the year without Santa Claus. She had not seen it in years, but she vividly remembered the song with heat miser and snow miser. Laszlo chuckled and indulged her, selecting the movie and letting the opening credits play. 

She cuddled up next to Laszlo, his arm across her shoulders, and she shared her blanket with him. Alice leaned her head on his chest, and he rested his chin at the top of her head. She was comforted by his slow and steady breathing. Laszlo was a rock: steady and reliable under her. 

Both their hands wandered, appreciative and lingering touches, until the movie was forgotten and Laszlo encouraged her to sit on his lap. Alice hesitated, biting her tongue at a quip about being more than he could handle, but he was insistent and unflinching. She straddled his lap, her already short skirt rising up even further, teasing him with the tops of her thighs. 

“There you are,” Laszlo crooned. He looked less perfect and more like a person. Toussled hair, pink cheeks, sly smile. Alice adored him like this. His hand circled her waist and pulled her closer, eliminating any space between them. His kiss tasted of their drink, rich chocolate with a touch of spice. Alice melted into his touch. Laszlo panted, whining into her mouth as he felt her chest pressing against him.

His hand slipped under the knit of her red sweater and traced the skin underneath. His fingers danced over the clasp of her new bra, her gift just for him to unwrap, asking her permission before advancing any further. She broke their kiss and nodded, a quiet “I want this” escaping her lips. Laszlo needed no more encouragement, and he deftly undid the clasp. She pulled the sweater over her head and tossed it aside. Her nipples pebbled in the sudden chill, and Laszlo was quick to latch himself to her. 

He took one into his mouth, lavishing it with attention, while he cupped her other breast with his hand. Laszlo did not want it to feel unappreciated as he nipped, licked, and pinched. Alice moaned his name and wriggled her hips against him, craving more in the heady heat of the moment. “I want to see you,” she huffed. 

Laszlo paused and drew back. A trail of saliva connected them, and Alice brushed it away with her thumb. “I’m all yours,” he murmured.

Alice hastily unfastened the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt, cursing him for wearing so many layers, but grateful for them too. Laszlo looked good in his layers, coordinated and well-put-together, but she wanted to see underneath his careful clothing choices.  Alice feasted her eyes on a broad chest, dusted with coarse hair and fine freckles, leading down to his soft stomach. Laszlo tipped his head back and groaned when she trailed her hand down his chest.

“Much better.” Pleased, Alice touched Laszlo’s chin and brought his attention back. His eyes were hazy, as if he’d drunk more than a glass of wine, as he studied her form. Laszlo ran an appreciative hand across her body: cupping her breast, holding her waist, and resting on her ass. He kissed her again, his lips wandering from her lips to her jaw, and her collarbone. 

“Laszlo, I-” His phone, forgotten on the coffee table, rang and interrupted her. She turned, glancing at the caller ID, and handed it to him. “It’s Stevie, he’s probably on his way home.”

Laszlo answered and held the phone to his ear. Alice was somewhat relieved he called. She wasn’t sure how much further they were going to go, and she was nervous to broach the topic. This was a natural end to the evening. When she went to move off his lap, he held her there with his right hand. Not firmly, but the surprising and warm touch was enough to keep her there. She slipped her hand over his.

Alice waited until he hung up to speak. “I think it’s time for me to go, Las.” 

“Please, darling, five more minutes.” His hips ground against hers, and his voice was as enticingly sweet as honey. 

“Five minutes, my final Christmas present for you,” she teased.

His lips reattached to hers, and his hand groped her breast. Her hips continued above him, and Laszlo followed every one of her movements. 

Hindered by Laszlo’s request, but hastened by his assistance to redress, Alice left without issue. She promised to text him when she arrived home safe and sound, and he reminded her what time they would leave for the Nutcracker. Laszlo waited for Stevie to return in the kitchen, hoping to ask about his evening before locking the front door and going to bed. 

“Hey,” Stevie entered through the more hidden ground-level door that connected through the garage. He preferred the direct access rather than messing with the front door. It was part of why he chose to live downstairs.

“How was it?” 

“Good,” he shrugged, “Caleb got a new game for us to play, so it took a while to figure out the rules, but it was fun.”

“Did they enjoy the chips?”

“Yeah, yeah, they did.” Stevie glanced at the sink, empty apart from two mugs of hot chocolate. “How was your evening?” 

One mug was still smeared with lipstick, and panic shot through Laszlo. Did he have any of her lipstick on his face? He wished he checked a mirror instead of presuming he looked okay. Laszlo flustered, thinking on the spot.

“Fine. Some people from the psychology department came over for dinner, part of a new tradition they’re trying to start.”

Stevie poured himself a glass of water and stood in front of the fridge. “That’s cool. Any leftovers? ”

“What? They didn’t feed you over there?” Laszlo chuckled, relieved by the change in subject.

“They did, but I’m still hungry. Growing boy and all.” Stevie ate a dinner roll without bothering to microwave it. 

Laszlo rolled his eyes. Ah, the youth. “Goodnight, and don’t forget to lock up.”

“Already did.”

Laszlo meant it when he said, “Good kid.”

***

Two days later, Laszlo picked Alice up from her apartment with a bouquet of pale pink roses. She wore a simple, elegant black dress and shawl. Underneath her silver shawl, Laszlo spotted the simple necklace he gave her and more than one purple hickey. He felt a sense of satisfaction seeing his work.

They arrived early to the theater and worked slowly through the crowds. People acknowledged him — former clients or students — and he stopped for a moment to chat with some of them. His chest puffed up with pride, talking to them with a woman as wonderful as Alice on his arm. She shimmered under the chandeliers.

Finally, Laszlo brought her to his box on the upper level. Alice whispered in his ear she always wondered what the view from the boxes was like rather than general admission. Laszlo promised to take her to more shows in the coming year. They enjoyed the show, her hand clasped in his, and her shawl slipping off her shoulders.

Laszlo asked if she was hungry, too, when they left the theater. Sheepishly, Alice confessed she was. He swung by a fast-food joint, one of the only things open at the late hour on Christmas Eve, and ordered fries and milkshakes. After their midnight snack, they made out like teenagers in the front seat. It was a complete contrast to the formality of their evening, but it was the perfect way to end the night.

taglist: @scuttle-buttle @fictionlandslanddreams @livvyshmiv @somethingthatsaysbubbles @hardlyinteresting @sapphiredreamer26 @aedeluca @alycu1 @linkpk88 @rachreads @fandom-princess-forevermore @groovyponypatrollamp @to-fat-to-give-a-crap @kateris-world @eli-the-thinker

[painsandconfusion]

Back To Your Roots

With You - Part Fourteen

(tw: chemical burns, noncon haircut, yandere, domestic abuse, kidnapping) [Previous | Masterpost | Next]

Robin’s hair was red.

At least, it was right now. Ida assumed, anyway. She changed it a lot. Never quiet. Never simple. Never the same for more than a week at least in style, or a month in color. And she’d only had Red for two weeks now.

It was only a couple weeks ago that Robin finally convinced Ida to dye their hair. 

“A little something special - to showcase who you are and how you want the world to see you. Not just how you were born,” she’d explained to them.

Ida had been wanting to for a long time. They’d stared at the midnight blue dyes on endless hours of scrolling in bed, and brushed off when Robin asked if they wanted to dye it. 

“Nah,” they’d hummed, tucking their phone onto the nightstand. “It would stain my hair.”

“So?” Robin just curled up closer. “Then you can bleach it or dye it again. It’s your hair. You can do whatever you want with it.”

“..it’s too much upkeep. I’ll stick with what I have.” They’d pressed a kiss to Robin’s hand, and that was the end of that conversation.

On the other hand, Oren always loved their hair. Loved it long and straight and white as fallen snow. “That’s what makes you special,” he’d said. “It’s something unique about you - so few people look like you, why would you ever want to change that?” He’d kissed their lips, and that was the end of that conversation. 

His words must have still haunted them, even years after they’d left his house, running off into the night and leaving him with a knife in his gut within crawling distance of his cellphone.

It had taken almost five whole years until Robin eased Ida into the idea of making their hair their own again. Not a trophy or a reminder of how they were so different from everyone else. Just…theirs. Nothing special. Theirs. 

The hairdresser was so gentle and sweet. She’d massaged shampoo into their hair and chattered endlessly with Robin as she worked. She’d tried to pull Ida into conversation, but Ida shrugged off most of it, more than content to listen to Robin chatter about their cat and her books and the newest cardigan she’d found at the thrift store. Neon green, this time. A ‘perfect match’ for her navy skirt and royal purple scarf.

Ida so often wished they could be like her. Wished they would dare to wear bright, crazy colors and outfits made up of seven different styles. Bold enough to change their color weekly and chatter with hairdressers. 

But..Ida was changing. They’d put a little color into their life now. 

They’d let someone else touch their hair now. 

They were outside and talking to other humans, and even getting a small strip over their left ear shaved away so they could pull the midnight blue and silver streaked mass off to one side. 

It was so recent that it barely felt like a memory. It felt as it were still happening. That Oren’s fingers in their hair were the hairdresser’s. That his humming chatter was local gossip. That the aches that puckered across their flesh was just their imagination. 

Oren’s voice made quick work of that breach to reality. 

“You know, I’m not sure why you did this. I just really don’t understand,” he muttered, fingers tracing over their part where silvery white had started to grow underneath the midnight blue, pushing it up and out of the way. 

“It’s not you at all. Were you trying to look like someone else??” 

Ida stared at the kitchen wall, numb and hollow and silent. 

His hands slid down their jaw and gripped it gently, tilting their head back until their eyes met his. “..that wasn’t a rhetorical question, dove.”

Ida’s stomach twisted as their eyes searched his. Trying to gauge how much danger was behind those words. 

“..I wasn’t trying to look like anyone else.”

Oren frowned, thumbs brushing down their cheeks. Resting at the top, then sliding down again. Again and again and again. Petting them like a cat.

“Then why did you do it?”

Ida’s face pinched slightly. Of course he wasn’t going to go long without mentioning their hair. Why did they think they’d be able to get away with that? As if he just wouldn’t notice that their hair was blue now. 

“..I…I don’t know.”

Oren sighed, leaning down over the back of the chair to press a lingering kiss to their forehead. “Precious thing,” he murmured. Nuzzling a little. “You don’t know anything when I’m not around, do you?”

Ida’s stomach was starting to churn now. Eyes squeezing gratefully shut. They’d take his lips over his eyes. Gladly.

Fingers curled in, almost bruising at the underside of their jaw as Oren’s breath warmed against their forehead. Ida strained, back aching at the angle as they squirmed away from bruising fingertips.

They hadn’t answered. Right-

“..no-”

Evidently that was good enough. His fingers unwrapped slightly, smoothing up and through their hair again. “We’re going to fix this.” With one more kiss to their forehead, he pulled back, taking their hand to guide them to standing.

Ida chewed on their lip, but followed as he wanted. Anywhere he wanted. 

Evidently that was out of the room. The floorboards seemed to creak a little louder than usually as they crossed the foyer and moved up the steps. Into the bathroom.

..that wasn’t figurative, was it. He was going to get rid of the blue. Get rid of what tiny piece of Robin they had here. 

Ida’s eyes burned as he dragged a chair to the sink, turning it around. He guided them to it. 

Ida didn’t fight it. 

How could they? 

There wasn’t any stopping this, so why bother. 

They just sat, hands curled around each other in their lap. Stomach in knots.

Oren turned on the tap, fingers pressed to their forehead to tilt their head back over the sink. Ida was good. They followed the push and slumped down in the seat so their head rested on the edge of the porcelain, hair ready to shift into the stream. 

Oren pressed a quick kiss to their lips as he tugged their hair out into the bowl and started thoroughly wetting it. “This will be good. You’ll start feeling so much more like yourself again. Maybe you’ll start singing, hm?” He took a moment to dip and nuzzle their nose with his. 

So, he wanted them singing more.

Ida took a note of that, letting their eyes close against the water and the proximity and the light in their eyes. “..maybe,” they breathed. Staying quiet. 

They tried to think back to that little barber shop. 

Tried to feel Robin’s hand holding theirs. 

They let the world slip away, and let themself believe, if only for this moment, that the hands in their hair were that hairdressers - Ida couldn’t stop kicking themself for forgetting her name-

They imagined the radio playing crackling, distant music - a song they’d heard a million times but never remembered the words to. Country. Warm and upbeat and nostalgic. 

Robin’s voice. Janet Finch plots debated, and local gossip. Not Oren’s soft humming. Not his hands. Not the smell of bleach too strong for this to be the hairdresser’s. 

Tin foil. That was familiar. 

Oren tore it with his teeth, wrapping lumps of hair up in the stuff before tilting them up in the chair. A washcloth dabbed at the drips that moved down their neck.

This was it. There wasn’t any stopping it now. Even if they ran and screamed and rinsed it away, the bleach had plenty of time already to damage the midnight blue that Robin had to painstakingly supported / pestered them into getting. 

Ida could see her face in the darkness when their eyes were closed. Her little hands poking and prodding and fretting with how the fresh lockes laid. 

Gentle. 

Simple and kinda, yet bubbling with excitement and compliment.

But that was then. And this was now.

Ida’s face pinched, eyes finally opening again to look up at Oren. As the world pressed back to the scent of pine and bleach and citrus, Ida’s scalp started to tinge. Started to scratch and burn as if hair was being ripped out at the root. 

Their hands lifted, distress on their face as they reached for the foil - only to be caught in Oren’s.

“Don’t touch it, it needs to sit.”

Ida felt a whine press from their throat, hands pulling against Oren’s. “..O-..Oren, it…it burns-”

He shushed them, leaning in to press a kiss to their nose. “It won’t take long. I don’t want you half green now just because it’s uncomfortable.”

Tears brimmed at Ida’s eyes as they started pulling against him in ernest. “N-no it- it’s -ssomethign’s wrong this isn’t right-”

Oren’s jaw set. Fingers tightened around their wrists until bones shifted under his grip. A pressure that promised blooming bruises by tomorrow. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me. It’s already going to be ruined with how much I’ve done with it now. It’s not like you can save it.”

The tears slid hot down their face as they shriveled under his grip. “Ore, please-I-Im nnot lying - it- it hurts Oren please-”

Oren’s lips just pinched into a thin line. “It’s only going to take a few more minutes. Just relax.”

Ida’s head shook, pulling against him again. “O-ren please-”

Oren groaned, letting go of one of their hands to reach up to the foil. “Just chill, it’s n-” He stopped, frowning. Touching the foil. Again. “..why’s it so hot-?”

Ida just dissolved into sobs, free hand now clutching at his shirt. Some unknown ghost was ripping their hair off by scalpy bits, shoving flame at the tears to cauterize it. It flickered and tingled and screamed at them in a cacophony of sensation and warnings. “Ore- pl-lease-”

Oren finally let go of their other hand, shoving the foil off. 

It splat into the sink easily. What should have freed them left nothing dangling down to touch their neck - even at this angle. 

“..fuck,” he muttered, faucet turning on again. “Head back again, love - I’m gonna rinse this out.”

That command, they had no problem following. They shoved themself toward the water, begging it to put out the fire - even if Oren’s fingers on their scalp burned, the water soothed it and helped shove away the worst of the pain. 

“..didn’t even take out half the fuckin’ color,” he grumbled, scrubbing at their scalp until Ida was crying fresh again. 

They caught a glimpse of the foil as it dropped into the trash can, long strands of blue and white flickering through the air before falling out of view. 

..how much was gone???

Their hands pressed over their face, shielding their eyes and stifling their sobs into muffled shadows of what they could be. 

They held still. 

They were good.

They didn’t move besides shifting as per his instruction as he shoved out the last of the chemical, dried their hair, and fretted with it, trying to coax what was left to frame their face. 

Ida couldn’t look at him - they certainly couldn’t look in the mirror. 

There was a long silence as he stared at them. 

“..I’m just gonna shave it. You didn’t need it, anyway. It’ll grow back fresh and white and perfect.”

..what were they supposed to say to that. 

Nothing.

They were supposed to say nothing. 

They just trembled a nod, face still tucked safely into their hands. A kiss pressed to their knuckles, and he started moving. 

They held still. Listening to him opening the drawer. To the chord unwinding. To the plug clicking into place. To the soft electric hum. 

They whimpered, but didn’t move as the teeth of the razor scraped across furious scalp, rippling burning pain down their spine. They pulled their legs up, arms wrapping around them. 

They held still. 

They were quiet.

They were good.

They didn’t move or breathe more than necessary as piece after piece fell down around them and to the ground. 

They’d probably be the one to clean them up later. 

It barely took a minute. Then it was gone. 

Everything was gone.

“Go on, dove. You can look now.” A hand slid over their hair, roaming over the half inch strands and ghosting over burns they didn’t have to see to know they were there. 

Ida looked. They looked if only to appease him.

A stranger stared back at them through the glass. Eyes red and white from crying. Hair hacked down to a patchy remnant of what remained. The white strands were so thin, they barely seemed there at all. 

Oren’s shirt. 

Oren’s home. 

Oren’s dove.

They turned, pressing their face into him. Escaping their own reflection. 

Oren cooed soft laments as he scooped them up, keeping their face tucked into him as he carried them out of the bathroom. “It’s all done now. It’s all done and you did so good for me, dove.”

They clung to him even after he set them down on the bed, muffled sobs curling into his shirt even further than their fingers - their entire self buried in him. Wishing he could make the rest of the world go away. At least for a moment. 

Oren was good. He obeyed them as they did him. He moved easily and smoothly, pulling them both onto the bed and moving blankets up and over Ida so they wouldn’t have to let go of him or even look up. He cradled them close, rocking back and forth a little as he pressed kisses to the edges of the burns. “It’s all done. All done now.”

This time, Ida couldn’t bring themself to pretend it was Robin’s arms holding them.

He’d never be her.

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @kesskirata @wormwriting @batfacedliar-yetagain @paranoiaxagent @siren-of-agony @lwkshrav @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions  @pinkieglitterheart  @whumpasaurus101  @shameless-dumbass @darlingwhump @whumpy-catfish)

As always, just lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

If anyone knows where heathen-whump wibbly-wobbly-whump hold-back-on-the-comfort and mable-donut went please tell :(

.

This is the color Ida has(d), by the way-

It's shorter and thinner, but that exact same color and fade.

[oogieswife67]

You are Hunting the Seven Seas...

Oops another drabble that hit me super late into the night involving Fellow Honest again. Yes, I will try to do more God Fellow, but I wanna write this down.

WANTED:

THE DREADFUL FOX WHALE

DEAD OR ALIVE

They were asking for so much money for this catch. The beast was known for taking down ships indiscriminately. No one knew how he was doing it, but he was to be stopped after he was said to take down a cargo ship that held valuable spices and fabrics, and the rich man who owned that ship added money to the bounty, almost triple of what it was asking!

You're not going to pass this up, even as you will have to share with the crew you're a part of.

The seas you were sailing through were calm. Strangely calm. The sky was blue with very little clouds. It was usually never a good sign. A storm may have been coming soon, so you and your ship mates were getting the boat and your supplies (and haul) ready for the worst.

The captain was keeping an eye out, keeping his monocular on one eye while his second in command switched between keeping an eye out as well and how you and the crew were doing your jobs.

One of your crewmates was in the crow's nest, also keeping an eye out, especially when there was some rocks sticking out of the seas. He was about to dismiss it, as the sailing master also saw the rocks and was going to turn away, but then heard the crewmate shouting "There's someone there! On the rocks!" they said.

The captain aimed his monocular at the rocks, and sure enough- there seemed to be a young lad! It was hard to see all the details, but it didn't matter. "Go for the rocks!" the captain called out.

The sailing master agreed and headed for the rocks. Once close enough, you take the emergency boat and go right to the rocks. You finally get to see the lad in question- And realize he has cat ears and tail! You've seen beastmen like him before, and most usually don't go out to these waters. You would have to wonder what he was doing out here later, as he was soaking wet and looked like he had been stranded for some time.

You bring the cat beastman back to the ship. The crew wrap him up in a blanket as he was shivering quite a bit, as well as slowly gaining his senses back. His clothes were torn and old. You learn quickly he's unable to talk, so you stick to simple yes and no questions.

"Have you been on those rocks for long?"

Nods

"Are you hungry?"

Vigorous nodding

You go to grab some dried meat that the crew still had plenty of, when the ship suddenly started to shake, as if something hit it! The entire crew panics. You turn to see what was going on-

WHACK!

You get knocked out by the beastman you just saved! The last thing you see is something rising from the seas as the crew screams and grab their weapons...

You'd come back around. Your head hurts. You don't see anyone at first... But you could hear-

GULP!

You get startled and look to where you heard that noise-

There he was...

The fox whale.

The bright over should length orange-haired, fair skinned fox man greeted you with a sly look on his face, staring at you with his bright orange eyes, and his green eyeshadow shining in the sunlight. You found it strange that he was wearing a green vest and long, white sleeves and gloves... Then you realized the "sleeves and gloves" were actually patterns on his skin, then saw a patch of blue on his left shoulder, like he was wearing a cape, while there was a patch of skin that matched his face on his right pinky finger that made the "glove" look torn.

The size of the beast was nothing to joke about. He was much, much bigger than you thought he was. You could swear he ate some whales himself to get to the size he's at. In fact, you realized... The ship wasn't in water.

The ship was balancing on the beast's bloated, fat belly.

You look at the beast in fear for a while, but then change focus when the cat beastman you saved was now on deck, finishing up some dry meat he had in his mouth. The fox whale noticed the beastman, and started to reach for him.

"You get away from him-!" you shouted, but then see that the cat beastman went into the beast's open hand with some dry meat he still had in hand...

And he was transformed into a merman! He still had his top on, but his legs was now a beautiful, shiny purple fish tail with patches of yellow on it. The cat fish gave you a sly smirk as he would be brought to the fox whale's shoulder. "Another excellent catch, Gidel!" Fellow said happily and eats the dried meat Gidel tosses into his mouth.

As the pair seemed distracted, you couldn't help but look over the ship to get a better look at the mass the ship was balancing on-

!!!!!

The green coloring that covered the beast's belly revealed to you what happened to the captain and the rest of the crew, when you could see small divots and movements! You could barely hear them screaming for their lives!

"What? A basic ship?" Fellow asked Gidel, who just nodded. "Just food and weapons, and all the food is gone. Well..."

The pair looked down at you, as you stumbled back in fear. You could see how hungry the fox whale still was... The look reflecting on your eyes... The last thing you'd see...

"Except for this one."

[hoetolegist]

Hate you

• Summary: how could hating someone feel so good?

• Warnings: mentions of sexual activities, language

• Authors note: okay, so this was a number option from my pinned (23). It's long enough to be a short story though so I made it just that! It's just something short because I got carried away, per usual. Hope you enjoy!

If you could describe your life right now it'd be something like a TV show. One of those cliches where you graduated school, landed a good job, made amazing friends and you even have a house that some would describe as the American dream but somehow your worst enemy seems to be your number one priority

Now you personally wouldn't exactly say that your enemy is your number one priority but he's definitely up there next to friends, family and those sugar cookies that you love so much

Sometimes you often wonder how your enemy quickly went from someone who annoys you to death at work to someone that you desire so badly? Someone that you need to feel next to you, on you or even in you to feel sane

It's quite simple actually. The way he looks at you. His lust filled eyes looking at you so intensely when you're doing even the simplest of tasks. Always looking you over and watching you as if he'd ruin you if he had the chance

And maybe you'd give it to him. One day

♧

You walked off of the elevator on the 4th floor, scrolling through your phone and humming a small tune. It was just something that you'd heard for the first time in a cafe but damn was it catchy enough to stick with you

It was quiet in the building. You assumed everyone else must have been in their office but it was still kind of weird how silent it was

One thing you loved about your job was that you got your own office. You got to work at your own pace and do it all in a great peace of mind. Of course having your own office meant everyone else had their own offices too so it wasn't special but it was definitely beneficial

You lifted your head up just to quick check that you were about to walk into your office before burying your face back in your phone

The presence of another was felt before you even fully opened the door. You knew that presence, smelt that dizzying cologne one too many times, seen those clean dress shoes more often than you'd like to admit. You dragged your eyes up the body of the person who stood in your office and of course it was none other than-

“Stefan” you breathed, closing the door behind you. It was meant to come out firm, as if you were demanding him to explain his presence but it came out weaker than you wanted

"Y/n, late to work again", you held back a shiver at the deep timbre of that familiar voice. You noticed the smirk on his face and all you wanted to do was kiss it away, make his lips red and puffy with your bites and kisses

"Morning to you too Salvatore" you greeted with an eye roll. "Waiting for me?" You chuckled smugly

He shrugged and looked you over, eyes scanning every inch of skin he could see. Which was a great amount today since you chose to wear a dark gray thigh length skirt accompanied by a long-sleeved white dress shirt, tucked in but three buttons popped at the top just so the right amount of cleavage could show. Your heart shaped locket sat prettily on your exposed collarbone which was the perfect touch to such a basic outfit

"Waiting because of you, not for you. We have to discuss the upcoming collaboration with our pretty little neighbors next door, did you forget? Were you not anticipating my arrival?" he faked a frown while amusement shone in his pretty green eyes

You must admit that you forgot about the project but you weren't going to say it out loud. You narrowed your eyes at him and scoffed, “I have things to do. Must I give you all of my time?”

"Some would be nice” he replied with a smirk, “what takes you so long? Got that many pets to feed before leaving the house?"

You bit back a sneer at him, almost forgetting how easy it was to hate him and his smart remarks. "If you'd get down on your knees for me like a good boy it wouldn't take too long to feed you"

The smirk was wiped off of his face instantly as he stared at you, eyes clouding up darkly. "Tread lightly babygirl", he walked closer to you, stopping just before he presses his chest against yours, "I've been wanting to tear those clothes off of you since the moment you walked through that door" he admitted shamelessly. You loved that feeling of his warm breath hitting your lips as he whispered this secret between the two of you

You didn't know if you wanted to indulge or hold back on him, tease some more and see if he'll break for real. But then he brought his right hand up to cup your face, making you look him in the eye as he ran a hand down your waist to your thigh. It was just a ghost of a touch, barely there but so fucking impactful

You had to give in

Shuddering at his touch, you continued to look up at him and allowed your lashes to flutter at the way he looked back at you. "Why don't you do it then?" You asked, feigning innocence as if you weren't about to be surrounded by many other coworkers in just a few minutes

The halls were going to be filled with talking and laughter as if they were a bunch of highschoolers leaving for summer break yet you were willing to risk it to get your brains fucked out

"Think you can stay quiet if I fuck you right here?"

You held back a whine, trying to give yourself just a bit of control in this situation. "Yes" you said all too eagerly

Before the word even fully left your lips he was kissing you. His hands were tightly gripping your waist and he kissed you with so much passion, proving that it's been building up inside of him for days, maybe even weeks

It's not uncommon for men to want you in a sexual or romantic manner, it's actually so common to the point where you've learned that you don't even have to reciprocate for them to still drool over you, they chase you no matter what. But there's something about Stefan having wanted you for weeks but instead of acting on it he played this hating game, letting this bubble of annoyance and hatred blow up around you guys so when he finally popped it, all that could be left in its place was arousal

His lips felt so good against yours. They were so plush and soft, he tasted so much like mint and coffee, you had to will your legs not to fold and land you on your knees. A whimper escaped you, traveling it's way into his mouth and the deep moan you received back made you feel less embarrassed about it

You both finally pulled away for some much needed air after nipping and sucking at each other's lips for what felt like an eternity

"Fuck, I need you" he panted, eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes, not knowing which ones he should be focused on

Need

Need

You liked that word. He needed you. It was much more than a want, it was a craving and you deserved to be craved

"I know" you replied in a playful whisper, fiddling with the collar of his dress shirt. You suddenly pinched your eyebrows together in thought because although this is mutual, you still have a reputation to uphold at work and that includes hating Stefan. "You can have me. Just-"

"Don't tell anyone"

"No one can ever find out about this"

You both said your statements at the same time and a bit of relief washed through you now that you know he's on the same page

This was messy and it might cause so many fucked up problems down the road but this is now and right now your body has tuned out your rationality, shut off your brain and created a mind of it's own

You sat down on the big oakwood desk and spread your legs, skirt riding up and showing your black lace panties

"Come fuck me then”

[yerekanescio]

If two trolls sprite^2 and then reached God Tier would that be fucked up or what

[ID: Two images depicting Homestuck Troll OCs. The first image shows a male purpleblood named “Jester Hypkno” with long, thick horns that curl at the tip, large ears, and white facepaint typical of purples. He’s wearing a black and purple clown outfit with rainbow stripes on his shorts, and a bow tie with the Capriza sign. The second troll is a female bronzeblood named “Vickie Faerie” wearing a simple black shirt and skirt, with bronze on the inside of the skirt, and pink shoes. Her horns are large and stick out straight, she has a pale scar on her cheek, and she has the Taurmino sign on her shirt.

The second image depicts a combination of the trolls in a God Tier outfit (named “Victer Hyprie”), depicted as a combo of the Prince of Mind and Witch of Doom, as shown on the side. The shirt, shorts, and tiara of the prince are combined with the skirt, shoes, and stripes of a witch. Her outfit is in shades of green, with a bright Doom symbol that includes the spirals of the Mind, and their shoes are both yellow on the left and red on the right. The fusion has both troll’s horns, the face paint, shorter ears, and a plush tail and white wings, with crosses for pupils. A chart on the side shows that Jester was combined with a plush jester-dinosaur, and Vickie was combined with a Fairybull lusus. The God Tier is labeled as “Knave of Choice”. /End ID]

[jarofstyles]

Sugar Sugar 5

Hello… here is part I of the date 🫶 hehe.

I hope you enjoy it! PLEWSE leave feedback I’m begging

Check out our Patreon!!!

—-

Harry was nervous. As he kind of figured he would be- but pulling up to Sugar’s house, his knee was bouncing.

He had spent a long time picking out his own outfit. Harry hadn’t ever been so picky and nervous around anyone else, and it said a lot. She was just… different. So much so that it took him off guard sometimes. He had never been so quick to feel so infatuated with a person and have it actually stick. His crushes were fleeting but with Sugar, it was getting more and more intense as the days passed.

His car parked in front of the quaint little house and his heart swelled. He hadn’t been sure what to expect but this? This was completely and utterly his girl. Green shutters and window boxes full of yellow and orange flowers, a porch swing with soft looking cushions and pillows and plenty of places to sit and watch the neighborhood. It was lovely and felt so safe and cozy, even from the outside. There wasn’t much of a traditional lawn, more so long plants and rocks. He recognized it from some things he saw online about preserving natural habitats and that only seemed to conjure up even more affection for the woman. Her door was painted a deep purple and the siding was a cream color, well kept and it showed how much care she put into it.

The appraisal of the house was interrupted by the opening of said door to reveal the object of his affections.

His heart went to his throat as he saw her. Even from behind, he loved it. A blue and white gingham dress. It hit just above the knee and flared out, cinching at the waist and showed off her long and full legs. Simple black converse were on her feet, her hair loose and flowing. She truly was an angel, and Harry still wasn’t sure how he had managed to get a woman like her to agree to spend time with him.

THe vision nearly knocked him out when she did turn around. She looked so… happy. Happy to see him. A pep in her step as she bounced towards him, a chirpy little ‘hi!’ Peeping out as she got close enough. The most pleasant surprise, however, was the noisy kiss to the cheek and arms looping around his neck for a greeting hug. That sweet scent that he found to be so intoxicating hitting his senses. It was an immediate confidence boost, arms wrapping around her soft body and pulling her in tightly.

“Hello, beautiful girl.” He rasped against her ear. “What a greeting. I could get very used to that.” His large hand rubbed the bare part of her back, sighing at how smooth the skin was. If he wasn’t so happy, the mere power of her presence and the effect on his mood would probably scare him a bit. It did the opposite. Instant comfort enveloped him in her arms, his own kisses being left as a row resembling a crown on her hairline.

“Mmm.. you smell amazing.” Her voice was muffled against his shirt which caused a chuckle, pulling back slightly to look at her face properly. The compliment boosted him, knowing she would like the new cologne he had bought with her in mind. Most notes being noticeable being sandalwood and oak. Sweet and spicy. He took her face in one hand and smiled slightly down at her pretty little face. She had worn a little makeup today, knowing from her pestering that Harry would budge for one or two hints. All she had gotten was that it was outdoors and to wear closed toe shoes.

She had no idea about the picnic he had packed in the trunk of his car, the destination, any other bit.

“Thank you.” He was dazed by the smile she had hinted up at him with. It seemed like she knew exactly what to do to knock him on his metaphorical ass, make his heart yearn for her little motions and quirks. “Your home is lovely. I hope I get a tour one day.” Some would say it’s presumptuous of him, but Harry tended to choose to look at it as manifesting. It’s something Y/N had spoken about and posted about on her socials. Her brow quirked up at the comment but in reality, it made her stomach fill with butterflies. Butterflies had never existed before him, that 3was for sure. Never at this level.

“I’d like that. Thanks, by the way.” He nearly mourned the loss of her as she stepped out of his grasp, but she grabbed his wrist as she walked over to his car. It was a standard Range Rover, but she knew he also had a vintage jaguar. How did he make the money for both? On a new business salary? Hm.

She would focus on that later.

Her hand went for the door but his beat hers to it. Opening it up and taking her smaller hand in his own, helping her in. Like a gentleman. No one had ever done it, despite it being such a simple show of manners, and that made her flush down her neck. Harry put more effort into these two dates and their daily meetings for a snack than anyone else ever had in her history of dating. Once she was settled and had her belt on, Harry rounded the car and made his way into the drivers seat.

Y/N hadn’t expected to find something as simple as driving to be sexy- but harry continued to prove to her time and time again that even the most menial of tasks could be sensual when he did it. Fixing the hair on his head, twisting the rings back into position, anything the man did had her heartbeat quickening. In more places than one.

So when he turned around in the seat, hand on the back of hers and backed up out of her drive? She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. It was such a stupid thing but… his hands. The control. The spinning of the wheel and turning around, even when there was a backup camera? Oh, she was sweating. Not to mention he looked fucking fantastic.

He was casual but so effortlessly cool that she couldn’t help but be jealous. He was wearing signature cream colored linen pants, which were a choice for the outdoors, but he rocked them. A loose white tee shirt draped over his body with ease. Everything he wore seemed to be made just for him, the pants tapering in on the waist and showing his body shape. They clung to his thighs, especially as he sat there driving but she didn’t mind the view at all.

The cute little blue bandana was tied around his neck was a quirky little detail she found to be even more endearing. On his head was a pair of white oval sunglasses she is positive no one but Harry could pull off. On her, they’d look like goggles. But him? They worked. It was slightly infuriating that he was so good looking and made anything look magazine worthy, but also damn near fascinating.

“So where are we going?” She asked quietly, getting comfortable as he began to drive. He had evaded answers for so long and Y/N was naturally inquisitive, much to Harry’s added stress to keep it all a well planned secret.

“M’not telling you, sweets.” He hummed. The ringed hand left one side of the steering wheel to grab her thigh, gently squeezing it in apology. “Sorry. I will tell you that you will like it.” Or he hoped. If she didn’t care, he would probably dig a hole in the ground and become fertilizer for said sunflowers.

“Fine.” Her huff made him laugh, nodding towards his phone in the holder clip. “None of that now, Sugar. Been plannin’ this date in detail for a bit so I want it to be a proper surprise. It isn’t… huge, but it’s something I thought of you immediately for. Go on and pick out a song if you’d like. I made a playlist for the drive.” He murmured earnestly.

“I know, I know. Sorry. I don’t mean to be annoying.” Her tone quieted. “I’m just excited. No one’s ever taken me on a surprise date. Honestly? I don’t care if it's a pile of mud we are visiting. You thought of me and wanted to take me. That means more to me than any fancy restaurant.” Her hand topped his, sliding her hand through the spaces between his. He swore he could feel himself purr at the contact.

It hurt him to think that she hadn’t been treated like a princess before. It was cliche and cringe to say out loud but that’s what she deserved. Effort. She had done so much for him already. Helped him settled in a brand new space, made him a welcome basket without even knowing him. She had no clue then, and now really, how good it felt to be appreciated and respected without any sort of expectation. Not like how it used to be, at least. Moving here had been his new start and so far? It was going swimmingly. Y//N was a large part of that.

There was a comfortable silence as he brought her hand up to his mouth to tenderly kiss the back of it, setting it back in place. They just needed to keep driving. Her curiosity would be sated soon.

——-

“Oh, my god.” The watery croak left her as she got out of the car. A few minute prior, Harry had stopped the car and asked her to put on a blindfold. She had joked about being the dumb girl in horror movies when she had agreed to put it on, but now? Now, she was in awe.

Thousands. There had to be thousands of sunflowers in the field in front of them, never in her life having ever seen this many. It was a sea of shades of yellows and orange and green. Large stems, the face of the flowers up and perked as they bathed in the sunlight. Bigger than she had ever seen, more vivid. It didn’t feel real. Y/N hand;t known this was here and that itself was a shock- but the fact that Harry did?

Her throat felt thick as she turned to him. He didn’t even know how much it meant to her. How one thing she’s said in passing stuck with him enough to seek this out and find a perfect place to bring her. Her eyes were soft and wer and he panicked slightly, taking her by the face and fretting slightly over her.

“Shit. Are you okay? I didn’t.. Didn’t mean t’make you cry, Sugar. Did i mess up?” He fucking hoped not.

Instead of a verbal answer, she attacked him in a hug. Burying her face in his neck, holding tighter on to him than he had when she initially saw him today. Without a question the embrace was returned, his hand holding the back of her head as his chest went wild. So she didn’t hate it? She wouldn’t have. Her fingers held a death grip on the back of his shirt as she took deep inhales. “It’s alright.” His deep voice soothed, unsure how to proceed but wanting to make sure that above all else, she was comfortable.

“M’okay.” She whispered. “Just… it means so much to me, H.” She whispered up at him, eyes soft and her whole demeanor gooey and melty. He noticed it immediately. She looked up at him as if he had just given her the damn moon- and for someone as witchy as she was? That was massive. It was as if a layer of her that he hadn’t quite seeen had been peeled off. A layer of protection, he thinks. No one who wasn’t serous would go through this amount of effort. “I only talked once about the sunflowers. How did you remember?”

“I remember the things you say.” He said back. “And… i dunno.It felt like you were in love with ‘Em by the way you looked at them. It stuck with me.” Because he wanted to be on the receiving end of that gaze.. it. Was still early on in the relationship, it’s only just blossomed but… he wanted to see it bloom.

It was insane to her, but Y/N could feel the genuine energy from him. He had done it solely for her. His hand threaded through hers as she pulled back, the tears gone now as she looked up at the man who seemed to continue to mystify her. Ironic, isn’t it?

“Well,” she paused, taking a breath as she looked over his slightly nervous face, “thank you. I’m so happy. What can we do here?”

That began the pace of the date. He left the picnic in the car, wanting that to be part 2 to their surprise. With their hand’s joined, he listed off the things to do that had been advertised on the website. He bought all access tickets for the day, not wanting to miss out on anything she could possibly want to do.

“We can pick our own bundles of sunflowers, for one. We can learn what to do to harvest seeds and hoe to tell when they’re ready to be eaten.” He listed off. It was a lot to list off the top of his head. “They’ve got a cool shop with all sorts of sunflower themed things. A maze. And we can take photos with them. I figured… You love photos but there aren’t ever a ton of you, i can take some for you.” The last one was a bit of a shy suggestion, but it didn’t stop him from adding in another thing that melted her, “and I’d like a new Lock Screen. Pretty flowers and a pretty girl.” The shrug made her scoff.

“I think you’re a government experiment. There’s no way in hell that you’re a real person.” Her eyes squinted up at him. “Too perfect. Too good looking. Too thoughtful. It’s highly suspicious if you ask me.” And he was into her. Into her enough to think these thoughtful dates out and want her as his damn phone background. His dazzling smile was just for her. Christ. A man like him, so keen on making her happy, wanted to go through all this effort to make her smile, thoughtful and kind and everything that had been in her mushy dreams of finding a Prince Charming was coming to life.

His face flushed pink at her teasing praise, smiling at the ground before looking back at her. “It’s hard to stay away from you in general. You’re amazing, Sugar.” His hand squeezed hers lightly as they walked closer to the bright yellow flowers. “I’m no government experiment, but it is a first for me. Wanting to do everything for you. I just want to impress you, make you want to keep seeing me.” What Y/N didn’t understand was that she was everything. She had not only the most beautiful appearance that Harry had ever seen, but she was addicting. Her energy was soft and comforting and alluring, she pulled him in every which way. The woman was intriguing and beautiful and so kind it hurt, all while not being a pushover. Something Harry struggled with for a long, long time by himself.

“Trust me, I have no plans of letting you go. If you’ll have me.” His words had made her feel like the was floating. Warm and fuzzy and giddy, like she was years younger and her crush had asked her to the dance. Harry didn’t seem to have as many problems communicating exactly how he felt as she did, but she figured that would be beneficial for her considering she was trying to learn. There was a slight pause in their step as she raised up to kiss his cheek very quickly before tugging him along towards the first flowers she could get to.

Harry was happy to follow her. He’d follow her anywhere.

——

Y/N knew he said he would take photos, but she hadn’t realized he would do a full on photo shoot. The camera around his neck was used to snap shots when she was cutting the stems, placing them delicately into the shallow basket perfectly shaped for the flowers to lay. His phone had come out a few times to capture a few, murmuring little things about how beautiful she was. The entire thing was so new. At first she was a little uncomfortable with the intense attention, but realizing he was genuinely enjoying doing it and hearing his happy murmurs and compliments raised her confidence to a level she hadn’t been at before. Harry was unapologetic about how beautiful he thought she was.

She knew he didn’t know just how much it meant to her. After her previous relationship where he had been ashamed, embarrassed even, to step out with someone who was fat? It was a breath of fresh air. There was no dropping of hands, no moving away when other people passed, not a lick of shame or embarrassment at anyone who looked at them on their way deeper into the fields. This was what she deserved, of course, and she knew it. It was just difficult at times to let go of the past threads of traumatic experiences she was still trying to cut away.

Y/N was incredibly confident and she loved her body. Loved her existence, loved being the way she way and her life. It wasn’t always this way, but she knew she deserved this. Y/N, and frankly, every fat person deserves someone to love them fully and unapologetically. However seeing it happen in real time versus knowing it was a bit shocking.

“Let me get some of you.” She demanded when the basket was halfway full. “You can get some of the taller ones, and honestly? I want a new lock screen as well.” There. She had said it. Been up front and flirty, and god was she rewarded. The smile on his face, bright and happy and so fucking stunning it nearly knocked her on her ass was everything. Harry was unnaturally beautiful and any camera would be lucky to capture it.

“Hmmm. Okay, though I have to say the camera will definitely favor you more.” He was warm in the cheeks at the idea of her being proud of being with him, too. Wanting to see him on the screen of her phone with her favorite flowers behind him. A pep in his step was visible as his form reached her, hanging the camera around her neck and taking the basket and shears from her.

There was the perfect sunflower, the cutting point just above where Y/N could reach. The flowers were massive and even Harry had been stunned at the sheer height of them, but he was able to easily reach. Arms lifting higher above his head, Y/N couldn’t help but look. Couldn’t help but admire the muscles in his arms as he flexed them shears cutting through the thick stem and the tattoos in the sunlight, the outline of them, the thoughts of what arms like that could do… the weird urge to lick them.

God, she was fucked. It was so, so unfair to her to have a man like this around.

It wasn’t like she didn’t think about the fact that he matched a lot of what she had put into her manifesto on journal. Which also tremendously freaked her out, considering it was a handmade, hand bound journal with sunflowers embossed on the front. She had been creating her own reality. Sometimes it was difficult to realize her full inner power, and yet… here she was.

Tattoos? Check.

Tall? Check.

Accepting? Double check.

Green eyes? Check.

Accent? Check again.

Adventurous? Check.

Even the fucking Dimples.

It had made her a bit spooked once she had realized. Still, she was thankful.

“Look at you go!” She crooned. “Handsome boy. Model material, that’s what you are.” Her cheeks flushed at her own words, not used to being so open to hype up a man, let alone one she liked. “New lock screen. No doubt about that.”

Harry turned to look at her with the most devastatingly beautiful smile. Again, she was filled with the overwhelming warmth he had filled her with. The urge to kiss, to grab his stupidly cute face and smooch all over his cheeks and keep that smile on his face fully. Y/N had never felt this way before.

“Gonna blow my ego up to the sun, darling.” He teased back, bringing down the sunflower and holding it out to her. Y/N had enough sense to snap a photo, getting probably the most perfect picture she could have. The handsome man handing her a sunflower. Like a dream come true. It gave her a weird sense of deja vu. Not necessarily like she had been here before- but like it was supposed to happen.

“Don’t need any help with that, Aquarius.” Her little smirk had him gasping in faux dramatic offense.

“Excuuuuuse me. I can’t help when I was born. And that I’m the best sign.” A little sniff played into the dramatics, though in reality Harry knew next to nothing other than the fact he was an Aquarius and Y/N had laughed at that. Said it explained him perfectly.

“Would have thought you were a Leo.” Fingers poked into his side making him squeal, dropping the flower into the basket in surprise. “Dramatic, a bit vain, all the attention goes to you…. But see, you are definitely an Aquarius. Quirky, alien, not like the other guys.” Maybe dragging him to filth, maybe not.

“Okay, now you’re makin’ fun.” His arm wrapped around her warm waist, pouting just a bit as he looked at her. If he continues to look at her like that she wouldn’t be responsible for her own actions.

“I am.” Her arm wrapped around his shoulder in response to his own, tilting her head back. In this light, the sun backlit him and his hair in a way that stole her breath yet again. Y/N had always known she was attracted to Harry, that he was one of if not the most attractive man she had ever encountered. This moment, though, caught her by surprise. “You’re so pretty.”

It had been blurted out, words not meaning to be spilled, but Harry himself flushed happily. Her words meant more to him than anyone else’s. He had a bit of a thing for praise, genuine praise, and seeing that she was thinking that so hard that it flew out of the pretty lips he had been admiring had him giddy. Summer sunshine was directly soaking his heart.

“I am?” He cooed, grinning at the compliment. “You’re full of compliments for me today, Sugar. So, so sweet. Should eat you up.” In more ways than one. His thumb grazed her chin, tilting it to kiss the very very corner of her mouth. “Makin’ me blush. It’s unfair, I think.”

Everything he did sent her into a dizzy spell. The way he handled her so effortlessly, like touching her was the most natural thing in the world? Y/N felt weak in the knees already. The effect he had on her was hypnotizing. If the kids running past them didn’t knock her out of her fantasy, she could have stood in his arms for hours just to stare at him. Absorb his energy. Harry was a soft, bubble pink. Soft green. A hint of yellow,some lavender peeking through. His aura colors stuck out to be the prettiest kind of mix she had ever seen.

“Let’s go, Sugar.” He brushed a bit of the hair from her shoulder. “Got more things to do with you.”

[dweetwise]

[Riconti] Ashes to Ashes

Once in a blue moon, I apparently have to write pure angst. For those not familiar with archives lore, Wallace is from Ace's tome "Go for Broke". Rated T | ❗ Major character death ❗ | 3.7k words | ao3 link

It’s a cold spring day.

The sky is gray and the ground is damp, covered in leaves that have rotted from orange to brown over the winter. A few ravens perched in a nearby tree and a car horn sounding somewhere far away are the only signs of life.

The casket next to the empty grave only radiates death.

Wallace swallows thickly and straightens the shirt he didn’t have time to iron this morning. The graveyard is windy and he’s already freezing, but if there’s anything he owes the bastard it’s to be there for him this one last time.

Like he wasn’t on the night he died.

Cold stings in Wallace’s suddenly wet eyes and he blinks the feeling away. He looks at the priest to try to figure out what they’re waiting for, but she just stands there and silently watches the only guest apart from Wallace who bothered to show up.

Wallace has never seen him before today. He’s tall and blond and dressed in a full black tux, the color so dark it makes his already pale skin appear a sickly white. A black dress shirt with a black tux is probably against some kind of dress code but apparently this guy really wants to pretend to be mourning.

Wallace doesn’t even own a tux. He’s wearing a simple green jacket and patterned yellow shirt with denim blue jeans.

Because Ace loved color. Red was his favorite color but Wallace couldn’t do red, not after the gunshots and sirens and running up to the motel room only to see the slumped body and splatters along the wall and red, red, red—

Wallace clenches his trembling fists until his nails dig into his palms. He fucking told Ace that those people were bad business but Ace didn’t care, laughing it off with a flippant, “I’ve cheated death more times than you can count, buddy. Have you forgotten how lucky I am?”

Now Wallace won’t even get the chance to say, “I told you so”. He doesn’t understand why Ace was so reckless, how he’d somehow gotten the idea that he was immortal.

Wallace relaxes his fists and looks back at the other man. It’s just the two of them: Wallace tried to get a hold of Ace’s remaining relatives in Argentina but couldn't find any. He always suspected that neither Ace nor Visconti were his real names, but that’s what Wallace knew him as and he refused to dig further. Ace would have told him if he wanted him to know.

But fake names or not, their friendship was real. Wallace didn’t always think so, but then Ace showed up one day from god-knows-where, after seven years of complete radio silence, laughing and slapping Wallace’s back and asking, “Miss me?” with that stupid, cocky smirk of his.

Wallace’s chest felt full then, like something he didn’t even know was missing was slotting back into place. He didn’t care that the bastard disappeared without a word or that he took even dumber and more careless risks than before. He was just glad to have him back.

Ace claimed he’d been in Europe working a con all those years. He was just as shady as usual, not saying much because Wallace didn’t ask. But based on the spring in his step and the grin he got whenever his phone buzzed, Wallace knew he’d found something more than just a quick buck in Europe. That chick had to be real special for Ace to stick around that long and even attempt long-distance after he returned to the States.

Or that’s what Wallace thought, but there's no mystery lady standing by his grave now. She clearly didn’t give a shit about Ace: she was probably the one who put those reckless thoughts in his head in the first place, demanding he earn more money to fund a life of luxury for her. Wallace doesn't know anything about her but he still hates her.

He looks at the blond again. He’s standing ramrod straight with his chin up like rich folks so often do. He has to be a lawyer or something, because Wallace was told there was someone to arrange the funeral and take care of Ace’s assets. Or the lack thereof.

The lawyer’s face is stone cold and without any emotion. Another asshole who’s probably happy Ace died just so he could get money out of it; Wallace knows the sort. At least this one had the decency to show up to the funeral.

“What’re we waitin’ for?” Wallace asks.

“The others,” the man says in an accent Wallace can’t place. It catches him off guard: not your typical west coast lawyer, then.

“There’s no one else comin’,” Wallace says through gritted teeth, because he doesn’t want to spell out that Ace didn’t have friends.

The man finally turns to face him for the first time since they got here. His expression is just as neutral as before, but his eyes are…wrong, somehow. His gaze flirts all over the place and he almost looks lost, completely at odds with the rest of his carefully presented persona. Like a crack in the facade.

“Just a few more minutes,” the man says.

“Alright,” Wallace agrees.

The stranger turns back to stare unblinking at the casket and, not having anything else to do, Wallace keeps looking at him to try to figure him out. The tux is tailored to a T and his watch looks expensive, making Wallace’s mind immediately jump to how much he could pawn it for. Bad habit.

Wallace frowns as he notices the man’s hands are scarred and blemished. He looks so perfectly put-together otherwise but his hands are in piss-poor shape, with bitten nails and picked cuticles and scabs that have barely healed. Wallace spots gloves peeking out from his pocket and realizes he probably usually covers them. But not for this, for some reason.

The guy must be cold in nothing but the tux, but he still insists on waiting. For what?

Wallace opens his mouth to ask again, when he hears it.

Car doors slamming and the gradually growing sound of voices and footsteps on gravel. And not just those of one or two people.

Wallace turns to look. Through the nearest cemetery gates, what has to be a group of nearly thirty people are making their way over. Young and old, men and women and boys and girls, chatting, laughing and some already wiping away tears. They’re dressed in both formal and casual clothes mostly in black, but also in earth tones and pastels and neons. Most of them are carrying flowers—more flowers than Wallace has ever seen at once.

Wallace blinks. Are they here for Ace? All of them?

A few of them push their way to the front of the group. A black woman in an evening gown and a blond girl in jeans and a sweater hurry past Wallace and to the other man.

The woman puts her hand on his shoulder. “Felix,” she says, voice gentler than her fancy exterior would suggest.

The girl comes to stand in front of the man—Felix—and looks up at him. “Are you okay?”

Wallace expects him to nod or at most mumble an unenthusiastic, “I’m fine.” Instead, the rich, obnoxious dick who Wallace hated nearly on sight simply…breaks.

Wallace watches as his face twists in agony and he hunches in on himself, his body wracked with ugly sobs that sound so unfitting for a man of his caliber. The women pull him tight and he clings to them desperately. It doesn’t even seem like he’s faking the tears. Maybe his arrogance was just an act.

The girl is crying now too, her hands trembling where she’s holding onto him. Her eyeliner is already running down her cheeks and ruining her makeup. The other woman doesn’t cry, but she squeezes the man’s shoulder and murmurs quiet reassurance.

More of the group hurry over to flock around the grieving trio, all worried faces and silent tears and, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” while the blond guy just keeps crying. Wallace can barely see him through the crowd; it’s like they’re shielding him from the world and Wallace’s prying eyes alike. Wallace doesn’t think a man like him needs protecting, but he still looks away out of politeness.

The rest of the group gather around the casket. They murmur and whisper amongst each other, some offering comforting words and touches to the ones who start sniffling.

Who the hell are these people, appearing out of nowhere to cry by Ace’s grave?

“Hey, you must be Wallace,” comes a voice from behind him.

Wallace turns to find a nerdy white guy standing in front of him. He looks young and has old-fashioned glasses and an ill-fitting suit, but he stands straight and looks Wallace right in the eye, with an air of quiet confidence that catches Wallace off guard.

“Y-yeah,” Wallace stutters. Clearly, he could use some of that same confidence.

The man gives a little smile and holds out his hand. “Dwight Fairfield. It’s good to finally meet you.”

Wallace accepts the handshake and asks, “You’ve heard about me?”

Dwight huffs, like something is funny. “More than you can imagine.”

—

With all of them there, the priest starts the ceremony. It’s short and simple and Wallace is thankful, because the only deity Ace ever believed in was lady Fortuna.

Dwight gives a eulogy. Wallace doesn’t understand most of it and by the looks of it neither does the priest, but he doesn’t need to know what trials mean or why some campfire is important to get the gist of it. This is the seven years of Ace’s life Wallace knows nothing about: these are the people he met and the life he led. So many people from all over the world—France, China, Brazil, Japan—and they all came here for Ace.

Wallace is glad Felix made him wait for them.

A black girl in a floral dress arranges the flowers on the casket. There’s so many different kinds and she quietly explains what they all mean, and Wallace chokes on a sob when she tells Ace’s casket, “And Snowdrops for good luck, because I want you to have that even when yours ran out.”

A redhead with glasses places incense by the gravestone. Wallace only then notices it says Ace Visconti, and he doesn’t know what strings someone had to pull to engrave it with Ace’s chosen name and not his legal one, but he’s grateful for it.

The incense smells like warmth and fire, comforting and so different from the cold and wet around them.

Felix wordlessly slides down to his knees beside the casket and nobody seems surprised by this other than Wallace. The expensive tux will probably be ruined by mud but Felix doesn’t appear to care: like he’s happy to lower himself to Ace’s level even if it means everyone else is now looking down on them. He places his hand—scars and calluses and all—on the smooth wooden surface of the casket and sits there for several minutes, murmuring words in a language Wallace doesn’t understand.

When Felix rises, Dwight asks Wallace if he wants to say something. Wallace shakes his head: he’s not good at speeches and he didn’t bring anything fancy to leave on Ace’s grave. 

The alligator tooth he won all those years ago presses into his chest under his shirt, but Ace would be pissed if he left it on the grave. He’d say something like, “I’m already dead, what the hell do you think I’m gonna do with a gator tooth necklace? Win a ghost beauty pageant?”

Or maybe Wallace just wants something of Ace’s to hold onto.

At the priest’s encouragement, some of the men in the group help lower the casket into the grave. Wallace assumed they’d have to let the church staff do it since it was just him and Felix, but now there’s also a big bearded man and a guy with face tattoos and a loud Brit and a quiet Hispanic man who help them put Ace into the ground.

A blonde woman plays guitar and sings. The song is melancholy and her voice sounds familiar, accompanied by sniffles from several people in the group. The priest gives a few parting words after to close the ceremony.

And then they shovel.

Silence hangs heavy in the air. Just as Wallace hopes this will be quick so he can go drown his sorrows in booze, the Brit points his shovel down at the casket and says, “Just layin’ there while we do all the work, eh? Lazy wanker.”

Several people laugh, and then others join in to tell stories and share memories of Ace and Wallace does too, even if he still doesn’t know what a trial is. He tells them about his and Ace’s big win in Seattle and one of the girls, the redhead with braids, snorts and asks, “Was that the time Ace stole a uniform and pretended to be a dealer so you guys could scam the casino?”

Wallace stutters and they all look at him expectantly. Some of the kids are grinning and even Felix is smiling, though his eyes are still red from crying.

Wallace finds himself chuckling and giving them the unfiltered version of the story, now knowing they can handle the not-so-legal parts of it. His audience listens raptly and some even chime in with details Wallace didn’t know about that day—or just typical exaggerations Ace would have added to the story. He doesn’t bother correcting them.

The priest shortly leaves—probably not thrilled about them bonding over gambling and stealing—but the whole group stays to wait for them to finish shoveling. 

Even after they’re done, nobody makes a move to leave; on the contrary, they all settle into a big circle on the ground, carelessly dirtying their nice dresses and suits. Felix takes a seat next to the grave and the black woman sits down on his other side, with the rest already having fallen into place like it’s a practiced effort. Like everyone has their own place.

Wallace hesitates. He thought they were done here, but the others urge him to join them, pointing at the other side of the filled grave. Wallace does as told and realizes the grave acts like an empty spot, like Ace is still part of the group.

Before Wallace can get too sentimental, a man with a prosthetic arm thumps a big cooler in the middle of the circle and beers and sodas begin exchanging hands. An Indian woman starts dealing playing cards and several bets are made among the group before the game even starts. The singer whips out her guitar again and starts strumming an upbeat melody.

“Is this allowed?” Wallace asks even as his chest warms. “It’s a graveyard. Isn’t this against the rules or somethin’?” 

An older black man shrugs. “Loitering isn’t grounds for arrest and I think Felix is more than capable of paying a fine if someone calls the police.”

Wallace only then notices a badge peeking out from his shirt pocket. He’s a cop: Ace somehow befriended a cop, and now he’s here, honoring Ace’s memory with an illegal party like the rest of them.

“Here,” Dwight says, handing Wallace a beer.

Wallace doesn’t ask if they should be drinking and celebrating at a time like this. He just uncaps his beer and raises it along with the others once they toast and the Brit booms, “To Ace!”

Because a party is exactly what Ace would have wanted.

—

They stay there for hours; laughing, playing, drinking and telling stories. Wallace actually makes an effort to get to know this strange group, though he still doesn’t catch all of their names.

Once the sun starts setting, the Korean woman complains about the cold even though she’s wearing a fur jacket. Jane fishes out a pair of keys from her pantsuit and says they have more blankets and snacks in the car, prompting the Brazilian siblings to jump up and volunteer to retrieve them.

On the other side of the circle, the boy with dark bags under his eyes has nodded off against Cheryl’s shoulder. Meg and Jake argue over whether to start a fire now that it’s getting dark, with Meg saying it’s not the same without a real campfire and Jake claiming they’ll end up burning down the whole graveyard. Adam manages to resolve the argument by retrieving a large lantern from the car, lighting up the area with a warm yellow.

Despite everyone’s best efforts to celebrate life and not mourn death, Wallace feels the heavy shroud of grief hanging over all of them. There’s a moment of hesitation whenever a card game ends and someone has to deal the players in again, strange gaps in conversation like they all expect Ace to fill the silence, and bright eyes glazing over in sadness whenever someone looks at his grave.

But there’s also joy and camaraderie. The wind is cold and the ground they’re sitting on is dull and brown, but Wallace can finally see a few flower buds sprouting through the rotten leaves. The group has lost one of their own but they choose to remember the good and not the bad; it’s probably a kindness Ace doesn’t deserve, but Wallace’s throat still feels tight with emotion from the respect being shown.

When the next card game ends, the Chinese girl starts cursing vividly, glaring at the grave and accusing Ace of cheating. Wallace laughs, because if Ace could, he would. Even from beyond the grave.

Some of the guys gather around newly appeared bottles of vodka for a drinking contest and the Japanese woman promptly gets up to join them. Her name must be Yui, because that’s what nearly everyone starts chanting.

Yui wins, drinking the much larger men under the table with what seems like barely any effort. There’s cheers and whoops from around the circle before the singer—Kate—encourages everyone to sing a campfire song together.

Wallace doesn’t know the song so he looks around, only to notice Felix quietly fiddling with something in his hands. It’s a ring: a particularly worn and gray and ugly ring, probably made of simple steel and not even silver. Why would someone like him even have a cheap knock-off like that?

Felix’s bitten nails trail over the inside of the ring and catch on an engraving and Wallace nearly swallows his tongue. He realizes he’s seen that ring many times before: Ace throwing it in the air and catching it; Ace fiddling with it in his pocket when he was impatient; Ace wearing it on his ring finger whenever a con needed him to pretend to be married; Ace having it engraved with some corny Latin phrase because it was supposedly another of his good luck charms.

When Ace returned from Europe, he claimed to have lost the ring, and Wallace should have smelled his bullshit right then and there. Ace wasn’t sentimental about a lot of things but his lucky charms were always the exception. Wallace had helped Ace throw a motel room upside down in search of a rabbit’s foot, listened to years’ worth of complaints after he won the gator tooth from him in a bet, and painstakingly superglued an old poker chip back together after it got run over by a car and Ace just sat on the sidewalk cradling the broken pieces like he was holding an injured animal.

Wallace should have known better than to think Ace would have just lost the ring.

Felix abruptly stills and Wallace realizes he’s been caught staring. Their eyes meet and Felix curls his hand around the ring, holding it tightly against his chest.

A lot of things suddenly make sense and Wallace feels stupid for not realizing it before. Felix isn’t even wearing the ring, but he doesn't have to: marriage isn’t meant for people like Ace and Wallace, and just Felix having something so important of Ace’s and being this protective of it says more than enough.

Wallace considers pulling out the alligator tooth to rest over his shirt instead of hiding it underneath, but he doesn’t want to give off the wrong impression. Ace was like a brother to him and he’s not sure what exactly he was to Felix—friend, lover, partner, kindred spirit?—but the specifics probably don’t even matter. Whatever they were, Ace was happy with Felix.

Wallace settles on a meaningful nod to Felix, giving his approval even if it wasn’t asked for. He then quickly turns back to observe the group’s singing, but can’t help smiling to himself: looks like Ace’s special European someone made it here after all.

“I’m gonna do a handstand!” someone drunkenly announces as soon as the singing stops.

“You only have one hand, jackass!” Nea pipes up.

“Does anyone want to dance?” one of the siblings asks, swaying a little on her feet.

“What, on Ace’s grave?” Zarina asks, arching an eyebrow. “Even I’m not that glad to be rid of him.”

Laughter erupts from the group once again. A few people roll their eyes at the alcohol-fueled antics but nobody protests or shushes the progressively louder voices; not even when someone suggests a handstand contest that will most likely end in a visit to the ER.

Wallace braves another glance at Felix but he’s just smiling again. Most people probably wouldn’t welcome this kind of behavior at the funeral of someone they loved, but Felix knew Ace—all of these people did, maybe even better than Wallace. And they stuck by Ace’s side for seven years and made this horrible day into a celebration he would be proud of.

Seven years. That’s all the time it took for Ace to somehow become a man Wallace barely recognizes anymore. He did what Wallace never thought either of them capable of, what he’d have bet his entire life savings on never happening.

Ace found a family.

Wallace bows his head and chuckles, addressing the empty space on his right. “Twenty-five years of friendship and you still keep surprisin’ me.”

He thinks that, somewhere, Ace is smiling.

[notyour-valentine]

Welcome to Downton, Mr Shelby 3 ~ Tommy Shelby x OC series

[Masterlist] [Taglist] [Series Masterlist]

Summary: Tommy and Charlotte meet again, where they both least expect

Note: Thank you so much for the positive feedback - Tommy has some making up to do, but will he even get to it?

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. 

Warning: Physical violence. Expect canon conforming tone and mention of violence. I am of age and so my content is created for that intended audience. If you are a minor, please leave. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Wordcount: 4881 words

Part 3

[Previously]

Before he had even fully passed the threshold, the scent of potatoes, of boiled vegetables and salty broth filled his nose. 

Thomas Shelby would never order soup or stew at a restaurant. He had had his fill in his lifetime, thin, more often than not, and stretched with all sorts of things he’d rather not think of now. But it had been better than nothing and even now there was some comfort to be found in it- simple, honest food to keep your belly full and your limbs warm. 

More than many could want. 

And these men were more than glad for it. 

“Our volunteers prepare and serve the food, which is paid for by our patrons.”

“Patrons?”, he asked, as he followed the steps of the woman past the thick old wooden tables, trying to let his eyes linger on the faces and not the stumps.  

Mrs. Wollerston was her name a woman of about fifty, who looked like he imagined every headmistress in history had ever looked, not that he had ever seen one, with thin lips, small eyes and a long black dress. 

Officially, it was under the patronage of the church, but they only sported the location.

The rest was done, as always, by uncredited women in the shadows. 

Apparently the Anglicans in London were no different than the Catholics in Birmingham when it came to that. 

“Oh yes.”, she continued, her large keychain clinking with every step. “We are lucky to have the support of an association of charitable Ladies based in London, who have taken the fundraising upon themselves.”

“No government involvement?”, he wanted to know. 

It wasn’t a bad place, no. It was clean and large, if a bit cold, but not too bad. 

For the summer.

In winter, the real problems would start. 

Mrs. Wollerston shook her head. “No, unfortunately not.”

So they let the men fight for them but don’t feed them after. 

He wasn't surprised. 

They were a sorry lot, sporting lost limbs, blinded eyes, and burned faces, some wearing little more than rags. One man had a large stick instead of a proper crutch. 

And Tommy looked at their faces.

The dead were being praised with words like “We shall remember them” but those that came back, had been forgotten. 

Poor bastards, he thought, if they had died for their king he would have treated them with more kindness. 

Alive, they were useless, a burden. 

Dead, they would have been heroes and a credit to the nation. 

“I’ll show myself around.”, he told her and turned away without waiting for a response. 

Tommy approached the large table at the back, where volunteers were handing out the food. They seemed to have been served some meat stew and sliced bread. 

It wasn’t anything fancy, but it looked decent enough. 

From the other side of the long queue, he could see two women coming from the back, one holding a jug of water, the other a cup of tea. 

For a split second he thought his mind was playing a trick on him, especially as she now had her back turned, prohibiting him from seeing her face. 

But it was still enough. 

Her hair was pulled back by a white hairband to keep it out of the way, not unsimilar to the ones the nurses wore. She was wearing an apron over a simple dark green dress. 

But her shoes, brown leather shoes looked to be brand new, polished to a shine, with not a single scratch to be seen. Her stockings were real and not drawn on, with not the slightest nick or scratch. 

Tommy knew expensive things when he saw them. 

Walking back along the queue, he followed her to where the other men were sitting, watching her do their rounds. 

By the time he got to hear her voice, there was no doubt.  

She wore no jewellery apart from small studs he only saw occasionally when the light hit it, which wasn't rare but fleeting, as she moved around quickly. 

“Good day Mr. Hubert.”, she said to the one armed man who sat in the corner of a table- 

“G’day.”, he replied.

“Would you like to have a refill on your tea?”

“Yes please.”

She then moved on to a Mr. Verser apparently, who didn’t want tea but told her that the phantom pains in his leg got worse. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”, she told him, before serving another veteran. 

They seemed to like her, or at least liked what they saw. 

Perhaps they knew who she was and felt flattered, or perhaps they were relieved that someone actually looked at them, and didn’t shrink away at the sight of their scars. 

Her voice, he noted, was just as bright and chirpy as he remembered it, as if she was talking to the handsome Patrick Melbourne and not the scarred Mr Vesper who had lost his cheek and ear to the flames. 

Then she saw him and for a split second her eyes widened in alarm, but then the discipline of her class reined in her emotions. 

She wouldn’t have made him want to get under her skin more if she tried. 

So he did try. 

“I don’t have a cup.”, he said, as he approached her, meeting her between two of the wooden tables that sat three men on each side. 

“Eva hands them out to the veterans.”, she explained, the essence of chilly politeness and cold professionalism. 

“I am a veteran.”, he reminded her, his hands pushed deep in his pockets.  

She looked him up and down. 

“But I don’t believe you to be a charity case, Mr. Shelby.”

He couldn't argue with that, and very nearly smirked. 

When she moved on, he followed.

“What are you doing here?”, he wanted to know, nodding around the room. 

It was no place for a lady, at least not the kind of place one would go to look for one.

“Pouring tea, as you can see.",  she explained, as she made her way towards the other desk. 

“Why?”

She built herself up to her full height and glared at him, her eyes burning in an icy fury. 

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Shelby. But I’d hate to keep everyone waiting.”

With that, she brushed him off like a piece of dust and walked away, not even bothering to storm off, which irked him more than it should. 

He was still watching her when Mrs Wollerston joined him.

“Are you satisfied, Mr. Shelby?”, she wanted to know. 

"I am considering a donation to your organisation.", He told her, seeing no need for niceties and games. 

Besides, she wanted something from him. 

"We feel honoured. A war hero like yourself-"

He inhaled sharply as the hair on the back of his neck stood and his shoulder muscles tensed. 

"I'd like to talk to some people first to get a better impression of how things work here."

The old woman's eyes widened. 

"O-oh.", She mumbled, clearly not liking the sound of that, but what could she do? It was his money after all. "Well, I would recommend-"

"Charlotte Crawley."

"The Lady C-Charlotte?", She asked, utterly baffled now. 

"Yes.", He said. "I know her and I'd like to talk to her."

I know she’s a terrible liar. 

She swallowed hard and nodded, already on her way to fetch her. 

"Actually no.", He said suddenly, "Let her finish. I'll wait."

He wasn't more important than his companions who had taken more serious wounds than he had. Besides, that would give him the time to talk to them too. 

And so Tommy Shelby sat down at one of the tables among them.

All too soon the stories came back, the usual questions. 

Where were you? Under whom? How did you get it? 

He hated talking about France, even thinking about it, but he could talk with the men here. 

It was as if they all spoke a language no one else had ever learned. 

They understood the things they said and the things they didn't. 

But he made sure he wasn't talking when she was anywhere close, same way he did when Ada, Finn or Polly were around. 

And he also watched her, her smiles and her chatter, the way she was so bright around them, so caring and unafraid. 

If she was working for him and wasted that amount of time, he’d have fired her, but if she was his waitress, he would have tipped her well. 

As time passed, the room cleared bit by bit until only a few people remained and the girls started cleaning up. 

"Now would be a good time.", He told Mrs. Wollerston. 

The woman looked like sour milk in light of his instructions, but she nodded and strode over to Charlotte, telling her to come. 

And she did. 

With her shift nearly over, her hair was left a lot more untidy than he had seen before.

During the riding weekend she had been perfectly groomed like the rest of the ladies and the horses, but now a few strands had become loose and the stray hairs had freed themselves. 

And she was still wearing that apron. 

It made her look more homely, more approachable and somehow more vulnerable. Not like a great lady at all. 

"You really have waited.", She said. "I am surprised."

"So am I. To see you here."

Charlotte glanced down at her hands, which she held in front of her chest. 

"Well I am."

"Why?"

"To help of course.", She said at once. “We owe these men a great debt of gratitude.” 

He huffed and pulled out his cigarette case. 

Always these words, these fucking words. 

He had heard them more times than he could count, and would give less than the dirt under his shoes for them. He had not believed them, not once. 

It was not like he didn’t believe she meant what she said, but she couldn’t understand - how could she? How could anyone?

He brought the cigarette to his lips and let it relax the muscles on his back that had tensed without him knowing, and watched her through the smoke like it was some veil. 

But was it a veil that hid the world from her that hadn’t been lifted or one that had been placed over him after France?

She stared at him from a mask of unreadable emotion as if her likeness had already been captured by an artist, ready to hang in a family home for all eternity. 

She wouldn’t crack, not until he pushed her. 

“How did you find this place?”, he wanted to know, tapping his cigarette. 

"My aunt is one of the patrons, Lady Rosamund Painswick."

It was one of the names that had been mentioned by Mrs. Wollerston earlier, as if it had some great meaning, but he didn’t care. 

"That's her. What about you?"

Charlotte glared at him. 

"Are you always this forward?", she demanded to know. 

He stared at her for a second. 

"Yeah."

She huffed slightly. 

"I don’t want to impose, but it can come across as quite inconsiderate."

Maybe I'm forward but you are not. Not a straight answer if a distraction or a change of topic will do. 

Her hands gave her away again, only this time they weren’t tapping. Now she was clutching them together tightly to prevent just that. If she had worn dinner gloves, he wouldn’t have seen the thin white lines under her fingers. But her hands were bare now, and there wasn't even a place to hide them. 

Her voice, however, sounded unaffected as he lifted her gaze again, after almost half a minute of silence. 

“If this is some sort of display of power to make me apologise for our last encounter,”, she said sharply, “I refuse to. I stand by what I said.”

He had expected nothing less. 

“However,”, she continued, wringing her hands before pressing it to her chest, touching something under the fabric. 

“I was made aware that you are interested in becoming a donor.”

Tommy huffed in approval. 

She inhaled sharply and he could see she wasn’t exactly enjoying this conversation my her hands alone. 

“I’d hope you wouldn’t let our past differences stand in the way stand in the way of that.”

She glanced down at her hands and smoothed down the apron. 

“It wouldn’t.”, he assured her, before letting the silence take over again, not missing the slight breath of relief that went through her. 

So it really was important to her. 

It was Charlotte who broke the silence, after she had been avoiding to meet his gaze. 

“Might I ask why you wanted to see to me of all people?”, she asked impatiently. “Since you have clearly no intention of talking to me.”

That tugged at his lips once more. 

Good question indeed. 

And one he didn’t have an answer to.

When she realised he wouldn’t have  a response, she sighed. 

“Well, I hope your visit was enlightening but I do need to to get on.”

He dismissed her with a nod and got up, and taking another drag of his cigarette, watched her walk off. 

She looked almost normal now, with a simple dress and an apron, hair that wasn’t perfect, and hands that weren’t hidden in gloves. 

Like an ordinary girl. 

Tommy Shelby put the cigarette out forcefully and left without another word. 

But before he got back to his office, he stopped by the library. 

“Ada?”, he shouted, his voice booming across the arched hall.

“Ada, where are you?”

He ignored all the “Shhs!” and outraged shaking of heads as he passed, his footsteps alone louder than any conversation they might have had.

“Are you mad?”, She snapped, crossing her arms over her chest as she saw him, standing on some ladder.

“You can’t just come in here like that!”

“Well I just did, eh.”, Tommy said, offering her a hand as she climbed down. 

Ada ignored it. 

Well enough. 

“I need you to find me anything you can about the Crawley family.”

Ada pursed her lips. 

“Tommy - I don’t work for you!”, she reminded him sharply. 

“Yeah but you work for the library, so get me the stuff, just like you got me the other ones.”

“That was a favour!”, she hissed, before her features softened. “And a thank you for the house.”

A couple of books and a lot of newspapers for a house, eh? 

“Just get it for me.”, he tried. 

“Will you at least tell me why? Are they to do with-”

“No.”, he said quickly. “At least not more than any other family.”

Since they all married each other there wasn’t much to go around. 

“Crawley family,”, he repeated. “Their title is Earl of Grantham and they have a…castle in Yorkshire. I need to know about them.”

He couldn’t exactly ask May. The last time he had relied on her for that kind of information, it had ended poorly for him, although he couldn’t put that on her. 

“Earls?”, Ada gasped. “Seriously, Tommy? What kind of business do you have with an Earl now?”

He didn’t respond to that. 

After all, he didn’t know himself yet- he just…had to know.

“So get me the books and get me the newspapers. Alright?”

She stared up at him in disapproval and clicked her tongue.

“Please?”, he asked impatiently. 

“Fine. But you’re not taking them to Birmingham. You can look at them at my house.”

He could feel her disapproval as he stormed off, but that didn’t change things. 

“What are you upto Tommy?”, she called, but he didn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure himself yet. 

~

He returned to the soup kitchen nearly a week after, but that did not mean his thoughts hadn't wandered there earlier. 

Once he had arrived, he immediately scanned the room for the now familiar frame. 

And Tommy surprised himself when he realised he was glad to see her. This time it was her that helped carry the trays of those that could no longer balance properly. 

If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have thought she was different to the girl cutting the bread, and the woman handing out tea, or the other one who took the dishes away. 

Only he knew now and he wouldn’t forget. 

… first mention in 1273 of Sir Ralph de Craule in the service of Edward I…

It was like he was staring history in the face. 

… 1539 made Viscounts Downton by Henry VIII….

But she was wearing the same apron, the same cloth on her hair, so one could have thought she was, but she wasn't. She was similar but not the same. 

…elevated to Earls of Grantham by King George III in 1772… 

As he entered, Mrs. Wollerstons rushed towards him. 

“Mr. Shelby, I feared we would have heard the last of you.”, she greeted, sweat on her brow.

“No.”, he said, only slowly turning to look at her. 

“Then have you decided?”

“Yes.”

The silence made her quiver and smile nervously. 

“I think we should sit down somewhere to discuss the details.”, he said. 

“Of course, of course, Mr. Shelby. Follow me.”

As he walked along the lines of tables, he felt a pair of eyes on him. When he reached the small door to the back, he turned and saw her looking at him. And he met her gaze for a moment, and a moment more than she seemed to be comfortable with, as she quickly averted her eyes and hurried along. 

Only then, did he enter.

It was a small office, but furnished with a lot more money than would have been necessary. The office chair was leather, the carafe looked like crystal. 

As she sat down behind the desk, he took his place in front of it, watching her put down her glasses. 

Soon she was telling him about other donors and patrons, the influence of the church and more.

“Would your donation be regular?”, she asked. “Monthly perhaps, or weekly?”

“Perhaps.”

She raised her eyebrow. 

“I will pay in cash.”, he finally said. “You’ve got the food sorted but these men also need clothes, shoes and other things like - ah - soap and cigarettes.”

“Oh the church won’t like that.”, she argued. 

Tommy fished the cigarette case out of his pocket and put one between his lips.

“I am not the church.”, he said, smoke escaping his lips. 

Wollerston's nose wrinkled, but kept her lips firmly shut. 

If money talks the world listens, eh? 

“I think that would be a possibility.”, she finally said. 

“Ah will it?”, Tommy asked, feigning surprise. 

“You see, we are usually focussed on providing the men with what they need.”

“And they need cigarettes.”

Her jaw clenched so hard, he thought it might snap.

“I presume arrangements can be made for care packages.”

He stared at her as he took another drag. 

“Including cigarettes.”

They stared at each other, but it was her that broke first. 

Obviously. 

So Tommy took the next step. 

“Make a list of content for these care packages including prices. Send it to this address.”

He placed a business card on the table. “We will review the list and make changes. Then you will know the extent and frequency of my donation.”

Mrs. Wollerston’s face was so sour, he was prepared for an amusing lecture when she opened her mouth, but then they heard a crash coming from the hall. And screaming- panicked, half mad, animalistic screaming. 

It was a sound, Tommy knew all too well. 

The cigarette slipped from his fingers and was forgotten before it hit the ground as he rushed out of the office and into the mayhem in the hall. 

A table had been toppled, spreading food, cutlery and broken dishes over the floor. 

One chair had snapped a leg and was laying shattered against the wall. 

The men had done their best to move away and give him space, their faces white with fear and their eyes wide. 

They knew what it was, as did he. There was no soldier in the world who didn’t recognise this. 

The man, who was in the middle of it wasn’t particularly tall nor strong, more a wiry build with a fallen face. He was hiding behind the toppled table, screaming on the top of his lungs, his eyes staring a thousand yards away into the distance. 

One of the men walked up to him.

“You need to stop that!”

When he touched his shoulder, the man lashed out, tackling him and slamming him against the wall. 

And Tommy clicked into action. 

He knew what needed to be done. He had done it too many times before. 

Coming up right behind, he wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders from behind and pulled him up, away from the poor sod who had gotten involved without truly knowing what to do. 

The man was thrashing and kicking violently, and he had trouble even holding onto him. 

But for now he had to get him away from the other man, as the shrill shrieking rang in his ears. 

“Oi,”, Tommy bellowed, his voice cutting through the screams. “What’s his name?”

“Wilkins.”, one responded, sending him in even a madder state.

Trying to control him was like trying to ride a mad horse and Tommy was slowly slipping of the saddle. 

“His first name!”, he roared, pushing the man towards the wall, and putting his whole weight into it.

“Harry!”, came from somewhere. 

It fucking better be Harry, Tommy thought, trapping him between his body and the wall. 

“Harry? Harry, it’s alright!”, he shouted into his ear, his nose brushing against the sweaty, greasy strands of his hair. 

“You’re not in France, you’re in England, eh? You’re back.”

He grunted as he caught a kick to his knee and loosened his grip for but a moment. While it wasn’t enough for the man to slip his grip, it was enough for him to bring them both crashing to the ground.

When he landed on top of him, it forced the air from his lungs. 

Tommy tried to turn, to get him off of him and to subdue him on the floor, but he was thrashing so violently, it was all he could do not to let go of him. At least this way only he was getting hit and not some other veteran who couldn’t properly defend themselves. 

Between his inability to properly breathe from the weight on his chest, his thrashing and the screaming, he didn’t notice until it was too late.

“Stay clear!”, he bellowed at her just as Harry Wilkins caught her with a wild arm to the shoulder, knocking her onto her back. She caught herself with her hands but wasn’t deterred for long.

This time she approached from behind both their heads and not from the side like before.

But it was the same with horses - if one approached them from where they can’t see it always ended badly. 

“I said stay clear!”, he roared, but she didn’t listen. Instead she knelt down behind his head and reached forward, taking the man’s face in between her trembling hands. 

It was like trying to catch a rabid dog, but she succeeded after a while. 

“Hush.”, she told him, clasping the sides of his head. “Hush, Harry.”

Her voice was soft and breathy, and only he and Tommy could hear.

“Hush, Harry. You’re safe. You’re home.”

Harry began to shake his head violently. 

“No. No, no, no, no. They’re coming. They’re here. I know it. They’re here soon!”

She has him talking!

That was a good sign if ever there was one. After all mad men couldn’t talk. 

“No one’s coming.”, she assured him. “You’re safe. I promise!”

Tommy felt the other man’s thrashing slow down. 

“You promise?”, he whispered, shaking violently. 

“Of course I promise, Harry. I’m right here and you are safe. We are both safe.”

“We’re safe?”, he asked. “We’re safe?”

“Yes, we are, Harry. You’re safe. I’m safe. And we are home.”

When the sobs came, Tommy let his head fall back onto the cold ground and exhaled, still holding onto the man. 

But he too could relax his grip. 

Other men came and with her, helped pick him up. 

“Come now, it’s alright.”

Another tried to help Tommy up, but he did so himself, walking to the edge of the wall and bracing himself in his knees, one hand resting against the old stone. It was the cold that calmed him. 

Fuck, he thought, taking a moment to catch his breath. 

It never got easier. 

Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he coughed. 

Even while he was still facing the wall, he could pinpoint the moment when the realisation of what he did fully hit the man as a flurry of apologies escaped his lips, mixed with hiccups sobs.

“Take him to the back.”, Mrs. Wollerston instructed. 

Tommy was surprised to see her get involved, but she put her arm around the man, who left the room sobbing. 

The veterans and the volunteers seemed to be in a competition about who was paler, all avoiding eye contact. After all that noise, the silence was deafening. 

But then it was Charlotte who spoke up, stepping into the middle of the room with her hands behind her back. Her heels made strange clicking sounds on the floor, echoing through the silent hall.

“Goodness.”, she said, her voice loud and surprisingly confident, even if it was a bit breathless, placing her right hand on her chest. “Why don’t you take a seat again and we will bring you all a cup of tea. I think we'd all fancy a cup.”

With a nod to the other girls they hurried to move the chairs from the toppled table to the others, before helping them sit down. 

With the adrenaline still pulsing through his body, rage began to boil in the pit of his stomach.

“You!”, Tommy snarled, storming over to her, his heart still racing. 

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back, away from the others. She was having problems keeping up, her shoes scraping on the floor as he dragged her away. 

She flinched as he pushed her against the wall. 

“That,”, he told her, hissing the words as he glared down at her “was fucking foolish!”

Her eyes widened but she didn’t look shocked. She looked angry now.

“I told you to get back and you didn’t!”

I ordered you.

She was only a foolish little girl and no match for a man that size, let alone in that state. 

Didn’t she know what could have happened? He could have her on her back in no time, could have strangled her or bashed her head in like a melon and there would have been nothing he or anyone else could have done- 

Foolish, stupid, naive- She lifted her chin to meet his eyes but at the same time he felt as if she was looking down at him.

“Indeed, I did not.”, she said, “But I’m very grateful for your assistance, Mr. Shelby.”

With that, she freed her arm and walked back to the others, her hands under her apron. 

Tommy leaned his back against the wall and lit another cigarette. 

Then he dug into his coat pocket and pulled out the refill packet and the matches. 

“Oi.”, he called to get their attention, before tossing them both at a table of veterans. 

They needed them too and mumbled their thanks. 

The talks from before had vanished completely, as had the appetite. 

While the volunteers served the veterans, he glanced over at the wreckage, trying to calm his racing heart. 

The chair was firewood now, but the table only toppled. The plates were shattered, the food spread. The glasses were done for too, shattered to a thousand pieces. The food was spilled and spoiled, but it wasn’t like water and a mop couldn’t remove the stains of stew and - fuck

“Thank you very much for intervening.”, Mrs. Wollerston said, coming up behind him. 

He nodded without sparing her a second chance.

“He alright?”

“He’s shaken.”

That’s a word for it.

“Is he hurt?”, Tommy wanted to know, his eyes never leaving the floor.

“I-I don’t think so.”, she admitted. “A few bruises perhaps.”

Tommy responded with silence, letting smoke escape his lips.

“Any cuts?”, he asked. 

“No.”

Tommy nodded and dropped the cigarette to the floor, finishing it off with his shoes, a mere inches from the evidence. 

Then he walked back over to Charlotte, who had her right hand on the back of a veteran.

When she saw him, she turned, glancing at him unsure. 

Her other hand was in her apron pocket. 

“Lady Charlotte,”, he said, making sure to be polite this once. She had earned it. 

“I want to apologise for snapping at you earlier.”, he said, stretching out his hand for a handshake.

His left hand. 

She glanced at it, then at him, her own hands still concealed. 

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby.", She tried, offering him a smile. 

He glanced at her and then back at his still outstretched hand, as her eyes widened in the realisation.

“Show me.”

End of Part 3

Part 4

~

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Taglist

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Tommy

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[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

What do you think a feline elf design would look like? Like an elf race that evolved from felines?

a very fun idea! to start, i know this is different, but i have a post on anthro lion anatomy which may be a helpful start for the general body plan and some skull anatomy in various felines.

I don't know if you're looking at any specific felilne ancestry, but for the sake of simplicity I'm going with a cougar for visual reference, since their skull shape is easy to adapt. Also because i just like them.

They're a lot more arboreal than some other big cats (and they're actually closer related to cheetahs than the "true" big cats. Which means they cannot roar and they can meow)

you may have already seen it, but I did answer the question about humanoid hands with retractable claws, it's over here.

to start, just some studies of cougar anatomy

(image description: simple outline studies of cougar skeletons and a few cougars in trees. The skull is short and rounded, the body and tail are long, and it's a very flexible and well muscled cat. Two of the skeletons show different poses, as if it is stretching or fighting. One of the cougars in a tree is climbing downwards. end description)

the other reason I'm picking a cougar as a good example for cat elves is because they're really good at climbing and have a pretty arboreal lifestyle, which fits some common tropes for elves. So now here are my sketches for how you might adapt this anatomy to make some elves.

(image description: three simple drawings of a bipedal skeleton and a close up of the skull. The first image is just the skeleton, which looks mostly humanoid but has no collarbone, shifts the neck bones further back on the skull, and has a tail as well as digitigrade legs. The skull is almost the same as a normal cougar skull, with a rounder cranium.

In the second image, the skeleton is a faded red and the body is outlined as an anthropomorphic cougar. they're furry and their ears are situated on top of the head, like a normal cat.

In the third image, the skeleton is white and the body outline shows a more humanoid facial structure and hair, as well as ears situated on the side of the head. the nose and feet are still very cat-like. They also have eyebrow whiskers. end description)

Eyebrow whiskers are fun. I encourage the use of any facial whiskers in fantasy people design, even though I don't put them in all of mine lol.

You can go more cat-like or more humanoid. Keep the digitigrade feet or flatten them. I'm leaving the neck bones further back like that so they can shift between a bipedal and quadrupedal stance, which will help them retain the ability to climb directly down a tree as shown in the previous images of real cougars. so here's a final design concept.

(image description: three flat colored drawings of feline elves, mimicking the poses of two climbing cougars and the fighting cougar skeleton. There is a line of fur down the backs of these elves, connecting to the fully furred tail, while the rest of their bodies remain hairless except for the head. they are all wearing simple clothes made of leather/hide with a lot of bone decorations and some feathers. The main dye colors here are red, brown, grey, and green. the elf climbing vertically downwards is able to turn his neck to keep his line of sight parallel to the tree, and both he and the younger looking elf clinging to a different tree are able to flex their ankles so they can use their feet to cling to the trees. end description)

this was a fun one, I hope that's all helpful! Of course, you do not have to use cougars as your base, this was just my choice. More fur would also allow for fun things like dyed fur patterns to convey things like social status, if you want a little extra culture flair. Feline elves would be obligate carnivores, most likely, and they'd probably stick with an ambush hunting technique.

Have fun with your cat elves!

[simplysedusa]

How I imagine the Rowdyruff Boys would dress

(credit to Pinterest for all the pictures)

(tw: drug symbolism)

Brick Keane

Brick's style is usually minimalistic and layered, with a bit of a 90's inspired vibe as seen in his love for flannels, denim jackets, and those Hawaiian shirts he seems to make look cool. Between the girls and his brothers, he sticks to his respective color the most, there's almost always a hint of red on him somewhere. Any kind of designs on his clothes are either very simple and small, or rather unique and/or retro. He doesn't do clothes with brand labels plastered on the front, Brick believes he's too cool to wear popular brands that everyone else likes. He likes his clothes loosely fitted, not too tight or too baggy. Any kind of devil imagery is a huge plus for him, as to remind the citizens/peers/classmates who his creator is. I'd like to think that When Brick was middle school aged, he had started collecting a bunch of Boston Red Sox hats in a variety of colors such as black, red, white, beige, or some combo of the aforementioned, completely unaware that they were affiliated with a sports team. Once he found out, he went with the lie that he was a fan and now he watches their games reluctantly so he doesn't look like a poser. He still rocks with his original plain red cap proudly though.

Boomer Keane

Boomer wouldn't admit it, and he probably doesn't know it, but a part of his style is a bit inspired by Brick's. Layered and simple at times, the key distinction between the two is coloring: lighter denim and brighter colors. Even the Hawaiian shirts are brighter in terms of theme and color as well. But usually, his style is rather athletic and preppy, like one of those boys in a fraternity, the ones who "had to do it to 'em". Unless it's snowing, there's a good chance you'll see Boomer in shorts (yes he's one of those). Boomer also has some rather random pieces of clothing such as an American flag hoodie (he thought it looked good on him, and tbh, what doesn't?), overalls, or pink baggy acid wash jeans (that Blossom, Bubbles, and surprisingly Buttercup all LOVE). I'd also like to think that subconsciously Boomer picks up clothes that have red, blue, and green in them as a way to convince himself that he fits in with his brother and is a part of the team. He's a whore for cardigans and letterman jackets as well.

Butch Keane

Somehow, Butch has managed to take punk grunge and enfuse the style with his love for athletic brands and clothes (with a bit of Brick's influence as well occasionally, that what happens when the leader of the group is constantly telling the other two that they can't dress) and combine the two. His fits have a tendency to be LOUD! Chaotic. And either very baggy or perfectly fitted as if it were tailored to him. His closet makes Buttercup's dress code violations look like a slap on the wrist; one of his favorite hoodies portrays a guy with green fingers chopping cocaine (as pictured below). Occasionally, he might dawn a shirt that might reference sex in some way (he definitely has a "This is a very serious text post with no hidden meaning" shirt or hoodie in his closet somewhere). Butch probably owns the most leathered clothes between him and his brothers, and he has no problem with that. He's also the most proactively dressed between the three brothers with his love for sleeveless shirts, crop tops, tight tanks, and ripped jeans that might expose most of his legs (he gotta show off the gains somehow). While his female counterpart outgrew her obsession for camo print, Butch has yet to. He also loves utility jackets and any kind of coat with fur (he isn't sure/doesn't care if it's real or not, but he lies to Bubbles every time she asks just to get her off his back).