#also this is on a massive canvas forgot to mention that

[sauntering-vaguely-downwardss]

Some pics of an oil painting I’m working on ~

Liberty leading the people but repainted with the amis ! (+ gavroche)

Sorry for the long post everyone but I wanted to show off the details lol ✨🫡

The rest of the amis will be added at some point btw !! I haven’t finished this yet 😅 I’ve been working on this for about a year ish ? ( I posted it on insta a few months ago :D)

[batshit-auspol]

have we talked about the woolworths debacle yet?

Sigh.

Alright kids strap in, because the culture wars are back and stupider than ever.

So there are two characters you need to be familiar with in this story before we continue:

Woolies (i.e. Woolworths) - One of two supermarket chains in Australia. Not related to the giant Woolworths chain that used to exist overseas, other than the Aussie one swiped the name because the original forgot to trademark the name 'Woolworths' here. Biggest company in Aus, and also the biggest employer. Not a brand anyone with more than two braincells would pick a fight with.

Peter Dutton - Man with less than two braincells, and current leader of the political opposition in Australia. Best known for bearing a passing resemblance to a potato and once demanding that a homophobic song get played for balance when a football halftime show performed 'Same Love'. His reputation is so bad that if you told an Australian that Dutton's favorite pastime was drowning puppies, they probably would believe you.

And to prove our point, here's the best headline a friendly newspaper could come up with to try spin his image:

The third thing you need to know is that in Australia we have a national holiday called "Australia Day" which is basically a scheduled day for everyone to get into a giant argument.

This is because for the last 30ish years it has been held on the anniversary of the British claiming the land around Sydney as a colony which was:

a) More the founding of an English prison then the founding of Australia, and more importantly

b) from the perspective of the people who were already living here, kindof a very shit day

Now not everyone agrees on this, and even those that don't 'celebrate' will often still have a get together with friends, but it can't be denied that we've shifted a long way from the days when the country used to celebrate Australia Day by kitting ourselves out in Aussie flag budgie smugglers, drinking enough beer to drown Harold Holt, and partying like it's 1789.

(Now a brief break for a real photo of Peter Dutton at a press conference)

Good luck sleeping tonight. Anyway back to the story.

As a result of this shift away from the trend of showing your patriotism by wearing Australian flag underpants, this year Woolworths decided that they were no longer going to be rolling out their box of southern cross thongs - on the grounds that "this kitschy shit never sells" and they are far too busy with more important things like blaming price gouging on inflation and installing self-checkout machines that think your canvas bag is a crime against humanity.

Never a man to miss an opportunity to act like a massive twat, upon hearing that Woolies had dumped their flag merch, Peter Dutton rushed onto the airwaves to declare that Woolworths had "gone woke" (paging 4chan circa 2009) and called for the country to boycott the store, a story which Australia's media have gleefully put on loudhale for over a week now in order to drive outrage clicks.

We at this point remind you that Woolworths is a company which, as we previously mentioned, basically has a monopoly on selling food in this country. Not exactly something you can boycott.

(Another real Dutton photo break)

Needless to say Dutton's dumbass plan did not immediately put Woolies out of business, however the relentless media campaign by Rupert Murdoch's minions did result in a bunch of innocent low-wage floor staff being harrassed by The Dark Lord's fanboys and a few Woolies stores were graffitied.

Allegedly being the 'free market' guy, Dutton also kindof snookered himself by demanding the free market not decide the fate of Australia day, but logic was never one of his strong suits.

Anyway, in the end we're just going to keep having this dumb circular argument every year, fulled by a media who love fanning the flames, until a politician has the guts to shift the date to May 8 (pronounced m8), and everyone promptly forgets this was ever a thing.

All in all, that's the long and the short of it. As a final touch we'll leave you with this real tweet by Opposition Leader Peter Dutton, in all its batshit glory.

We look forward to the absolute dumpster fire of comments this post is going to generate - as is the Australia Day tradition.

[karinasbaby]

SIM JAEYUN - HARD THOUGHT! PT.2

part 1

pairing: sim jaeyun x fem!reader (+17)

warnings: mentions of a horror movie, oral (f & m), petnames, jake gets pussydrunk, (pussy so good made him go to sleep), handjob, jake being in love, making out, marking, hickeys, overstimulation

wc: 2k

A/N: this is going to be a queued post as im not sure how long my break will take my loves, really praying this goes up on the 28th <3

ps this was proofread but at 5 am so good luck?

thinking about jake and just how attentive and caring he would be for his lover, he'll be completely addicted to u and every part of ur body and he always shows his appreciation to u in different ways, first he sets his goal on spending most of his time throughout the day with you, like for example tonight when he suggested to have a movie night with you since it was the weekend, and of course he had different plans,

now here you were with jaeyun's arm wrapped around your shoulder as u both cuddled on your couch, while you were paying attention to the movie playing ahead, jake's mind was in a complete different place than yours,

"you think he'll figure out the killer?" you questioned jake quietly, too immersed by the movie as the main character was unknowingly having a conversation with the killer, your attention too caught up to notice the way jaeyun's eyes were trailing at your neck, gaze wavering between your lips down to your chest, jaeyun licked his lips before returning his focus on your eyes that reflected every colour from the screen, "i hope so" he whispered into your ear quietly, he prayed his answer made sense as he completely forgot what you were questioning in the first place before he was back to sucking a deep breath in to supress his urges,

thats when you noticed that jake's hand that was resting on your shoulder on the beginning was by now was softly rubbing against your arm, gently squeezing your skin under his palm, each squeeze aligning with every deep breath he heaved in, he was shaking his leg, an anxious habit of his. from the corner of your eye you also noticed jake's gaze lingering on you for a few seconds before he teared it towards the screen,

what's wrong with him?

thinking that he was unreasonably restless due to the horror movie that was playing on the screen, you decided to place your hand on his shaking thigh, your soft palm coming into contact with his thigh brought your attention downwards, finally noticing the massive bulging tent in his pants,

oh.

that's what's wrong with him.

"you know you could've said something about this, jaeyun" you started, the movie forgotten as you moved your hand closer to his bulge, jake remained frozen, soft puffs of air leaving his mouth while both your hands worked to get his pants under his hips,

"i wanted you to enjoy the movie, baby" jake breathed out, his length finally springing past his tightened boxers making him throw his head back as the cold air of the living room brushed past his throbbing hot length, a sigh of relief went past his reddened plump lips, swollen from the abuse of his teeth when your fingers wrapped around his cock,

jake's hand lowered to wrap around your waist, you moved your body to the side, facing his heaving chest and furrowed eyebrows as you moved your hand around his length, slowly stroking from the bottom to the top before softly squeezing his pulsing red tip, jake quietened himself by burying his head into the welcoming skin of your neck, almost subconsciously his lips began to gently paint the open canvas of your chest and neck with his artistic bite marks and faint hickeys,

"i want to hear you, baby." he quickly obeyed your request, separating himself from your skin allowing the prettiest whimpers and low moans of your name to echo in the living room, becoming the only thing your ears can hear as the noises of whatever conflict was happening in the movie was wiped out from your senses entirely, only thoughts of jaeyun and his quivering body beneath your palms took over your mind,

"faster, angel. i'm close." he moaned out as you flicked your wrist around his pulsating length, his breathes becoming uneven, feeling his lower abdomen tightening as his impending orgasm was on the brink of having him teetering over the edge, his hot breathes fanning against your neck while his noises became whinier,

squeezing your thighs together, attempting to even your own heavy breathing with the pool of slick soiling your panties, your mind was spinning faster the louder jake's groans got, his grip on your waist was bruising, his nails digging into your plush skin through the fabric, the whole duration your hand was instinctively caressing his rock hard length, dragging your hands lower to softly squeeze his balls which had jaeyun gasping as his body shook against yours,

"fuck- baby, i'm so close," he breathed out, your eyes stayed stuck on all the breathtaking expressions that painted across his face that changed every second, his furrowed eyebrows relaxing for a second when you squeeze his tip before pinching back together when your precum covered palm drags back down to wrap around his base, the smallest bits of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth whilst his eyes remained shut tightly, jake was in pure bliss through out the tightening of the coil in his lower stomach seconds away from bursting to allow full euphoria to run along his veins,

"i'm c-cumming- fuck!" jake cursed loudly, his frame trembling against your hold while you littered his flushed face with kisses, ropes of milky white cum wrapped around your fingers while the remanents cascaded down his shirt, your by now aching and numb hand continued stroking his slowly softening length as you helped jake ride out his orgasm while his head was thrown back, low groans vibrating out of his chest whilst it heaved, slowly his thighs began to clench as you pushed him into overstimulation, with hooded eyes and a flushed face jaeyun looked at you with tears brimming his waterline,

"shit- baby, i'm s-sensitive," he stuttered out while moving a shaking hand to wrap around your hand that was caressing his over-sensitive red tip slowly, "relax, baby. am i not making you feel good?" you questioned, your soft voice rang in jaeyun's ears whilst he tried his best to control the jerking of his hips, "of course you are, angel." he chuckled at your words as another moan threatened to escape his lips, biting till he drew blood in his mouth amid you squeezing his tip continuously, "but t-this is too much.." he grunted out, his fingers weakly wrapping around your wrist in attempts of stopping you, finally giving in with a chuckle, you moved your hand away from him, smiling at the small whine that left his lips at the loss of the warmth your hands provided,

jake opened his eyes, glazed over slightly as he had a dazed look in his gaze, finally calming down from the release that his body was begging for ever since he stepped closer to you today, staring at you with nothing but pure love in his eyes with a dopey smile, he finally connected your lips, larger and rougher hands caressed the side of your face tenderly whilst he bit your lower lip drawing out a gasp from you to allow him to run his tongue along yours,

throughout this heated make-out session you failed to notice jake's movements as by now he had you laying beneath him on the couch, too distracted by the way he was literally taking your breath away, jaeyun's hand sneakily slipped both of your bodies to wrap around your clothed core, cupping your cunt in his palm resulting in you moaning against his mouth while he swallowed all of your pretty noises that had his heart beating in his chest rapidly,

jake's mouth never faltered against yours as he began to softly suckle on your bottom lip while his hand ventured past the waistband of your sweatpants and your panties, running his middle finger along your slit as his lips wrapped around your tongue, "shit baby, you're dripping," his fingers teased your soaking hole while you clenched at his words, "fuck." jaeyun cursed out at the feeling of your slick trailing down his fingers to pool in his palm, "i need to taste you, right now." and before you could protest let alone prepare yourself, jaeyun already had his hands pulling your clothes below your ankle, roughly gripping on your thighs as he wrapped them around his shoulders whilst he lowered his body,

his hot breath fanned against your exposed dripping core, jaeyun softly blew air against your cunt as he felt your body shiver against his stronger hold, chuckling as he finally began his payback, "stop teasing," you breathed out, breaths getting faster and heavier in anticipation at the thought of jake eating you out and going into his familiar state,

obeying your words, jake ran his tongue along your puffed folds, your sweet nectar bursting with flavour on the tip of his tongue, jake sucked a deep breath in through gritted teeth before he began to suckle on your swollen clit, closing his eyes to entirely indulge in you clouding all over his senses, his hands could only feel you, his nose could only smell you, his ears could only hear your sweet, sweet moans as he suckled on your clit like a baby, his mouth could only taste the flavour of you,

jaeyun's finger teased against your entrance, allowing more essence to spill and decorate the couch bellow you, slowly inching his digit in with his head spinning at how tightly your sloppy walls wrapped around his finger, his mouth never faltered against your pulsing clit whilst your hands bought purchase in his hair, gently gripping his soft locks to ground yourself as jake began to eat you out like a starved man,

altering between sucking on your clit entirely to drawing circles around your clit to push you over the edge, your body felt like it was on fire as jake's finger was rubbing and pressing directly against your spongy spot making you arch your back in his hold, each and every one of your moans and whimpers encouraged him to continue, pumping another finger along with his first one to thrust in your velvety walls, jake's ministrations never faltered as your thighs began to shake against his shoulders while your hips jerked up to his mouth,

with your eyes closed, high on pleasure followed by all of your noises sounding like musical melodies for jake's ears, your grip on his hair tightened resulting in jake groaning in pleasure against your cunt, your whimpers rang in his ears as your climax was approaching faster than you could process, with the pulsing of your walls against his digits jake could already tell you were mere seconds away from tipping over the edge, "i'm s-so close, baby." you moaned out, your words riling jaeyun further, detaching his lips from your swollen clit before wrapping his mouth entirely against your cunt, you gasped loudly at the feeling of jake thrusting his tongue completely inside your soaking entrance, the sensation of his lips suckling on your cunt along with his muscle fucking into your sloppy walls was enough to have your body shake as your climax washed over you,

your throat was by now hoarse as only shaky breathes went past your lips at the overwhelming feeling of pleasure, jaeyun's jaw was slack open as he sucked and licked all of what you had to offer, completely pussydrunk as your nectar kept pushing out sweetly onto his tongue, your climax began to softly dissipate with your trembling body slowly calming down yet with jake's mouth still latched on your cunt you couldn't control the shaking of your legs, jaeyun still had his eyes closed as his head was resting against your thigh, mindlessly licking at your folds making you whimper as you pulled his hair gently,

at your grip jaeyun finally opened his lidded eyes to reveal his concerningly intoxicated gaze with his pupils dilated and cheeks flushed, your slick mixed with his own saliva coating his mouth entirely and dripping below his chin, he looked completely gone.

"baby.." you breathed out at his state, seemingly coming back to his senses, he slowly made his way upwards to cover your frame with his, smiling at you drunkenly before his head fell into the crook of your neck, placing one gentle kiss against your skin as he wrapped his arms around you, and before you could ask him anything you were greeted with his quiet snores and soft breathes fanning your neck,

"goodnight, yunnie."

A/N pt2: i died around 6 times while writing this im never writing on a laptop ever again, kinda disappointed in how short and basic this turned out so its like a filler in my mind anywho i promise ill write better jake smut in the future so pls bear w me rn <3

[arkacarian]

ADELEINE BACKSTORY GO!!!!!!!!! 🗣️🗣️🗣️

Ok so-

Adeleine had… a life back on Shiver Star. She was dumped at a research facility when she was only two years old because her parents wanted cash. She was raised there by scientists and engineers who were just trying to find a way to get humanity off the planet- mostly via replicating the warp portal technology their ancestors used to get there in the first place. Most of the kids who ended up there were used in such tests, or for experimental rockets that uh… didn’t get too far.

Adeleine was lucky though. She, clutching her big blue paint brush, proved she was wayyy too valuable to be used for stuff like that. She could just… paint things that came to life. Nobody understood why or how, but she definitely was doing that. So instead, they were trying to figure out how she could do that and if it could be a way for them to get off of the planet.

But then it started to get too cold… and Adeleine was one of the few people still left that was contractually signed to be used for experimental technology. So this poor little seven year old was given her art things, stuffed up in a tiny shuttle, and sent off to what was assumed to be her demise.

… But it wasn’t. She woke up, days, possibly even weeks later on planet Pop Star. She was sitting around the rubble of the ship, since it seemed to have had a bad crash. She had a brutal gash on her arm, but she couldn’t feel it. She was too… confused. And it only got more confusing when three very not normal figures showed up.

Drawcia, Paintra, and Vividria had been going around the planet looking for things to do art studies of, when they heard a massive crash and immediately went to go investigate. They ended up finding spilled art supplies and metal that might be good for mixed medium stuff and were like “awesome!” until Drawcia went to pick up a canvas, and had it pulled away by a small, scared little girl in heavy winter clothes.

They put two and two together pretty quickly and realized that the girl had been in whatever crashed and blew up there, and then Vividria pointed out how badly injured she looked. So the three of them managed to coax her into coming with them back to where they lived, in a very reclusive, far away part of the planet. Adeleine had nowhere else to go, so they helped her with her things and brought her there to tend to her wounds and hopefully find out what she was and where she came from.

After getting fixed up, Adeleine explained everything she could. Where she came from, who and what she was, and what she remembered of getting to this new place. She also offhandedly mentioned the painting things and having them become real thing like it was totally normal, but to the sisters it is just normal so they happily accepted both that fact and Adeleine. She basically became their fourth sister, although she was more like a niece to Drawcia and Paintra, who she often just called her aunts, and a cousin to Vividria.

She was raised by them, going out and around, getting better at her art and able to control her paintings and when they should and shouldn’t come to life, and eventually allowed to explore by herself when she was 12. That’s when she ended up in Cloudy Park, and fairly shortly after that, down in Quiet Forest, where she was then assimilated into Kirby’s found family friend group.

So yeah, uh, I actually really like this one finally. Adeleine does remember what Shiver Star was like (and is horribly scared of snow now) and is basically related to the other painters! She still definitely visits them. She also tries to invite them to gatherings, but only Vividria goes since she’s one of the Star Allies anyway. Also Adeleine was absolutely overjoyed to see her there and completely forgot about Ribbon’s existence for a few minutes and totally ignored her.

And Drawcia was okay after the whole Canvas Curse thing. She never told Adeleine about it because she didn’t want her to start hating Kirby.

[fuck-customers]

There's this guy who comes in to get canvas' all the time and last night instead of asking me who was right down the aisle from him he decides to reach into the overstock cause he's tall enough.

I asked if he needed assistance getting the canvas he was reaching for so he doesn't mess up our overstock since we have a system where we locate product to make it easier to find overstock, but also said it was because it's a safety hazard; he goes "no I got it thanks" 🙃🙃

Forgot to mention there's a gate in front of it so he also had to reach over that to get the ones that were further back. So he's reaching for more and steps on the base deck to reach it and fucking dents it 🤦🏻‍♀️

luckily, he left one up there, so I didn't have to unlocate the size he was grabbing, but I had to replace the base deck and put the labels and dividers back into place cause I couldn't fix the massive dent he left in it. 🫠

@staff I HATE the new text editor!

[stargaze-issei]

— 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 + 𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐚.

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭; how their teams react to the scratch marks on their backs (obviously provoked by you)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; suggestive, few curse words, mentions of sex??

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; crack (??? im not sure

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; i love this hcs and wanted to do it for by best boys and my best teams. also no one ever mentions kawanishi and that's so sad bc i love him 😞

— 𝚒𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚣𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚎.

-> i swear it's not that he's rough.

-> i mean he is but sometimes he just want to have some good old vanilla sex and cuddle yk.

-> and last night was one of those times.

-> but my man is just– HE'S ROUGH EVEN IF HE DOESN'T TRY.

-> so he usually have scratches marks after you do it, although he is pretty careful about it.

-> he doesn't want the team to tease you and that's your intimate sex life like he's trying to protect you ok.

-> also he knows matsukawa and makki WON'T let it go and oikawa is not better.

-> but this time he just forgot.

-> he has a lot in mind and when he arrives to the lockers and starts changing the last thing he thinks about is last night.

-> he is a little thrown off by how silent everything is.

-> kindaichi, who usually speaks a lot to kunimi while changing, is dead quiet.

-> since iwaizumi's face is facing the wall, he can't see how everyone there is watching beholding his back.

-> sure, mattsun, makki and oikawa knew you had sex.

-> and the rest kinda knew too?? but ignored it??

-> but that was some EXPLICIT CONTENT.

-> "ohmygod y/n that poor thing" makki is the first one to talk.

-> iwa just stands there like ???????wdym

-> "is that– is that blood?" that one is watari.

-> "IS IT OKAY FOR US TO TALK ABOUT Y/N-SENPAI THIS WAY????" and this one is kindaichi, who is in all shades of red.

-> and then it hits iwa. just as oikawa walks in.

-> "IWA-CHAN WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR B– oh"

-> iwaizumi can't even react he just puts on his shirt and (・_・;)

-> he doesn't even leave the locker he's just standing there, all red.

-> yahaba would be so jealous, but act cool, like he had done it a thousand times already pack it up virgin

-> kyoutani kinda doesn't care?? but he stares and secretly thinks he HAS to have more scratches whenever he does the deed.

-> watari is still trying to get over the initial shock.

-> and kunimi left the locker room like five minutes ago bc he doesn't care fr.

-> AND TOORU???? HE JUST STARTS TEASING.

-> one of the few times he teams with makki and mattsun.

-> "my iwa-chan, such a big boy" "should we check on y/n?" "i really thought you were vanilla"

-> hajime just takes the jokes like a champ, he knows they won't stop so he just gotta smile and nod.

-> but when you arrive to the gym, looking for him to walk home together, and oikawa teases you???

-> somehow iwa manages to throw like three volleyballs at him at the same time because NO ONE'S FUCKING WITH YOU.

-> you get it?? bc he did that last night but he didn't let oikawa mock u–

-> that was the day he became daddy iwa for the third years 😛

— 𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚑𝚒.

-> he is massive, ok?? massive.

-> homeboy doesn't even know how massive he is.

-> not until probably tendou pointed it out, and ushi would just be like:

-> "huh 😕"

-> so yeah, scratch marks are pretty common.

-> the thing is, he doesn't have a high libido, so you don't do it that often.

-> hence to why, he never had to worry about it.

-> he was a little shocked the first time you did it and he looked at his back after and ????you used it as a fucking canvas.

-> his only concern is wether you are okay tbh.

-> ANYWAYS.

-> he's always the first one to arrive to the locker room, until goshiki appeared and started to arrive earlier to show he's more committed than ushijima.

-> tendou and wakatoshi are like go off girl.

-> the rest arrive a few seconds later, and ushijima proceeds to take off his shirt.

-> lemme tell you, goshiki STARES at his body.

-> scratches or not, he (●__●) at his abs, his shoulders, his back, his arms, EVERYTHING.

-> who wouldn't tho.

-> so he's the first one to notice.

-> HIS FACE TURNS RED AND BEYOND AND HE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO?????

-> does he has to have sex if he's the ace??? does he needs scratches???? looks like it hurt, but if ushijima-senpai can do it, then he can to 😤

-> "uh..." says reon, elbowing kawanishi at his side who elbows semi who elbows yamagata and they are not shocked but waiting for the kouhais' reactions.

-> AND FINALLY TENDOU ARRIVES.

-> "oh my sweet lord i knew this would happen"

-> ushijima genuinely doesn't understand what everybody's talking about, but he never does so he just stands there and listen trying to comprehend.

-> shirabu is a mix between disgust and amazement because his captain's back is sO marked, it's even a little swollen.

-> was he..... was he that big?

-> that's when shirabu starts thinking about what could you have done, like, in details.

-> his face suddenly becomes RED OH FUCK THAT'S Y/N-SENPAI HE'S THINKING ABOUT

-> semi has to do his best effort to hide his laugh but every now and then he lets out a giggle which leads to kawanishi laughing too.

-> AND THEN GOSHIKI GOES:

-> "are you okay ushijima-senpai?"

-> someone protect this child please.

-> wakatoshi is kinda thrown off by the question but he is feeling alright.

-> semi can't hold back and just burst in laugh.

-> shirabu is so distressed and yells "DON'T LAUGH HE'LL REALIZE"

-> ushi: 🤨

-> "did you have a fun night, wakatoshi?" asks tendou, a smirk on his face, shouting glances at his teammates.

-> "i did, i took y/n on a date, we had dinner and then..." he can't say what you did next.

-> "then...?" follows semi, gaining a hit from reon.

-> "i don't think y/n would want me to talk about this"

-> "we know, wakatoshi" that's tendou. and he slaps ushijima's back, a little too hard.

-> it's when he feels a subtle burning feeling he remembers.

-> "oh, yes, i have scratches on my back"

-> everyone's like who would've guessed 🧐

-> AND THEN TOSHI JUST LEAVES???

-> goshiki thought he was going to explain??? maybe give some advice???

-> anyways, shirabu STARES at you the next time he sees you and goshiki can't look at you without turning red.

-> kawanishi and semi TEASE and reon literally asks you if you're okay.

-> tendou is so surprised because he knew wakatoshi had to be rough but expectations WAY surpassed.

[nationalharryleague]

Work of Art

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: AU, Artist!Harry, fluff, angst if you squint

Word count: 4K

A/N: Hi everyone! This is my entry for @hsogolden​ ’s AU writing challenge! Check out their blog they are incredibly talented!!! ALSO, a MASSIVE thank you and shoutout to the lovely Miss Lu, @harrysgucciloafers​!!! I could have never done it without her!! Thank you so much for reading and remember, feedback is so so so appreciated!!! You can also send requests to my ask anytime!! I hope you enjoy :) More of my writing can be found in my masterlist :) 

***

Sleep was fleeting and you remained staring at your popcorn ceiling in your shitty apartment for longer than you would have liked. It was later than you would have liked when your phone buzzed and lit up the ceiling of your bedroom. Knowing sleep was still far off, you rolled over and examined the text from an unknown number, the bright screen blinding you in the process.

Hi, I was thinking of you today. I thought I would show you this piece that I made of you. Hope you’re doing well. Hx, attached was a slightly blurry photo of a beautiful painting of a woman.

The woman in the painting was made up of beautiful bright colors, her skin a mix of green, blue, and purple tones. Her eyes were a bright and captivating cerulean, standing out behind wide framed glasses, and she wore an intriguing and knowing smirk on her lips. Her hair fell down in blunt bangs over her forehead and framed her heart shaped face. She was young, looking to be only a little bit older than you.

The painting was captivating. It was crafted with such bright tones, using color blocking that blended the abstract with some elements of realism. It felt like someone poured all of their emotion and adoration or hurt (you couldn’t decide which) into it. You couldn’t decide if the artist loved or hated this figure staring back at you. One thing you knew was that whoever texted you was incredibly talented and had obviously dedicated so much time to this piece. You felt awful that it hadn’t reached its intended destination.

Um… Wrong number, you typed out, feeling a pang of sympathy for whoever ‘H’ was.

Oh… okay. Sorry to bother you., your phone screen lit up again.

Your art is beautiful, you quickly sent back, attempting to offer some sort of consolation to the mystery artist. Sorry I’m not who you wanted to talk to.

Don’t worry about it. Just looking for someone from a lifetime ago.

That last part kept you up for most of the night. You couldn’t stop thinking about what that could mean. Old friend? Estranged relative? Another artist? You let your mind dream up Oscar-worthy scenarios until you finally fell asleep.

***

“Please come to Scott’s art show with me,” Grace whined from across the table at your favorite coffee shop. Grace was your best friend from college and hadn’t figured out to get rid of you yet.

“You know how I feel about your shitty boyfriend and his shitty art,” you fired back. Scott was a pretentious “artist” who made “ironic” misogynistic sculptures and frequently “forgot” to pay Grace back for his share of rent. You hated his guts.

“I promise I’m going to break up with him soon. I just need to get to the end of the month so I get my money’s worth for rent,” she assured you. “By the way, I’m going to need some help moving out at the end of the month,” she mentioned nonchalantly. You let out a chuckle at her and playfully rolled your eyes.

“I will go to the show with you on one condition.”

“Anything.”

“You’ll hold my hand.”

A few hours later you walked into the modern and cold art show space, holding onto Grace’s hand for dear life, feeling unwelcome in this environment. Grace blended in easily, her bright blue hair and arms of tattoos suiting her well.  The edgiest thing you had ever done was getting your nose pierced… until your grandma threw a fit and your mom made you take it out. You were not an artist and you did not feel welcome in the art community, or at least the type of artists that hang out with Scott. You worked in an office, you dressed plainly and simply, and you didn’t think there was anything special about yourself. You were strikingly ordinary, a sharp contrast from most other people in the gallery. You felt like an outsider because you were one.

Walking around the gallery, you hung onto Grace while examining and appreciating the artwork. You took careful steps, as if to not take attention away from the paintings on the walls and spent time examining each piece as you moved through the room. As you moved from wall to wall, your eyes fell on a strikingly familiar painting. The same girl with the bright blue eyes and the bangs stared back at you, the devilish smirk still playing upon her lips like she knew you had met before.

Releasing Grace’s hand, you all but ran up to the painting in question, trying to take in all the details that didn’t translate over the slightly grainy photo on your phone. The painting took on a life of its own up close. The paint itself was layered thick and thin across the canvas creating a rough texture that made the girl come alive. You were half waiting for her to make eye contact with her captivating baby blues and start staring back at you. You felt like you could reach inside the canvas and hold the beautiful woman’s face in your hands.

“Do you like it?” a deep British voice asked after clearing their throat behind you.

“Oh, it’s so beautiful,” you murmured, still staring at the green and purple woman. It took you a moment to rip yourself away from her piercing eyes and look towards the voice, only to turn around and find an even more captivating set.

They were bright green and belonged to a tall, dark haired man that was breathtaking. He had chocolate brown curls that seemed to be sticking in every direction, like a purposefully perfect bedhead, and stubble that moved up his jaw and down his neck. He had plushy pink lips framing his bright smile and his two front teeth came down the tiniest bit too far. He was wearing a white tshirt that was painted to his fit body as it was a size too small for him, showing off his arms of tattoos, and a pair of orange corduroy flares. His ensemble was topped off with a pearl necklace. He arched a brow when your mouth hung open slightly, trying to take all of him in.

“The painting is gorgeous,” you eventually were able to spit out. “I feel like I know her.”

“I’m glad that I was able to create something so captivating,” he smiled at you. So he was the one that painted it, meaning he was the one who had texted it to you. After getting over the initial shock, you gave yourself an internal high five for having this guy’s number. “Harry,” he introduced himself, reaching out a perfectly manicured hand to shake yours. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Y/N,” you smiled back, debating if you should tell him that you had kind of met before. It felt creepy to tell him, like you were some sort of voyer on an intimate part of his life. “I love her. Can you tell me a little bit more about it?” you asked. You had to figure out if it was worth being creepy about.

“So did I,” he said with a light chuckle. “She’s someone that I used to know,” he elaborated looking over your shoulder, surely making eye contact with the woman. Maybe you were reading into it too closely, but you thought a flash of hurt passed across his features.

“Do you always paint mysterious people from your past?” you teased, wanting to break the slightly awkward silence and also willing to do anything to talk to him further.

“Actually, I’m mainly a landscape painter,” he smiled at the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Looking back at Harry’s wall of paintings you realized that the girl was the only person on the wall, flanked by beautiful landscape paintings depicting all different areas of the world. You quickly picked your favorite, a monochromatic green scene of the Eiffel tower.

After you asked if he traveled a lot to paint, the conversation began to flow. You strolled around the mainly empty studio space, footsteps falling in sync, him teaching you about his paintings and you asking questions, desperate to learn anything you could from him and just wanting to hear that beautiful accent. You learned he grew up in Cheshire and moved to New York for school and never left, but he travelled to Europe often to see his family and to paint. He told you about how his ultimate goals in life were to have one of his pieces in the Museum of Modern Art and to find his soulmate. He was a hopeless yet hopeful romantic. He also had two cats, Evie and Stevie (the latter was obviously named after Stevie Nicks).

He was so beautiful. He had this magical twinkle in his eye that you just couldn’t get over. He looked like he was one of the sculptors’ in the room’s life work. He was just as much of a piece of art as anything on display in the studio.

When the crowd started to thin, Grace came and found you, still rolling her eyes from something stupid Scott had said, him trailing not far behind. “Hi my love,” she greeted you, kissing your cheek casually as always. “We were getting ready to head out but I can see you’ve made a friend.”

“Harry is the artist behind all these amazing paintings,” gesturing to the long wall displaying his artwork. “This is my best friend Grace,” you said, turning back to him. “And that’s her soon to be ex-boyfriend, Scott,” you laughed and pointed to him staring at a blank white canvas in the corner that was obviously not part of the exhibition.

“Wait,” he began, shaking his head and laughing, pointing accusingly between the two of you. “You two aren’t together?”

“What? No!”

“It’s just that you were holding hands for a while when you came in and then she called you ‘love,’ and then kissed your cheek,” he continued laughing, his cheeks a bright red. It was adorable. You felt your cheeks heat up just as bright red as his.

“Oh my god, no.” You broke out into a fit of giggles of your own.

“Well, in that case, would you like to grab a drink or something sometime?”

***

You decided to order a martini when you got to the bar the next night. You thought it would make you look fancy and you hoped it would impress your worldly date. You had put on your favorite red dress (the one that hugged you in all the right spots and hid the wrong ones), praying he would dress up like you did, and slid carefully onto the barstool. Bouncing your knee nervously, you sipped your drink slowly until you saw his well dressed figure enter the bar, making your heart skip a beat.

He was dressed in high-waisted wide-legged tan pants and a bright red cardigan printed with small white hearts that was held together in the front by a single button, leaving his chest and signature pearl necklace on display. His chest tattoos were now slightly visible, the faces of two swallows looking back at you, as well as what you thought might be some sort of antennae peeking up from his stomach. He also wore an award winning smile and shot you a wink when he spotted you from the entrance of the bar. Once again, he took your breath away.

“Hello darling,” he greeted you as he made his way over. You began to panic when he started leaning into you, relieved when his lips found their way to your cheek and quickly moved to the other. When he kissed your cheeks, it sent sparks through your body. Oh my god, he is so British, you squealed inside your head, unable to suppress your American excitement. “I like your color choice,” he smirked looking between your outfits of almost the exact same red. You could only hope your cheeks didn’t match as well.

“Great minds dress alike,” you remarked, earning a laugh from the gorgeous man in front of you. Turns out, your joke was enough to break the ice. Soon the conversation began to flow freely, without anxiety or trepidation, like you were a pair of souls reunited after lifetimes apart. You were two martinis in when you decided to break the news that the art gallery was not the first time you had spoken.

“I think I have to break something to you,” you giggled, everything seeming a little funny after a few drinks, “the art show was not the first time we met.” His eyebrows knit together in slight confusion so you decided to elaborate. “The night before the show you sent a picture of that painting to a wrong number, and that wrong number was me. I promise it was all a coincidence and I am not stalking you.” You held your breath while you waited a moment with bated breath for a reaction from him, but released the stress that had found its way into your shoulders when his smile returned to his lips.

“I knew you had more interest in Amelia than most people,” he chuckled. Amelia, you repeated to yourself, now having a name for the face of your mystery woman.

“When Grace dragged me to that studio and I saw her again, I just had to know more. But then I met you and got a little distracted,” you flirted, “accidentally” nudging his leg with the point of your stiletto.

“I’m glad I’m just a distraction to you,” he feigned offense, clutching his pearl necklace with the hand that wasn’t hanging onto his neat tequila.

“Meeting you tonight was actually just an elaborate ruse to learn more about your Amelia,” you sarcastically confessed, sending him back one of the winks he had been shooting you all night. Your wink wasn’t met with his typical laugh, but a slightly pained smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You worried you had hit a nerve.

“She’s not my Amelia anymore. Actually, I don’t think she ever was,” he spoke gently, taking a sip of his drink and breaking eye contact for what felt like the first time tonight. Oh no oh no oh no, you began to panic in your head. What did this woman do to him?  

“I once had an ex tell me they had cancer so I wouldn’t break up with them,” you offered, forcing a laugh and praying you could brighten up his mood again. Thankfully, it worked, bringing back the crinkles by his eyes that appeared whenever he smiled or laughed.

You breathed a sigh of relief when the rest of the night went smoothly. It was better than smooth actually, it felt easy and exciting. Harry made your heart sing and your stomach flutter. He was a perfect gentleman, walking you all the way home (even when he lived on the other side of the city) and even up to your apartment, insisting he needed to make sure you made it inside safe.

The pair of you were standing in front of your front door when he leaned in and pressed his blushed lips to yours. He tasted like the lime that sat on the rim of his drunk and smelled like shampoo and vanilla. Every hair on your body stood up on point and everywhere he touched you felt like your skin lit on fire; you never wanted this moment to end. He gently held your face and you could feel his lips turn into a smile as he pulled away, his beautiful green eyes meeting yours once again.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he breathed, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

“I think we should do this again,” you said, still catching the breath that he took away.

“I promise you’ll be hearing from me soon. I already have your number,” he chuckled, still beaming. You watched as he walked down the hallway away from you, winking and blowing you a kiss before turning the corner. As soon as you entered the apartment, you slid down your front door, dizzy from the haze he had created in your head. You couldn’t wait to see him again.

***

After that night, you couldn’t believe someone like him kept coming back to someone like you. You insisted you were too boring for someone who had such an incredible personality and background. Yet three months later, he was yours and you were his.

You spent almost all your nights together, crammed into one of your small New York City apartments, wrapped in each other’s arms and hypothetically solving the world’s problems. You had learned in this time that Harry was incredibly intelligent and well spoken, no matter how long it took him to get his words out due to his slow cadence. In your conversations, you had come to the agreement that most of the world’s problems could be solved with a little empathy and that green was definitely the best color.

Tonight you laid naked in his bed, your head resting just above your favorite butterfly, and played with his fingers as you listened to him speak about postmodernism and how it rocked the art world. You didn’t understand a thing he was going on about but you loved to hear him speak, his voice vibrating through his chest and how he pulled on his bottom lip when he was thinking. You scanned the studio apartment from his bed, trying to pay attention but losing that battle. The floor was littered with finished and unfinished paintings leaning up against the walls and you noticed one familiar face you had grown fond of was missing.

“Where did your painting of Amelia go?” you asked when he took a second to breathe during his diatribe.

“I sold it,” he said curtly.  You hadn’t talked much more about Amelia after that first night, the woman obviously being a sore spot, but you couldn’t help but wonder what happened.

“Oh, okay. I liked that painting a lot,” you spoke cautiously, trying not to hit whatever nerve you had previously.

“It was nice, but I think she should haunt someone else now,” he said with a sigh. Haunt?, you thought to yourself.

“H,” you began, rolling yourself off him to look him in the eye, “can I ask what happened with her?” You held your breath, afraid you might lose him to the heartbreak again.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s long gone.”

“Harry,” you lightly scolded him by using his full name which you rarely did, thinking back to when you agreed not to keep anything for each other. With a sigh, he began to speak.

“I was with her for a couple months last year and when I look back at it, it was really messy. We fought all the time and kept a lot from each other. But I had my rose colored glasses on and I would go as far as saying I was probably in love with her. I was even looking for engagement rings.” You felt a pang of jealousy within you at the idea of Harry loving anyone else. “That was until I found out that she already had a husband.”

Your heart broke for him after your initial shock, resting your hand on his warm cheek in an attempt to soothe him. He didn’t seem sad recounting the story or at the mention of her like he was before; he was now dealing with the remaining hurt of rejection.

“I painted her while I was still really mad,” he continued. “My original plan was to send it to her husband and tell him what had happened. But I decided that three lives didn’t need to be ruined instead of one. And then I was just kinda stuck with the painting. I thought selling it was a good way to get her out of my life and it’s more productive than lighting it on fire,” he finally said with a light chuckle.

A lot made sense all of a sudden. You now understood why Harry always got a little jealous when he saw other guys looking at you. He would loop an arm around your waist and press a kiss to your cheek while he stared them down. He thought you didn’t notice but you always did. You also understood why he was so open with you about how much he cared about you. It was a good thing you were equally as obsessed with him.

“I’m sorry, H. You didn’t deserve to go through all of that,” you said softly after a moment, unsure of what else you could offer.

“It’s okay. We grow from our past,” he shrugged. “And if I hadn’t painted her, I wouldn’t have found you,” he smiled sweetly, pulling you back into him and pressing his lips onto yours.

***

“Oh my goodness, what are you doing?” you giggled when Harry asked you to close your eyes.

“I have something to show you. Please close your eyes,” he asked again.

“What if I don’t want to close my eyes?” you teased, poking the dimple in his cheek caused by his cheeky grin. He rolled his eyes and began his plea again.

“Close your eyes, please. Do it.”

You gave in this time, closing your eyes and letting your heart flutter in anticipation. Harry knew you loved surprises and often took advantage of that fact. You felt him gently rest his cupped hands over your eyes, obviously not trusting you to not peak (he probably shouldn’t). He pressed himself to your back, urging you to make your way further into his apartment.

“Styles, if you let me walk into something, I swear to god,” you continued your giggling, overcome with excitement. Harry mumbled an ‘Oh, hush,’ in your ear before he stopped you both and lifted his hands away.

Your breath caught in your throat as you took it in. The painting was in Harry’s signature style, layered bright colors and varied textures across the canvas. Staring back was your own face, painted in a bright red monochrome with the exception of the color of your eyes that remained the same. You were posed with a bright smile that crinkled the skin by your eyes and you were wearing the red dress that you had worn that first night at the bar.

“Harry, oh my god. It’s so beautiful,” you managed to get out, still in shock.

“I know you don’t think you are, but are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t want anyone else in the world to be my muse.” You felt as if you could explode or melt with the amount of love you had for this man. You held him up on such a pedestal, and now you knew he did the same for you. “From the moment I saw you, I thought you were a work of art. So, I thought I’d actually make you into one.”

Your cheeks burned from the smile you couldn’t shake if you wanted to and you felt yourself get a little teary eyed. You felt as if you had spent the majority of your life thinking you were nothing special and just another person walking down the street. Harry made you feel like you were the center of the universe. You wanted to love yourself like Harry loved you; like you loved him.

“I love you,” you blurted, small tears rolling down your face, wiped away by Harry’s talented hands.

“I love you too,” he murmured softly, pulling your body to his. “I’ll always have your face hung up high in my gallery.”

There she is!! I hope you enjoyed it!! You can let me know what you think here!! :) 

[lostinfic]

Art for Hearts’ Sake

Pairing: Jean-François Mercier/Betty Vates

Rated E  |  4400 words

Summary: Betty works in a care home and every week she sneaks out one of her elderly patients to a nearby art gallery. There she meets a mysterious Frenchman. He's an art dealer of some kind, or so she thinks, until he takes her on whirlwind escapade.

Fluff and smut / Art thief AU (loosely based on The Thomas Crown Affair)

Ao3

Betty peeked outside the room, left and right. At the end of the corridor, Mrs. Mansfield opened the door to the stairwell.  As soon as it closed behind her, Betty whispered: “The coast is clear.”

“Let’s go.”

Eighty-three year-old, Maurice Delorme, donned his fedora, pushing it low on his forehead to shade his eyes.

Betty pushed his wheelchair out of the bedroom, down the corridor and into the hall. She winked at 92-year-old Annette who shrieked, clutching her chest, thus distracting the nurse away from the front desk. Betty and Maurice rushed past the reception area, out the front doors and around the building.

Betty stopped to catch her breath. Maurice laughed wheezily, slapping his thigh.

“We did it, ma chère.”

“Remind me to get that fudge Annette likes.”

“Did I ever tell you I once saw her perform at La Scalla de Milan in 1963?”

“Have you?” Betty replied though, of course, she had heard the story before. She didn’t mind, Maurice had had the most amazing life, and she enjoyed his reminiscence however embellished they might be.

The St. James, where she worked, was a small and exclusive care home for elderly millionaires. Certainly nothing like the conditions in which her mother had lived. For many years, Betty had taken care of her mother, who suffered from an early-onset form of dementia, in their small flat in Leeds. When her mother passed away, Betty not only had to grieve for her parent, but also for the many years during which she had put her own life on hold. The day after the funeral, she’d looked at herself in the mirror and realized she didn’t know who she was. On a whim, she had moved to London and promised herself to live life to the fullest.

Things had turned out significantly less glamorous than expected. She couldn’t afford a home in a desirable neighborhood. And, with no formal education or work experience to speak of, she had found employment doing the same chores she had done for her mother. At least, at the St. James, she was paid for it, had real days off, and suffered less verbal abuse. Most of all, moving away had not magically rid her of her shyness and anxieties. Wherever she went, they followed, but she was getting better at giving them the slip.

Part of living life to the fullest had involved letting Maurice convince her to sneak him out of the care home. His doctor advised against any taxing activities and public spaces where germs abounded. But he longed to visit a museum or a gallery.  

“What is a life without art, but a body without a heart?” he’d complained dramatically.

And thus had begun their weekly escapades.

Just a few streets away from the care home was Kinwood Palace, an illustrious property with a world-class art collection open to the public. Betty loved the gorgeous gardens, but Maurice was here for the Rembrandts and Vermeers.

Betty pushed her accomplice over the gravel leading to the neoclassical villa. Despite being hot from the physical effort and warm summer air, Betty kept her cute coat on to hide her unflattering scrubs. She liked the coat’s sixties vibe with its big black buttons and bright colour, something she would never have worn before.

Tourists already filled the great blue and white entrance hall of Kinwood. Maurice flashed their English Heritage membership cards to the box office clerk. Betty scanned the crowd.

“Shall we pay a visit to Boticelli today?” Maurice asked. She nodded inattentively. “Or shall we visit Ringo Starr?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Betty, are you looking for him? The Frenchman.”

“Dunno what you’re on about.”

But her blushing cheeks betrayed her.

“You should invite him for— what is it youths call it?— ah, yes, for Netflix and chill.”

She burst out laughing. Her laughter echoed in the gallery, and she promptly slapped a hand over her mouth.

“If I were your age, I would invite him,” Maurice said.

“You were married when you were my age. And you loved Felicia.”

“Yes, yes. I could never love another woman after her. But I was always curious about sodomites… Do you think you could find me a rent boy, dear?”

She giggled and rolled her eyes.

“Well?” he insisted.

“Oh... Maybe?”

“It was good enough for Leonardo, after all,” he said as they stopped in front of framed sketches drawn by da Vinci himself.

Every room of Kinwood palace was breathtaking, Rococo frescoes decorated the walls between Roman columns, and hanging from the coffered ceiling, massive chandeliers sparkled. And there were books, so many books, and vases of fresh flowers everywhere. As Maurice admired the masterpieces in gilded frames, Betty imagined herself living in a place like this, a century ago, or imagined being an actress in a period drama.

“He’s here,” Maurice whispered.

“Who?”

“Who?” he parroted; She wasn’t fooling him.

She glanced sideways and spotted the Frenchman, smoking just outside the garden doors, his jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder. His hair was neatly pomaded, his trousers tailored, his shirt smooth and sharp: an old-fashioned sort of cool, straight out of her wet dreams.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she bit back a simper. She knew that from behind his sunglasses, he was studying her. One corner of his mouth rose in a languid, crooked smile.

Five times now they had visited Kinwood at the same time.  Five times he had watched her from afar, with that penetrating gaze of his, the hesitated— no, not hesitated, evaluated or calculated— and finally approached her. Though he never stayed long in their company, he’d made a lasting impression on both her and Maurice.

He’d said he was a subcontractor for Kinwood, as an art appraiser, she assumed because of the way he observed everything. Including Betty herself. Being seen, it unsettled her. Most days she felt indistinguishable from a potted plant. Perhaps a side effect of having lived with a mother who couldn’t recognize her anymore for years. Though Betty considered herself plain by contemporary standards, she liked to think that, on a good day, she had a hint of beauty from another era. Perhaps he could appreciate that.

He greeted Maurice warmly, in French, then turned to her, “I thought I’d recognized your laugh.” He pocketed his sunglasses, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

To anyone, she would have claimed he was laying it on a bit thick, but deep down she melted.

“Son nom est Betty et elle est célibataire,” Mr. Delorme said to the Frenchman.

Betty glared at him, though she didn’t know what he’d said beside her name.

“I’m Jean-François,” he said, mostly to her.

They walked together through the rooms, and soon forgot about the art. He had a way of mentioning things she had said in previous conversations: he’d read a book she liked, and he asked after the stray kittens she worried. Betty, too, remembered every word he had ever said to her, but was trying very hard to look like she didn’t. But here he was, being so openly infatuated, she’d convinced herself it was too good to be true. Yet every time they met, her misgivings vanished, and she let herself be thoroughly charmed.

They stopped in front of a small canvas, “The Enchanted Castle” by Claude Gellée, and this time Betty paid attention.  

“It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?” Jean-François remarked.

“I like landscapes the best. They’re like a window to another place, another time. I can almost… jump in. Escape.”

She covered her mouth, regretting that last word. But Jean-François brushed her hand away.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Emboldened by his touch, Betty said, “Would you— I mean, I’m working now, but later, maybe we could— if you’d like…”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Okay.” She laughed and bit her bottom lip.

“But first, I have a painting to steal.”

“What?”

He slipped his jacket on and popped the collar. He said a few words in French to Mr. Delorme, then vanished out of the gallery.

Betty blinked, mouth agape. Well, that’s one way of getting dumped.

“Oh, no, I think I dropped my pills,” Mr. Delorme said, patting his breast pockets. “I swear I had them.”

“I’ll go look for them,” she said, thankful for an excuse to get away.

Fifteen minutes later, she found the bottle of medication in the antechamber thanks to a security guard. After that, Mr. Delorme asked to leave.

On the way back, Betty didn’t say a word. In her mind, she kept replaying the scene, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong. Her eyes teared up, but she blamed it on the dry wind. Humiliation, sadness and anger warred in her chest.

*

They weren’t careful going back inside the care home and were caught by the nurse at the front desk. Mrs. Manfield was a real stickler for rules and disliked Betty.

“We were only out in the garden,” Maurice retorted before Betty could gather her wits.

The nurse narrowed her eyes at them. “If I find out otherwise…” she warned.

Betty could lose her job over these little escapades, all for what? A rich old man and a weird Frenchman?

She took Mr. Delorme back to his room. With an unusually cold attitude, she helped him out of his outerwear and onto the armchair in front of the TV. Her behaviour shocked him, and he tried to soothe her with jokes and charm, but she ignored him.

“We won’t be going back to Kinwood palace,” she announced and left his apartments.

She went back to work, to menial tasks and being called by other carers’ names.

By the end of her shift at 5 pm, on top of the humiliation, sadness, anger and fear of losing her job, she was now feeling guilty about having been so cold with Mr. Delorme. She changed out of her dirty scrubs into her own clothes. Putting on the yellow sundress and cardigan cheered her up. She decided to pay Maurice a visit before leaving.

*

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Delorme. I panicked.”

“Don’t worry about it, ma chère.” He patted her hands. “You will feel better soon, I just know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just am.” He winked.

She chalked it up to his eccentric nature, but then there was a knock at the door.

“Told you,” he said.

Betty opened the door and gasped at finding Jean-François standing there.

“Good evening, Betty.”

“What— what are you doing here?”

“I have some unfinished business.”

He closed the door behind him and walked to Mr. Delorme’s wheelchair. He knelt beside it and fiddled with the underside, finally pulling out a slim leather case.

“Let’s see it,” Mr. Delorme said, rubbing his hands excitedly.

In a smooth move, Jean-François set the case on the table, flipped the locks and revealed its content: a painting. A painting from the Kinwood collection. One of her favorites: a moonlit forest by Joseph Wright of Derby.

“Tell me it’s a very good fake,” she whispered.

“There is a very good fake,” he said, “whether it’s in that case or at the gallery, well…” he smirked.

He closed back the case and checked his watch.

“Perfect.” Jean-François offered her his arm. “Are you ready for our date?”

Betty rubbed her brow and laughed incredulously. She cast a glance at Mr. Delorme who was nothing but encouraging.

“Where would we go?”

“First, I am going to hang this in my home, then we can grab a bite to eat. Is that all right with you?”

Mr. Delorme whispered, “Netflix and chill.”

Betty felt rooted on the spot. Her first instinct was to refuse. Going to a stranger’s house on the first date, a stranger who might be a thief? That was a bad idea. A fantastically terrible idea. A terribly alluring idea.

She looped her arm through his. Striding out of her place of work on his arm, she felt like a million bucks. Which is to say, less than what that masterpiece was worth.

Outside the doors, a gleaming vintage Jaguar awaited them, chauffeur standing straight beside it. They slipped in the backseat. When the door closed, butterflies erupted in Betty’s stomach.

The chauffeur smoothly navigated the traffic and drove them just outside London, to a private aerodrome. Jean-François opened the car door for her just as two men in coveralls rolled a ladder up to a small aircraft.

In a daze, Betty held Jean-François’s hand and followed him inside the cockpit. He buckled her seat harness and gave her some instructions she barely registered. He flicked switches and talked to Ground Control.

“Ready?” he asked her.

Betty should have been scared, but she couldn’t muster any fear, only excitement. Perhaps that’s what should have scared her.

She took a deep breath. “Ready.”

He taxied the plane into position and down the runway, faster and faster. Betty’s heart rate accelerated. Jean-François pulled back the controls, and as they rose in the air, a flush of adrenaline tingled through her body. Soon, they were flying over twilit London.

“Where are we going?”

“Like I said, to my home, first.”

She laughed as the blue-grey waters of the Channel appeared on the horizon. France straight ahead.

Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her heart never slowed.

They landed on a small strip in the middle of a wooded area. Betty’s legs wobbled when she stood up. Jean-François offered his hand to help her deplane. He was so frustratingly cool and composed for someone who’d just flown a stolen masterpiece across the border.

The country air was pure and warm. They weren’t in Paris, but in southern France. They walked along a trail then a grand villa came into view. Whitewashed stone, terracotta roof and blue shutters among ambitious vines and towering cypresses. Dogs ran in the tall grass, and wildflowers decorated the lawn. Solar panels hinted at an off-the-grid lifestyle.

“So?” he asked with a sweeping gesture.

She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Showoff.”

“When else can I show off if not on the first date?”

“All I’m saying is you’re setting the bar pretty high for the second date.”

She thought, even if this turns out to be all a ruse to get her in bed, even if he sends her back to London tomorrow without a goodbye, she didn’t care. It would be worth it. She deserved an incredible fling.

A middle-aged housekeeper came out to greet him and narrowed her eyes at his guest.

“You brought someone with you, monsieur?”

“Don’t worry, Marie.”

He stepped forward, still holding Betty’s hand, but she tugged him back.

“Hey, if I’m not back for my shift tomorrow morning, Mr. Delorme knows I’m with you and what you did.”

“Understood.” He bowed slightly. A curl fell to his forehead. “Smart girl.”

Although the house was old, the interior was modern. Selected antiques blended harmoniously with the warm, minimalist style. Crown molding and tapestries hid a high-end security system. She caught a glimpse of a library and of a workshop filled with art supplies. Portraits hung on the walls, going back generations. A photo of a younger Jean-François with a woman stood out: a wedding portrait. At the sight of it, Betty stopped dead in her tracks. Her nails bit into her palms. She didn’t trust her voice to ask a question evenly.

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head.  “She… she passed away five years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I thought�� well, I’m sorry.”

He hesitated by the photo. For the first time, he looked almost destabilized.

“You thought what?” he asked after such a long pause she didn’t understand his question right away. “That I was a playboy?”

“Maybe. Are you?”

“Is that why you came with me?”

“No.”

He studied her for a moment then brushed a knuckle along her jaw. Without another word, he resumed guiding her through the house.

He led her to the living room. There was another painting in here: a large canvas of hazy water lilies.

“Another very good fake?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

He carefully removed the Wright of Derby painting from the leather case.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She had many thoughts, mostly about all the people who wouldn’t get to see it now.

“Dunno,” she said. “Will you sell it?”

“No. I will deliver it to Maurice’s granddaughter in Vienna. But until then...”

He placed the canvas upon a wooden picture ledge above the fireplace. The moonlit landscape shone against the plain wall.

“Hold on. What? Mr. Delorme?”

“The painting belonged to his wife’s family, but it was stolen by Nazis in ‘38.”

“Are you telling me you’re some sort of Robin Hood?”

“Oh, no. My fees are exorbitant.”

She snorted a laugh.

“Couldn’t they get it back legally?”

“They tried. In the 1960s, I believe. But they’d lost proof of ownership during the war, and the family at Kinwood denied any transaction with former Nazi officers, as one does.”

Betty puzzled over this new information. In less than twelve hours, her idea of him had shifted so many times she could hardly keep track. But one thing hadn’t changed: her attraction.

“You know, you nearly derailed my plans,” he said.

“How so?”

“A year of meticulous planning and then, out of nowhere, comes this lovely woman I cannot stop thinking about. I shouldn’t have let myself be seen talking to Maurice so often.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I brought you here, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I gave in too easily. Where’s the challenge in that for you?”

“Where’s the challenge in letting someone get close to me?” A rhetorical question veiling a confession.

She tilted her head to the side and considered him. He let her.

“Was anyone hurt by your plan?”

“Not a soul, I swear.”

Marie brought in a bottle of red wine with two glasses and a plate of cheese, bread and thin slices of roasted duck.

Jean-François pressed a button on the wall. Curtains swayed aside, revealing tall sliding glass doors that framed a landscape not unlike the one in the painting. One of the doors was open, warm air swirled in, balmy with dew and night blossoms.

He opened the wine bottle and sampled its bouquet. Satisfied, he filled their glasses which they rose in a silent toast to whatever delights the night might bring. Drinking, she stared at the landscape outside. Beyond a small terrace, the ground sloped to a valley where centennial trees grew around a lake, mist skated upon its silvery surface. Away from the city lights, myriad stars shone in the night sky.

An escape.

The glass pane hazily reflected Jean-François as he came to stand behind her. She felt his warmth radiate over her skin though he wasn’t touching her yet. Drawn in, she leaned back, just a little, an invitation, an ouverture.

He trailed a single finger from her earlobe, down her neck, to her shoulder. And she shivered with longing. He gently swiped her hair away, and his lips replaced his finger, careful, precise kisses, inching towards the strap of her dress and sliding it aside.

“What does it feel like, striding into a gallery and taking whatever you want from the walls?”

“Calming. At that moment, I am utterly focused and in control. Then when I slip away with my prize, my blood begins to sizzle.”

“Is it still sizzling now?”

“Yes.”

He met her reflected gaze on the glass pane.

“Mine too,” she said.

She turned around in his arms, and he watched patiently as she put their glasses on a side table. Placing her hands upon his chest, she felt his sharp intake of breath, his rapid heartbeat. She slid her palms up to his neck, and his eyelids fluttered when her fingers delved into the locks at the back of his head. With a gentle push, she guided his lips to hers. He let her take the lead, modest and timid at first, then slowly yielding to instinct and hunger. When she opened her mouth to his, he cupped her cheek and leaned into her until her back pressed to the window. He kissed her with dedication, with utter focus, tasting and caressing her lips, intent on making her tingle all over. Heat flared through her, and she arched into the curve of his body bent over her.

Oh boy.

Eyes still closed, she broke the kiss for air and licked his taste on her lips.

“That was some grade-A kissing,” she whispered.

Jean-François laughed and pecked her forehead. “I like you.”

“Yeah? ‘cause I stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re honest.”

“Well, if I’m being honest I'd very much like you to sweep me off my feet again.”

“As you wish.”

In one smooth move, he grabbed her thighs and hiked her up on his hips. Betty squeaked and held onto him. He kissed her against the glass door, exploring her neck and cleavage, all lips and teeth and tongue. She wound her legs tighter around him, seeking friction to soothe the throbbing he’d triggered. He sucked in a breath and bucked his hips.

He carried her outside, to a nearby wooden chaise lounge and laid her on the striped cushion.

She expected him to flip up her skirt and pound, but he knelt beside the chair. He rubbed her ankles, then slid his hand up her leg to her knee. Betty’s breath quickened. She parted her legs. The ascension continued, his hand slipped underneath the hem of her skirt and up inside her thigh. He stopped inches from her underwear, and kissed her again. It was agony to have his hand so close to where she needed it. His mouth traveled to her breasts, he pulled down the bodice of her dress, just enough to access a nipple. Betty squirmed and keened, and finally his fingers slipped inside her knickers.

She looked like a Renaissance muse, lounging, with her arms over her head, one breast bare, and layers of fabric bunched about her waist. And he studied her as he sought the spots that made her sigh and cry. Her lewd noises accompanied the cicadas’ song. And she should’ve been ashamed to make such a wanton display, but the heat in his eyes was worth it.

This man could take anything he wanted, and he had chosen her.

She came embarrassingly fast.

He licked his fingers and grinned.

“Showoff,” she said again.

She grabbed his tie and pulled him over her. He laughed against her lips, and it hurt with how good it felt to share this joke, this joy.

She blindly unknotted his tie as he fumbled with his buttons. Unable to wait any longer, she cupped the tantalizing bulge in his trousers. He groaned and that filled her with pride.

He stood up to take off his trousers, and she made him recline on the chaise. With half-lidded eyes, he observed her straddling his legs. She admired him, as he had her. His hair was completely disheveled now. His open shirt revealed a lean, firm chest and taut stomach down which she dragged her fingernails. His cock twitched as she neared it. She teased the surrounding skin until he growled her name. She stroked him to full hardness, enjoying the way he hardened in her hand. Because of her.

And now, for the pièce de résistance. She rose to her knees, and Jean-François’s jaw went slack.  She had barely had time to enjoy his fingers, but she planned on savouring this. Slowly and with a long, luxuriating moan, she slid down every inch of him, wetting him to the root.

He gripped her hips, urging her to move. His chest heaved with panting breaths. She gorged herself on his lust and desperation. With every bounce, her dress slid lower down her torso.

She held onto the top of the seat for leverage, but she must have been too vigorous for the adjustable back suddenly collapsed. Betty yelped and Jean-François caught her.

“Crikey!” she said, pressing a hand to her heart.

“Are you hurt?”

“Scared me half to death, but I’m okay. You?”

“I’m fine.”

They looked at each other, then broke into a loud guffaw. Mirth and embarrassment heated her cheeks. She truly couldn’t stop laughing. Jean-François even teared up.

“You’re so beautiful when you laugh,” he said. It came out so naturally, it was almost reckless by his standards.

Her heart swelled, and she kissed him. He rolled on top of her, spurred on by this small shot of adrenaline.

Betty shivered; it was getting cold outside.

“Shall we go back inside?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind.”

They picked up their clothes and closed the patio door. With a remote control, he turned on the fireplace.

He picked up his glass of wine from where she’d left them. He drank while watching her undress and lie down on the plush carpet, in the orange glow of the flames. With a beckoning smile, she extended a hand toward him. He removed the last of his clothes and crawled over her.

Skin to skin, bodies entwined, they moved together. And suddenly it was so tender and so very real. A leisurely give-and-take of pleasure. Delight and satisfaction mirrored in each other’s face. They gasped and moaned and laughed, then fell silent, foreheads together, fingers entwined, staring in each other’s eyes, toeing the edge of bliss.

Even after climaxing, they didn’t part. Jean-François buried his face in her neck and held her even closer.

Betty looked up at the stolen painting, and, for once, didn’t feel the pull to lose herself in its landscape. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair and thought nothing would ever be this perfect.

*

Eventually, hunger and thirst caught up with them. They put their underwear back on, and Betty borrowed Jean-François’s shirt.

They ate, sitting on the carpet, their legs still entwined. The wine, the cheeses, the meat, everything was unbelievably tasteful. She licked her fingers clean and refilled their glasses. Jean-François slouched down, head against the couch, unwound like she had never seen him before.

“Betty, do you still want to go back to London in time for your morning shift?”

“Goodness no.”

“Good. I know an excellent restaurant in Vienna. It’s inside a tropical greenhouse, you’ll love it.”

“Vienna?”

“How is that for a second date?”

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[jaceyneedsabetterusername]

Doyenne ~ Part 7 (Final Chapter)

Warnings: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy needs help from one of Birmingham’s most powerful underground gangs, the Hemlock Angels. Little does he know, he’s not the king of Birmingham after all.

Warnings: Murder, Illegal stuff (Is this even a warning for this show? Everything’s illegal) 

Word Count: 5867

A/N: Ahh! The last chapter!!! As I go back and re-read the last few chapters, I’m nervous Tommy has been a little OOC (I hadn’t watched the show in a few weeks). But oh well! Thank you for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy the finale! 

A/N 2: Also, all the monetary references have been adjusted for inflation. I think I forgot to mention it before. But, yeah. So 400 pounds was worth much more than 400 pounds now. 

___________________________________

Fuck Thomas Shelby. 

Fuck him and the way he treated everyone around him as if they were beneath him. Fuck him and the way he acted like people were expendable. Fuck him and the way he viewed everyone as pawns in his own overlord game of chess. Fuck him and the way he just blatantly called you out. Fuck him and the way he made you crave him.

Your encounter with him had been fulfilling in ways you hadn’t expected but it had also infuriated you, bringing back memories you’d struggled to suppress for the last two years. Memories brought out emotion and emotion was vulnerability and you had no room for that. But since Tommy had planted the seeds of memory in your mind, all you could do was feel the hidden rage and heartache you’d been concealing since Mason had screwed you over. 

Mason had been your lover years ago as the Hemlock Angels grew. He was a poor boy desperate for money and you were a poor entrepreneur desperate for people willing to do illegal work. A romance very quickly blossomed and he was the first and only man you could say you ever truly loved. You’re whole heart and soul was invested in him. 

He was tall and handsome with auburn hair that was slicked back on top but shook loose when he’d get into something he was doing - whether it was working hard loading crates, beating someone up who tried to cross you guys, or making love to you. He had a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that gave his otherwise chiseled and angular face a soft touch. Toned muscles rippled across his perfect body and- 

Even today, after all this time, after all he’d done, you still felt love for him and you hated yourself for it. Once the Hemlock Angels took off as a whiskey exporter (though still a young and admittedly sloppy version of your current business in retrospect), he’d been caught at the docks with the cargo. He and the crates were seized by police and, with the promise of a very handsome monetary reward and legal immunity, he’d given the police the address of your distillery. Thankfully, you weren’t there when it had been raided but you lost everything you’d worked for because of him. ₤400 was worth your love and life’s work apparently. He took the money and ran off to Switzerland to avoid being drafted and lived off his money, leaving you to rebuild your empire. 

The betrayal had destroyed you, left you a complete shell of a person, incapable of trusting others, especially men. But it had allowed you to grow the Hemlock Angels. To avoid the pain, you threw yourself into rebuilding the distillery and developing more foolproof protocols for business operation. Never again would you make the mistake of allowing someone to double-cross you. It was why you conducted your business quietly, even quieter than, say, Alfie Solomons, who was also fairly underground as these sorts of businesses were concerned. 

Thomas Shelby made you feel things that Mason had made you feel and it terrified you to no end. The impending doom of repeated history loomed over you heavily, suffocating you and ripping your ability to breathe away. But it was a mistake that you kept feeling yourself drawn to making. 

Friday night had come around quickly and you found yourself awaiting Tommy in your main office yet again. The last thing that you wanted was to see him in this room, the ghost of his touch coming to haunt your skin. But no. This needed to happen here because meeting him on his turf gave him the upper hand. And now that Jameson and Brandon, the only thing you’d asked for in return for your work, had been killed, this was feeling more and more like a free favor. You refused to stake anything more than you already had on a free favor. 

“Y/N, Thomas Shelby is here for you.” Rita announced, peeking her head through the crack in the office door. You stiffened up, trying to play it off as just sitting up straighter but your prodege must have seen straight through you because she gave you a knowing glare. 

“See him in. Thank you.” Straight-forward, professional, and impersonal. That was going to be your new tactic. No more of the games you’d attempted to play with him, the same games that you were usually able to play successfully with everyone else. No more hot and cold, nice then firm. Tommy was able to worm his way through the small cracks of your professional wall to see the parts of even yourself that you tried to hide and that vulnerability stopped here. 

“Mr. Shelby,” You nodded in acknowledgement when he entered your office and you gestured to the chair across from you. Tommy’s eyes flashed with a hint of confusion. The entire energy of this interaction felt off already but nonetheless, he followed your gesture and sat down. 

You reached down and grabbed a leather bag from beneath your desk, dropping it on the table. Reaching up, you clicked the little locks on top open and pulled the material appart, revealing thousands of American bills, “Here is the final installment of the money. All the same as the first.” 

Tommy peeked into the bag, just to ensure that the money was in fact there. He lifted out a stack and flipped through them. They all appeared to be identical both to each other and to the last bag and if he hadn't known any better, he would think they were all legitimate notes. 

You leaned back and watched as he inspected the money, sure that he’d be satisfied with the work, before continuing, “There is a shipment going out to America tomorrow night. I need to know what it is that you’re shipping so I can be sure to leave enough room onboard.” 

The man shook his head, “I can’t tell you what it is that we’re shipping.”

“Then I can’t help you anymore.” You stated matter-of-factly, crossing your arms, “I need to know what I’m sticking my neck out for.” 

“Like I stuck my neck out for you?” 

“Yes.” Your eyes locked with his, refusing to back down or allow him to guilt trip you. 

Tommy sighed, “It’s snow.” 

Your eyebrow raised in surprise, “Didn’t have you pegged for a drug lord.” You actually were almost impressed. The man had range. 

“Just dabbling as you would put it,” he responded vaguely. 

So cocaine… It wasn’t the worst of the possibilities that you’d imagined. Ideas of dismembered body disposal or massive amounts of firearms or a million other worse things had occurred to you as possibilities. Of course, it depended on how much as well. “What’re the dimensions of the shipment?” 

“Half a cubic meter.” 

“Half a cubic fucking meter?!” You exclaimed, nearly choking on air, “How the hell did you come into that much blow?” 

Tommy put his hand up, “Now that I can’t tell you.” 

You nodded, “Alright, alright. I can respect that. A half cubic meter is an easy accommodation. Now, for the game plan…” 

Shipment days were anxiety producing enough as it was when you weren’t shipping thousands of pounds worth of cocaine along with it but tonight, your heart felt like it was in your throat. “Billy said the crates are all loaded at the distillery.” Rita announced to you, holding one ear to the receiving end of the phone and covering the mouthpiece with her hand. You finished loading your gun at the kitchen table inside of your shared house, slipping each bullet one by one into their slots with experienced skill.

“Good. Tell him we’ll meet him at the factory in forty-five minutes.” With a final spin of the chamber - a ritual you’d developed after telling yourself (with no real evidence) that it was good luck years ago - you clicked the metal pieces together and slid it into the holster at your side. 

“Forty five minutes? It’s only twenty minutes outside of town.” Rita questioned once she’d hung up the phone after relaying the information. 

You loaded Rita’s gun for her while you spoke and slid it across the table to her, “We are picking up Thomas and his brother Arthur to take them to the factory to load up their cargo.” 

She caught the gun and looked at you with wide cautious eyes, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Taking the Shelbys to the factory?” 

You sighed a knowing breath, “Yeah, I know. But he insisted that he remain in possession of the goods for as long as possible.” 

Rita’s face scrunched, “He knows he’s gonna have to relinquish possession at some point, right? What is he even shipping?” She slipped the gun into the pocket of her skirt. 

“Snow.” You confided with an impressed chuckle. 

She nearly snorted, “Really? Didn’t have him pegged for a drug lord.” 

A shocked laugh left your lips, “That’s what I said!”

Ten minutes later, you pulled up to the shipping yard that Tommy had said he’d be at with the cocaine and sure enough, there he was standing beside Arthur, both with cigarettes between their lips as they waited. In the shine of your headlights, you saw them both look over at you and move to pick up a wooden crate that was on the ground alongside an old military canvas bag. “Good evening, Y/N.” Tommy greeted politely once your tires came to a halt on the crunching gravel. 

“Good evening. This is it?” You confirmed once you got out of the car, pointing at the crate and bag full of money on the ground. 

He nodded, “Yes, this is it.” 

“Alright, we’ll just load those in the back seat for now,” You pointed back over your shoulder towards the black automobile behind you, “You must be Arthur. It’s nice to officially meet you. This is my right hand lady, Rita.” You introduced, first shaking his hand and then moving so Rita could as well. 

“Pleasure.” Arthur nodded to you both. 

“Well, should we get going?” 

Right on time, you arrived at the old factory you were meeting Billy, the man in charge of transport at the distillery, at. The factory was inconveniently located, even in its prime, set twenty minutes out of town, and had been abandoned since at least the 1880’s following a massive fire that had totally destroyed the structure and killed dozens of working men. The ghost stories surrounding it had kept it from ever being rebuilt and it had been abandoned for nearly half a century since, which now made it the perfect place for you to conduct business. 

“What the hell are we doin’ all the way out here?” Arthur asked when the car pulled up to the building. There had been nothing for miles and even now there was just your car and a large truck. 

After turning off the engine, you got out, the other three people in the car following, “I know it doesn’t look like… well… anything really. But trust me, this has worked well for us over the years.” 

“There’s no ports, no railroad stop. We had to take a dirt road to get here. How do you even move goods from this point?” Arthur questioned, skeptically. You could almost feel him reaching for his gun, convinced they were being ambushed or something and maybe, if you hadn’t been so eager to get this deal over with so you could stop whatever the hell was going on with Tommy, you would have dragged this out and messed with them a little bit. 

You pointed to the opposite side of the large factory - or what was left of it at least, “You can’t see it from here at night but there’s an old railroad track just on the other side of that wall. The train only comes through once every two weeks or so but thankfully it’s usually the same conductor. A few pounds buys us an unscheduled stop on his trips down to Gloucester where they load everything up onto a cargo ship and haul it off to America.” 

You were proud of your little system you’d developed. It had allowed you to grow into an international exporter and was the main source of your success. Tommy had seemed impressed last night when you developed the plan and explained everything to him then and now Arthur seemed to match his affections. 

The loud closing of a door drew all of your attention to the large truck. Billy, a stout, acne scarred man in his late forties, walked towards your group from the driver’s side of the truck. “Y/N! Will said the train is runnin’ a little late but should be ‘ere by 10:30.” He informed you in his thick Irish accent once he made it to you guys. A few other of your men jumped out of the passenger side but hung around the truck instead of approaching. 

Rita flipped out her pocket watch and checked the time, “We got about fifteen minutes then.” 

The next fifteen minutes were passed with pleasantries and conversation. Arthur never quite let his guard down and seemed on edge but had relaxed significantly. Honestly, you had as well. Something about tonight felt different than usual. There wasn’t the constant paranoia that the Shelbys were out to double cross you tonight you. Perhaps it was a mistake but, for once, you felt almost comfortable in his presence. 

The train came by right at 10:30, it’s crawling pace coming to a screeching halt with a loud hiss of steam. Billy went up to one of the old metal train cars and undid the locks. The door was slid open to reveal an empty space. “Alrighty, we’ll just move the boxes from the truck to here and then we’ll be on our way.” 

The other men who chose to stay by the truck had already lifted the canvas cover off the top and were carrying huge crates one by one, full with copious bottles of your illegal whiskey, to fill the train car. You stood off to the side with Rita, Thomas, and Arthur while your men worked, waiting patiently as they unloaded the truck. 

“Alright, Mr. Shelby. We have the space for your cargo now.” Billy invited, hands outstretched to take what Tommy had to ship. You noticed a nervous glance from the crate to Billy’s hands from Arthur. 

Tommy at least pretended that he trusted Billy, “Y/N told me that you travel with the shipment all the way to America,” He took out a picture from his pocket, “This is the man that will be awaiting your arrival there. Pass the goods off to him and only him, understand?” 

Billy nodded, inspecting the picture of the man before folding it into his coat, “Yes, sir.” 

Finally, Arthur relinquished possession of the cocaine to your man and he set it carefully on one of your boxes. After packing the duffel bag full of money, Billy hopped inside and the door was slid shut. 

The other men took the truck back to the distillery and you turned to Tommy, “I’ll call you when I get the call that it’s arrived in America. It usually takes between seven to ten days, depending on the weather.” 

 “Thank you. Perhaps, we could get a drink to celebrate.” He suggested as if you hadn’t had sex out of spite the other night. 

“What is there to celebrate?” You avoided the invitation. 

He gestured around, “A successful business transaction?”

You cocked an eyebrow at him, “I feel like you’d use anything as an excuse to drink. I have a hunch whiskey flows through your veins in place of blood.” 

He shrugged, “Nobody needs an excuse to drink.” 

“Fair point.” Internally, you smacked yourself but you ended up nodding a reluctant agreement, “Alright, one drink.” 

Tommy gave you a satisfied look that could have almost resembled a smile, “But this time I want to show you one of my establishments.” 

Thankfully, Tommy had agreed to your suggestion of Arthur and Rita joining the pair of you as well, using them as a buffer to ensure no other mistakes were made with the man who seemed to be your kryptonite. You’d taken everyone to the Garrison, a pub that you’d known to be under the control of the Peaky Blinders for the last several years, right after all the work at the factory had been finished. 

Tommy held the door for you as you passed through, Arthur taking over to hold it for Rita. Wordlessly, Tommy held up four fingers before ushering you away to a small booth in the back, along with his brother and Rita. All four of you slid along the cushion seats, making small talk yet again. Thankfully, now, after having been around each other for the last few hours, it was much less awkward and everyone was open to more conversation than initially. 

Arthur excused himself after a moment and when a poker game opened up between some of the other Blinders, Rita, an secret card shark, disappeared to swindle some poor, unsuspecting men of a few pounds. You and Tommy found yourselves alone, exactly what you’d hoped to avoid. 

“Sure she should be playing?” Tommy pointed over to Rita was his mostly empty glass of whiskey. You followed his gaze to see her with a disappointed look, one of the guys sliding his hand to take what you assumed were her chips. 

You snorted, “Oh, I’m sure. It’s your boys that should be looked after. Give ‘em a few more rounds. She’ll be leaving with most of their money.” 

Tommy almost smiled and nodded, “Aye,” He paused before beginning again, “Y’know, I can’t help but feel a little guilty. You helped us out with a lot and you didn’t exactly get your end of the bargain.” 

You inhaled deeply and looked away from him, bringing back up that professional front that you’d felt slowly slipping away throughout the night, “It happens sometimes I suppose. I thought about asking for more but a deal’s a deal and unlike some others, I don’t like to change my conditions once they’ve been agreed upon.” 

“And what is it that you would have asked for had you been one to change deals?” He leaned forward, listening intently to your next words. 

“Is Thomas Shelby feeling guilty for taking more than he gave?” You asked in shock, “I wouldn’t even do that.” Your tone quickly became jestful. “No, I’m only joking. You did end up coming to the rescue the other day which is more than others would have done.” 

Instead of seeming satisfied with your answer, though, he only raised his eyebrows and repeated the question, “What would you ask for?” 

Something told you that he was offering you new circumstances, an extra favor. Who did that? In this line of work, who knew what kind of horrible request would be made? 

What did you want? It was a good question. But did you have to answer honestly? Because an honest answer might jeopardize your life’s work and maybe even your life itself with some people. Tommy hadn’t double crossed you thus far though… 

After a long pause, you licked your lips, “A deal.” 

“Another deal?” He questioned curiously. 

You nodded, a small smirk on your face, “Yes. A deal between the Peaky Blinders and the Hemlock Angels. Business partners and an agreement to aid each other when needed. Neither of us offer the same services or sell the same goods, with the exception of the Garrison and my little establishment, so there’s no need to worry about losing business.” 

Tommy cocked an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t trust me. A double crosser, I believe you called me when we first met?”

“I said that’s what other people had called you.” You defended, remembering your first interaction well. “But I must be honest, I had a hunch they were correct.” 

“Then why trust me now?” 

“I don’t,” You answered short and honest, “But I want to despite everything telling me not to. I figure this way, I can keep an eye on you.” You threatened in a joking tone, although you really weren’t joking all that much. As the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Or, more fittingly for your scenario, keep your friends close and your acquaintance/ occasional hook up/ business partner who might backstab you closer. 

It took only a few moments for Tommy to weigh out the decision before nodding, “Alright, a deal then.” 

You raised your glass to him and he mirrored the action, a slight ting as your glasses tapped against each other in a celebration of a new alliance. The next twenty minutes or so was full of small talk, something that Tommy never found himself doing with anyone, so why was it so easy with you? Every now and then, there’s be grumbles of anger from the table playing poker as new opponents who insisted they could beat Rita lost a larger and larger fortune with each round. 

A quiet ding as the door opened made you twist your neck, curiously checking to see who came in. Then your heart stopped. “Fuck-” Your heart was caught in your throat and you wanted to vomit. 

Mason. 

He looked almost identical to how he did two years ago, just with a few more age lines. Time had been less kind to him than it had to you. He entered the room with a large casual air, surely unknowing of your presence. 

Tommy noticed your sudden panic when you uncharacteristically sunk into the the booth, hiding your face from the red-headed man who had entered the pub, “So that’s the man, eh?” 

You covered your face which had turned a shade somewhere between pink with embarrassment and red from rage. But nevertheless, you nodded, still side eyeing Mason from between your fingers as he ordered a glass of gin. 

“Gin?” Tommy noticed judgmentally, “Drinks like a woman.” 

Normally, under any other circumstances, you would have made some snarky comment about using your gender as an insult but you appreciated the effort to insult this man he’d never met, simply because he’d wronged you. “So what happened?” He inquired. 

You sighed, finally sitting up straight, just keeping your eyes on the table, “My ex. We were practically on the verge of marriage. He helped me start up the Hemlock Angles before he sold us out to the cops for a few hundred pounds. Ruined us for months.” 

Tommy listened to the story intently, watching the man out of the corner of his eye and quickly noticing that he seemed to have noticed your presence. At first, he glanced over nervously towards you before deciding to approach, a decision that Tommy had a hunch was the wrong one. 

“Four o’clock.” Tommy mumbled over the rim of his glass. Your eyes immediately shot to four o’clock to see Mason walking over, all too confident for your liking, a confidence you had every intention of destroying. 

“Y/-” He began, only getting half way through your name before you interrupted. 

“You have a lot of fucking nerve showing your face ‘round here.” You hissed, venom dripping from every word.

Mason put his hands up in defense. Those same hands that used to be calloused from work and you’d seen covered in blood looked as if they hadn’t so much as lifted a piece of wood in months. “I didn’t come looking for a fight. Just wanted to see how you were doing.” 

“You’re lucky I don’t shoot you dead where you stand right now you pathetic sack of shit.” Tommy sat back and watched as you destroyed this man with your words and he could only imagine the other stories about him you had. Your viper tongue had him on edge in the best possible ways. 

“I-” 

“No. You’re nothing.” You interrupted. 

He sighed, “I wanted to say I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for what I did! I miss us. I miss you.” He reached down, trying to take your hand, but you snatched it away. He looked down and eyed Tommy for half a second, trying to determine whether your relationship was romantic or platonic. 

You laughed a sadistic laugh, “You’re not sorry and you don’t miss me. You ran out of money didn’t you? Well I hate to tell you but you disappearing was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. I run Birmingham now and it’s all thanks to you. Now get the fuck out of my city.” 

Then for a second, there was a brief flash of danger in his eyes, that same danger that you’d fallen in love with. But this time, that anger was directed at you. His fist slammed down hard on the table in front of you, just barely missing your face, but you didn’t even flinch, “Listen here,-” 

“She said fuck off, mate.” Tommy interjected finally. Both of you looked over at him and you could’ve sworn you almost forgot he was here. 

Mason snorted, “‘N who the hell are you?” 

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that you respect her wishes and kindly fuck off.” Tommy’s voice was calm, much calmer than yours, but still holding a very sincere threat. 

Mason looked between the two of you and chuckled as if he’d been the one who was wronged in all of this before turning away, like he was trying to laugh it off nonchalantly. All of a sudden, he drew his arm back and began to swing his down onto Tommy. Before the blow could connect, you had your pistol out in a second and pulled the trigger. 

The loud bang drew several startled yells from around the bar and everything got quiet as they looked at your booth to see Mason’s body crumble face first on top of the table, lifeless. When the realization of what you’d done hit you, your mouth fell open in shock. “Holy shit…” You whispered to yourself. 

Tommy had jumped when the gunshot went off but now looked just as surprised as you did to see Mason lying dead across the table between you, “I really didn’t think you had it in you.” He really didn’t. Sure, he’d seen you shoot Sabini’s men but the way you looked at and talked about Mason, he assumed it was one of those loves you’d never be able to harm no matter the damage they’d caused to you. But, boy, was he blissfully surprised. 

All the Blinders in the building, including two of the Shelby brothers, Finn and Arthur, jumped up, guns pointed and ready to take down the attacker. Tommy held up his hand, “It’s alright, boys! Hold your fire!” 

You stood up to avoid the blood that was now dripping off the table and onto where you sat, “‘m sorry.” You apologized for the mess but Tommy shook his head. 

“Don’t be. He looked like he had it comin’.” With a wave of his hand, a few Blinders that you didn’t know the names of stood up from their seats around the poker table and walked up, lifting the body off the table. You weren’t quite sure what to do or say. You’d actually shot him. You killed Mason. He wasn’t the first person you’d killed but that didn’t mean that you enjoyed doing it. Unless it was in a moment of grave danger, watching the life drain from someone’s eyes as they crumpled into a bloody heap never ceased to make you momentarily sick, thoughts of the family you may have ripped apart destroying you. 

But you knew Mason didn’t have any family. The only person you’d hurt was him. You’d freed yourself. 

You looked up at him as he now stood beside you and saw that he was gazing down at the body and then glanced over to you, nothing but pure impressed admiration on his face.  

Tommy liked that you were able to take care of yourself and that you spoke honestly. It made him feel like perhaps this deal that you two had struck up would prove to be beneficial and trust based and that, just maybe, if things went well, perhaps the two of you could build your own empire together. 

Tommy had always been rather daft (or perhaps was that he just didn’t care) when it came to other people’s emotions and he was well aware of this flaw. But now, it was like he could see every inch of confliction on your face. “You alright?” He asked when he’d noticed your eyes hadn’t left the body, even when the men’s forms had covered it. 

His voice shook you out of your daze and you blinked yourself into clarity, “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” You turned away from the table to face the open room of the bar. Rita stood at the table, her chair tipped over on the ground behind her. She looked from you to Mason’s body that was being carried out back and back to you with a look of shock plastered on her face. The only other person who knew as much as you did about that situation was her. 

You walked up to the bar and threw a few coins on the bar, “I don’t care what it is, just make it strong.” 

“You don’t have to pay.” Tommy insisted but you ignored him, leaving the coins on the bar and taking the mystery drink that had been poured. Walking out the front door, Tommy trailed close behind.  

Finally, you parked yourself against the outer wall of the Garrison and downed the whole glass in one go, the fiery liquid burning a trail down your throat. Whatever the drink was, you had no idea. You set the glass down on the ground and lit a cigarette to replace the glass rim. 

Nobody spoke for a moment, until a small group of cops came running by. You tried your hardest to look innocent as they stopped and eye Tommy knowingly. “Tommy-” One of them started in a thick cockney accent. 

Tommy shook his head and pointed down the road, “Wasn’t us this time. Came from down the street.” 

It was clear from the looks on all three of the cops' faces that none of them believed a word that came out of his mouth but they weren’t about to cross Thomas Shelby. “There was a bit of a commotion from up there earlier before the shot.” You tried to reinforce the lie as smoothly and believably as possible. 

The cop looked a little more convinced when you agreed with Tommy and nodded before the trio ran off down the road looking for another gunman. This exact situation was why you didn’t get involved with the cops because they’re not going to believe you when you need to lie about something like this. 

As time passed, you became more calm, “I really am sorry about this, Tommy.” 

“I’ve never had a woman shoot someone ‘cause I was ‘bout to be punched. It was quite attractive, I can’t lie.” Tommy lit a cigarette as well, standing beside you, almost blocking the activity of the street in what seemed like an attempt to protect you.

A smile cracked on your face when you chuckled a little, the constant matter-of-factness of his tone making almost everything he said sound like business, even when he was complimenting you, “Well, like you said, it had been a long time coming.” 

You felt like you were being dramatic. Wasn’t killing just part of this gig afterall? “Y’know, I swear I can usually shoot someone without breaking down.” You tried to defend yourself with a weak laugh. 

Tommy shook his head, “It’s not always easy, I know. My hands get the shakes at night. Just because it’s part of the deal doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “You know, I haven’t felt the way I feel around you in a long time.” 

His confession was simple and, while a small part of you wanted to smack him for his terrible timing, a larger part of you felt the same way. “Neither have I. I’m used to being airtight but you make me weak… and I hate it.” You looked away from him, avoiding his deep, knowing eyes. 

“Whoever said that this had to be weakness?” He inquired, a hand running along your arm. 

A scoff left your lips as you rolled your eyes, “And you don’t believe that romance is weakness?” It wasn’t until the words left your mouth that you remembered he’d lost Grace and a pang of guilt struck your chest for bringing up the memory. But you also weren’t about to revoke the question. It just further illustrated your fear.

Tommy looked at the ground a for moment, remembering what it was like to hold the love of his life in his arms as she died, knowing it was fault, and thinking about how it felt to relive that pain every time he looked at a portrait of her or his own son. 

Finally, he nodded, “We’ve both lost people we loved but we also still have people we care about, whether they’re family or friends. A lesson that’s been very difficult for me to learn over the last decade or so is that it is impossible to completely rid yourself of all weaknesses.” 

Again, an almost humorous comment coming from Thomas Shelby, who everyone had known to be as secure and weakness-free as you were. You thought about his words, though, and tried to convince yourself that this was a bad idea - that an alliance and romance with Thomas Shelby was only sure to blow up eventually. 

“So?” He urged, his voice low and gravelly, after a few moments of silence. 

Silently, you found yourself trailing your eyes from his chest that was straight ahead up to his lips and then to his eyes. You took just a step closer, closing the already thin gap between the two of you and placed your hand around his neck, slowly coming to lean up on your toes. The movement was slow, giving him more than enough time to protest or pull away from you but he didn’t. 

Tommy’s hand lightly landed itself on your hip and he leaned down, meeting your lips in the middle. Unlike the last time your lips had met, this was soft and gentle, a side of Tommy that you had no idea even existed anymore. 

The two of you stayed like that for a while before finally parting your lips. Your faces still rested just beside each other’s, bodies close enough to feel the other’s warmth through the cool night. Your eyes slid open finally to see Tommy already looking down at you, waiting to see if this was a kiss of new beginnings or of closure. 

“Don’t make me regret risking everything for you.”

_________

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On My Honor

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Chapter 6: Feyre

“Flynn Archeron reporting for duty, sir,” I stood at rapt attention, trying not to make eye contact with the blond man in front of me. Pine green eyes swept up and down my form; harsh, critical, assessing.

My poor body pumped out even more adrenaline, I’ve got to run out at some point… I snapped off that train of thought as Lieutenant Verdant’s mouth opened.

“How old are you, boy?” his voice drawing my eyes to his unwillingly.

“Eighteen, sir,” I answered.

“Humph,” he grunted, jotting down my name on his list. “You’ve even been in a fight before?”

“No… well, there was one time my arrow didn’t kill a raccoon immediately and I had to pin it to finish the job,” shut you fucking mouth, Feyre, why the fuck are you rambling to your officer about a raccoon you killed.

Tamlin only lifting an eyebrow at the story. I guess he dealt with enough new recruits to know that they tended to talk when they’re nervous. “So you can shoot?”

“Yes sir,” I said, “Usually pretty accurate or my family doesn’t eat.”

“Any experience with a sword?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Training starts tomorrow at dawn, you’ll be sharing a tent with Alex.” He pointed me in the direction of my new home for the next several weeks.

You’ll be sharing a tent with Alex, echoed in my mind. Well, if that doesn’t add another layer to my problems.

There was no room for argument on his face so I had no other choice than to follow his finger and go meet my new tentmate. I trudged over to the small structure. It looked to be standard military issue, several more like it nearby. Unadorned white canvas hung over a frame of poles. Simple and easily transportable. And small. So, so small with no room to hide.

Fucking hell, Feyre, what have you done, I said to myself for the millionth time. Looks like that mantra wasn’t going away anytime soon.

Pushing the flap aside, I ducked in, trying to survey the person inside as quickly as possible.

In the dim light, brown skin soaked up the ray of sun coming into the tent. A man who looked more like a boy sat on his bedroll reading a small book. He looked up when I entered, narrowing his eyes against the sudden light.

I warily stepped in, mentally running through all the characteristics of what I thought a man would do and act like.

“Hi,” I said lamely, trying to pitch my voice low, “I’m Flynn.” The effect of the voice was lost by me having to hunch over to avoid hitting the pole that spanned the length of the tent.

The boy/man looked at me and burst out laughing causing my face and ears to burn red. “Nice try,” he managed to say between chuckles, “but you look the same age as me and my voice is nowhere near to that low.”

I looked to the ground, cursing at my failed attempt.

“Aw don’t look so sad, I was only teasing,” he put his book on his pillow and reached out a hand to shake mine. I dropped my sack at the end of the bedroll that was waiting for me and grasped his hand. Calluses brushed up against mine, another person who was used to work.

“I’m Alex,” he introduced himself, giving me an apologetic smile.

I let myself return it with a small smile of my own. “I know, Lieutenant Verdant said we were to share a tent.”

“Fine by me, but my opinion doesn’t matter. He doesn’t look like a guy I would want to get into an argument with.”

“You’ve got that right,” I blurted. It was probably a bad idea to criticize my commanding officer to another who was under him. To my relief, Alex let out another laugh, agreeing with my tone.

I took the opportunity to sit on the bedroll and sort through my bag.

“So where are you from, Flynn?” the question came.

“Couple of days east of here, a small town that no one knows,” it was already easy to chat with Alex. A few days alone on the road loosened my tongue. “And you?”

“Couple of days south of here, a small town that no one knows,” he echoed my words, bringing another smile to my lips. If I had to share a tent with someone, at least it was someone who was easy to get along with. If I didn’t have to worry about letting who I was slip at any moment, Alex and I would have no problems becoming fast friends. I briefly wondered what would happen if he found out, but I shut that line of thought down. Thinking about it would only distract me from keeping up the ruse.

We fell into easy chatter about our lives back home. He was the fifth of seven children, the fourth boy of the family. They were farmers, corn mostly but his youngest sister loved gardening. Him mentioning that made me bring up Elain and how she loved her garden and flowers. I nearly slipped once or twice but recovered easily, I was getting used to the speech pattern of men and how to pitch my voice into a necessary range.

Outside, I could hear more soldiers pour in and walk by. Snippets of conversation floated in the air, men from all over answering the conscription notices of General Knight. There would be no training tonight, allowing those arriving one evening of rest before starting.

It had been midafternoon when first enter the camp. Alex and I had talked long enough that it had become early evening. The dinner bell rang out across the tents and our stomachs growled in response. We both stood to go answer it.

“You can take off your armor, you must be dying in it. No one will attack here,” Alex pointed out.

“Uhhhhhhh,” I drew out, sounding like an idiot. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I mumbled. I prayed to my ancestors that I could still pass as a boy without the chest plate.

Unbuckling the straps, I slowly slung off the plate and greaves, placing them on my bedroll. I stood and pulled back the tent flap to join Alex where he had stepped outside, chanting a string of half-forgotten prayers. He barely glanced in my direction and started off towards where others were gathering.

Whew. I had also added extra padding to my sides to try and get rid of my curves and it seemed to be working. Dinner would be one more massive test to pass before the day was done.

Alex remained oblivious to my fear and secret, starting up a new conversation of what would be for dinner and what training might be like tomorrow. Bodies streamed in from all directions. This section of the camp seemed to be just for new recruits, fresh faces like mine and Alex’s. Most seemed to be about our age, but there were a few that had their age carved into their face or sprinkled on their hair.

Father, brothers, husbands, everyone has a family that they might never see again. The thought pulled my mind down, down, down, the reality of my situation finally settling in. I wasn’t a girl that had run away from home. I was a soldier in the Imperial army, being trained in combat to be sent to the front to fight and probably die.

Some faces reflected my thoughts, those that knew they will most likely meet their ancestors soon. Others were open and happy, shouting greetings and jokes. Alex hadn’t yet seen my face, giving me time to pull myself out of the dark hole I had fallen into. When he turned back to me, I had hopefully rearranged it into something that resembled the ease of before.

Dinner was a slop of mush onto a dinged-up metal plate with an equally dinged up cup of water and a metal spoon. However, despite its appearance, the mush was surprisingly palatable with a chunk of meat or two hidden in it. Probably a delicacy compared to the food at the front.

I let Alex take the lead as he searched for a fire for us to sit around. Close to where our tent was, he chose a half-full ring of men, taking a seat on one of the logs there with a ‘hello’. A chorus of hellos rang back, as much as permission to sit we’ll get.

In the firelight, more young faces like ours glowed. Introductions were made and I forgot about half of them immediately. I knew the golden-haired one to my left was Will, easy to remember with his missing ear.

“Half crazed wolf tore it right off when I was seven. Killed it myself as retribution,” he declared. A cry of disbelief and jeering rose up in response, calling bullshit on his story.

Elijah right across from me had the most expressive face I had ever seen, seldom without a smile or frown or emotion of his making. His booming voice, deceptive for how young he looked, captured everyone’s attention. His brown eyes were filled with mischief and energy.

Adam was his polar opposite. The only man of the group, he spent the dinner in silence, only answering when spoken to. Even Elijah’s raunchiest stories couldn’t draw a chuckle out of him. But even with his silent demeanor, there was nothing aggressive or rude about him, he was just quiet, content to let the conversation wash over him.

All around the fire were also beneath Tamlin’s command. Alex shared his opinion of him and was met with confirmation. The others had arrived either yesterday or the day before. Tamlin Verdant was a hard bastard who took no excuses and, indeed, was not someone you would want to get in an argument with.

Plates cleared and returned to the kitchen tent, we chatted until the sky deepened from purple into black, the stars overhead watching the new recruits begin to form relationships that could save their lives on the battlefield.

Next Chapter

[ayatakami]

♉️(1/2) Hello Honey!🌸✨ I was wondering if I could get a part 4 or 5 jjba matchup please? I'm a straight female, standing at 5’4, ENFP, ♉️, and I wear glasses. I have fair skin and long brown, curly hair. I radiate big musical theatre kid energy. Because of that, I’m incredibly outgoing, being able to make friends really easily, and am usually loud. I also radiate massive mom energy (I’m kind-hearted, patient, and I’m really good with children)

♉️(2/2)Though I'm usually all sunshine, rainbows, and smiles, I also enjoy things like true crime. I enjoy artsy things like drawing, singing, dancing, etc... and am a hopeless romantic who gets attached to people very easily. I’m also a self-titled critic of things ranging from video games to movies (though I love both). I tend to go on long rants on those pre-mentioned things. I dress solely for comfort. Thank you so much and I hope you have a great day! 

♉️(3/2) Sorry!! I meant to type "part 4 and part 5 matchup" If you only want to do one, then that's totally ok!! I love your writing and I hope you keep up the amazing work! :)

𝕁𝕁𝔹𝔸 ℙ𝟜 𝕄𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙𝕦𝕡: ℝ𝕠𝕙𝕒𝕟

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓂𝑒𝓉: You and Rohan hung out in a similar friend group, so it wasn’t uncommon that the two of you would meet here and there. Although, that didn’t mean you knew him personally. More like his name and face, thanks to Koichi. Koichi invited you to tag along to Rohan’s house for a bit, and having nothing better to do, you accepted. However, you were starting to regret it as you felt emerald eyes watching your every move. “Koichi, can you grab some supplies for me from my office?” He asked casually, Koichi agreed, and left the room. You shifted every now and then, his eyes still on you. “Do you want to hang out sometime?” You looked up at him. His expression wasn’t his usual hard stare, it was softer. It broke off the defenses you didn’t know you were building up. “You mean... just us or?” He nodded. “Um, yeah sure.” You beamed at him, at least now you would get to know him a lot better. “Rohan, you didn’t have any of those supplies you asked.” Rohan groaned, “I guess I’ll go shopping for them soon.” He sent you a glance. 

𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒟𝒶𝓉𝑒: A few weeks have passed by since you last spoke to Rohan. You were currently on your way home since you stopped at the mart to buy a few snacks in case any of your friends decided to pop in for no apparent reason. You didn’t hate them for it, you were just extremely used to it by now. “Hey!” Stopping in your tracks, you turned around. Rohan was by your side, “Why haven’t you been answering my messages?” Your brain flatlined for a second. “You’ve been messaging me?’ He pulled out his phone, typing up your contact, and showing you the messages. They were throughout the weeks you haven’t heard from him. “Oh, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number down.” The two of you walked to his house without you even noticing. “Then, we should hang out now,” He stretched his hand out to you, leading you up the stairs and into his office. “I hope you don’t mind, but I used you as my muse.” He uncovered a large canvas, and you gazed in awe at the large portrait of you. “It’s beautiful.” “I know you are.” The two of you spent the rest of the day doodling away on the couch while leaning on each other. 

𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒/𝒶𝒹𝓂𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊: To him, you’re the personification of happiness and joy. He loves the little hangout sessions where it’s just the two of you huddled together on the couch, doodling away. He won’t admit it to anyone else, but every drawing that you give him, he keeps with him hung in his office. He loves listening along to your rants, using them as information for his manga. 

𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝓃𝑜𝓌:  Since you started dating, you two would almost always be together late at night, watching true crime, painting, or just chatting back and forth. He always spoils you with the newest and latest art supplies (you always thank him and tell him you want to pay him back but he’s like just being with me is enough). Whenever you two hang out with the rest of the group, he always admires your concern for your friends as they deemed you the ‘mom’ of the group. Someway somehow, they ended up making Rohan the ‘dad’ of the group as well, but he can’t say he hates it. Even if he has a dislike towards Josuke at times! He loves doing little things for you, getting you gifts here and there, or just showing up to your door with your favorite bouquet of flowers. 

𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒫𝟦 𝐹𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹: You would be best friends with Reimi!

𝕁𝕁𝔹𝔸 ℙ𝟝 𝕄𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙𝕦𝕡: 𝔾𝕚𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕠

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓂𝑒𝓉: You first ran into Giorno while you were studying abroad in Italy. He offered you a ride to which you graciously accepted, not knowing the place at all. He dropped you off in the center of town, hoping to take your luggage and sell them along, or at least your purse. However, his hands remained glued to the steering wheel as he wished you a good day. He later then went to his gang and explained the situation. “You like her!” Mista gawked at him, squealing along with Trish. “No, don’t.” He shrugged them off. Although, it dawned on him that he left you on the territory of his opposing gang. “I’ll be back.” His absence made them glance at each other and shrugged. He found you where he had left you, speaking to the locals in fluent Italian. “Excuse me,” You turned to face him. ‘My cab driver came back for me?’ “You forgot something.” Your eyes widen as you checked all your bags. “I’m so sorry, what was it?” He handed you a bundle of purple and orange roses. “Are you free this Friday?”

𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒟𝒶𝓉𝑒: He took you to an art museum on your first date together. He held out a single orange rose for you. “Thank you,” You smiled warmly at him. The entirety of the date was spent by you pulling on his hand around the building, pointing at the paintings, and admiring them. Towards, he took you to a small cafe and let you order whatever you wanted. “So you’re a cab driver?’ He tugged at his collar, “Well in my free time I am.” He replied, not wanting to alarm you with his real occupation. He asked what you were doing in Italy, and you told him how you were studying abroad for the time being. “Would you like to do this again sometime?” You nodded, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek before going inside your temporary apartment. 

𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒/𝒶𝒹𝓂𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊: He admires how outgoing and compassionate you are. He loves hearing you sing in his free time, and dancing with you. (Although he’s a bit stiff when it comes to dancing) You still think it’s cute that he tries to learn with you. He also loves hearing your opinion on things, so he purposely sets up movie dates or sends you music to listen to.

𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝓃𝑜𝓌: When your short trip to Italy was finished, the two of you kept in contact via texting/calling. You told him how you missed Italy and him, so of course, being the boss of the mafia, he bought you plane tickets and arrangements to come to Italy and live with him. Knowing how pricey that would be, you kept telling him that you’ll make it up to him. But you didn’t refuse his offer. He loves surprising you with small gifts as well as giving you roses just like the day the two of you met. “What’s your real job? I didn’t know being a cab driver paid this much?” Eventually, he came forward and told you that he was the mafia boss. Regardless of his occupation, you accepted him for who he was. In time, you also met the rest of the gang, and you got along with them famously. He loves setting up dinner dates for the two of you, or just a casual day for you two to relax. 

𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒫𝟧 𝐹𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹: You would be best friends with Trish!

[honeymoonjin]

makin’ monet - jungkook

A/N: requested by @xilee-reaper​. Jungkook’s interest is peaked when his roommate Taehyung has a collection of fake classic paintings. 2.2k words.

“O Week, baby!”

Jungkook ignores Tae’s cheer as he pokes around his room. Tae had only been in this student accommodation for three days, but his stuff was already all over the place.

Tae had always been a collector; no matter where he went, he was always picking up trinkets and memorabilia like he was a magnet for it.

Now, it seemed, his new obsession were these tiny little canvas squares, painted as miniature imitations of famous paintings. Jungkook picks one up, a mock-up of Monet’s Water Lilies that is accurate down to the smallest detail. There’s no name on the bottom, just a tiny black set of initials.

“God, where did I leave the slides?”

Tae has been rooting around his room for the better part of half an hour, getting ready for a campus party that only he wanted to go to, yet somehow was the one that was now an hour late for, and Jungkook was forced to endure the unpleasant experience of Tae going through every single clothing article to try and find the best outfit.

Jungkook was just in a white t-shirt and worn jeans, but that apparently was too minimalistic for Tae.

He puts down the Water Lilies and moves on. There are six of them on Tae’s bookshelf, and while they’re good, sure, it seems a little excessive. “Hey, Tae,” he calls out to the man who’s head over heels in his closet, waiting for a muffled ‘yeah?’ before continuing. “These little paintings, you made them?”

Tae emerges ass-first from the messy heap of clothes, triumphantly brandishing a pair of Gucci slides. “Nah, ‘course not, I bought them off Y/n.”

Jungkook frowns. The name’s not familiar. “Y/n? I didn’t know you had a girlfriend?”

Taehyung just scoffs, hopping around on one foot as he puts on his shoes. “I don’t, she’s just a friend. If I spot her at the party tonight, I’ll introduce you two.”

Well aware of Tae’s habit of saying things with no intention of actually doing them, Jungkook just hums in affirmation and leaves the paintings on the shelf, itching to finally go out.

The girl, Y/n, apparently wasn’t at the party. Maybe she was, but Taehyung just forgot to introduce her. Either way, the loose end was bothering Jungkook more than he expected. Why was he so curious about this girl? He tried to picture what she was like. Chances are she wasn’t that much like Tae. All of his friends always seemed way different from him, Jungkook included, as if he wanted to be the Regina George of his friend groups at all times.

That did leave a lot of possibility, though, and he found himself asking Tae more and more about this mystery girl, curiosity eating him alive.

She was studying engineering like Jungkook, apparently, so perhaps she was like those cold, logical, hard-ass women he had seen in his classes, but her paintings would suggest otherwise. Tae also mentioned he often hung out with at her place, and she had an impressive collection of videogames that ‘even you would be jealous of, Kook’. So perhaps she was an anti-social nerd that sat on the couch for hours with a controller and a bag of Cheetos, but then Tae never had any interest in hanging out with people that had no interest in hanging out with him.

The more he found out, the less he knew.

Now, Jungkook sits in his first computer lab of the semester. Engineering was a pretty massive discipline, no matter what university you were at, and the giant lecture halls were so packed that you couldn’t really make a lot of friends and get to know people, but there were so many timetable streams of computer labs that each one had broken down to about twenty-five people.

Next to him is a guy with boxy, unflattering glasses, the ones you could never imagine anyone actively choosing to wear, and he seems too plugged in to some anime with extremely endowed women to want to talk to Jungkook.

The seat next to him is vacant when the class starts, but ten minutes in, one of the doors opens and a girl slips in. At first Jungkook assumes she’s in the wrong room, because she looks nothing like the other hundred or so engineering students he had seen so far.

She’s so short she has to go on tiptoes to glance over the computer screens and find a spare seat, wide eyes lighting up on the space to Jungkook’s right.

“And why are you so tardy, madam?”

She pauses in her scurry towards his desk and stares at the lecturer, who is crossing his arms over in an unconvincing show of dominance. “Because I didn’t get here in time,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

Jungkook can’t help but quirk his lips into a grin at that, but once she turns back to his direction, he quickly hides it behind his hand, coughing lightly.

The computer lab is hard, way more complicated than anything he had done in high school, and he’s so focused on putting in the right commands that it takes him another twenty or so minutes to look up from his monitor and notice the girl next to him.

He rubs the tiredness from his eyes and stretches back, glancing over at her screen. He pauses, arms still stretched out in the air behind him. “You’ve already finished?” he asks incredulously.

She looks up from where she’s scribbling absentmindedly on a piece of graph paper and stares at him. Once she processes what he said, her eyes widen in realization. “Oh, yeah, I checked it out last night and it was kinda easy, so I figured I’d just do it then.”

Ignoring the fact that he felt a little stupid for struggling so much, he sits up in his chair properly and swivels to face her. “Why are you here, then?”

She grins cheekily and cocks her head to the lecturer’s desk, where he’s overseeing the lab like a sergeant. “The general ambience, you know.”

Jungkook laughs, eyes glancing down for a moment. He blinks a couple times and realizes that her scribbles are actually quite good, and in fact familiar. “Café Terrace at Night?”

She cocks her head at the sudden change of topic. “Huh? Oh, right! How did you know?” She sighs. “I’ll be honest, I’m a little sad that I couldn’t pass it off as my own.”

Computer lab forgotten, he begins swaying back and forth on his chair lazily, bumping knees with her every swing. He notes with a little burst of happiness that she makes no attempt to move away from the contact. “I saw a Van Gogh recently. Not a real one, though,” he adds quickly upon seeing the impressed look on her face.

Wait a minute. He glances down at her half of the desk again and sees a haphazard pile of textbooks and refill she had brought in with her. On the spine of Introduction to Mechanical Engineering is the name Y/N, in sharpie-d all-caps.

His mouth falls open in a perfect o, and he points dumbly at the textbooks. “You’re Y/n!”

She bites on her lip, glancing back and forth between her books and him. “Yeah?”

“My friend, Taehyung, he’s got a bunch of your paintings in his dorm room.”

Her eyes brighten in realization. “Ah, Kimmy! Small world, huh.” She glances down at her drawing, eyes distant and unfocussed. She takes a deep breath and looks back up at him, twiddling her thumbs. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in buying one?”

Jungkook tips his head. “Buying one?”

She frowns, and Jungkook can’t help but stare at her delicate pout. “Well, I’m not giving them away for free! They take hours of hard work and I-”

“That’s- That’s not what I meant,” he clarifies hurriedly, “I just didn’t realize you were, like, selling them selling them.”

Her pout tips up into a soft smile, and she raises her eyebrows in good humor. “Well, this is the first time we’ve met, so it’s unsurprising that you don’t know everything about me.” She pauses. “In fact, I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh! Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.”

“Well it’s nice to finally meet the man Kimmy has never once mentioned,” she jokes. When Jungkook furrows his brows and looks a little put out, she laughs and pushes him a little on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, idiot! He talks about you all the time. Kookie, right?”

He flushes at the embarrassing nickname but nods in assent.

“Anyway, I used to just make the paintings as a hobby, but I’ve been in a little…financial strife recently, so I’m trying to use them as a little extra income.”

Jungkook sobers. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Y/n laughs again, and the joyous tone causes something to spark in Jungkook. “Oh, no, no, don’t be sorry. I’m just being dramatic, I guess. I let my bunny out of the hatch, and he chewed the cord of my roommate’s headphones. They were pretty expensive ones, so now Yoon’s taken mine hostage until I can save up enough to replace them.” Her gaze turns inward, and she sighs. “Although now I can’t game without him biting my head off about the volume.” She clears her throat and shrugs, cheering up again. “Anyway, if you don’t want to buy one, that’s all good, just thought I’d ask.”

Jungkook leans back in his chair slightly and tips his head back, shaking his hair out of his face. He’s pleased when he sees her swallow and stick her tongue out subconsciously to wet her lips. “No, I’ll buy one,” he counters, “anything to help out with a fellow gamer’s plight.”

Maybe the subtle plug wasn’t so subtle, but her face lights up nevertheless. Over the remaining fourteen minutes of the lab, Jungkook’s computer eventually goes to sleep, as they spend the whole time discussing which servers had the best graphics, and how many times it took them to beat a final boss.

Once the clock strikes ten to the hour, almost all of the students rush to log off and gather their stuff, but Jungkook is in no hurry. Y/n is hunched over his outstretched arm, writing her number on his hand with a pen.

The tickle of the pen sets his nerves alight, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of her hand keeping his steady, and the wrist resting on his as she wrote. He laughs to try and distract himself from just how much his heart was racing from her close proximity. “I said Tae would put me in contact with you! Don’t you trust me?” he teases.

“I don’t trust Kimmy,” she counters immediately, not looking up until she underlines her number twice and puts an exclamation mark. She tucks her pen away in her pencil case and starts packing up her things. Although he has a class next and should probably hurry up, Jungkook just sits back in his chair and observes her. “You can tell him a million times and he’ll still forget, and I’m not putting my business on the line for his flaky ass.”

He chuckles, and absentmindedly his thumb rubs over the ink on the back of his hand. “You’re quite bossy, you know that?”

She grins at him, kicking him lightly in the shins. “And you’re a terrible flirter!”

“If you noticed I was flirting, then I must have been doing it right,” he counters. “Is it working?”

She kicks him again, but her cheeks heat up. “I gave you my number, didn’t I?” She glances at the clock and bites her lip. “Ah, I’m late for my physics nap. Dammit.”

“You’re what?”

She hoists her backpack on, and answers as he gets up hurriedly and stuffs his things away. “If you get to physics early enough, you can get a seat at the back, and Professor Namjoon can’t see you sleeping.”

He scoffs, finally picking up his bag and joining her as they left the classroom together. He doesn’t have the luxury of sleeping in class, and his is in the opposite direction to the way she’s leading him, but he doesn’t want to part ways just yet. Maybe he can skip, just this once, and get Jimin to give him his notes. “I apologize for keeping you up past your bedtime, chief.”

She snorts out her nose but manages to keep her face impassive. “At least you know your place, young grasshopper.”

“We’re the same age!”

“Kimmy’s older than me and he still knows I’m the boss.”

“Sorry, but you’re going to have to earn my sworn fealty. I’m not a loyal puppy like Tae.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re quite bossy, you know that?”

He laughs at his words from earlier being thrown back at him. “Only to pretty girls.”

She blushes but forces an unimpressed look on her face. “So, there are others, huh?”

Jungkook shakes his head in bemused disbelief, making a note to himself to thank Tae for buying the photos that started all this. He stares at her while she’s making a point of doggedly avoiding his gaze. They had only just met, sure, but there was something about her that made his heart beat faster, and he desperately wanted to explore that feeling. “Not if you don’t want there to be.”

Read the sequel!

[imaginedilestrade]

Unitum. (6/12)

Unitum- (Latin) United- adjective; joined together politically, for a common purpose, or by common feelings.

Summary: Two kingdoms wage war against another. You are on one side while Greg stands with another…

Warnings: small mention of blood (nothing major) aside from that, none!

A/N: Enjoy the niceness while it lasts 😅😭 As always, I’d love to know what you guys think 😊 Have a great weekend! ❤️

Missed the last part? Catch up here

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Chapter 6

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You wandered around humming by the river while you waited for Greg. The trees were clinging onto the the last of the very few leaves that threatened to fall, they were holding on like a stubborn lover. You watched as one fell to the forest floor, your eyes wouldn’t move from it until it had landed by a pair of feet that weren’t yours.

“Still looking for dragons up there?” Greg teased.

“I’m looking at one,” you jibed. Greg let out a playful growl and scooped you up in his arms, twirling you about on the spot as you laughed. “I was joking!” You giggled “Put me down!”

Your feet hit the ground seconds later and your laugher hitched in your throat when you noticed Greg still holding onto you, his face had never been so close to yours. “I heard you humming…” he whispered “Can the fair maiden sing?”

He realised you from his grip and your lungs began to function properly once more “I’ll sing you something my father used to sing to me,” you cleared your throat and inhaled a gulp of air before starting to sing.

“Wind under willows and trees under sky.To die is an art, these words I live by. My heart fills with hope as my lips say goodbye. I will go forth into heaven with you by my side.”

Greg blinked as you bashfully smiled “Beautiful,” he whispered “Just like the maiden singing it.”

You rolled your eyes “Flattery will get you almost everywhere. Almost.”

Greg bit his lip and closed the gap between the two of you “‘Tis a heart I’m looking to get into. Do you think I’ll get in?”

“Aye, you might.” You felt his hand on the nape of your neck, his thumb lightly brushed up and down your skin, giving you goosebumps. He slowly brought you forward towards him and you soon felt his lips against your own. Your eyes fluttered shut as you placed just enough pressure against his mouth before pulling back.

Your eyes opened, they were looking directly at Greg who had the biggest smile you had ever seen on his face. A rustling of leaves behind you caught your attention and you turned you head while still in Greg’s hold. A magpie.

“One for sorrow…” he whispered.

Then another one arrived.

“Two for joy…” you smiled and turned back to Greg.

“If only there were nine magpies,” he sounded disappointed but continued “Then I could have the excuse to kiss you again.”

You shyly looked away with a blushing face and a giggle escaping your lips “You do not need the blessing of a bird to kiss me.” Your laugh fizzled and you propped yourself up on your tiptoes to lightly kiss him again.

But Greg had other ideas.

He tightened his grip around you and kissed you with as much passion as he could. He took your breath from your lungs, making you dizzy, but only adding to the excitement running through your veins. You stumbled back slightly and tripped over a vine, falling to the ground and bringing Greg down with you as you fell. You let out a loud laugh and Greg looked down at you with a beaming smile on his face “Will you help me up?” You asked still laughing.

Greg rested his head on a balled fist and pondered “Hmm I’m rather enjoying the view…”

You playfully narrowed your eyes but eventually Greg got off of you and helped you up off of the forest floor. “We only met a few days ago…” your voice was low and you looked away, almost feeling guilty for rushing everything so quickly.

“Yes,” Greg took your hand in his own “But I would be happy if you were part of the rest of my days here on this earth.”

Your breath hitched in your throat and before you could answer that revelation the rain fell from the sky and created freckles of water on your skin. Greg pulled you close to him and sheltered you both under a tree. The rain wasn’t that heavy, the birds were still happily chirping away.

“I have to return home…” you whispered and looked up to him. He kept brushing his fingertips across your cheeks and hairline. “But I will meet with you tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that…until our days have ran out.”

Greg smiled and pressed a kiss to your lips again, the cold rain mixed with Greg’s warm mouth sent a chill up your spine. “Until the last day, fair Y/N.” He kissed you again before you both parted ways. You were already wishing it was tomorrow after he turned his back.

—

“Sit still please,” the royal painter quietly asked you and you sent him a small smile as an apology.

As soon as you returned back to the castle you were requested to changed into a formal dress and you were also asked to wear your crown. You had been sitting in the same position for hours now with Jim standing behind you with a hand on your shoulder, your hands were holding your fathers old crown.

Every so often you would have a portrait painted, there were many around the castle already. You often sat, and sometimes even spoke to the painting of your father.

But this painting was of you, Jim, your fathers crown and the throne room with the gold and blue family crest that had the coat of arms above it and your family motto.

'Honor est vivere, mori ars est.’

Which in English translated to:

'To live is an honour, to die is an art.’

It held a part of your family name and a part of your family’s history. You felt Jim twitch slightly, you could tell he was growing tried of standing about. The artist placed a few more strokes on the canvas before announcing he was finished. You and Jim both let out small sighs of relief under your breaths.

“Well that was as tedious as ever,” you quietly admitted to your brother. You passed your fathers crown to a squire who safely placed it away, a sharp jewel caused you to nick your palm and you let out a small hiss in pain. Jim quickly rushed to your side and you held a hand up to stop him “I’m fine! 'Tis nothing but an accident.” Jim didn’t listen and he took your hand in his. He snapped his fingers and was passed a handkerchief, your brother wiped away the oozing blue blood.

All your family were blue bloodied, a distinctive trait of the Moriarty’s. You slipped your hand out of Jim’s grasp, it had stopped bleeding “If you would excuse me my king I’d like to prepare myself for dinner.”

“Oh course!” Him smiled “And thank you for sitting!” He chuckled and placed a kiss on your cheek. “Oh! I forgot to ask, how was your walk today?”

A wide smile spread over your face and you turned your head back slightly “Wonderful…” you bowed your head to him and walked out of the throne room.

“Princess Y/N!”

You turned on your heel “Molly!” you rushed to her and she met you halfway. You engulfed her in a hug and pulled back holding your hands “I have to much to tell you!”

You pulled back and interlocked your arm with hers as you both walked towards your room “Greg kissed me!” You whispered and Molly let out a quiet squeal of delight.

“He what?! He kissed you? Y/N this is a massive leap! You only met him a few days ago!” She squeaked.

“I know…” you breathed out and a smile took over your face “But-”

You stopped mid sentence noticing a squire running towards the throne room with a scroll in his hand. He rushed passed you and Molly, creating a breeze as he zoomed passed. You both followed him with your eyes before another set of running footsteps caught your attention.

Sebastian.

Your stomach sank and you instantly forgot about your conversation with Molly as panic set in. You grabbed handfuls of your dress and ran with Sebastian into the throne room. You both froze simultaneously when you noticed your brother reading from the parchment scroll, his face contorted with fury.

“King Sherlock has summoned us to battle.”

——————

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[wynneinrome]

The Three Musketeers

@midtownsciencenerd I know you asked about this! (Which made me so happy I cried, I thought everyone had forgotten about it.) It isn’t done. But I forgot how much I had posted. So I’m just going to keep posting everything PLUS the extra I’ve written. 

@hollandstarks @cringyholland @takemespidey @harrison-osterfield-appreciation @osterfield @intheheartofpeterparker @intheheartoftomholland

I tagged all ya’ll because you all like Tom and Haz.... Sorry if they come across OOC... I’m trying to keep them close to what I know and how I think they’d act in these situations..... 

Please leave me feedback or ideas of adventures these guys can have. I’ve got some ideas but I’m always open to more! 

Also because I just watch Moana. I’ve been listening to How Far I’ll Go and it is my new favorite song...... Sorry that was random!

ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                                     Chapter 1: The Meeting

It was just one of those days. I mean like freaking awkward. Not surprising being me, to be honest. I had finally made my big breakthrough performance on the tv show Suits. My character was Harvey Specter’s teenage daughter, Lyncoln Specter. I had to get a full on weave of blonde hair, I looked so strange without my afro. But it was for the show and practically every essence of my life, nowadays, was for the show.

Today I was doing a photoshoot for the show, then I’d get rushed into an interview. I was wearing my blue flowered dress with light brown heels. My hair was braided up into a flower crown with some loose strands framing my face. I had a light dusting of makeup on my cheeks. I hate makeup, truth be told. My eyeshadow was silver with black eyeliner. And boy, did I feel fabulous.

“Alright, Lexi. You’re all set to go!” My makeup artist chirped.

“Thanks Damian.” I smiled. “You did AMAZING as usual.”

“That’s only because I’ve you ask a canvas.” He winked.

Damian was my favorite. He always complimented me and cheered me on from the sidelines. He was definitely battling my best friend Maddy, for the biggest fan label. I gave Damian a big thumbs-up and walked out the the studio. It wasn’t that far from my trailer. Yeah, I got a trailer, but primarily from the amount of products they used on me.

As soon as I reached the photoshoot door, I felt like screaming. I was terrified, but I lifted my head and pushed open the door.

“Hello Alexis!” A tall blond woman called, waving at me. “I’m Amber, and I’ll be your photographer today.”

“Hey Amber, it’s nice to meet you.” I grinned, smoothing down my dress. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

I began posing as she instructed. And, oh boy, did I feel like an idiot!!!!!!! I hated pictures of myself and I already knew they’d be airbrushing the living daylights out of these photos. And Amber was no fun. I was faking a smile and was on the verge of tears because I felt so stupid. You could tell Amber was having a hard time as well, but it wasn’t her face that was going to be posted all over the World Wide Web.

Suddenly the door behind Amber was thrown open. The sunlight blinded me so I couldn’t actually see. But I could hear two OBVIOUSLY british voices. But I was too busy internally screaming about my eyes to hear what they were saying.

All of the sudden an arm was draped around my shoulder.

“Hey! Mind if we jump in?” A voice asked.

“Who in the-” I stopped when I saw who it was.

TOM FREAKING HOLLAND AND HARRISON OSTERFIELD! Yeah trust me, I almost fainted.

“Uh sure…..” I shrugged trying not to fangirl to hard.

“Awesome!” Tom smiled at me.

Harrison shook his head and stood beside me as well.

“Hey, it’s okay to smile, you know.” Harrison said, poking my cheek.

I rolled my eyes. “No really? You don’t say.” I crossed my arms and stared into his blue eyes.

Harrison smirked and shrugged. I turned back to the camera and smiled.

“Just relax.” Tom whispered in my ear. “Pretend it’s just us hanging out.”

“O-okay….” I stammered, internally cursing myself for not calming down.

I look over at Tom and really noticed what he was wearing. He looked like he had walked out of a wedding ceremony. Like, boy what? He still had his arm around my shoulders and I was trying not to faint. The more I acted like this was normal, the more I started to loosen up. Soon I was laughing with the two boys like I had known them for years. Amber looked a bit confused, but continued to snap photos.

“Tom we’ve got to go to your shoot now.” Harrison said, after some time. “We should let these ladies get back to their shoot.”

“Oh alright.” Tom said frowning. “Keep smiling!”

“Thanks Tom.” I smiled back.

They walked out waving.

“Gosh darn it….. They don’t even know my name.” I internally facepalmed.

A few hours later I left my shoot and began walking towards my car. I saw Harrison opening a door and walk out. Part of me wanted to yell, “HEY!” And run over, but I was in heels and I am not athletic. So, I just awkwardly kept walking.

“Hey you!” Harrison shouted.

But I couldn’t believe he was calling to me so I didn’t turn around. I just kept walking.

“Hey you in the blue dress! Wait!” He yelled, running up to me.

“Oh hey…” I said, turning. “Didn’t know you were talking to me.”

“I didn’t catch your name.” Harrison gasped.

“Oh, um, I’m Lexi.” I replied. “I’m not that cool….”

“I’ve heard of you. You’re that new up-and-coming actress that everyone is freaking out over.” Harrison grinned. “My sister thinks you're pretty cool.”

“Oh, that - that’s cool….” I smiled back, honestly confused over where this conversation was going.

“Anyway, we, Tom and I, had a blast on your photoshoot. And you’re new to the whole celeb thing, so here are our numbers. If you ever need anything, just call, or text.” Harrison replied, handing me a small sheet of paper.

I took it, my heart practically exploding in shock. “Holy. Wow. Um, thank you so much. I didn’t expect this.”

“Don’t mention it! It’s our pleasure.” Harrison nodded casually.

“I’ll text you soon… I’ve got to go to my interview now.” I said, suddenly realizing that I still had responsibilities.

We waved goodbye and I quickly sped walked to my car. I quickly got in and apologized to my manager. We sped off to the interview, while on the drive over I entered Tom and Haz’s numbers into my phone. I wasn’t sure who to text first, so I started a group chat.

Me: “Hey Tom and Harrison. This is Lexi, the girl whose photoshoot you crashed.”

Tom: “HEY! Glad you texted!”

Haz: “Hey! You actually wrote. I got sort of worried there.”

Me: “What? Why would a girl like me reject two British guys?”

Tom: “Haha good one. I heard from Haz that you have an interview.”

Me: “Yeah… It’s not with a famous person….. It’s one of those featurette ones.”

Tom: “Still awesome! Let us know how it goes!”

Haz: “Yeah! Maybe we can hang out after!”

Me: “Awesome! Talk to you guys later!”

I put my phone in my purse and got out. The interview went fairly well, just the basic questions about my character and my costars. I had a hard time focusing somewhat because of Tom and Haz. It took more time than I thought, but she was nice and funny. Soon after the interview I texted the guys about where I should meet them. I went to a hotel in the upper part of the city. And HOLY COW! This place was fancy!

I put my phone to my ear and called Tom. “Hey, I’m here. But this place is massive and -”

“Hey don’t worry about it! I’ll be down in a minute!” Tom interrupted me.

“Okay, I’m in the Lobby and everyone is staring at me.” I replied. “Please hurry.”

“I’m in the lobby now.” Tom said. “Wait, I see you. Don’t move.”

Tom hung up and I honestly didn’t see him at all. So I stood still to appease him and I waited. I felt a hand tap my shoulder and I turned around.

“Hey they didn’t kick you out!” Tom grinned.

“Luckily.” I replied smoothly. “Thanks for inviting me!”

“Yeah come on, Haz is at the restaurant waiting for us.”

“Okay.” I nodded and followed him.

Tom and I didn’t say much but it was okay. I was too busy looking at all of the architecture of the hotel lobby to pay attention to Tom. (Don’t kill me okay, I like architecture.) It didn’t take us long to get to Harrison.

“Hey! I got a table for 3.” Harrison stated, waving at Tom and me. “The hostess almost didn’t believe me.”

“Can you blame her Haz?” Tom asked. “You aren’t pretty enough for two dates.”

“Ouch.” I muttered, trying not to laugh.

“As if you could get a date, you 12 year old.” Haz sassed back.

“Okay ladies, you’re both pretty.” I interrupted

Honestly the dinner went by in a blur and we were laughing and talking like old friends. Nothing could have changed our joy. They invited me up to their massive hotel room and I decided that no harm could come of hanging out with them, since I had no plans the next day.

I had a small bag of clothes with me, since I was going to be in a hotel that night anyway. I followed them to their room.

“Alrighty… We have two beds. But I can sleep on the couch.” Harrison said as soon as we had entered the hotel room.

“Oh I can take the couch.” I said, in a soft voice. “I do that all the time.”

“No, no, no.” Tom cut me off. “We can’t let you.”

“Okay, Brit…. I can handle this.” I replied patting his shoulder. “I don’t mind, these couches look better than my bed in my room.”

“Well before we go to bed, we can just chill out if you want.” Tom suggested.

“Sure, why not!” I said, nodding in agreement. “I heard that some new interviews will be on TV tonight.”

“Cool, my bed is the biggest and I’ve got a TV in there.” Tom commented.

We walked into Tom’s room after changing out of our fancy clothes. We chilled out on his bed, flipping through the channels. None of us could agree on what to watch. We bickered and dissed each other's shows. Finally, I got tired of them bickering and smacked them both with a throw pillow.

“OW WHAT THE FUCK?!” Tom yelped, falling off the bed.

“LEXI!” Harrison shouted, pulling the pillow from my arms.

“STOP BEING SO LOUD!” I yelled back, trying to retrieve my weapon from Harrison.

“Oh no you don’t!” Tom snapped tackling me into the bed. “You are not allowed to have pillows!”

“Get off me Tom! I do what I want!” I shouted back, poking him in the chest and ribs. “I refuse to be held down! I AM FIRE! I AM DEATH!”

Harrison was trying to pull Tom off of me and laughing. “Tom! No! Release her!”

“THIS IS WAR!” Tom bellowed pushing Harrison off and attacking me with a pillow.

I screamed struggling to protect my face and get out from underneath Tom’s toned body. Harrison had fallen over laughing at Tom and me as we smacked each other with pillows. I managed to get my hands on a pillow and wrestle Tom. I was on top of him straddling his waist, my hair a mess. I was poised to do my final assault when someone knocked on the door.

“Shit.” Harrison said, lowering his phone.

“Were you videoing this?” I hissed.

“Shhhh! It might be the cops!” Tom whispered.

I snorted. “The cops of what? It’s only 10 o’clock in the evening.”

Tom sat up, causing me to fall backwards onto his lap. We all looked towards the door.

“So who wants to get that?” I asked in a low voice.

“If they knock again, we answer.” Harrison replied. “All of us.”

The knock never came.

[blookmallow]

some observations about suspiria mostly about set design/symbolism. lots of me rambling about colors

im probably looking too far into things w/ a lot of this i just like speculating. this ended up being like an entire fuckign essay i am sorry this is so much :’ )

- WATER KEEPS SHOWING UP as i mentioned before and i am nOT sure why,

the film begins and ends with massive amounts of rain

madam markos supposedly died in a fire, fire is the opposite of water

we also see this shot at the end where suzy escapes into the rain while the witches are being burnt up inside

my guess is just. the usage of water/fire bc water is a cold, purifying substance; water cleanses, washes away, puts out flame, while fire is destructive, produces smoke, kills

but then we also have these little demon things spitting out water and the building itself soaked in water too

so i think theres a lil bit of water as distortion/blurred senses/confused perception / water as mystical as well as water as purifying/cleansing 

- blood. horror films do tons of things with blood but whenever blood shows up in suspiria it tends to be like.... very, very bright, which draws your attention strongly to it and gives it a kind of otherworldly sense - might just be an aesthetic thing, or like. how people say witnessing horrific violence in real life feels surreal and impossible so they’ve accentuated it here to heighten that feeling

the distortion of visuals/sound/etc tends to get the most intense/the highest level of surreal dreamstate feeling when something mysterious/something violent/something otherworldly is happening so that might be related 

- shifting perspectives- a lot of the time when someone was afraid or the music was doing the Danger thing the camera angle would suddenly move and swoop around like a ghost which. again i dont know if that Means Something or is just an aesthetic thing but for me it gave the impression that something was watching them/something unseen was present in the space and it was a rly neat thing

- sound becomes Very Loud and chaotic and overwhelming when characters are scared; really good use of sound to create anxiety, i also could never quite tell whether the characters could hear the sounds or not (there was one instance where sara heard something and was looking around fearfully, i heard the raspy singing/loud theme music thing going on but then she reveals she heard snoring which was lost under the soundtrack so i didnt hear that. so its sort of implying when that sound happens she’s hearing something but not the same thing im hearing)

the main theme plays over and over and over so it gets stuck in your head, im guessing maybe that theme is supposed to signify magic/the witches/Weird Shit is Happening/Someone’s Gonna Die like. the jaws theme/the halloween theme/etc but this one seemed particularly. persistent to the point that its kinda making my head spin at this point 

though repetitive sound/melodies also heightens anxiety and the whole fever dream aesthetic too 

- pink, red, blue, and white. color is huge in this film but i cant tell if any particular color is supposed to have any particular significance (theres also a lot of green and yellow but i didnt notice anything significant enough to connect those to) 

the outside of the building itself is red (except in one shot it looked suddenly really pink, i think that was right before the dog attack??) red usually symbolizes blood, violence, rage, sometimes passion, etc 

i ended up with a ton of shots of this hallway just bc its.....so good,

the “red room” was where suzy was told to go practice (i dont remember it actually ever being shown though? unless i just forgot or it wasnt actually colored red), the stern teacher lady was shown in a mirror with a red wall behind her and like. red showing up behind her happened a lot (they all turn out to be witches so im not sure why it was specifically her) (coulda been to make the audience suspect her In Particular when in reality its all of them)

the girls are all dressed in white, which usually symbolizes innocence and/or purity- they become drenched in red/pink when they die (suzy also threw a blanket over the bat before she killed it, im not sure if the blanket was white or pink bc of lighting but red seeped through it from the dead bat) 

there’s also the white sheets in the temporary dorm hall that suddenly turn red when the lights go out 

white seems to be a kind of canvas for other colors to be shown against 

pink shows up a lot but i couldnt quite figure that one out, mostly red/blue seemed to be the main colors playing against the white 

im not sure what building this was but this was where i noticed Pink kept happening 

water washing away red 

im not sure what this was?? because i thought it was wine but. the color and consistency was super weird when she poured it out 

n then sara goes out into the hallway, which is flooded with red light that seems to follow her as she leaves

she becomes practically drowned in red just before her death

then we have this neat shot where she moves from the red hallway to the blue room and the shift in colors is projected onto her body because of the white dress

into complete blue light

the sound is also LOUD and frantic when she’s in red light, and the sudden cut to blue here also completely cuts the sound to total silence; i noticed red/LOUD, blue/silence happened several times after that (maybe it also was before, i didnt notice)

every time she smashes a window there’s a sudden violent flash of red light that illuminates her (red could also = pain and mental distress) 

im not sure what blue signifies though, blue in contrast to red is cool and pleasing, comforting, calm, but this place isn’t safe or comforting nor does she feel calm or safe in this moment so i have. no idea 

the window above her appears pink or maybe light purple, it looks like a way out but ends up being the window to her death so maybe the mixture of red/blue danger/safety could be there but. again i dont think blue = safe either

i noticed death-via-window happening a lot too

but like. this side is also blue. so. i have No Idea

blue and red blending together over white after the bat scene

leaving a still/quiet/blue room to go into the red/chaotic noise (i think the sound started at the exact same moment the light became visible too)

red and blue seem to be at war with each other over the set after this point 

red hallway with blue stained glass panes (and there was a lightning flash here too that flooded the room with blue light for a second)

this time the still/quiet room has red glow in it, the first color we see in the mystery door into the witches’ chamber is blue (and it was the blue iris that opened it) 

flashing red and blue on the witches themselves, i took screenshots so id remember what i was gonna say but now i forget if it was rapidly flashing between colors or if there was specifically a blue flash when she drank from the cup 

escaping into rain but surrounded in red 

i dunno. im not a film major im just a person who likes movies and colors :’) i could be totally off on all of this, maybe none of it means anything and its all just aesthetics, maybe it does mean something and i missed it entirely, i hav no idea but. anyway. there’s my accidental 15 page essay on suspiria and colors thank u goodnight