#because first i have to deal with coming out... then i have to tastefully dance around my fucking abusive family...

[chimcharstar]

.

[kanisema-blog]

Love Bet

Chapter 17

I stood in Claire's living room, surrounded by the lively buzz of conversation and laughter. Her birthday party was in full swing, and the atmosphere was infectious. I joined in, ate the delicious spread laid out on the table, and mingled with Claire's friends and colleagues. We watched a few movies, each one interrupted by jokes and playful banter.

As the night wore on, Sarah, who had had a few too many drinks, tripped over herself and stumbled into the coffee table. "Whoops! Looks like I’ve had one too many!" she giggled, her cheeks flushed.

Mark immediately stepped in. "Alright, Sarah, let's get you home." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her out.

"I don't want to go yet," Sarah pouted, clinging to Mark. "It's Claire's birthday, and I want to dance more!"

"Sarah, you're going to regret this in the morning. Come on, I'll drive you home safely," Mark insisted gently.

"Fine," Sarah sighed dramatically. "But you owe me a dance at the next party!"

Mark chuckled. "Deal. Now, let's get you home."

The party continued, but fatigue was starting to set in. I said my goodbyes to Claire and the others, then drove myself home. The warm bath was soothing, washing away the day's events. After brushing my teeth and completing my skincare routine, I crawled into bed, sleep enveloping me as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next day dawned with a sense of anticipation. I was meeting Paul and Felix at the site where the mansion would be built. Arriving at the location, I saw Paul examining the area and Felix waiting by his car.

"Good morning, everyone," I greeted them, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Morning, Jeya," Paul replied, waving me over. "Let's go over the plans."

We discussed the layout, the materials, and the timeline. The conversation was smooth, focused, but the air was heavy with unspoken history between Felix and me. As I was explaining a detail about the foundation, I felt a sharp sting on my ankle.

"Ouch!" I exclaimed, looking down to see ants crawling over my foot. I quickly brushed them off.

Paul immediately came over. "You okay, Jeya? Those bites can be nasty."

"It's just an ant bite," I replied, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine."

Felix stepped forward, concern etched on his face. "Let me help."

I waved him off. "It's okay, really."

But Felix was insistent. "I have a first aid kit in my car. Let me at least clean the bites."

Reluctantly, I agreed. He drove me to his condominium, a place I'd never been before. As I stepped inside, I couldn't help but look around. His unit was spacious and tastefully decorated, a stark contrast to the memories I had of our simpler days.

"Sit here," Felix directed me to the couch while he retrieved the first aid kit.

As he cleaned the bites, the silence between us grew heavy. Finally, Felix spoke. "I'm sorry, Jeya. For everything."

I looked at him, my eyes hardening. "So you now admit that you cheated on me? I don't need your sorry, Felix. I forgive you, but I will never forget."

He sighed, his expression pained. "I still care about you."

I scoffed, feeling the old wounds reopening. "Did you even care when you cheated on me? When I discovered you with her, it shook me to the core, Felix. It hurt me deeply."

Felix's hands trembled slightly as he continued to bandage my ankle. "I know we started because of that stupid bet from my friends, but I fell in love with you. Truly."

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them away. "Were you just forced into it? Did you actually love a different girl?"

He looked at me, anguish in his eyes. "No, Jeya. It was you. It was always you."

I shook my head, standing up. "You say that now, but your actions back then spoke louder. I can't erase what happened, Felix. It changed me."

He reached out, but I stepped back. "Jeya, I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm trying to make amends. Please believe me."

I turned away, my heart aching. "I believe you want to, Felix. But the past is a weight that doesn't just lift because we want it to."

Leaving his condominium, I felt a mix of relief and sorrow. I had faced him, confronted the pain, but the scars remained. Driving home, the streets blurred through my tears. Once inside, I made myself dinner, washed the dishes, and took a long, hot bath, trying to wash away the emotional turmoil of the day.

In bed, I stared at the ceiling, my mind replaying the confrontation with Felix. The pain of our past mingled with the bittersweet reality of the present. Sleep came slowly, and my dreams were haunted by what once was and what could never be again.

[yespolkadotkitty]

So I read Elixir and I love how you write sex pollen and I was wondering if you could do one for our other federal agent, Marcus?

Jump Start

Warnings: smut. A lot of smut. Unbeta’d writing; soft Marcus. 

Words: 3,500

Summary: What if Marcus only went to DC for a while? And what if he came back for you?

Marcus: Still game for tonight?

You: Are you kidding? Cho and Lisbon have bigged up that Aladdin’s Cave for months. I’ll be there.

Marcus: You sure this is what you want for your birthday?

You: Yes.

Marcus: Okay then… Bring a pillow because I’ll probably bore you to sleep with all the art stories.

When the elevator doors part to reveal Agent Marcus Pike, you’re standing by the door to the lock-up. A smile lights up his face when he sees you, and your heart bumps hard in your chest. He slides his hands in his pocket, a blush creeping up his neck.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Marcus.”

He ducks his head, a little shy. You know he isn’t always. You’d seen him in the interview room a few times last year, when your team and his had co-run a case. Watched his eyes go hard, his face stern. He’d slammed a file down on the desk inches from a suspect’s face and the surprisingly rough side to him had made you shiver.

Lisbon had sent you a knowing look and you’d ignored her.

She’d had her chance and she’d blown it, and frankly you didn’t want to know what she and Marcus had shared; how close they’d been.

Marcus had gone to DC after that. A year’s undercover work has helped him heal, you think. Get his head back in the game.

He came back for another co-op case, and thankfully, Lisbon and Jane had been away on honeymoon then.

You and Marcus had worked this one together, sometimes late into the night, sharing take-out and anecdotes from other old cases, and then, you’d started hanging out, a little.

He’s interesting. Funny. Friendly. Panty-melting gorgeous.

Heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

Cho dropped that it was your birthday at last week’s after-work drinks, and then Marcus had texted offering you a tour of the art lock up. You’d been rota’d off the day Cho and Lisbon got to see it, last year.

Patrick Jane hadn’t been allowed in. Marcus had muttered something about sticky fingers when you’d asked him about it.

“You ready?” He ducks his head to buss your cheek and you meet him halfway, breathing him in, minty gum, sandalwood, and the gourmet coffee he hides in his office. He shared it with you once and it’s like him, memorable, decadent, addictive.

“Ready.” You pull away, reluctantly, wanting him, but he’s never given you any overt hints that he sees you as anything more than a colleague.

He and Lisbon are cordial to each other when they meet, but for all you know, he’s still pining over her.

You daren’t ask; you don’t want to know the answer.

Marcus punches in a code to the first gate, then plucks the rings of keys from his pocket and opens the dinner door of the lock-up, a smile playing on his scruffy face. He grew the patchy beard during his time in DC and it really suits him, highlights his beautiful jaw and makes his soulful eyes a deeper brown.

This time on a Saturday, no one else is around.

“A private museum,” you breathe as you see all the paintings, sculptures and other art set carefully in frames or on desks or custom made plinths.

“Yeah, I always feel like Aladdin.” He scoffs at himself. “I say that every time. What a dork.”

You turn and grin at him. “I like it. You’re an art geek. It’s sexy.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Marcus’ brow wings up. “That so?”

“Um, sure.” You duck your head, embarrassed. “So. Tell me some art stories,  Special Agent Pike. What’s new here?”

He brightens, soulful chocolate eyes going wide for just a moment. “Well. There’s this equine sculpture. Maker’s mark is Italian but we seized it during a raid for paintings. Wasn’t expecting it.” He snaps on white gloves and offers you a pair, then gently turns over the statue to show you the swirling signature on the bottom. “We’re still not sure where the other two are.”

You trace a gloved finger over the horse’s detailed mane, wrought perfectly in cherrywood. “Other two?

“Sure. This is part of a set. You can tell here-” he points out a divot in the base that you wouldn’t even have noticed, and another on the opposite end. “And here. The two connecting statues are missing - other horses, I’d guess.”

“Wow.”

Marcus sets the horse down and meets your gaze. “You bored yet?”

“Nope! More!”

He chuckles indulgently. “Okay. Why don’t you choose.”

You wander around the various lock-up cages for a while, examining instruments, more statues, even a huge quilt that looks woven with gold.

After a few moments, a painting about your height catches your eye. It’s an orgy, but tastefully done, painted in shades of amber and gold, the bodies fluid, enchanting.

“I’ve never seen such a… soft depiction of a group bang,” you smile.

Marcus’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “That came in last week. Rumour has it, the artist was quite the lothario back in the 1800s. A steady stream of, ah, callers to his penthouse in Florence. The accounts of his sexual prowess are something else.”

“I bet.” You eye the curves of the women in the painting; she looks soft, welcoming, her eyes closed in ethereal bliss. “So, how’d you get this?”

“Allegedly, found in an attic. We went to the house to pick it up. The man who gave it to me - said they just moved in - seemed kinda high.” Marcus’ brow furrows. “Very mellow. Pretty sure he’d been smoking something. He was half-dressed.”

You crouch, examine the painting more closely. “And you didn’t… arrest him?”

Marcus shrugs. “Art’s our deal. I did note the address with a colleague in the DEA, so if it gets flagged again, they’ll investigate.”

Something about the painting keeps you enraptured. You spy a little notch in the frame. “Do you think something’s hidden in here?”

Marcus bends next to you to examine the area you point to. He’s been working today, so he still wears his suit, the red tie the little bit of flash he allows himself on the job. His scent weaves around you, the lick of coffee, the gasp of mint, and something uniquely Marcus.

“It looks like something…. Comes undone?”

You both lean in together, and you edge your gloved finger along the groove in the ornate gold-effect frame.

Marcus does the same from the other end. “Wow,” he breathes. “A hidden compartment?” Then his eyebrows shoot up as part of the frame depresses under his finger, clicking. He grins hugely. “Well, now I really do feel like Aladdin.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a little monkey wearing a fez around here, do you?” You tease.

“Maybe a magic carpet. I-”

He’s cut off when a hissing noise pops from the painting. You and Marcus both lean in to try and hear it more closely, and just when you get close, powder sprays from the frame, light gold in colour and smelling faintly musty.

You cough, reeling back, your hands over your face. “Gross.”

Marcus steps back too, wiping a gloved hand over his face and examining the golden-hued powder on the cotton fabric. “What the hell-”

You slowly sit down on the floor. “I feel… sort of dizzy. Hot.”

Marcus crosses to you, crouching in front of you, and if you didn’t feel so discombobulated, you would appreciate the closeness of him, the amber shot through his irises, the slight curl of his cowlick. “I’ll go get help. Maybe some water?”

You’re burning up. A slow dance starts in the pit of your belly, something that you think was always there, maybe, but intensified now Marcus is so close. “Please don’t go.”

His brow furrows in concern. “Of course.” He smoothes a gloved hand over your hair, and then you see it; the change in his eyes, the way they go dark and hot. “I… what the fuck is this stuff? I feel…”

You clutch at his forearms, feeling the play of lean muscle under his suit. “What if…. What if this was the reason that painter was such a, um, lothario?”

Marcus’ gaze has dropped to your mouth and at your words, he blinks. “What? Oh. Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “Marcus, I…”

He stands up, backing away. “I can’t be near you. Not when I want… I can’t.”

You reach out to him. “What if you stayed?”

He gazes down at you, longing in those bottomless eyes, and now you can clearly see the outline of the powder’s effect on him. “I can’t. Can’t do that to you.”

A flash of hope pierces the haze descending on you. “You want to? Because of the.. Stuff,” you finish lamely.

An expression of half desire, half pain, sketches itself over Marcus’ features. “I’ve wanted to for a while. That night we worked late.” He’s half-panting now, the fingers of one hand curled around the wall of his side of the lock-up. “Wanted to take you over the desk. I - fuck- can’t do it.”

You make to move. “Marcus-”

“Not like this,” he groans, that voice of sin and sex dropping half an octave, California with a lick of the drawl of Texas. “Not… like this.”

“Don’t go!” You beg. Your insides are burning up for him. If he’d just touch you. Just for a moment.

Marcus is shaking his head, fumbling with the door on this section of the lock-up. You lunge for him but he pulls the door closed, locking you in and him out.

He turns the key, then tosses the ring across the room.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Not like this. Goes against everything.”

“But I want you,” you say. You crawl over to the fencing separating you. “At least… touch my hand.”

You pull your gloves off, slide your fingers through the holes in the mesh.

Marcus takes his gloves off too, tangles his fingers with your the best he can. He sighs deeply. “I had this whole date thing planned. Dinner at an Italian that reminds me of a place I ate at in my gap year.”

“Marcus,” you whisper. “So you do really like me.”

He groans. “Sweetheart, I haven’t been able to think about anything but you since I got back from DC, and there you were, pretty as a picture, working late with me, sharing Chinese food. Making me laugh.”

You swallow, wanting him so badly it hurts. Every inch of you burns for him.

“I wanted to go slow,” he rasps out. “I know I jump in. Get overexcited. But with you.. I wanted to do it right. Fuck.” With his free hand he, almost unconsciously, palms himself through his suit pants, his eyes rolling back. “What the hell is this drug?”

You hungrily follow the path of his hand with your gaze. “Lothario, remember?”

“I remember.” Marcus groans, pressing the heel of his hand against his erection. He’s sitting awkwardly. “Bastard.”

“Marcus.” You squeeze his hand. “I want this. I want you. It’s lonely up on that white horse.”

He shakes his head, vehement. “It’s….not… not right.”

You press against the caging and just the pressure of the mesh on your breasts makes you moan. “So I can’t touch you, and you won’t touch me, but you also won’t leave me.” You watch him squeeze his eyes shut, look at the tent in his suit pants. “Touch yourself.”

His eyes pop open. “What?”

“If you won’t leave and you won’t… give in to whatever this is, although I want you more than I’ve wanted any man, ever…. Let me see you.”

A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead as he looks at you, big brown eyes considering. He’s weighing every option. Marcus is thoughtful, considered. Considerate. He always thinks two steps ahead, encompasses everyone in plans and strategies.

But he’s blindsided by this, and you can’t say it isn’t sexy as hell to see him unravel this way.

“Please,” you add, holding his gaze.

He squeezes your fingers and the air changes between you, and then he leans heavily against the mesh and you take the opportunity to stroke his hair, a little, and it’s so soft. Feels like silk, and you have to touch more of him, but maybe you’ll get to at least see more, so you will your breathing to calm, just a bit, as he fumbles one-handedly with his belt buckle and then slides the zipper of his suit pants down to reveal plain grey boxers, darkened in the centre by a damp patch, and your throat is so dry.

“Have you…” your heart bumps hard, the rush of seeing new parts of Marcus making you even dizzier. “Ever gotten off in this evidence locker before?”

“Can’t say I have.” Marcus’ gaze stays on your face, earnest. “I can go. I can just go.”

“Please. Please don’t go. Come in.”

“Can’t do that.” He closes his eyes; looks like he is silently praying for the power to resist you. His fingers curl into the parted edge of his suit pants.

“Let me see you?”

He sucks in a deep breath, then exhales shakily. “This is not how I planned to seduce you. Just so you know.”

Your pulse rabbits. “You seduce me every moment, Marcus. With every sweet text. Every time you smile at me. All your art stories. When you say my name. Your voice, oh God.”

Marcus’ hand trembles as he holds your gaze through the wire mesh of the lock-up, and he finally, finally parts the opening of the plain grey boxers and draws himself out, and you just drink him in with your eyes, the shape of him, the swollen tip, his length and girth, the curling hair at his base. It looks as silky as the hair on his head and you hear yourself groan needily.

“Marcus.”

He fists himself, his gaze hot on yours. “Not how I planned this date,” he repeats. “I feel like I’m on fire for you.” He rasps out your name and you watch his hand move, and suddenly it’s too much, the heat between your legs cannot be ignored, and you shove your skirt up and mirror Marcus on the floor.

His head jerks around. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Never knew you had such a potty mouth,” you half-gasp, half-tease.

“For you, I’ll do whatever you want with my mouth.”

You groan at that as you circle your clit with a finger.

Marcus almost growls “Underwear off, I want to see.” His voice, that voice, is gentle-rough, and you think of the day you watched him in the interview room.

“Whatever you say, Agent Pike.”

“Christ.” He’s jacking off in earnest now, his gaze riveted to you as you pull off your underwear with one hand, letting it fall wherever. Your skirt is rucked up around your hips and the fact it’s Marcus watching you is a huge turn on, but honestly you’re not sure if you could have stopped, for anything.

Your combined pants fill the space. You’ve never been so wet. When you slide two fingers inside yourself the sound is obscene.

“It’s.. a wonder..  He ever got… any painting done,” Marcus grits out.

You laugh. “Now?  You wanna talk about art now?”

He huffs. “Art is the reason we’re here. Like this.” Then he sucks in a breath and you look down at him, his balls drawn up tight, his cock wet with his own pre-come.

“Marcus Matthew Pike, I swear to God, if you don’t get in here right now, I will never ever speak to you again.”

He hesitates.

“I swear on Van Gogh’s ear,” you add, your internal muscles fluttering.

Marcus half-yanks up his pants, scrabbles for the key. The seconds feel like hours until he appears again, boxers and pants around his knees, shirt tails hanging, and he opens the mesh door and you yank him in and kiss him and you tumble to the floor together, and Marcus grabs both your wrists and pins them above you with one hand, his face dark and determined, and it makes your heart pound.

“Please,” you grate out. “Marcus. I need you.” You spread your legs and try to hook your feet over his calves, but he shakes his head.

“Not yet. Sweetheart, not yet.” He curls your fingers into the wire of the mesh. “Hold on. Don’t… don’t touch me. I wanna make it good for you, first.”

You hear yourself keen his name as he shucks off his clothes from the waist down, then slides down your body and puts that gorgeous mouth to work. Your favourite thing he did with his mouth until now was talking, but this-

Maybe he’s writing his name, maybe he’s writing a sonnet, but whatever it is, the way he curls his tongue is obscene, and you don’t know if it’s partly the drug, but when he puts two fingers inside you, you come so hard you almost black out. And then lust rears its head again and you grab for him, carding one hand through his hair and cupping him with the other, and he’s slick in your palm and the ridges and heat of his cock feel so good.

“Marcus.” You fist a hand in his hair, pull a little, and he groans and pants, and you take the opportunity to pump him in your fist until he swears under his breath.

"Condom. Oh fuck. Condom."

He hesitates, then drops a soft kiss on your lips - your first, you think, a bit giddy - and you taste yourself, and he licks into your mouth and whispers your name and it's pure, unadulterated bliss.

Then he extricates himself, rummages in his suit pants, and as soon as he has the foil square in his hand you grab for him, pulling him down on top of you.

"After this," you murmur, "you're gonna bend me over the desk." And you roll the condom down his dick and he lets out a long, slow breath and pushes inside you and it's everything.

Everything inside you quiets for a moment that stretches as he starts to move, caging you in with his braced forearms, and you look into his dark chocolate eyes and his heart is on his face, with Marcus it always is. It's your favourite thing about him.

He nibbles at your lips as you make love to eachother, and you hook your legs around his hips to stop him pulling out too much. You want him close, want to feel his skin under your hands. The buttons of his shirt rasp against your dress, and if you were more aware you might think it's ridiculous, him bringing you to orgasm with you both half dressed in the floor of the art squad lock-up, but you can't care. Not when his cock hits you right there, and then you're keening his name and he tumbles over the cliff edge with you, pressing hard in those final thrusts as your muscles milk him.

You curl around him. "Marcus."

He sighs, presses his forehead to yours. "Was that… are you okay?"

You chuckle lazily. "I've never been more okay."

He cuddles you close, nosing at your cheek, murmuring sweet nothings. "Christ, what is this stuff? I could go again."

At his words desire rears its head. "There must be a desk in here somewhere, right?"

And his eyes go hot.

And that's how you find yourself bent over a desk recovered from an abandoned shipping off, the edges intricately gilded. You cling to them as Marcus fucks you hard and fast, just the way he'd fantasised about, and it's so good that you sob his name over and over.

Afterwards he cuddles you so gently, stroking your hair as he whispers praises about how good you felt around him, how next time he's gonna give you a bed covered in rose petals.

You shake your head, kissing him deeply, helping him into his jacket. "You're all I want, Marcus. Any way I can have you."

A flush colours his cheeks as he cups your cheeks. "Dinner? Let me take you out to dinner."

"I'd rather have it in bed. Have you in bed."

His eyes go wide for a second. "The drug.."

"This isn't the drug and you know it." You loop your arms around his neck. "It just jump-started us. Never been so grateful to a horny nineteenth century painter."

Marcus laughs out loud, hugs you, then releases you to hold your hand, tug you towards the elevator. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that, right?"

Happiness unfurls slowly inside you. "I could stand to hear it again."

Tagging the Pedro pals! @soldade @beccaplaying @heatherbel @mourningbirds1 @alldatalost @songsformonkeys @agirllovespasta @nelba @chews-erotically @mrschiltoncat @gamingaquarius @alienprincesspoop @dornish-queen @lackofhonor @agentpike @jaime1110 @thegreenkid @pedropascallion   @mrsparknuts @buckstaposition @winters-buck @oloreaa @mstgsmy @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @holographic-carmen @cryptkeepersoul @alwaysbethewest @poenariuniverse @starlight-starwrites @keeper0fthestars @alwaysbethewest @kindablackenedsuperhero @abuttoncalledsmalls @f0rever15elf

And @arch-venus25 did you wanna be tagged in Pedro stuff?

[archonanqi]

fragile as dust  / 3

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ch 3 | first impressions

    Please, sit,” the man offered. His voice was back to the way it was before, quiet, gentle and solemn. You obeyed, sitting gingerly on the edge of one of the wooden seats. “May I have your name?”

    “Hansi, sir.” Quickly, you add, “though sir can call me whatever sir likes.”

    “Hansi,” he murmured. In his lips, your name — something that’s been baggage all your life, a reminder of the woman who threw you away — sounded like divinity. “Please, call me Zhongli.”

    Okay. The meeting was not going at all how you expected. But then again, it was what you figured: honorable in public, but behind closed doors—

    “Yes, Mr. Zhongli,” you nodded.

    “Would you like some tea?” He gestured to the other cup in the middle of the table. It was filled with a faint, golden liquid. “Please, help yourself. It’s Pu’Er.”

    You only froze for a second. Sure, you’d play along. You thanked him, reaching for the cup. It burned your fingers through the porcelain, but Archons be damned if you were going to drop and break it. You took a small sip. It scorched your parched throat all the way down.

    “How is it?”

    “It’s good, sir—“

    “Zhongli,” he reminded you gently.

    “It’s good, Mr. Zhongli.” It was not a lie — you wouldn’t be able to tell good tea from boiled grass, but the cup you just downed warmed your stomach and soothed your frayed nerves.

    “I’m glad to hear that,” he smiled, and suddenly — too late — you realized that maybe you shouldn’t have drunk something that you hadn’t watched this strange man prepare. You knew of the drugs that these men sometimes slipped into the food they gave to street rats like you, you’d seen many a woman and child stolen away because of it.

    You cursed yourself — what had happened to keeping your guard up? Was a soothing voice and pretty face all it took to earn your trust these days?

    You stiffened as he raised a gloved hand. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but you certainly were not expecting him to launch into a monologue about the history of Pu’Er tea.

    He did, anyway, losing you somewhere between “harvested from the caves of Ling’ju Pass” and “aged delicately for fifteen years”. To say that his behavior had transcended bewildering was an understatement. Was this some kind of setup? A sick joke that rich people played on their new servants and slaves?

    You realized that he’d stopped talking, clearly awaiting a response.

    “Wow, aged for fifteen years. That’s a uh, long time,” you offered lamely. Archon help you.

    “It may seem so,” Zhongli mused, “but it’s precisely that fermentation process that gives the Pu’Er tea its signature flavor. Fifteen years is but a small price to pay for such a unique experience, don’t you think?”

    Briefly, you remembered all the trinkets and wallets and jewelry you’d stolen from passersby, how desperately you’d pawned them off at the nearest willing merchant for the promise of a meal or two.

    “Yes,” you agreed, even though you couldn’t begin to imagine being rich enough to wait fifteen years to sell something.

    It had been a few minutes since you’d drunk the first sip of tea, and you were still fine. Besides, he was drinking from the same pot. Maybe the tea was safe, after all. You took another sip, finishing your cup. Despite yourself, you found yourself hoping that Zhongli would continue talking in that silky voice of his, even if it was just about fermented tea leaves.

    “I do apologize for rambling the evening away. I’m sure you’re exhausted from your journey.” He continued, “If you’re finished with your tea, perhaps we should head home. We can talk tomorrow, once you’ve rested.”

    Home. You swallowed a dry retch, the implications stuck in your throat. Of course. It served you right for forgetting what you were here for. Behind closed doors—

    “Yes. We can go if that’s what pleases you, Mr. Zhongli.” Your voice broke twice in that sentence. If Zhongli noticed, he did not say anything about it.

    He rose from his seat, and suddenly you realized just how tall, how solid he was. If you ran, he would catch you. If you fought back—

    Sweeping by you, he opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing into the night air. “After you.”

---

    You trailed a few feet behind him as you two walked through the quiet, twisting alleys of Liyue. You thought you knew the city well enough, having lived on its streets for as long as you had, but he seemed to know the back roads of the city like it were an extension of his own body.

    You took a deep breath to calm yourself. He left behind a faint lingering scent of flowers — like the glaze lilies you’d stolen from Yujing Terrace to pawn, but mostly, he smelled of warmth — earthy, spices, the fresh spring grass.

    Seeing Zhongli in all his standing glory made you suddenly and horribly aware of how unsightly you were in comparison. You’d been cleaned up before the escort, but there were still yellowing bruises that the damp cloth couldn’t erase, chewed fingernails and frayed hair and rib bones that jut out from under pallid skin. And while the dress you were wearing was the nicest thing you’d ever owned, it was but rags in comparison to the elegant outfit Zhongli was clad in.

    Your gaze stopped at his waist, and the golden gem dangling at his belt.

    “Is that a Vision?” you blurted, and immediately regret it. “I’m sorry, it’s not my place to ask about you, Mr. Zhongli.”

    “Please, never apologize for speaking your mind,” Zhongli answered, without missing a stride. “And to answer your question, yes. A Geo Vision.”

    The one at your chest is still warm against your skin. “That’s amazing,” you say, and you meant it. Vision users were powerful people capable of unbelievable feats — even raised on the streets, you knew that. You wondered how Zhongli got his Vision: a fight, perhaps, against the ferocious monsters that roamed the wilderness outside Liyue Harbor?

    If Zhongli had a Vision, there was no longer any doubt about it: the Vision given to you was a mistake. How could you ever hope to compare to someone like him? “You must be an incredible person, if Rex Lapis himself acknowledged you.”

    Zhongli did take pause at that, peering at you with a strange look in his eyes. A small smile danced across his lips. “That is one way to think of it,” he acknowledged, as he continued walking. “It has been said that Rex Lapis only grants Visions to those he deems the most worthy.”

    The rest of the trek was silent, until he stopped walking so suddenly that you almost bumped into him. You looked up from the ground, and found your breath taken away by the sculpture before you. It was a statue of Rex Lapis — there were plenty around Liyue, but tonight, silver stone gleaming under a sky full of stars, he looked ethereal.

    “This was cast by the first generation of Hanfeng Ironmongers, long before mankind mastered the properties of flame and the forge,” Zhongli said, citing the name of the most famous clan of blacksmiths in Liyue Harbor. “Each time I pass it, I like to take a moment to stop and admire it. It’s a beautiful statue.”

    “Beautiful,” you echoed absently, “he’s beautiful.” This was the Archon who had saved your life with that Vision, whether he’d meant to or not. You offered a silent prayer — of unyielding gratitude, for forgiveness, and for mercy. When you opened your eyes, Zhongli was eyeing you with a strange look on his face.

    “I would ask you what you prayed for,” he chuckles, “but some superstitious folk would say then that your prayers won’t come true. Shall we continue? We are almost home.”

---

    After ten more minutes of walking, you could feel your ankles trembling under the weight of your body. You and Zhongli had left Liyue, and begun walking through the forests on the outskirts of the city. Finally, he came to a stop in front of a house tucked into the foliage of a valley. It was a sizable estate, with a walled back garden and two floors, but you were mildly surprised that he hadn’t brought you to a castle, at this point.

    Zhongli unlocked the door and gestured, again, for you to go ahead. Your stomach in knots, you took your first step into your new home — and prison.

    It was warm.

    Embers crackled in the fireplace of the living room, casting a faint golden glow on the tasteful, lavish furniture that lined the floor. There were tapestry scrolls on either side of the fireplace here too. You don’t understand the poetry written on these ones, either.

    “Welcome to my home,” Zhongli said, walking past you. He did not touch you. “We have much to discuss, but that can wait until tomorrow. You look like you’re on the brink of collapse, and we can’t have you getting sick from exhaustion.” Despite yourself, you feel a small twinge of something at that — you’d never, in your life, had someone care about your health. He probably just doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of a sick servant, you told yourself.

    “Let us go to bed and have a good night’s sleep first,” Zhongli continued, and anything you’d felt quickly soured.

    Bed. You swallowed the panic rising bright and hot in your lungs. You might not be as educated as he surely was, but you were not naive. You knew that sleep was not what you would be getting tonight. The plea got stuck on your tongue. What could you say, to stop this rich, powerful man from claiming what was his?

    “Let me show you to your room.” He beckoned at you to follow as he strode down a long hallway. You blinked, too stunned to obey for a moment, before running after him.

    “My room?” You asked.

    “Yes.” He paused at the end of the hallway, opening one of the doors to reveal a cozy bedroom. Like everything else about Zhongli, it was tastefully decorated — lush, dark green curtains framing a circular window. A bed sat in the corner of the room, adorned with thick blankets and more pillows than you’d ever seen in your life.

    “This room was a study until very recently, and so these drawers are still currently full of my things,” Zhongli gestured to the bedside table, “but the closets are empty and free for you to use. I was thinking that we could go shopping for some clothes for you tomorrow, if you were feeling well enough. I do apologize for not purchasing any in advance, I was not sure of your measurements—“

    “Wait,” you said, afraid to let yourself hope. “Wait. We won’t be sharing a bed?”

    He turned to look at you, surprise briefly flashing in his eyes, and you’d never wanted to take back a sentence so badly in your life. A palpable silence draped the room, as Zhongli studied you so intently that you thought you might fall over dead, right then and there.

    “Truthfully tell me,” he said, voice as low as a hum. “Is that what you would want?”

    It took all of your courage to shake your head.

    “Then we will have our separate rooms,” Zhongli said, with an air of decisive finality, and continued like he hadn’t just shaken your world. “I will show you around the house tomorrow. There is water in the jug by your bed. Is there anything you might need for the night?”

    You shake your head mutely, again.

    “Very well. My room is right across the hall — please do not hesitate to shout if you need anything.” Zhongli smiled, and it’s so beautiful that you had to shake the shivers from your spine. “Good night, Hansi.”

    There it was again, your name in his lips — divine.

    Zhongli closed the door gently behind him, and you sunk to your knees, all the strength suddenly gone from your body. You’d survived the first evening with your new master. You’d survived.

    Once you picked yourself back up, you peeled your Geo Vision out from under the dress, taking your first look at it under the proper light of an oil lamp. It’s unframed, of course, unlike Zhongli’s, but the golden gemstone was identical in all other ways — catching the light in all its facets with a dazzling shimmer. When you put it into the bedside drawer, shoving it under the piles of scrolls and parchments, you were surprised to feel a twinge of sadness.

    Stupid. How could you miss something that was not rightfully yours?

    Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little excited as you clambered into the bed — your first very bed! Sinking into the sheets (they smelled heavenly), you let out an embarrassingly loud sigh of contentment.

    There was a little voice in the back of your head screaming — and part of you still knew, irrefutably, that you can’t trust Zhongli — but the call of sleep is much, much louder. You let your heavy lids fall shut, and quickly fell into the most comfortable slumber of your life.

[hatterstan-shameblog]

Prompt My Own Damn Self # :He’s Not the Guy You Marry, But He Is The Guy You [REDACTED] in the Night Club Bathroom at Two O’Clock in the Morning, Which is Also Important

Summary: Literally what it says in the title, except we find out what [REDACTED] means, which is very fun and exciting. That’s right, everybody, we’re 👏 going 👏 there 👏

Warnings: ‼️18+‼️ Extremely Explicit Sexual Content. Do NOT be uncool and read it if you’re not of age. Otherwise, there’s alcohol involved here (wow what a surprise 🙄), like one mention of drugs, and smoking. Aside from that, it’s pretty straightforward.

Genre: Mediocre Smut

Pairing: Hatter/Fem!Reader

Notes: There are two types of people in this world: people who are very attracted to the weird sexy hat guy who started a death-game pyramid scheme, and LIARS.

Real talk, though: this is pretty explicit. More explicit than I’ve gone in a very long time, so I’m a little rusty. It veers into “hate sex” territory, which was kind of fun to write, honestly. I live for the banter. (Also, the “you” character in this is kind of great? I like her.)

HEY! Just another reminder! This is 18+ so if you’re not of legal age, do yourself a solid and ditch this little thing, okay? Okay.

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

It starts with tequila shots.

Salt licked. From your wrist. His chest. The hollow of your throat.

Lime bitten. Held between your fingers. Between his teeth. Between your pushed-together breasts.

Music pulses. Lights flash. He’s got a hand on your ass. You’ve got your lips on his neck.

“Wanna go somewhere?”

“Yes.”

And he leads you, hand on the small of your back, away from the bar. People stare. You like it.

‘Somewhere’ is, apparently, a two-stall women’s restroom, tucked away in a narrow little hallway which runs to the left of the bar. A place for shooting up drugs. A place for scribbling on the walls with permanent marker.

A place for sex. Hot, sweaty, anonymous sex.

...Well, semi-anonymous, anyways. It’s impossible to live at the Beach and not know who the man in red is, the man who sells a shot at salvation for nothing more than a few playing cards.

You lean against the tastefully cream-colored counter which hosts, among other things: a sink stained pink with cheap soap; three forgotten tubes of lipstick; a small mirror, holding an abandoned credit card and two small lines of cocaine; a crumpled up hand towel; a half-finished bottle of Asahi beer; and what was probably once a wedding ring.

“Great ambiance,” you murmur flatly. The harsh light of fluoresent bulbs burn your eyes, diverting your gaze to the white floor, “Been ages since I got fucked in a classy place like this.”

“Ages?” Hatter flicks the lock on the door with a low thunk.

“Hours,” you answer, mournful tone betrayed by a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, “Had you not come along, my dry spell might’ve gone on through the morning.”

“Perish the thought.”

And he does not so much approach you as he descends upon you, mouth sucking at your collarbone and leg pushing between your thighs.

“Tell me,” he pants into you ear, breath hot and fingers deft as he unties the strings of your bikini top, “How do you want me?”

“Now,” you hiss back, “Don’t care how, just—fuck, just give it to me.”

“Then, if you would be so kind?” He holds a condom between his index and middle fingers.

In truth, you’re glad for it—you’d rather not deal with the mess after all is said and done—but there’s no way you’ll give him the satisfaction of a ‘thank you.’

“Fine,” you huff, snatching the foil square from his grasp, “Don’t suppose you have anything better to—oh!”

Hands on your hips spin you around so you’re facing the mirror. You grip the edge of the counter, knuckles straining, and watch as he reaches around to palm your breast.

“Apologies,” he makes eye contact with you in the mirror, “but I seem to have my hands full at the moment.”

And that’s when you feel fingertips slipping beneath the seam of your bikini bottoms, an insistent press against the slick of your slit.

You spit a curse and fumble with the condom, desperation setting in as his hands continued to dance across your flesh. After some moments (too many for your liking), you’re successful in your endeavor, and pass the unwrapped nuisance over your shoulder.

“Much obliged,” he thanks, removing his hands to sort himself out, “You know, I appreciate—“

“I didn’t come here to talk,” you snap. He laughs in response.

“Ooh, you’re mean!”

And he’s sliding the crotch of your swimsuit bottoms to the side, exposing only what is necessary and lining himself up—and, okay, that’s the kind of semi-impractical hotness you were looking for from this particular encounter. Your muscles clench involuntarily around nothing and you cant your hips back to get him to move it along...but nothing happens.

God, what is this guy’s problem?!

“But, I wonder,” he whispers into your ear, “are you desperate enough to say ‘please?”

Of all the guys to pull for a quick fuck, of course you get the one who’s a total tease. So smug, arrogance blooming as he presses a soft kiss to your left shoulder. There’s no way you’re giving in to this asshole, so you glare at him in the reflection of the mirror.

“Fuck you,” you spit, teeth bared and mouth formed into a malicious smile.

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Close enough.”

You both cry out when he fills you with a single, fluid thrust. And—fuck, fuck, fuck!—that is good. One of his hands curls around the jut of your hip, while the other splays across your collarbone, thumb and forefinger framing the base of your throat in a firm but gentle touch.

Otherwise, he remains still—perhaps he’s being gentlemanly and allowing you time to adjust? No, no, he’s definitely being a tease again.

Seriously, what is his goddamn deal?

Since he seems content to take his merry time, you take matters into your own hands, moving against him in a somewhat-awkward but still satisfying rhythm.

“You,” he says between heavy breaths, “seem eager.”

There’s something in his voice that seems amused, as if he finds your candor endearing. You lean forward a bit, angling your hips so his length is able to sink deeper and, oh, that’s much better.

“Want something done right,” you pant, “gotta do it yourself.”

“You don’t think I’d do it right?”

“Sweetie,” you coo with a condescending smile, “I know you wouldn’t.”

And you’re lucky that guys like him are all the same—arrogant, showy, desperate to prove their sexual prowess—because he finally (finally!) decides to get his sorry ass into gear and make something happen.

The hand that was around your neck gropes at your breasts, the cool metal of that stupid-ugly-tacky ring catching on your skin in an annoyingly tantalizing way. The other shoves its way between you and the edge of the countertop, deft fingertips circling your clitoris in a way that makes your toes curl in your sandals. You bite your lip to keep from crying out as he fucks into you, hips snapping hard but steady against the plush of your ass.

“You know, the people I fuck usually try to be nice to me,” he says, “nicer than you, anyways.”

The hand on your breast pinches your nipple, earning him a sharp gasp.

“Why be nice?” You clench around him, causing his rhythm to falter, “You’re just the means to an end.”

“And here I thought we were making love.”

Teeth scrape down the length of your neck, and fuck—you’re getting close. Your arms are shaking. Your heart is racing. You hate to admit it, but he’s good at this.

“Darling,” he growls into your ear, “I do believe you’re about to come.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying desperately to sound cool and unaffected despite the fact that your composure is about to shatter and there is not a goddamn thing you can do about it.

“Well, go on then. After all,” he hisses, “I don’t have all night.”

What starts as anger is quickly overtaken by pleasure—white-hot and blinding, enough to make your knees shake and your eyes spring with tears. It’s exactly what you were looking for, exactly what you had been expecting from the most notorious sex fiend at this God-forsaken place.

Apparently, he must’ve come too, because he’s pulling out with a surprising tenderness—gentlemanly in one way, at least. He even makes sure to right your bikini bottoms, making sure that they’re once again covering you completely before turning his attention to himself.

“You know, I didn’t know people could glare their way through an orgasm, but you made it happen.”

“I’m a woman of many talents.”

Before you choose to look in the mirror, you fix the rest of your bathing suit with a tremble in your fingers. You can feel him watching you, and honestly, you’re not sure how you feel about that. Good, mostly, but tinged a bit orange with annoyance. You try not to think about that too much and, with a deep breath, look at your reflection.

The first thing you do to assess the damage of your little liaison is check your makeup—your eyeliner is a bit smudged, but that’s easily fixed with a few swipes of your littlest finger. Your hair, however, is another story, so you set to fixing it with a dissatisfied huff.

You hear the snick of a lighter behind you and the scent of fresh-burning nicotine hits your senses. You turn around to see him leaning against the tile wall with a cigarette between his lips and smoke curling in wisps towards the ceiling.

He raises an eyebrow when you approach him, then chuckles when you snatch the cigarette right out of his mouth and take a long, deep drag. It’s almost as good as the sex.

“You know,” he says, “I think you might be a bit in love with me after my spectacular performance.”

That makes you choke, your lungs switching from laughter to coughing and back again.

“Spectacular?” You quell your sputtering with a gulp, “You were passable. At best.”

“Careful, sweetheart. You’re getting awfully close to giving me a compliment.”

You take a step closer to him, shoulders squared, fingers ashing the cigarette onto the floor.

“Not your sweetheart,” you say, taking one last drag and blowing the smoke directly into his face. You smile when he flinches.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you say, pressing the mostly-smoked cigarette between his lips, “I have somewhere to be.”

You turn on your heel and begin to walk away, making sure to sway your hips just so as you do. There’s no way his eyes aren’t glued to your ass, and the thought makes you smile triumphantly.

“Until next time, then,” he calls—and it’s cute that he sounds so sure that you’ll come crawling back to him.

You exit the bathroom with a self-satisfied smirk, enjoying the thought of him lighting another cigarette and trying not to chase after you.

Three days, tops. That’s how long it’ll take for him to beg.

You can’t wait.

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

also just in case you were wondering, he DID leave the sunglasses on—BUT they were on his head kinda holding his hair back because I truly believe he would do that. also the kimono has pockets and he thinks it’s very cool to carry around all his stuff in there (for example he keeps a granola bar on his person at all times because sometimes you just get hungry yknow?)

[yokelish]

Worth millions.

Remember that? Back by popular demand. Reworked, improved, but only miserly so. And with chapter two coming soon~

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Nakahara Chūya, Dazai Osamu ✏ Word count: 3,650 ✏ Warnings: swearing, smoking. ✏ Part I; Part II

Worth millions.

Chūya narrowed his eyes at the figure near on the pier. It was close to midnight and no sane or law-abiding citizen would wonder around those docks alone. He did not expect a fight tonight but would be willing if it come to that. It was, after all, his mess to deal with. And whoever was standing in the way would be crashed by gravity. Chūya took a minute to observe what the person on the pier was doing. If it was some vagabond scaring them away wouldn’t be an issue. At first glance it seemed the figure wondered around the pier aimlessly — looking around to satisfy their curiosity or satiate the desire to observe small beauty of the world, —but only at first. Nakahara didn’t have to waste another minute to understand the person on the pier was looking for clues, evidence. And that was Chūya’s job. Then, it wasn’t a simple-minded wanderer or a drunk wondering in the moonless night. This person had a purpose to be here.

“You better know how to swim,” Nakahara said with a dangerous cadence. With his silhouette shrouded in darkness, he knew and meant the danger emitted. There was no escape from the pier unless they wanted to swim. Or face him. He had no issues with either option.

“Shiiiiit,” the voice uncertain echoed. “I’m taking too long.”

Chūya smirked and moved closer, slowly, biding his time. There was no need to be hasty with this interesting encounter. It was rare for something interesting happening on the job in the dead of the night. Someone else was here with the same purpose. It couldn’t be boring. But he wasn’t planning to let them go. If they were a part of those thugs that dared to challenge Port Mafia, there was only one way out for them.

“Port Mafia, right?” the voice asked, refusing to move, standing their ground. Intimidation was only present in their voice, and Chūya wondered if he was carefully toyed with. Pretending to be frightened before making a move.

The stranger raised their hands in surrender. “I am not looking for a fight,” they continued talking to him confident that they were listened to. The pier wasn’t enough for the two of them. Nakahara came closer, close enough to recognize their features in the moonless dark.

“That’s unfortunate,” Chūya said, smirking. “I might be.”

The person didn’t say anything, didn’t back away from him or step close as if kept there by stubbornness, ignorance, or blind bravery. Instead, they reached inside their pocket. And if this stranger thought a gun could scare Port Mafia, they were both wrong and stupid. A figure dressed in black and wrapped in deep-red glow, For the Tainted Sorrow. Suddenly, the dark space between them brightened. It wasn’t a gun they were reaching for but a torchlight. The light was aimed at the sky enlightening them about this encounter. They didn’t even use it to blind the mafioso and make a run for it. Even more stupid than he gave them credit for.

“Well, damn,” they said with a bright and irritatingly unafraid smile on their face. “Nakahara Chūya, the gravity-manipulator and martial artist. I am not buying lottery tickets this month.”

Chūya tilted his head in question. A very well-informed enemy or… simpleton Dazai never failed to open his big mouth. “Dear Detective Agency,” he sighed with irritation. “Suicidal moron can’t shut up about me.”

“That’s where you’re right,” they confirmed, straightforward and facile.

“What do you want?” Nakahara asked, crossing his arms. The Agency was an enemy; however, fighting them here and now would do nothing for the greater conflict. Boss, too, proclaimed temporary ceasefire. Acting against Boss’ orders was equal to betrayal. Also, they didn’t look like a challenge or threat in any way with that too eager to please and appease attitude.

“Just looking for something stolen,” they replied, nonchalant. “My guess is that you are here for the same reason.” This openness of theirs was getting on mafioso’s nerves. He wasn’t known for a patient temper. The Agency member could have tried to dance around his questions, run or offer a trade-off. But it seemed like they were trying to work out some semblance of functional cooperation. As long as it went within the lines of his loyalty to Port Mafia, he could match this pace.

The smile grew on their face before they turned off the light. It was bright.

“We can help each other!” Agency’s detective offered in a chirpy manner.

“Can we now?” Chūya scoffed, amused. “Just say you need my help.”

“I don’t,” they shook their head. It wasn’t spoken in mockery or false confidence. While the darkness blurred their features, he still heard the smile on their lips. “But you need mine.”

Nakahara raised a brow, antagonized. Dazai must have been giving out lessons. Bandaged freak had an unmatched skill, but they were gravelling him fairly fast too. Chūya didn’t need help, especially from a detective of the Agency. Nakahara was a Port Mafia Executive; he was the merge of a human and a god Arahabaki. Help was the last thing he needed. He expected them to prove the point, but his patience was running dangerously thin each second.

“The smugglers,” the person started talking quickly as if sensing the heat, “didn’t finish their transaction. What did they do with the merchandise? It’s a pier. Not many places to hide things.”

“If they had half-a-brain, an airtight aluminum case would take a day or two underwater,” Chūya shrugged.

“I bet you don’t want to swim tonight, it’s cold, brrrr,” they rubbed their shoulders, mimicking the experience. “So, I will graciously save you from that.”

Mafioso crossed arms on his chest and smirked. There was no way of impressing him, less so of doing him any favours. But he was allowing for this to happen simply because it was quite fun. It didn’t last long, however. Soon, the sound of moving water filled the dark and silence around them. And something rectangular came from the water and floated into their hands effortlessly. It was the case, unmistakably, it couldn’t be anything else.

“I can beckon objects towards myself if I know what they are,” they succinctly explained. “Since I know yours, it’s fair that you know mine.”

Chūya didn’t ask but was given an answer. Perhaps, by some strange morality it was fairer for him to know their ability since they knew about his. But this wasn’t the world that cared about fairness. They were coming from two different worlds, opposing views. They were enemies. It wasn’t personal. From the wrong side, one of them for sure was, had to be. Yet the Agency’s detective continued with the task as if nothing were amiss. Chūya watched them take out a lock-picker’s set. He chuckled, amused. All that talk about morality…

“You are probably here for the valuables,” they continued to talk, unbothered, while trying to pick the lock. “Allow me take one thing. Our client has sentimental value attached to one of the objects inside.”

“They stole more than just valuables,” Nakahara replied. Wittingly or not, he almost said more than needed. Chūya had to hold his tongue from saying anything more. Speaking more than needed would be more than just unwise.

“Ah, is that an invitation to take everything else but what you need?”

“No.”

“Kidding, kidding.”

The case opened with a distinct click. A sound of a skilful lock-picking. From the Armed Detective Agency, indeed. But, true to their word, only one thing was taken. Nakahara had no clue why that would be an object of sentimental value, however, but Lady Luck was on their side. He didn’t need that.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” they said, standing up, and offering a polite and reserved smile.

“That’s it?” mafioso asked, unimpressed. There were a few things he could imagine being spoken, tastefully mixed into the conversation, to make a little sharper, a little more dangerous. “Nothing else to add, dear Detective Agency?”

“Gimme a sec.” There was a theatrical pause perfectly executed. Acting worthy of the effect it produced, with a finger to tier mouth and a thoughtful expression on their face. “Oh, no, Port Mafia! How could you! That’s not right, Port Mafia!”

Chūya shook his head. It was amusing it its twisted, overly dramatic way, but the comedy was too close to reality to be truly funny.

Their act was quickly dropped, switched for a more serious expression and tone. “You could have thrown me into the water the moment you saw me or a moment after when you realized who I was. But you didn’t. And agreed to cooperate.”

“That’s—”

“Hm?”

“Never mind,” Nakahara dismissed the protest. For one, defending his perfectly logical actions seemed foolish. Second, and most importantly, there was no need for him to voice it and neither it seemed to be heard. If that’s gratitude they were offering — to hell with it.

“Scatter,” Chūya commanded in slight jest. “I have work to do.”

The detective bowed to him in jest, most graciously bowing out of their encounter. He let them go and afterwards sighed. There was much a lot of work left to do.

One would safely and reasonably assume this one chance of an encounter was the only time he’d meet someone from the Agency outside of conflict. It wasn’t so. Sometime later he got to see them again. It wasn’t anything related to a job and happened in the light of day. He saw them with jinko and young murderess approaching the local shopping centre. At the entrance, however, they stopped and waved goodbye. The kids proceeded on their own inside. That would have been it: Chūya saw them, they didn’t see him. Such was his conviction, until they waved at him. From afar, sure, and it could have been anyone else who was in his general direction. But somehow, he had a feeling it was aimed at him and no one else. He didn’t acknowledge them in any way.

“C’mon out anyone who’s still alive,” he grinned maliciously into the camera. Chūya was having a bit too much enjoyment with this. After all, it was about time he’d get to play cat and mouse with the Agency. Ceasefire wasn’t much fun.

In the dark tunnel, finally echoed footsteps other than his. Playing the messenger was a boring beat, but a brawl wasn’t completely out of the question, ever.

“Just two of you? What an insult,” Chūya sighed. Just two enemies and not even the most intriguing ones. It all unfolded just the Boss’ predicted. The Agency cannot help itself but to be predictable this way. A confrontation was started to make the blood run hotter. He wasn’t a good match for a messenger job anyway. Everything was working out splendidly. Except for when the voice came from the speakers. The voice belonged to an enemy, the other side that Port Mafia will never reconcile with. He knew the voice — knew exactly who it belonged to — but still hearing it here and now was somewhat unexpected. Something he couldn’t even explain to himself.

“President, with all due respect, I’d like to say something,” came from the speakers. Nakahara stilled the moment he heard it coming from the speakers, he wanted to hear everything.

“I believe in the Agency’s strength just as much as you do, you know it. But we cannot take on the Guild alone. There’s one thing Nakahara was right about: we are short staffed,” the voice on the other side spoke with underlined worry. Mafioso wondered how it felt to speak rather defensively of your enemy. What he’d like to know even more is why even speak in defence of an enemy. But since it was serving Port Mafia’s purpose…

“But if you think such crude tactics would work on us, then Mafia is unfit for waging war,” the President’s voice spoke.

“Veiled threat from the enemy leader himself? Such an honour,” Chūya mocked.

“What are you hiding?”

“Not a thing.”

“He is not lying,” familiar voice interfered. The gravity wielder grinned devilishly. He wasn’t lying, they were correct in that assessment. But it was no good news for them. A shame, truly. For them. So bravely and insistently speak in the enemy’s support. That was the luxury or stupidity few could afford. He couldn’t.

“Why would we need to move?” Nakahara asked with the same smile on his face.

“Alright, fancy hat,” another voice spoke up. And then there was a snicker. Chūya never heard them snicker before but had no doubts it was them. Otherwise, it was the enemy leader and that was a far less appealing thought. Fancy hat?

It wasn’t because he had any doubts about Boss’ plan or because he didn’t trust in the abilities of his fellow comrades. It was because he hated Dazai. Because he wanted to see what was going to happen, what that schemer had pulled this time. And because deep inside Nakahara already knew what sort of deal the Boss would make given the chance. Mori wanted Dazai back in the Mafia, and while Chūya was perfectly content without the failed suicide around, it wasn’t for him to say so. Whatever cliché game he was asked to play, he’d play it till the end.

From up here he could witness the whole thing and, if something were to go terribly wrong, he’d be down there in seconds. But he had unwavering faith in Boss’ planning. Still, the cigarette in his mouth was burning. It was boredom. From up here, he could see everything but not hear it or be entertained by any other means. One, two, three, four…Number four is deadly, according to superstitions.

“Fancy seeing you here!” said the voice from behind. Familiar voice, sure, but it was not supposed to be heard here. Chūya turned his head. That very same detective of the Agency coming to him at such convenient time? It couldn’t be a coincidence. What a cliché, Dazai, especially for you.

A huff, a puff. The cigarette started to taste a lot better now. “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t a question but a warning.

“Don’t worry, no one knows I am here. If you throw me off this roof, it’s a perfect crime,” they quickly assured. And while there was a small laugh at the end of that sentence, he could hear it was filled with anxious tension. “I wasn’t invited for the meeting either but still came to watch. It’s not as concealed up here as you’d think.”

Mafioso kept quiet, feeling annoyed, feeling played for a fool. But before the right words to scare them off came to mind, the voice spoke once again.

“Here,” there was a nudge on his shoulder, “it’s a far better thing to put in your mouth.”

Nakahara looked at what was offered. Goddamn ice-cream? He raised a brow in question. This was more than just a little strange. This was getting a little ridiculous. And the idea of throwing them off the roof didn’t seem as alien as before. Nonetheless, under his murderous gaze, they didn’t relent, continuing to hold up the ice-cream in stubborn generosity.

He had to look away from them. “Damn it.” Agitated, he still begrudgingly put out the cigarette and accepted the ice-cream. The packaging wasn’t messed with, with drops of water from being in the freezer just recently. They, too, had one. An ice-cream for themselves with the packaging matching. Mafioso tore it open. Damnit. It was cold and sweet, vanilla flavour hidden underneath dark chocolate.

“See? I was right. It is a better thing to put in your mouth,” they grinned at him. Not malicious, not mocking, it was a cheerful, kind smile of a friend. They were enemies, people from different sides, fighting for different things. Reconciliation was not an acceptance — a strategy.

“Choose your words better,” Nakahara scoffed.

“Sorry, sor—"

“Or I will throw you off the roof.”

“I said sorry. So, um, what do you think? It’s going fine, right? Even if it’s just to defeat the Guild, we can come to an agreement of sorts? You’d help, right?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I am… worried.”

“About?” he asked without any interest whatsoever. But since this was a conversation — a very used play at social norms and small talk — he would indulge them only for the duration of this ice-cream. A shame to let a good thing go to waste.

“My…comrades,” the enemy answered. That was a delicate answer. Too delicate for such situation. Even Chūya could understand the worry one would have for one’s friends and comrades. Yet something didn’t sit right with him as if a gut feeling telling something he couldn’t yet understand.

“So, if you are fighting alongside one of them, would you help them?” they asked. It sounded so naïve and genuine. Terribly sweet, just like this ice-cream. Underneath the dark chocolate, something awfully sweet and innocent white in colour.

“Is that what their life if worth?” Chūya asked, thoroughly amused. Quite a conversation maker this one. “An ice-cream?”

“Nah, a life is invaluable. And smoking kills. Take care of yourself.”

Chūya laughed. Loudly, thunderously, profoundly regaled. He was pillorying them and their ideas. But, still a nudge on his shoulder, playful in its manner.

“I am counting on you, Nakahara Chūya!”

This was getting too ridiculous for Nakahara to comprehend as a sane person. “Scatter.” He didn’t even mean it maliciously or as a sincere threat. It was a reminiscent jest. And like before, they bowed to him and offered a polite smile, graciously leaving the situation.

Chūya hated Dazai. He hated all the faces Dazai had: arrogant kid, suicidal failure, scheming bastard, traitor, liar, and womanizer. It wasn’t even all the list of masks his ex-partner had. But Chūya would take out the trash once they were done here. The reunion was a temporary arrangement. After, he would be free to deal with Dazai as he wished. What else he hated? The number of body bags his people came back in. All at the fault of a child whose ability was abhorrent.

“Do it,” Chūya said with certainty. He would remember that number for a good while after this is all over and is but a history.

“Oh yeah?” Dazai sounded too chirpy for himself. “Well, in that case…” The knife Dazai conveniently snitched slashed the wooden cage Q was trapped in. Nakahara watched, and the mafia-black blood boiled inside him.

“Your hypocrisy makes me want to vomit,” he stated with sincere spite. The knife stopped chipping at wood as Dazai started to explain such hypocritical act. Excuses, excuses, that was the core of this traitor. Chūya knew for a fact what his ex-partner thought of Q’s ability. What a pathetic, lying bastard.

“It’s a logical decision,” Dazai excused his actions. “Plus, I don’t know how I would look them in the eye.”

“The Agency?” Nakahara shrugged, uninterested.

“Aren’t you curious, Chūya?” It was taunting. “Nosy about my personal life?”

“Personal life? You don’t have such a thing, womanizer.”

“People change, Chūya,” Dazai replied with a sickeningly familiar smile. The bastard meant what he said. Gravity manipulator hated him all the more for it.

Nakahara crossed his arms. “People? Maybe. What do you have to do with them?”

His ex-partner pretentiously pouted. “You know, Chūya, I know your moves down to pacing and breathing.” Dazai stood up. The knife remained plunged into the wood. “But I never knew you liked ice-cream.”

“Bastard, I knew it was your scheme!”

“What? No.” Ex-mafia shook his head. “What would be in it for me? But relationships are built on trust and honesty. So, naturally, I came to know of it. I was as just as surprised as you were.”

That sickening smile, that arrogant tone! Chūya had Dazai pinned down as well. The assortment of face masks of his once-partner…and the appalling pleasure to study them all. But the most abhorrent thing was that the hypocrite wasn’t lying. The bandaged bastard was taking pleasure in speaking the truth.

Dazai was slowly shortening the distance between them. “So, why did you behave like an obedient dog, Chūya?” The languid steps forward, putting them dangerously close together. The shorter mafioso pressed his fingers into a tight fist. The leather gloves squeaked.

“Answer me, Chūya, for old times’ sake,” Dazai continued to provoke. “I don’t think it’s because of ice-cream, was it? Could it be…? Oh.”

You are on thin fucking ice, Dazai. It wasn’t for any other reason than killing time. It wasn’t because he found them strangely intriguing in their passive acceptance of him being from Mafia. And it wasn’t because they spoke in his defence. To speak in your enemy’s benefit was the luxury or stupidity few could afford. He wasn’t impressed by their stubborn kindness despite knowing that he was stronger than them. That he could kill them. That he was an enemy.

“You never could hide your emotions, Chūya. Your face does say it for you,” Dazai was now grinning viciously. “You like them, don’t you? You like them.”

Chūya pushed forward, angry, provoked, with all the spite he could muster. The fist landed hard. The force of his punch sent Dazai stumbling backwards. But there was glee in those dark eyes. The delight Chūya rarely witnessed, but it wasn’t totally alien. It felt good for him too — to punch Dazai in the face like that. Yet his blood was still boiling hot. And there was a bitter and tight feeling in his throat, tasting of sweet vanilla ice-cream.

“Oh, the look on your face, Chūya,” Dazai mumbled, mocking, gleeful, and seeming to ignore the swelling on his face and the pain that came with it. “How did you say it before? “Better than a masterpiece worth millions”?”

[cherryonigiri]

the retrospective: alice’s 1k special || lover masterlist

matchup requests: CLOSED

@euphylli​ asked: Hi I am here for a matchup! Im ESFP and a Slytherin. My patronus is a fox. Im kinda loud, stubborn, playful, loving, creative. I really love playing the guitar or painting. I usually dress in either a t-shirt or a hoodie and a pair of jeans. I like Dr.Pepper and my favorite team is Seijoh.♡

A/N: omg hi vi!!!! Thank you sm for submitting and you have exquisite taste bc seijoh is also my favorite team 💚 -alice

Your matchup is: Iwaizumi Hajime:

How you met: You and Iwa meet online (kind of)! He’s a huge godzilla fan and spends a lot of his time searching for vintage merch/unique merchandise of his favorite nuclear-breath breathing monster. Your own love of painting serves you well because you create custom prints of different anime/film posters + paint clothing/accessories as well - Godzilla being no exception. You have a small online store and one day Iwa finds it and falls in love with u lmao with your art. He notices that you have a booth at the local creative fair and decides to go check out your shop. Definitely a bit nervous and shy because wow you’re beautiful but he ends up chatting you up + going home with a few posters and a hoodie. 

Your first date: Is it a date though? You and Iwa end connecting and talking more via text/messaging. He ends up commissioning a series of custom paintings from you because he absolutely loves how your art tastefully spruces up his apartment with something he loves. It ends up taking a while and you meet with him several times to go over different aspects of the painting/framing. At the last meet-up he asks if you would want to do this again...and at first you’re like “????” but then he clarifies he’s like “no, i meant go on a date with me not paint me a new piece.” It’s really chill - you were going to his place next week to help install/hang the painting anyways so that turns into hang the paintings + date night binging all godzilla related content. Very wholesome and you end up falling asleep on each other. 

Your first kiss: Iwa is not so secretly a hopeless romantic, so he wants your first kiss with him to be something special. He’s not going to stress over it, but he does want to kiss you when the moment is right. I feel like it might happen after a nice, little more formal date with him. The two of you met up and went to a fancy restaurant - you were a little dressed up, nothing too fancy but definitely a little more dressy that what you’d wear on a more casual day. He’s walking you home and it’s just a nice quiet dusk and it’s really calm as the two of you stroll down the street hand in hand. When he gets to your door he doesn’t want to leave so soon so the two of you kind of flirt/chat on your doorstep. Definitely one to ask “can I kiss you?” If you nod he’ll cup your cheek and look into your eyes before your lips meet in a soft kiss. 

Anniversary: Spends the weekend at the beach with you. You both take some time off work and manage to find an affordable cabin near the waterfront that’s a little farther away from all the super noisy tourist hotspots - it’s like your little piece of paradise, but still close enough that the two of you can visit the livelier areas of the town around the beach if you want. Lots of romantic walks down boardwalks, stargazing/hanging out on the beach at night with a few chilled cans of Dr. Pepper on a picnic blanket, singing together around a small fire while you play the guitar. Probably surprises you with a small gift - matching pendants/necklaces that you both always wear after that weekend. 

How they propose: Makes Oikawa, Makki and Mattsun come with him when he goes to buy a ring for you. He’s incredibly nervous and wants to make sure he choses a band that really matches your playful and loving spirit that he adores so much. Settles on a small handcrafted ring from a local jeweler made of several intertwining pieces of metal to mimic vines/branches + topped with a small jewel. His proposal was originally planned but ends up being completely impromptu because you end up accidentally stumbling across the ring box when you go refill on snacks during a movie night. He kinda panics a bit but then just decides screw it and gets down on one knee and asks you to marry him.

What your wedding looks like: Shittykawa isn’t invited JKJK Oikawa is his best man, and honestly does a bunch of the planning - he helps deal with the logistics side while you and your creative side take charge of the decorations, invitations and entertainment for the night. It’s a modest ceremony, neither of you want something over the top. During the reception, you surprise Iwa with a song that you wrote yourself, playing the guitar and singing for him (he’s totally crying). Your first dance with him is to a recording of the songs you sang with him during that annivesary trip to the beach. 

Newlywed/domestic hc: For your honeymoon you and Iwa decide to rent out the same cabin that you did all those years ago for your first anniversary. It’s nice to revisit the town/beach where the two of you have so many memories and look back on it with fondness. Unlike the first trip, the two of you have more time to just sit back and relax. You try to revisit some of your favorite local restaurants or places with funny/fond memories - like the part of the beach where you got stung by a jellyfish or the hole-in-the-wall restaurant with the best calamari the two of you have eated. Of course, you find a model of the fish that has a name similar to Tooru and you can’t help but take a selfie to send to (teast/bully) your husband’s best friend.

[selfindulgentpoorlywritten]

It’s a Wonderful Life (Sidney Crosby Imagine)

Enjoy this very belated Christmas fluff for those like me who don’t have anywhere to go for the holidays :)

Rating: T

Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Reader

Words: 2969

Warnings: alcohol/drinking

Requested: yes/no

Summary: Sid invites you home with him for Christmas break. You’re a little worried what his family is going to think, until you’re not

You’re not entirely sure that you’re comfortable with this, but you’d made the decision and now you’re stuck with it. Not really stuck, because Sid would fly you back to Pittsburgh the second you asked, but just. You can’t exactly back out now, after flying to Nova Scotia and driving almost the entire way to Sid’s parents’ house. Not that you would! It’s just that you’re staying at Sid’s place for a few days and spending Christmas with his family and while you’ve met them before, you don’t know them all that well and Trina is pretty perceptive and you’re hoping she doesn’t bring up the whole “being in love with Sid” thing again and and and you’re maybe freaking out a little bit.

Your own family situation is… complicated, which is why Sid had invited you home with him for the holiday. Allegedly because his family wanted to see you, but more likely because the thought of you sitting at home alone on Christmas was kind of pathetic. You’re grateful, because you’d much rather spend the day with Sid than drinking a bottle of wine by yourself on your couch watching Christmas movies. You’d much rather spend any day with Sid than, well, pretty much anything else.

There’s a pressure on your knee and it makes you startle, forced out of your own head. It’s Sid’s hand, of course, because what else is gonna suddenly going to settle on your previously bouncing leg in a closed car on the highway. You hadn’t even realized you were jiggling your leg, too caught up in anxiety to notice much else, so you’re grateful Sid noticed and stopped you. He shoots you a quick smile when you look over, before returning his eyes to the road, ever the responsible driver.

“You doing alright?” he asks, and you’re not quite sure how to answer. Obviously you’re not going to spill your guts about all your worries, but lying and saying you’re fine would feel disingenuous. It’s just. This is kind of a big deal, right? Like if it were a team party, that would be one thing, but he’s taking you home to spend a major holiday with his entire family. It’s just a friend thing, obviously, but still…

“I’ll be okay,” you settle on, “Just a little nervous.” He nods sympathetically, before giving a wry smile.

“My family can be a bit much, eh?” he says, except that’s not really quite it, because it’s the whole situation that’s a bit much, not just his family-- who are actually quite lovely-- and what really makes you nervous is the aforementioned being-in-love-with-him thing, but you can’t tell him that--

“Do you want to stay at mine instead?” he asks, “I’ll have to go to the party for a couple hours, but I could come home early and we could spend time together there instead.” Because he’s a fucking saint like that.

“No!” you reply entirely too loudly, before clearing your throat and continuing “No, you don’t have to do that.” The fact that he would even offer to do that for you makes your chest tight. “Cared for” is still not a feeling you’re used to. Sid seems intent on giving you plenty of practice with it, though. His hand tightens against your leg momentarily, as though he can tell you want to start bouncing it again. Damn perceptive bastard. He seems to be waiting for you to say something, but you’re not sure how to explain any of this without outing yourself. Even with the noise of the road and the steady hum of the car, the silence is deafening. He lets it stretch too long to be remotely comfortable, used to awkward silences with the media in a way you’re not.

“What if people ask if we’re dating?” you finally blurt out, if only to kill the unbearable quiet. He doesn’t startle or look surprised at all, like you’d expected. Just squeezes your knee again.

“We’ll tell them the truth,” he says with a shrug, like it’s that simple. What is the truth? you think. Because you’re just friends, as far as you know, but “just friends” don’t invite each other to family Christmas. Or regularly sleep in the same bed (or on the same couch) when they don’t feel like going home at night. Or slow dance to love songs like the two of you had this wedding season. Or do most of the things the two of you do. Bachelor hockey players don’t FaceTime their friends before bed every night on roadies, or head home early when they’re out with the boys so that they can hang out with you, or try on the regular to convince you how amazing you are with long, heartfelt rants about your better aspects. But he does.

You’re rounding the bend toward the driveway of his parents’ house when he finally moves his hand in preparation of parking. Taylor’s car is already in the drive, and he blocks her in because despite everything, he’s still an older brother. You’re about to roll your eyes and rib him for it, when he turns as far toward you as he can in his seat. His hand is on yours now, warm and rough and comforting.

“You can still back out,” he says. Looking into his eyes, you know it’s true. You know you can always back out, can always leave if you want to. But as anxious as you are, as scared as you are, you don’t want to.

“Let’s get in there before they come out, huh?” you say with a smile.

-----

Trina and Troy’s house is just this side of opulent, tastefully decorated both for the holiday and in general. They greet you at the door, ushering you in with excitement in their voices and fondness in their eyes. Your anxiety is still there, but it feels farther away now. Between the distraction of Trina immediately trying to feed you and the warm feeling of home, tonight’s festivities feel a bit more manageable.

They’re throwing a Christmas Eve party tonight, which you and Sid will attend. Tomorrow, you’re going to spend the morning with Sid, before having an early dinner with Trina and Troy and Taylor (too many T’s). The next night, you’ll fly home so Sid can rest before his game against the Preds, but you’ll likely spend at least part of that day with his family as well. With the way your family is (and has been for a long time), it’s going to be a bit much. But what is family if not a bit much?

“Y/N, you’ve got to try my scones,” Trina insists, pulling you toward the kitchen as Troy begins trying to ply Sid with alcohol. You’re glad he hasn’t targeted you this time, because being drunk for the party would be embarrassing and probably only make everything worse. Tipsy you can deal with, but starting to drink at 11am for a 7pm party will get anyone a little unsteady.

“So,” Trina starts as you bite into what seems to be a berry scone, “How’s it going with Sid?” Damn. She lured you in with the promise of baked goods and you fell for it hook, line, and sinker. At least the scone is good- buttery and sweet. And chewing gives you an excuse to delay your answers.

“It’s good; we’ve been spending more time together this season,” you say, “These are really good, Trina. You’ve outdone yourself.” You’re hoping that she’ll be distracted enough by the flattery to switch topics, but you know it’s futile. Once she latches on to this topic, she keeps it.

“Thank you, dear,” she responds politely, “Has he asked you out yet?” You don’t spit your mouthful across the room, but it’s a close thing. Whatever happened to Canadians being unbearably circuitous? Trina just keeps a mildly devious smile on while you choke down the suddenly too-dry pastry.

“No,” you cough, “No, he hasn’t.” Hopefully she drops it at that. No luck.

“That boy,” she shakes her head, “I swear he’s a wreck with anything off the ice.” And what the hell does that mean? Does she expect him to ask you ask because of her own biases, or does she know something? Holy shit, does she know something? Because she’s his mom and he’s a momma’s boy above all else, and if anyone were to know something about him, it would be her. But if she knew anything, she’d be open with it, because Sid’s her son, yes, but you’re basically her daughter. But you’re only basically her daughter because Sid is her son and you’re his best friend so--

“Have you asked him out?” she asks, which kind of makes your brain short-circuit because, what.

“What?” you ask, without meaning to. You’re supposed to just, what? Ask Sid out? Ask out the greatest current hockey player in the fucking world? As what? You? Who the fuck does she think you are?

“The man doesn’t always have to make the first move, dear,” Trina elaborates, sliding another baking sheet into the oven, “You can ask him out just as well.” How the fuck are you supposed to ask him out? Hey Sid, I know we’ve been friends for years, and this jeopardizes everything we’ve built, but do you want to date? Bullshit. You love Trina, truly, you do, but goddamn. This is getting ridiculous.

“I heard Troy has a new bourbon he wants Sid and I to try,” you say, putting the other half of your scone on the island, “I’m gonna go try it, if that’s alright?” You know she won’t say no, and she knows she won’t say no, so hopefully she doesn’t take it too personally. She simply shoots you a look with that same wry smile Sid got from her and shoos you from the kitchen. You retreat to where Troy is making Sid try his new peanut butter whiskey, more than ready to try that bourbon he’d mentioned last month.

-----

The party is more classy than you’re used to with your upbringing. It’s nice, though, to know that it’s going to be a pleasant evening without anyone getting wasted and ruining everything, even if it means you have to wear pantyhose. Your dress is black and short, but not too short, with long sleeves and lace around the skirt. It bares a fair bit of cleavage, but not so much as to be inappropriate, and over all, you’re a big fan of this one. It almost makes you look like you fit in among the upper class crowd, despite being from the local thrift shop.

Sid looks dashing, as per usual, in black pants and a red button-up that’s open just enough to show the barest bit of his chest. The color complements the bit of a flush that’s overtaken his cheeks with the encouragement of alcohol, and it’s a little distracting when you’re trying to make polite small talk and remember his relatives’ names. You’re not quite sure what you’re drinking, because Troy made it for you and refused to tell, but it’s not helping either. There are just so many people, and you’re trying not to let it make you nervous, but the part of your brain that hasn’t adjusted to well-adjusted people is still waiting for something to go wrong, and anxiety is clawing at the gates of your psyche. You wish you were back at Sid’s, curled up on the couch with him watching shitty Christmas movies instead.

“How you holding up?” Sid asks when his aunt moves on to the next conversation. It’s the third time he’s checked on you in so many hours, always the gentleman. You’re tempted to ask him to let you go home, except the only way to overcome anxiety is to face it, so you just nod before greeting another aunt who’s approached.

Unlike you’d expected, not many people ask if you’re Sid’s girlfriend. It makes sense, because you’re not his type, like, at all, but it kind of stings. You could totally date Sid if you wanted. Who are they to think otherwise? You’re smart, and funny, and kind, and pretty great, overall. Sid would be lucky to have you.

“Sid, would you date me?” you ask an indeterminate amount of time later, once you’ve made your way through family and friends itching to talk to Sid, and a few more drinks made by Troy. Trina made one of them for you, which is probably why you want to sit on the couch and stare at the ceiling for a while. But you kind of need to know, because only like five people have asked if you’re dating and it’s like. What the fuck.

“What?” he asks, looking slightly panicked for reasons you can’t currently discern.

“Would you date me?” you repeat, continuing, “Cause like, no one is asking if we’re dating, and I could totally date you.” His eyebrows shoot up and he starts to smile, so you add “I’m a catch, dude”. That makes him outright laugh, but not in, like, a mean way.

“I think it’s time to get you home,” he says, which is not an answer to your question. You kind of want to cuddle up with him and watch a movie or take a nap or both, though, so you don’t argue. You can ask him again in the car.

Which you do. It takes a while to say good night to all of his family, and you’re feeling a little less flushed by time the two of you load into the car and take off. Definitely still not sober enough to not follow up on your question, however. He looks less panicked and more… wistful, or something, this time, which you take to be a good sign.

“Of course I would,” he finally agrees, resting a hand on your knee in a way reminiscent of the drive from the airport. Victory. Of course he’d date you, you’re wonderful. Not like, “dating one of the most famous hockey players ever” wonderful, but still. You refuse to feel down on yourself on Christmas Eve.

The drive home is mostly a blur, less from the alcohol and more from your racing thoughts. Sid has to squeeze your knee to get your attention when you get to his place, and you startle enough that both of you giggle. You don’t bother slinging your purse over your shoulder for the ten-step walk to the mud room, hanging it in its place as you kick your heels off into their designated area. You can’t help but give a pleased sigh and wiggle your sore toes. Probably should have broken them in more before wearing them to a party for four hours.

Each of you goes to your designated rooms, agreeing to meet back at the couch. You’ve sobered up considerably in the last couple hours, able to put on your pajama shorts while standing, despite being unable to get your stockings off the same way. But then again, can anyone get stockings off while standing? You’d like to see proof. Sid’s house is just warm enough that the soft flannel shorts don’t leave you cold, but you do pair it with an oversized t-shirt rather than a tank top. After massaging your feet for a minute or two, you head downstairs, bare feet barely making a sound against the hardwood and carpet.

Sid is still getting changed, presumably, so you gather his best big fuzzy blanket and the pillow he likes to prop himself up with. After arranging the pillow how he tends to like it, you curl up on the middle cushion and wrap yourself in the blanket to wait. You don’t bother searching for a movie, already knowing that you’re going to stump for It’s A Wonderful Life, and that Sid’s probably going to give in easily. It takes you a moment to realize he’s in the room, because he’s just standing off to the side staring at you, like a weirdo.

“You comin’ or what?” you ask rhetorically, seemingly snapping him out of some daze. He settles into the spot you’d set for him, pulling you down into his chest and smiling the entire time you wiggle around to get comfortable. He must be feeling that Christmas spirit. You tug the blanket up until it covers his lap and up to your shoulders, finally deeming the position comfy enough. He only puts up a token resistance when you suggest your movie, already searching it as he lists off random Christmas movies you could watch instead. None of them are as good as It’s A Wonderful Life, though, because It’s A Wonderful Life is the best Christmas movie by far.

It’s a long movie, and your eyelids begin to droop around the time George has to choose between the new factory and the Building and Loan. Between Sid and the blanket, you’re warm and safe and cared for, and you let yourself drift to sleep with a smile. Just before you get there, however, Sid rouses you. You look up to him with hooded eyes, returning his smile. Slowly, slowly, he leans down, tilting your head toward him with a pair of fingers until he can press your lips together. The kiss is soft and lingering, both your lips slightly chapped from the cold, the angle awkward, and it’s entirely perfect.

“Merry Christmas,” Sid says, and you stare at each other for a short eternity before both breaking out in laughter. What a cheesy move! But what else would you expect from him, honestly?

“Merry Christmas, Sid,” you reply once you’ve managed to calm. You’re still sleepy, but the smile refuses to leave your face, even as Sid leans down to kiss you again. You get the feeling you won’t have to worry about people asking if you’re Sid’s girlfriend anymore, but not for the reason you’d expected.

[uniqueanjol]

Simply unexpected prt.28

At around 5pm Julie comes in to prep for night shift. Her and her husband take over on weekdays whereas me and william typically run night shifts on busy or weekend nights. She walks in her mixed silver and purple hair pulled back into a ponytail. “MOM!” William squealed from the back running forward tackling her with an obnoxious hug. She brushes him off and looks around the building “What did you do?” she questions him grabbing her apron from behind the bar. He sits on the bar table, and she turns to me giving me a soft warm hug, “oh Mabel I am so glad you handle him in the morings.” she laughs releasing her grip than looking up and over at the table Grace is typing away at. “Is that the drunkie from the other night?” she looks at me. “No, that's Mable’s lady friend.” William pitches in from the background. She squints,pushing her lips, her tone in question, “no.. I think that's the same girl.” I laugh, “She.. She was having a rough day, she's actually really cool.” Julie’s eyes narrow down and stare into my soul, my nerves jump. “So you guys are friends now?” My cheeks feel warm, “yeah.” Looking over Grace is obviously working.

Julie's face went from questioning to a devilish smile, “ Oh really? well, she has good taste in art. I’ll give her that.” Confused, I raise my finger weakly in question, “huh?” Julie points to the back wall I had painted my first few years of being here. “She came in Gawking over your wall. I told her it was you and looks like she snuffed you out quick.” I pause looking over at her watching her write. I hadn’t noticed but she placed herself directly facing my painting. I look back at Julie who is giving me a side eye. “She liked my art? You told her I did it?” Julie nods, “of course kiddo! I tell everyone that's your art and you should have seen her. She choked when I told her it was you I had no Idea you guys were friends.” Embarrassment and slight anxiety filtered in my stomach. For some reason I craved her approval and knowing that she's seen my art and knows it's mine… makes me feel vulnerable, I’m now open to her judgment. It wouldn't be so bad if Julie didn't say “EVERYONE” even those who didn’t, liked my art. Something so dumb to worry about, but suddenly I felt naked.

I snap out of my thoughts to a small thump on the bar top, “ Hey!” I turn and Grace stands there, eyes glittering with a bright smile. “I don’t mean to bother you guys, but..” She paused looking down at Julie's chest searching for a name tag. “Uh- Julie?.. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the other night and I thank you for helping Mable get me home.” Julie nodded with a smile, “No problem!” she waves her hand loosely. “I assume you and our “sweeeet Mable syrup are acquainted?” She asks, giving pouty lips, pinching my cheeks with her fingers. She acts like a second hand mom attempting to embarrass me. Grace nods hoisting herself up onto the bar stool, “Oh yeah! I wouldn’t say she's sweet though,” She smirks giving me a quick wink then bursting out to a small chuckle looking back at Julie.

It’s clear she's picked up on the dynamic me and my boss share. “Ahh, I see she's given you some of her attitude too. Yeah she can definitely be an ass when she needs to be.” Grace laughs, “tell me about it, I’ve only known her for a few days and she’s already given me hell.” I shake my hand forward, making myself a part of their conversation. “Hold on you deserved it! I wouldn’t just give you hell for no reason.” Grace laughs leaning forward on the table, her shoulders press forward shedding exposure to her cleavage. My eyes drift down spotting small bits of glitter that sparkle tastefully among her fair sink and three white gems pierced into her skin. I panic and quickly shoot my gaze to the ceiling. “I never said it was for no reason, I also never said I didn’t appreciate it. I thank you for being exactly who you are.” Her eyes lay softly in my direction, she looked up at me with an admiral smile, she made it seem like there was no one else around to even distract her from me. She made it clear that she was looking at who I was; even though she barely knew me.

No one had ever looked at me like that before. I Nod, “well, I can’t be anyone else. “ a nervous laugh falls through my lips as she stands from the stool hoisting herself off with a little jump. “Well It was nice seeing you guys and thank all of you for letting me be here.” She pauses and looks around, gripping her laptop and Jacket to her chest. “Is it okay if I come back here to write again during the week?” This was clearly a question for Julie but I answered first before even thinking. “Yes!” She makes a small dancing wiggle and jumps in excitement, “thank you!” and walks out the door. Immediately I can feel eyes drilling to the back of my head. I had some explaining to do.

Simply unexpected prt. 28

The bell dings letting us know someone has left the building. And I turn to a crossed arm Julie and a cockheaded William. They have the same green eyes and both penetrate my soul. Sweat dripped down my neck. “What was that?” Julie raised an eyebrow. Laughter breaks from Will, “You think that was a trip, you should have seen her all morning! This bitch didn’t yell at me once! And she broke the cup. Not me.” Julie begins to laugh, clapping her hand on my shoulder, “our Mable baby finally has a crush!” I step back, placing my hand over hers. “ Jules,” I take a deep breath, “it’s not that serious. She’s cool, she’s cute… but. She’s… a friend.” The words scrape my throat like glass as they slip from my lips, friend. Will jumps off the counter. “ Mable you beautiful dumbass, that… is a crush. Mom has it right, she may be a friend now but, play your cards right and there’s potential.” He winks, “do it fast or I’ll take her.” Without a second of hesitation I shove his arm. “ Hell no!” Embarrassed, I pull back. The thought of her and William made my heart cringe. “No she’s gay, and besides you have Dom.” His emerald eyes roll to the back of his head and his posture drops. “Dom… is crazy, I love her but she tried to buy another damn cat! I said no, it was this whole big deal and now we're not talking… AGAIN!”

The shift of heat made me relax. “ cats are cool though. You know next week you guys are gonna be all over one another again.” Julie shakes her head in agreement and we spend the rest of our shift talking about nonsense town gossip. As we talk Graces eyes stay firmly planted in my head. Not just her eyes but the way she looked at me in that moment. Something about seeing her relaxed, interacting with more than just me drew me to her even further. She was a light I wanted to be surrounded in. I was a sunflower craving her rays of warm sunshine. It drove me crazy, yeah you see a cute girl you shoot your shot. But this, this was more than a shot fired this was a connection something I felt so suddenly. I can see she’s wrapped in personal history and written with stories that I wanted to read, I just want to know her.

My thoughts wander until the end of my shift and I hit the minimart before heading home, I used up the last of my chicken at Grace‘s house. It doesn't take long before I’m greeted by frantic waving hands to my face. “Mable!” My name yelled and elongated with exaggeration. I place my hand to the center of doms forehead as she leans forward into my palm pretending to march forward and fight me. Rolling my eyes I laugh, “what has gotten you riled up?” She drops her arms her posture following, “you didn’t tell ANNNYYYTHING!” dropping my hand I step back, “huh? What do you mean?” She crosses her arm offended, “the girl! You better thank me for saying yes by the way.” Confusion drew itself all over my face, “What are you talking about?” She frowns her brows and looks down, now confused as well. “She came in today and asked me yes or no to going to see you at work! Did that not happen? Is she just a creepy stalker and I fucked up?” She begins to panic. Finally I realize what she is talking about, “Oh… I assume you ran into Grace?”

Her hand shot up pointing her finger at me. “That's her name!” she paused, “long black hair, kinda scary but in a good way?” I nod my head and laugh, “yeah, that’s Grace. She’s interesting, that's for sure.” Dom sighs and walks with me down the issal to the frozen chicken. “Mable… that’s it? ‘She's interesting?” come on, there has to be more than that.” she waves her hands as she talks and I look down at my choice of dismembered chicken carcass. I make my selection, “there is. There's actually a lot, she's more than just interesting. She’s complex there's layers that are bare and open for everyone to see but impossible to peel back. She’s… stressful.. And I like it.” Dom steps behind the counter scanning my chicken. “I feel like stress isn’t the word you are looking for.” She hands me my receipt and I lean onto the counter. “No, it’s the right word, I can’t ‘not’ think about someone I barely know.” I cup my head into my hands, “It’s dumb, It’s a dumb crush thats going to be over in a week, i’m boring and shes… chaotic, I mean you’ve seen her. Shes probably only interested because im the only other lesbian for miles.” Dom wraps her blond hair into a large messy bun,” Orrrrrr, you just over think. This is the first time I've EVER seen you try for anyones attention. Most of the time you try not to be seen or when you are noticed, you... kinda lightly slam them into the floor with a blank stare up and down and a ‘no thanks’. She laughs, “it’s kind of savage i’m not gonna lie.”

Heh, “I guess you’re right. I’ll text you when I get home alright.” She rolls her eyes, “fine. Don't over think! Love you!” I walk out the store and get in my car, how was I not supposed to over think? Ding! My phone buzzed and I looked down and the light up notification.

** Simply unexpected episode 29 UP!**

“Damn. She writes fast

[joylee56]

A ‘Vulgar, Lowborn, Scottish Barbarian’ Comes Calling

For Rumbelle is Hope

Summary: After a delightful conversation with Mr. Gold at a Ball given by her cousins and protectors, Lord and Lady Blanchard, Lady Belle in a moment of impulse invited him to call. Now she must deal with opinions of the household as to the propriety of having a lowborn tradesman calling upon her, and her own growing fascination with the man.

This is a followup to Getting Above Himself

...

Belle had some trepidation about telling Regina she had extended an invitation for Mr. Gold to call on them.

Regina had complained at length when Cousin Leo insisted Mr. Gold be invited to dinner and later to the Ball. Calling the man, “... a vulgar, lowborn, Scottish barbarian”.

Mary Margaret, who by this time should really have learned to interpret her stepmother’s invectives more realistically, had expected the man to come to dinner bare chested in a kilt and eat with his dirk. The young woman was a touch disappointed when he arrived clothed in immaculate and clearly expensive evening wear. So was Mrs. Green. For, Belle suspected, far less innocent reasons.

Not, Belle had to admit, had her own prior assumptions about the man proved to be any more accurate. Regina apologized to Belle for planning to pair her with him for the dinner. “As I know I can expect you to smooth over the social gaffs that person will inevitably make. Do try to hint him in the right direction. We can’t have his want of manners embarrassing the other guests.

So Belle had been expecting a man ill at ease in society and uncomfortable mixing with his betters.

Except Mr. Gold clearly did not regard the company in which he found himself to be his betters in anything but ancestry and was little impressed by that.

With justification. While his accent betrayed his origins, his conversation showed him to be intelligent, well read and to have a biting wit.  More than that he was attentive to what Belle had to say, drawing her out with questions and listening to her answers.

That alone would have caused Belle to forgive him if he had eaten with his dirk. Not that there was anything to fault in his manners.

So when he had been kind enough to keep her company while she sat out the dancing at the Ball, bringing her refreshments and inquiring after the book she was reading, Belle had given in to her desire to further the acquaintance and invited him to call.

But Regina was a stickler for the social distinctions. (Papa maintained this was because Regina’s mother was an Adventuress and “No better than she should be”. Normally Belle would discount such statements since Papa was an even greater stickler for social distinctions than Regina, but having met Regina’s older sister, Mrs Green, she could not but wonder if there was some truth to it.) And there was no question that Mr. Gold was not ‘a person of quality’ as Regina defined it.

Belle waited two days before mentioning the invitation. Thinking to give Regina time to recover from the Ball and to bask in her friends’ praise of the event.

So she was surprised when at Tea on Tuesday, Regina raised the issue herself.  “Leopold tells me that we may expect Mr. Gold to call on us this week.”

“Yes.” Belle hastily revised the speech she had prepared to break the news to Regina. “He sat through several dances with me at the Ball and I thought in light of Cousin Leopold’s desire to enlist him to David’s aid in the upcoming election it would not be amiss to invite him.”

“Several dances?” Regina’s eyebrows went up.

“Yes. Apparently he does not gamble and since he cannot dance, he appreciated the opportunity to converse.”

“I see.” Regina took a sip of her tea. “That was very clever of you, Belle. I would not have given you credit for that degree of sagaciousness. Perhaps we can put David on track to making something of himself after all.”

Regina was not as pleased to find she had invited Mr. Gold for four o’clock when semi-ceremonial calls were made and he could linger past the brief quarter of an hour prescribed for ceremonial calls earlier in the day. “I will leave it to you to keep him entertained in that event. There will no doubt be other visitors that will require my attention.”

Which entirely suited Belle.

Given Retina’s begrudging acceptance of Mr. Gold’s potential visit, there was after all no surety he would actually come, Belle was surprised to find Abbott, Regina’s haughty dresser in Belle’s little room that afternoon inspecting Belle’s wardrobe.

“This will not do.” Abbott proclaimed, eyeing Belle’s best House dress with disdain. “And there is not time to order you a new gown by Thursday.

“A pity you are so petite.” The maid eyed Belle critically. “Otherwise you could simply borrow something from one of the other ladies. Still Lady Blanchard’s wishes you to be ‘attractively’ dressed.”

With that Belle was whisked down to the sewing room where Abbott and Marian, the chief housemaid who acted as lady’s maid for guests who did not bring their own, proceeded to alter an old dress of Regina’s to fit Belle.

As this involved shortening hem and cuffs and dramatically reducing the bust size, Belle guiltily offered to help with the sewing.

Abbott sniffed, but Marian set Belle to work turning the hem of the skirt while the two maids took in the bodice.

“Pity we don’t have time to piece some of the material we’re cutting off the skirt into new sleeves.” Marian commented. “These are woefully out of style.”

“As though a tradesman will know the difference.” Abbott sneered.

“I believe Mr. Gold made his fortune with a cloth mill.” Marian was walking out with the owner of the local pub. Her tone was frosty. “A man who deals in fabric is going to recognize the latest style.”

Since no one, including Mr. Gold, had bothered to tell her just what sort of trade Mr. Gold was in, Belle filed this detail away with interest.

“Be that as it may it is still inappropriate to encourage such a person’s interest in,” Abbott glanced Belle’s way, “A lady well above his status.”

“That would depend on the lady, wouldn’t it?” Marian retorted. “If a lady’s circumstances were such that no gentleman was interested, she could do far worse than a well off tradesman. And any man who can afford those suits can certainly support a wife. Better to be mistress of your own household, even a humble one, than a dependent in someone else’s.”

Belle kept her eyes on the hem she was turning. She really had not had any ulterior motive beyond furthering their conversation when she invited Mr. Gold to call. Although the more she thought about him, and he had been entering her thoughts quite a lot these last two days, the more she wanted to continue the acquaintance.

Servants would gossip at the drop of hat. She had been nothing but correct in her interactions with Mr. Gold.

But she had always regarded Marian to be an intelligent, practical woman. She found herself thinking about the young woman’s words over the next two days as well.

When Thursday arrived Belle took special care that the drawing room was neat with flowers tastefully arranged and the tea table properly set up. Belle always oversaw the tea table when they had callers and she did not want some lack to interfere with conversation with Mr. Gold.

She found Marian laying out her new gown when she went up to change for the visitors.

“If you would like, my lady, I could do your hair.” Marian offered. “Give you a bit more style.”

As Marian worked on Belle’s hair, she remarked. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, my lady, but my cousin, who works for one of those Railroad barons, says that from what she’s seen men that have made their own fortunes, especially when they think they married above themselves, generally treat their wives with great regard. More so than in a lot of the gentlemen’s households she’s worked in.”

“Does she?” Belle felt some reply was necessary.

“Yes, my lady.” Marian seemed to regard this as encouragement to continue. “Says it stands to reason. Men like that, they think in terms of investments like. And a wife who does them credit is a good investment and should be treated as such.”

Belle found herself waiting nervously through the first hour of visiting as Regina’s acquaintances came and went. Mrs. Green had arrived in the first wave and had proceeded to stay. Flirting rather outrageously with all of the single men who presented themselves.

By four, Belle had half convinced herself he was not coming. Why should he after all? She was just a silly woman with no dowry and a ruined family, who at twenty five already qualified for spinsterhood.

The clock read exactly five minutes past four when the butler announced, “Mr. Rumford Gold.”

As he crossed the room to greet Regina, he glanced around and finding Belle gave her a brief smile. He wore a black cutaway coat with a pearl gray silk waistcoat and matching pearl gray and black paisley patterned four-in-hand tie. Far and away the best dressed man who had called today.

Belle liked to think that she was not shallow enough to let a man’s appearance sway her opinion. What mattered after all was his character and intellect. But it was difficult not to admire the elegance of Mr. Gold’s wardrobe and how it flattered his slim build.

Particularly as he turned away from her to greet Regina and she had the opportunity to observe the perfect cut of his coat.

And trousers.

Hurriedly she busied herself with the tea service. Rearranging the table trying to regain her composure. A lady of quality did not ogle a man’s… backside. What would her mother have said?

Fortunately Regina was reminding him who Zelena was and introducing him to the other visitors. Giving her flush time to subside. So when he withdrew politely but quickly from Zelena’s coquetry, she was able to respond to his greeting calmly. Inviting him to sit. “Would you care for tea? Lemon?”

“Yes, please, to both.” The smile he gave her was soft. Perhaps even a little shy? But he took the chair closest to her own and laid his top hat to the side.

She had just finished preparing Mr. Gold’s tea when Marian bustled in with more tea cakes and, “Some scones, my lady, just out of the oven.”

“As they should be served.” Mr. Gold accepted one as it was offered to him.

Over their scones and tea, Mr. Gold inquired of her whether she had finished her book and what she was reading now.

“I’ve just started Isabella Bird’s Among the Tibetans. I’ve read some of her other works and they are always both fascinating and educational.” She told him.

“I have heard of the lady but I’m afraid I have never read any of her works.” Mr. Gold replied.  “On your recommendation, I located a copy of The Time Machine and plan to start it soon.

“And,” He removed a small volume from his pocket. “I also ran across a copy of Mr. Hardy’s Wessex Tales. Have you read his short stories?”

“I have not.” Belle’s reading was confined to the Blanchard’s library and what she could convince Mary Margaret or Regina to order through their subscription library. Regina would never have permitted her to go to a public library even if there had been one accessible.

“I think you will enjoy them.” He handed the book to her. “I’m particularly partial to the ‘The Three Strangers’.”

“Then I am certain I will enjoy it.” She opened the book to discover an inscription on the front page. ‘To Lady Belle, in the hope that she will enjoy these as I have enjoyed our conversations. R. Gold’.

He meant the book as a gift!. No one had given her a book since her mother’s passing. Holding it tightly she managed to reply. “Thank you very much. I look forward to discussing it with you. Perhaps next Thursday?”

“Regrettably,” And he sounded truly sorry, “I return to Glasgow tomorrow. I’ve been away nearly a fortnight and I need to be getting back.”

“Oh.” Belle felt sorry as well. “Of course. Your son no doubt misses you.”

“His last two letters have been mainly asking when I will be home.” He always spoke of his son with great affection. “And the business will not run itself.”

He was not a gentleman of leisure like the other men who visited Blanchard House. She should be grateful for the time he had given her. “I wish you a safe and speedy journey. Perhaps we will meet when you are next in London.”

“I would like that very much.” Shifting nervously he went on. “Also, and please do not hesitate to tell me if this suggestion is inappropriate, perhaps I might be permitted to write to you in the meantime?”

“I would be delighted to correspond with you, Mr. Gold.” Belle smiled. “And I am sure Lord Blanchard would approve of such a correspondence.”

“Should I apply to Lord Blanchard for permission?” Gold asked hesitantly. “Forgive me, I realize such matters are… viewed differently in your social sphere.”

“It would be considerate to inform him.” Belle chose her words carefully. “Since he has given me a home, I owe him deference.”

“Of course.” Gold agreed. “I will try to speak with him before I leave for Glasgow.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of more guests to whom Belle served tea. After which the conversation turned back to literature.

The time passed so pleasantly Belle was startled to hear the cloak strike five. Mr. Gold reached for his hat, commenting sheepishly, “Forgive me.  I have overstayed.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Belle assured him. “I greatly enjoyed the company.”

As he made his bow of farewell to Regina, she commented,  “Did I overhear that you will be leaving the city soon, Mr. Gold?”

“Yes, I return to Glasgow tomorrow.”

“Then you must allow us to have you to dinner tonight to bid you goodbye.” Regina declared. “Just a small family gathering. Lord David and Lady Mary Margaret will wish to see you before you leave.”

“If it would not put you to any trouble.” Gold said cautiously.

“Not in the least.”

Since Belle knew that Mary Margaret and David were invited to a musical evening tonight it was clear Regina was upending everyone’s plans to entertain Mr. Gold. This sudden about face in Regina’s attitude toward Mr. Gold was starling.

The last of the guests departed shortly after Mr. Gold. Once they were gone Regina turned to her and told her. ” Go down and tell Cook we’ll be six, no make that eight for dinner. I’ll send a card to James and Abigail to fill out the numbers. They want to support David’s political career and will forgive the short notice. Tell him Mr. Gold will be attending so he’ll have to restrain himself from serving anything too continental. I’d go over the menu myself, but I need to get a note off to Mary Margaret as well.”

“Of course,” Belle agreed automatically. “But, Regina, may I ask why you are now so eager to cultivate Mr. Gold? I thought you found him vulgar.”

Regina frowned at her. “He is, but his manners are passable for his station. And he gave you a book for heaven’s sake!”

This appeared a complete non sequitur to Belle. She tentatively asked, “Should I not have accepted it? It seemed an innocuous enough gift.” But a young lady was not supposed to accept meaningful presents from gentlemen outside her family.

Regina actually rolled her eyes. “Girl, it’s not an emerald bracelet like the one my idiot sister is brandishing about. The point is not that he gave you a gift. It’s that he clearly put a great deal of thought into finding a gift that would please you. Either he’s completely smitten or he actually regards books the same way you do. Either of which works in your favor. While he would normally be totally unsuitable for a woman of your rank, at your age and with your social impediments Mr. Gold may well be your only prospect. If you’ve any sense you will do everything you can to fix his interest.”

“I find Mr. Gold most congenial company.” Belle said primly.

“And you should be on your knees in thanks, if that is the case.” Regina told her sharply. “To actually like the man you marry for financial security is rare. Don’t let this chance go by, Belle. Not only will this give you a home of your own…”

And get her out of Regina’s. Still by her own lights the other woman was trying to give Belle an opportunity.

“... But it will allow you to assist Mary Margaret by improving David’s position.” Regina went on. “His wife’s cousin will be of more interest to Mr. Gold than some random young man who offers to support his political goals.

“Why you may even be able to help your father.” Regina nodded. “Now go. I’ll send Marian up to help you dress. You'll want to look your best.”

Descending to the kitchen to speak with Cook, Belle considered Regina’s remarks. She had always known that her family’s financial circumstance would limit her choice of husband. Even at the best of times she had not had Mary Margaret’s option of marrying a penniless younger son for love. Now with Papa ruined her prospects were even poorer.

She might find Regina’s monetary view of marriage distasteful, but the woman spoke the truth as she saw it.

Still…

She hugged Mr. Gold’s book to her chest. She might be able to please her family and friends, and follow her own predilection. After all there was nothing saying that she could not marry a comfortably well off, older man for love.

[laszlowrobinson]

A playlist that your character would actually listen to

It didn’t say to describe why they would listen to these songs, but I did it anyway because while idk anything about music I like to rave about it lmao

Spice Up Your Life - Spice Girls 

I mean the Spice Girls were and still are iconic spelled to sound like eye-con-eek. They were a good chunk of his childhood to adolescence since they WERE the 90′s. So not only is their music just, you know, great, it holds a very nostalgic place in his heart. I mean he for sure watched Spice World and didn’t give a single shit that it makes no sense. It didn’t need to, it was the Spice Girls hanging with aliens and chilling out on the bus in their iconic fashion. Anyone in that movie he will reference as their character from that instead of like oh Hugh Laurie from House MD? NO, it’s Hugh Laurie, Poritot from Spice World. Oh Stephen Fry? From Gosford Par? NO, it’s Stephen Fry, the Judge from Spice World. 

Anyways, while he would and does put their entire discography on, I’m putting this one in particular because it’s such a bop!! And their anthem. When the bitches were back for the 2012 Olympics, while they may have opened with Wannabe with choreography, (except Victoria who literally stood there Posing, the icon) they really went in with Spice Up Your Life okay, they rode around that stadium ON the cabs while singing it!!! It’s 100% the song that will pick him up off the floor. 

LA DI DA - EVERGLOW

What a song??? Holy SHIT. It may be only like a month old in its life span but it Hits, so it gets a spot on this playlist because as soon as I heard it I was like, “Laszlo would be obsessed.” It’s a bop, it’s a jam, it’s everything he could ever ask for in a song. First off, the production on it is just so good!!! The beats HIT and the clapping behind their vocals picks it up to another level. And that part where they like lmfao aggressively grunt?? after “Everglow forever let’s go.” amazing, brilliant, stunning, absolutely the best thing he has ever heard before. And then the VOCALS!!! The talent!!!! Like the range between all the girls is astounding, and I don’t just mean their vocal range. I mean ALL of it, the singing, the rapping, the power and then pulling it back for the softness until they come back to make heads bop for the chorus. Whew!!! Just such a good, pump up song that he can bop around too and that’s his favorite kind of music!! 

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight) - ABBA but the Cher Cover 

No disrespect to ABBA because Laszlo loves them, but he looooves Cher and while he would ALSO play her entire discography, this song just hits different sung by Cher in 2018 in her beautiful, earthy voice. And she did it so tastefully. She respected the original song by not turning it over into something completely lost to the track but it still felt like she was putting her own magical Cher-y blessing upon it as if it were her very own song. It’s like the perfect crossover??? He probably had an out of body experience listening to her cover album of ABBA and then going to see her in Mama Mia! 2. Plus, like, this song is also his life lmfaooooo where is his man,,, @ god (who is Cher, as confirmed on Will and Grace.) 

I Know A Place - MUNA

Not only is this song just...so good...but the lyrics of it really hit home for him. Like??? “Don’t you be afraid of love and affection/ just lay down your weapon”??? ow bitch. But it is a celebratory song!!! It’s about being able to be whoever you are and not having to worry about getting hurt or dealing with the bleeeh people of the world because they’re going to a place that’s safe and accepting, and that’s in LGBT+ spaces. And there are a lot of people who don’t feel safe and who are having to hide themselves, but this song is providing them a little slice of heaven to be themselves. It also serves as a reminder that there are places were you can be safe and happy and yourself and you will be accepted!!! And that’s just such a lovely message, and for music like this to be out there in the world for the youth makes him so happy! And the music itself is so funky and absolutely something that one can dance to. It has those places that slow down...and then HIT for the bopping around for the hype of the chorus!! UGH! and Katie’s voice still being sort of haunting really just brings it on home. This song is so good!! Stream MUNA!!!!! 

Paparazzi - Lady Gaga (TW: fake blood from 3:20-end of the video) 

I’m linking the 2009 MTV performance because I’m going to say that this was his first exposure to Lady Gaga and holy shit was it life changing!!! This was everything. Like the performance art of it really came for his throat. Spoiler alert: when the blood started pouring from her chest and the crowd like gasped and groaned??? It was a Cultural Reset!! She was singing her heart out and going all out on that choreography. Her foot up on the piano as she slammed the keys??? The set design?? SO GOOD! And her dancers? Shout out to them, because damn they really did that. So, not only is the song amazing, he will always associate it with hearing it to this performance and it is still such a good song!!! The lyrics are insane. She did this when she was 23, only a year older than him, and boy did it light a fire under his ass. 

And it also serves to keep him humble lmfao. Even though he isn’t Famous famous like his other family members he does have his own little corner of fame and can’t be out here falling in love with the attention. 

Coisa Boa - Gloria Groove

Honestly, anything Gloria Groove puts out is pure gold to his ears. They don’t have to go as hard as they do, but they do it anyways! The really pronounced instrument that’s going on? Their singing??? Going from rapping to hitting that note at the end of “Quer papo de ousadia?” absolutely sends Laszlo off the rails. Like, there’s no other way to describe their style than Iconic. It’s fun and fighty and gah! So good!! Also it just being about getting the Squad and going ham is just, chef kisses. Again, his favorite songs are things that get him moving and grooving, and this ones ticks all the marks and so much more. One day they will release an album and on that day someone should check to make sure Laszlo is still alive. 

Toxic - Brittany Spears

I mean what is there to say. The song is iconic, it came out when he was like 17. It was everything and still holds up today. The production on it still just boggles the mind. That like eeeeee sound??? The spy music break in the middle of it?? And the video!!! Art. The fact that she did the back handspring during the laser bit really just made him go insane. Cultural reset from the pop queen of the time. Turned him into a bigger Britney fan. Everything about it is so good. Another nostalgic one, but !! it still holds up baby!! If this is played he is legally required to perform. 

El Mambo - Mon Laferte

Her voice is just?? out of this world. Laszlo is a huuuge fan of everything she puts out but this one really just took him out. Like she can hit some powerful vocals and that’s what the beginning seems like they’re counting up to, but when she came out of the gate just rapping about this guy who needs to get over himself, woooowie. And then she comes back for that mambo sound in the chorus and her beautiful voice going In, ugh. UGH. It’s so good!!! She is amazing and the instruments on this one really highlight that as well as making it groovy enough to dance around to as we say goodbye to toxic men and their overwhelming jealousy!!

Too Little Too Late - JoJo

I’m linking to the 2018 version because JoJo re-releasing all her music so that she can get the cash money from HER music is...stunning, amazing, love her and love that for her. This song was yet another cultural reset. And you know what, she just got better. Her vocals kick ass and the lyrics are still just as good as they were when they first came out. That high register run she does toward the end??? Okay?? go off!!! Another song about a wonderful lady kicking a man out of her life and becoming better for it. also she JUST came out with a Christmas album so go stream it. 

Endless - Frank Ocean

Now this is the whole album because, honestly, that’s how it’s supposed to be listened to. There’s also the visual element that you’re supposed to watch while listening, but since that’s like no where to be found since Mr. Ocean’s people snatched it all up from the internet unless you want to buy it off Apple, this is all we get to work with. Which is fine, honestly. ANYWAYS, this whole album is just so beautiful. And no one really knows the full story behind where it came from or why Mr. Ocean made it, and that’s a whole over layer as to why Laszlo adores it!! Not only is the music stunning but the mystery surrounding it gives him life. Frank Ocean is another artist that he could press random on the entire discography and be happy with whatever decided to play, but THIS album is his favorite from the man. It may seem like the outtakes from Blonde but to Laszlo, they all feel intentional. It’s like peaking into a sketchbook versus the novel of Blonde, and that appeals to him!! There is a certain effort that needs to be put in to listen to it by finding it. So it’s that little bit of extra artistry that makes this album hit different than the others, plus the songs, though some very VERY short, are all GREAT. Every song has this sort of improv feeling almost? but feel effortless like all his other music. Some of them are really short, just snip bits of a song, but they don’t feel that way with how they flow together and cut one another off and it’s just a weird entity of music that feels fleeting and yet...endless. 

[talkfastromance4]

Cross Her (C.H Part iii)

Summary: With a new album and tour soon to be on the rise, 5SOS’s management has decided to put Calum into a public relationship.

Masterlist

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: none

Part 1  Part II

They had two radio interviews to do in the morning and all Calum could think about was spending the day at the beach with Grace. It was 7:30 in the morning and although he wanted to text her, he knew she was still fast asleep. Was she dreaming of him?

“All right! Good morning guys! How are we feeling on the morning after your debut single of “Falling All into You” last night?” the host asks.

“A little hungover,” Ashton laughs and the rest of the guys follow.

“Well hey, it’s a killer song you should have celebrated last night. Tell me, what was the inspiration behind this? Calum, I know you’ve got a newly sprouted relationship, was your lady the cause?”

“Ash and I both wrote it actually,” Calum speaks into the mic. “And when we were discussing who would do the vocals I volunteered. On our last album we didn’t have love songs, songs that were explicitly love songs, so this one is tender.”

“Tender, that’s a good word for it, actually,” Michael chortles in his mic. “I like that.”

“And what did all the 5sos women think of the song?”

“They like it, I think,” Luke says, “Sierra has heard me practice it for the last three months and she told me she liked it. I don’t think that changed. I hope.” He lets out a nervous chortle.

“Is this a good indicator on what this next album is going to sound like? Almost like a . . . uh rock ballad, almost?”

“I mean, this is definitely going to be a somewhat different album, we do have another slower song, sort of like Ghost of You but not as heavy um, lyrically wise and. . .”

Calum zones out while Ashton explains their new sound and feels his phone buzz in his sweatshirt pocket. He pulls it out and sees Grace’s name in the little message bar, he put the pink hibiscus flower next to her name. He’s not quite sure why but when he saw it it made him think of her.

 The song is definitely tender, I love that. It’s perfect. If you’re hungover I’ll bring iced coffee to the beach J have fun at the other interview

 Calum is beaming. Here she is, texting him before 8 a.m. commenting on his response on the radio show. She was awake and listening to him and it made him feel all warm inside. His response was quick:

 How are you awake right now? My head is killing me

 Had to listen to you! The response to the song is incredible, you’re already trending rockstar

 Really? That’s great!

 Okay I’m gonna get some more sleep my eyes are as heavy as 10 pound weights. But I wanted to hear you on the radio, btw you should talk more. Your voice is nice, ten more points

 Have a good sleep, sweetheart. We’re tied now, you realize

 oh I know J

 Calum pocketed his phone and pulled his attention back to the interview. They were discussing when the album would be released. Calum couldn’t stop smiling. He liked how she wrote the number ten both numerically and printed. It was quirky but it was Grace. He liked how she woke up specifically to listen to him on the radio.

With the song trending, Grace’s texts and the promise of seeing her in a few hours, Calum was soaring above cloud nine.

 The other interview went about the same. Same questions, same stupid games but Calum did speak up a bit more. He felt like he needed to impress Grace when she watched the interview later. He hoped she didn’t mind him talking about her.

Finally, finally as they left the radio station he was about to see Grace. Walking out of the building some fans were barricaded off by guards and those metal blockades. Calum heard his name screamed the most and Grace’s was even mixed in.

“What are they saying about Grace?” he asks Ashton as they walk to the cars.

“Uh . . .” Ashton looks beyond Calum trying to listen. “Sounds like they’re saying you guys are cute together.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Calum smiles climbing into the back of the SUV.

“You two were getting pretty snuggly on the boat last night,” Ashton waggles his eyebrows. “Is this fake thing not so fake anymore?”

Calum shrugs. He’s not too sure what’s going on but the more time he spends with Grace . . . .

 When Calum picked her up from her hotel room, she seemed a bit off. Her smile was a little less radiant and it didn’t meet her eyes. He decided to let it go for a bit thinking maybe she’s still tired from the night before.

“You look nice,” he compliments as they’re exiting the car. She has on white shorts and a coral colored top that just stops just about her midriff. She looks more than nice but he doesn’t want to overstep.

“Thanks,” she snickers, “my beach look is no make-up.”

“You don’t need make-up so that’s worth 50 points.”

“Fifty?! We aren’t tied anymore,” she pouts shouldering the bag with all their goodies following Calum to the sand.

“As it should be,” he winks then takes a sharp left away from the big crowd.

“Where are we going?”

“This is a little private area so we won’t be ogled at or get photos taken. Today is a relaxing day, Grace.”

They set up camp quickly, Grace even brought a big umbrella to stick in the sand and some pillows. Calum was impressed as he sat down on the blanket.

“Where’d you get all this stuff?” he shakes the umbrella making sure it was sturdy before turning to look at Grace who was pulling out snacks from her big bag.

“I took an Uber and went shopping. I get a little cabin crazy being in the hotel all the time,” she makes a face handing him a mule cup then pours iced coffee from a thermos.

Calum frowns, he hates how she’s locked up in the hotel room like a tower. It’s not homey and she has no means of transportation, not that he’d want her to drive in LA in the first place. Traffic is crazy.

“If you want I could pull for a driver for you,” he suggests.

“Oh, no I couldn’t—“

“Please, it’ll ease my mind knowing you’re with someone I know and trust instead of some stranger from Uber. I’ve read the stories.”

Grace’s body relaxes. “Okay, that’s really sweet of you. Thank you.”

He gives her his best smile then looks out to the water then back at her and wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “Wanna head in?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice!”

To his surprise she only removes her shorts revealing more of her legs and her swimsuit bottoms. Apparently her top was her swimsuit top. Her bottoms were high-waisted and showed off her curves tastefully. He was so preoccupied checking her out (discreetly of course) he hadn’t even removed his tank top yet.

“Are you going to swim in your tank top or what?” she laughs.

Calum removes it quickly then Grace grabs hold of his hand tugging him to the water’s edge. Before they go in she stops in the wet sand, her toes curling in and out creating small grooves.

“This is the first time I’ll actually be going in the ocean,” she admits excitedly.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve always felt drawn to it, maybe it’s cause I’m a Cancer and a water sign but I don’t know. The water is my second home.”

“Wait, when’s your birthday?”

“July 6,” she smiles shyly.

“That’s a—“

“Day before Ashton’s, I know,” she nods. “I’m a year younger than him though.”

“Your birthday is coming up! We need to celebrate!”

“Nah, we don’t have to. I was hoping to maybe fly back home for my birthday if it doesn’t mess up with our um . . . deal.”

“I’ll fly you back there myself.”

“No, Calum it’s fine. Francesca will probably want us to stay in town because of the release and—“

“I don’t care what Francesca wants. We created our own boundaries, right? We’ll go back to your home for your birthday, okay? Now, let’s get you into this home now.”

He takes the first steps into the warm ocean water and he pulls her with him. He watches her the whole time, loving the soft gasp that emits from her lips at the first touch of the sea. A glorious smile shines on her face as they wade deeper and deeper until it’s a little bit past her waist. The water just touches Calum’s hips but since she’s shorter it met her first.

Their hands join together under the water and she does a small happy dance causing Calum to laugh at her antics.

“Feel good?” he laughs.

“It feels wonderful!” she releases one of his hands to dip herself all the way back so her hair gets wet.

She comes back up with her hair clinging to her back and Calum thinks she looks like a mermaid. Water droplets race down her skin and she shakes his hand.

“Come on, let’s swim!”

All the other girls Calum has been with never ever swam in the ocean. They just stood there to cool off before going back to the sand to catch up on their tan. She does the breast stroke, floats on her back and even goes under the water to swim a few paces.

Calum is fascinated by her until she splashes him in the chest.

“What are you, my lifeguard? Swim around, Cal.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. With a devious smirk, he launches himself at her through the water and picks her up in his arms. She squeals against him and he tosses her back in the water. When she surfaces she’s laughing and wipes the water from her eyes before trying to tackle him as well.

Playing along (and to make her feel strong) he lets himself be barreled over into the water. At one point she hops on his back and he tries to run deep in the water, his feet slipping in the sand and her laughter in his ear.

After playing around in the water they both became hungry and went back to their blanket. Grace dabbed herself a little dry before getting onto it and taking out the food. Calum gazes in amazement at all of the goodies she takes out; watermelon, veggie chips, grapes, pretzels, hummus and a thermos of iced tea.

“You’re incredible,” he splutters and Grace beams.

***

Calum is a bit more somber while he and the boys are in New York for more promo for Falling All into You because Grace is on his mind. He wonders if she’s spending time with the girls. He’s in constant contact with her and with Francesca who is finding the perfect house for Grace to stay in instead of the hotel.

Grace is writing a lot while Calum is away. He’s on her mind constantly but she’s been hanging out with Sierra a lot which is nice. She feels like she can confide in her and they get lunch almost every day.  

“So, I know you and Cal are doing the whole fake relationship for the song, how’re you holding up with that?” Sierra asks when they’re eating at a small bistro.

It’s Wednesday and the guys will be back in two days, Grace can’t wait.

“I’m doing okay,” Grace nods swirling her straw in her glass. “It’s not really as bad as I thought it was going to be. I thought Francesca and Dewey would be ordering me around like a puppet but Calum said we’d make our own boundaries.”

“That’s good!” Sierra smiles then smirks a little, “are you catching feelings at all?”

Grace swirls her ice faster, is she catching feelings? She thinks she is, she’s actually one hundred percent sure she is. It’s so easy with Calum and even though they’re relationship is ‘fake’ she’s never connected more with anyone before. Even in past relationships she felt like she couldn’t really be herself but with Calum it was a different story.

Should she tell Sierra what she’s feeling? Grace has a good feeling about her but she also knows how girls can be two faced and is unsure.

“You don’t have to tell me if you are,” Sierra assures putting her hand on Grace’s. “But I’ve known Calum for a while and I’m pretty sure he has feelings for you.”

“Why do you say that?” Grace asks trying very, very hard to keep her voice even. But inside, butterflies are erupting in her stomach.

“The way he looks at you, even when you aren’t around him he’s always searching for you to make sure you’re okay. Luke does the same for me,” she smiles, “and the way he says your name is so . . . tender.”

Grace can’t help the blush that colors her cheeks.

“And I bet he’s wishing he was here instead of in New York.”

 ------

The next few days went by a little bit faster, Calum would Facetime Grace whenever he got back in the hotel. He’d ask about her day, what she did, and what the best part was and if she wrote anything. She always joked, ‘I’m always writing in my head,’ and it made him smile each time.

Grace wanted to go meet him at the airport but he kindly declined because the fans can get pretty crazy there. She even suggested that Sierra could go with her, they’ve gotten close this past week, and Calum knew Luke didn’t even like Sierra coming to pick him up. Regardless of them being engaged now, some fans still sent her hate mail and rude comments and he didn’t want to put her right in the line of fire.

And besides, Calum wanted to pick Grace up from the hotel because her newly rented home was finally furnished and ready for her to move in. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction. Yeah, he was supposed to be getting ready for the Friends of Friends show that night, but Grace was more important to him.

When he picked her up she threw her arms around his neck in a tight hug, he chuckled into her hair and hugged her tightly back. She felt so soft and yet solid in his arms, this was the first hug they’ve shared and it felt so good. He got a good look at her and saw she was wearing one of the FOF long sleeve shirts.

“Nice shirt,” he comments.

“Thanks, I thought it’d be fitting for tonight,” she smiles.

“Get your purse and things, I have to show you something.”

Grace is jittering in her seat the whole way to . . . wherever it was that Calum was taking her. She tried getting it out of him the whole ride what he had to show her but Calum kept his lips sealed. When he rolled to a stop in front of a small blue home, he looked at her expectantly then out the window.

Grace looked at the house then back at Calum in confusion.

“Are we at your house?”

“No, we’re at your house,” he grins then unbuckles quickly and exits the car. He opens her door and she’s gaping at him, still buckled and wide eyed. He reaches over to unbuckle her belt then takes her hand pulling her out of the car.

“My what?”

“I spoke with Francesca and this is where you’re going to be staying while you write your book. I couldn’t stand you being up in that hotel room all the time,” he shakes his head leading her to the front door. “It’s a little further from my house, but I figured you’d like the quiet suburbs to remind you of your home.”

“Calum, this is—“she shakes her head in disbelief as he pulls out a key from his pocket.

“Don’t even say it. Want to go inside?” he dangles the key in front of her.

With a shaky hand she plucks the key from between his finger and pushes it through the key slot. It turns easily and she opens it to see beech wood flooring all around except for in the living room to the right. It has lush looking carpet with a big dark gray couch with a ton of blankets, a TV, and a coffee table.

Calum nudges her gently from behind so he can shut the door behind him, he peers around to look at her face and she’s still struck in awe.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says gently.

The kitchen is medium sized with a small island in the middle that has flowers in a vase and a round table to the right for eating. Calum keeps guiding her through the halls until they reach her master bedroom. It has a king sized bed with a mural above it of the ocean. There’s French doors to the left that lead out to her fenced in backyard, with a hot tub, and a nice patio.

“The bathroom is through there,” he points past the large screen TV opposite the bed, “and past the kitchen is another little room I had set up to be your creative room. I thought it’d be a nice temporary home while you’re—“

Grace leaps into his arms hugging him tightly. Her face is buried in his shoulder and hot tears fall through her eyes in pure happiness, disbelief and gratitude. Calum wraps his arms around her, he holds her easily off the floor.

“D’you like it?” he mumbles into her hair.

“I love it,” she cries into his shirt.

He pulls her from his chest gently so he can see her face. A tear rolls down her cheek and he wipes it away with his thumb, his heart is hammering in his chest. Was this all wrong?

“Why’re you crying?” he continues wiping the tears from her face as they fall freely, his thumbs are like windshield wipers.

“Because, this is too much and you’ve been so good to me. No one has ever done something like this for me and we’ve only known each other for a month and I don’t know how I’ll every repay you for all of this—“she chokes on her words as her emotions take over.

“Hey, hey, you don’t owe me anything,” he shakes his head. “This is a gift. You’ve sacrificed so much for being here, I feel like I’m repaying you,” he chuckles.

Grace shakes her head and looks down trying to hide her tear stained face from him. Calum won’t have that so he lowers his head until he’s looking into her eyes.

“Can you smile for me? This has to earn me at least a hundred points of adorable, right?” he asks and she gives him a watery laugh. “There we go. No more crying, okay?”

“Okay,” she nods then sniffs. “And you get 75 points.”

Calum laughs.

In this moment Calum wants to kiss her tears away. Their faces are so close together he could count how many eyelashes are on her lid but instead, he pulls her in for another hug. With her arms wrapped around his waist and his cheek resting on his head, his kiss to her forehead was like a reflex.

[judgement-free-sideblog]

Dancing lessons

Barry Berkman x reader

Summary: Barry is finally cast in a feature, the problem? He said he could dance and now he can either disappoint Sally or found a way to learn some steps.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, violence, guns, cheating maybe.

Part 1 ● Part 2 ● Part 3 ● Part 4 ● Part 5 ● Part 6 ● Part 7 ● Part 8 ● Epilogue

Part 2

One week after the first time Barry meet Y/N he was nowhere near learning tango, let alone dancing on the level his stupid resume said he could, he only have ended with horrible pain on his knees, thighs and back. And he hasn't even practice dancing with music yet, apparently his instructor thought he first had to learn one basic step and repeat it a million times before he could start doing the "flashy and presumptuous" step, as she called them, that the director may want.

"You really don't have to worry" Sally said during breakfast, they have an agreement to spend the night at least twice a week in each other apartment but he could tell she rather if he stayed at hers since Jermaine and Nick didn't get along with her. "That girl you say is dancing with you, I just heard from Lindsay that she is totally sleeping with the director so probably the scene is an excuse to show her dancing talent and they will be focusing on her instead of you" She drank the rest of her orange juice and stood up quickly "God is so late" she checked her phone and gave him a kiss on the cheek before taking her purse and keys and rush to the door "I'll see you tonight ok? Good luck!"

"Bye, I love..." And then she was gone. "You" He finished his breakfast and took his own car to the studio where he had to finish filming his scenes.

"Barry you're here, excellent!" Andre said when he arrived, thankfully he was not the star of the film and he didn't have to listen the hundred of notes he had for the leads nor taking all the shit the PAs get from him. "Look" He said pointing at his tablet "Janice is on New York for three more weeks for a Ballet presentation, but she sent this to me, is the perfect choreography for the scene. What do you think?" He showed her a clip of Janice and some professional dancer with a song he didn't knew, probably in Spanish or Italian, dancing incredibly close, with several lifts and spins.

"Great" He said feeling dizzy "Flashy and presumptuous" He add really low.

"What was that?"

"Classy and marvelous, is a modern take on the Argentine style isn't?" He said repeating what Y/N had said to him the day before.

"I have no idea, but hey you are the expert" He gave him a pat on the back. "You can start rehearsing with Janice when she gets back" He didn't like that kind of touching, it reminded him of Fuches and make him feel uneasy.

"Sure, great, hey could you send me that video, you know to study her movements" he tried to sound casual and not frightened as he was.

"Yeah sure" he said and with a hand gesture urged him to move to the set where he got to start shooting.

The minute he was over he drove back to Y/N's studio and saw her giving her class to young girls all dressed as ballerinas, she was wearing a black seetrough dancing skirt over a leotard, and his eyes lingered on her legs a few seconds more than he should mesmerized as he was by the elegance she used to dance.

"Barry you are early" She saluted him with a smile, "Girls say hi to Mr. Block" she said at the mass of pink and white.

"Hi Mr. Block" They cheered.

"I'll be done in a few minutes but this really is a private rehearsal" She pat her lips with one finger thinking "Would you mind waiting upstairs? I mean I would hate for you to drive back home to come back in less than an hour, and the coffee place on this block sucks" She said and the girls start laughing "Don't tell your mothers" She quickly add.

"I don't want to be a burden"

"Oh nonsense, you are not, go upstairs, I have food on the fridge but I wouldn't recommend it since you are dancing later and the WiFi password is written next to the phone" She insisted and he finally accept.

The apartment was just a little bigger than the one he rented with Jermaine and had a nice walls on a blue shade that reminded him of the ocean. And a big window facing directly to the door, so the first thing you see when you entered were the rooftop of other buildings and the hills in the back.

He entered feeling himself as an intruder, but being honest that was a common feeling for him, even if he haven't break in any place in over a year, a very long year, and again the pain of thinking of Fuches maybe lurking around strike him in the chest.

He found a place to sit and after being 5 minutes in complete silence trying to not be alone with his thoughts he took out his laptop to watch the dance again. Next to the landline was a nice picture of Y/N on his wedding dress next to a man that must be her husband with golden letters and numbers written over: JPTLV150813.

Once he was connected he allow himself to look around, the living room was tastefully decorated and there were some framed paintings of wild flowers on the wall in purples and pinks. He glance at their dinner table in the other room next to her kitchen, and while he was still holding he picture his mind start wandering, maybe Sally would like to live with him in a place like that. Full of light and peaceful.

He picture himself waking every morning and walking towards the kitchen to make her breakfast, she getting out of the set exhausted, to get a glass of wine in the living room. Reading lines together in the couch, and falling asleep there watching a movie.

And then since he hadn't sleep wery well and Y/N couch was madly comfortable he fall asleep still holding the picture and suddenly Sally's face start fading away, and Y/N replaced her, in a blue version of the clothes she was wearing earlier, he saw himself dancing with her on the living room, a slow and romantic rhythm, and instead of her husband it was him smiling on the picture next to the phone. She would come upstairs tired from work and he would stop her at the door to give her a passionate kiss... then the sound of a gun going off came from the window and a blood stain start forming in her chest running and she collapsing on his arms, and then it was Sally lifeless body again who he was holding and she whispered before losing her breath You did this and fearful he looked at his own hand holding the gun...

"Barry?" Y/N's voice came from the door, and immediately woke up and shake those horrifying ideas from his mind.

"Here" He call from the couch and was careful enough to not look back and don't picture her covered in blood

"I'm so done, boy I'm glad you came upstairs, Amanda's mother is a pain in the ass, if she have seen you she would have called the cops or something" She said and sit in next of him, she was already wearing the heels she used to practice with him. "What you got there?" She said looking at the screen where the video of Janice was still on.

"Is the dance I'm supposed to do for the movie" He said glad to have something to said and he showed her the clip.

"Well... you are screwed" She said after it was finish and he gave her an imploring look. "I'm kidding, I mean is a monstrosity of showing off, and her technique is not perfect, but I'm pretty sure you can put together something, like Ed Sheeran on Thinking out loud". She said confidently.

"Who?" He asked with no idea of what she meant.

"He is a British singer, we are probably too old to know him, but couples come all the time trying to learn his routine for their wedding" She said, but his face was still puzzled "You are not very familiar with pop culture, for an actor living in L.A. I mean" She stood up and walked towards her kitchen "Do you want anything? I have wine, beer, orange juice?" She called from the other room.

"Beer is fine, and is because I only became an actor recently" He said with some embarrassment in his voice taking the bottleshe offered him "I used to amm... sell auto parts in Cleveland"

"Ohio, that's ... far" she said taking a sip of her drink.

"And before that I was a Marine" He add and she almost spit her beer but did her best to pass it down.

"Oh wow, that's unusual. I would definitely say thank you for your service, but I'm antiwar so what if I gave you a 10 percent off on the lessons and we call it even?" She grin at him

"Don't worry about that, I don't like to make a big deal about it anyway" He said sincerely "Also I'm pretty sure you are wasting your time with me"

"Don't be so harsh on yourself, here look" She took the laptop off his hands and found a video of a ginger man singing a cheezy song about eternal love "See he is not properly dancing, but he act like he is, so first you have to learn how to lead, come on take off your shoes"

"Take them off? Why?" He asked while she got rid off her heels and let her bare feet touch the wooden floor.

"Because, and I mean this with respect" She said standing and looking for a record to put in her old record player until she found one "You are huge, and I'm afraid you would step on me with those shoes" a slow rhythm start playing and he did what she asked and stood barefoot in front of her.

"That doesn't sound like the other songs" Although he like it.

"Because you have to learn to walk before you can run, now, put both of your hands on my hips" She said getting closer to him.

"Like this?" It was funny how without the heels she was way shorter and couldn't completely reach her neck so she settled for put both hands on his shoulders.

"Fine now listen to the music and move" She said moving her body rhythmically "There you go, now move me, lead, right or left, is your choice" She said letting him take small steps and occasionally looking down to watch his feet.

"This is not that bad actually" Barry was actually enjoying himself, then the music start going faster and she took his right hand on hers and pull away from him and he chose to ignore the feeling of lost that caused him.

"Now, the hand on my back has to be steady, and lead, we can spin" She said and taught him how "Or we can walk" She started walking back slowly letting him follow the steps at his own pace. "Is all about who is leading" She gave him a smile and they kept dancing until the music was ending and since he had confidence now he make her spin and catch her on his arm like Janice's partner did on the clip.

"Sorry I always wanted to try that" he said once she was standing next to him.

"It was great, you are getting it, now we can try to improve your actual steps, but we should go downstairs, my husband is about to comeback and he hates having music on when he is working" She put on her shoes again and walked out followed by Barry.

[chocoluckchipz]

Dance with Me, Chaton - 25

Read it on A03, WattPad, FF.net

Written for @ladynoirjuly2019

< Previous

25. Hawkmoth’s Defeat

Adrien hadn’t expected what he saw. Compared to an average-looking building in a below-average neighborhood, Plagg’s place was a king’s habitat. A spacious penthouse, clearly created by combining a few of the apartments, tastefully renovated and decorated in the most modern of fashions with undertones of black and neon green all throughout. There was undoubtedly a pretty amount of money spent on this place, something Adrien would’ve never expected in this building, nor in this neighborhood, and especially not from Plagg.

“Make yourself at home,” Plagg said, plopping on a couch and reaching for the remote control. With music now playing, he stretched.

“This place looks incredible,” Adrien said in awe, trying to take everything in. “With Tikki’s names for it, I imagined something more… well—”

“Trashy?” Plagg snickered. “Kid, who do you take me for?”

“Sorry,” Adrien smiled sheepishly. “The place really does look amazing.”  

“Thanks,” Plagg shrugged. “I’ll let Tikki know you like her work.”

“Tikki did it? I thought she didn't like it.”

“She doesn't like the smell of Camembert, not my apartment. Renovations were her idea. She hired workers but designed everything herself. Tikki’s very much like Marinette. Only she creates spaces, not clothes.”

Marinette’s name mentioned, Adrien felt a tingle of sadness at his chest. He couldn’t rush, though. Plagg was right; he had to give her time and space. “You come here often?”

“A few times a month?” Plagg shrugged. “At least twice a week in the last month. I slept here when we had a late session and then an early morning the next day.”

“And then you also napped at home?” Adrien remembered. “How hard your life must be.”

“Horrendous,” Plagg smirked. “Tikki was not happy. Threatened to buy herself an apartment full of all things sweet and escape there at least once a month for a week.”

Adrien chuckled. The doorbell rang.

“Can you take that?” Plagg settled deeper into his seat. “I don’t have any cash on me?”

Adrien quirked an eyebrow. “You ordered food without having money on you?”

Plagg groaned, rolling his eyes, “There is a credit card in my wallet in the closet by the door if you’re so cheap. Where is my Camembert by the way? I asked you to bring some, didn’t I?”

“It’s in my bag,” Adrien replied. “And I’ll pay for the pizza. Don’t worry.”

Plagg yawned, closing his eyes. “Crazy day. I need a nap.”

Unusually talkative and open, Plagg was the one who did most of the talking during dinner with Adrien answering the occasional question. He learned quite a bit. Just as Marinette had told him, Plagg really had come from a wealthy family, but just like Adrien, he’d been neglected and abused. Only Plagg was lucky to have met Tikki in his early twenties at one of those boring corporate dinners. They clicked instantly; a whirlwind romance followed. Upon realizing how Plagg lived, it was Tikki who slapped some sense into him. With her encouragement, he got out, buying this apartment to hide from his family. Not hide from them per se because most of them had disowned him, but he didn’t wish to accidentally bump into any of them on the street, and not a single member of Plagg’s family, according to him at least, would’ve ever set foot in such a neighborhood. It worked. Plagg never saw them again, only getting the occasional letter from his mother. When he and Tikki got married, Plagg kept the apartment as a reminder of what he’d gone through and as a place to stay at when Tikki needed their house to herself.

“Alright, kid,” Plagg said, pushing his plate away. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you mean?” Adrien asked. “I’m fine.”

“You aren’t angry.”

Adrien fell quiet, almost shrinking on himself.

“You don’t seem to be too worried about what happened today.”

Adrien bowed his head low, his arms finding its way into his lap.

“You behave as if nothing has happened. What’s wrong with you, kid?”

“There is nothing I can do now,” Adrien murmured, his lips pressed together. “No point in raging.”

“So, you going to shut your feelings inside and pretend like everything’s fine?”

His head still hung low, Adrien shifted his eyes to the side. “That’s what I always did. Smile and bear it. It’ll get better later.”

“It might, it might not, but all those emotions cooped inside will eat at you, Adrien,” Plagg continued. “No matter how much you suppress them, they will haunt you and one day it’s all going to spill over, and I’m afraid to even think about what might happen. I’ve seen stuff I’d rather not. I’ve heard stuff that I’d hate to happen to you. You’ve got to let it out.”

“I’m fine,” Adrien said, his voice tense, his fists clenched. “I just need some time to calm down and then deal with everything on a cool head. It works. It always has.”

Plagg quirked an eyebrow, watching Adrien for a moment before getting up and disappearing somewhere into the apartment. He returned with a few items of clothing in his hands and put them in front of Adrien. “Let’s go, I’ll show you to your room. You need to shower and change. We have a ‘butt camp’ session in half an hour.”

Adrien’s eyes snapped to Plagg. “How—”

Plagg chuckled. “Tikki thought it was hilariously accurate.”

Adrien pressed his lips together and straightened. “You know what? I’m not even sorry. That name is accurate.”

“I completely agree.” Plagg grinned. “I might even patent it as the official name of my studio. What do you think? Plagg’s Butt Camp?”

“I think,” Adrien said, snatching clothes from the table. “That you’d better pay me royalties for the idea if you do. Now, show me my room, I want to sleep today.”

Plagg laughed and led Adrien down the hall, opening one of the doors. “You have twenty minutes to shower and change. Be a minute late, and I’ll double the time of your session.”

“Shut up, Plagg,” Adrien growled lowly, looking around the room. It was a regular bedroom. A large bed, a few night tables, a dresser, and a huge mirror. A few plants which, surprisingly, weren’t dead, but then Plagg mentioned he had a cleaning person look after the place. Must have been their doing.

Taking his jacket off, Adrien headed straight for the shower. He stripped out of his clothes and turned on as hot water as he could tolerate. His skin tingled under its touch, as he got in and let the water soak him. Who was Plagg to question the way Adrien dealt with things? This is what worked for him for years! Why should he switch anything now? Adrien wasn’t Plagg and what worked for him, mightn’t work for Adrien.

He reached for the shampoo. Rivers of water down his body, Adrien washed his hair, scrubbing as hard as he could. Closing his eyes, he lifted his head up. Weird, but somehow, he was looking forward to whatever Plagg would throw his way at the lesson. He wanted to kick some butt, and what was a better place to do that than at Plagg’s Butt Camp?

Half an hour later, the duo was back at the studio. The clothes Plagg gave Adrien fit him perfectly. A bit baggier style than he was used to, but it was nice to wear something that wasn’t as constricting as his suits and dress shirts. Adrien liked it.

Plagg commanded the first twenty minutes of his training, pushing Adrien harder than he’d ever done before. More moves. Faster. Plagg yelled at him louder. He demanded the impossible. Then he unexpectedly passed the reins to Adrien.

“Choose your music,” Plagg said. “Tell me how you feel. Let me see your heart and I don’t want to watch this ‘calm down’ crap. I want to see what is really going on inside you. Right now. At this very moment.”

Adrien didn’t hesitate. He was angry. At Plagg for pushing him way too hard. At himself for being weak and pathetic. At Father for being a jerk. For being a dick and an asshole. For treating him the way he did his whole life. At Tikki for hiding Marinette from him. And if he’d be honest, even at Marinette. A little. For believing he could betray her, for not giving him a chance to explain. He knew he couldn’t blame her. She was played masterfully, but still, he couldn’t help but feel bitter.

Adrien found a song and passed his cell to Plagg. Plagg connected it to his boombox and angry, despairing sounds of Watercolour by Pendulum filling the room.

Adrien closed his eyes and felt. Coursing through his veins, the sound stirred anger in his belly. Frustration, fear, and rage. His movements matched. Sharp and jerky as he let his body express everything he felt. Not the moves Plagg was drilling into him for weeks now. No, these were his own, full of pain and agony, full of years of unreleased hurt and anger. Adrien sliced the air with his arms, kicked it with his feet, slashed it with his whole might, jerking his body in tandem with the broken sounds of the song.

He didn’t care how he looked anymore. He was done with that. Silenced his whole life, Adrien had a lot of things to say, and if this dance was his speech, then he was screaming his heart out, and no one would shut him up now.

When the new song, just as angry and raw as the previous one, started, Plagg joined in. Adrien didn’t pay much attention to him; he was too busy releasing all the tension and anger he’d had been saving up for years. Together, they danced like maniacs for a few songs until they couldn’t stand on their feet any longer, dropping to the floor afterward.

“That was awesome.” Plagg grinned at Adrien, stretched on the floor beside him. “Haven’t had this good of a release in a long time.”

“That was awesome.” Adrien grinned back, barely able to catch his breath. “I feel like a brand new person right now.”

“Right? Told you.”

“You did.”

“So, what’s next?”

“Marinette,” Adrien said, his eyes focused on the ceiling. “I need to apologize to her.”

“Then I say we practice.” Plagg finger gunned him.

Adrien stood up and walked to where his cellphone was. Sounds of DJ Snake’s Let Me Love You filled the room.

Plagg let him dance this one alone. Calmer than before, mostly graceful, yet sometimes edgy moves, Adrien let the music and the words carry him. He was a naïve idiot. It led him here. She might not forgive him and be right about it, but he had to try. He had to apologize. He had to fix the mess he’d landed them in. Otherwise, how could he claim to love her?

As for his father, Adrien was done. This time he pushed too far. Adrien could tolerate a lot, but he wouldn’t allow his father to hurt Marinette on his account. Plagg was right. Adrien did have the power to stand his own ground. He could walk away with his head high. He could defend not only himself but also Marinette. He just didn’t want to before. Not now, though. Not anymore. Family or not, if Gabriel had stopped treating him as a son, why should Adrien continue being one? It was time for him to rise. Time for Chat Noir to finally grow up and for Hawkmoth to be defeated.

_______________________________________________________________________

Next >

[doeeyeddarlingxo]

Myriad Misadventures - Chapter 56

The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-In-Training - Chapter 56

AO3 | Previous | Next

Word Count: 1661

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Rating: T

A/N: i'm posting this from the train back to school (sad reaccs only), so i'm going to keep this brief so that i can post before my connection cuts out. but i love you all! it is snowing outside, but the reactions to this story have kept my heart so warm! keep the predictions coming, and expect the daily chapter update to continue from now until (eep!) the END of the story! ahhhhh

Taglist (brand new, so lmk if you want to be added!): @lokis-girl-in-mischief

Myriad Misadventures - Chapter 56

You hadn’t realized they’d filmed the kiss.

Wedged in between Irina and Rhea on the couch, with Rosa just a pillow’s breadth away from you, you realized that none of the others have ever been portrayed as having any kind of physical relationship with Loki. Irina and Rhea tastefully avoided such questions, while Rosa...she said things, but in a joking manner. Not to be taken seriously. You, they’d left alone - it seemed like you weren’t the only one who’d thought you’d had no shot. But the day after the segment airs, you’re still wondering:

Were you the first one he kissed at all? Or just the first he kissed on camera?

********************************************

You get almost a full day’s peace and quiet before the storm begins.

"You just can't get enough, can you?"

You recognize the voice, but don't bother looking up. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rosa."

A soft green gel-tipped nail appears in your peripheral vision, clutching a sheaf of shiny, colorful papers. "Right. So you totally haven’t seen these.”

 “What?” You grab the magazines from her. “Where did you get these?”

She snorts, flopping onto the chair across from you. “We all have our little secrets, I guess.”

You flip through the top one eagerly. There they are - the results of the most recent poll. 

WHO DO YOU THINK WILL WIN THE CROWN?

Lady Rhea - 39%

You laugh. Is this really what Rosa’s so upset about? “Are you surprised? You know they love her.” She rolls her eyes in response, and you keep reading.

Lady (Y/N) - 38%

“What?” A few pages later - your page - there are more comments, scattered around a screenshot of Loki cradling your face in his hand. You read:

~ Lady (Y/N) is on FIRE!

~ I squealed out loud watching that kiss - soooo romantic! I honestly wasn't expecting him to kiss (Y/N) first, but now I hope he doesn't kiss anyone else! I can't imagine any of the other girls connecting with him like that.

Of course, not everyone’s opinions of you are quite so positive.

~ Everyone's talking about Lady (Y/N)'s "chemistry" with King Loki. One has to wonder though, is she even old enough to have even completed a college chemistry course? Her level of maturity would suggest not. She's nineteen, people! 

But your supporters always come through, defending you with a vengeance.

~ I see people mentioning age. Clearly, she’s more than mature enough to be able to speak up for herself. 

~ I love how Lady (Y/N) can call him on his BS and he’ll take it because he knows she’s right. Come on, I can’t be the only one who thinks she’d be a great queen! 

~ Lady (Y/N), though she does have her moments, is wise beyond her years. Wishing her the best in and out of the palace.

“You could have at least told us before we saw it on TV.” 

You wrinkle your brow. “Since when have you given me any reasons to trust you?”

“I’m kind of with Rosa on this one.” It’s Irina, closing the door quietly behind her. “This feels...wrong. We shouldn’t be keeping secrets from each other. It’s like sabotage.”

“Thank you!”

“It’s her business, though.” You look up with a start—you’d almost forgotten Rhea was in the room. She walks over, settling on the couch besides Irina.

“Thanks.” You start fidgeting with your hands. “I didn’t realize they’d gotten it on camera, anyway.” Rhea raises an eyebrow. “What?” Suddenly, you feel under as though you’re under siege. “I swear to God, I didn’t!”

“Right.” Rosa sounds thoroughly unconvinced. “Well, don’t go thinking you’re so special or anything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that you aren’t the only one in it to win it.” She turns away with a “hmph” and a flip of her hair.

“Win what? Him? Or the crown?”

She glares at you. “Alright, Little Miss Holier-Than-Thou. What about you? Do you really think you’re the only girl he talks to? The only one he sees? Kisses? You’re a game to him. A stupid little girl that he can manipulate and play around with while he figures out who he’s really going to keep around.”

You shrug. “Say what you like, Rosa. All I know is that I didn’t see you up on that screen last night.”

She gapes at that, mouth hanging open like a codfish. “You - you know, I am so sick of your act.”

“My act?”

“Yes, your act! You pretend to be so innocent, sweet little (Y/N), ‘tee hee, look at me, I’m dumb enough to flip out on the king and lucky enough to get away with it!’ I’m telling you, he doesn’t care about you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“You haven’t seen - ”

“Girls,” Rhea interrupts, calm and regal as always. You and Rosa both shut up immediately. “Half of the girls we started out with aren’t here. The fact that we are makes the four of us special to begin with.” She keeps her voice low, though it carries in the quiet of the room. “Maybe we should stop fighting each other.”

Irina snorts. “Right, like that’s happening.”

“No, I’m serious. And here’s how we’ll start: we’ll go around and talk about our encounters with His Majesty.”

You and Rosa shoot each other one more glare before nodding. You feel the sting of tears as you sit back down (you hadn’t even noticed you’d stood up to begin with) - you hate being reprimanded. And some of what Rosa said hit home - what if he really doesn’t care? What if - you try to block out the image of him and Rosa, his fingers tangled in her hair, her legs around his waist as he kisses her against a wall. His lips on Irina’s, his hands circling her waist as he helps her dismount from one of her precious horses. Rhea doesn’t worry you, only because she seems far too conservative to allow such a thing to occur.

“What we speak of doesn’t have to be romantic or sexual in nature,” Rhea adds. “Anything. If you went on a date that wasn’t public knowledge. If you passed and spoke to him on the way to the stables. Things like that.”

“Oh. How far back is this going? I barely remember what I wore yesterday, forget what I said three years ago.”

Rosa rolls her eyes. “God, do you have to overthink everything?” 

Irina stares daggers at her. “Okay, then. Show us how it’s done. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of stories to tell.”

“Fine.” She takes a deep breath, and your heart sinks...until she releases it in a sigh. “I can’t even think of a good lie. Nothing, okay? Absolutely nothing happened.” 

You’re surprised to hear tears in her voice. 

After an uncomfortable moment, she speaks again. “All right, I’ve humiliated myself enough. You go, Irina.” 

Irina shrugs, shaking her head. Then she hesitates, opening her mouth as though to confess something. “Actually, I’m going home today.”

“What?”

She nods. “I wanted to tell you all. In person.” Another shrug. “But nothing happened before then, anyway.

None of you know what to say.

Until, like ripping a Band-Aid off a wound, Rosa switches her attention back to you. “How the hell did you manage it, then?”

“Me?”

She rolls her eyes again. “Well, apparently you’re the only one who’s kissed him.”

“I don’t know. What, do you want a rundown on everything he’s said to me since...I don’t know, however long?” All three of them nod. “Okay. We danced at the first ball we ever went to, the masquerade. Remember?” They nod. “We always ran into each other in the hallway after that. I don’t know. Oh, and then...well, there was the attack on the castle.” The quiet turns somber as you remember that day. The panic. Lexi. “Anyway. We ended up hiding out together. We’ve been...friends, I guess, ever since.”

“Friends?” Irina repeats incredulously. 

“And, to make a long story short, he kissed me after dinner last Saturday. And I might have yelled at him?”

“You yelled at him for kissing you?”

“...I mean, it was a little more complicated than that. Anyway, the next day he, um, invited me to dinner, and we argued again about that. During dinner he made a comment that struck a nerve. Like, on purpose, though. So I kind of went off on him for that.” You shrug. “But, um, you guys already know that part.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Rosa holds up a hand to stop you. “So he kissed you twice? I can’t...You didn’t even want to be here!”

“I don’t exactly get to leave whenever I want!”

“Aw, (Y/N) doesn’t get her way for once. Boo freaking hoo.”

“I had a life before this!” Tears are pooling in the corners of your eyes, but the anger you feel is eating you up from the inside out and you can’t hold it in anymore. “My friends are out there worrying about final exams and spring fling plans, and I’m here. I guess I shouldn’t be complaining, though - I get to deal with court etiquette and alien attacks and everything else that’s been thrown at us. So yes, Rosa, I miss my life, and if I could have left three years ago, I would have.” You need to pause for a few moments just to compose yourself. “But that’s changed. I’m not leaving. You’re not going to just get rid of me.”

“Why?” She sticks out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “Because you love him?”

“Yes.” You look her dead in the eyes. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

For once, she doesn’t respond.

You pick up your book. “I’ll see you ladies tonight at dinner.” As you begin walking out, you hear her call out after you, but you ignore it, the blood still rushing in your ears.

[yokelish]

Worth millions.

Remember that? Back by popular demand. 

Reworked, improved, but only miserly so. And with chapter two coming soon~

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Nakahara Chūya, Dazai Osamu ✏ Word count: 3,655 ✏ Warnings: swearing, smoking.  ✏ Part I; Part II

Worth millions.

Chūya narrowed his eyes at the figure near on the pier. It was close to midnight and no sane or law-abiding citizen would wonder around those docks alone. He did not expect a fight tonight but would be willing if it come to that. It was, after all, his mess to deal with. And whoever was standing in the way would be crashed by gravity. Chūya took a minute to observe what the person on the pier was doing. If it was some vagabond scaring them away wouldn’t be an issue. At first glance it seemed the figure wondered around the pier aimlessly — looking around to satisfy their curiosity or satiate the desire to observe small beauty of the world, —but only at first. Nakahara didn’t have to waste another minute to understand the person on the pier was looking for clues, evidence. And that was Chūya’s job. Then, it wasn’t a simple-minded wanderer or a drunk wondering in the moonless night. This person had a purpose to be here.

“You better know how to swim,” Nakahara said with a dangerous cadence. With his silhouette shrouded in darkness, he knew and meant the danger emitted. There was no escape from the pier unless they wanted to swim. Or face him. He had no issues with either option.

“Shiiiiit,” the voice uncertain echoed. “I’m taking too long.”

Chūya smirked and moved closer, slowly, biding his time. There was no need to be hasty with this interesting encounter. It was rare for something interesting happening on the job in the dead of the night. Someone else was here with the same purpose. It couldn’t be boring. But he wasn’t planning to let them go. If they were a part of those thugs that dared to challenge Port Mafia, there was only one way out for them.

“Port Mafia, right?” the voice asked, refusing to move, standing their ground. Intimidation was only present in their voice, and Chūya wondered if he was carefully toyed with. Pretending to be frightened before making a move.

The stranger raised their hands in surrender. “I am not looking for a fight,” they continued talking to him confident that they were listened to. The pier wasn’t enough for the two of them. Nakahara came closer, close enough to recognize their features in the moonless dark.

“That’s unfortunate,” Chūya said, smirking. “I might be.”

The person didn’t say anything, didn’t back away from him or step close as if kept there by stubbornness, ignorance, or blind bravery. Instead, they reached inside their pocket. And if this stranger thought a gun could scare Port Mafia, they were both wrong and stupid. A figure dressed in black and wrapped in deep-red glow, For the Tainted Sorrow. Suddenly, the dark space between them brightened. It wasn’t a gun they were reaching for but a torchlight. The light was aimed at the sky enlightening them about this encounter. They didn’t even use it to blind the mafioso and make a run for it. Even more stupid than he gave them credit for.

“Well, damn,” they said with a bright and irritatingly unafraid smile on their face. “Nakahara Chūya, the gravity-manipulator and martial artist. I am not buying lottery tickets this month.”

Chūya tilted his head in question. A very well-informed enemy or… simpleton Dazai never failed to open his big mouth. “Dear Detective Agency,” he sighed with irritation. “Suicidal moron can’t shut up about me.”

“That’s where you’re right,” they confirmed, straightforward and facile.

“What do you want?” Nakahara asked, crossing his arms. The Agency was an enemy; however, fighting them here and now would do nothing for the greater conflict. Boss, too, proclaimed temporary ceasefire. Acting against Boss’ orders was equal to betrayal. Also, they didn’t look like a challenge or threat in any way with that too eager to please and appease attitude.

“Just looking for something stolen,” they replied, nonchalant. “My guess is that you are here for the same reason.” This openness of theirs was getting on mafioso’s nerves. He wasn’t known for a patient temper. The Agency member could have tried to dance around his questions, run or offer a trade-off. But it seemed like they were trying to work out some semblance of functional cooperation. As long as it went within the lines of his loyalty to Port Mafia, he could match this pace.

The smile grew on their face before they turned off the light. It was bright.

“We can help each other!” Agency’s detective offered in a chirpy manner.

“Can we now?” Chūya scoffed, amused. “Just say you need my help.”

“I don’t,” they shook their head. It wasn’t spoken in mockery or false confidence. While the darkness blurred their features, he still heard the smile on their lips. “But you need mine.”

Nakahara raised a brow, antagonized. Dazai must have been giving out lessons. Bandaged freak had an unmatched skill, but they were gravelling him fairly fast too. Chūya didn’t need help, especially from a detective of the Agency. Nakahara was a Port Mafia Executive; he was the merge of a human and a god Arahabaki. Help was the last thing he needed. He expected them to prove the point, but his patience was running dangerously thin each second.

“The smugglers,” the person started talking quickly as if sensing the heat, “didn’t finish their transaction. What did they do with the merchandise? It’s a pier. Not many places to hide things.”

“If they had half-a-brain, an airtight aluminum case would take a day or two underwater,” Chūya shrugged.

“I bet you don’t want to swim tonight, it’s cold, brrrr,” they rubbed their shoulders, mimicking the experience. “So, I will graciously save you from that.”

Mafioso crossed arms on his chest and smirked. There was no way of impressing him, less so of doing him any favours. But he was allowing for this to happen simply because it was quite fun. It didn’t last long, however. Soon, the sound of moving water filled the dark and silence around them. And something rectangular came from the water and floated into their hands effortlessly. It was the case, unmistakably, it couldn’t be anything else.

“I can beckon objects towards myself if I know what they are,” they succinctly explained. “Since I know yours, it’s fair that you know mine.”

Chūya didn’t ask but was given an answer. Perhaps, by some strange morality it was fairer for him to know their ability since they knew about his. But this wasn’t the world that cared about fairness. They were coming from two different worlds, opposing views. They were enemies. It wasn’t personal. From the wrong side, one of them for sure was, had to be. Yet the Agency’s detective continued with the task as if nothing were amiss. Chūya watched them take out a lock-picker's set. He chuckled, amused. All that talk about morality…

“You are probably here for the valuables,” they continued to talk, unbothered, while trying to pick the lock. “Allow me take one thing. Our client has sentimental value attached to one of the objects inside.”

“They stole more than just valuables,” Nakahara replied. Wittingly or not, he almost said more than needed. Chūya had to hold his tongue from saying anything more. Speaking more than needed would be more than just unwise.

“Ah, is that an invitation to take everything else but what you need?”

“No.”

“Kidding, kidding.”

The case opened with a distinct click. A sound of a skilful lock-picking. From the Armed Detective Agency, indeed. But, true to their word, only one thing was taken. Nakahara had no clue why that would be an object of sentimental value, however, but Lady Luck was on their side. He didn’t need that.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” they said, standing up, and offering a polite and reserved smile.

“That’s it?” mafioso asked, unimpressed. There were a few things he could imagine being spoken, tastefully mixed into the conversation, to make a little sharper, a little more dangerous. “Nothing else to add, dear Detective Agency?”

“Gimme a sec.” There was a theatrical pause perfectly executed. Acting worthy of the effect it produced, with a finger to tier mouth and a thoughtful expression on their face. “Oh, no, Port Mafia! How could you! That’s not right, Port Mafia!”

Chūya shook his head. It was amusing it its twisted, overly dramatic way, but the comedy was too close to reality to be truly funny.

Their act was quickly dropped, switched for a more serious expression and tone. “You could have thrown me into the water the moment you saw me or a moment after when you realized who I was. But you didn’t. And agreed to cooperate.”

“That’s—”

“Hm?”

“Never mind,” Nakahara dismissed the protest. For one, defending his perfectly logical actions seemed foolish. Second, and most importantly, there was no need for him to voice it and neither it seemed to be heard. If that’s gratitude they were offering — to hell with it.

“Scatter,” Chūya commanded in slight jest. “I have work to do.”

The detective bowed to him in jest, most graciously bowing out of their encounter. He let them go and afterwards sighed. There was much a lot of work left to do.

One would safely and reasonably assume this one chance of an encounter was the only time he’d meet someone from the Agency outside of conflict. It wasn’t so. Sometime later he got to see them again. It wasn’t anything related to a job and happened in the light of day. He saw them with jinko and young murderess approaching the local shopping centre. At the entrance, however, they stopped and waved goodbye. The kids proceeded on their own inside. That would have been it: Chūya saw them, they didn’t see him. Such was his conviction, until they waved at him. From afar, sure, and it could have been anyone else who was in his general direction. But somehow, he had a feeling it was aimed at him and no one else. He didn’t acknowledge them in any way.

“C’mon out anyone who’s still alive,” he grinned maliciously into the camera. Chūya was having a bit too much enjoyment with this. After all, it was about time he’d get to play cat and mouse with the Agency. Ceasefire wasn’t much fun.

In the dark tunnel, finally echoed footsteps other than his. Playing the messenger was a boring beat, but a brawl wasn’t completely out of the question, ever.

“Just two of you? What an insult,” Chūya sighed. Just two enemies and not even the most intriguing ones. It all unfolded just the Boss’ predicted. The Agency cannot help itself but to be predictable this way. A confrontation was started to make the blood run hotter. He wasn’t a good match for a messenger job anyway. Everything was working out splendidly. Except for when the voice came from the speakers. The voice belonged to an enemy, the other side that Port Mafia will never reconcile with. He knew the voice — knew exactly who it belonged to — but still hearing it here and now was somewhat unexpected. Something he couldn’t even explain to himself.

“President, with all due respect, I’d like to say something,” came from the speakers. Nakahara stilled the moment he heard it coming from the speakers, he wanted to hear everything.

“I believe in the Agency’s strength just as much as you do, you know it. But we cannot take on the Guild alone. There’s one thing Nakahara was right about: we are short staffed,” the voice on the other side spoke with underlined worry. Mafioso wondered how it felt to speak rather defensively of your enemy. What he’d like to know even more is why even speak in defence of an enemy. But since it was serving Port Mafia’s purpose…

“But if you think such crude tactics would work on us, then Mafia is unfit for waging war,” the President’s voice spoke.

“Veiled threat from the enemy leader himself? Such an honour,” Chūya mocked.

“What are you hiding?”

“Not a thing.”

“He is not lying,” familiar voice interfered. The gravity wielder grinned devilishly. He wasn’t lying, they were correct in that assessment. But it was no good news for them. A shame, truly. For them. So bravely and insistently speak in the enemy’s support. That was the luxury or stupidity few could afford. He couldn’t.

“Why would we need to move?” Nakahara asked with the same smile on his face.

“Alright, fancy hat,” another voice spoke up. And then there was a snicker. Chūya never heard them snicker before but had no doubts it was them. Otherwise, it was the enemy leader and that was a far less appealing thought. Fancy hat?

It wasn’t because he had any doubts about Boss’ plan or because he didn’t trust in the abilities of his fellow comrades. It was because he hated Dazai. Because he wanted to see what was going to happen, what that schemer had pulled this time. And because deep inside Nakahara already knew what sort of deal the Boss would make given the chance. Mori wanted Dazai back in the Mafia, and while Chūya was perfectly content without the failed suicide around, it wasn’t for him to say so. Whatever cliché game he was asked to play, he’d play it till the end.

From up here he could witness the whole thing and, if something were to go terribly wrong, he’d be down there in seconds. But he had unwavering faith in Boss’ planning. Still, the cigarette in his mouth was burning. It was boredom. From up here, he could see everything but not hear it or be entertained by any other means. One, two, three, four…Number four is deadly, according to superstitions.

“Fancy seeing you here!” said the voice from behind. Familiar voice, sure, but it was not supposed to be heard here. Chūya turned his head. That very same detective of the Agency coming to him at such convenient time? It couldn’t be a coincidence. What a cliché, Dazai, especially for you.

A huff, a puff. The cigarette started to taste a lot better now. “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t a question but a warning.

“Don’t worry, no one knows I am here. If you throw me off this roof, it’s a perfect crime,” they quickly assured. And while there was a small laugh at the end of that sentence, he could hear it was filled with anxious tension. “I wasn’t invited for the meeting either but still came to watch. It’s not as concealed up here as you’d think.”

Mafioso kept quiet, feeling annoyed, feeling played for a fool. But before the right words to scare them off came to mind, the voice spoke once again.

“Here,” there was a nudge on his shoulder, “it’s a far better thing to put in your mouth.”

Nakahara looked at what was offered. Goddamn ice-cream? He raised a brow in question. This was more than just a little strange. This was getting a little ridiculous. And the idea of throwing them off the roof didn’t seem as alien as before. Nonetheless, under his murderous gaze, they didn’t relent, continuing to hold up the ice-cream in stubborn generosity.

He had to look away from them. “Damn it.” Agitated, he still begrudgingly put out the cigarette and accepted the ice-cream. The packaging wasn’t messed with, with drops of water from being in the freezer just recently. They, too, had one. An ice-cream for themselves with the packaging matching. Mafioso tore it open. Damnit. It was cold and sweet, vanilla flavour hidden underneath dark chocolate.

“See? I was right. It is a better thing to put in your mouth,” they grinned at him. Not malicious, not mocking, it was a cheerful, kind smile of a friend. They were enemies, people from different sides, fighting for different things. Reconciliation was not an acceptance — a strategy.

“Choose your words better,” Nakahara scoffed.

“Sorry, sor—"

“Or I will throw you off the roof.”

“I said sorry. So, um, what do you think? It’s going fine, right? Even if it’s just to defeat the Guild, we can come to an agreement of sorts? You’d help, right?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I am… worried.”

“About?” he asked without any interest whatsoever. But since this was a conversation — a very used play at social norms and small talk — he would indulge them only for the duration of this ice-cream. A shame to let a good thing go to waste.

“My…comrades,” the enemy answered. That was a delicate answer. Too delicate for such situation. Even Chūya could understand the worry one would have for one’s friends and comrades. Yet something didn’t sit right with him as if a gut feeling telling something he couldn’t yet understand.

“So, if you are fighting alongside one of them, would you help them?” they asked. It sounded so naïve and genuine. Terribly sweet, just like this ice-cream. Underneath the dark chocolate, something awfully sweet and innocent white in colour.

“Is that what their life if worth?” Chūya asked, thoroughly amused. Quite a conversation maker this one. “An ice-cream?”

“Nah, a life is invaluable. And smoking kills. Take care of yourself.”

Chūya laughed. Loudly, thunderously, profoundly regaled. He was pillorying them and their ideas. But, still a nudge on his shoulder, playful in its manner.

“I am counting on you, Nakahara Chūya!”

This was getting too ridiculous for Nakahara to comprehend as a sane person. “Scatter.” He didn’t even mean it maliciously or as a sincere threat. It was a reminiscent jest. And like before, they bowed to him and offered a polite smile, graciously leaving the situation.

Chūya hated Dazai. He hated all the faces Dazai had: arrogant kid, suicidal failure, scheming bastard, traitor, liar, and womanizer. It wasn’t even all the list of masks his ex-partner had. But Chūya would take out the trash once they were done here. The reunion was a temporary arrangement. After, he would be free to deal with Dazai as he wished. What else he hated? The number of body bags his people came back in. All at the fault of a child whose ability was abhorrent.

“Do it,” Chūya said with certainty. He would remember that number for a good while after this is all over and is but a history.

“Oh yeah?” Dazai sounded too chirpy for himself. “Well, in that case…” The knife Dazai conveniently snitched slashed the wooden cage Q was trapped in. Nakahara watched, and the mafia-black blood boiled inside him.

“Your hypocrisy makes me want to vomit,” he stated with sincere spite. The knife stopped chipping at wood as Dazai started to explain such hypocritical act. Excuses, excuses, that was the core of this traitor. Chūya knew for a fact what his ex-partner thought of Q’s ability. What a pathetic, lying bastard.

“It’s a logical decision,” Dazai excused his actions. “Plus, I don’t know how I would look them in the eye.”

“The Agency?” Nakahara shrugged, uninterested.

“Aren’t you curious, Chūya?” It was taunting. “Nosy about my personal life?”

“Personal life? You don’t have such a thing, womanizer.”

“People change, Chūya,” Dazai replied with a sickeningly familiar smile. The bastard meant what he said. Gravity manipulator hated him all the more for it.

Nakahara crossed his arms. “People? Maybe. What do you have to do with them?”

His ex-partner pretentiously pouted. “You know, Chūya, I know your moves down to pacing and breathing.” Dazai stood up. The knife remained plunged into the wood. “But I never knew you liked ice-cream.”

“Bastard, I knew it was your scheme!”

“What? No.” Ex-mafia shook his head. “What would be in it for me? But relationships are built on trust and honesty. So, naturally, I came to know of it. I was as just as surprised as you were.”

That sickening smile, that arrogant tone! Chūya had Dazai pinned down as well. The assortment of face masks of his once-partner…and the appalling pleasure to study them all. But the most abhorrent thing was that the hypocrite wasn’t lying. The bandaged bastard was taking pleasure in speaking the truth.

Dazai was slowly shortening the distance between them. “So, why did you behave like an obedient dog, Chūya?” The languid steps forward, putting them dangerously close together. The shorter mafioso pressed his fingers into a tight fist. The leather gloves squeaked.

“Answer me, Chūya, for old times’ sake,” Dazai continued to provoke. “I don’t think it’s because of ice-cream, was it? Could it be…? Oh.”

You are on thin fucking ice, Dazai. It wasn’t for any other reason than killing time. It wasn’t because he found them strangely intriguing in their passive acceptance of him being from Mafia. And it wasn’t because they spoke in his defence. To speak in your enemy’s benefit was the luxury or stupidity few could afford. He wasn’t impressed by their stubborn kindness despite knowing that he was stronger than them. That he could kill them. That he was an enemy.

“You never could hide your emotions, Chūya. Your face does say it for you,” Dazai was now grinning viciously. “You like them, don’t you? You like them.”

Chūya pushed forward, angry, provoked, with all the spite he could muster. The fist landed hard. The force of his punch sent Dazai stumbling backwards. But there was glee in those dark eyes. The delight Chūya rarely witnessed, but it wasn’t totally alien. It felt good for him too — to punch Dazai in the face like that. Yet his blood was still boiling hot. And there was a bitter and tight feeling in his throat, tasting of sweet vanilla ice-cream.

“Oh, the look on your face, Chūya,” Dazai mumbled, mocking, gleeful, and seeming to ignore the swelling on his face and the pain that came with it. “How did you say it before? “Better than a masterpiece worth millions”?”