#better than the gallery scan

[dailyrothko]

"When I was a younger man, art was a lonely thing. No galleries, no collectors, no critics, no money. Yet, it was a golden age, for we all had nothing to lose and a vision to gain. Today it is not quite the same. It is a time of tons of verbiage, activity, consumption. Which condition is better for the world at large I shall not venture to discuss. But I do know, that many of those who are driven to this life are desperately searching for those pockets of silence where we can root and grow. We must all hope we find them."

-Address at Pratt, 1958

Mark Rothko, Untitled, 1969

Acrylic on wove paper mounted on linen

Photo by Eric Keune from the NGA show submitted to me on instagram where he is @erkitekt

52 3/4 × 41 in. (134 × 104.1 cm)

Estate/Inventory Number 2028.69

Collection Jon and Kim Shirley.

© Kate Rothko Prizel & Christopher Rothko Artists Rights Society, New York

Donate / Join mailing list by writing to dailyrothko@gmail.com

[party-gilmore]

Modern art critics stop confusing "art" with "technical skill" challenge 2k23

[esouliie]

everything comes out, teenage petulance ⋆⟡˖

– synopsis | someone from wanda’s past interrupts your saturday morning and you’re not happy about it. wanda, however…

– warnings | angst, hurt/comfort, age gap couple, reader is younger & inexperienced and with that comes✨ emotional immaturity✨ but wanda is *chefs kiss* at giving reassurance :3

– notes | not proof read but the writing is rough!!! but but but i tried to write the inexperienced reader in an age gap relationship with the concept of conflicting emotional maturity… and i hate it lol, the dialogue sucks ass :/ i wish i could write reader with better petulant teenager energy!

You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and the soft hum of Wanda moving about the kitchen. Saturdays with her are your favorite, a break from the routine of the week. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. Wanda's voice floated in from the other room.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," her tone gentle and affectionate. "I've made us some coffee."

You stretched and yawned, making your way to the kitchen where Wanda stood by the counter, her eyes twinkling as she hands you a mug. You took a sip, savoring the rich flavor of your favourite Colombian blend, overloaded with the insurmountable amount of sugar and cream she put in. Usually, she complains about how you take your coffee - constantly complaining how your daily sugar intake was enough to knock out an elephant - but she knew you wouldn’t drink coffee any other way.

And you needed coffee.

"Thanks, Wands," you mumbled as you smiled up at her, noticing her nose scrunch as she mimicked your smile. She's a few years older than you, and she wore it with pride. She was confident in herself, there was never a time she felt insecure about her age, and the most emotionally intelligent person you’ve ever met. In the beginning of your relationship, all of your “arguments” ended with healthy communication from Wanda’s side whereas you’d close up like a clam, refusing to talk or fight or even run away. You’d just switch off. And so, her maturity and confidence used to make you feel a bit self-conscious. But every day was better, because you have an excellent teacher who loves you endlessly.

You and all your emotional problems.

"Ready for our walk?" she asked, reaching for the leash. "Lucky's been waiting all week."

You nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. Let's go."

You both had been watching Lucky for the past couple weeks. Your bestfriend - Kate Bishop - had recently gone to Russia to visit her girlfriend’s parents. You were all for it, an exciting buzz had followed you the whole upcoming week. Wanda was a bit unsure at first, having never owned a dog, she wasn’t sure how to take care of it, but you reassured you had enough experience for the both of you.

The park was just a short walk from your house, and as you stepped outside, the crisp morning air filled your lungs. Lucky, the exuberant golden retriever, darted ahead, his tail wagging furiously, but never too far away from you both. The park was alive with people and their pets, the sound of laughter and conversation mingling with birdsong. Children ran across the grass, their gleeful shouts echoing through the trees.

Wanda took your hand, her fingers warm against yours. "It's such a beautiful day," she said, her eyes scanning the park. "Perfect for a walk."

This week had been especially busy for both of you. Wanda had been tirelessly working as the director of her own gallery, a lifelong dream that she had finally realised after months of dedication and effort. Meanwhile, you were preparing for your finals, which meant spending countless hours holed up in the library or Wanda's home office. As a result, the past few days you had seen very little of each other, making the rare moments like this morning even more precious.

You hummed in agreement and squeeze her hand, feeling a rush of affection for the blonde. “Here! You take this!” She offered, handing you Lucky’s ball in exchange for his lead.

Just then, before you could run off to play fetch, someone called out, "Wanda!" Her grip on your hand immediately loosened, and she dropped it, stepping a few steps away. You turned to see an older man - his mousy brown hair styled neatly with a suit jacket over his arm - approaching with a skip in his step.

There was no ring on his finger.

"Wanda, is that really you?" he asked, a broad smile spreading across his face , showing a bit too much teeth for you, as he hugged her warmly. You almost rolled your eyes as they rocked side to side in their embrace, shared laughter floating between them.

As fucking if.

“Vis! It’s been ages.” Wanda is the first to pull away, and yet her arms are still wrapped around his biceps. Your eye twitched as you notice her brush her fingers along the stretched fabric.

You stood there awkwardly. The pair fell into easy conversation as if they were ex lovers or something, and you waited for an introduction that never came. Their voices became a distant murmur as you drifted away from the conversation, your attention returning to Lucky, who was no longer by your side, and who was dangerously close to the pond, trying to reach the ducks with his snout.

“Lucky! Leave the ducks alone!” You called, grabbing his lead from Wanda’s, albeit loose grip, hurrying over towards the dog who was either ignoring you or hyper-fixated on reaching those ducks.

You’re not sure what happened next. You either spooked Lucky out of his trance or he really was being an ass today, but as soon as you got close enough to clip his lead to his collar, he spun on his back legs, knocking into you and zooming away. You stumbled, your balance slipping as you flailed to stay upright. With a yelp, you tumbled down, your body hitting the muddy bank. Your leg splashed into the water, soaking your entire leg. Wet and cold, you scrambled to stand up but a sharp pain shooting through your ankle had you sinking back on to the bank, before you managed to pick yourself up on your good leg. Tears from the pain and embarrassment blurred your vision as you looked down at the state of you. Your pretty dress Wanda had picked out for you this morning was coated in mud and all sorts of dirt. You watched in grimace as pond water dripped out of your shoe as you moved away from the scene of the crime.

Remembering you weren’t alone, and your girlfriend had probably seen the dog wipe you out, you searched for Wanda, only to find her still with her “old friend.” In fact, they seem to have moved over towards a spare bench as you noticed how close they were sat next to each other. Turned towards one another, their arms were basically brushing. Wanda had laughed at something Vis had said as she threw her head back, almost falling backwards until he grabbed onto her, pulling her closer towards him.

The sight made your stomach churn. Anger swirled in a violent revenge inside, and yet, it was sadness that slipped down your face. You felt a burning sensation in your chest and a lump forming in your throat.

All you wanted to do was go home.

A mother and her young daughter who had watched you fall made their way over to you, the question already posed in the way she looked at you. “Are you alright?”

Your teary eyes shifted back to the bench. Still lost in conversation, you watched and waited, wondering what it was they were talking about, wondering if she had even noticed you’re hurt.

But it’s clear she hadn’t seen you fall… or maybe she just forgot you were even here.

“I’m fine.” You replied, but your eyes deceived you.

The woman followed your gaze, “Oh! Are they your parents?”

You scoffed but there wasn’t any bite to it, and fresh tears rolled off your face, “No.”

You began to hobble forward, in search of Lucky but the stranger was one step ahead of you. She grabbed onto your arm, claiming you shouldn’t put your weight on your injured ankle, as she sent her daughter ahead looking for Lucky. She found him in no time, on the other side of the pond, no longer trying to reach the ducks but sat watching them.

You called for him, and without a fuss, he came. You clipped him to his lead, as he stared up at you curiously. He seemed to sense your distress and was suddenly still, looking up at you with a sorrowful expression, as if he understood the part he had played in this. Before you could return to full height, he leaned his head into yours. His actions saying a thousand words, and you couldn’t help but smile at the pup, giving him a little scratch. “It’s okay, bud. I know you didn’t mean to.”

Meeting the concerned mother’s gaze, you pointed towards Wanda, “I’m just gonna…” You trailed off but she understood, turning away with a genuine “get well soon”, instructions to ice your ankle as soon as you get home, and her daughter in hand. With that, she turned in the opposite direction, heading back towards where you fell.

You walked in the other direction, deciding to go around Wanda. You didn’t want to see her right now. Noticing the park exit in sight, Lucky dragged on his lead, trying to turn back the way you came.

“No, Lucky. We’re going home.” You ushered him through the gates, “She can stay here with him.”

A shout caught your attention. Behind you, Wanda was walking - almost running - towards you. The man was nowhere in sight. “Y/N! Where did you go? Why are you leaving?” You noticed a tinge of frustration in her voice, but that was dropped as soon as she took in your soaked state. “What happened?”

“Oh so you did remember I was here.” With that, you turned and walked away as fast as your ankle would let you.

“What-?” You heard Wanda struggle for words behind you before she caught up, her hand grabbing your cold, still - damp arm. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“You would know if you weren’t so impressed by your boyfriend back there.” You spat, shrugging off any hold she had on you.

She grabbed your arm again, firmer this time. “He’s not my boyfriend. His name’s Vision. We went to school together. I haven’t seen him in years.”

Her tone remained the same soft melody, despite the obvious frustration earlier.

You remained silent, scoffing in reply, as you tried to walk away, but she stopped you again, turning you around to face her.

Her warm hands held your cheeks, forcing you to make eye contact. “Hey, what’s really wrong?”

Her gaze softened, concern evident, and you felt tears pooling again as you fought within yourself, torn between letting go of your anger or clinging to it like petulant teenager.

“Don’t shut me out. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You forgot about me,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears streamed down your face. She wiped at them and a hum encouraged you to continue.

“You dropped my hand, and was talking to that guy so much, you didn’t even know I was still there. Lucky was acting up, so I went to get him, and I fell in the pond. My ankle really hurts, I think I sprained it, and I’ve ruined my dress and—” A sharp sob cut you off as your emotions overwhelmed.

Sensing your distress, Wanda pulled you into her arms. “It’s okay, baby,” she consoled softly, her voice remaining gentle and soothing.

Being in Wanda's arms usually helped you calm down. The warmth of her embrace and the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed steadily would bring you a sense of peace. You would listen to her heartbeat, syncing your breath to its comforting rhythm, as her presence soothe your worries away.

However your anger surged, unable to latch onto a single thing as it flailed wildly. You pushed back against her chest, but she didn’t let go. "No, don't baby me! You forgot about me! I fell into a pond, and you weren't even there to help. A stranger did, Wanda. A fucking stranger cared more about me than my own girlfriend because she was too busy with some fucking guy!"

Her grip tightened slightly as she whispered, a juxtaposed effort to your loud volume, “I know, and I’m so sorry.” But you were too upset to care, your hurt and frustration drowning out her words of apology. You tried to close down on yourself, shielding away from the pain.

“Wanda, let go of me,” you said, hands pushing against her as your voice trembled with the effort to hold back the flood of emotions.

“No,” Wanda replied firmly, her eyes searching yours. “Tell me how you feel.”

“I already told you! ” Her persistence had you shouting again, the walls you were trying to build around your heart crumbled. Tears welled up in your eyes as your throat closed up as you started to sob uncontrollably. Frantic images of Wanda on the bench with the man flashed through your mind, tormenting you. You wiped at your face desperately, but the tears kept coming, a torrent of pain, betrayal and immeasurable grief.

“You acted like I didn’t exist,” you choked out between sobs. “It was like you were ashamed of me.”

Wanda’s eyes widened, not expecting that to be your response. “I’m not ashamed of you.” She said, her voice cracking with emotion. “I don’t know why I dropped your hand or why I didn’t introduce you as my girlfriend. It was a mistake and I’m so sorry.” Her own tears began to pool, her sorrow evident.

“I could never be ashamed of you, Y/N.”

She pulled you into a tight embrace, tears falling on top of your head as she whispered a few more apologies, and a promise to do better, to never make you feel invisible again or doubt her love for you.

“I want to go home.” You whispered, with a defeated energy.

Wanda remained unconvinced, though she understood your struggle. She had been tirelessly encouraging you to be more open about your feelings, and she had seen you make significant progress. However, she knew that progress wasn’t linear. Despite your improvements since you first started dating, she anticipated the occasional bad day. Recognising that this conversation wasn't suited for a public setting, Wanda shifted the focus. “I think Lucky does too,” she said softly, nodding towards the enthusiastic dog at your side.

You followed her gaze to Lucky, who was wagging his tail so energetically - despite the tense conversation he had just been present in- it seemed he might take off at any moment. “Okay, boy. Let’s go,” you said, giving him the command he was eagerly awaiting.

As the golden retriever began to trot down the street, you turned to the older woman. “I’m sorry, Wands.” The weight of those few words lingered in the air, before you felt a gentle squeeze on your hand as Wanda had intertwined her fingers with yours, her grip reassuring and steadfast. “I know. I’m sorry too.”

She didn't let go the entire way, and once again, her presence was a silent promise of growth, support and understanding as you made your way home together.

[aquaticmercy]

The Great Wave

Summary : Bucky would do anything to make his girl happy. He would even risk his life to get you the perfect gift.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : fluff. A bit of violence. Established relationship. Bucky is just so in love???

Requested by : myself (I have a couple ideas I have to burn before I move on to the requests. I will get to them soon, I promise!)

Word count : 2.1k

Note : Reader is an art enthusiast for the sake of the plot. Enjoy!

Requests are open!

○ buy me a ko-fi ○

Bucky had always been good at listening, even when you didn’t realise you were saying something important. He’d tune in while you rambled about your day, his eyes softening when you went on and on about something that made you happy. That was how he came to understand just how much you adored art. Lately, your latest obsession was art prints. One of them, in particular. 

The Great Wave off Kanagawa.

It started with your subtle mentions, then turned into hours of research and giddy excitement as you told Bucky about its significance in art history. “It’s not just the wave, Bucky,” you’d try to explain, “it’s the effort. Woodblock print artists had to carve wooden blocks one by one, for each colour used. The precision, the patience this requires is incredible.” you’d say, eyes wide with passion. “The focus is actually on Mount Fuji, which was a personal spiritual obsession of the artist— Hokusai. He was like the Beyoncé of the Edo period.” 

Bucky, ever the silent, brooding observer, stored every detail away in his mind. 

You had admired the prints in museums, dragging Bucky there with you. Once, when you had visited a small art gallery, you had found a reproduction of it. Bucky remembered how your fingers lightly touched the frame, lingering a little longer than normal. He also remembered how you mentioned that it would make a good birthday gift.

Bucky knew he had to do something about that. In fact, Bucky knew he could do better. 

���

For the past six months, he had been looking for something so rare that it almost seemed impossible to acquire. But if anyone could help him get hands on something like that, it was Sharon Carter. 

It had taken months of planning— months of digging into Sharon’s shady art dealings, but she finally tracked one down.

Bucky had burned through a few old contacts just to arrange this. The Dealer he had found had one of only 100 copies that still existed.

Bucky now stood at the edge of the alley, his eyes scanning the dimly lit streets of Madripoor. He hated this place. The stench of greed and violence clouded every corner. Truly lawless. But for you, he’d walk through these dingy streets any day.

Sharon leaned against the wall beside him, her arms crossed. “You sure you want to go through all this trouble?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Of course,” Bucky replied dismissively. His tone was resolute.

“You’ve gone soft, Barnes,” Sharon smiled. “Risking your neck for a gift.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, glancing at the old brown purse tucked in his jacket. Inside it was more than enough money to secure the deal, but in Madripoor, cash only got you so far. 

Briefly, his thoughts wandered back to you. Was this really worth it? Was he risking too much? You had been on his mind constantly these past few months. He has thought more and more about what you have done for him. Of how you had stood by him, as he tried to piece the puzzles of his mind back together. You’ve been a constant comfort in his life, a rock for him.

And he knew your love wasn’t transactional, and he had no intention to make it that way, either. He just wanted to do something nice. That smile... He’d do anything to see it.

But Madripoor was a different world. A dangerous one. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. Bucky shot Sharon a sidelong glance as they neared the abandoned warehouse. “I don’t trust this guy,” he muttered.

Sharon gave a knowing look. “That’s why I’m here.” She patted the concealed gun under her jacket.

There was no going back now.

—

They walked into the abandoned warehouse. The Dealer was supposed to meet them here. The place reeked of decay, with crates stacked against the walls carelessly and dust particles drifting in the air.

Not long after, a door creaked open on the other side of the warehouse. 

A tall, wiry man stepped out of the shadows. He was dressed in a sharp suit that looked entirely out of place in the decrepit building. Two bodyguards in tactical suits followed close behind him, both armed. 

“We’re here for the print,” Sharon said, her voice calm and collected. 

The Dealer smiled, but it wasn’t sincere. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, the infamous Sharon Carter. I’ve heard much about you.”

“Do you have the print or not?” Sharon snapped. 

The Dealer gestured to one of his bodyguards. He stepped forward with a slim black case and opened it to reveal the print, meticulously preserved under layers of protective glass. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, he forgot where he was, only imagining the smile you’d have on your face when you do get to see it. 

Bucky’s grip tightened on the purse as he handed it over to the dealer. 

“There’s one more thing,” the dealer said as his tone shifted, shutting the briefcase shut. “I hear Sharon Carter here has been causing a bit of trouble for some of my associates. So… I’m thinking you’re going to have to do me a favour before I hand this over.”

“We had a deal.” Bucky’s eyes darkened. He knew Sharon had a reputation in Madripoor—one she didn’t need to remind people of often.

But the dealer just smiled an arrogant grin, one that made Bucky’s gut churn. “Deals change.”

Bucky could feel the tension in the air rising. He knew this wasn’t going to end peacefully. He noticed the subtle shift in the bodyguards’ stance, their hands starting to reach toward their guns.

“I don’t have time for this,” Bucky muttered, knowing he promised you he’d be home before tomorrow. Reaching for his gun, he shot near the handle of the briefcase, just shy of The Dealer’s grip.

That was all it took for the room to explode into chaos.

When another gunshot rang out, Bucky dove for cover behind one of the crates as bullets rained on him. Sharon shot at one of the bodyguards, taking him down with a well-placed shot to the leg.

As the deafening echo of gunfire bounced off the walls, a thought crossed his mind: Why am I doing this?

As bullet whizzed past, his mind kept going back to you. The way you looked at the print in the gallery, the way you spoke about it with such passion. He found himself chuckling at how far he’d go to make you happy.

Would you even believe it if he told you what he’s done to get this for you?

The Dealer ducked behind his own men, the briefcase in his death grip. Bucky rolled out from behind the crate. He returned fire, his shots precise. He didn't aim to kill them— he didn’t do that anymore— but enough to incapacitate them. The remaining bodyguard dropped to the ground with a grunt, clutching his wound as one of Bucky’s bullets grazed his arm. For a moment, the gunfire stopped.

Bucky straightened up, his eyes locking on The Dealer, who was now cowering near the far wall. He stormed in his direction. “Give me the print, or the next one’s between your eyes,” Bucky growled, his voice deadly calm. He didn’t mean it, of course, but The Dealer didn’t need to know that. 

The Dealer raised his hands, his face pale. “Alright, alright! Take it!”

Sharon wasted no time, snatching the case with the print from the ground and tucking it under her arm. Bucky threw the purse against The Dealer’s chest. He kept his gun pointed towards him as they backed toward the door, carefully watching for any sign of movement.

Print secured, Bucky and Sharon slipped out of the warehouse, moving swiftly through the dark Madripoor alleys. The adrenaline still flowed in Bucky’s veins, but when he glanced at the case in Sharon’s arms, he felt a surge of relief.

They had done it. The print was his. Yours.

—

You came through the front door, tired but smiling. “Buck, you home?” you called out, taking off your shoes and dropping your bag on the side table. He had been away for the last couple of days. For a mission, he had said, though he had been vague. He was supposed to be home today.

“In here,” came his reply from the living room. There was a slight edge to his voice— like he was holding something back in anticipation.

You walked into the living room only to stop dead in your tracks. 

Bucky stood there with a sleeveless shirt, placing a screwdriver on the table next to him. The print was hanging on the wall, illuminated by the soft glow of newly installed lamps around it. The familiar sight of the wave crashing down with unrelenting power, the grounding calm Mount Fuji in the background made your heart skip a beat.

You've spent so much of your spare time studying it, that you know this wasn’t just a print. It was one of the prints.

Your hand flew to your mouth, your eyes widening as you took slow steps closer to it. You were almost afraid it would crumble before your very eyes if you got too close.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “This… this can’t be real.”

Bucky stepped up beside you, his hands sliding into his pockets as he gave you a small, almost shy smile. “It is,” he confirmed. 

You took another slow step forward, eyes still locked on the print. How did he do this?

Your mind raced back to the past few weeks, remembering the subtle changes in Bucky’s behaviour—how he’d been more secretive, how he’d mentioned that mission but never gave you any real details. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was just another dangerous job, but now it all made sense.

This wasn’t just a print hanging on the wall. This was weeks—maybe months—of effort. Planning. Risking his life in ways he probably would never tell you about. 

“Bucky… this is—this is one of the original prints.” You eyed the certificate of authenticity on the table by where he was standing.”This is—oh my God—why—how did you even get this?”

He shrugged, his lips forming a small smile. “Had to pull a few strings. Nothing too crazy. Had help from Sharon, too.”

You looked at him like you didn’t quite believe him, but the joy in your eyes made every bullet dodged, every shady deal, worth it. 

He tried to play it off like it was no big deal, but the way his lips curved up in a knowing smile told you otherwise. “You’ve been talking about getting a print for so long,” he said. 

Your heart swelled at the thought, imagining the sheer effort he had gone through just to get this for you. “Are you insane, Buck? I asked for a reproduction print, maybe. but this…”

You still couldn’t quite believe it. You knew how rare this print was, how impossible it was to find, and yet… here it was. Hanging in your living room. For you.

You turned to face him. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He gently brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “I just want to make my girl happy,” he said, his voice as soft and sincere as it has ever been. 

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him in a bear hug. “You make me happy, you know that, right?”

Bucky’s smile widened just a little, his metal arm resting on the small of your back. “I know,” he murmured. 

You wiped the hint of a happy tear on your eyes as you turned back to the print, taking it in once more. “You’re the most incredible man I’ve ever met,” you said, “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I think we both are.”

Bucky pulled back slightly, shifting behind you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, his chin resting gently on your shoulder. The two of you stood there, side by side, gazing at the artwork. The warmth of his body against yours felt grounding, comforting.

“So…” he murmured, his breath soft against your neck, “now that you’ve got your Great Wave, what’s next? Starry Night?”

You laughed, scoffing at the thought of owning a Van Gogh. That would never happen, right? “I think I’ve got enough rare art for a lifetime.”

He grinned. “All you have to do is ask.”

You smiled, turning your head to look at him, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips met yours in the softest, most delicate kiss.

The Great Wave may be hanging on the wall in front of you, but to you, the true masterpiece— the one that truly mattered— was the man you loved.

-end

[snowballseal]

Insecurities - Rafayel

Summary: Here is the portion of Rafayel reacting to your insecurities. And you best know this man goes big to prove a point. Much fluff.

Here is the original with the other LADS boys

Word Count: 1831

Notes: Reader has insecurities about they way they look, so just keep in mind. It ends fluffy and happy though.

---

“Rafayel, do I look okay?”

The artist immediately drops whatever he was doing, twisting around to peer over the back of the couch as you step into the studio.

His iridescent eyes scan over your figure, his voice lilting with teasing affection, “I’m not sure I even want to go if this is what you’re wearing. I think everyone would think you’re the art and ignore my hard work.”

You wrinkle your nose. Partially because he’s being ridiculous. Partially because you don’t really believe him. The dress is gorgeous of course, he did a great job of helping you pick one out, but it doesn’t change the way you’ve been feeling for the past few days.

Before you met Rafayel, you never paid much attention to how you looked. Not in a bad way, you kept yourself neat and dressed up whenever you went out for special occasions, but it was never on your mind much. But now…You don’t know. It’s not Rafayel’s fault, the man has never been shy in complimenting you, but you can’t help but notice the type of women that like to approach him. All gorgeous enough to be models, with the confidence to match - seeing as they always have to gall to flirt with him even when you’re holding hands.

And you wish it didn’t get to you. It shouldn’t. Rafayel doesn’t even bat an eyelash at them, always focusing on you or making more obvious shows of affection to chase them away. Still, the more it happens, the more you find yourself caring about how you look, or not liking the way you look. 

And wearing a lovely dress only seems to highlight your self-perceived flaws.

“Do you really think it looks okay?” You ask again, fiddling with the satin self-consciously. 

Rafayel’s brow furrows a little. He tilts his head, looking almost like a confused puppy, “What is it? Do you not like the dress? Do you not want to go anymore? Please don’t make me go alone. These galleries are sooo boring without you, I hate them.”

“They’re your galleries,” you point out, shaking your head with a small smile, “How can you hate them so much? It’s your work, they deserve to be celebrated.”

“Why go stare at my own work when I can spend the night staring at you?”

Heat creeps up your cheeks. Usually you’d have a witty comeback to his flirting, but you can’t find anything tonight, not with how you’re feeling. So you just ruffle his hair fondly, avoiding the intense affection in his gaze.

“Come on, Thomas will be mad if we don’t show up. We need to go.”

Rafayel’s eyes narrow. Before you can pull away, he grabs your wrist, keeping you anchored to where you are. Your heart jumps to your throat at the serious expression he suddenly gives you.

“What’s wrong? You’re acting strange.” 

Being an artist, Rafayel knows you, your face, your body, better than anyone. He’s always looking at you, holding on to every new detail he finds. Like the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. How the tip of your nose turns rosy when you’re even a little cold. Or how your lips twitch before you lie. Like they are now.

“I’m fine, Raffie, just…tired,” you sigh, tugging against his hold, still trying to avoid him, “Now come on, we should go.”

“Hmmmmm…no.”

You squeak as Rafayel unexpectedly gives your wrist a sharp pull. The momentum sends you tumbling over the back of the couch, right into his lap, and before you can escape, he has you wrapped in his arms. Stuck.

“Rafayel-! Let go of me,” you growl, squirming around hopelessly. The man is surprisingly strong, and with your feet still tossed over the back of the couch, you can’t get enough leverage to escape.

“Nope, not until you tell me what’s wrong,” he hums, arms tightening around your waist.

You huff and give him a solid glare, “This isn’t funny, Rafayel.”

“And neither is hiding something that’s obviously bothering you,” he snips back softly, “You’re a horrible liar, miss bodyguard.”

“I just…” You cross your arms, face feeling warmer and warmer the longer he stares at you. Why does he have to be so stubborn at times like this? “I haven’t been feeling good about myself lately, okay? That’s it, now can we go?”

“Nope.” You resist the urge to groan.

“Thomas is going to throw a fit-”

“He can handle it tonight, I’ll give him a bonus. What’s more important is fixing this.” Rafayel props his chin on your shoulder, a contemplative frown pulling at his lips. “It’ll have to be something creative, which I’m great at, of course. But what?”

“Rafayel, this really isn’t necessary,” you grumble, “I don’t think it’s something you can fix.”

The artist shakes his head, pressing a faint kiss to your shoulder, “I think you underestimate me, cutie. But that’s okay, I think I know exactly what to do.”

Lifting you up, Rafayel sets you back on the couch gingerly and darts off after giving you instructions to not move. A heavy sigh passes your lips as you fix your dress, though it seems a bit pointless now. It doesn’t sound like you’ll be going to the gallery.

A part of you is secretly relieved at that. You love looking at Rafayel’s work, but since it’s his gallery, all the attention would be on him, and, consequently, you as well. It’s a bit suffocating. Still, you’re a little wary of whatever plan he has concocted. Rafayel is as unpredictable as he is talented.

Time seems to tick by slowly as you sit on the couch. You eye the clock, noting each minute as it passes by. Your nerves only continue to rise the longer you’re alone. What on earth is he doing?

On the tenth minute, Rafayel reappears, a mischievous spark in his eyes. He offers you a hand.

“The gallery is ready for you to attend, cutie.”

This time, your eyes narrow, though you still take his hand, allowing him to help you up. “I thought you said we weren’t going?”

“Oh, this is a different kind of gallery,” he hums, looking quite proud of himself, “I think you’ll enjoy this one a lot more. And I’ll be your personal tour guide.”

“How kind,” you muse, fighting your own smile. You might as well humor him, even if it doesn’t help. As long as Rafayel is happy, you can count the night as some kind of success.

Rafayel leads you to one of the spare rooms of the studios. You vaguely remember him telling you at some point that it’s a room he likes to keep his sketchbooks and unfinished projects in. You cast him a curious glance, but his eyes are set ahead as he touches the door, that smile still painted across his lips.

“These works are some of the most important that I’ve ever done, and you’ll be the first to see them. My heart rests in your hands tonight, so be careful, otherwise you might mortally wound me and I’ll never have the courage to paint again.”

You roll your eyes at his antics, about to make a sassy remark, but the words get lost when he presses the door open. Your eyes go wide at the sight before you.

The room is lit by candles, flickering with the flames of his evol. Their light dances across countless artworks spread across the room, hanging on every surface, each one depicting the same subject.

You.

Most of them are sketches, their strokes simple and spontaneous but laden with care, like he had wanted to capture a precious moment for himself. There’s one of you dozing off on the couch, another of you dancing in the kitchen. There’s even one of you holding a stuffy, from one of your many trips to the arcade.

The further you walk into the room, the more detailed the pieces become. 

A charcoal drawing of you in your uniform, gun drawn on something off page. The lines of your body are like water, fluid and graceful, the look in your eyes somehow burning with a fierce determination.

An oil painting of the night you spent at the market. Your image is looking at a sparkler, the light reflected in your eyes like stars, your cheeks painted a soft rosy color that seems to glow. It’s impossibly delicate, each stroke placed with such intention, it’s almost like you’re there again.

The final painting you come to make your face go warm again. It’s of you, curled up under a familiar set of sheets, mostly focused on your face. Your hair pools against the pillow, messy yet somehow charming in its unruliness. The morning sunlight dapples across your skin, highlighting the soft color of your lips and the gentle curve of your smile. But it’s your eyes that really make your breath catch. You can practically see the sleepy fog in them, like you had just woken, but also the undeniable warmth. The love.

It’s…beautiful. They’re all beautiful. And they’re all you.

“This is…” You swallow around the lump in your throat, suddenly feeling off-kilter. “I can’t believe you did all of these.”

Rafayel, who had been following behind you silently, hums softly and curls his arms around your waist. You lean back into his touch, letting it ground you and your swirling emotions.

“It’s been difficult even focusing on my work for the gallery. Everything else seems to pale in comparison when I have such a beautiful muse in front of me all the time,” he murmurs the words against your temple, voice quiet to match the atmosphere of the room. “I could devote lifetimes to painting you and never grow tired of it.”

You bite back a bashful smile, unable to resist the urge to tease him a little, “I didn’t realize I was so distracting.”

“Just ask Thomas. I think this is the most he’s ever had to remind me to finish my work,” Rafayel chuckles, giving your waist a squeeze. “But it was worth the missed deadlines. Afterall, isn’t it my responsibility as your employer and lover to make sure you understand how much I cherish you?”

Your heart flutters wildly as the brazen affection in his tone. It seems to melt away your doubts, replacing them with an overwhelming feeling of fondness for your artist. Only Rafayel would do something like this for you, how could you deny it?

Turning around in his hold, you lean up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, which you notice is an absolutely rosy shade of red. It makes you feel even more fond. You really really love this man.

“Thank you, my pretty fish. I feel much better now.”

That dazzling smile lights up his face again, and he leans down to scatter kisses all over your face, whispering between your bouts of giggles, “Anything for you, my queen.”

---

All the smooches. I love this man. I will die on the hill of using the nickname "fish" or "fishie" with him, I think it's soooo cute.

[ace-turned-confused]

spin me around | joel miller x f!reader

joel masterlist | read on ao3

summary: you find a vintage record store full of rare finds, the man behind the counter the rarest of them all word count: 2,4k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied & wears a dress, way too much music talk, food & alcohol consumption, pet names, touching in public, dirty talk a/n: written for @secretelephanttattoo's Secret Springs challenge! i saw record store on your wheel and ran away with it - this is highly self-indulgent with the music references (like woah) but what better place for it than secret springs :) not beta'd, keep slaying

The stair treads creak as you head up to the second floor, blank CDs are fastened to the risers and old warped vinyl hangs from the ceiling. A faint melody floats down the stairwell that you don’t recognise, the instrumentals rising in a crescendo as you climb, the varnished railing worn and knotted.

You’d found this place online on your quest for a bargain, the secondhand vintage vinyl shop is situated on a fashionable street at the top of town with picturesque mountain views. After stalking their social media pages, you decided you’d just come and see it for yourself. Having mentally prepared yourself for parallel parking, it was unusually stress-free for a Saturday morning, the sun just beginning to warm the air.

Reaching the landing and glancing around, the room is essentially wallpapered with band posters, crates and crates of records are alphabetically organised, and a gallery of LPs sits on shelves behind the counter. A few customers are rifling through the various collections, one man perched on a barstool with headphones wired into a cassette player. The space is light and vibrant, it feels like a sacred haven.

What really catches your eye is the man behind the counter ��� unruly silver-streaked hair, trimmed moustache and greying beard, unreasonably broad shoulders that fill out his faded thin t-shirt.

“Mornin’!” He looks up as you round the bannister and flashes you a winning smile, his brown eyes sparkling in the light filtering through the windows. “Anythin’ in particular you lookin’ for?”

You greet him shyly as you enter the room, “Just came to look around, thanks.”

“No problem.” He turns back to his newspaper and you can’t help but stare, stuck in place as you think you’ve found far more than you could’ve imagined.

-

The sheer number of records fitted into the quaint shop is amazing, with some dividers spilling over into two or three boxes. Flipping through the S category, you find Sade, Stealers Wheel, Steppenwolf, Stevie Nicks, and countless others — a never-ending supply of artists and albums, some popular and some obscure.

Your eyes go wide at seeing Pretzel Logic, a favourite album by a favourite band. You’ve considered for weeks whether or not to just buy the damn thing online at full price, but you never did. Now you see why, some sort of divine intervention leading you here to snatch it up at a fraction of the cost — or it led you here for that man.

You’ve been peering over to him every time you move to the next crate — crinkles around his eyes, plush lips, deft hands. It’s almost unfair how beautiful he is, hidden away up here from the rest of the world. Admittedly you tried looking if he had a wedding band on, but you scolded yourself before you could complete the task, not wanting to get caught.

Time slips away from you as you switch between scouring through everything and stealing glances at the mystery music man, your fingers cramping from holding onto far more records than you’d planned to take. You scan over the tables and check for anything you may have missed, slinking through the room and placing your selection on the counter. You rummage in your bag to find your wallet.

“Fan of Steely Dan, huh? Gaucho, Pretzel Logic, Countdown to Ecstasy… You’re cleaning me out here, darlin’.” You lift your head at his words, losing yourself at the endearment.

“Yeah, uh… couldn't help myself,” you huff a laugh, feeling heat under your skin as he keeps his attention on you, a half smile on his face. “I did pick out some others, too. For some variation, you know?”

He fans the records out on the table to see each one.

“Yeah, thought you might be a Fleetwood Mac girl, Eagles is a bit of a surprise, but a pleasant one… Steely Dan, though? Wouldn't have pinned a girl like you as a fan of ‘em.”

“A girl like me…?”

“Far too pretty.” He winks at you with a tilt of his head, that half smile now spread fully across his face before he moves to add up the total. Your mind races as you try not to stand and gawk like an idiot.

“I saw online you had Dark Side of the Moon… do you uh, still have it, by any chance?”

“Full of surprises… I’m afraid we sold that one already, noticed it’s a bit of an elusive find ‘round here.” He drums his fingers against the wooden top and looks at you briefly, his eyes warm.

Shuffling papers around, he picks up a notepad, big hands and thick fingers dwarfing the pages. “I can keep an eye out for you, if you’re okay giving me your number? Won’t bother you, just business.”

“Yeah, sure.” His fingers graze across your skin as you take a pen from him and write down your information. Tearing the page off, you slide it across the counter and tease him, “Wouldn’t mind if you bothered me.”

“Well then, maybe I will. I’d love to know what else you got in your carefully curated collection.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you as you pay for the records, and he slips them into a brown paper bag, folding and unfolding the top like he doesn’t want you to leave.

“There’s actually this nice restaurant—” he turns to look behind him, grabbing a small carton and repositioning it on the counter, stalling as he tries to find the words, “—they have uh, live music on Friday nights… if you’d be interested.”

“Sounds fun…” You mull it over, impressed by his boldness but still wary. “Can I let you know?”

“‘Course, no pressure, here,” he writes his own number on a new page and tears it off, holding on as you reach for it and brush your fingers over his hand.

“And you are?”

“Joel Miller.”

Joel Miller. You quite like that.

-

You’d stared at Joel’s number for days, a constant back and forth on whether or not you should go. On the one hand, you knew nothing about this man except his name and where he worked; on the other, you’ve seen just enough of him to be well intrigued… 

You caved and said yes, which brings you to the present day — it’s Friday afternoon and you’re pacing in front of your wardrobe, worried about what to wear. To avoid losing your mind over this, you text Joel for some insight.

You: So, what am I supposed to wear tonight?Joel: Place is smart casual, I guess

Smart casual — arguably the worst fucking dress code description in existence.

You: That doesn’t help meJoel: Just wear a dress or something nice? I’m sure whatever you choose will be perfect

Perfect? Well, that certainly raises the bar. You suspect that Joel isn’t impressed by material things, and isn’t phased by flashy appearances, but you still want to make an effort. He called you pretty once already and you’re hoping he’ll repeat it tonight.

-

Approaching the restaurant, the brick wall facade is lined with fairy lights, the stars just beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, and muffled music sounds through the windows and glass doors.

Joel waits out on the pavement like a gift from God himself — black dress pants, a hint of chest peeking out from behind his button-up, a blazer hooked on one finger over his shoulder. You can’t help the way your gaze runs over him, noticing how his tummy just pokes out past the waistband of his pants, and just how well fitting those pants really are. You swallow to steady yourself.

“Hey.”

“Hi…”

You fall into silence as you take each other in — a low heat settles at the base of your spine and you drop your eyes to the floor, holding back a giggle like an enamoured schoolgirl.

“Shall we?” He pulls the door open and gestures for you to lead the way, eyes sparkling and a crooked but warm smile on his face, a guiding hand on the small of your back as you step inside.

Black-framed minimalist posters line the walls, the floors are polished dark wood and exposed brass light fixtures hang at varying heights from the ceiling. You pass a long, elegant bar lining one side of the room as you’re led towards the back of the restaurant — this place oozes sophistication, even the waitstaff are in fancy uniforms. Not smart casual.

Joel pulls a chair out for you as you reach your table, a small reserved card rests against a floating candle and two red roses bloom in a slender vase. 

“Do you mind if I take the wall?” you ask timidly, pointing towards the opposite bench.

“Not at all.” His gaze is soft as he shakes his head, eyes trained on you as you both take your seats.

“I just— I like being able to see, it’s uh…”

You smooth your hands over the tablecloth as your voice fades off, resisting the urge to make a game of blowing the candle out. You flit your eyes up to look at Joel, finding he’s already staring at you, candlelight flickering in his eyes. You drop your gaze to the table again, failing dismally at suppressing the grin that spreads across your face.

“You look gorgeous, by the way — if you don’t mind me sayin’. Knew you would, of course, but…”

It seems your outfit choice has paid off — gorgeous?

After hours of flinging clothes off hangers, you’d finally settled on a black, mid-length dress — a sweetheart neckline with white piping, the same white mirrored on the hem, a daring slit up one side of the skirt. There’s nothing casual about it, but seeing Joel dressed up and the finely decorated restaurant has calmed your nerves.

You don’t dare look at him again as the waiter returns and places two menus on the table. The night’s barely begun, and you hope it doesn’t end any time soon.

-

There hasn’t been a lull in the conversation once during dinner, a sharing dessert now in the centre of the table as Joel swirls what’s left of his whiskey around the glass. He held back all evening, fingers twitching and curling into a loose fist alongside yours on the table until he finally allowed himself to dance them across the back of your hand.

“How’d you get into all this record business?”

“Started workin’ there on weekends as a kid, wanted to earn some pocket money. The old man who owned it was like a mentor, he taught me all about the world. He left it all in my hands when he retired, and I’ve never looked back.”

A fond smile on his face as he retells his memories, you saw the first day you met how happy and comfortable he was in his charming shop, and it seems that charm bleeds over into him, too.

“And you get to meet all kinds of people — loud, friendly, aloof… pretty ones, too.” He gives you the same wink and devilish grin as before, continuing his stories as if you aren’t burning across the table.

-

Sometime during the night, he’d moved to sit next to you, claiming he ‘wanted to see the band’ — the arm draped on the bench behind you and fingers trailing across your shoulder says otherwise.

He mentioned at the shop that there was live music here on Friday nights — the one thing he didn’t mention? That tonight’s particular band was a jazz quartet — the slow, smooth, romantic kind of jazz, the kind that acts as the perfect backdrop for a night of cheeky flirting, lingering glances and desperate touches.

“Joel, can I ask something?”

“Shoot.”

You roll the edge of the tablecloth between your fingers. “Is this a date?”

“It can be, if you want.” You drop your hands and eye him, unimpressed by his response.

“Alright, I’ll admit, I was hopin’ for a date. I wasn’t really sure how to ask, didn’t wanna come on too strong.”

You’re silent for a beat, considering how to respond. “I mean, you could’ve just asked.”

“Well then, you wanna go on a date?” He tilts his head, eyebrows raised.

“I thought we were already on one.”

He chuckles at your remark, downing the last of his whiskey and momentarily tracing a finger along the rim of the glass. You focus on his movements, imagining his fingers tracing patterns into your skin instead.

As if he can read your mind, he twists himself towards you and plants that same hand just above your knee, fingers curled towards the inside of your leg as he scrapes his nails against you.

“And?” His voice is almost a whisper in your ear, “Has it been a good one?”

He glides his hand up your leg and into the slit of your dress as you nod, higher, higher, higher until his fingers brush against lace. You wonder if he can feel the fabric dampening.

“Y’know the Pink Floyd you asked about? It wasn’t sold, I kept it for myself. I’ll play it for you sometime.”

“You’re gonna talk about music? Right now?”

“What should I talk about instead? The delicate panties you got on? How wet they’re getting?”

Your breath hitches as he shifts his fingers, tucking them just under the edge of your panties and caressing your skin. Glancing around, the band are still playing low and slow, most tables having cleared out by now.

“Would love to see ‘em, if you’ll let me. I’d really love to see what’s underneath though. Pretty girl like you’s bound to have a real pretty pussy, too. Certainly feels like it, Jesus.”

He presses his fingers into you with more force this time and you turn your head to him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and not from the dim lighting. He glances down to your lips and back up to your eyes again and you close the distance between you. He repositions the arm around your shoulders, hand holding the back of your neck as you lock your legs together and grind yourself against him.

His lips are soft, beard and moustache tickling your skin as he swipes his tongue against the seam of your mouth. You moan into him as you part your lips, letting him lick into you and you can taste his whiskey. He pulls back and you whine, teasing you with just enough to leave you reeling for more.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Take me home, Joel. Please, I need you.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Wanna hear the music you can make.”

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[dr1lldash]

venture x medic!reader fluff (part two) 2.3k words (can you tell i want to go on a date with sloan)

(part one)

sorry this took so long to get out!! i was almost done and then forgot to finish it for a few weeks and then i added another 500 words :3

It had been a few weeks since you and Sloan met and started getting closer, and a few days since the dig had ended. The Wayfinders had been further excavating the Temple of Anubis, despite the obvious danger, and they seem to have found what they were looking for. Camp was packed up faster than usual, though not so fast that you were worried. You knew about the history of Cairo, especially about Anubis, and you weren’t keen on being there for longer than necessary.

Luckily, you were now in Nova Scotia, staying with Sloan for a while. Their apartment was chaotic but organized, at least for them. They had spent the better part of the last week sleeping, and you really couldn’t blame them. They somehow managed to stay up for the entire flight back, but as soon as they got the two of you safely to their apartment, they were out cold.

After they caught up on their sleep, they were back to their usual energetic self. They took you to lighthouses, a few galleries and a sculpture garden, the museum of natural history, and you spent nearly a whole day in the geological museum. They talked basically nonstop about the fossils, gems, and minerals, and a small tour group ended up following the two of you for a few hours. You were the last people in the museum when it closed, and they took you to an ice cream shop nearby after.

“Get whatever you want,” they tell you as you look at the menu, “it’s on me.”

“What are you getting?”

“Guess.” The corners of their mouth flip up, and they flash their eyebrows.

You pretend to think for a second, looking over the menu once more. “Ube?” They shake their head. “Honey jalapeno pickle?” Their eyes widen.

“Is that one really on the menu…?” They scan it quickly, gasping as they finally see it. “Oh my god, that sounds so good. It must be new, I don’t remember it last time I came here. Maybe I’ll get a second cone.”

“When was the last time you came here?”

“Eh…” they trail off, pursing their lips. “A year or so? I’ve been on a few back-to-back digs.”

“Wow.” You haven’t been a medic with the Wayfinders for very long, only a few months at this point. “Do you miss home?”

They teeter their head. “I mean, yes and no? I moved around a lot as a kid so this isn’t really home, just home base. You know?” You nod at them. “We should order, though, I really want to try that honey ice cream now.”

“Ah, you’re right.” You look at the menu one last time before deciding on a candied bacon cone.

“Oh! I had that one years ago, it was so good. You’re gonna love it.” They ask you to find a table to sit at while they go to the counter to order, and you look out the window for a few minutes, watching the sun beginning to set.

“Ta-da,” you hear Sloan’s voice singing behind you. You turn to look at them, seeing four cones in their hands. “I got you an extra, I remember you said you like strawberry.”

“You didn’t have to,” you tell them, grabbing the two cones from their hand.

“I know, but I wanted to. You do like strawberry right? I’m remembering that right?”

“Yeah! It’s my favorite.” You hold the cone out before starting on it. “Want a bite?”

“Absolutely!” They lean across the table, wrapping their lips around the scoop of ice cream poking out of the cone and taking a bite out of the cone as well. “Gah, that’s so good. You know they make all the flavors in house?”

“Oh, really? That’s so cool!”

They nod. “Do you wanna try mine?” They hold out both cones, one rocky road and one honey jalapeno pickle.

You hesitate before leaning forward and taking a small bite out of their rocky road cone. “Oh my god, that’s the best rocky road I’ve ever had.” They roll their eyes playfully.

“You don’t have to lie for my benefit.”

You shake your head. “I’m not joking, I swear.”

“Do you wanna try the other one?”

You bite your lip. “Uh…no, no, I couldn’t take that from you. You work hard, you deserve to eat well, you know?”

They lean back. “I won’t force you.”

The two of you start eating your ice cream before it melts, talking about the dig you were just on. Sloan excitedly tells you about how they’d never seen so many Omnic artifacts before, and that they were a little nervous to be so close to Anubis himself, but that they think the danger was worth it in the end.

“Have you ever been to the Shambali Monastery?” you ask, licking some melting ice cream off the side of your bacon cone.

They practically vibrate as they answer, cracking their honey jalapeno pickle cone slightly. “No, but Carrie said we might be going there for our next dig! The higher ups at the Society want us to take a break, though. Which is fair, I guess, but I think a whole month off is a bit much.”

“A whole month?” Your surprise is genuine, from the way they were talking, you didn’t think they ever took more than a day off between excavations.

“Yeah, it’s gonna feel like forever,” they groan. They let out a sigh before flashing you a grin. “It’s alright though, time’s passing really quickly with you here.”

You feel a blush creeping on your cheeks as you start to bite into your cone. “I’m glad I got to come here.”

They go to take a bite of their cone, but change their mind. “Just one bite, I swear you’ll like it.” The green ice cream beginning to melt in the cone is intimidating, but you trust Sloan. Plus, they had brought cups of water for the two of you, and they had just been sitting on the table until now.

You let out a small sigh, but lean forward to suck some ice cream out of the cone. It was interesting, to say the least, but the honey was well-balanced with the jalapeno and pickle. It wasn’t too sour, spicy, or sweet, but it wasn’t your favorite. “It isn’t bad,” you tell them, taking a sip of water. “I don’t think I would get it for myself, though.”

Sloan hums in response, taking bites out of the top of their cone. “Thank you for trying it, anyway.” They go back to their rocky road cone, wincing before taking a sip of their water. “Those do not mix well.”

“I could have told you that.”

“But you didn’t.” They pout at you for a second.

“You’re right, my most sincere apologies.” You’re finishing off your strawberry cone, focusing on enjoying the last bits of sweet frozen cream, when they ask a question you didn’t quite expect. “Are you going to the Monastery?”

You pause. “I’m not sure, I want to, but nobody’s asked me to come back yet.”

Sloan gasps quietly, their eyes growing wide. “But you’re such a good medic! You’re nice, patient, and cute, and you have the best snacks, and you didn’t even tell anyone about my secret stash of ice cream. The medic on the last dig, oh my god, he was kind of an asshole. Any time I would hit my head, he was all,” They puff out their chest and imitate a deep voice, “‘you have to rest in the shade for the rest of the day, and if you’re dizzy at all, you can’t dig tomorrow’.” They let out a sigh. “You’re so much better than he was.”

You laugh at their imitation, pretty sure you know exactly who they’re talking about. Not all of the medics you were trained with were keen on people, most of them just wanted to do their job and go home as soon as possible. “I appreciate that, I try my best.”

“Let me talk to Carrie for you!”

“I don’t want to force myself in.”

“Nonsense! You want to come, right?” You nod. “And I want you to be there. It’s not a bother, I swear. We switch between medics too much, some consistency would be good for us. Please let me ask her? Please, please, please?” They clasp their hands together, pouting at you with big eyes.

“Okay, okay. If it isn’t too much trouble.” You pop the last part of your cone in your mouth, smiling at them. “I appreciate it. I had a lot of fun on the last one.”

“Because of me, right?”

You laugh. “Of course, nobody keeps me company like you.” They break eye contact with you, blinking rapidly as they look out the window for a second. “Are you okay?” you ask, worried you said something wrong.

“I like spending time with you, is all.” They look back at you, flashing their grin, and any amount of discomfort you thought you saw is gone. They lean back in their chair, chewing on the last bit of their cone before they stretch, their shirt riding up on their stomach ever so slightly. You struggle to pull your gaze away. “Should we go home? I mean, back to my place?” They get up, pushing their chair in. You mirror their actions, both of you turning to a hand sanitizer dispenser near your table to clean up some of the stickiness.

“What time is it?” you ask, looking at the sky outside, late in sunset, street lamps already lit up.

Sloan glances at their phone, grimacing when they see the time. “Uh, almost eight.”

You blink. “Wow.” It really hadn’t felt like that long, despite the clear difference in the amount of light outside. Sloan holds a hand out to you, and you take it, lacing your fingers in theirs. The two of you walk outside into the cool summer evening air, enjoying each other’s company as you make you way back to Sloan’s apartment. They point various places out, telling you about restaurants as you pass them and parks that they used to frequent.

“Can we check one out tomorrow?” you ask, looking up at them. Their head swivels the other way as you make eye contact, and you could have sworn you saw a slight flush on their cheeks.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” They squeeze your hand, still avoiding your eyes as you talk. “There’s a couple people I know that like to walk their dogs at that one,” they tell you, pointing at the one you’re passing.

The conversation continues to flow as you approach their apartment, and they unlock and open the door for you as you finally make it into the building. You step in, holding the door for them as they enter behind you, silent in a comfortable way as they lock the door.

“I had a lot of fun today, thank you for showing me around,” you tell them.

They flash a smile at you. “I had fun taking you around, I’m glad you liked it. I like this city, even though I never really get to spend a lot of time in it.”

“Do you ever want to stay here?”

They hum for a moment. “I don’t think so. I want to see everything the world has to offer, now and in the past.” They pick your hand up from your side and squeeze it. “I like traveling more with you, though.” Now it’s your turn to blush.

“I like traveling with you, too. I haven’t been able to go to a lot of places, but I hope we can visit the Monastery together.”

Sloan squeezes your hand, almost without a thought, and their lips turn up at the corners. “I hope so, too.”

The two of you make your way towards bed, and you turn to leave their room, intending to sleep on the couch, but Sloan reaches out and grabs your wrist from their bed before you can.

“Where are you going?”

“I was going to crash on the couch.”

“Why?”

You pause. “I just kind of assumed…”

They pout at you. “My bed is big enough for both of us, I don’t want you to feel unwelcome.”

“It really isn’t a big deal -” you try to protest.

“I’ll sleep on the couch instead.” They release your wrist, sitting up in bed and turning so their legs are hanging off the side. “You’re my guest, you deserve to be comfortable.”

“No, no, I can’t take your bed from you.”

“Then we should share.”

“Uh…” At this point, it’s nearing midnight. You’ve had a long day, you’re tired, and the thought of getting to sleep that close to Sloan doesn’t sound bad, just a little intimidating. So you give in. “Okay.” You climb into bed next to them, just enough space between the two of you that you don’t feel like you’re crowding them, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off their skin.

They turn on their side so they’re looking at you. “Goodnight, [Y/N].”

You smile at them, not wanting to fall asleep just yet. “Goodnight, Sloan.” They shut their eyes and their face relaxes relatively quickly. You keep watching them for a moment, admiring their features as they start to snore softly. Their hand is lying next to their head, and you rest yours near it, lacing your pinkie in theirs. You could swear you see a smile on their face, but it’s gone just a moment later. You manage to fall asleep in just a few minutes.

In the morning, you wake up with their arm wrapped around your torso, holding you close, with your head pressed into their chest and their face nuzzled into your hair. You pretend to go back to sleep until Sloan wakes up, partially because you don’t want to disturb them and partially because you want to enjoy the moment a little while longer.

[strugglingwriterwattpad]

Walter Deville teaser

As she tightly gripped the entrance door, her heart skipped a beat as the melodious sound of her mobile ringtone echoed in her ear. With a sense of intrigue, she glanced at the screen to find an unfamiliar number glowing brightly. Without hesitation, she swiftly answered the call, her voice filled with a hint of curiosity. "Miss Stoker speaking," she uttered, her hands instinctively seeking warmth within the comforting embrace of her coat. “good evening, Miss Stoker. I am calling on behalf of my employee Lord Deville. The Lord has taken quite a liking to your recent paintings and would request to purchase every single one of them.” As she received the quick and emotionless request, a chill ran down her spine, sending shivers of anticipation through her entire being. It was a request that held the power to ignite her creative soul. Each and every painting from her recent collection flashed before her eyes, their gothic designs and dark colours dancing in her mind's eye. The numbers representing their worth swirled around in her head, filling her with a sense of exhilaration and joy. “Sir apologize for the silence. But I you sure you have the right artist. My pieces aren’t exactly the most popular pieces on the market.” She stuttered finally having the strength to enter the gallery and head to her office.

“ I am very sure mam. Lord Deville has been captivated by the pieces for some time now and has sent over a contract to your public email address.” (Y/N) eagerly unlocked her laptop and dove into her overflowing inbox, her heart pounding with anticipation. And there it was, like a beacon of hope, the subject line that caught her attention, illuminating the screen with its splendour. As her eyes met the dazzling digits of the price, a surge of excitement coursed through her veins, causing her sparkling eyes to widen in sheer delight. “this all seems too good to be true sir. I will have a read through the email and get back to the lord as soon as I'm done.”

“very well mam. We hope to hear from you soon.” As the old butler hung up the old-fashioned phone he looked back at his master with a poised nod. “it is done, my lord. Miss Stoker will read over the contract now.” In the dimly lit confines of Carfax Abbey's office, a solitary candle cast eerie shadows upon the vintage desks. The lord of the manor, an enigmatic figure, sat upright and impassive, poring over the printouts of (Y/N)'s website. “is it really here sir? Has our lady finally returned to us?” the butler spoke still keeping his emotions locked away. “it would seem so Mr. Fields.” the lord muttered. Finally, his old laptop flashed with a new email from the woman he had longed to see for centuries. “dear lord Deville. I am very pleased with the proposal sent to me. Unfortunately, the pieces have one more day in my personal gallery, but I can assure you after tonight’s event, I will have them sent of to your manor as soon as possible. I will send you over delivery reports once sent over. Warm regards Miss Stoker.” As Lord Deville's eyes scanned the message, a sly smile crept across his face. His heart, once as cold as ice, began to thaw with excitement. However, he knew better than to reveal his emotions just yet. He would keep his composure until he had his beloved back in his arms, where she belonged. As he sat in the dark, his fingers gracefully twirled the golden ring, its presence on his long finger a testament to his patience. With each rotation, the jewel embedded in the ring shimmered, mirroring the sparkle that once danced in her eyes, a memory etched in his heart.

[expanding-hyrule]

Hey there! Expanding Hyrule needs your help!

This is a budding community and I am only one person running it at the moment and I’ve only got so much energy in a day. Even less right now. No joke, I opened the EH Discord and then immediately got knocked out by con flu for two weeks, still pending recovery.

Which is where you come in! The Internet is massive and it’s impossible for me to get the whole thing archived for this niche all by myself. So if you know works in any medium or creators in any medium who would fit into the “Original Legends” niche, send them my way! The list currently compiled only got set up because of one post that happened to get some traction. Imagine what we can do with a community working together on it! There are way more creators in the space than I currently have on the list and I need your help to find them! This niche has never been organized before and it’s only going to get organized with a team effort! So let’s get to it, adventurers!

What is “Original Legends” as a LoZ niche?

The "Original Legends" tag is a temporary tag for stories about Hyrules thus unseen. So based on the franchise as a whole and not any particular game. The community is not yet big enough to run a vote on a final pick for a tag, which is where you all come in! We're currently gathering ideas on the Discord and off this blog, so if you have suggestions, let us know! The poll will run off this blog once we have a bigger following.

Does it include sequels or Links Meet?

So this is where I need to be a little pedantic. Because technically, yes, both could be Original Legends. But. Because right now this community needs to build a strong central identity for what the core of "Original Legends" means, there may be more scrutiny for whether they get added to the archives.

The thing about direct sequel and Links Meet works is that they have tags they can rely on, chiefly the game they're a sequel to or the Links Meet tags, those are both recognized tags across fandom. There is no tag currently for the full "Original Legends" niche, so for the time being it needs to become prominent enough in the fandom to stand on its own first and then we can add wider definitions. So not a full no, you're welcome to still use the tag if you think your work applies, but for the official archive lists here, it's a not yet while we establish what this tag is first.

Where do I send works I find?

You can send them as reblogs, asks, submissions, DMs, or just plain old @'s to this blog. Some of the lists do have to have manual additions (the blog archive, the Discord list, the Wattpad reading list), so it is better if you make sure I'm aware it's being added so I can update all lists accordingly.

For art, because we're trying to keep the archive list a little more manageable, be sure to see socials and tags you use for your project. I will try to include some pictures, but you will make my life a whole lot easier if you can send me the ones you want in the gallery specifically. Ones that scan scale down nicely are better so we can again keep that list more manageable to scroll through.

What if I’m a creator in this space?

Please reach out! I'm trying to follow everyone here on Tumblr to make sure I get updates, my main is @amelias-hart and my LoZ alt is @amelias-zelda-calamity-quintet. You can ping any three of those blogs when you have updates, sending them in asks, submissions, or DMs as I'm the only moderator on this blog at present and those are open. If that changes for this blog, then the other blogs listed will still have DMs.

We also have a Discord open if you'd like to connect with other creators in the space and you can share when you post there. I set up events for people who upload on a schedule as well for anyone who like reminders that way for when fics in our archive are updating.

Are there other ways I can help?

Share this blog! On and off of Tumblr. In order for us to organize a tag like this within the whole of such a massive community, we need eyes on it and I simply do not have the reach or budget to make that happen without help.

Long term, if you have Discord experience, I will need help running that eventually, as well as the blog. If I put too much of this work on myself, then I won't have time to write either! And I'd rather not get stuck in that again. Keep an eye on the blog for news on that, I've got not idea where or how that process will start.

But the biggest, check out the works in our archives! It's very hard to coordinate and share a work that falls into a niche like this without the use of the main community tags, so a lot of these creators have been struggling to find their audience for years. Community support changes that, which begins and ends with each of you. Be the kind of fan you would want for yourself. We're all just nerds on the Internet, so we gotta look out for each other, yeah?

What if I was added to this space and I’d like to be removed?

If for whatever reason you would like your work removed from the list, contact this blog or any of my alts if there's an issue getting in touch and I'll remove it. I will ask for some verification that a work is yours so people can't take other people's works off the list, but if you don't want to be in the archive, I'm not going to force anyone stay in it.

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

Sure can! Hi, I’m Amelia (she/they, 28), you might know me better as amelias-hart or, if you’ve been around my works a second, echosound. I started writing Original Legends fic back in 2012 with a work called Goddess of Secrecy, which I just managed to wrap up this summer (I may have gotten stuck in the Temple of Time in 2017). GoS got its start on Wattpad and I’m now expanding my horizons on AO3, so I’ve got a lot of learning left to do! Thank you for your patience while I am!

[chimivx]

yellow. (7)

pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Female!Reader (and always ot7)

summary: The first of many sleepless, tear filled nights.

word count: 6,060

warnings: 18+, sexual content, mental health topics, depress!on, (idk if the actual word will censor my post), IF I MISSED ANYTHING PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!

a/n: we’ve all read vegas, we know what happens, we know what’s about to go down… apologies for angst, but not every relationship is perfect. i love these two with my whole heart, they gonna make it through okay?!

Sunny poked at you the entire ride home. Comment after comment, question after question, she wouldn’t give it a rest.

Sitting next to the window with your arms folded tight over your chest, you held your focus out the glass, your lips pressed together firmly, not letting her hear a word. Stone cold, your face revealed nothing to her, gave her no clue as to what had happened to make you storm out of the dressing room, brush past the boys without saying a word, and get into the car without a look backward.

Aside from Sunny’s prodding words, your phone vibrated like mad, and when you finally gave in and checked the screen, there wasn’t a single message from the person you had hoped would say something. Seven from Jungkook, one from Sunny, another attempt at getting you to speak, and two from Hoseok.

Jungkook wanted to know what happened. Not trying to be nosey, he’d added to the end of one of the messages. He also wanted to make sure you were okay.

Hoseok inquired the same. Two short messages, one thanking you for the day, and the other a minor question of what had gone down before the boys hurried out of the dressing room.

Jin must’ve been saying things. But, then again, they weren’t stupid, they all heard you and Yoongi, and most had been suspicious throughout the day as well. Jin liked to talk, and you’ve never held it against him until now. He and Yoongi were the closest, it was obvious Yoongi was telling him what was going on by the way the oldest hurried off when you approached the two…

You haven’t mentioned much to Sunny, your relationship was your business and something you intended to keep between you and the person you were involved with so that when shit like this went down, it didn’t affect the way your friends viewed the situation. If Yoongi had shared whatever with Jin, and Jin was telling the others that meant the boys were beginning to see you in a different light.

And that makes it all hurt a bit worse.

Arriving home without a word, Sunny accepted defeat. Your best friend unlocked your apartment door for you and let you shut yourself in your bedroom, knowing you’d come to her when you were ready.

The space you shared with her was small, just a little bigger than her New York apartment, this one having two bedrooms. The kitchen was a tiny thing with the cutest little table with two mismatched chairs on each end, and on the opposite wall was a sage green loveseat that has certainly seen better days. A short bookshelf lived between both spaces, separating the two, and on the walls to the left and right were the doors to your bedrooms.

Sunnys was bright, and colorful and done up to her liking, while yours was primarily bare, white walled with printed photos scattered in a handmade gallery. Some of your artwork was hung up, along with some pieces you and Yoongi messed with together.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, the grey blanket soft as a feather beneath you, your eyes scanned the mess of clothes on the floor, some belonging to Yoongi. Groaning, you press your forehead into your palms and take a long, shaky deep breath.

The sky outside was beginning to light up, the sun making its first early morning appearance. You’d been awake for nearly twenty four hours. You were exhausted, and all the more heartbroken. 

Kicking off your shoes, ignoring the tears welling in your eyes, you crawled back to your pillows and laid down, not even bothering to cover yourself with the blanket. Laying on your side facing the window, your body and mind were tired, but you couldn’t bring yourself to close your eyes. So it would be another tortuous night of shitty sleep.

Letting the tears slip onto the pillowcase, you settled for watching the sunrise, hoping your mind would somehow turn off and you could sleep, or exhaust yourself completely that you’d pass out without even knowing.

It was eerily quiet here. The apartment you shared with Sunny was in an oddly calm, silent neighborhood. Even the neighbors next door were respectful enough to barely make themselves heard. Sometimes you forgot they were there. It was nothing like New York.

No sirens to lull you to sleep, no balcony to sit on even if it were freezing outside, no people chattering on the streets below your window… It was too quiet.

You wondered if you’d have to move back home, or back in with Sunny in New York. After this, if it was truly over, you wondered if you’d have to leave, pack up your stuff and fly home. Would you be able to keep your job? The pay was decent right now, you’d love to have to not give that up, but if the pain was too great to stick around… If the company would even let you stick around. Yoongi could be meeting with Bang right now, telling him to get rid of you.

Without missing a beat you knew he’d listen to him too. One mentioned from any of the boys that they wanted you out, and you were out. The company looked for every reason regardless of what the boys said to keep you out, keep you from succeeding. They’re just waiting for something like this to happen to finally have a decent reason to fire you. If you were on the way out, what did that mean for Sunny? Would they fire her, too?

The last time you spoke to your parents, a month or so ago, a vague conversation about where you were and who you were with, they told you you’d never make it over here. Not a detail was shared about the boys, about Yoongi, about what you were officially doing for work. They knew you were in Seoul. They knew you were working with a company. They knew you were creating art. Everything else, you literally were legally not allowed to say.

Moving back home, losing this job, it would all just be the icing on the cake. Another failure for your parents to hang over your head.

It was too goddamn fucking quiet.

Sitting up quick, reaching for the small table next to your bed, you pull open the drawer and fish out a pair of headphones that you plugged into your phone. Shoving the buds in your ears you swipe open to your music and shuffle all the songs, letting whatever beat that was chosen fill the vacant space in your mind, chasing away all the thoughts that lingered.

For another half hour you laid curled up on your pillows, hands tucked beneath your head, lost in the music of an artist that pulled you through college. Their music always there for you when it seemed like no one else possibly could be.

Your eyes, heavier now that you’ve calmed yourself, wanted to close. Before you let them, you sat up one last time, unclasping your bra only for the sake of being more comfortable. Slipping it out from underneath the shirt you wore, a folded piece of paper fell out with it into your lap. Tossing the garment aside, you picked up the paper and sighed.

Part of you wanted to open it. Part of you wanted to chuck it to the cluttered floor. Your heart decided to place it in the drawer of your bedside table. 

Settling back down onto the pillows you focused on your music and let your eyes close, taking a steady deep breath, longing for a long slumber that’ll bring you into another day of work, thankfully in another twenty four hours. 

Now that the shoot was done, all the footage was captured, it was time to put it together. While working on Run, when you got to this part, this was where all the fun started. Editing the video, watching the piece actually come together and have your vision come to life… There truly was no feeling like it. To immerse yourself in something that was completely your own, to have your worries slip away while you worked, putting your all into a project that you knew people were going to love.

Your phone buzzed under your pillow.

Sunny quieted down a while ago, she had to have been passed out. The woman loved her sleep, you never dared to wake her, she wasn’t exactly an all nighter type. Lifting your head, sliding your phone from under the cushion by the wire of the headphones, the message on the screen shoved a knife into your gut.

[agust d <3]: Please let me up

Blinking a few times, you weren’t sure what to do. Opening the message you typed something back, and when he answered, your stomach sunk.

[you]: Why are you here?

[agust d <3]: Couldn’t go home. Came here instead. Please let me in.

Taking a long, deep breath, you sat straight up and glared at your bedroom door. Pulling the headphones from your ears the world went silent. Reluctantly, wondering how you were even following through, you stood up in your socks and sulked to the front door, pressing the button on the wall to let Yoongi inside, leaving the door unlocked. Sitting down at the kitchen table, pulling your feet up onto the chair, wrapping your arms around your legs, you rest your chin on one of your knees and wait for him to let himself in.

Two silent minutes passed before the door opened. Bare faced, silver hair a fluffed mess, Yoongi was dressed in sweats and a matching hoodie, chunky sneakers on his feet that he kicked off by the door. You didn’t dare look up at him, instead you let him take in the sight of you tired, quiet and alone. It wasn’t in you to make him feel worse, you knew he already felt bad, you didn’t want to pack on more. But you weren’t exactly going to let him get away with not speaking to you.

So it was up to him. Ball was in his court.

Hesitating by the door after closing and locking it behind him, you watched his feet as he paced the tile of the kitchen for a second until he decided to sit down in the chair across the table from you, slumping down, folding his hands in his lap.

It was quiet for another minute. You were beginning to loathe the quiet.

“Yoongi,” you spoke up first, dropping your feet to the floor, looking up at him to find his eyes wide, and full of something you couldn’t read.

His head shook the slightest, his voice barely a whisper. “That’s not my name.”

A sigh escaped you, your head shifting to the side.

“You said it earlier, too,” he gulped. “And you only say it when shits gone wrong, or when you’re having big feelings, and most times I hate the sound of it. You say it when you’re serious, when shit is real. I hear it when I’m in trouble, I hear it when-”

“You’re not in trouble,” you whispered.

Yoongi sat forward, sliding his hands over top of the table, still folded. His eyes begged your own for an answer. He pleaded with you for help. You weren’t sure if he knew what to do, or how to handle this. You weren’t entirely sure you knew how either.

“You let me walk away,” you said. Yoongi’s brows flipped over even more than they were.

“I shouldn’t have,” he said quickly.

“But you did,” you scoffed. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re going through, because you won’t let me in. I’m not a mind reader, but I sure as hell know when a relationship is over.” The look on his face made you sick. “I’ve been here many times, so maybe it’s me. If you want to break up, just tell me.”

“No,” he gasped, shaking his head, pressing his fingers into the wood. With a quivering voice he said, “I don’t want that… I don’t want to break up.”

“Then what’s going on?” A shrug of your shoulders with no change to your face made him sit back. His gaze broke from yours, falling to the table. He didn’t say anything. An anger roiled within you. Sliding your hands over your face you fall back in your own seat and groan. “Yoongi! This is what I mean.”

His lips curled and his eyes narrowed. “That’s not-”

“It is right now,” you cut him off, tone stern enough to make him look at you. “What is happening? Am I… crazy for not realizing something? Am I crazy for wanting you to talk to me? We used to share so much with each other, and now we don’t do any of that. I literally feel like I’m just sleeping with one of my friends. Which is starting to lose its spark by the way, not to get all cheesy, but we don’t talk anymore. It’s just sex. And work. You liked me better in New York. Now that I’m here, I’m just like everyone else. You liked the chase, and now that you’ve got me, you’re bored.”

An exasperated laugh fell from his lips, one laced with frustration. “You’re so wrong,” he said. “You are so far from the truth, it’s ridiculous.”

Folding your arms, you barely let his words hit you. “Enlighten me, Yoongi, please.”

A groan vibrated from his chest. “Okay,” he took a breath, adjusting himself where he sat. “First of all, you’re not crazy. It’s… It’s me, it’s been me the whole time.” He gulped, taking another breath, like it pained him to have to do this. “I really, really… really struggle with… doing this.” His eyes were darting around you, looking into your own for a few seconds before he had to tear them away. “I’m sorry.”

Nodding, you finally felt some sort of relief that he was slowly opening himself up. “This is all you have to do, D. Just talk to me.”

“Right.” He blinked a couple times, falling quiet once more. 

You gave him a moment. You gave him several moments.

“What’s going on?” Choosing a gentler, calmer tone of voice, you prayed it’d do something. 

“I don’t want to break up,” he said, avoiding your gaze.

“I know,” you sighed.

Yoongi sat backward, burying his face in his hands. When he dropped them he sighed, and he found you on your way to your bedroom, walking away from him. It hurt to have to do it, but he left you with no other choice.

“No,” he said, following you into your room, catching the door you tried to shut in his face. “Stop, don’t. Please, Honey.”

“Honey,” you muttered, flopping down on your bed. “That’s not my name.” You mocked him with his own words.

“Hon- Yeah, okay,” he huffed, sitting beside you, inches away from you. 

Scooting backward, you leaned your back on the wall and sat between the pillows, eyes focused on Yoongi, either waiting for him to leave or waiting for him to get on with it. 

He looked about the floor, then looked about the walls, taking everything in within the small room, letting his eyes linger on a piece of art you two drew together one late sleepless night right here within these walls. You had laughed, you had hung over each others backs, shameless traveling hands while the other held the pencil, the night ending with the notepad slipping to the floor in a forgotten clobber.

“No one,” he began, keeping your full attention, “has ever gotten to this point. With me.”

“Oh, I’m so honored,” you deadpanned. He shot you a look you deserved.

“You want me to talk? Let me talk,” he spat, and it stung. Definitely deserved. “You know you’re no different than I am.” “Once again, Yoongi, enlighten me.”

He scowled. “What happened between me and my parents is exactly what happened between you and yours. Except mine left me numb and unable to get close to anybody, and yours left you with too many feelings and the need to cling to anyone who shows you any kind of love or support.”

It should hurt more, but he wasn’t wrong.

“I’m sorry.” His voice shook when the shock appeared on your lips. “See, this is why I don’t talk.” He swallowed, hard. “Everything that has ever happened to me has made me this way. I can’t talk about myself, I can’t open up, I can’t let anyone get close, because it’s scary. I’m scared. Anyone who has ever wiggled their way through has ended up leaving me somehow, someway. My parents didn’t show me any kind of love that the other guys grew up with.”

“I didn’t grow up with that love either, I still don’t get it from them,” you shrugged. Yoongi lifted a hand to prove his point.

“You have so much of it to give,” he whispered. “I can’t match that.”

Lurching forward, you crawled closer to him and sat by his side, tucking your legs under you. “Yes, you can.”

“How?” He smirked, shaking his head.

“By doing this,” you breathed. Placing your hands to his cheeks you turned him toward you, forcing him to bring his feet on the bed, folding them in front of him. “This is enough, this is all I want, I just want you to talk to me, I want you to let me in.”

You swore a tear sparkled in his eye. “You’re gonna hate it.”

“I would never,” you whispered, dragging your thumbs over his smooth skin. “I could never hate it. Could never hate you.”

Yoongi bit his bottom lip, bringing it between his teeth as his eyes flickered to your lips. “You’re a happy person.”

“D, listen to yourself and everything you just said about me,” you said. “You see me. And apparently, that’s what I crave, and you’re giving it to me. This thing isn’t one-sided, I need to know what to give you, I need to know what to do to help you.”

A small shrug came off of him, one you felt in your hands. His eyebrows flipped for a moment, until he looked at you and whispered, “I don’t know what that is.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, one you didn’t feel coming. Yoongi swiped it away, then took your hands from his face and held them within his own. An energy came off of him that you’ve never felt before, except maybe from yourself, years ago in the start of your college years. 

Sitting here, holding his hands, you squeezed them gently, staring down at them. Yoongi did the same, watching you cry for a moment before his eyes dropped to where you were connected together, his fingers holding onto you desperately. 

Letting your mind wander over everything he’s told you, including the past, the trauma’s he’s been through but joked about, something seemed to click, and it washed over you with nausea.

“D,” you whispered, looking up at him. He met your eyes after a few seconds. “Are you okay?” His lips wanted to prick down into a frown, but he suppressed it. A piece of you wanted to freak out, truly. It was like talking to a stubborn ass child. Taking a breath, you tried again. “I’m here for you,” you continued in a whisper. “No matter what you tell me, I’m not going anywhere. I moved halfway across the globe for you, you really think I’ll leave?” A laugh came out of him. A real, genuine small burst of air that forced him to smile for a millisecond. “Come here.”

Tugging on his hands you maneuvered the two of you backward, laying down on your pillows. Yoongi, nervous to take it too far, followed your lead, letting you wrap his arm around your waist where you snuggled into his side. Pulling the blanket over top of you both, you turned to face him, snaking an arm beneath his neck to toy with his hair. 

His left arm hung over your waist, his other between you, thumb drawing gentle circles beneath your lips. Foreheads inches apart, his eyes danced all over you, studying you, taking you in. Then, his brows plummeted.

“Did you not shower?” he asked.

Smiling, you said, “Why, do I stink?”

“No,” he whispered, smiling with you. “You still have makeup on, you’re still… in my shirt.” The dots connected, making him pull his lips together. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” you said. “You had nothing to do with whether or not I wanted to shower. I could’ve gotten one if I wanted.”

His fingers paused. “I don’t want this to happen again.” You gave him a hum, a small, positive sound to keep him going. “Me, being the reason that you’re crying, that you’re hurt, that you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“D, it’s one shower,” you attempted a giggle.

“I don’t care,” he whispered. “It’s one shower too many. You don’t deserve to feel this way, you’ve done so much for me… You literally just said it, you moved across the globe, and for what? For me to feel sad, and act like a jerk?  That’s so ridiculously shitty, and I’m sorry.”

You watched him speak, the words coming out of him like blazing flames and smoke. It didn’t seem possible for your heart to swell and also sink at the same time, but it did. Licking your lips, Yoongi watching, you took a deep breath and asked, “You feel sad?”

Immediately realizing that he didn’t know what to say, you didn’t try to back track. Letting the words settle, letting the question do its job knowing he just spilled that to you on his own, this was how it was going to go. He would get fired up over something regarding you, and his own secrets would come out. It just shattered your heart to think that he’s been feeling this way and you aren’t even sure for how long.

“Yeah,” he sighed, or gasped, you weren’t sure which. The confession wasn’t even blurred, it came from his lips with ease, like he’d been dying for someone to notice, someone to care. Tears overcame you, ones that you couldn’t swallow away. “No, don’t cry, Honey, please.” His fingers wiped at your wet cheeks, his own eyes dry.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to,” you whispered, tangling your fingers tight into his hair, scooting yourself closer to him so that your chests were pressed together, your face buried in his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it, D. I know life has been hard, but I didn’t think it was going that far. How did I not see it?”

He clung to you, holding you tight against him. “Because I didn’t let you,” he mumbled. You could feel his heart beating a mile a minute between his lungs. “And I’m trying to not be pissed at myself for upsetting you by telling you.”

Peeking up to look at him you shook your head. “Please don’t be mad at yourself, I’m so glad you told me.”

“You sure look it,” he joked.

Huffing a laugh, you tucked your face into his collar bone. “You’re insufferable, how are you making jokes right now?”

“I have to,” he admitted. “Or, it becomes too much.”

Pressing a soft kiss to the base of his neck, you sighed. This internalized feeling of sadness, that sounded more like depression, was inevitable and something he couldn’t fight. Shoving away the thought that you packed on more, or added more to it, you kept telling yourself that you didn’t know, and that truthfully, mental health struggles were no reason to act like an asshole. You still felt washed with shame, knowing you purposefully did some things to tick him off. You kissed his neck again.

“I’m sorry if I-”

“Stop,” he sighed. “I know exactly what you’re going to say, don’t say it.”

Tipping your chin up, you lowered your brows. “But, I-” “No,” Yoongi looked down at you, breath heavy, brushing your noses together. “Just kiss me again.”

Catching your lips with his, the kiss is feverish and rushed, like he hadn’t kissed you since yesterday, which he hadn’t. A sense of comfort washed over you, a spark igniting in your heart, the feeling of familiarity. Even between quick bursts of shared air and the fervent way he was kissing you, like he couldn’t get enough, he was him, and he was here, and you had made progress.

The hand around your waist slid down your backside, gripping beneath your knee to guide you to hook your leg around his waist. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, he pushed further into you, rolling you onto your back, granting you the room to swing your other leg around him. Holding himself up above you, he lowered himself a bit on his elbows, his body weight warming you, caging you in against the mattress.

You couldn’t press yourself any closer to him than you already were, your back was arcing off the bed, coercing him closer, and when he dropped himself more, a gasp came out of you onto his lips, his tongue quick to slip inside with the new access. 

He needed you, and he wasn’t being shy about it.

Then again, he never was. And neither were you.

Dragging your tongue over his own you released your arms and moved them between you, until he cut you off, pulling away from your lips with a smack.

“Stop,” he whispered, looking down at you, eyes dark.

Yours went slightly wide, freezing under him. “Okay,” you whispered back, voice small.

“Do you want that?” he asked, flickering his gaze all over your face. You did the same to him.

“I do,” you answered after a beat. 

Yoongi gulped, hesitating as much as you had. “Then let me do it.”

Your nod was tiny. “Okay,” you whispered.

He nodded with you, waiting for you to say anything else before he held himself up over you and slid his hands down your body. He touched his lips to yours gently, with care, eyes closing as his fingers took their time tugging down the leggings you wore. Lifting your body to help him, he tossed them to the floor and pulled off his sweats, his lips still working against yours. It was slow, calculated, he wasn’t in any rush, and your heart was ready to burst.

“Take this off, too,” your voice was muffled by his lips, your hands messing with his hoodie. “Please.”

Without a word he listened to you, tugging off his hoodie from the back. His hair, messy over his forehead, made you melt. Here in the early glow of the morning, sun peeking into your room now, casting him in a subtle orange haze, he was stunning. Tired eyes gazed down at you as he settled over top of you like he was, pressing a kiss to your lips while he reached for the drawer of your bedside table.

Fumbling around in it for a second, he paused and pulled back to glance over at whatever he had found. You heard the paper he held in his fingers, your notes he had written on, and weren’t surprised when he dropped it onto your chest still covered by his shirt. Meeting his eyes, they said everything he wanted to say, and you knew yours did too. 

Pushing the drawer shut, keeping his eyes on yours, you prayed that he would understand, that you were telling him you read what he said while he bit down on the plastic wrapper, ripping it open with his teeth. Wrapping your arms around his neck like they once were, you lifted your head to kiss him as he situated himself, but then tossed your head back with a desperate gasp as he wasted no time and pushed himself inside of you.

His hips dared to move, but your nails digging into his shoulders stopped him. “Hang on, hang on, hang on,” your whisper was breathless, and rushed. Yoongi, eyebrows knitted together, watching you writhe beneath him with your eyes squeezed shut, took shallow breaths. 

After a heavy exhale, he whispered, “Tell me what you want.”

“Just wait a second.” Looking up at him, you slid your hands to his cheeks, giving them a slight puff. A smile tried to peek through on his squished lips.

“I’d wait forever.”

Your lips parted, eyebrows going soft. Dipping his chin down he caught your lips in the sweetest kiss, and once he looked down at you, you were nodding, gazing up at him. “Go. Please.”

The corners of his lips perked up when your arms found sanctuary around his shoulders again, your fingers lacing within the silver of his hair. For a moment, he watched you, the two of you laying here, tangled together, as close as you possibly could be. A kiss met your lips, one as soft as ever, and with a matching push of his hips, a quiet, breathless, “I love you,” tumbled from his lips.

One thirty in the afternoon, peacefulness hanging around the apartment, your bedroom door creaked open, disturbing the quiet. Slipping out of the crack he pulled the door to, Yoongi turned toward it to watch the doorknob as he shut it easily, without a sound. You were still asleep, and after working for so long, he didn’t intend to wake you up.

Shirtless, sweats hanging off his scrawny hips, he spun around in his socks and nearly jumped out of his skin. Sunny, smiling with her lips pressed together tight, watched him exit your bedroom. Beside her on the couch, eyes wide, sat Jin. Both were dressed like it was their day off, sweatpants, bare faces and natural hair. Sunny’s was unruly, her curls sweeping over her back in gorgeous black waves.

“Oh, hello,” she smized, proud that she caught him in the act. “Happy to see you come out of there.”

Yoongi rubbed one of his eyes, looking between her and Jin dumbfounded. His brother, with eyes still wide, shook his head.

“How long have you been here?” Yoongi asked him.

Jin scoffed. “How long have you been here?!”

“Last night,” Yoongi shrugged, then trudged into the kitchen. His friends twisted on the couch to follow him.

“Last night?!” Jin shouted. 

Grabbing a glass, Yoongi whipped himself around and shot a glare at him. “Shut up,” he hissed. “Don’t wake her up.”

“Yoongi we’ve been yelling at each other for hours, you two can sleep through anything,” Sunny laughed.

Feeling himself smile, Yoongi faced the kitchen sink and filled his glass with cold water. Sunny and Jin started talking about something they must’ve been discussing before he interrupted them, because Yoongi had no idea what the hell they were saying. Well, he had no idea what Sunny was saying, Jin was surely just staring at her.

Turning around to lean against the counter, he swallowed a laugh. Lips pouted with concentration, eyes flickering between her eyes and her lips, his fists tightening to keep from grabbing the hands she was speaking with… Yoongi tilted his head a bit. Jin was enthralled. He was entranced, he was bewitching, beguiled. He was whatever ridiculous word Yoongi could think of.

Jin liked Sunny. He always has.

But Jin liked liked Sunny.

Yoongi’s only ever seen his brother come over with emotion like this once before, and it wasn’t pretty. Jin’s heart was a rarity, something hard to unlock, hard to crack. Unlike Yoongi however, Jin had so much love to give yet nowhere to put it. It was overwhelming really, at least for Yoongi. Once Jin had anyone in his circle of ‘I care deeply about you’, it was hard to get out. The two boys were similar though in the sense that… Jin didn’t know how to show it.

Here on the couch, pining after the tall, curvy beauty with mocha colored skin, Jin was bursting at the seams, with love, with need, with the urge to hold her hand. But, Yoongi knew he wouldn’t do it. At least not with him standing right here.

It was funny how Sunny pretended to not notice the way Jin looked at her. She was a beautiful woman, maybe she was just used to charming people with her charismatic eyes and soothing voice. Yoongi knows he’s lost you many times because of that, and you aren’t shy to admit it. She reminded Yoongi of Jimin in that sense, to which you’d catch him and have him admitting you’ve lost him to his charismatic eyes and soothing voice. Jimin had a way of captivating his audience no matter the setting. Whether he be in a restaurant or walking down the street, he didn’t need to be onstage to have people swooning left and right.

Blinking a few times, shaking the Jimin out of his brain, Yoongi is reminded to ask you about something funny the charmer had said to him yesterday on set. It was just after you had run out of the room with Jungkook chasing behind you, a thought that made him smile. The relationship you share with the kid is Yoongi’s favorite of them all.

After everything you all endured yesterday, after the night you shared together hours ago, Yoongi searches his brain, praying he can remember what Jimin had said to him. It was quiet, he had whispered it, and it was as soon as Jungkook was out of earshot. Amidst the chatter that echoed off the tiled walls, he can’t piece together if it was a question or not.

…likes someone?

Does Yoongi like someone? Yoongi is dating you, of course he likes you, he loves you. Jimin was zipping his pants when he stepped toward Yoongi to say it, what the hell did he ask? He was eager about it too, it seemed. Like he wanted to know as soon as possible, but they were pulled out of the room faster than he could repeat himself.

…likes someone? 

He? He likes someone? 

No, it was much longer than that. 

What do you… What does it… How do you…

Oh! That was it, that was the start.

How do you-

“There she is,” Sunny raised her voice, all attention diverted toward your bedroom door where you emerged with a proper little smile on your lips and Yoongi’s hoodie on your body. His heart just about fell out of his chest. You looked so cute with your sleepy eyes and messy hair, still wishing to be wrapped up in your blankets as you padded over to him quickly.

The sleeves of his hoodie covered your hands as you stretched out your arms the closer you got to him. Setting his glass down on the counter, his own smile grew as he caught you, loving the feeling of your arms sliding around his waist. Laying yourself over top of him you prop your chin on his chest and look up at him, batting your lashes.

“Hi,” he whispered.

Your smile softened. “Hi.”

“You're so pretty.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallowed a giggle.

“I mean it.” He kissed the tip of your nose, and when you opened your eyes he said, “I wanna talk to you.”

A sigh escaped you. “Of course.”

Taking a peek at how you were latched onto him, his grin widened before he gave you a real kiss, not caring if your friends were paying attention or not. It’d be a good thing to show them you guys were alright, especially if either of them caught wind of what was going on yesterday. Yoongi didn’t say a word to Jin, and didn’t know whether or not you had said anything to Sunny. 

Another thing to talk about, he notes. He could do this.

He wanted to scoop you up in his arms and carry you back into your bedroom with how you looked up at him as you parted from the kiss. Holding you tighter, he took a breath.

“I love you,” you whispered to him.

He blushed, he could feel it, and you caught him. “I love you, too.”

VEGAS TAGS! <3

( I'm a slow updater. If I missed your tag please let me know. )

@jewelrnicorn @yoongisducky @all-american-fangirl @funkylittlebisexuall @ahewlett @damn-u-min-yoongi @my-dark-happy-place @wobblewobble822 @kaitieskidmore97 @yoooonie @bbyjjunie

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[sgiandubh]

Anatomy of a lie: the French connection

With a very short day in sight at the office, I exceptionally go back to the whole Rash sightings colossal bullshit, for the sake of science. By now, we know *urv denied sending the submittal to Deux Moi: something I also expected to happen, in the context of her current feud with Miss Marple (way more reasonable and probably also way better informed).

Going back on memory lane, let's remember how the Rash Innuendo started. With this, conveniently kept under covers and then brought to light when Rash's name was out on the market:

I have one very important thing to comment: no one, no woman in her right mind, no matter if she is an art gallery owner, a lawyer, a teacher, a pop star on drugs or a fashionista wannabe (like Rash) would ever wear a baseball cap inside a French restaurant that is not: a) a trucker's pit stop joint on l'Autoroute du Soleil (the Sun Highway, A6/A7, relays Paris to Marseille) or b) a Burger King franchise in Seine-Saint-Denis (the infamous Neuf-Trois, or 93, after the INSEE's topographical code number for car plates and counties: in short, Paris's metropolitan area Bronx, if you wish, where all the riots start). Especially "a bougie" one: you do not have the slightest clue about real, living and breathing bourgeois French women (madame Mère's friends and also my own uni mates), quite a different species from the Californian one. Rash is anything but bourgeois, Canadian or not (yet a Canadian who lived in Paris and as such must be familiar with that code). I am talking string of pearls and tailleur Chanel/ petite robe noire and Vuitton bag and Louboutins. On a daily basis and even on the subway. Not baseball caps and scattered shopping bags at the Hôtel Costes.

No client of that restaurant (I forgot to mention yesterday) would ever take pictures with their phones. This informed me about the fact (FACT) you have never been to France, let alone ever set foot in a French high-end joint. French people prefer living their social life outside of their homes. When invited at someone's place for dinner, you can be sure you are, by now: a) intimate; b) a very close, trusted and valued friend; c) someone to be absolutely included in their social circle, for various reasons (high level networking dinners in Paris come to mind: something I know very well). So, restaurant it is for everything like: bantering, flirting, getting to know each other, spending quality time with witty and hysterically funny people, looking for a new job, getting a new job, looking for a new investor in your projects, the possibilities are endless. That being said, conversation at that table is sacred: your full attention must be there at all times, repartee and consistency are expected. No one, literally no one will spend their time scanning the room for a B-list actor kissing a blonde trophy woman in public, nonetheless. Read my lips: not a soul - they would be all engrossed in whatever the talk is about at their table.

The game shifted to a superior gear with this French speaking Anon:

Someone saw something louche/amiss in all this and reacted:

The French is NOT 'too good'. That French is semi-vulgar and provincial, as in the crude and pauper ils étaient l'un sur l'autre (I was expecting a je te jure/ I swear to you that never came and it usually does). And what to say about elle semble beaucoup plus réelle que les autres filles? It's Google Translate all the way. A real, walking talking French person would have said something along the lines of: elle semble beaucoup plus crédible/vraisemblable que les autres filles (she looks way more credible than the other girls), simply because réel(le), in spoken and written nowadays French, always applies to concepts, never to people: un réel plaisir (very contrived), for instance. C'est quelqu'un de réel means absolutely nothing and I would laugh like a drain if I heard someone telling me something like this. Last but not least, despite insisting it was a different Anon, they all seem to use the same words: they had lots of fun/ils s'amusaient vraiment. Something you use all the time, too. Of course.

Keep your hands off France, madam. Très facile de s'y prendre les pieds dans le tapis. And for once, I am not going to translate, since you speak it so well and I am sure you got the message.

PS: The closest to a real French bourgeois woman (last pics included) is C. And FYI, that is not my style: I dress like a preppy since I was 15 and I am very happy with it.

[dailyrothko]

Mark Rothko Untitled 1969 Acrylic on wove paper 60 1/2 x 47 9/16 in. (153.7 x 120.8 cm) Collection National Gallery of Art, Gift of The Mark Rothko Foundation, Inc., © Kate Rothko Prizel and Christopher Rothko

Notes for Rothko nerds:

I have tried for ten years to figure out how many Black and Gray and Brown and Gray Rothkos there are from 1968/1969. These numbers are still unknown to me and I think maybe to everyone as Rothko expert David Anfam, before his recent death, told me he thought it was an unresolved issue.

There may be as many as 20 (or more) Brown and Gray paintings on paper and over the years I have posted many of them. Better scans are available to me now, so when you look at some of these it's possible I have (possibly unknowingly!) posted it before. But I have chosen to solider on in this manner because certainly the resolution quality of a new scan I post will be better and usually it will be more accurate. "Accurate" is not a word that goes well with Rothko photography and everyone knows who ever tried to take a picture of one. But that's part of why I don't mind a repeat here and there as many looks may actually provide a clearer picture of the artwork than one.

The ones I have seen in person, of course, I am a much better judge of. They tend to my eyes to be darker than the usual catalog photography, maybe for obvious practical reasons. Here's where I could say something dumb about the journey, not the destination, but my general feeling is that if I don't mind considering how much I have pored over them, I am hoping neither will you.

You can donate to my efforts here (only if you're easily able)

[darcydarlingdabbles]

Two Nights, One Bed

Human Hotel Trip ~ Part 2 ~ 3k

Hazbin Hotel ₊⁺⋆ Charlastor ₊⁺⋆ Eventually Explicit

Part 1 ⚜️Part 2 ⚜️ Part 3 ⚜️ Part 4 ⚜️ Part 5 ⚜️ Part 6 ⚜️ Finale

// Alastor gets overwhelmed with the sensory overload of modern day life, and there's a special celebration at the hotel booking up all the rooms...except one. //

✧✦✧✦⚜️✧✦✧✦

The air shimmered as Charlie and Alastor stepped through the portal into a dingey alleyway. 

His eyes narrowed behind his round glasses, scanning overflowing dumpsters and scattered litter with a grimace. How pungent. 

The Princess, however, was practically vibrating with excitement. “We made it!” Her voice bounced off the brick walls. But when she turned to him, he had his smile back in place. 

“Indeed we have, my dear. Though I must say the welcome leaves something to be desired.” 

Charlie suddenly seemed to realize where they were standing only in that moment, like she hadn’t been paying attention to their environment at all. 

Alastor smirked—perhaps Angel Dust was right. He must cut a rather dapper figure,  despite being dressed down by the peanut gallery in the lobby. Still, he’d take any padding to his ego he could get. 

Though Charlie’s cotton candy pink bags might mire the effect, Alastor kept slung over his shoulder. 

“Well it’ll be better at the actually hotel then!” The blonde fumbled with her phone, pulling a map. “We just need to head this way and we’ll be on Bourbon Street!”

She rolled her suitcase, the luggage bouncing haphazardously as he followed in her wake. 

Alastor felt his heart sink when he saw what had come of his beloved Bourbon Street in the past century or so. 

Gone was the elegant promenade he remembered, replaced with a garish spectacle that assaulted every sense he had. 

Neon signs flashed from every window, turning color into cacophony. The melodious strains of jazz had been replaced with discordant ‘songs’ blaring from hidden speakers that trod all over each other. 

Then, there were the people. Alastor’s lips usually curled at being subjected to the unwashed masses—but this was ridiculous. Stumbling around in various states of undress, sloshing drinks from every size and shape of plastic contraption. 

“How, distasteful.” Alastor muttered, not realizing Charlie was standing close enough to hear him, and see how his perpetual smile strained. 

“C’mon Al,” she glanced from her blinking map up at him. “Surely you’ve seen worse in Hell?”

Alastor chuckled darkly, having dropped the filter from his voice when the stepped out into the overworld. “My dear, Hell is meant to be the cesspit of depravity and suffering.” 

They came to a stop at a cross walk with another galling flashing sign. 

“This is…” he gestured around them. “An abomination with the facade of progress.” His nose wrinkled. “And the smell! Distilled human desperation and…other excretions.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Alastor thought he saw Charlie reach to pat his arm—before she seemed to think better of it and pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry it’s not what you remember, but hey, change can be a good thing!” 

Alastor had to constantly remind himself that this human face gave away more than he was used to. 

“We shall see.” He sighed, before forcing a wider smile. 

“That’s the spirit!” The princess said brightly. 

She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and set off across the street with a face of sheer determination. 

At least Charlie was a constant. And Alastor found himself grateful that her human disguised looked so very much like her. 

✧✦✧✦⚜️✧✦✧✦

Alastor was consumed with a wave of relief the moment they stepped into the relative quiet of the hotel’s entry way. 

Just walking down the street was fraying his nerves. His senses overwhelmed with exhaust fumes, fast food, and something sickly sweet that made his nose twitch. Every step on the sidewalk felt alien under his polished shoes. Alastor wasn’t used to feeling sweat on his skin either. 

The relative quiet and calm of the breezeway was a welcome balm—but short lived. 

“Oh, this is so classy!” Charlie exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as she took in the Art Deco decor.

Alastor, however, was thinking that if he still had his proper ears, they would be plastered flat to his head. People darted around them, the lobby was crowded and the demon’s eyes tracked every movement, his smile growing more strained by the second. 

The Princess’s eyes seemed to clear long enough to take in the humans all around them, prancing around in costume, heels clacking on the marble floors. 

“Wait a minute, did I bring us to the right year?” She blinked, pressing her hellphone to her chest, like she was worried the technology was out of place. 

“I assure you we are in the right time.” Alastor said from between his teeth. 

He nodded towards a group of human women sashaying past. Their feather boas trailed behind them like molting birds, rhinestones glittered flamboyantly on their dresses, and their makeup had been applied with the elegance of a trowel. 

“How can you be sure?” She stage-whispered as she stepped closer to his side.

“Because, my dear,  that is a caricature of the class of my time. A crude approximation of elegance. ” he kept his voice low but tinged with disdain. “No self-respecting lady would be caught dead looking like that.” 

“Isn’t that a tad bit judgmental.” Charlie gave huff, looking up at him. 

“You mean coming from me?” Alastor’s grin finally widened, a hint of his mischievous self returning. “Yes, it is. I may have been a scoundrel even in my day, but I was a scoundrel with impeccable taste.” 

Charlie didn’t look remotely mollified, so Alastor added, “And I can feel those infernal hand-held devices buzzing from every corner of this atrium.” 

“Oh, thank goodness.” She pulled her phone back from her chest, “Then we should be just in time to check into our room!” 

If Alastor didn’t hate every second he’d spent in the human world since they’d arrived, he might just find her squeal of delight charming. 

Just as he started to follow Charlie’s suitcase through the crowded lobby, a man in an ill-fitting suit stepped in front of the princess. 

“Hey doll, how you doin’?” He tipped his hat to Charlie with an exaggerated flourish. 

Alastor’s eye twitched. 

“Oh, uh, hello. Do you work here.” Charlie fumbled, taking a step back and bumping into her suitcase. Closer to Alastor. 

“That’s not a fedora, you moron.” He said as he leaned between the princess and the fool of a would-be-suitor. “It’s a trilby, and you’re wearing it incorrectly.” 

“You got a problem there, father time?” The human looked him up and down, and the disguised demon couldn’t help but smirk.

That was an insult in his time, and this pathetic mortal had no idea how much older Charlie was than him. 

“Al,” Charlie warned under her breath, making him take a steadying inhale through his nose. 

“Not at all, merely making an observation my good…fellow.” 

The human folded his arms, showing how truly ill-fitted his suit was, before he turned his leering attention back on charlie. “Say toots, how about you and me go out on a toot? I promise it’ll be the cat’s pajamas.” He asked, his voice a grating attempt at a transatlantic accent. Worse, he ended it with a wink. 

Rage surged in the demon’s chest. Fierce as any he’d felt when he was the one being insulted. 

Without further thought, he stepped between Charlie and her suitor, brown eyes turned burning red and his grin stretching inhumanly wide as he whispered. “I could eviscerate you in seconds, and it would be a pleasure.” 

The mortal fell back on his ass. “I gotta—gotta scram.” He stammered, fleeing with a squeak across the marble. 

The satisfaction the Radio Demon felt was delicious as it was fleeting. 

“Alastor!” Charlie hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him back as he righted his face. “No threatening to kill humans while were on Earth! We agreed!” 

“My apologies dear. Old habits die hard.” 

“Promise me.” 

Alastor held his growl of frustration behind his teeth, but she put her hands on her hips with a determination clear on her face. She would wait him out. And wasn’t sure he could out-stubborn Charlie. 

An admirable quality, in any other situation. 

“Very well,” Alastor acquiesced, though his tone was petulant. “I promise.” 

“Thank you.” Charlie said brightly, with a satisfied nod. 

“Though, as a demon I surely do not count. ” He reasoned. “So when I ask you to kill me now…since I’m already in hell, after all. ” 

“This is going to be fun, don’t be so dramatic!” Charlie beamed, grabbing his arm to pull him toward the check-in desk. “Wait, who am I talking to?” 

“Drama incarnate, darling.” Alastor let out a genuine laugh at Charlie’s realization. 

⊹❀⊹❀⊹✨❀⊹❀⊹

Charli’s smile faded the longer she spent haggling with the harried-looking clerk behind the counter. 

“I’m so sorry, but there’s been a mix-up with your reservation.” The woman explained, her eyes on neither of them and her fingers flying over her keyboard. “We’re hosting a Roaring Twenties Bash and we’re overbooked.” 

“What?” Charlie’s voice cracked with disappointment. “But I confirmed everything yesterday!”

Alastor remained silent beside her, his perpetual smile fixed in place, but his lips pressed tight together. She could tell he was focusing intently on not letting anything slip. 

Charlie took a breath to compose herself. “Are there any other rooms, please?” She asked, her tone gentle but pleading.

The clerk’s expression softened. “Well…I might be able to get you a room on the top floor—I’ll make sure it’s the same price.Would that work?”

“Oh, yes, that would be great!” The blonde bounced where she was leaned against the counter, her faith in just asking nicely renewed. 

“Wonderful,” the clerk said, tapping a few more buttons, before surprising the princess by setting two actual, physical keys on the countertop. “These will let you two into the honeymoon suite.”

A burst of static suddenly filled the air, drowning out the soft jazz playing in the lobby, making several humans glare at the speakers like they were causing the offense. 

Charlie winced, recognizing the source immediately. She glanced at Alastor, whose smile had become decidedly strained.

“Honeymoon suite?” The blonde squeaked, her cheeks flushing. “Are you, I mean. Surely there’s at least one other room—”

“It’s all we have available,” the clerk interrupted apologetically. “I hope that won’t be a problem?”

Charlie forced a smile like the bristling demon next to her. “No, no problem at all. Thank you so much!”

As they made their way to the elevator, Charlie whispered, “Are you okay, Al?”

“Perfectly fine,” Alastor replied, his voice tight. 

And Charlie wasn’t remotely convinced. 

The gilded elevator doors opened and it was blessedly empty as they stepped inside with their baggage. But before they could close again, and before Charlie could decide how she was going to reassure Alastor about their sleeping situation—a crowd of humans and their luggage cart pushed into the elevator. 

Alastor’s posture went rigid as they were forced carelessly into a tight corner, and Charlie’’s heart raced. She could feel the murderous intent radiating off him like hellfire.

“Hey, Al, it’s okay.” She murmured, careful to tuck her hands behind her so she didn’t reach to touch him on instinct. “Just focus on me, there are only three floors and we’re—” 

His gaze locked onto Charlie’s, just before the elevator gave a rickety jolt and a human and their luggage cart bumped hard into the demon’s back. 

Alastor stumbled forward, pressing her into the elevator’s corner, before he managed to brace his hand beside her her head. 

Charlie’s breath caught in her throat, meeting the man’s grimace with wide golden eyes. 

“My…apologies.” Alastor’s voice was strained, despite the fact that he couldn’t move—unless he used his powers. 

Charlie barely heard him over the hammering in her chest. He was towering over her in his distractingly, invitingly human face, so close she could see now that his brown skin had a dusting of freckles over his nose and under his glasses. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered, cursing the heat rising in her cheeks. 

After what felt like an eternity suspended between them, where she didn’t think either one of them were breathing, the elevator dinged. 

They exited quickly when they got to their floor, Charlie leading down the hall to their room at the very end. She fumbled with the key, acutely aware of Alastor’s silent, thrumming presence behind her. 

As the door swung open, Charlie’s eyes widened. 

Alastor stepped in behind her, his eyebrows raising slightly. “Well,” he mused, “this isn’t entirely unfortunate.”

The room was a blend of elegant Art Deco design and modern amenities. Small for a suite, but this was a historical hotel on Bourbon Street. Soft, ambient lighting cast a warm glow over the polished surfaces and rich fabrics. Charlie’s gaze was immediately drawn to the chandelier, its crystals casting intricate patterns on the walls.

“It’s beautiful!” Charlie gushed, running her hand over the plush loveseat in the suite, though her eyes watched Alastor as he moved around the room. Graceful as ever, but with a critical eye surveying every detail. 

“It is…tolerable.” He admitted. “Not near as…gaudy as I feared.” He strode to the French doors opposite the bed, pulling open the opulent, floor-length curtains with a flourish. 

Charlie’s smile waned just a touch as her eyes fell on the one, solitary, admittedly large bed. “Oh, um, about the sleeping arrangements…” she let the sentence dangle, wondering, if after that moment in the elevator. 

“Not to worry, my dear.” Alastor inerjected smoothly, without turning his attention from the swarming street below. “I will take the sofa.”

Charlie frowned, eyeing the deep green love seat. It was stylish of course, but decidedly small. “Are you sure Al? You’re pretty tall even as a human. Won’t you be uncomfortable?”

The wistful look across the Radio Demon’s face was quickly hidden as she approached him, his lips still pressed even as he kept his smile composed. 

“A gentleman would never dream of taking the bed from a lady, it simply wouldn’t do.” He chuckled, though she noticed how his voice slipped into that tinny sound. 

“Well, there’s another option.” Charlie started, biting her lip as she sat back on the end of the bed, sinking into the thick comforter just slightly. “It’s huge, I mean, we could…share?”

A soft static crackled through the air between them. 

“Well, I do believe I just felt my mother turning in her grave.” He laughed, high and harsh and distorted, his eyes turning back to the French doors, his hand resting on the curling door handles. But he never opened them. “It goes against every ounce of civility she impressed upon me in my youth. Besides,” beneathe the jovial tone, Charle thought she heard a hint of genuine discomfort. “I hardly need to sleep anyway. How fortunate!” 

“You know you’re in a human form right now. Things might be a little different.” Charlie frowned at his rigid back. The sun was starting to set outside, but not enough for her to catch the reflection of his face in the doors’ glass panes

Alastor let out a scoff a the very notion that he didn’t have perfect control over the mortal flesh he occupied. 

“Alright, I’m sorry for pushing.” Charlie wrapped her arms loosely around herself, coming up to his side to take in the view. 

Bourbon Street was bustling away below them, undaunted by the setting sun and even getting more crowded. Lights flashed, and muffled music blaired. 

“I’m sorry this isn’t quite what you expected.” Charlie voiced softly. 

Without thinking, she leaned towards Alastor, bumping against his pressed white sleeve, trying to offer some comfort before she could remember herself. 

The demon flinched at the contact, and the princess pulled back at once. 

“Oh, I’m sorry I forgot—” She stammered. 

But, to her surprise, Alastor relaxed. “It’s quite alright.” His hand stayed unmoving on the door handle, but she swore he leaned incrementally back to her. “No harm done.” He murmured, the Radio Demon’s voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Charlie stared at him, shocked by this little allowance of her being close. They were touching, actually close enough for her to feel the tension in the slender muscle of his bicep. 

She couldn’t recall Alastor ever allowing this. It felt like a sort of silent breakthrough, and she had to go with it. 

“Would you…” Charlie bit her lip, but she had to ask. “…want to look for any information about what happened to her, your mother, while we’re here?”

She expected a new wave of tension, perhaps even to lose her balance when he stepped away from her, repelled by her ‘bleeding heart.’

To Charlie’s surprise, Alastor’s posture relaxed. His gaze stayed fixed on the bustling street below. 

“No, thank you.” The man said softly. “I caused my mother enough grief in life, since the very day I was born. It would hardly do for me to disturb her after death.”

Charlie opened her mouth  once. “I’m sure you didn’t—”

“Oh, but I did” His smile took on a wry tone. “A beautiful blonde woman of wealth and status in turn-of-the-century Lousianna, becoming a mother to a…child like myself…it cost her everything but her spirit.”

Charlie’s face fell, seeing the ghost of his reflection now in the panes of glass. His medium skin, brown eyes, and dark hair. 

“I’m sorry…I can’t imagine how difficult that was.” Her heart aching for the young Alastor she’d never known. 

“Oh, we managed,” Alastor said airily. “I worked during the day, you see, and conducted my radio show,” he chuckled. “And other, extracurricular activities, at night.”

Charlie’s curiosity piqued. “What kind of work did you do?”

Alastor turned to her then, his smile stretching wide in a way that sent a shiver down the princess’s spine. “Why, I was an apprentice to the local butcher.” 

The way he said it, with such relish, made Charlie wonder if there was more to that simple statement than met the eye. 

But she didn’t dare ask, not when Alastor had shared more of himself in these few minutes than he had in all the time she’d known him in Hell.

⚜️ Part 3 ~ Room Service ⚜️

[sarahsmi13s]

HI! Happy 21st Birthday Vinny!!🥳🥳 I was wondering if you can do a request for Walt ‘Finn’ Finnegan x reader where Finn tries to impress reader with his baseball skills and the reader thinks it’s cute and hot that Finn is trying to impress them and Finn is just eating it up? Thank you Lovely!

thank you 🥰🥰 and i absolutely love this idea and hope that i did it justice!

|| impress to undress ||

effort is attractive

pairing: walt 'finn' finnegan x reader characters: finn, reader, the peanut gallery (the team) warning: language, suggestive content, rumor-ish talk, the guys are assholes, pretty fast paced, lmk if i missed any word count: ~1.6k a/n: sorry it took me so long to get to this my darling

Finn had been trying to get your attention for months. 

He saw you his first day of classes and wondered how he missed you in the three days before classes started. You were absolutely stunning.

There was just one problem… you didn’t seem to glance in his direction. You seemed to prefer the football guys. You barely spared any attention to the baseball players.

Most of them just wrote you off, saying you weren’t worth the effort or time. Calling you lost cause and jock jumper. But Finn? 

Finn saw you as a challenge. Call him desperate, but he wanted you. He wanted you bad.

One night at the Sound Machine, he noticed you alone at the bar and approached you.

“That quarterback leave you here all alone?” Finn asked casually as he leaned against the neon bar top. You casted him a side glance but just sipped your drink. “His loss, anyone would be lucky to spend a night with you,” he said as he tried his best to keep his gaze from wandering too low. He nodded to the drink in your hand, “That a blueberry mojito?” 

You hummed and sipped it, “Blueberry Coconut Mojito.” 

Your tone was dismissive, but the emphasis on the specific flavor of rum was almost playful. 

“Oh so you like the taste of sunscreen, with just a dash of blueberry?” Finn teased as his beer was given to him. He felt his chest flutter with hope at the quirk of the corner of your mouth. He was getting somewhere.

He watched you eye his beer as you turned to face him. You pinched your straw between manicured nails as he brought the bottle to his lips, “Better than the shit you’re drinking.” 

Finn hummed as he swallowed, smacking his lips a little before swiping any remnants of his mustache with his tongue. “Yeah, it is pretty bad isn’t it? But it’s cheap, so you pay for what you get.” “Mhmmm, is that the same for baseball games?”

The first baseman tilted his head, a little caught off guard. “I– Um, excuse me?” 

“Paying for what you get? Does the same sentiment translate to baseball games?”

You leaned on your elbows, pressing your tits together a little, smirking when his eyes flickered down for a split second. But he regained his cool and leaned in closer to you, green eyes scanning your features. 

“Well, you’ll just have to come and see for yourself, won’t you?”

His voice was deep and low as he spoke, vocal chords rumbling with the words. He knew he threw you off balance when your eyes flickered to his lips as he spoke, and the slight hitch in your breath as he winked at you before walking away.

He’s got your attention now.

Later that week, all of the boys were getting settled in the dugout before going out to the field.

“So do we think Y/N will actually show up?” Jake asked as he stretched. “Who’s that?” Plum asked as he helped the other catcher into his gear. “Jock jumper,” McReynolds clarified as he broke in his glove. “The chick Finn went up to at the bar the other night.” 

Plum nodded, “Oh right right, I mean she could show up. Never know.” Roper scoffed, pushing his hair back as he slid his hat on, “You’re not serious? She has never paid any of us attention before the season started, why start now?” 

Jake went to retort but Finn ran in, clearing the stairs and nearly taking Nez out in the process, “She’s here. She’s actually here.”

“No fuckin’ way. You serious?” Roper asked, looking towards the stands. “Yeah, she’s close to the dugout.” 

Finn had the biggest smile as Kenny peeked out and saw you sitting there, patiently waiting for the game to start. “No way… Dude! How did you do it?” Finn shrugged, leaning against the dugout wall smugly, “I guess I just have a way with words. Or maybe the fact I had the balls to talk to her.”

A low chorus of “ooooo’s” came from the freshmen.

“Not our fault, she was always around some football player. She also never gave us the time of day so what else could we have done?” Glen huffed.

“Well it doesn’t matter, I invited her and she’s here for me. Time to impress her.” Finn saluted the dugout before jogging out for “roll-call”. He looked toward your seat and caught your eye before walking over to you.

You stood with a smirk, your legs catching his attention in the shorts you were wearing as you walked up to the fence from the bleachers.

“Glad you could make it,” he said as he leaned on the chainlink. You smirked at him before looking around, “Of course, how could I miss this?” He smiled and stood up straight, “Well I hope you enjoy the view.” You leaned in a little closer and looked him up and down, “Oh… I’m sure I will. Good luck Finn.” You gave his arm a gentle squeeze to show you were genuinely wishing him good luck.

Your fingers lingered on his arm for a moment before they were gone as you went to the concession stand.

He looked down at the goosebumps left in your wake before Roper got his attention. Finn was gonna have to be at the top of his game today.

And he very much was at the top of his game.

He made near perfect plays, ran the bases like he knew what he was doing. He was great!

After every play or at bat, he found himself looking at you. Glancing to see how impressed you were, if you were impressed at all. Finn had to show you that he was better than the other guys that tried to impress you, that he was the one worth your attention.

So when he heard or saw you cheer for him, and the team, he ate it up. He felt a boost to his ego each time and he wanted to do better each play. He wanted to play better, for you.

And by the time the game was over, he glanced at you – watching you cheer for the team before looking at him and sending him a proud smile. If that didn’t make a man melt, he didn’t know what else would.

In the locker room, Finn was so antsy to get out of there and go find you before you had the chance to leave and go to the bar to get swept up by some meathead. He didn’t change out of his uniform, just his cleats and hastily tied his Converse’s. He swiped deodorant on, with only a little cologne dabbed to his neck, before he ran out of the locker room with his bag.

When he got to the parking lot, he found you leaning against your convertible arms supporting you on the door.

“Y/N!”

You looked up at him, a smile stretching across your features as he jogged over to you. “Hey, Finn!” 

When he got to you, he smiled down at you as you looked up at him, “You did really well, I’m glad I came to watch you play.” If his heart hadn’t already been beating fast from the run, it would have been now. You said you came to watch him play, not the team, him. “I’m glad you came too.”

You smiled at him, “I um, I’m also glad you took a chance on the um ‘jock jumper’, as your friends so affectionately call me.”

His face dropped, “You know about that?” You nodded, “Yeah, I wasn’t exactly far from the dugout and McReynolds is pretty loud.” “Oh my goodness, Y/N, I-I’m sorry. I hope you know that I never thought of you like that.” 

“Finn, it’s okay. I know. And the whole ‘not giving baseball players the time of day’ thing, that’s only somewhat accurate.” Finn furrowed his brow and you giggled, “I only wanted to give you the time of day, Finn. But since my dad is a football scout, jocks try to get a good word in through me. But I turn them away a good majority of the time when I can’t get your attention.”

He blinked, “Wait, so you were using the football players to make me jealous and get me to talk to you?” You nodded and let out a small laugh, “Yeah, I was.”

He chuckled and nodded, “But did I still impress you tonight? Cause I feel a little silly about how desperate I was.” You nodded and gripped his biceps gently, “Yes, Finn, I was very impressed. Granted you didn’t have to try to impress me, but the effort…” You stepped closer to him, so close you were almost touching, “The effort was very attractive, got me a little hot and bothered if I’m honest.” 

Finn took this chance to grab your hip, “I always say the truth will set you free. But I think I have a solution for your… temperature dilemma.” You hummed and looked from his lips to his eyes, “And what’s that Dr. Finnegan?” He nearly growled as he pulled you against him, “I know a private spot at the lake, it’s secluded – just you and me baby.” “Mmm, sounds perfect.” 

He grinned and captured your lips as he swiped your keys from your pocket. When he pulled away, he held them up, “I’m driving.”

i really hope you enjoyed this my darling! again i know this was fast paced, but i had a lot of fun writing this and making that moodboard 💜

[tropes-and-tales-archives]

More Precious Than Rubies: Part 4a

This is an alternate timeline story that has a Rafael Barba track and a Sonny Carisi track. The two paths split off in part 3.

WC: 4229

TW: SVU-typical talk of rape and sexual assault cases; idiots in love.

AN: The prompt was "Everything will fall into place."

The day had started great.  Barba had a grand jury return an indictment on a difficult test case, and the week only looked to get better as it progressed.

He left the courthouse and paused at the top of the steps.  He squinted against the bright May sunshine, slid his sunglasses on, and took in the scene around him.  There was something about the springtime that lifted the relative drear of his life.  The trees in Thomas Payne Park were in bloom, a gentle wind was curving through the columns of the courthouse.  Spring was a season of possibilities.

He started down the steps when he felt someone come up behind him.  He heard a familiar voice call out, without social niceties or preamble, “we need to talk about the Forni case.”

He turned in time to see you fall in step beside him.  He glanced you over as you both descended the steps and paused at the bottom to face each other. 

Your usual pencil skirts usually hit precisely at the knee, but the navy blue one you wore now hit an inch or two higher, showing off your shapely legs.  He was glad for his sunglasses hiding his eyes, but you smirked at him anyway.

“Nothing to talk about, counselor,” he replied.  “We couldn’t reach a deal, so I’ll see you in court.”

Your smirk transformed into a wide grin.  You reached into your satchel and pulled out a folded paper that you handed to him.  He went to take it, and you held it for a beat, making him tug it out of your grasp as you smiled at him. 

“Ah, but you won’t see me in court,” you said.  “I got Forni shifted to family court.  I’ll be seeing a one Ms. Pippa Cox instead.”

Barba opened the paper and scanned it in disbelief.  “How…what…?” he sputtered.

If your smile got any wider, it’d split your face in half.  “Turns out Judge Barth is open to certain studies that show how racial disparities affect minority communities when it comes to underaged people being tried as adults.  She agreed that the case belonged in family court.  I’m off to see Cox now to talk about a reasonable deal that serves justice without vengeance.”

He crumpled the paper in his fist and glared at you, and you only gave him a light laugh.  You waved your hands in front of him like you were doing a magic trick.  “Poof, there goes your case,” you declared.  “The Amazing Girl Wonder does it again.”

You walked away, and he watched you go, trying to ignore the way your skirt strained a bit around your ass and how your legs looked in your heels.  He gritted his teeth and felt a migraine start up in his left temple.  McCoy was going to hate this, and Liv would probably have something smart to say too.

-----

He heard that you and Cox hammered out a deal that got Anthony Forni into a juvenile treatment facility.  Less than a month into him serving his sentence, certain crimes committed against him came to light, and SVU was put on the case.

You had been right:  Anthony’s uncle had been molesting him since he was a young child, and the more SVU dug into the old man, the more victims they found.  Before long, Barba had a strong case with multiple victims and incontrovertible evidence.  It was a slam dunk, and the jury was only out for a bit before they came back with a guilty verdict.

You sat in the gallery during the sentencing.  Anthony was there to give a victim impact statement, and when it was all over, Barba caught your eye.  You did that usual irritating head tilt of yours, but you nodded at him too.  And then you smiled.

-----

May turned to June, and Barba didn’t have another case against you for the entire month.  It should have been a relief – just his usual slate of cases without quite so much aggravation – but it didn’t mean he didn’t think about you.  Just the opposite, in fact.

Barba prided himself on having a good read on people based on first impressions, and that went double with his fellow lawyers.  He knew, for example, within five minutes of meeting Buchanan that the man was a money-grubber without a shred of moral integrity.  He knew that his fellow ADAs were a mixed bag:  Callier was competent but treated the job like a job without much passion for justice, and O’Dwyer punted off any case that he couldn’t twist into a headline or a law review article. 

Barba had similarly judged you, but you kept surprising him.  He was constantly revising his impression of you. 

First, he thought you were just some barely functional law lackey and had landed in public defense because it was all that was available to you.  When you proved yourself as competent, he revised his opinion of you.

Then he assumed that you were one of those lawyers who used public defense to vault into a lucrative career of criminal defense.  That’s what Buchanan had done, after all.  But after a while, Barba heard through the gossipy channels of his lawyer networks that you’d been offered positions with a few different firms and had turned them down.  Revision number two.

He was currently settled on thinking that you really were some sort of do-gooder, revise-the-system sort of advocate.  He saw the way your eyes shined when Anthony Forni finally got justice.  There was no faking that sort of genuine feeling. 

He wondered where your zeal for justice came from.  He knew his fair share of bleeding-hearts in his career, but you were specifically driven – you didn’t have the vague, do-gooder, we’re all one people sort of passion.  You were laser-focused on specific issues.  Something had made you that way.  He wondered what it was.

He almost felt bad – public defenders either burned out quickly or became embittered.  As much as you were a thorn in his side, he would readily admit that you were a good lawyer with a sharp intellect for the law that belied how green you really were.  He’d hate to see you in ten years (or five, or two), that sparkle in your eye and that annoyingly defiant head tilt gone. 

But Barba was irritated by the fact that you were taking up so much space in his head.  And it didn’t get any better.

In fact, it got worse.  Barba went out with the squad one night to celebrate a hard-won case, and he had too much to drink.  Your name had come up over the course of the evening – Fin complaining about you, remarking that he hated hearing your heels clicking down the hallway when SVU caught a new case with a public defender.  From there, Barba couldn’t shake the image of you at the sentencing of Forni’s uncle, when you nodded and then smiled at him.  Too many scotches in, and he couldn’t shake the image.

Liv had to load him into a taxi, and he stumbled home to his empty apartment.  He only got himself half undressed before he collapsed into bed, and the combination of too much alcohol and a well-fought win and you on the brain left him feeling…well, amorous. 

Barba rarely ever bothered to take care of himself, but in the spirit of celebration, he did – and as much as he fought it, he kept picturing you.  His mind, soaked in booze, spun though a series of improbable scenarios:  in his office, in the courtroom, in the SVU interrogation room. 

His mind finally settled on a cliched stuck-elevator scenario that he’d be embarrassed by in the morning, but in the meantime…he pictured the two of you trapped in an elevator (power outage, it’d take hours to fix), you panicking (you were claustrophobic), him comforting.  He imagined you doing that infuriating head-tilt you did, but in his mind, you tilted your face to his, pleading with him to distract you. 

From there, the scenario deteriorated, and he brought himself to climax with you on his mind, and then he rolled over and slept the sated sleep of the near-dead.  He didn’t wake up until late morning, but it was a Saturday and he didn’t have anywhere to be.

In the light of morning, he cleaned himself up soberly, his head throbbing and a twist of Catholic guilt at masturbating in the first place.  He vowed to stop thinking about you.

-----

It was easier said than done. 

Barba found himself collecting interactions with you like a magpie collection shiny baubles and lining his nest with them. 

There were the usual meetings to review possible plea deals when you had one of his cases.  He probably should feel ashamed to have thought about you that drunken night after the bar, but he was always able to meet your gaze levelly without hesitation.  When a plea couldn’t be reached, there was the usual trials.  You usually lost, but it was never a complete loss – you always managed to get more serious charges dropped or found ‘not guilty,’ and you managed to get a lot of your clients more lenient, alternative sentencing. 

But there were other interactions too.

There was the time he saw you across the street of the courthouse.  You were waiting for the light, and you turned your face to the sunlight and closed your eyes for a second.  He saw you take a deep breath and smile at the stolen moment of serenity in what he assumed was a life as busy as his.

There was the time in the courthouse elevator, when he stepped on at one floor and you joined him on the next.  You nodded at him and then turned your back to him, and he watched you and prayed for a non-fatal elevator disaster to strike.  But god’s attention was clearly elsewhere because the elevator deposited both of you on the ground floor, and you strode away without a backwards glance.

There was the time he saw you running in Riverside Park.  You were obviously doing some workout – sprinting for a distance on the trail, then walking back to your starting point while frowning at a giant watch on your wrist.  Then repeating it, over and over.  He had been out for a rare Sunday afternoon walk, tired of being cramped in his office all weekend, and he had stood and watched you from a distance until he was certain someone would call the cops on him for publicly leering at women in the park.

There was the time at the wine bar when he was just settling in his seat as you were paying and leaving.  When you noticed him, you smiled and repeated the magic-trick gesture that you’d done with the Forni case.  Then you left, and Barba found out the next morning that you’d yanked another case out from under his nose.

There was the conference on sexual crimes and cyberspace, and Barba only noticed you during a break before the keynote.  You stood at the refreshments table and frowned at the offerings of stale bagels and burnt coffee, and he watched you sigh heavily before you speared a few slices of cantaloupe.  He walked over to stand beside you, and he pretended to get a coffee.

“Counselor,” he said in greeting.  “Learning about the new crimes you’ll have to defend?”

He watched you turn to face him, and he watched you look him up and down.  He was glad to have worn one of his better suits, but he still wondered what you thought of him.  Your mouth twisted into one of your half smiles, but that could mean literally anything with you.

“I have to stay one step ahead of the D.A.’s office,” you admitted.  “They have some really tough lawyers over there.”  You paused a beat, then added, “O’Dwyer is one of the best, honestly.”

Then you snorted at the look on his face and walked away with your plate of fruit, leaving Barba flustered with his cup of awful coffee.

********

You loved your job.  You lost more than you won, but that was the life of a public defender, and you managed to divert a fair share of non-violent and first-time offenders into alternative sentencing arrangements.

The best was when you scored a hit against ADA Barba.  You were cordial with the other ADAs – Callier, O’Dwyer, Niles – but Barba was linked to SVU and pompous to boot.  You wondered if he learned how to smirk at Harvard, or if it was a natural talent.

You didn’t know how he was with other defense lawyers, but he seemed to enjoy arguing with you.  You’d been offended by the “girl wonder” comment, but then you leaned into it, tossing it back in his face when you beat him.  You loved the way his handsome face got stony, how his green eyes turned stormy when you bested him. 

The best was when he clenched his jaw so hard that you could hear his molars straining under the pressure.  You made a deal with yourself:  if you got him to crack a tooth in frustration, you’d take a long weekend and go to the Catskills for a mini-vacation. 

And if he never did, at least you could enjoy needling him.  You loved throwing him off his game.  Barba was just another politically-minded ADA, taking certain cases so that he could claim the “tough on crime” tag when he made his eventual run at a judgeship. 

Still, he seemed okay as a person.  You may even vote for him, if he ran for an elected position.  Maybe turn up to one of his campaign events just to stare at him and wait for him to blink first.  Or imply that one of his coworkers was better than him, like you did when you ran into him at a conference.  The look on his face, somewhere between surprise and offense, had been hilarious.

Your life had a comforting rhythm.  You worked.  You went home.  You ate lunch too often at Salvadoreño, probably keeping them afloat with your addiction to their pupusas.  You took up a half-marathon training plan to justify your daily lunch calorie count.  You hung out with your friends when you had free time, and you just contributed to an ongoing text string when you didn’t have time.  Your friends were mostly lawyers too, and no one had time for anything other than work.

Work was a convenient excuse for your appalling lack of love life.  After Sonny, you refused to date for a while.  Once the heartache faded a bit, you went on a few first dates that were like slow-motion train wrecks.  The Wall Street guy who spent the evening on his phone.  The Bronx ADA who lambasted your job.  The corporate lawyer who talked about himself the entire evening and then parted ways with you on the street afterwards after telling you that you weren’t his type, physically.

You only saw Sonny sometimes at work.  It could have been easy to fall back into bad habits, but he kept his distance from you and only exchanged the smallest of small talk.  Every so often, you caught him looking at you with a woebegone look on his face, but more often than not, he was joined at the hip to Amanda.  Leaning on her desk with his lanky legs stretched out in front of him.  Sitting in interrogation with her.  Bringing her a ginger ale from the breakroom.  Trotting after her like a puppy when a new case came in.

Almost two years later, and it still nettled to see it.

You were in the 16th precinct to talk with a new client who was going to be arraigned the next day.  It was a Barba case, and you each did your usual snark-filled banter across the interrogation table.  His eyes got their usual glint in them that made you question, as usual, if he was turned on by arguing.  Then your client was led out in handcuffs, and you assured him that you’d be there in the morning for his arraignment.

When you went to leave the room, Barba opened the door for you and then fell in step with you.  He was saying something about the case, making a final bid for some deal, but you barely heard him.  As you walked through the precinct bullpen, your eyes drifted to Sonny and Amanda standing by the big-screen in the corner. 

And you saw, clearly, that Amanda was pregnant.

It was like a punch in the gut, pulling all the wind from you.  Your eyes went from her swelling stomach to Sonny’s face – who was looking directly at you with his bright blue eyes.  The expression on his face was unreadable, and you turned away and walked as quickly as you could to the elevator.  Barba matched your speed and kept up with you, but he had fallen silent.  He watched you jam the ‘down’ button furiously, then joined you when the elevator doors slid open.  He watched you jam the ‘door shut’ button just as angrily.  You heard Sonny call your name from the hallway, and you hit the button and kept hitting it until you felt a tentative hand on your wrist.

“It’s shut,” said Barba softly.  “You can stop.”

You couldn’t look at him.  Your vision was blurry with tears as you stared at the elevator panel.  You hadn’t meant to start crying – it felt like an involuntary reflex, seeing Amanda pregnant and Sonny solicitous with her.  How long had he waited before he started sleeping with her after you broke up with him?  Had he already been sleeping with her?  Your mind stretched back to all the broken dates and the times he stood you up to be with her….

And of course, the one single time you got emotional at work, it had to be in front of your harshest competitor.  You could envision a long stretch ahead of you where Barba mocked you for crying every time you tried to hash out a plea deal. 

But he didn’t say anything right now.  He removed his hand from your wrist and reached into his suit jacket.  He pulled out a handkerchief – an actual cloth handkerchief, like some member of the landed gentry in a period piece, for fuck’s sake – and handed it to you without a word.  You took it but just stared at it; it was a blindingly snowy white, and it felt like a bridge too far to wipe your tear-stained face on it, especially with his embroidered initials staring back at you. 

When the elevator deposited you on the ground floor, Barba put his hand on your upper back lightly and steered you towards the ladies room, plucking his handkerchief from your hand and pushing you inside the bathroom. 

He didn’t follow, thank god.  You stood at the mirror and braced yourself against the sink.  You took deep breaths.  You pushed aside the mental image of Amanda and Sonny together.  Not just pushed – you shoved it into a box, taped it shut, and tossed it into a dark corner of your mind with the rest of the awful life experiences that you compartmentalized.  You were pretty good at it – you had lots of experience, after all.

You waited a long moment, just staring at your own reflection.  You felt like an idiot.  Of course Sonny would end up with Amanda.  And regardless of when it happened, it didn’t matter anymore.  You weren’t together. 

What did matter was keeping your composure, especially in front of people like the entire SVU squad and ADA Barba.

When you exited the bathroom, the latter was standing outside, waiting for you.  But if you expected him to smirk or gloat at your sudden show of emotion, you would be wrong.  He just stood there, sharp in his black three-piece suit, with a look of concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and he didn’t sound like he was teasing, so you nodded at him.

“You look like you need a drink,” he continued, and he gestured for you to walk with him.  You did.

“It’s only 11:30 in the morning,” you replied with a watery laugh, and he held the door for you as you both left the building.

“Lunch then,” he said.  He took your elbow and steered you out to the street.  “And a glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.”  You opened your mouth to protest but he cut you off and led you towards a little Italian place on the corner.  “You’d be surprised how much smaller problems seem on a full stomach and a bit of pinot.”

You followed him mutely into the tiny restaurant, to the tiny table jammed against a wall.  You ordered a Caesar salad and allowed him to order you a glass of pinot, and he placed his order too.  When the waiter dropped off your drinks and left, you braced yourself for whatever snarky comments Barba had planned.

You were wrong again.  He didn’t even mention your dramatic scene at the 16th.  He asked how you liked being a public defender, then segued to talking about lawyers you both knew.  It turned out that you had a lot of mutual acquaintances – the law community of New York City and its surrounding environs was shockingly small.

When your food came, the conversation shifted to your individual experiences at law school.  It turned out that you were both scholarship kids and knew the divide it could cause with your fellow classmates.  You were both editors of your respective law reviews too.

“Though Harvard Law has a little more brand recognition,” you admitted with a small smile, and Barba only shrugged modestly and asked what topics you had written about.

It felt weird that it wasn’t weird, sitting across from your toughest opponent, eating lunch and chatting about things casually instead of bickering about plea arrangements.  And, to his credit, you had barely thought about Sonny and Amanda since you sat down to eat.  You’d have to revise your opinion of him as a pompous type.  Maybe a person could be pompous and nice.

The waiter bussed your empty dishes and dropped the check, which Barba took without comment and paid.  When you tried to protest, he made a snarky comment about your paltry salary as a public defender, so you glared at him.

You both stood to leave, and you each paused on the sidewalk in awkward silence.  You finally spoke up to thank him, and you hoped he knew it wasn’t just for the salad and wine.

He cleared his throat.  “It’s probably not what you’re thinking it is,” he said.  “But I know what you’re going through.”  He sighed, paused, then added, “everything will fall into place.”

You dropped your head and looked at your feet on the sidewalk.  “I don’t want your pity, Barba.”

He swung his briefcase to nudge it against your own satchel, making you look up at him.  “If you think for one second I’m going to go easy on you, Fordham Law, you have another thing coming,” he said with a smirk.  “No pity.  And no mercy either.”

“Bring it, Harvard Law,” you replied with a grateful smile.  His smirk turned into a smile in return, and he parted ways with you – he walked to the left, and you walked to the right.

-----

You kept the Sonny and Amanda situation carefully compartmentalized over the next month.  Sonny tried to talk to you once in the precinct, but you carefully kept the discussion focused on the new suspect you were representing.  He eventually stopped trying, and you had a way of unfocusing your gaze when it drifted over your ex-boyfriend and Amanda.

Work was busy, you ran a lot with your training group, and any time your mind drifted to those thoughts, you shoved them away by focusing on other things.

Barba, for example.  Still pompous, and not granting you an inch, as promised.  He was still your toughest ADA:  Callier was always open to reasonable deals, O’Dwyer ducked most of the cases you handled…but Barba always had fight in him.  You could put the best deal on the table and he’d still argue with you about it, layering in platitudes about the law and justice while accusing you of being a softy.

You argued at SVU, you argued in court.  You each got pulled into chambers and argued your points there.  Judge Hawkins, herself a champion smirker, watched the two of you bicker for a full five minutes before she interjected and told you to get a room.  Barba sputtered in shock, which allowed you to get your final point in without interruption, but Hawkins split the difference and only threw out half the evidence you were trying to get expunged.  It was still better than nothing.

You still glared at each other during court, but there was no real weight behind it.  He started calling you “Fordham Law” all the time, which was miles better than “Girl Wonder.”  In return, you started shaking his hand after trials concluded, even the ones where he won. 

And if you felt anything when his warm hand enveloped yours, you compartmentalized that too.

[zalmoxis-the-great]

Hurt

‘My lord, pardon my boldness, but I highly recommend leaving the testing of the artifact to someone disposable.’ Said Sannet, the chief curator of Solemnace.

‘Your suggestion was noted and promptly dismissed.’ Said Trazyn, the Overlord and master of Solemnace. ‘I intended to test this artifact myself.’

‘Once more, I beg you to excuse my hesitant nature, but could we at least let the Master Engramancer have a look at it first?’ The hard-light sculptor proposed as he looked over the Adscititious Generating artifact.

‘I am disappointed by the lack of your adventurous spirit, Sannet’, Trazyn said as he activated the sides of the cuboid artifact. ‘We are safe in here.' He gestured at the chamber that his subjects dubbed the testing rooms of the Galleries.

The device was one of the few Trazyn had actually acquired with its former owner’s consent.

A fringe planet hosting a necron vanguard, under siege by a Tau fleet, was more than happy to crack open a few of their vaults and give him whatever was inside them for his help.

That was a fruitful endeavor, and the archivist found himself incentivized to acquire both some new members for his Kor'vattra exhibitions, as well as some new necron artifacts, and better standing with another dynasty.

A rare occurrence.

He was now sorting through his loot, with the help of his curator, comparing the objects to the list that the chief cryptek of that planet gave them.

‘Besides, you saw the listing. This is considered a low-value item.’ Trazyn said as he finished activating and connecting to the device. He started accepting the queries that popped up in his vision, about allowing the item to scan his engramatic banks.

‘My lord, I understand, but still be cautious. This is an item that is supposed to generate a virtual reality based on your greatest desires, allowing it to scan your engrams might be a rushed mo-‘

Sannet’s voice was lost as Trazyn disconnected his consciousness from reality, and his sensory arrays got connected to the Adscititious Generating cube.

The setting changed in front of him, as the artifact was generating his new environment.

Trazyn looked, mostly intrigued, as the item struggled to remake the docking port where he usually entered Solemnace.

The cuboid was clearly a work of love, probably of a cryptek psychomancer’s passion project.

It wasn’t optimized, that was sure.  He thought as he saw Sannet reappear in front of him.

‘My lord Trazyn, Solemnace rejoice at your return.’ He said bowing, as behind him rows and rows of lychguards kenneled down, the canoptek constructs lowering their heads, and representants of each cryptek conclave hosted on the planet prostrated themselves in front of him.

Solemnace was, indeed, rejoicing at his return.

‘It does, I see.’ Trazyn answered, letting elated glyphs into the interstitial space.

‘Chief archivist, I am happy to announce that the Imperial Throne exhibition is finally ready!’ Sannet raised his ocular to meet his lord's.

Trazyn could feel his engrams crackling with energy from the sudden rush of flux.

‘Throne room?’ He started thinking that this device might not be too bad. ‘Bring me to it, I need to see it done!’

‘As you wish, sir’, He said, standing up as he sent a coordinates pack to his Overlord.

Trazyn didn’t waste a moment, and as soon as he received them, he translocated to it.

Before he fully materialized inside the exhibition room he was afraid, for a moment, that the code would work in the real space too, but that thought was soon abandoned.

In front of him, the centerpiece of the exhibitions was one other than The Emperor of Mankind himself.

Trazyn was sure he dropped his jaw on the floor.

‘Is it to your liking, sir?’ Sannet asked behind him.

He waited for over 2 hours, but Trazyn seemed still mesmerized by the chamber.

It was over twenty Khet long. Completely gilded, with a replica of the Golden Throne, except for the top part, which has been removed from the original piece. On top of it lay the God-Emperor of Mankind, the Carrion Lord. A ghoulish carcass that was still incredibly psychically active and completely conscious of its imprisonment inside a tesseract labyrinth. Custodes, or lookalikes until Overlord Trazyn could acquire more, placed diligently every fifth of a Keht, all the way to the pyramid top of the golden machinery.

‘Sir?’ Sannet tried again. ‘Is it to your liking?’

Trazyn seemed to finally have heard him, nodding slowly, still in awe at the exhibit.

He seemed to have read the report, as he slowly turned his head to his chief curator.

‘Sannet, write down to get more custodes.’ Glyphs of stupefaction colored his words.

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Aren’t you going to write that down?’

‘There is no need for that.’ Sannet looked at him with pride in his interstitial space. ‘ The Master Engramancer managed to fix my memetic issues.’

‘Sannet!’ Trazyn exclaimed, a smile blooming on his deathmask. ’This is absolutely wonderful to hear!’

‘Thank you, sir!’ The hard-light sculptor exclaimed with excitement.

‘Show me more of the recent exhibitions! Anything that is marked with a high priority status!’

‘Absolutely!’ The curator replied, animated by his master’s enthusiasm.

More coordinates came, and Trazyn enjoyed himself greatly, seeing the beautifully arranged carnage in the WAAAGH! exhibition, where Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka himself stood in the middle, accompanied by his grot banner-waver.

He got exceptionally excited to admire a vivarium where a whole Drukhari pirate crew was trapped in a piece of space, the mind-shackling scarabs inside them ensuring they thought they were looking for prey, not realizing their never-ending search.

After that, he asked to just walk to other exhibitions, as the items he saw on the way were all, almost as delightful as the big shows.

Trazyn was almost skipping with joy as he passed the necrontyr galleries. Noting that his armor collections were complete, one from each dynasty. It was beautifully combined with parts of his library, where copies of each item’s history were exposed next to them, offering information about the time period, and the nature of the conflict they were part of.

He never felt so at home in this part of his galleries, that was when he noticed the pottery exposition.

To his shock, all of them were perfectly assembled, as if they were never smashed.

‘Excellent work repairing those!’ He continued his ecstatic journaling of how he wanted his galleries to look like, when his oculars fell on a particular object.

It was the Astrarium Mysterios, but it lacked the sidenote that said it was a duplicate.

He let out a whistle.

‘Looks like Orikan didn’t get his claws on this one over here.’

‘He did, sir. As per your agreement, he studied it and then brought it back.’

‘What agreement?’ Trazyn asked, confused. ‘What did the old fool do this time? ‘ He was prepared for bad news, they always accompanied the astromancer.

‘I am not completely sure of what it entails. You and he discussed it privately. But I can ask him to come and explain it himself.’

Trazyn was speechless.

He realized Sannet was sending a message, right as the summons were released into the Tomb Complex’s network.

‘Orikan is here? What is he doing here?’

Sannet blinked at him, seemingly shocked by this question.

‘You and him went on an expedition together, and after you returned, he decided to join our dynasty.’ He stated.

Trazyn didn’t even have time to process the information, as right then the familiar light of a translocation brighten the room.

‘You better have a good reason to interrupt my studies, Oh-Overlord-Of-Solemnace!’ Orikan barely finished materializing into the room as he started aggressively hissing in the archivist’s direction.

‘Show the proper respect to your Overlord!’ Sannet rebutted, spirited by the presence of his master in front of him.

Trazyn didn’t register the words.

He didn’t even acknowledge the tone.

He was completely fixated on the cartouche sitting in the middle of Orikan’s chest.

It was his symbol.

The ankh the he himself wore.

The only difference between the two was that Orikan's was a rank lower

Orikan was part of his entourage.

The diviner was in a foul mood.

He found himself to be in such moods pretty often when working on the time clot that was Solemnace.

Trazyn was just standing there, looking at him with his oculars so bright, they seemed like two suns.

Since he wasn’t up to their usual bickering, Orikan decided to vent his complaint again, in hopes that this time it would actually be listened to.

‘Fine then, Master Trazyn, have you finally had time to approve the materials for my observatory on the artificial satellite of the planet?’ He demanded.

This was why he disliked working under other Lords, they focused only on themselves.

Trazyn was still staring at him.

Orikan noted that this was not his usual unreadable expression. Glyphs of shock seem to pour off Trazyn and into the interstitial space.

Then, as fast as a swooping bird, Trazyn lunged forward, catching the diviner in a crushing hug.

He let out an undignified static yelp, as he felt the Overlord’s. His Overlord’s cartouche pressed against his.

‘I pray to the stars that this isn’t your way of hiding another moronic mistake you’ve gotten yourself into!’ He screamed as he struggled to free his arms from the awkward angle they were caught in. ‘I am not going to bail you out of this!’

He was still being hugged.

‘Trazyn!’ He seemed exasperated, the archivist always showed his eccentricities, some more tolerable than others. The diviner sighed, rolling his ocular in its socket, as he looked at Sannet, who just shrugged.

‘Fine. I will help you, but I reserve the right to call you out on your foolishness.’

Still no answer.

‘Trazyn. What happened?’ He asked his friend.

Again, nothing.

‘You can tell me.’ He wrapped his arms behind the Overlord’s cape.

Orikan let out a sigh.

‘We can approve the observatory after. You are being very melodramatic, just so you know.’

A few moments passed.

‘Trazyn?’ He tightened his arms around the shaking archivist. ‘Is this about the Tyrannid fleet? We can redirect it. I know you have some deep space lures.’

He moved his hand behind the Overlord’s head, absurdly rubbing his cranium, in what he considered to be a soothing motion.

‘It is going to be fine, whatever got you like this, we can fix it.’ He tried again. ‘Trazyn, we can talk about this, please stop crying.’

He hugged the necron tighter, trying to stop the other’s trembling.

‘Trazyn please calm down.’ Orikan was truly concerned right now. ‘I am here, it is fine.’

This only made it worse.

‘I am with you.’ He repeated himself, completely overwhelmed by the situation.

He closed his ocular, hugging the Overlord as tightly as he could, feeling the living metal bend under the pressure.

‘It will be fine, I love y-‘

Orikan’s works dissolved as his sensory array got forcefully disconnected from the artifact.

‘Is he fine?’ Sannet asked the other cryptek in the testing rooms.

‘I disconnected him, superficial scrys did not reveal any malfunctions.’ Said Solemnace’s Master Engramancer. ‘I am doing a deeper search.’

Trazyn looked at them, expression unreadable, engrams not letting any emotion or glyphs surface.

‘Sorry sir, I called the engramancer to disconnect you as soon as you started crying.’

Trazyn lifted his hand, touching his deathmask.

It was indeed wet.

He noted some oily tears still dripping between his ribs.

The archivist pressed the cube into Sannet’s hand, then pushed the engramancer away.

‘I am fine. Sannet, please move this to the archives. As far and deep as you can.’

The hard-light sculptor's hand was writing the instructions without even looking.

‘Sir, what happened, was it nonfunctional?’ He asked as he took the cube.

‘No, it works as intended. I need a break, prepare the crew for an expedition.’ He said as he turned to leave the rooms. ‘Send me a list with whatever acquisitions we need next.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’ Said Sannet, as he looked at the leaving Overlord.

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

New Short Stories Across the Galaxy chapter just dropped !

I am experimenting with what I call a lazy narrative style, where I don't describe a character and let you, the reader, do all the work for me!