#brown fabric wall panels

[victoriacadisch]

Master - Bedroom Example of a mid-sized transitional master marble floor and white floor bedroom design with beige walls and no fireplace

[fourteen-steps]

Rustic Home Bar

[the-midnight-blooms]

ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛɪꜱᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴛᴜᴅɪᴏ

pairing: painter!choi san x painter!reader

AU: historical au, joseon dynasty

word count: 10.5k

masterlist

I reach out to my lover, he’s trapped within a painting. The muse of a Renaissance artist- he’s so divine he may have even started the movement.

Her feet pattered down the cold floorboards, pushing through the salmun doors-the fabric of her purple hanbok bunched up in her palms. The midnight bloomed in the depth of the spring, where the cherry blossom trees roared with the wind. A captivating beam from the candle paved the way to the front doors, her heart lurching in her chest as she felt an enchanted soul beckoning her name; her vessel bowed in his essence as if the rapping of the door knocker was to the beat of her name, echoing every syllable. With her hand outstretched for the doors, she hauled it open finding a man whose eyes were squinting as the the coarse rain battered against his supple skin; his teeth chattering with the cold. With a brown leather bag sloped over the shoulder of his light yellow hanbok; hands gripped steely over the handle of his heavy cases. He was tall, with broad shoulders, she quickly discerned but his face almost seemed obscured by the dark clouds and the night slowly filtering into the star studded sky.

"Please, Miss, I'm here to see Mr Yim. I'm a new apprentice at the local government office." His voice was almost mellowed by the crash of thunder against the sky, which had them both flinching at its mercilessness. A surge of relief rested upon him as a slender arm in purple outstretched towards him; the warmth easing the shattering goosebumps bestowed upon his delicate skin. With a contented sigh, the figure in front raised the candle to his face; the soft glow illuminated his crescent eyes which bored into another's burgeoning with curiosity.

"Your name, Sir?" Her honey like voice, slid into his ears; lashes gently fluttering as he breathed in the sight before him the beaming light from the candle forging a halo around this angel. Her tight jaw and deadpan expression was immediately dissolved between the influx of enigma that flooded into her eyes.

"Choi San." Nodding diligently, she gesticulated for him to follow her to her father's study. The hallways of the Yim estate were particularly large, a few candelabras were perched on top of the drawers plastered across the panelled walls-the smoke infiltrating into the empty space. They graced the floor with minimal sound, as if there were ghosts traipsing the corridors rather than real people.

Stood outside the large door, she dipped her head in politeness as he gently caressed the lumber; soft knocks restituting off the walls. With the candle perched within a hand of his own, yet another door opened; the esteemed artist tumbled through the doorway into another life.

Just over two decades ago, on a winter night, where the trees were bare of crisp leaves and the ground was brazen with purest of snow; a couple sat by the fire in their bedroom: a new-born cherub encapsulated within her mother's arms. Mr Yim, the father of the child, was a member of a group of scholars who advocated the need for the government to foster commerce, industry, and technology. He was a part of one of the four schools of thought in Joseon that shifted from speculative theory to attending to more taxing socio-political issues. Therefore, despite being renown for his hard work, and steadfast nature, he was also known for being quite reserved- to put it nicely. There were no 'good mornings' or 'good afternoons' from Mr Yim. Nor were there dirty looks and unwelcoming mannerisms bestowed upon his acquaintances. He liked to keep to himself, Mrs Yim being the only woman in the world capable of seeing that man smile.

"Would you like to hold her, dear?" His wife called, the gentle babbling of his child sending a jolt of fear rushing through him. Eagerly, he dismissed the opportunity, to which Mrs Yim had sighed staring down at her beautiful daughter. "She is your daughter, too. You're going to have to hold her at one point."

"I'll hold her when she is a little older than what she is now."

"Before you know it, she will become a woman and you will reminisce all the opportunities you had to cuddle her when you could." Truthfully, Mr Yim was afraid of fatherhood; he never really understood the notion of it but if having a child would make his darling, Mrs Yim, happy then Mr Yim would give her all the children in the world. How could he raise a child when he was left to raise himself? What could he even teach except say to his daughter after every stumble, every mistake, every stutter, every cry for help but: 'find your way'?

Thus, his aloof nature extended to his daughter, who having been pinned by her mother's side until her unfortunate death, became wholly estranged from her father. He was no longer her mother's husband, but rather just a kind stranger who fed her, clothed her, kept her under his roof and gave her almost anything she wanted.

Miss Yim was rather bizarre.

Or at least, that's what the townspeople thought through her poignant introvertedness; maintaining scant friendships, rejecting all marriage prospects almost immediately preferring the confines of her large quarters-which in themselves were situated in the segregated division of the family home. Her rooms were not bright, but panelled with a dark wood that foremost created a dull atmosphere, there was minimal light other than what streamed in through the open doors and windows that overlooked the vast lawn. A porch ran around the whole building, where Miss Yim frequented, all year round, as she drew.

Oh! The most compelling thing about Miss Yim was that in contrast to her academic father, she had particularly excelled in the arts, often taking on commissions from local noblemen requesting venerated portraits of their wives. As well as the opportunity to put her skills to practise, she saw it as a way of putting a few extra pennies in her pocket. In alignment with her reserved nature, Miss Yim found that she preferred to draw using defined, darker mediums such as charcoal, ink and graphite pencils. There was something so true about the loneliness that could be felt from the intricate brushstrokes as the ink spilled across the page. As if the figurines were her, simply founded to be a mere prop in a large frame.

Smoothing down the hairs on her head, she snapped away her gaze from the mirror to the window overlooking the side of the garden, the silhouette of the hanok roofs, carving elegantly into the sky. The trees rocked and the grass rippled with the pending ferocity of the wind. Indeed, the storm would not subside within the next few days. The door to her bedroom slid open, the older maid stumbled in settling the tray upon her bench.

"Will I not be eating with my father today?" Ina looked up from where she was kneeled on the floor, settling the bowls onto the bench.

"Mr Yim is currently accompanied with Mr Choi. Your father requested that you eat by yourself for the duration of his stay, you know how it is." Nodding, she took her seat opposite Ina patiently awaiting for the maid to stop assembling her dishes in a neat line in front of her. Whilst women typically dined by themselves, her father had allowed her to eat with him almost daily; except when there were guests. Despite his neglect towards his daughter, he still valued her feminine dignity and did not trust the vulturous eyes of men that rested their predatory gaze upon her.

"Who is this, Mr Choi, and how is it that I wasn't aware of his arrival until he was knocking on our door?" She questioned, Ina's careful gaze flickered to her before staring out into the open space in contemplation.

"A new apprentice. He’s appointed here, on request of his father." Leaning forward, Ina's voice dropped an octave. "Apparently his father says he's been 'engaging in sin' so he's been estranged from his parents until he gets his act together." Raising a questioning brow, she looked down at her bowl.

"Is he a homosexual?" Immediately, she was wacked on the back of her head by the older maid who didn't miss a single second in scolding her. Her hand sped to the back, rubbing the jolt of pain that seared through her, a temporary look of irritation glazed over her eyes.

"You insolent girl! How could you say such thing, you know how disgraced that is!"

"You said ‘engaging in sin'. I can't think of anything more sinful other than fraternising with men or women." Ina's dirty look penetrated through her bones, provoking a sense of humiliation that would rattle through her in the depth of the night. Scowling at her mistress, she rolled her eyes before getting up from the floorboard.

“Hurry up and eat your food. You need to go to Mrs Kang’s today." Following Ina's orders she gulfed down her food, drowning out the maid's muttering about her being crude and dishonourable.

The light chatter from the front room fell deaf at her ears as she sauntered to the entrance, which the two kitchen maids scuttled in through. Bowing at their mistress, they made a fowl attempt at suppressing a fit of giggles as they subtly snuck a glance into the room. Following their gazes, she warily traipsed in, catching her father converse with their new guest.

"Ah, speak of the devil! Mr Choi, this is my daughter." He teared his gaze away from his mentor to draw his eyes across the room and find the infamous Miss Yim perched by the doorway, gripping onto her onto the full skirts of her dark blue hanbok.

It was hard to deny that Mr Choi was amiable. He was tall, well-built with a toned torso that was still perceptible through his uncreased peach coloured hanbok, dimples adorned his perfectly structured cheeks. He nodded with such elegant eagerness, at her father's command harbouring the position of an obedient son, almost leaving her wondering what was so 'sinful' about that man in the first place? What could he have possibly done so wrong that he had practically been disowned by his family?

"Miss Yim, it's nice to formally meet you." She gave him a polite nod, choosing to stay silent than say something and be met with her father's harsh stare.

"Mr Kang told me you've been over at his home, a few times." Her father spoke breaking the awkward meeting. A breath became lodged in her throat as she anticipated some sort of wrath, after all Mr Yim was supposed to be oblivious to her going out and painting other women for a light commission. She didn't exactly know how he would react to that. "He appreciates your help with Mrs Kang's pregnancy." Mrs Kang is pregnant? That would explain the engorging belly, the mood swings and the other number of odd behaviours that she was listing off in the past few weeks she had been challenged with drawing the difficult woman. At times, Miss Yim thought she ought to have more empathy, it wasn't that she lacked it, it was that she tended to not gift her empathetic abilities to the prejudiced. It was women like Ina, and the cooks that worked in the kitchen that deserved her compassion. Women who strived to be breadwinners, even if it was due to poor socio-economic circumstances. Because women like Mrs Kang were hypocrites to be preaching the old values, pre-Confucianism, when they neglected their own sex.

"Yes, she's been enjoying my company. I intend to go again to deliver herbs she’s asked from Ina’s garden.” She recalled glancing down the extensively large page, as Mrs Kang moaned and groaned when the servants were too late to serve her namul and kimchi.

"Red raspberry leaf, dandelions, echinacea." Grimacing, she looked over her sheet to give the woman a look. "You can just get this from the market, why do you need this from Ina's garden?" Mrs Kang simply pouted rubbing her belly. Now that she thought about it, how did it not occur to her that she was pregnant? Perhaps it was because they begged to slim down her figure in the painting.

"Fresh herbs are good for babies." Were the herbs from the market not fresh enough for her? “I need them picked before they’re here.”

"Perhaps I should add lemon balm to burn that fat." A discourse of exasperated gasps rippled over the room, Mrs Kang waddled out of the room wailing for her husband. It was ruthless and unkind, keeping the unsympathetic Miss Yim awake at night before she travelled back to the Kang estate to see a very unhappy couple.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Kang. You’re beautiful just the way you are, even more with the little belly.” The pregnant woman’s tight grip around her neck, as they hugged, almost choked her to death.

Mr Yim's eyes outcasted through the doorway, there was a light patter of rain yet the howl of the wind had subsided significantly. He let out a small hum before returning back to the young pair staring, ardently, back at him.

"I say Mr Choi, should be your chaperone. It's a little unsafe to be going out by yourself." Before she could open her mouth and argue, her father held out a hand to silence her thoughts. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she nodded once more, before dashing from the room to have a flustered Mr Choi following her.

Hitching up her skirts, she trudged through the field, the sun had filtered into the sky radiating its essence onto the young souls as they surpassed the reams of houses. Had it not been for the joyous discord of infantile laughter, it would have been quiet; San mustering the courage to initiate a conversation. He cleared his throat, she merely blinked at his futile attempt at grabbing her attention.

"Miss Yim, you must slow down I can't keep up with your pace." He declared, striding faster towards her, the tall grass brushing against his knees.

"I think you can cope, Sir. Your legs are longer than mine." Walking through the grass wasn't difficult but when her hanbok was floor length, lifting up the heavy fabric proved tiresome and not to mention her shoes were sinking into the muddy fields, squelching miserably under her heavy steps. Eventually, San matched her pace as they made their way up the steps to the Kang estate.

A shrill voice eructed into the airs, the domestic staff worked at a proficient speed as they amended the damages inflicted from the storm. As a group of servants raised the logs from the path, San ran to their aid significantly lightening their work load. His charity had left her silent contemplating her initial thoughts on his persona. There must be something impure under all that. Surely? There had to be some reason why his father practically disowned him.

Kang Yeosang stood by his front doors, watching as his staff worked the lawn and through the large home. He sought the enigmatic painter launch up the steps, with an unreadable look painted on her face.

“Good Morning, Miss Yim.”

“Morning, Yeosang.” She greeted, he laughed a little at her dull tone.

“I take it, there’s nothing particularly good about this morning.” He jeered, she huffed at his characteristically exuberant manner.

“Not when my father’s spy is here to be my chaperone.” She turned around on the steps, the pair looking down at San moving the heavy logs from the path, dirtying his robes at that. “He’s the new apprentice at the local office, Choi San, I think he said his name was.”

"Oh, the country boy." Country boy? "He's from Yangdong, have you not heard? His family is amongst the richest, they're both scholars and farmers, now." Across the country, Joseon farming techniques had taken a turn within the last few decades, especially with the establishment of irrigation and rice transplantation methods- bringing Joseon to a state of flourishment. It was safe to say, which farmer wasn't rich now? The admirable farm boy was pushed away by the servants, making his way up the steps. Leaving him with Yeosang, she made her way in the direction of the couples' shared quarters, Mrs Kang draped over her bed, her wrist dramatically resting on her forehead.

"Hello, Mrs Kang." The woman jolted up from her seat, an obnoxious groan emitted from her as she propped her back up against the wall. "I brought you your herbs."

"Thank you, my love. You left your paints, they're just on my dressing table." The herbs were exchanged from her paints, digging into the pockets of her hanbok. The older woman began to natter, the discordant tonality rattling in her ears. Mrs Kang loved to talk. Even if it was about absolutely nothing, that woman talked for the whole of Joseon.

I'm leaving this place with a headache.

She often wondered how it was that Yeosang put up with his insufferable wife. Was it love, or a promise that he had made to Mrs Kang's parents that he would never leave her? The thought made her sigh in pity- to be permanently bound to someone in matrimony seemed like too much effort at times. Perhaps the effort itself is what subdued her mother to misery, the poor Mrs Yim eagerly handing her soul to the Angel of Death. Or maybe Miss Yim had possessed a stone-cold heart frozen over by the neglect of life's intimate essence; overpowered by a sense of maturity held over by her mother's early death. She took it upon herself to make it clear that by the time she was thirty, if there was no proposal that had come around she was going to wholly abandon the idea of marriage and work herself to death.

"That man is so pretty." She spoke, dreamily, Miss Yim's eyes lazily fled in the direction of Mrs Kang's. Her head poked through the doorway where both Yeosang and San were travelling down, engaging in intelligent discourse. "Not Yeo, the other one." The pregnant woman clarified.

"He's ok, I suppose. Not bewitching enough to tempt me."

"That has to be the biggest lie I have ever heard."

"What is Miss Yim lying about now?" Yeosang provoked as both men entered the room. Both women shared a look before the painter slumped onto the dressing table chair. "I suppose you're awaiting your payment."

"Well, my services aren't free." She declared, pompously. Yeosang rolled his eyes before he moved to the opposite end of the room, San had almost drawn his body out of the bedroom, a little embarrassed as the pregnant Mrs Kang ogled her eyes at him. Stretching her limbs, she got up taking the velvet bag. "Thank you, Mr Kang. I'll visit when the baby arrives."

His perfection had her repleted with such distaste for him. Simply put, Miss Yim hated Choi San because he was loved by all. Her father loved him, Ina adored him, the maids were constantly drooling over him it shot her with a sense of annoyance. He quickly became a household name, spoken of when he was at the office with her father and even when he was at home. Everywhere she went it was just him, him and him. The worst thing was, was that he was even trying to be nice to her prevailing through her grim looks and hard words.

“San this, San that. Honestly, he’s not even as esteemed as everyone claims, Ina. He’s just a man, like every other man. And all men are the same. So what if he's good looking, does that suddenly make him god’s greatest gift?” Burying her face into the pillow, an exasperated huff escaped her lips. Ina fell onto her bed, reaching her arms out to stroke her mistress’ back. With a contented sigh, she felt her eyes drooping a little as the maid's soft caresses were gently lulling her to sleep. Her touch felt like that of her mother's, soothing the aches of her heart whilst simultaneously provoking the nostalgia of a mother's love. To have her mother again, to have that woman encircle her into her arms. Rock her back and forth. She longed for her mother's scent again, often chasing the whiff of her familiar saccharine redolence as one chased butterflies in an open field.

“Yet you think of him often. He occupies your thoughts as much as he occupies ours.”

“Hardly, I-,” She stammered in a desperate attempt to recollect her thoughts into a single ambience. “I envy him. How is that he steps into this home for a second and I see my father smile?” Ina’s face dropped, a breath caught in her throat as her mistress spoke aloud the forbidden words she denied her staff to even breathe. The older maid had been rendered silent for too long, giving Miss Yim all of the answers she needed to press forward with her wistful assumptions.

"Perhaps if you grew to understand him, you would know why your father has inhabited such emotions for him. Think of him like a son-in-law. He will love him but not as much as he loves you." The maid reasoned.

"Then that makes him my husband." She grumbled, pulling the duvet over her shoulders.

"Now is that so bad?” Ina teased, before pulling her weight off the bed. With no strength to argue, her eyes fluttered to a close; her soul being dissolved by the night.

The following morning, it was too cold to be even sitting on her porch and with eyes tired of the same dreary scene, she ventured out of her quarters, delving into parts of the home she had missed. By the kitchens, the late Mrs Yim had reserved herself a small room decorated with the tools of all her hobbies in order to enact time alone for herself, away from motherhood and social responsibility. The room was consistently cleaned but usually left empty having it being full of painful memories of the beloved mistress of the household. For the first time in a long time, Miss Yim had felt the drive to find the room again and read her mother's poetry she had spent hours pouring over in the rooms.

Yet it had been almost shot stone-cold dead when the door opened to find San sat by the window hands raised towards the canvas. The anger within her refused to simmer or boil, it was rather the smooth swaying of the soft waves lapping the crust of sand. Her hands feebly reached for the poetry book on the table.

"I didn't know you were a painter, Mr Choi." She proclaimed, her breath hitched in her throat as her eyes sought the intricate details on the canvas. Her eyes glossed over the colours, the succinct shapes, drawing on the brushstrokes herself with the sharp movements of her eyes. It moved her. When was the last time she had been left this breathless?

"You never asked, Miss Yim." Immediately she felt intimidated by his artwork, her own revered drawings felt meek in comparison to his. A mere apprentice in an important official’s presence. To even be this close to him was considered a blessing. "You can sit next to me. I don't bite." Tentatively, she drew closer seating herself on the floorboards next to him; the brush of their fabrics sending a tidal wave of timidness over her. Where was the bold, steadfast Mrs Yim? Long gone, lost to the large expanse of the sea. Drowning under the ocean of his perfection. She didn't even want call for help, allowing herself to be enveloped by his allure. You draw so beautifully, she wanted to say. It's perfect, like something-someone even.

"You should have been a royal painter." The remark was swallowed into a melancholic void within his heart. Sparing a glance, he dipped the tip of the paintbrush into the crevice of the cerulean blue paint before raising to illustrate the canvas.

"Don't say that to my father." She sought the gloom glossed over his brown eyes. Was he, too, held down by social responsibility and expectations? She didn't think it was possible for a man's dreams to be mauled over by society; for she saw it with her father who had the whole world at his feet-picking dreams as if he was picking daisies from a meadow. Dropping her book onto the floor, she rested her head on her knee, solicitude fulfilled the serene atmosphere. Her eyes fell over the fancy metallic pots situated around the easel, which she knew to be various colours of paint pigments. Resting her head on her knee, she tenderly rocked her body from side to side as she watched his hands elegantly work through the canvases.

"Did you ever consider pottery? That's supposed to be quite popular now." Her question breaking through the quiet airs, the delicacy of her voice startling San. It was devoid of boredom, or disinterest like he had always perceived. No lace of judgement like he was silently praying to be diminished from her soul.

"It'll grow out of popularity soon." He stated, resting the paintbrush down to exercise the tense muscles in his hands. "I heard this was the late Mrs Yim's room, I hope you don't mind me being here." It, too, came as a shock to her when she shook her head-with no care in the world that he had colonised the room that she was once sure was hers.

It was sunny for once, which was odd for this time of year-she thought throwing open the door to the porch finding San surrounded by a large number of logs and an axe.

"What's he doing outside?" She pondered, Ina folding up the washed bedsheets before tucking them away into the drawers.

"They stopped properly chopping up the logs so we can use them for the fire, so Mr Choi offered to help." Wandering out through the doors, a smooth current of air tousled her hair, a book held tightly against her chest.

God, he really was toned. Rolling up the sleeves of his hanbok all the way to his bulging biceps, the maids all stopped in their path to rest their elbows on the low garden wall overseeing the vast expanse of grass. Effortlessly he picked up the axe, raising it over his head to slice down the log of wood. She rolled her eyes at her maids, as they watched him with dreamy faces. They nattered in hushed tones, giggling amongst themselves unbeknownst that their mistress was stood behind them. Leaning down to where they were sat on the garden wall, she poked her head in between the sea of charmed maidens.

“What are we looking at?” They squeaked, jumping up from their seats upon sight of their mistress- flapping their hands as some rushed back into the kitchen and others tended to garden duties. “Well? I would like to know too.”

“You wouldn’t understand Miss Yim.” Yes, yes she was the narcissistic Miss Yim who harboured no feelings for men and couldn’t deduce their charming airs. She was the Miss Yim who rejected countless marriage proposals, not based on looks but merely because she found that no man possessed the kind quality in a man that she was seeking. No patience, no loyalty. They were not even ruled by a sense of ambition. So how could she be hypnotised by the sacred beauty of a man, specifically, Choi San.

“Yes, I don’t understand why you’re not doing the job that we’re paying for you to do. All of you, out of the garden, it’s already been tended to!” She shouted, in an instant all of the maids dispersed back into the home. Huffing, she slumped onto the garden wall, glazing her ink pen over the defined lines on the page. Occasionally, she’d peer her eyes over the pages at San, tending to the curve of his body, and the horrific cinching of his waist. When he looked to his side, she hastily returned back to her sketchbook, feeling a blush decorate her cheeks as his steady gaze burned into her skin.

“Very accurate, Miss Yim.” Jumping up from her seat, she screeched the pot of ink spilling onto his face and neck. Whoops.

“Oh goodness, I am so sorry. Ah.” She let out a pained sound, battling with her internal conflict as she grabbed his hand rushing them into the direction of the porch that led to her quarters. Powerfully, she slid the door open darting inside and towards the washroom. Hauling him down to his knees in front of the washing basin, with a soaked rag in hand, she scraped away the ink splashed across his face. “Take this off.” She ordered, signalling to his hanbok.

“W-what?” He stammered, his face heating red.

“Well you’ve got ink and dirt all over it. I can get a new one for you.”

“I can’t just return back to my quarters and change?”

“Well no because then my father will see you and he’ll know I stole his ink again.” An annoyed huff escaped from his lips as she handed him the rag to clean himself. “Here, I’ll go get you a spare set of clothes.” Jumping up from where she was kneeled, her foot slipped over a puddle of water his arms snapped out towards her waist. Gripping his shoulders for stability, a faint blush trickled over her face, their noses barely an inches distance.

"Be careful." Quickly unravelling her hands from his shoulders, Miss Yim ran out of the room towards his quarters. Slipping past the double doors, she rummaged through the drawers for his clothes-picking up a light green set.

"Mr Choi?" A maid's voice called out from behind the closed door. Discerning their shadow moving closer, she made a beeline through the open doors leading into the garden. Scuttling into her washroom, she practically launched the hanbok at him before hiding in her room.

A breath of relief had finally escaped from her when he left from her room, both of their faces burning red in the midst of this shameful meeting. Yet San seemed persistent to know her, feeling that there was still something beneath the stone-cold façade she had constructed; something emotional and raw that he had felt he had to know. And Miss Yim was too becoming more curious, by the day, as to what Choi San’s secret was and why his father perpetually hated him.

Ina had forced them to go on a walk together, she groaned, silently, as they left the home behind making their way down to the meadow. At first an odd tranquillity permeated the air, eventually she grew tired of the jarring dissonance of absolutely nothing.

“A penny for your thoughts?” She inquired.

“I’ll keep the penny. I almost feel you’d judge me for having thoughts.” San bemused, she rolled her eyes, a faint of a smile on her lips. Just the tiniest, but it was practically gone within the same second.

“I don’t judge you, Mr Choi. I do, however, envy you. You’ve taken the place I wanted in my father’s heart.” She confessed, he looked towards her sympathetically, with knowingness that she was indeed right and the Mr Yim, famous for being just as aloof as his daughter, had somehow softened a little upon his arrival. Perhaps it was a son that he had always wanted, not a daughter but the scholar was reserved; San being too terrified to pry.

“Your place is best occupied elsewhere. Somebody else has it, I’m sure. He keeps it safe with love that is too potent that even dreamers can’t feign.” Of course was reading her mother's poetry, she didn't think many could understand the abstract nature of her words; of course it was him out of all who admired her poetry as it was his own.

"I am not pretty enough for that." Miss Yim argued, looking down at her feet. After all, the marriage proposals were not because of her vague good looks, but mainly because Mr Yim claimed an abundance of wealth.

"I disagree with you on that." Her face heated with his affirmation.

"Well, I am no Jang Ok-Jeong."

"There are many beautiful women in Joseon, not all of them have ever been recorded."

"She caught the eye of the King, a man who has a kingdom at his feet, he is supposed to be too superior to even look at his subjects. And he looks at her? Is that not a beautiful woman?" They were both fuelled by this argument, the debate igniting a set of powerful emotions that roared within them. This, was what they both deeply felt conversations were supposed to be. Potent discourse about society, literature and art. Not idle chatter on the weather, marriage and the social laws that subdued them.

"A man is supposed to be ruled by his head, not emotions. I say if any man bestowed more than a single glance, on a woman, and his breath was taken away, then she is more gorgeous than Venus herself."

"Not that wretched painting. It's so...vulgar." San snickered, squeezing his eyes as he let out a melodious laughter. "It says so much about the male gaze." She spat out as they trudged through the fields back in the direction of her home.

“I wonder if you like any art, at all? Other than your own?” He questioned.

“Owon is good. Apart from the vulgarity of Renaissance paintings-,”

“Which I must say is the majority of the whole movement, pray, continue.” He teased, his pestering smirk seemed to stitch wings on her heart, for it fluttered at his amiability, his devoutness to mankind and all of its endearing qualities and his perseverance. Despite her uncompromising attitudes and distasteful demeanour, he seemed compliant with listening to her, talking to her, truly trying to understand her and not just turning a blind eye. Choi San truly wanted to know her, for her; and not follow some false allegation that she was devoid of a heart or soul. He commended she had both and they were wrought with an existentialist quality that he wanted nothing but to huddle in the corner of a library and read away his life until it dissolved under the cover of her persona.

"What about you?" She questioned, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her own ear. At once, San was drawn into the world of virtuosity describing each of his favourite pieces as if it could be encapsulated into a single globe. The sweet dissonance of his voice lugging her into a dreamscape as they gently glissaded through the empty hallways of the Yim estate. They sought their eyes over the panelled wall, following the intricate lines of carved wood. They could almost be called mad people loose from the dreaded ward. For their eyes did not see the same way a normal persons did. He saw the shimmer in the air, the light poring through the crevices, the faint blemishes on a skin unseen with a naked eye-too vague to be called a taint, a mark, a scar. And she would see what he saw, whether it was not there she could reach to the depths of her sanity and pour out the image before her eyes to satisfy him.

It became a wonder to her how they spent several nights, the light patter of her feet as she rushed to his quarters with fulfilling arguments over art pieces, sharing techniques, rifling through each other's sketchbooks. His style was a stark contrast to her own: luminous watercolours, velvety acrylic paints, oily crayons. His muses were full of life and wonder, the strokes brimming with fruition. It was if a single segment of his painting held more hope than what could exist in her whole being.

There was something about him, too. She could see it now, his compassion, his adoration. As the weeks spun by, she became less repulsed by his sincerity and opened up to it more, almost finding herself craving his attention. His affection was much welcomed; she often wondered what it would be like to be so loved by him.

In her mother's old drawing room, she found him again, his large hands drifting over the pages again. Peering over his shoulder, she softly blew into his ear; the warmth tickling him.

"What are you drawing?" Her eyes scanned over the cartridge sheet, its intimacy striking her. It looked like her. Every sketch line, every shade, every little detail, every little blemish on her face.

"You." He answered, he didn't dare tear his eyes away from her for her hair was falling down her face in perfect waves that lured him into uncharted depths.

"You drew me so pretty."

"I only drew what I saw." Her heart wavered in piety, his devotion provoking an arrangement of madness. He was going to drive her insane and she was content with it.

"I wonder, what was it that you were excommunicated for?" Her silence broke through the passionate airs, culminating the objectivity that fulfilled among them as his sins held heavy on his tongue.

"I am not a scholar, a farmer or a devout son. I am an artist, a man who sees the world despite all of its maliciousness. I see the world so raw, it almost disgusts me but I am not terrified by its honesty. I find it so beautiful, it belongs on a page: drawn." Her body swayed towards him, hypnotised by his delicate words drawn his intoxicating tenacity, filling her with such immitigable rage that within that severe moment all she wanted was him. "I was 'excommunicated' because I am not the man my father wants me to be. I return as soon as I am devoid of all the emotions he renders vile." Tentatively, her fingers curled through his hair his eyes fluttering shut under her gentle touch.

"What about you Miss Yim? Why are you so solitary?" He murmured, their quiet voices serenaded the room.

"I am not solitary by choice. It's been enforced upon me and I know nothing and no one else but myself." Her whispers, though full of hurt and pain, were seldom dulcet. He thrived himself upon her words alone, it was enough to send him into delirium but her whole unmatched beauty with her words? He was sure to be sent to the wretched institute.

With an envelope gripped in her hands, she made her way over to his quarters slipping into the warmth, his smile greeting her as she slumped onto the chair in front of him.

"Mrs Choi? Your mother?" She inquired, handing over the envelope. San snickered at her nosiness, rolling her eyes as he took the sheet from her grasp, ripping open the seal to reel his eyes down the page.

"Actually, it's my wife." He announced, sparing her a single glance as he continued to read the words sprawled across the page. A sharp pang penetrated through the barriers in her heart, she felt her feet slipping under the ground, the walls pulverising as they caved in on her. For some reason, the room felt much more smaller than it was. Her heart was beating faster than any poetic declaration he had bestowed upon her, any time he had made her feel as if she was truly a worthy soul of being loved. Her heart palpitated faster than when he made her feel she would not die from a cataclysmic loneliness.

"I didn't know you were married." She breathed out, gripping the sage green silk in hand; feeling almost disgusted with herself for fixating her whole being on a man who never belonged to her in the beginning.

"We'll be officially married when I return back home." With a teasing smile on his lips, he grabbed a clean sheet from his desk and began elegantly carving the characters onto the page. "I'll be sure to send you an invite, if you'll come?"

“Of course, I’ll come. You know, for the food.” She quipped, his dimpled smile shattering the months of pining she had set for this revered soul. “I’ll take your leave, San.”

She fled from the room her bare feet blessing the sweet earth, the velvety wisps of the wind taunting her as tears welled up in her eyes. With a breath hitched in her throat, she fell onto her bed; bottom lip quivering as pearl tears escaped from her eyes dribbling down her cheeks before splattering onto the bedsheets. Her painful howl terrorised the desolate quarters as she had done on several dispassionate nights, the skies mimicked her torment, the light patter of rain hit against the window as if it understood all her wretched emotions. As if it understood her anger, hatred and hurt. As if it understood how disgusting it felt be left vulnerable by a man who could never be hers.

Was it some false delusion that she had been seduced by? That he, who was carved from a sculpturers most wild emotions, by all of his tenacity and his violent rage that he wished to create a being made of light: could truly be hers? By his yearning and pent up sentiment, by his dying wish that this world was not at peace until some divine figure from a concealed land would touch her world? Her hands shook as she sought to remove the tears streaming endlessly down her face. After all it had now made sense to all of the sympathetic souls that had heard her be plunged through such pain, to read her tale and understand the reason for her aloof nature.

Up the walls went back up. Brick by brick.

Curse you, Choi San, for breaking them down in the first place.

San had not seen Miss Yim for the remainder of the week or the subsequent. Granted, he had been flooded with an overwhelming amount of work but such was to be expected with the incredible staff shortage and Mr Yim’s high expectations. Regardless, he missed the snarky comments and unrelenting stares from across the room. He missed her moodiness, how ever infuriating it was at times; he missed the sense of quietude she presented at his feet and its ability to render his mind numb. Overall, he missed her. Yet, she seemed to be nowhere in sight and in fact missing even under the cover of the night.

“Ina, do you know where I can find Miss Yim?” He questioned, the agony rupturing the sutures of his weak heart apart.

"In her room, Mr Choi. She's, specifically, requested not see anyone." Oh. His mood deflated after that concession, wracking his mind for all the things he had said in their last engagement; anything potentially hurtful or offensive but he didn’t recall anything particularly endangering. His quest to venture into her quarters, despite her ruthless commands which had the servants petrified over her uncharacteristic (but not abnormal) behaviour, had been cut short by Mr Yim’s desire to keep a tightened hold on the apprentice. He thought about bringing it up as he ate dinner with his mentor.

“How is Miss Yim? I heard she’s isolated herself in her quarters?” He raised, tentatively, as Mr Yim’s eyes scoured down the reports. Her father was a little too quick to dismiss her actions.

“Never mind her, that’s not something new. I was surprised she was even roaming around the house when you arrived…” Mr Yim trailed off as a thought infiltrated his mind, shutting the book close, his furrowed brows silenced the questions in San’s mind.

The moonlight spilt in through the window, the luminous shadows dancing with the light breeze. With dried tear tracks staining her puffy cheeks, she circulated her finger around the cotton sheets pulling up the heavy duvet over her shoulders, a trail of heat comforted her. The door to her room, silently, slid open; oblivious to the soft bustling of footsteps she stretched her limbs sitting up in her bed.

“Miss Yim?” Her head snapped up at the deep voice, its familiarity sending an agonising wave of heartache through her being. There he was, the perpetrator himself, settling in front of her with a teacup in his palms as if nothing had happened in the first place. “Are you ok? I know you don’t like echinacea, so I got you lemon and ginger tea.” Placing the tea cup on her night stand, he rested his palm against her forehead.

“What are you doing here, San?” Huffing, she fisted up the hair in her palms before sticking a dry paint brush through it to create a tight knot.

“You’re burning u- were you crying?” His finger lightly smoothed her damp skin, shaking her head she pushed his hand away from her face. God, she felt awful for his wife who had to endure his infidelity. “What’s wrong, jagiya, speak to me?” Biting down on her lower lip, Miss Yim threw her gaze out of her window, she sought the light shimmering as her vision blurred.

“Just leave, please.” There was no more hostility left in her tone, a coarse throat lacerated with the phlegm that built up from endless nights of sobbing herself to sleep. Tiredness gnawed at her, she just wanted to dissolve back into the covers. Pleading, begging she’d do whatever she could to force him to leave because if he didn’t then she would tear down the path to the Angel of Death and beg him to take her dwindling heart. On her knees she would go, for the mere sight of her lover crumbled the steadfast walls she had tried so hard to rebuild.

“Are you upset because I’m going home next week? If that’s the case-,”

“San, are you dense?” She interrupted. He was subjugated to silence, a look of hurt flashing over his face. “Leave means leave.” Adjusting her body so she could slide under the covers, she stridently hauled the fabric over her head, gripping her lips tight shut, so no more pitiful sobs escaped her and she was no more a servant to his cruel love.

The Yim estate was left with a melancholic air as the venerated bachelor made his preparations to leave the home. The maids were forlorn as they’d no longer have the privilege of seeing his striking face to bless their monotone days. Miss Yim had finally mustered the courage to take a stroll through the garden, avoiding San's quarters at that. Lingering by the flowers, she wrapped her arms around herself to manifest a sense of warmth that failed to prevail with the awful weather. She didn't notice her lover tear down the garden to her, his heart leaping within his own chest.

"Miss Yim?" Her body whipped around upon his words, her hands balled up into fists the anger displaced by fear. "Do you know how painful it has been for me to go days without seeing you? I am leaving for Yangdong, today, and god knows if I didn't even so much as see your face I would have gone feral."

"I- why?" She stuttered, at a desperate attempt to collect together her words and form a sentence. How and when did he culminate such passionate feelings for her?

"Why? Isn't it obvious? I am in love with you." He declared, she shook her head, profusely, at him.

"How can you say that?" Her voice raised an octave, parrying against the harsh winds that blew at them.

“If being in love with you is a deadly sin, then I am the greatest sinner there is. I will walk up to the gates of hell and open them myself. Hand over my arms and ask them to bound me to its greatest depths.” His chest heaved up and down, tears brimming at the front of her eyes. “I cannot live without you. I would not even do so much as breathe unless you asked me to. If you asked me to stop breathing, I would!”

“You’re a married man, San. Do you know how god awful that sounds?”

“I’m barely married but engaged. When I go back home, I will once again beg to not be wed off to her. I don’t love her, how can my father expect me to marry her? How can you expect me to marry her?”

“I don’t think you understand, San. I can’t love you.” His arms outstretched for her waist, hauling her towards him, the rain beating down on them both. With the gentle flick of his finger, her head tipped up to peer into his eyes.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t love me, or even feel as much as a small emotion for me. One word from you, would silence me forever.” She bit furiously down on her lip as his vehement fixation tore through the borders of her soul. When did she fall so vulnerable in his conquest for her being?

“I don’t love you the same way you love me. I am incapable of doing so.” His own brown eyes fulfilled with hot tears, pouring soundlessly down his cheeks. Her heart wavered with misery as he ripped away his grip, stumbling backwards upon her untruth.

“I understand. Thank you, Miss Yim. For the first time in my life, someone saw me for who I really am and not who I am meant to be.” Once again, the thunder cracked against the sky as San turned his back on her striding back into the home. The maids ran out to shut the doors, summoning their mistress back in but she sunk to the floor erupting into a fit of sobs; a wave of shock rattling through them. Her heart burned with such pain, even as Ina cooed lifting her up from the floor to guide her back into the home. Melting into the older woman's arms, her ears drowned out the distant sound of her lover ambling far, far away from her to a land in which even its notion would never grace the depths of her mind.

Her father's office was warm, but not the comforting kind as the biting airs of Joseon persisted. It was more suffocating as they sat across from each other in his office, discussing the state of her future now that he had managed to complete some of burdening tasks at work. He had several proposals lined in front of her, some prospects from his workplace, some from Mr Kang and even Ina had managed to find one or two seemingly agreeable men within their social class. A sigh fulfilled her, it would be a lie to say that she didn't look for the smallest hint of San within them all.

"I'm sorry Father, I don't like any of these men." He closed his eyes in indignation, rubbing his face before collecting the sheets from in front of her and throwing them into the fire. The embers cackled in a slow, seething ferocity as he leaned back in his chair.

"I honestly don't know what to do with you anymore. You won't marry, you won't leave your quarters. You've stopped helping around the house. All you want to do is sit in your room all day and stare into space." He scolded, she shook her head before raising from her seat. "You are becoming a burden to me."

"Well if I am such a burden to you, then just get rid of me." She taunted. An animosity truanted through him at her discourtesy.

“What do you think I have been trying to do since your mother left us? It should have not been your mother that had died! It should have been you! I would trade my soul to have your mother in place of you.” He blurted, before quickly slapping the palm of his hand to his mouth, cursing him for the spoiled words that left it.

“I would trade my soul too, to have my mother where you stand. You are a poor excuse of a man and to call you my father is an insult to me.” She hissed through gritted teeth, the shock reverberating at Mr Yim’s core; the severity of her words pulsating through his blood.

“You shouldn’t have been a father if all I was going to be to you was a pretty doll in a picture. The truth was she didn’t die because she was ill, it was the heartbreak of carrying a whole marriage on her back. It was the fact that you didn’t care about her wants, but your own.”

"You are in no position to say that to me. I loved your mother like it was breathing, I loved her as if she was the greatest blessing, as if God had granted me mercy for all the times I had done him wrong." His chest suspired, brittle hands shaking as a heavy tension remained suspended in the air between them; Ina loitering outside afraid to walk into the war zone.

"But you didn't love me! It was my mother who loved me, and I wasn't allowed to have her! I wasn't my mother's daughter, or my father's. I was a daughter of a servant with my name merely attached to you." At the end of the day, she was the figure in those paintings. Trapped within a frame, four equidistant lines on a piece of cartridge paper, bound by brushstrokes, sketch lines, constricted and held down by the artist. Subservient and stuck to a position in which she could not move.

Mr Yim deserved the brutal honesty of those words, no matter how harsh it was, and with a pounding headache, she ran out of his office ignoring her father’s calls for her to return to his side. This was it, there was nothing and no one by her side now and she was now the destitute figure that she had feared she would become.

“What’s wrong my dear? What’s hurt you so much?” Ina’s soft voice dilapidated at her mistress’ gloom, one she had seen prolong within her late madam too. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned the courage to spill her heart to her maid. She told her of how much she adored him, how deeply she wanted him and the ways in which he had made her fall in love with him. And how he had hurt her too.

“So call me heartless and apathetic all you want but I couldn’t take another woman’s man from her.”

“My love.” Ina’s weak fingers travelled through her hair. “You are far from heartless and apathetic. A man who you love is your whole life, you gave your life away to another woman.” She looked over to Ina, falling into her motherly embrace, breathing in her scent. There it was. The same scent that her mother had, the scent she was dreaming to come back to her in the midst of the night, and her a fool to dismiss that it was in front of her the whole time.

“What should I do now?” Her weak inquiry, breaking her heart, sinking deeper into the void than she already was.

“Go back to him and tell him you love him. He is a gentleman who accepts despondency like a soldier. So you, his general, must go back and tell him to return home to you.”

“Ina-,”

“Do not deny yourself of what you deserve. Your mother did, I won’t see you walk the same path.”

“I will let time run its cycle. Time will tell if he is meant to be mine.” She declared, to which the maid rested her palm on her cheek.

Mrs Kang’s baby boy, Kang Minho, was indeed a beauty. His bedazzling little eyes stared up at her in wonder, babbling as she lightly drew the tip of her finger over his chubby cheeks. It was astonishing for Mrs Kang to see that it was merely a little baby that would eruct a smile out of the secluded Miss Yim. It had been about four months since San had left the estate, and a while it took for her to leave the confines of her quarters. Once again, she took requests after requests painting and painting until her hands became stiff and sore. And so even more marriage prospects came, and her eyes lingered slightly over a potential husband. Both Ina and her father were pleased when she stayed a little longer at the doorway of their home talking to one of the young apprentice’s at the office. He was tall, handsome and kind; perhaps it was flickers of San she saw within him that had her thinking that spending the rest of her life with this man: wouldn’t be particularly gruesome. Regardless, she made no firm decision but still, for her father this was significant progress.

“He likes you.” Mrs Kang chimed, grinning down at her baby. She hummed carefully, softly tickling his smooth cheeks.

“Maybe I like him too.” Her gaze lightly flickered to the elated mother. “Where is Yeosang? I didn’t see him on my way in?”

“Oh he’s in his office with San.” Her head snapped up from the baby at the sound of his name. Goodness, how long had it been since she had heard that single syllable name, forever it seemed it would merely reverberate inside her head. “Did you not know he was in town? He came to see Minho.” Shaking her head, she got up from the bed consoling herself.

“I- I think I’ll leave now. I’ll come visit another time.” She announced, before awkwardly patting Mrs Kang’s head; a poor endeavour at affection but for Mrs Kang this affection was whole-heartedly appreciated. Her footsteps sped down the hallways, she came to an abrupt halt at the exist of the Kang estate.

There he was, stood there with Yeosang conversing if they were age-old best friends her heart palpitated with anxiety, knowing that she’d have to walk past him again. The sight of him almost triggered her, she gripped onto her deep purple skirts, his own yellow hanbok beaming like the sun.

“Miss Yim! I didn’t know you had arrived, leaving so soon?” Mr Kang chirped from the door. She shook at her head at him.

“I’ve been here for over an hour and a half. I’ll visit another time, especially since Minho is the only tolerable person in this household.”

“Just say you love him.” A grumble erupted from her lips, she rolled her eyes- with a delicate playfulness- before squeezing past the pair of men. A pounding of footsteps travelled after her as she trudged back through the fields in the direction of her home.

“Miss Yim, allow me to accompany you.” San professed, breathlessly. With a diligent nod, she transgressed forwards ignoring his burning gaze into her skin. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine. What about you?” He responded he was great all the same, reporting that the weather in Yangdong was a little warmer than in her hometown.

“When is your wedding date? I’m still awaiting on an invite.” It was a joke, nonetheless, but one that didn't hesitate to puncture holes in her heart.

“We broke off the engagement, it was mutual really. She was in love with someone else.” With a breath lodged in her throat, her stare tore away from the fields piercing straight into his eyes. It was then she had realised how burdened he truly was. Where was the San that always smiled and joked, and was so full of love it seemed inhumane to have so much of it? They didn't need to say anything to each other in that moment, they stopped walking subsided to a silent, paralysed position. "I think I'll just take your leave." His voice quivered, sending a jolt of agony through her.

Hadn't she made him suffer enough? After all he was the same man who loved her as if she was the vessel that kept the blood running through his veins, his heart beating and his feet walking.

Go back to him and tell him you love him.

Tell him to return back home to you.

His body almost disappeared behind the vast expanse of buildings, when she raced down the fields, as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the vicious ache gnawing at her muscles and the agitated pounding of her heart against her chest. Tearing down the path towards him, in the chance that if she didn't run any faster she was going to lose her lover to the wind.

"San!" Her shout echoed in the breeze, but reached to his ears anyway, a tug at the weak strings that had barely held down his soul. He turned, so desperate that she would come to him like she had done in the dead of the night. Feeling his lover crawl into his arms, pledging that she would never leave from his side.

"Miss Yim, what's wrong?"

“I lied to you, when I said I didn’t love you. I really, really do, I almost feel disgusted by it. I never thought, that someone as ruthless and as cold as me would be privileged enough to fall in love but when you entered my life I felt like my mother.” She sucked in a deep breath, her lover making gentle steps toward her as the wind whipped their hair. “I felt like her when she said: ‘If he was the muse in a painting, to be an object, a fleck of paint, or even dust on it would be my greatest honour.’” Warm tears forged in his eyes, biting down his bottom lip to prevent them from escaping. She wanted to outstretch her arms towards him but it was too soon.

“So, Choi San, it’s an honour to be loved by you. I came back, because I had to tell you that. I hurt you so much. I was scared that being vulnerable to love would only hurt me but the only person who gave me such torment was myself.” Her confession disturbed her, yet it was the unspoken truth that only he was entitled to. A tense silence suffused the air as she pended his response, but all he could do was try to convince himself that it was not a dream and she really had said all of the words he had spent countless nights praying that she would declare.

“I love you, Miss Yim. I loved you yesterday, I love you today and I will love you for eternity. There is simply nothing that one can do to tear my heart away from yours, not even you.”

"Do you mean that?" It was a stupid question, but she could not help the words be spilled from her mouth. He nodded violently.

"I do. With my whole entity." Choking back on her sobs, her arms reached out for him throwing them around his neck. Nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck, her grip tightened as he ensnared his hands around her waist; breathing in her scent as if it was oxygen. "Come home with me my dear, come home and be mine."

•••

All Right Reserved © the-midnight-blooms

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

'Yim' meaning light

A/N: the long awaited painter!san fic (with a twist 😏) that i've been waiting too long to put out. I hope you liked this one. :))

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

tags: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho

[saintmurd0ck]

footsteps

masterlist

pairing: matt murdock x f!reader

summary: your undeniable chemistry, the perfect night. it's been a long time coming, and finally, matthew murdock is in your apartment.

warnings: NO SHE HULK SPOILERS but def inspired, matt murdock's filthy mouth, matt murdock's cocky personality, smut, p in v (unprotected), oral (f receiving), someone say size kink???

a/n: credits to @buckypascal for making gifs of the scene. also, new post format?! lastly, tagging @mattmurdockspainkink and @chronicoverachiever for being there on that night and screaming about this entire episode with me 💀🙈 love you two LOTS 💗💗

You don’t waste any time getting into the apartment. Not even to fumble for your keys. They go straight in to turn the lock, and then they're yanked out. Thrown somewhere. Anywhere.

Nothing else matters now but him. All this time; every path, every decision, every bit of banter exchanged between the two of you has come down to this moment. You’ve known Matt for a very long time, but tonight… tonight feels more than familiar. Even if you’re in brand new territory. 

The thick material of his suit grabs at your fingertips, tactile panels and armour-infused fabric gliding underneath your palms, clinging to the sweat that’s started to form. But you can’t think about that. You can’t think about being nervous, not when his mouth is on yours and his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, begging for entry. Right now, you shouldn’t be thinking of anything else. And rightfully so, you can’t.

Matt leans into the kiss, deepening it as a gloved hand comes up to cup your jaw, allowing for the tiniest of whimpers to slip past your lips. He stumbles, taken aback slightly at the way you’re kissing him, with a tenacity… a ferociousness he hasn’t yet experienced with you. You’re insistent, and it shows. It shows as you anchor your hand to the small of his back, nevermind that it’s all Kevlar you’re feeling and not his skin.

Oh God, his skin. The urge to see it, to touch it, to savour it, is staggering. Even though the night's only beginning, you’re impatient, and he knows it. 

It’s a good thing he’s impatient too.

“You’ve got too many clothes… uh– too much suit–” you mumble, breaking away but still maintaining your distance. Or lack thereof.

Matt chuckles against your cheek, and it sounds like a promise. “There’s a zip at the back, sweetheart.”

He pulls you forward again to nip at the column of your throat, and then to leave a mark at the base of your neck, soothing the spot only with a flicker of his tongue. You can feel him straining against you now, and he’s shifting his hips, trying to get his bulge to settle where it wants to between your legs. 

He’s antsy, and you get it. You understand. It’s not as if the two of you have been tiptoeing around each other for months, juggling a delicate balance of flirting and friendship and whatever the fuck else you’d describe your dynamic as.

But here you are.

Here you are.

You will yourself to pull it together as you kick your shoes off, Matt doing the same. He sets himself back upright promptly to remove his gloves, and then his helmet. You’re a little surprised at how haphazardly he tosses it onto the couch – a perfect throw, of course – considering that the suit is new and his helmet… well, his helmet cements his moniker, right? And–

Oh, enough about the helmet already. 

His hair is ruffled, chesnut brown going a little orange when it catches in the yellow apartment light. He throws a billy club at the switch on your wall, muttering something about, ‘who needs a light, anyway?’ 

He’s handsome, and all he’s doing is standing there, his stance a little wide, and the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You don’t need to tell him how he makes you feel; he knows it so acutely it’s as if he’s cracked open a window to your innermost desires. You suck your cheeks in, feeling heat rise to your face as you approach him. Your expression goes dark and you think you have to stop in your tracks, if only to squeeze your legs together, but your body overrides that sensation. It tells you to keep going, to disregard the second heartbeat that's manifested, so you do, fingers fumbling for the strap on the back of Matt’s neck that conceals the zip.

It’s an almost wordless exchange except for what’s whispered under your breaths; the ‘is this okay?’s and ‘yes’es that flow so easily. He reassures you as you struggle with his suit, telling you ‘it’s– the zip’s right there’ and ‘c’mon sweetheart, you got it’. And you do, in fact, got it, because now you’re tugging it down his back, exposing every inch of his delicious self to the ether and beyond.  

The zip goes down to his tailbone, and the second it has no more give, you’re pushing the suit off his shoulders, coaxing the material down and off. Down and off. You’ll admire him later. There’s something else in the way first.

When you get to his waist, you repeat your newfound mantra. Down and off. Down and off. You don’t care that his abs look carved from marble, like a statue handcrafted by Michelangelo himself, or that his cock – holy fuck, his cock – is almost staring you in the face – the suit goes over his ass, down his thighs, and he kicks it off, stepping on the pant legs to get the last of the fabric off his ankles. 

Now, you can look at him. And look you do.

“You know I can tell that you’re eye-fucking me, right?” he grins, lifting his arms away from his body slightly, palms turned to face you. He’s caught in an almost-shrug. 

You wave his words off to run your gaze up and down his frame, starting with his broad shoulders, the scars flecking his torso, and the tiniest trail of hair from his navel to beyond his boxers. His abs contract a little with every intake of breath, flexing and rippling as if they have a mind of their own. Your eyes continue to glaze over his body, working methodically from head to toe, focusing on a different part of him each time. You can barely recognise the quiver in your own breathing when you’re done.

“Bedroom,” you command, taking one of his hands in yours, squeezing it tightly as you lead him away.

He answers with a smile.

Then, as you approach the threshold of your door, of the very place you’ve thought about having him over and over and over again, his hand slides up to tighten at your wrist. He spins you towards him, backing you up until you’re against the wall. He pins you in place, and then his lips meet yours. This time it’s intimate, and not just because of what’s about to happen. It’s intimate for all the right reasons, for all the times he’s made you laugh, or listened to you grumble about the stressors of the world. It’s for every time he’s come to you, battered and bruised, close to broken, and every time you’ve nursed him back to sanity. To health. Matthew Murdock was — is — your one-in-a-million. 

Your one-in-a-million groans as he nips at your pulse, using his knee to knock your legs apart. You’re lost now with both hands tangled in his hair, while his begin to roam over your breasts before settling on your hips. Matt moves his thigh in between your legs, and presses it upwards where he hears you throb. You bear down on the hard muscle, a steady stream of moans accompanying the arching of your back. That’s the gratification you’ve been seeking, the pleasure he knows you deserve. And that he can give. 

“There you go,” he purrs, waiting for your arms to go slack so he can slip the straps of your dress off your shoulders. That moment comes easily as he grinds his thigh into your pussy harder. You wonder if he can feel the growing, damp spot in your panties — his sharp exhale tells you everything you need to hear. 

He reaches behind you to unhook your bra with an ease that surprises you, and then everything else follows: your dress, your panties, his boxer briefs — they’re nothing more than meaningless clothes, troublesome barriers, as they fall to the floor into one clumsy pile. 

And, for a moment, as the two of you step inside the bedroom, you linger there, arms wrapped around his waist as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He’s inhaling your scent, committing you to memory, as if nothing else – nothing – will ever come close to this. To you. He’s warm under your touch, and although his muscles are rock solid, he’s soft. He’s always had a gentle quality about him, and it’s become more apparent with every subsequent layer removed, physical and mental.

Matt braces his hands on your hips, squeezing ever-so-lightly to hold you there. Right now, he towers over you, still emanating that faint devil energy that always becomes more prominent with the suit, but you know you’re safe. It’s safe with him, and it always has been. He tilts his chin downwards, feeling your breath fan across his face.

He chuckles softly, and the sound makes your body erupt into goosebumps. It doesn’t help your case, but he drags his fingertips up your arms, touch featherlight and leaving you wanting more. He says your name, and it rolls off his tongue.

When he says it, it sounds like it was made for him.

He whispers your name again as he kicks the bedroom door shut, scooping you up to lay you out on the bed.

. . .

Moments later, there he is, forearms bracketing your face, mouth on your body, mapping every contour and curve you have to offer. He’s hungry for you, leaving wet kisses on your collarbones, moving further down to play with your breasts. He latches himself onto your nipple, sucking and circling with his tongue, grinding himself into your mattress in rhythm to your moans. You’re positive the dampness pooling between your thighs is trickling down them now. And that’s all thanks to him. Matthew. 

Your Matthew. 

He continues down your stomach, marking you as he pleases. You’re looking at him through your eyelashes, one hand curled tightly in his hair, trying to control your breathing, but it’s difficult. That coil in your stomach, the one that’s been loaded since the first time you laid eyes on Matthew Murdock… it’s reaching breaking point. And you need to let go. 

For a moment Matt’s expression is pained, but it shifts back to focus as he nears your pussy, licking his lips to affirm the scent of your arousal sitting heavy in the air. You realise his expression is one of discomfort, but only because he wants you. He doesn’t know how much control he has over his own body. He wants to drag this out, to have you until the night gives way to the morning sun, but he needs you, more than he’s needed anything else in his life. So, there isn’t much pretense as he slides his palms under your ass and lifts your pussy to his face. 

God, his tongue feels like heaven. 

He licks a broad stripe up your centre, tasting you for all you are, before moving to your clit, drawing tight circles with the tip of his tongue. Still, Matt needs more. Somehow, this isn’t enough. It feels as if he’s waited his entire goddamn life for this, and if that’s how long eternity feels like, then he’s going to take advantage of every moment, of every chance to study your body and burn your pleasure into the fabric of his brain. Tasting you like this isn’t enough, so he flexes his arms, and he tightens his core, and rolls you with him until he’s lying on his back.

Matt Murdock eating your pussy is one thing, but Matt Murdock eating your pussy as you’re sitting on his face?

“Fuck– fuck, Matt, just like that,” you gasp, one hand outstretched towards your headboard, the other wound in his hair. 

He says something, but it’s muffled against your cunt, and it only makes you clench harder. With the way he’s lapping at you, and then the way his tongue begins to stretch you out, you realise you’re going to implode very, very soon. 

He lifts you off his mouth, and the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Now, angel, would you like to cum for me now? Or do you want my cock?”

Maybe it's the way your banter works, but the retort flies from your lips faster than intended. “Do you really have to ask?”

His mood switches in an instant, and it should scare you — but it stirs up something wicked inside. It’s as if Matt can read your mind, or pick at this new unravelling thread, because he flattens his tongue against you again, as if something’s changed in your arousal.

“I was being nice,” he growls, and something like taunting flashes across his face. He’s testing the waters a little. Maybe he’s trying to figure out exactly how you like to take it.

“Yeah?” you respond, smugness lining your tone. You shuffle downwards to where he’s holding up his cock, having stroked it once… twice, just to show off his impressive size. 

There it is again, that taunting.

Well, lucky for him, he’s not the only hellraiser this side of town.

You have him buried to the hilt in one agonisingly smooth motion, squeezing your thighs at his sides as his cock nudges against the spot that edges your vision in white.

He hisses as string after string of curses tumble from his lips, as suddenly he's enveloped in your warmth and your wetness, unable to think and almost unable to move. He has his hands on your waist, gripping so tightly you think it'll bruise, arms and abs flexing as he fights every urge within himself to cum inside you without giving you what you deserve.

He's pretty when he moans, and it's not just the blissed out expression on his face as you begin to move. His sounds are rich, and a little husky, laced with the kind of desperation you didn't think he could possess. You start to roll your hips, planting your palms on his broad chest as he lets you guide him into oblivion. Every drag of his cock along your walls sets your nerves alight, and he makes you feel so full you think you might burst.

He pleads your name. He begs you to go faster.

"What do you want, Matthew?" you drawl, lifting your hips up to bounce on his length, to writhe on top of him the way you realise he loves.

He's desperate, yet the authority in his voice remains. "Want you to cum for me, angel."

Your nose scrunches as you fuck yourself on him, breathing coming out in heavy pants as he hits that spot over and over and over again. His mouth curves into a devilish chuckle as you explode on his cock, fingernails digging into his skin as you pulsate and flood around him.

He takes this opportunity to reclaim his dominance, to flip you onto your back, pushing you into the sheets as he drives himself into you. His hips snap against yours ruthlessly as his forearms cradle your head and his mouth meets yours. The intimacy prompts you to wrap your legs around his waist, and clearly you still have a couple good thoughts left in you, because Matt's got a weakness for this.

He breaks away from the kiss to tip his head back and groan, allowing you to pull him in deeper. Sweat blooms across his hairline as he lowers his weight on your body, nuzzling his face into your neck, breathing you in and holding you so damn close. His rhythm never falters, but his strokes change, especially as he uses his hands to push your legs back as far as they'll go.

And, as if what he's doing isn't good enough, he wrestles one hand free to rub your clit.

Oh, holy shit. If this is how you die, so be it. So fucking be it.

"Matty," you whimper, interlacing your fingers behind his neck, pulling him in to kiss you again.

"Yeah, angel," he rasps, and his lips are back on yours. They're soft, and yielding, and flawlessly moulded to you.

"Matty," you whisper, and you take him over the edge with you.

. . .

In the afterglow, with the ghost of a kiss lingering faintly on your lips, you turn to him. He punctuates your question with a sentence of his own.

"When am I going to see you again?"

"Come to New York with me."

You think of the invisible footsteps right outside your bedroom door; the ones an eternity in the making. You think of how it'd be to leave your own in his apartment, to leave him with what he's given you.

It scares you a little, because your life is here. Away from New York.

It scares you because your answer is overwhelmingly easy.

From the tentative smile on Matt's face, and the blush spreading across his cheeks, you know it's the right one.

[whumpinthepot]

Hamster Interactive Story

Chapter 15. Photoshoot

Prev - Masterlist

Content: giant/tiny, nonsexual nudity, dressing/posing/handling like a doll, ptsd, fear, swearing, being kept against their will, pet trope, cages, dehumanization, power dynamics, baby talk, ableism, selective mutism, slight bullying, being filmed (lmk if i missed any)

Pov: Hamster

Poll Winner: Pirate and Mermaid

ART, WRITING, AND POLL UNDER THE CUT!!

—-

Today is the day Ashley wanted Soap to model with you. She didn’t mention what the theme would be yet, and when she puts you on the counter where the props are set up you can only gaze in wonder at the chest full of gold coins, silks, and jewels. It's as big as your cage, and you have to crane your neck to try to see the top of it.

There are wooden paneled walls put up around the set, presumably so Soap has nowhere to try to make a run for it. You look around while Ashley goes to retrieve Soap Scrub. The  costumes are there in two piles and you pick up a random scarf to look at while you wait. 

Ashley comes back and places Soap’s shaking frame in front of you. When he doesn’t move she nudges him in the back with her finger, causing a yelp from him.

She’s scaring him.

You have to protect him from her! she’s made her point already. You frown at her and put your arms around Soap protectively, looking up at her with disapproval. 

He’s warm, and still trembling. You tighten your grip and it's clear on Ashley’s face that she gets the message. Ashley bites her lip and looks away from you. That’s right, she would never upset you. You can stop her from scaring your friend. 

Soap doesn’t hug you back, nor does his shaking settle. You can feel him looking around for a place to run or hide. Of course Ashley blocked off all exits so you’re not worried about that. 

Slowly you let go of him, glance at Ashley who has backed off, and take his hand to guide him to his costume. He numbly and stiffly follows you. 

Now that you’re standing next to him you can see that he’s about a head taller than you. It makes your heart flutter for some reason. Not like the humans who tower in comparison, just a bit taller but still your size. You smile at him to reassure that you’ve got him. He’s safe with you. 

His nerve returns when you hand him his clothes, and his face twists up as if holding back a rude remark. His sour eyes say it all, and he doesn’t take them from you.

You push the fabrics into his arms, and when he pushes you back without a word Ashley clears her throat from above you both. 

Soap nearly jumps out of his skin, snatching the costume out of your hands at lightning speed. Suddenly it's like he’s racing a clock, keeping an eye on Ashley’s hands and face while he tries to figure out how this costume works. 

You’re ready to help him if he needs it, and wait patiently for him to get dressed, in what looks like a pirate costume. He struggles with some of the extra fabrics, unsure where they fit but so far he has baggy brown pants with rips above his ankles with a long shaggy grey jacket with no sleeves. 

When Ashley instructs him on what to do with the extra cloth he jumps and looks just about to cry. You want to go comfort him more, but Ashley scoops you in that second to help you get into your own costume. 

“You’re going to be the cutest tiny mermaid!” She kisses your face, and presents you with a shimmering orange and green mermaid tail that slips on over your legs. “You won’t be able to walk with this, so mummy has to help you with it, ‘kay?” 

You don’t answer because there's no need. She’s already helping you into it, along with tape to cover your bare chest. She shifts your hair over the tape to make it look like it's naturally covering any private areas, and mists your hair with water. 

She squeals at how cute you are and sets you down on top of the pile of treasure. Some of it tumbles down to the floor with a sharp clatter, and you don’t move in fear of falling. Ashley takes your glasses off, and the house is back to the familiar blurriness it always has been. You can still see where Soap Scrub is though, and you squint at him. 

Ashley is pointing and telling him to fix his costume, and before long he’s being guided towards the treasure chest to stand close to you. You can’t tell if he’s shaking but you can only assume he’s still on edge about the whole thing. Even if he got plenty of warning throughout the week. 

When Ashley shines lights on you two, you really become blinded, so you let her physically pose you how she wants for each photo. She doesn’t touch Soap at all which is a relief because you know that's what he’s really scared of. 

At one point Ashley tells Soap to climb up the coins towards you, and when he says he doesn’t want to she reaches for him as if to grab him. He scrambles away from her, and angrily shouts at her. “Alright! Alright. I’ll do it, don’t fucking touch me.” 

You’re flabbergasted and your jaw drops but he’s crawling towards you. He’s slowly getting clearer, and he looks so, so handsome. You lean towards him with a big smile, one that he doesn’t return, and then the coins slip from under his hand. 

The first coin causes the second to slip, then the one above that, and now you’re slipping off of the top of the pile with them. Everything falls with you, and kindly enough, Soap is the one that catches you when you fall towards him. 

Your breath hitches initially but once you’re able to suck air in you cry in fear. Even though it was a very slow, very anticlimactic, very short fall, it still made your heart skip a beat and your limbs freeze up. Your arm throbs with phantom pain from when it was broken, and you cling onto Soap for dear life, crying from shock. 

“Whoa, ugh. It's okay, Hamster. Stop crying,” Soap says, and pushes you off of him gently to sit up. He definitely looks uncomfortable but he lets you keep holding his hands. Until Ashley’s giant hand gets close, then he makes a break for it, and jumps a foot away from you. 

Ashley picks you up, and presses you close to her chest. “I’m so sorry honey bunny, was that scary? I would never let you get hurt again. You’re safe, it's okay. I got some good shots. How about we stop for today. How does that sound?” She completely ignores Soap Scrub and wipes your tears away with her soft finger. 

She puts you back into shorts and a tank top, but she keeps holding you against her chest while she cleans up. Her heart hammers against your cheek, and you close your eyes, relaxing until she puts you back into your cage for the night. By then you’re calm again, and thrilled to go talk to Soap Scrub once Ashley goes to bed. You want to know what he thought about the whole photoshoot. He probably hated it, but you’d like to hear his thoughts anyway. 

Ashley is watching the news, and you dully listen to it while laying on your back. Something about pet liberation, but you don’t care enough to understand it, it's boring. 

Ashley shows you some of the pictures before she goes to bed and you’re happy to see how beautifully they turned out. Soap’s grumpy demeanor actually played into the role quite well, and you do look beautiful with the shimmering tail. You’re excited to hear about the comments you get when Ashley posts them. 

Once Ashley’s in bed you happily climb out of your cage, keeping well away from the counter ledge, and rush to where Soap lives. 

He’s expecting you, and already leaning against the bars to greet you. “Don’t you ever get sick of her talking to you like you’re a baby?” 

You shake your head with a smile, and give him a chocolate chip. He deserves a reward for participating today. 

“Thanks,” he says flatly. “Do you know what conditioning is? If you looked it up in a dictionary your face would be there.” 

You don’t really, but you do know he’s being rude so you roll your eyes. You don’t care about his questions. You want to know what he thought of the whole thing. 

You point at him. 

“Right, because I can totally understand what you’re asking right now,” he retorts. He bites his lip while looking down and gets more serious. “Were you listening to the news earlier? I wonder if it's real… You know, people breaking into places to ‘rescue’ pets. Maybe they’d help me, or maybe they’d just make things worse. Who knows…” 

You’re shocked at his dialogue and shake your head in horror. You do NOT want that to happen. 

“Hamster, if you let me out you could come with me you know. You don’t have to stay here with her… I know you love her, but it's messed up. People don’t belong in cages. I don’t belong in a cage. I don’t want to be someone's doll. I don’t want her touching me all the time. I don’t want her making money off me, and dressing me, and taking away my freedom. Fuck, she doesn’t even like me.” He laughs out of reflex, and says, “With you it’s different. She’s nice to you, but she’s using you.” 

You feel bad. He still hasn’t adjusted it seems, and besides, he had a point. Ashley isn’t as nice to him for some reason, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to lose your only friend. You can’t let him go, at least, not yet, not while you’re confused and conflicted. Besides, Ashley is nice to you, and Soap is usually a jerk, so really why would you want to go with him? 

You shake your head sadly and look away from him. You need time to think about all of this. Maybe someday you would like to explore the world, but not today. Not when Ashley still needs you. You couldn’t imagine breaking Ashley’s heart like that. Not in a million years. Still, the thought of people coming in to ‘rescue’ you has you a bit shaken. Especially if they wanted to hurt Ashley in the process. You will have to actually start paying attention to the news before making any sort of decision. 

“Alright then.” Soap sounds done with trying to convince you. One last thing he mumbles before you leave for bed is, “You looked good in your costume today by the way…” 

You absolutely beam at the compliment and wave goodbye at him for the night. You think about everything while you swing in your hammock. If Soap was around for so long before Ashley found him, you wonder if more tinies will ever show up. The thought both excites you and scares you. 

—

Tag list: @frogkingdom @verkja @whumpsday @octopus-reactivated @marvel-gt @rsitb-second-account @fallen-grace-smd @winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts @kyp-the-spacekiwi @ilasknives @hollowgast1 @redd956 @zobodahobo @alittlewhump @blackrosesandwhump p @angst-after-dark @sandygarnelle @coppercoyoti i @kim-poce @mayisreallygay @smoll-stace @demondamage @vickytokio @whump-in-the-closet @shadowsnowdapple @whumpy-wyrms @re-whump @cypresscove @whumpninja @highlighterwhump @taters169

Clumping the tags together, Lmk if theres an issue with tagging! Also thank you @alittlewhump for helping me out with this chapter:))

[kelcemenow]

Drive Me Crazy - Chapter 9.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 2056

Warnings A little bit of strong language and a little bit of angst.

Huge thank you to the Anon who sent this in! They had such amazing words to say about my writing which I massively appreciate and then to top it off, had an incredible request for me! I only have experience with mechanics in the UK, so I’ve tried my best with this one! “I just recently got interested in Travis K. X reader stories and wanted to let you know, I read all of yours as quickly as I could. They are so well done and I couldn’t help but laugh/giggle and feel through each word you typed out. You’re doing amazing and I’m so glad to have stumbled onto your page. If you have any space for a request, I’d be curious about what Trav would think about having a military (like fighter pilot) or engineer or mechanic girlfriend. I see a lot of stories with him paired with models/singers/social media individuals (which are phenomenal!) but just wondering how he would be with a more tomboy like girlfriend!”

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

Your feet pounded the damp pavement, the earthy scent of rainfall thick in the air. You weren't 100% sure what you were going to say when you saw Travis, or even why you were heading to his place, but you figured the walk would help set your thoughts straight.

You pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead, closing your eyes for a second as you waited at the crosswalk, letting the traffic sounds of the street fade into the back of your mind. You had only known Travis for a couple of weeks, a handful of dates summarising what was still a very early relationship. If it could even be classed as a relationship.

He was charming, he was kind and gave you all of the attention that you could ever want.

But your lives were completely different.

Travis would spend his days giving interviews, recording his popular podcast and managing his successful and varied career and would spend his evenings in bars and clubs, being photographed rubbing shoulders with other well-known and high profile celebrities in designer outfits. You spent your days in overalls fixing cars and your evenings trying to clean the motor oil from your hair.

As the rain began to fall heavier, you pulled your sweatshirt hood over your head, pulling the edges of the fabric hard and clinging to them as if it was only thing holding you together. You checked the street signs ahead of you and continued in your way, staring down at the pavement to avoid to heavy raindrops that were falling hard from the gray sky above you.

The streets became quieter and the houses began to look bigger and more expensive. Travis' neighbourhood was quaint and humble, but still impressive, the sidewalks edged with a neat line of trees. You pulled your phone from your sweatshirt pocket, checking the address again and trying to focus on the house numbers as the raindrops built up onto the top of your cheeks.

You squinted further up the road to a house slightly set back from the sidewalk, large with brown roof tiles and a wide road that led to a double doored entrance. Nervously, you fidgeted with your fingers as you approached the house. You noticed a few vehicles scattered around the driveway and a well kept garden that looped around the property. Your wet hands rubbed against your soaked sweatshirt as you tentatively approached the door, your eyes fixated on the frosted glass panels. As your feet reached the top of the handful of stone steps, your heart instantly began beating faster and faster. Quickly clearing your throat, your shaking hands knocked firmly on the door and your chest swelled as you took a slow and deep breath.

Footsteps grew louder on the other side of the door and before you had chance to change your mind and turn away, the door opened and a blonde woman sporting glasses and a tight, black dress stared blankly at you. Your eyes darted to the house number that was displayed on the wall next to you and then towards your phone screen, confirming that you were at the correct house.

"Uhhh...sorry. I thought this...I mean-I'm sorry." You mumbled as you began to turn around, your chest filling with embarrassment. Of course he was seeing someone else.

"Y/N?" A voice called out.

You glanced around over your shoulder to see Travis making his way through a small gathering of people towards the doorway.

You smiled meekly, making uncomfortable eye contact with the group, "Travis? Sorry...I-"

"What are you doing here?"

You exhaled an awkward laugh and shook your head, "I don't really know."

His eyebrows lowered as he reached for your hands, "Is everything okay?"

You watched as his thumbs ran over the damp skin on back of your oil marked hands before looking up to see the pristine and glamourous blonde woman leaning on the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. You opened your mouth to speak but Travis ushered you away from the house.

"I'm filming a piece for Jason's documentary." He nodded towards the house and your eyes followed to see the crew of people looking in your direction. Lights and cameras were scattered around the room and a man appeared in the doorway holding a clipboard.

Your hands flew to your face, your wet hair plastered over your forehead, "I'm so stupid. You're so right, what am I doing here?"

Travis' lips curled downwards, his expression confused and mystified, before he smiled and pulled you closer to him, "It's fine, just come in. I'll get you some dry clothes and we can hang as soon as it's finished?"

"No, this is ridiculous." You shook your head and stepped away from Travis' grasp, "Thank you Travis, but I am so stupid."

He reached out for you again, "Why do you keep saying that? It's not a big deal?"

You retreated from him, stepping carefully down the remaining steps as you avoided eye contact with Travis, "I am so sorry I bothered you, Travis."

You pulled your sweatshirt hood tighter around your head, muffling whatever Travis called out to you and power walked away from the house, a mixture of raindrops and tears staining your cheeks.

______________________________________________________________

"Ahh...fuck!" You winced, sucking the air into your mouth through your teeth. Looking at your red fingertip, you noticed a small purple welt beginning to form thanks to the bolt that slipped from your grip.

You rolled your eyes, gripping your injured digit before leaning down back under the hood of the classic white Camaro that you were currently working on. It had been a week since you had seen Travis and in an attempt to forget about the situation, you had thrown yourself into your work, spending every hour you could at the garage.

As you brought your finger to your mouth to stem the blood that had started to emerge, you felt the car dip as someone rested their weight against the door.

"You need a break."

You tipped your head to see your Dad using a cloth to clean some oil from a large wrench. Bowing your head back down, you wiped your finger on your overalls and continued working, "No, I need to finish this turbo."

"I could take a look at it, if you want?" His voice was thick with concern.

Gripping the bolt again, you grimaced as the pressure caused a sharp pain to rush to your small injury, "I'm perfectly capable of doing it by myself."

Your Dad chuckled at your independence, a trait he had always admired, "I didn't say you weren't."

You stayed silent, aside from a short sigh when you had eventually managed to tighten the bolt adequately.

"Has he contacted you?"

"Dad-"

"No, Sport. Here me out."

You emerged from the hood, dropping it closed and walking to the open drivers side door as your Dad followed you around the vehicle.

"Has he contacted you?"

"Yes, he has. Every day this week, not that it matters." You said as you started the car, hearing the gentle purr of the engine.

"Okay." Your Dad pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly, "Look, I've never been the type of Father to tell you what to do, and I'm not about to start now. But I do think you're letting something really good go." He turned to walk away before stopping himself, "And I'm not just saying that because it's Travis Kelce."

You smiled and watched through the car windshield window as he strolled back into the garage office, his high pitched whistle fading from your ears.

______________________________________________________________

It was late and the garage was silent, aside from the occasional car passing by on the street. You dumped a handful of dirty rags into the hamper next to the office door and reached for the light switch, immersing the room into darkness.

You used the small amount of light beaming in from the office window to guide yourself to the large gray roller door that filled the wall. Turning the small metal key in the lock, you watched as the door began to descend. It had almost fully closed when you heard the sound of a car engine over the sound of the door motor. Beams of light peeped from underneath the bottom of door, brightness spilling out onto the smooth concrete floor.

You rolled your eyes and turned the key in the opposite direction, squinting and shielding your eyes from the gleam of the headlamps, "I'm sorry, buddy. We're closed...we actually closed a few hours ago."

A large figure stepped out of the vehicle but you struggled to identify it.

"Dude, did you not hear me?"

"Oh, I heard you." A familiar voice echoed in your ears, "But I ain't here for a service."

"Travis?"

As he stepped closer to you, the lights illuminated his face which was uncharacteristically covered in black smears. His usually pristine denim jeans were ripped in several places and a clear oily handprint was slapped across the right thigh. Your eyes drifted upwards to see his white t-shirt coated in stains of varying shapes, colours and sizes. He grinned at you, picking up a rag from the floor that you had missed and throwing it over his shoulder.

"Need some help?"

You narrowed your eyes, a small smirk growing on your face, "From you?

Travis looked around the room and shrugged his shoulders, glancing at the numerous cars and tools, "I could learn?"

"Travis, what are you-"

Before you had chance to finish your sentence, he stepped forward quickly and kissed you, his arms snaking around your waist. You melted into his hold, allowing his soft lips to move across yours and your hands to float up to the sides of his face. His thick stubble prickled against your fingertips, the intoxicating scent of his cologne enveloping you just as it did the first time.

He pulled away from you slowly, studying your expression, "Sorry, I just had to do that."

Your eyes drifted to the floor before closing shut whilst you took a deep breath. You focused in on the butterflies that were dancing in your stomach, trying to find the words that you wanted to say.

"You didn't reply to any of my messages."

His eyes were full of hurt and confusion and you suddenly felt a pang of guilt fill your chest, "I know. I needed to think."

One of Travis' hands ran up your side to cup your cheek, "About what? About us?"

"Yeah." You sighed, "I just don't know if we fit right. Although, I must say, you'd fit in here looking like that."

His eyes glinted, "You see? If I can fit in your world, you can certainly fit in mine."

You looked up, "I don't know if I can do it. The photographers, the online comments, I like my privacy, Travis."

"What online comments?"

"I saw something on Instagram, there was a photo of us and people...people had a lot to say about our relationship...or whatever it is." Tears began to pool against your lower lashes.

Travis held onto you tighter, "You shouldn't read that shit. I sure as hell don't! People are assholes, baby."

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against Travis' warm chest.

He continued, his large hand stroking the back of your head, "And if you want privacy, we can do that. You have the right to live your life however you want to, but I want you in mine."

Your heart jumped, a sudden overwhelm of emotion flooding you. You lifted up your head and breathed a laugh as a couple of tears ran down your cheeks, "I want you in my life too."

Travis' eyes creased into nothing, his smile as wide as it could possibly be, "So, that's settled then? Now, which of these car's needs my expertise?"

You threw your head back as you howled with laughter, throwing your arms around his neck and allowing him to take your weight. Your feet lifted from the ground and your lips crashed against his, this time a much deeper and passionate kiss, his fingers sinking into your flesh as if he never wanted to let go. Without breaking contact, you reached across and turned the key, shutting out the outside world.

______________________________________________________________

And it's done! This one has been my Everest! But thank you to everyone for their encouraging words and positivity! I hope this final chapter lives up to expectation!

I'll be scouring through my requests now and looking at doing some one-shots in the next few weeks to hopefully clear the list that has built up! I'll put a post out when my requests are open again!

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[house-of-kolchek]

Dress (Part Two)

Leon Kennedy x Reader

OK I KNOW ITS BEEN A HOT MINUTE SINCE PART ONE BUT I LITERALLY REWROTE THIS THREE TIMES I APOLOGIZE

Also I love you all.

Word Count: 3.6k

Part One (18+)

Ok this is slightly (significantly) more drama than I was initially planning so. Enjoy my tears.

You didn’t get your dress dry cleaned. 

In fact, for a long time it remained in that pile, pooling at the foot of your bed. You were too afraid to call at first, your stomach churning with guilt, rejection and most of all, shame. And finally, two weeks later when you did try to call, the phone didn’t make it three rings before it was sent to voicemail.

So, with growing resentment in your eyes, you turned your phone off completely.

But still, as you stopped seeing him at work, that nagging itch in the back of your mind convinced you to ask around - even begging Hunnigan to assure you that yes, he was still alive in the least.

With that knowledge, you resigned to staring at the dress on your floor. The rumples in your sheets from your unmade bed - having not properly made it since that night. You felt like you were going crazy, biting at your nails and asking question after question to yourself in the silence.

Was he more drunk than you thought?

Did he think it was something else?

Did he regret it - did you ruin something over a one night stand?

The six week mark came and went. You’d finally picked up your dress a week prior, dumping it into a bag for donation, or just garbage, you weren’t quite sure. At this point, that stain was probably cemented into the fabric. You’d gone through a deep cleanse of your room, your apartment, anything to push away the plaguing memories of that night. If Leon wasn’t going to get back in contact with you, you would just have to move on.

Which was, of course, easier said than done. 

“Raven two- are you still with me?” The voice in your ear snapped. You cursed, glancing back at the smooth wall in front of you. The questions in your head were starting to follow you everywhere - even into work. You couldn’t help but wonder if you should have been working in the state you were in, but who would accept “My best friend and I slept together and then he disappeared” as an even remotely valid excuse?

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just looking for intel,” you muttered into the piece, picking at your nails, and the bits of dirt catching underneath them. The hallway behind you was long, leading to a sealed door. “There’s a door here that’s locked with a biometric scanner. The name matches our guy though.” You continued to study the panel, lightly running your fingers along the seams until - bingo.

With the edge of your knife, you pried against the gap in the panel, until the screen flew off, falling to the floor with a crack. Within a second, the lights had dimmed, a faint echo of an alarm bleating across invisible speakers. You cursed under your breath, taking a moment to analyze the collection of wires and motherboard looking things beneath the panel. 

What the fuck did any of them even mean.

“Fuck it.” You grabbed a handful of wires, and in a final hail mary moment, yanked them all from the panel. The alarm grew to a shriek, though you caught sight of the door shifting, just enough to indicate that the lock had faltered. Honestly, you had no idea how that even worked. 

“What the hell is going on in there?” your earpiece rang again. Your operative sounded less than thrilled.

“Well, let’s just say the security in this place is weird,” you huffed, reaching to pry the door open enough to slide into the office. “I made it into Brown’s office though.”

“Good,” she sighed. “From what I can tell they’ve dispatched a team towards the office. You’ve likely got two minutes before you need to be out of there, so get the notes and go.”

You nodded to the empty room, your brows furrowing as the lights within the office continued to flash. A computer was still on, the login information filled in.

How convenient.

You raced over to the computer, snatching a random flash drive from the desk. Clicking the login button, you watched the foreboding circle on the screen as the information loaded, your heart soaring as the desktop flashed into view. Wasting no time, you hit the files tab, plugging in the USB and copying anything, everything that you saw. You filtered through the email tab, copying the most recent files onto the drive as well. 

And then, a chorus of voices caught your attention. 

As the drive process edged towards completion, you searched through the room again, your attention catching on a door on the opposite wall. Praying that it wasn’t a closet, you ejected the drive, your arms flailing to grab at a pile of file folders, each labelled with three lettered initials. Hopefully they were important; you didn’t have the time to care. 

In a haste, you wrenched the door open, and-

“Fuck me.”

It was a closet.

“Harper,” you hissed into your piece, pushing forward between the hanging jackets and a mop handle. “I’m a little stuck in place right now, and I would really appreciate any backup.”

“Where are you?”

“In a broom closet. In Brown’s office.”

You heard a frustrated curse. A chorus of frantic typing on a keyboard before Harper’s voice was back in your ear.

“Okay, hang tight. Kennedy’s on his way.”

Wait.

“Fucking hell,” you cursed, wondering why the world had decided to curse you further in this clusterfuck of a mission. “How far out?”

“Five minutes. He was already on his way to the building.”

???????

You let out a whispered acknowledgment, falling silent as the first voice burst through the room. And then another, and another, until you were counting five low voices, assigning each other different areas to scout.

There was no way you could hide in here. Your free hand fell to the knife at your waist, shifting to the holstered gun along your thigh, and then back to the knife. It was safer. 

Better for close combat.

As Harper’s voice echoed “three minutes” into your ear, you heard a shuffle of footsteps halt directly in front of you. You held your breath, unsheathing your knife and loosening your knees into a short crouch.

The door flew open, and you lunged.

The first man let out a shout as you barrelled straight through him, sending him stumbling back off his feet. The four others - plus another surprise attendee - all whirled around to face you, their guns drawn. In a second, you ducked to the side, shuffling yourself behind the computer desk. You gave up on the file folders with a curse, throwing them over the desk towards your attackers.

In the distraction, you unholstered your gun, switching your knife to the other hand and crossing them together. Ducking your head over, you took a shot, hearing a pained cry. You shot again, creeping closer to the side of the desk. If you could sneak your way around and out the door, you could-

“He’s there.”

Another round of gunshots, ringing with that familiar weight, cut through the room. It felt quicker than three minutes, and you couldn’t help but peek your head over the desk.

Leon’s expression was stoic, his brows drawn into a line as he let loose another spray of gunfire. Two men fell to the ground, clutching at their legs. You took the opportunity to shoot out from your position, circling around towards the door. You took a few shots of your own, downing another two attackers as Leon’s arm reached out to force you behind him. 

You didn’t waste any time, grabbing his wrist and running from the room.

“Are you okay?” He huffed from beside you, having just barely caught up to your pace. You nodded, not trusting the words in your throat. His hair had gotten longer in the weeks, and there was a new hollowness just below his cheekbones. The sight of him sent a pang of emotion through you, and you chose to ignore it, keeping your expression blank as you raced towards the lab entrance.

Leon called your name as you escaped the building - surprisingly easily as no other security detail came after you. Your back flared, but your feet ignored the will of your mind, turning you to face the agent. With his long hair, wearing that familiar leather jacket and a pair of knitted brows. The sight of him, after those weeks of radio silence, of forcing you to question yourself over, and over again.

You weren’t relieved to see him. There was no spark of joy, no twinge of grief in your heart. You were angry.

“What the fuck do you want, Leon?”

He recoiled at the venom in your voice, his lips tightening further into a frown. You wanted to feel bad, to apologize and reach out for his hand, as you’d done in every argument before. But you couldn’t allow yourself to do that.

Leon cleared his throat.

“You’re bleeding,” was the only thing he said, directing his gaze to your side. You glanced down, taking in the dark, damp spot against the navy fabric of your shirt. The pain in your side didn’t even flare up until you pressed a hand to the wound, a sharp breath hissing between your teeth. Leon stumbled forward a step, his arm stretching out, until you caught his gaze, and he faltered.

It was quiet for a moment, the dull throb in your side beginning to grow in intensity. Leon’s gaze fell to the side, his teeth catching his bottom lip. If you had to hazard a guess, he looked angry, but you couldn’t tell why. 

“Just get me out of here,” you breathed, after another moment of silence between you two.

—

You didn’t let Leon come with you into the infirmary, much to his vocal protest. You received a visit from Ingrid, her expression remaining mostly concerned, though her lips held a tight line, and some prodding got her to admit that the agent had mercilessly been pestering her regarding your wellbeing. 

Why now?

You remained steadfast, refusing to confront him and allow yourself to fall back into whatever spell had prompted this whole disaster in the first place. You wallowed, you caught yourself staring at his contact in your phone. You listened to the low, muffled timbre of his voice outside your room and fought the urge to call him in, face the time, the distance that’d been placed between you two. You forced a wall up, defensive and as strong as you could muster.

You kept that wall up for five days. And then Ingrid decided she’d had enough.

You were leaning against the bed, packing up your few personal items to take home when the door opened, signaling Ingrid’s arrival.

“Hey - do you think we could stop at a drive thru on the way? I swear to god I need an actual meal-”

You shut right up as Leon Kennedy stumbled into your room, looking like a feral cat as he shrugged Ingrid’s hands off his shoulders. Her gaze found yours, unrelenting as she gestured between the two of you.

“Change of plans. Leon’s driving you home. Figure out whatever the fuck is going on between you two or I swear to god I am leaving you to die on your next missions,” she hissed, slamming the door shut without another word.

You all but shriveled into ash, your throat tightening as the man that had plagued your mind for the past two months scowled at the wall. He rolled his shoulders, biting the inside of his cheek as his gaze slowly, sloooooowly found yours.

“What have you been doing here, Leon?” you finally sighed.

“You need to be more careful.”

You huffed. “Noted. As if you have any right to tell me that. I’ll ask again: what are you doing here?” 

“If I hadn't shown up, who knows what could have happened.”

“Leon-”

“You know, you’d most likely be dead!” His voice grew in pitch, his gaze growing harder as he took a step towards you. You took a step back.

“Leon-”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that reckless,” he hissed. 

“Well, what the hell do you think caused that?” you shouted. Leon’s mouth finally snapped shut. His jaw clenched, his gaze falling away from yours.

“You can’t just disappear for six weeks and-” you cut off with a hissed curse, reaching for the sudden flare of pain in your side. Leon’s arm shot out, and against your better judgement, you stepped away from it, holding a hand out to stop him. You watched him wince.

“You can’t just do that to me and pretend everything’s fine, Leon,” you finished. He looked hurt, his hand coming up to cover his face under the facade of brushing a stray hair away from his eyes. And the silence between you grew for a long moment.

“I know,” he finally breathed, his voice clipping at the end of its sentence. When you spared him a glance, you noticed the tightness of his fists, his nails digging hard into his palm as his gaze remained unfocused against the floor. You swallowed against the lump in your throat, forcing the words out from your lips.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked, and his gaze snapped back to yours in a moment. Before he could get a word out, you were talking again. “Did I take advantage of you? Because I swear, I thought you were fully coherent. Hell, I’ve seen you in a much worse state without any problems, but maybe I read into something and I forced your hand and-”

Leon’s hands found your shoulders, and you physically jerked out of your thoughts. You watched his face twist into something that looked like pain as his hands flew off of you with a muttered apology. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, I swear,” he muttered. “I did everything wrong. I just…”

You waited. And he took a breath.

“Let’s get you home.”

You let his words balance on your tongue, your gaze slipping away from him. Your brain felt like mush, both relieved and disappointed. Overall, entirely unsure of what to think. So, with a silent nod, you let him slip your bag over his shoulder, his hand hovering over your shoulder as he led you out of the infirmary and to his car.

God, you’d missed his car.

The door shut behind you, and you immediately noticed your chapstick, still settled in the second cupholder between the seats. His bags were still strewn across the backseat, along with one of your old hoodies, the only neatly folded item on the seat. Leon flicked on the radio as he drove home, keeping the volume low enough that it almost blended with the noise of the car along the road.

You recognized the song, something you used to sing to your curtains at night. Something about a fancy dress, bought for a single person.

You reached across the dashboard to switch the radio station.

Throughout the drive, you made too much effort to sneak some glances at him. He looked tense, his grip on the wheel almost as tight as his jaw. He had that familiar knot in his brows that told you of the racing thoughts in his own head. And every once in a while, you’d catch him as he snapped his attention back to the road.

By the time you arrived at your home, you’d actually tired yourself out trying to analyze his thoughts. 

Leon parked the car, glancing towards your front door. Though it wasn’t dark, the moment felt familiar. The awkward silence, the silence that thickened the air. So, before it could get too reminiscent, you practically threw yourself out the car door. 

Leon was on his feet as you shut the door, looking over the roof of the car to meet your gaze. He’d already reached to grab your bag, hoisting it over his shoulder.

“Can I help you bring this in?”

You fucking hated this distance between the two of you.

“Do you want to come in?”

Leon barely hesitated - only enough for his shoulders to relax - before he nodded, circling around the car to follow you into your home.

You shut the door, directing Leon to just drop your bag by the pile of stuff in the hall, before you trudged over to the couch, falling into the comfort of the cushions. He sat next to you, much closer than you would have expected. You spent a long moment staring into space, mustering up the words you needed to say before finally letting out a heavy sigh.

“Why did you disappear for two months? And then why did you show up? Why did I have to listen to you outside of my hospital room? Why did you leave in the first place?” 

As you asked them, your questions didn’t seem to stop, and Leon seemed to pick up on the increasing urgency in your voice as he caught your hand, rubbing a circle along your knuckles because he knew it would calm you down. You wanted to pull away from it, to keep that fiery wind in your sails before your resolve completely crumbled. Yet as you started to pull away, his grip tightened on your hand, a sharp breath sounding from his lips. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his own nose scrunching as he thought. “I thought I ruined something, that maybe I took advantage of you and ruined things.”

“So why not just talk about it?” you pressed. “I mean, we’ve seen each other through much worse.”

Leon was quiet. (I’m about to hit you with the cheesiest fucking line known to man)

“I mean, what could be worse than fucking that up and losing you?”

There was a strong wave of pure feeling that crashed through your chest. Something that felt like grief, like adoration. It felt like pain and bliss all tied up together in a bow. It was like you were teetering at the edge of a cliff and something in his words had just anchored at you. But at the same time, it felt like you were watching each other crumble apart next to each other. 

Without any warning, you burst into tears. 

Leon’s breath caught in his throat as you flew into him, wrapping your arms tight around his neck and pulling him as close as possible. He was trembling, his own arms wrapping around your waist, as he buried his nose into your shoulder.

It was rare to see this kind of emotion from him. His voice was trembling, and his grip on your waist was tight enough that you wondered if he was scared to let go. Those walls you’d watched him carefully craft over the years crumbled right in front of you, and your heart couldn’t help but swell at the outpouring of those emotions he’d locked up for so long.

“Can you forgive me for running away?” he asked. Pleaded, really. His eyes grew wider in your silence. A part of you wanted to wash away the past weeks, draw him right back into your arms without another battle. The smaller, more bitter part of you wanted to keep arguing, to show him just how much he’d hurt you. 

But this was Leon. He was your closest friend…. And he was looking at you without any defense in his gaze. He held only sincerity, if not a little bit of fear as he waited. You’d been more honest with him than anyone else, and in a moment you simply knew with utmost confidence he would offer you the same. So you asked.

“What did that night mean to you?” you asked, fighting against the tightness in your chest for volume. As you pulled away to face him head on, his gaze softened. His lips twitching in the first smile you’d seen in months.

“You said you bought that dress for me,” he started, his gaze unwavering. “And I swear I saw heaven. I meant every word I said. And I want you. I want to be with you.”

The words were simple, but they made your heart soar. 

“You’re my person,” you muttered. “Always.”

And Leon let out a huge breath, his eyes falling shut and his shoulders sagging before he surged upwards to kiss you.

When he kissed you, it felt like he craved you, like he couldn’t live without the feeling of your lips against his. He held you tight, his fingers digging softly into your back. You let your own hands curl into his shirt, your lips parting just enough for his tongue to prod against the seam.

Leon broke away from you for barely a second before he kissed you again, soft and so tender that you felt like glass about to shatter. Your thumb brushed against his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tickle of his hair, simply reassuring yourself that he was actually there in front of you.

He pulled you close, closer than you could even have thought possible, his hands curling into your shirt. When he finally pulled away from you, his forehead resting against your collarbone, his breath shook. Your shirt grew damp, and your arms tightened around him.

“Y’know how much I missed you, you fucking dumbass?” you sighed, and Leon let out a weak chuckle. He lifted his head slowly, his nose barely brushing against your jaw as you found those ever familiar baby blues of his.

“I think I have some idea,” he whispered with a short grin.

And you kissed him again.

TAGGING:

@chaosandbubbles @obsessedwithtoomanythings @navstuffs

[anonymouspuzzler]

here's that other AU I've put way more into - the "Uncle Cally AU", where Cal was instead taken in by one Aquato Family Circus! This one is admittedly the brainchild of @friendlyfrankenstein, I just happened to take the ball and run... and run... and run.......

don't think this doodle dump is the start and end, though! There's a lot more coming up in the queue soon...

(alt text/image IDs under the cut!)

[Image 1 ID: A character design sheet for "Caligosto Aquato", an alternate version of Loboto who joined the Loboto Family Circus. He is wearing goggles similar to Raz's and has a full head of hair, with shaggy bangs and a light green kerchief patterned with yellow flowers. He has on a high-collared shawl cape with several safety pins and patches, over a navy-blue and white-striped Aquato family unitard and brown, puffy short-shorts with a deep red cummerbund. There are two patches on the torso of his unitard. His right arm has an elbow-length brown sleeve on his forearm with several patches and safety pins, while the left hand just has a red band around his wrist. He is wearing navy blue fingerless gloves on both hands, as well as knee-high, laced navy blue boots. There is a small knee guard on his left knee, while his left thing has a scrap of fabric tied around it, the same color and pattern as his kerchief. A detail shot shows him pushing up his goggles, revealing his green-and-red heterochromia and dark circles around his eyes. Off to the side is a design for his "Doctor Loboto" guise, wearing a simple surgical mask that covers his face, his canon-compliant shower cap, an oversized powder-blue button up, a apron over that with complex buckles in the back similar to canon, greenish surgical gloves, and the same blue boots as his "circus" design.]

[Image 2 ID: A rough sketch design for Cally's caravan. It is shaped like a carriage, with a swooped roof with a decorated lantern hanging off of it. There is a big window in the back, posters taped to the sides, and a hatch on the roof on the other side through which Cally is peeking out. There is an accordion-shaped, slightly curving tower emerging from the curved part of the roof, with a pipe weaving through and emitting a small cloud of smoke where it ends. The top of the "tower" has another, smaller window, in which Raz can be seen reading a comic and peeking outside. There is another, smaller lantern dangling from the tower, as well as what looks like a radio antennae at the very top.]

[Image 3 ID: A traditional ink doodle-page with various sketches of Loboto and other Psychonauts characters. At the center is a drawing of Uncle Cally and Augustus standing side by side. Cally is wearing large earrings and a shawl with a hood, a puffy-sleeved blouse, fabric tied around his waist like a skirt, and his usual striped tights and heeled boots. Augustus has a shawl wrapped around his neck and shoulders like a scarf, is wearing a baggy shirt with large, dangling sleeves, has a sash tied around his waist like a belt, and has his usual shorts, striped tights and boots.]

[Image 4-5 IDs: Various rough gestural sketches of Cally doing stretches, contortions and circus tricks. The first image is done digitally, while the second is traditional pen on a lavender post-it note. In one of the digital poses, a sketchy Raz can be seen balancing on top of one of Cally's feet.]

[Image 6 ID: A single-panel comic of a younger Cally and Augustus stretching. Cally is leaning against a wall with one hand, grabbing the ankle of his bent leg with the other, grinning and saying, "So is 'mooning over letters from Donatella' going in the act or something". Augustus, next to him in a deep lunge, holding a paper in one hand, blushing and glaring, retorts "Don't get on my case just because *you* don't like girls." Cally replies in turn, "You're just jealous the new strongman asked me out first".]

[Image 7 ID: A sketchy five-panel comic of Cally and the Aquato kids. In the first panel, Cally is squatting to secure a pulley on the ground, looking over at a young Raz in his circus outfit, who is staring at him. In the second, Mirtala runs by as he picks up his tools, tripping on a rock, causing a frantic Cally to catch her with a telekinetic hand; while he does, Raz is tugging on his arm, trying to get his attention. In the next panel he is bent over to pick up Mirtala, providing an opening for Frazie to spring up onto his shoulders, while Raz hangs around his legs yelling. In the next panel, Frazie is hanging off his back, sticking her tongue out at Raz, who climbs up Cally's leg pointing and shouting at Frazie, all while Mirtala fidgets in Cally's hold and Dion, shouting and holding a crying baby Queepie at arm's length, appears to the side. Cally, looking overwhelmed, screams "AUGUSTUS". The final panel shows Cally handing Mirtala over to an exhausted-looking Donatella, shouting "STOP HAVING KIDS". Augustus, standing next to Donna holding a sleeping Queepie in his arms, grins cheekily and retorts "But they're just so much fun to make".]

[Image 8 ID: A single-panel comic of Donatella and Cally. Cally is grinning, holding a terrified child upside-down by the ankles, using telekinesis to hold his arms and head in place, money falling to the ground out of his pockets. Donatella is in front of the kid, pointing and shouting, "YOU TRY TO SNEAK IN FREE, LITTLE PUNK?? THINK IT'S FUNNY DESTROYING SMALL FAMILY CIRCUS?! THAT YOU WILL ESCAPE CONSEQUENCES??" Augustus, in the background, looks on in horror.]

[Image 9 ID: Cally in the far foreground, motion-blurred and looking utterly terrified, running from Donatella in the background, who has skidded into frame in a wide stance, eyes glowing red.]

[Image 10-12 IDs: A three-panel comic of Cally, Oleander, and the Aquatos. Cally and Oleander are sitting side-by-side on a log, working on a rope-and-pulley system. Mirtala and Frazie walk in from the right side of the screen, Mirtala looking delighted and shouting, "It's Uncle Oly!! Uncle Oly's visiting!!" Oleander looks mildly surprised, while Cally looks extremely flustered. In the next panel, he catches Mirtala by the head with one hand, saying, "Woah woah *woah*-- Tala. Who told you to call him that??" Frazie, walking past behind him with a smug grin, responds, "Mom said we might as well get used to saying it sooner rather than later." In the last panel, a blushing and furious Cally says "Did she now," as he whirls around to look at Donatella, who looks incredibly smug as she stands with Queepie dangling from her hands by his arms. Off to the side, Oleander looks down in flustered confusion as Mirtala holds her arms up and shouts "UNCLE OLY UNCLE OLY WATCH MY NEW TRICK".]

[Image 13 ID: A drawing of Raz, Augustus, and Cally in the postgame of Psychonauts 2, at the cliff by the falls. Augustus is standing, staring out at the falls, with a hand on the back of Raz at his left, staring slightly up at him, and Cally to his right, sitting with his legs crossed, one arm propping him up, and the other up around his brother's back.]

[missfishersmurderpolls]

Phryne fashion tournament: looks one to eight

All credit for research on these wonderful costumes goes to @phrynefishersfrocks.

All caps from here.

Looks nine to sixteen available here.

1. Gold sequin gown (Framed for Murder)

[Image ID 1: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from the waist up wearing a gold sequined dress in her home. The dress has a wide neck with diamond ornementation. She has accessorised with a gold headpiece in a leaf design and dangly gold earrings. She holds a drink with an orange slice in her left hand. /End ID]

[Image ID 2: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from behind talking to some smartly dressed men in her parlour. Her gold sequin dress has a low, scooped back and her upper back is highlighted by three delicate gold chains strung across it. /End ID]

Our first look of the tournament is Phryne's gold sequin dress from Framed For Murder's dinner party scenes. It has a wide neckline, the low back scoop accented by three gold across her bare upper back.

2. Duster with hat and red patterned scarf (Death on the Vine)

[Image ID 3: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phrne is shown from the knees up standing in front of a horse and cart. She wears a cream duster, matching white hat, red blouse, brown skirt and a red scarf with an autumnal floral pattern. /End ID]

[Image ID 4: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Wider shot from the same scene as the previous image. Phryne's brown aviator boots are now also visible. /End ID]

Phryne's classic duster car coat and matching hat make an appearance in look number two. From Death on the Vine, they're matched with a red, autumnal patterned scarf and her aviator boots.

3. B&E beret and grey tweed coat (Dead Air)

[Image ID 5: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is in an old-fashioned radio studio, wearing a grey tweed coat with white panels, a black blouse, black gloves and a black beret. She has a black and white brooch on the coat lapel. /End ID]

[Image ID 6: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. A close up of Phryne wearing the same grey tweed coat and black beret from the previous image. /End ID]

Our third look is from the climax of Dead Air - Phryne's grey tweed coat with white panels worn over an all-black look and paired with her break and enter beret. It's a classic look, the beret and the coat appearing together previously in Raisins and Almonds. This time she's accessorised with a black and white brooch.

4. Green waltz dress (Death at the Grand)

[Image ID 7: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne stands inside an open doorway, buildings across the street out of focus through the doorway behind her. She wears a green dress and matching shawl. /End ID]

[Image ID 8: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne and Jack waltz in an empty ballroom. He wears a blue suit and brown shoes. She wears a the same green dress as in the previous image. Also clear from this angle are her gold shoes and headpiece. /End ID]

Look number four is Phryne's beautifully cut dress from the waltz scene in season three's Death at the Grand. The sutble pattern on the fabric is offset by simple details like the cord at the neckline and the clasp at the hip. She has a matching shawl but discards this to get down to risky business.

5. Sequin swing coat with black fur trim and B&E beret (Murder a la Mode)

[Image ID 9: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne stands examining an old fashioned camera. She wears a black beret, a black coat with a green and pink sequin pattern and black fur trim and black gloves. /End ID]

[Image ID 10: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from the waist up in front of a beige wall, wearing the same coat and beret as in the previous image. /End ID]

For look five, Phryne wears this wonderful sequined coat with a flower pattern and black fur trim. Seen when investigating at the House of Fleuri, she's paired it a black camisole and the ever reliable break & enter beret.

6. Silver patterned dressing gown (various episodes)

[Image ID 11: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne sits on bed beside Dot looking at a photograph held up in her hand. She wears a silver kimono with black pattern. /End ID]

[Image ID 12: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from behind sat on her bed wearing her silver and black kimono while kissing Lin Chung. /End ID]

Look number six is Phryne's silver kimono, the first but not last of her lovely robes to feature in our tournament. This one appears in several episodes, starting with season one's The Green Mill Murder. The silvery white fabric has a black floral pattern. The deep v neck at the back is accented by amber crystals.

7. Lilac damask dress and gold shawl (Queen of the Flowers)

[Image ID 13: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from the waist up standing outside. Tree leaves and a window are out of focus in the background. Phryne wears a lilac dress with a low neck and metallic pattern, accessorised with a gold shawl, gold bracelet and gold leaf design headpiece. /End ID]

[Image ID 14: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown full length from behind in an open doorway. She wears an ankle lenght lilac dress with a flared hem, a gold shawl, gold heels, and carries a gold handbag. /End ID]

Phryne's lovely gold and lilac look from the end of Queen of the Flowers is look number seven. Her long shawl is complemented by gold accessories.

8. Santa ski look (Murder Under the Mistletoe)

[Image ID 15: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is outside in a snowy landscape with a house and trees in the background. She wears a red coat with fluffy white trim at the collar, base and cuffs; a white scarf; a fluffy white hat; and red gloves. She is pointing at something offscreen. /End ID]

[Image ID 16: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. A closer angle shot showing Phryne outside in a snowy landscape with trees in the background. She wears the same outfit as in the previous picture, less the scarf. /End ID]

Look eight is Phryne's santa-esque outdoor wear from Murder Under the Mistletoe. An abundance of white fur, even with a matching hipflask bag. What's not to love?

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

🎵 Disco Elysium, Pt. 2

FELD LADDER - The rusty ladder leads to the rooftop.

3. [Savoir Faire - Challenging 12] Teleport to the roof.

+2 Saw Tiago climbing. +1 Remote Viewer bonus!

SAVOIR FAIRE [Challenging: Success] - All you need to do is close your eyes and concentrate. Darkness *enfolds* you. You can *feel* the distance between the bench and the first rung of the ladder. All you need to is...

Do it.

SAVOIR FAIRE - *ZOOT*! *ZAP*! *POW*! *CRINKLE*! It's like magic, you feel yourself disappear, your atoms fading out of existence...

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "Oh my god! I can't believe it!"

SAVOIR FAIRE - *BAM*! You find yourself on the roof... having mastered the art of physical displacement.

"I did it, Kim! I teleported!"

Don't gloat. Just stand there like a Samaran master.

KIM KITSURAGI - "I just *saw* you climb the ladder," the lieutenant shouts from below. "You just climbed it, like a regular person."

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Easy: Success] - The wind at the top of the building starts howling loudly, blowing away the lieutenant's voice... faintly you hear...

KIM KITSURAGI - "Never mind... find a way to let me in when you get inside! Don't go adventuring without backup, especially if we think the suspect may be hiding here."

The central support beam has been destroyed by artillery fire.

POSTCARD "MARTINAISE '98"

A faded picture postcard from the end of the last century shows Martinaise as was before the Revolution. It's the height of summer, Rue de Saint-Ghislaine is teeming with parasol-wielding bourgeoisie and Wild Pines flags buttress the walkway. Nothing is written on the back.

The glass is covered with grime and dust. You can barely see out.

Further down...

🎵 We Are Not Checkmated

You should take out your flashlight...

This collapse nearly sealed the basement. One can barely squeeze by.

Antiquated office furniture. Last century, maybe?

Brought down and forgotten, so long ago...

This overturned table is covered in orange mildew. Crawling with something...

Old file folders in the cart, documents silvery with mould.

A series of thick, dusty, panes of glass.

INTERISOLARY SUIT JACKET

+1 Suggestion: Dressed for the occassion

A muted brown suit jacket perfect for a day at the office or an evening at a cafe. The red rose at the bottom of the left breast pocket is slowly wilting.

Now we can *fully* dress like a Moralist official, I guess.

DOOR - Two rusty metal plates that slide apart form a crude door. It's been here under the boardwalk for a while.

"Who's there?"

Push the doors open.

Ignore the door. [Leave.]

KIM KITSURAGI - "What do you mean 'who's there'? It's me, Kim. Stop playing around and help me get this door open."

3. Ignore the door. [Leave.]

KIM KITSURAGI - "Officer? Are you okay in there?"

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - You really ought to open this door. It's dangerous to go ahead alone.

Ok, fine.

2. Push the doors open.

DOOR - The doors seem to be on rails, but they've gotten jammed. You grab a side and put some strength into prying it open. With the help of your partner the two metal panels slide open with a *creak*.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Huh, I hope no one *dangerous* heard that."

"You ready?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Yes. Time to investigate these passages. Let's move quietly and not make more sound."

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] - Not *running* is a great way to do that.

Ok. Welcome to the beginning of the endgame.

In the beam of the flashlight -- a crevice in the wall...

Stale fabric smell and dust. No one's slept here in months, maybe years.

These pots and plates are full of dust and spider-webs.

Revolutionary propaganda on the bunk bed: ancient flyers and brochures.

REVOLUTIONARY'S HAT

+1 to Mazovian Socio-Economics: Friendly neighbourhood communard

An *ushanka* with the mazovian logo -- a pair of deer antlers -- on its silvery-white front. Your ears feel cuddled and cared for by the state.

KRAS MAZOV PORTRAIT - A moustachioed and mutton-chopped man, amateurishly depicted, gazes at you with sad eyes. A plaque reads: "K. Mazov." There is a spider web in the lower left corner of the portrait.

Brush the dust off the portrait.

"Look, Kim! It's Comrade Mazov!"

[Leave.]

KRAS MAZOV PORTRAIT - Years' worth of dust is shaken off. The full head of hair, matched by an ample moustache and sideburns, look a bit silly.

SHIVERS [Medium: Success] - Someone crouches, heels digging into wet sand. Hands sweep across the sand, grains sticking to the frayed skin of the fingertips. An old man sits on a slab of concrete and taps his fingers against the glass of a scope... you shudder.

2. "Look, Kim! It's Comrade Mazov!"

+1 Communism

KIM KITSURAGI - "Yes, I can see that. Looks like some communists were hiding out here. They left a long time ago."

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - The lieutenant does not seem to share your enthusiasm.

"A long time ago? How long?"

"What's with all these secret weapons caches and secret bunkers?"

"Maybe I should move in here. Seems cozy."

"Could it be connected to the Mazov bust we found in the student's room?"

"Could someone have stopped through here recently?" (Conclude.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "Half a century? This was probably part of the network of defence posts the communards built against the amphibious landing." He looks around.

"I think the purpose of this bunker was to produce propaganda. It would have had radio equipment back then, but that's all been looted."

2. "What's with all these secret weapons caches and secret bunkers?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "We have found a lot of those lately... I guess what most people think of as *history* tends to linger in run-down neighbourhoods. Martinaise being what it is, no one has gone through the trouble of cleaning out the old bunkers."

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] - A good hiding place for someone who's up to no good.

3. "Maybe I should move in here. Seems cozy."

KIM KITSURAGI - "I won't stand in your way -- but only after we're through with this case."

4. "Could it be connected to the Mazov bust we found in the student's room?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Millions of depictions of Mazov have been produced. They're not all connected -- besides, that looked like some student. The youths always go for this kind of stuff..."

5. "Could someone have stopped through here recently?" (Conclude.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "You mean, like Ruby? No. I think we've stumbled on a piece of history." He looks at the dust.

+5 XP

3. [Leave.]

The same slit window you saw from the outside.

VISUAL CALCULUS - Could this have been the killer's hideout, and this narrow window -- the point of origin of the shot that killed the mercenary?

HAND/EYE COORDINATION [Medium: Success] - This does look like an *embrasure*, a slit made for shooting out of.

Peek out.

VISUAL CALCULUS - Outside the window -- another day. The beach sand soaks up the drizzling rain, growing darker and darker.

(Turn to Kim.) "Could the killer have used this as a hideout?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "It's a great place to hide, and Mazovianism and murder are certainly not mutually exclusive. But there hasn't been anyone here in ages.""

2. "Kim, I can't see the Whirling-in-Rags… The shot didn't come from here." (Conclude.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "Indeed. No one could get a clear view. Well, at least we've been thorough. I like thorough."

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] - The lieutenant's voice betrays a slight disappointment, which he glosses over by reasserting control.

Ok, we've now eliminated two of the possible locations the shot came from. A 5% likelihood that the shot came from the island remains.

KIM KITSURAGI - "In fact -- I think we're done with this bunker." He looks to the exit. "After you, officer."

Boot prints in the sand. One of the soles appears more worn than the other.

The Odd Sole!

...and I've hit image limit for this post. I think we'll keep going for a little longer, so I'll start a new one.

[beybladeninja]

I was surprised at how much good reception my Ninjago x Across the Spider Verse crossover fic received, so I decided to make a sequel! And maybe even more, depending on how my brain decides to work on this.

Enjoy part 2!

—————

He feels warm. He feels comfortable. He feels safe.

Miles can’t remember the last time he felt this secure. Even from before he became Spider Man, Brooklyn was never 100% safe. He remembered a few times in his childhood when he woke up to gunshots happening in the streets just outside his window. After he donned the mask, the paranoia only got worse. He always went to bed terrified that he would wake up with one of his arch nemeses pointing a gun or a claw at either his head or his parents.

I guess I’ve never really felt safe, He realized as he snuggled deeper into the soft surface. It’s nice.

Then he turned over on his side and a sharp pain in his shoulder rudely pulled him out of his secure bliss.

He abruptly sat up with a hiss and grabbed for the joint, massaging it until the discomfort subsided. As his senses started to wake up along with his body, he realized that he was feeling something rough beneath his fingertips. It stung, but he gradually opened his eyes to investigate. He took in the blurry sight of his shoulder wrapped in something white, and as his vision cleared, he realized it was a wad of bandages. Not only that, but he dimly noticed that the hand that was rubbing the wad was its normal brown skin color instead of the red and black fabric of his suit. Looking down, he realized that his other hand was also uncovered; the elusive gloves were discovered on a nearby bedside table. Other than that, upon inspection beneath his sheets, the entirety of his Spider Man suit was still attached to his body.

Even his web-slingers were still on his wrists. Whoever had removed his gloves probably thought they were weird pieces of jewelry or something.

After locating his missing clothing pieces, Miles’s gaze started to wander. He found that he was in a small room mostly made of wood, with walls and flooring that almost looked like canvas. The space was lit by morning light from a large window with dark wood panels. Peering outside, Miles found the reason for why he felt so safe:

There were no buildings. Therefore, there was no noise.

All he saw was endless sky.

Miles shrank back from the window and pressed himself further into the admittedly soft mattress, digging his uncovered hand into his hair. “Where am I… how did I get here?” He asked himself softly. He shook his head, trying to recall what had happened to him the night before. He remembered running from his alternate self and Uncle Aaron. He remembered finding a random open portal and diving through it. He remembered emerging on the other side to a world that was still far from the one he had grown up in. He remembered finding a quiet spot on a building where he could sit and think about how his luck had run out.

He remembered the stranger dressed in green.

He remembered being offered a soda that tasted like burnt cherries.

He remembered pouring out his troubles to the stranger, then crying on his shoulder while he held him.

He remembered the stranger telling him that his name was Lloyd Garmadon.

And he also remembered Lloyd telling him that he could help.

He couldn’t recall anything that happened afterwards, though. It was all a black blur. Did I pass out after that? He wondered. That guy said he was a teacher… is this the school he teaches at?

If it was a school, it was a pretty quiet one. Try as he might, he couldn’t hear a single blip of noise from outside or inside the building. It was a nice break from the usual hustle and bustle of Brooklyn, but the silence was quickly turning from peaceful to unsettling.

Regardless of the silence, his Spider Sense was going crazy. Even though he couldn’t hear anything, there were definitely people moving around inside the building. He didn’t know if it was the design of the place that kept sound from reaching him or if they were deliberately trying to be quiet, but either way, it only served to put him on edge. Why are they being so quiet?

His Spider Sense started heightening to a fever pitch. Someone was approaching the door to his room, still somehow without making any noise. Panic started to creep in as the feeling kept growing until he was certain that the person was right outside his door. Lloyd seemed nice, but how many people in this place are like him? He started to bring up a wrist in order to defend himself if need be, his gaze never leaving the doorway. Friend or foe…

The silence was finally broken by the soft sound of the door being slid open. A head slowly poked itself into the room and took a cautious look around. Upon catching sight of him sitting upright in bed, the face broke into a wide smile. “You’re awake!” The person exclaimed.

Before Miles could blink, this newcomer was suddenly right at his bedside, still talking animatedly. “I just came down to check on you, but I didn’t know that you were actually awake - good morning! How ya feeling? This is so exciting - I’ve never met someone from outside of Ninjago before! Well, technically that’s not true, I have. But from what Lloyd tells us, you’re from much farther than any of us have been! I have so many questions - what languages are spoken in your realm? What kinds of food do you have? What’s the weather like? What do the animals look like - are they weird? Is day day and night night where you’re from, or is it the other way around?”

When the new stranger paused for breath, Miles took the opportunity to break in with a weak “Um… hi?”

The stranger blinked before chuckling, bringing a hand up to scratch his neck sheepishly. “Sorry… guess I got a little carried away, huh? Let’s start over.” His hand came down and in front of him in an attempt at a handshake. “Hiiii - I’m Arin!” He explained cheerfully. “And you are?”

Before answering, Miles took in his enthusiastic new fan. He was around the same age as Miles. He had brown skin about a shade or two darker than Miles’ own. He also had a similar style of hair, though his was slightly less sculpted, with curled locks falling over his forehead and ears. He wore a bright orange hoodie with a slightly darker fabric covering his right arm, with a metallic shoulder guard cresting his right shoulder. The front boasted a kickass dragon design with a fanged mouth and bared claws, reaching towards a stylized white X.

But it was his name that took Miles off guard. Arin… one couldn’t tell how it was spelled just by hearing it out loud, but it sounded too close to his uncle’s name. Hearing the name caused some painful memories to resurface - memories he thought he’d pushed down in the months after Uncle Aaron’s death. For a second, he was even sure that he saw his uncle’s face in front of him.

The illusion soon broke, though. This new Arin was still staring at him expectantly, shaking his hand slightly as if he thought Miles had forgotten it was there. He blanched and gave his head a mental smack. This guy isn’t Uncle Aaron - doesn’t even look like him! Get a hold of yourself, man! He finally reached out and took the proffered hand. “I’m Miles.”

“Nice to meet ya, Miles!” Arin told him brightly, shaking his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “Lloyd told us that we had a guest who’d recently been through a tumble, but he wouldn’t tell us anything more.” His gaze landed on Miles’ wrapped shoulder and his eyes widened. “Wow… I guess he wasn’t kidding about the tumble part, huh? How are you feeling?”

Miles rubbed his shoulder again and grimaced. “A little sore,” He admitted.

“I know what that feels like,” Arin agreed, nodding knowingly. He leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Do you know what always makes me feel better when I’m sore?”

“Painkillers?” Miles guessed. He could really use a few at the moment.

“Pie!” Arin said instead. It was then that Miles noticed that he hadn’t come into his room empty handed. A porcelain plate had been his partner in crime, which he now held up in triumph. On top was a single slice of pie, the crust a golden brown and the filling an interesting array of colors, alternating between cheery yellow, warm brown, and meaty orange.

It smelled heavenly, but Miles blinked at the offering. “…That’s laced with painkillers?” He added to Arin’s statement, half expecting the whole thing to be a joke.

Arin lowered the plate and looked at Miles as if he’d suddenly sprouted two heads. “No! That’s called ‘spiking’!” One of his hands left the plate to position itself against his chest, giving him an air of self-importance. “I will have you know, I am a well-respected baker in these parts - I would never endanger my reputation by deigning to spike one of my pies!”

Miles put up both of his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I kid!” He claimed. Whatever he’d meant to do by coming to this place, it wasn’t making enemies with the very first person he met. Though that does seem to be becoming a trend with me…

Luckily for him, Arin’s smile returned. “So do I,” He revealed slyly. He gently set the plate down on Miles’s covered lap and procured a silver fork from seemingly out of nowhere. “You know, you’re actually came here on a pretty good day,” He went on to explain, placing the fork next to the slice of intriguing pie. “This is my famous Breakfast Pie - I only make it when I have enough energy to get up early in the morning. Which, trust me, around here…” He set a hand on the bedsheets and leaned towards Miles with a dead serious look in his eye. “Is very rare.”

He then stepped back and stared at Miles expectantly. Getting the feeling that he was supposed to start eating the pie, and finding himself unwilling to make yet another enemy in his trip across the multiverse, he readily picked up the fork. The silver points pierced the golden crust, separating a small amount from the rest of the pie. With Arin looking on, he brought the utensil to his mouth and took a cautious bite.

Immediately, his tastebuds came alive with flavor. “Oh my god - what is in this thing?” He asked Arin as he started shoveling forkful after forkful of the divine pastry between his teeth. He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until he’d actually put food into his mouth, but now that he’d acknowledged it, he couldn’t stop eating.

“Breakfast!” Arin claimed simply; seeing that his dish was an instant hit, his smile grew even wider until Miles was sure his face would split in half. “I filled it with eggs, sausage, cheese, bacon… oh! And I made the crust using pancake batter!”

The pie was gone in five seconds, allowing Miles to give Arin his full attention. “Impressive! Those things are delicious on their own, but I never would have thought to put them all in a pie.”

“That’s Arin for ya,” A familiar voice came from the still open doorway. Both heads swiveled to find a young man with blonde hair and green eyes standing there, the features glinting almost ethereally in the light from the window. Miles realized that it was the stranger he had met the previous night, Lloyd. Only instead of the baggy hoodie and sweatpants from before he was wearing an ensemble that kind of looked like a green gi from a stylish karate dojo, complete with similar green armor. And unlike his previous appearance, his current apparel showed off a more fit physique.

“Lloyd!” Both boys exclaimed in surprise. “So… martial arts teacher, huh?” Miles asked him, nodding to his outfit.

“You better believe it,” Lloyd confirmed with a sly wink. He walked fully into the room and playfully ruffled Arin’s already messy Afro. “I see you’ve met Arin. He’s our on-site baker, and a pretty good one at that. Give him an ingredient, and he’ll find some way to bake it into a pie.”

“It’s true!” The student in orange agreed enthusiastically, sounding eager to prove his skills. He looked to Miles imploringly. “Go on - give me an ingredient!”

“Oh - uhm…” Miles floundered upon being put on the spot. He searched his pathetically empty brain for a baking ingredient and spat out the first thing that came to mind: “Blueberry?”

Arin pushed air through his lips in a condescending pshaw. “Please - child’s play,” He boasted, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “Cinnamon crust, add a little lemon juice to the filling, and the blueberries sing like a sweet songbird. Come on - give me a hard one!”

“We don’t have to do this now,” Lloyd tried to protest gently, but Miles cut him off.

“Nah man, I want to see how far we can take this,” He told the blonde teacher. He set the empty plate on the bedside table and sat up more comfortably in the bed before turning back to Arin. “Apple?”

“Cinnamon all the way, with a slight splash of orange juice to bring out the citrus flavors!” Arin proclaimed confidently, a pointer finger high in the air. “I told you to give me a hard one!”

“Grape?”

“Mix it with sugar and you essentially got a jelly pie!”

“Rhubarb?”

“Same as with the grapes - dunk them in sugar to counterbalance the sourness!”

“Celery?”

“Kind of unconventional, but you can mix cubes of it with peanut butter and raisins to make a kind of ‘Ants on a Log’ style pie!”

“Meat?”

“What kind?”

“Okay! Can we stop this now, please?” Lloyd butted in, placing his hands between the two like a referee. He shot Miles an accusatory glare. “Before Miles here gives you an ingredient that absolutely should not go in a pie?”

Miles snorted and sat back on his hands. “Oh please - I wasn’t going to say anything bad, exactly,” He claimed with a smirk.

“I’d prefer not to find out, thank you,” Lloyd responded drily.

After that little exchange, the blonde teacher sighed and gestured to the edge of the bed. Miles hadn’t even realized that he’d set down a neat pile of clothes while they had been talking. “Anyway, I’d already been coming to your room to give you a change of clothes when Arin here decided to scream to the Monastery that you were awake.”

“I-I wasn’t screaming!” Arin protested, his dark cheeks turning darker from a self-conscious blush. “I was… loudly announcing. There’s a difference!”

“Yeah, the difference being volume - I could hear you from the laundry room!” Lloyd rebutted with a slight laugh. His attitude took a serious turn as he crossed his arms and looked at his student with a frown. “Anyways, are you sure you should be up and around with that ankle?”

Confused, Miles glanced over the edge of the bed. To his surprise, Arin was barefoot and sporting a bright orange nylon ankle brace over his right foot. While it wasn’t obvious that he was in pain, he was favoring most of his weight on his left. Lloyd did say that one of his students got hurt yesterday, He remembered, looking at Arin in a new light.

“Zane said it was only a minor sprain,” Arin assured him, his smile taking a softer edge. “He cleared me for training, as long as it’s not anything too laborious. Seriously, I’m fine.” To provide further proof, he made a show of rocking back and forth on his heels.

Lloyd looked like he was going to protest again, so Miles decided to speak up on the matter. “It’s only a minor sprain, right? I say let him do what he needs to do.” When two pairs of eyes swiveled to meet him, he shrank back. “I mean… if he’s up to it…”

Arin grinned at him appreciatively before turning back to Lloyd. “See? The new guy gets me!” He claimed, waving in Miles’s direction. “I’m fine, really!” Lloyd’s green eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, to which Arin abruptly jutted a finger in his face. “Uh uh uh! You’re outnumbered, mister - can’t say no this time!”

Lloyd swallowed whatever he was about to say and sighed instead. “Fine, just… take it easy today, okay?” He asked, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “If I hear anything from anyone about you being in pain, I’m putting you on the sidelines until that brace comes off completely. Capisce?”

“Capase, dad!” Arin yelled in exhilaration. Bouncing on the balls of his injured and uninjured feet, he grabbed the empty plate from the bedside table and made to exit. Before he did, he turned and gave Miles a grateful bow. “Thank you for helping me plead my case, new guy!” He said cheerfully. He then rushed out the open doorway and rushed down the hall, yelling “HEY GUYS - LLOYD SAID I’M GOOD FOR PRACTICE! AND NO, I AM NOT KIDDING!”

Lloyd watched him go with an expression of fondness. “So, you’ve met one of my students,” He noted briskly. “First impression of my work environment?”

Miles snickered, absently wiping a few stray crumbs from his suit. “If all of your students are like Arin, I think your allies are very lucky, and your enemies are in for an earful if they ever manage to capture him,” He admitted.

Lloyd laughed out loud, making Miles jump. “I’m sure they are, but I doubt they’ll ever catch him,” He said, sounding totally convinced. “Arin’s too good.”

“Sounds impressive,” Miles complimented. He waited a few seconds before addressing the elephant in the room: “So Lloyd… what exactly happened last night?”

Lloyd gave him a surprised side-eye. “You don’t remember anything?” He asked.

“I remember everything up until the point where you…” He trailed off, suddenly aware of how embarrassing what he was about to say was. “Hugged me.”

Lloyd stared at him a few seconds before smirking. “What, embarrassed to say that a complete stranger offered you support in your darkest moments?”

“I-I’m not saying that…” Miles stuttered, digging his fingers into the sheets around him.

Fortunately for him, Lloyd seemed to be as resilient to inadvertent insults as his student, as he laughed once more. “Ah, don’t worry - I’d be a little weirded out too if I was hugged by someone I didn’t know.” He leaned over and pressed his fingers against the bandages on Miles’s shoulder, inspecting it. “Well, after our little heart-to-heart, you kind of passed out on me, so I had to carry you back here to get you checked out. Our medical professional looked you over, and other than a slight concussion and a few scratches on your shoulder, nothing too serious. Though he did bandage you up just to make sure nothing reopens.

“Sorry I put my hands on you without your consent,” Lloyd said jokingly, holding both his hands up in mock surrender as he stepped away from the bandages. “But I had to make sure you were out of danger. Don’t worry.” He spread his arms and gestured to the building around them. “The Monastery of Spinjitzu is about as safest as you can get in these parts.”

“Monastery of… what?” Miles questioned. He was familiar with a few martial arts, but he’d never heard of… what was it again? Spin-jit-zu?

Lloyd laughed again, though not unkindly. “Boy do we have a lot to show you,” He mused.

It was meant in good-nature, though it only served to remind Miles that he might be here for a lot longer than he wanted to be. “So uh… Lloyd… before I passed out…” He began slowly, trying to bring up his case in a way that didn’t seem ungrateful. “I remembered you saying that… you could… you know…”

“Help you?” The blonde teacher finished. When Miles nodded, he gave one in return. “Yup, already on it - our tech experts are trying to find a way to get you home as we speak.”

Good news, but the vision he’d seen of the Spot killing his father echoed in his mind, reminding him what was at stake if he didn’t get home soon. “D-do… do you think they could, um… speed run the process?”

Lloyd looked at him a little more seriously. “It’s a delicate process, so I don’t know how much quicker they can run it,” He informed him. “Any particular reason?”

The vision flashed across his vision once more, making him flinch. “Let’s just say that something really bad will happen if I don’t get home.”

Lloyd stared at him for a second longer before sighing. “I’ll check in with them and see what they can do,” He promised. A finger reached out and tapped the pile of clothes he’d left on the bed. “In the meantime, you can change into these and come meet the others. They’ve been dying to meet you.” With that, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

Miles was about to protest that he didn’t need to change clothes, but he raised his arm to his nose to check and nearly took a longer nap. He’d been running around so much, he hadn’t realized how dirty his suit was getting. Now thankful for the clothing change, he reached for the pile and pulled it over to him.

Well, I woke up this morning in a different dimension… maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up back home.

[werdlewrites]

masterlist - ao3 - twitter @ djomamma

summary: warnings: Mentions of abuse, drug use. wc: 2,840

The sun was beginning to set by the time the pair arrived at the trailer park. Heather would cast a glance towards the girl in the driver's seat, anticipating a look of judgment but nothing ever comes. Autumn merely squints and presses herself forward for a better view through the night. The tall lights flickering and providing little to no help through the shadows. She seeks guidance from the passenger, who directs her along the path until they arrive at their destination. At the rear end of the Jeep, Heather pulls her bike from the trunk and wheels it up to the porch, where it lays without chains.

“Welcome to the Hunter abode,” she speaks in a drawl, keys jingling in her free hand as she fumbles with the lock. She mumbles in annoyance. Confessing the key always manages to get stuck, so she has to wiggle it around until there’s a seamless fit. There’s almost a relieved sigh as all falls open - welcoming the two girls into the cozy, dimly lit home. Wood paneling hides behind framed photos and patterned curtains, the light from the television flickering across every surface. It holds a familiar feeling; like a home. Old cigarette smoke pouring out from the fabric, the smell of fried food working hard to disguise it.

“Give me a second, okay? I’ve got t’get this t’my mom.” The other girl gestures down to the brown paper bag, grease darkening a few scattered spots at the bottom. In a matter of seconds, she’s gone. Moving into the small kitchen and down the empty hallway, calling out for her mother who replies in delight at her daughter's return. Their conversation is buried between the walls that separate them—incoherent words paired with a few sudden fits of laughter.

Jealousy stares back at Autumn through reflections in the glass. An ugly thing that mocks and stews in misery. It points a finger and reminds you of what you no longer have, and if it would ever be that way again. She finds herself loosely trailing after her friend, lazy steps carrying her towards the canary yellow fridge decorated in magnets and polaroids. Some hold people she cannot recognize.

Grandparents, unknown family members, or strangers as they linger in the background. Others are all too familiar. A group of boys with wild outfits and wide smiles, or the many versions of Heather as she grew into who she was today. Pictures of her and what she believes to be her mother out at the beach, bucket and shovels in hand. Pictures of Christmas morning and Halloween night, or something a little more recent as they stand in front of a moving truck.

That jealousy begins to simmer out into nothing. Its haunting face is now stoic without harmful words spewed. It drinks in the unknown world of Heather Hunter, finding similarity in ways no one should. Heather is almost breathless when she reappears, face red from smiling for too long, not once faltering as she finds the girl's focus locked on a particular picture. “I know what you’re thinking,” she begins, finally catching Autumn’s attention. “What went wrong?”

The girl snorts, shaking her head in disagreement. It’s nowhere near close - but the thought brings a feeling of guilt. Yet still, it falls off of her tongue. “Has it always been you and your mom?”

She’s hardly phased, blowing a raspberry at first as her body shifts. It had become clear Autumn wasn’t the first to ask. “Nah. Dad’s out there, somewhere. Doin’ what he does best. Being an absolute piece of shit.” Her arms are crossed, her side resting just against the chilled surface as she waits in anticipation for a response. But her friend is left speechless, lips parted as if wanting to speak but unsure of what to say. Heather opts to fill the emptiness. “Mom and I had t’leave him. It just wasn’t safe.”

It’s all so casual. She even spares the shrug of a shoulder as if she hadn’t spent years of her life in physical and mental anguish. As if he never bruised her skin or broke glass at her mother's feet. Jealousy had shifted into something sorrowful. Reaching out to console another wounded bird, though she hardly seems unable to fly. She stands tall with wings at the ready, taking flight off into the freedom she had fought hard for. No more bars to cage in something once delicate, now a force to be reckoned with.

Something in the distance steals away their attention, eyes shifting to the concealed window as heavy equipment moves past, gears squeaking and pipes rattling from within. Autumn chances a look as she leans across the sink, prying back the short curtain to watch as a two-toned van comes to a stop not far from them. A dark figure nearly stumbles out, his silhouette recognizable even now. “Is that Eddie?”

The other leans in just at the girl’s side, eyes narrowed to peel back the darkness. Soon, a smile is etched into place. “Sure is.”

“That’s convenient. Being neighbors with your best friend?”

She shrugs, not seeing the importance of her words. “S’how we met. Want t’go say hi?” Autumn can barely register the thought, let alone reply before she’s dragged back the way she came. Heather shouting out to her mom that she would be at “Munson’s.” Along the way, Heather is suddenly struck by an idea as a few lights come to life from within his home. She instructs Autumn to crouch and follow her lead, creeping along the path until they can hear his music bouncing off of the walls. The pair move along the siding, looking all too suspicious. She’s suddenly hyper-aware of neighbors watching as two shadows stalk around his home, phone at the ready to call for police.

“What are we-?” The question is silenced as a hand cups her mouth, a single finger held midair to keep her from speaking.

Slowly, their skin parts and she watches in continued silence as Heather slowly stands before a closed window, the glow from within illuminating a look of pure joy. Without warning, her palm slams against the glass, immediately forcing out a shriek of fear from the boy. “Bitch!” he calls out from within, angered steps carrying him towards the window. “Let us in!” Heather cries out, still wearing a smile of pride.

“Us?” The curtains are pulled back and the window latch is flicked, ring-clad fingers gripping at the edge as he leans out for a better view. “Who is-? Oh,” he pauses, barely taking in the sight of a familiar girl at Heather’s side. “Hey, Reid.”

Heather doesn’t waste another second. Hardly letting Autumn return the gesture as she boldly states, “Put your porn away and open the door. We’ve got a situation.”

A small smile of amusement is seen in the shadows, yet a look of confusion in his eyes as he wasn’t entirely trusting of her words. “Yeah? What kind of situation?”

The bright eyes of Heather look back to the girl, a smile to suggest secrets on her lips. Autumn does nothing but cross her arms in wait, unsure of what was happening. “We’re in desperate need of some fun.”

His fingers tap against the siding, biting at his lower lip to resist mimicking her joyous expression. But he stands back, arms held out in good faith. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Eddie soon hurries off once the window is shut, his frantic steps heard echoing as he races for the front door. Without a word, the two girls follow after, waiting another moment beneath the porch light. Though the time was short, it was enough to tug on Heather’s interest as she spared a curious look at Autumn in suspicion.

The door is swung back, fingers hastily combing through his mess of hair with rings threatening to tangle in the strands. Once settled, his arm is outstretched as an invite, a mocking bow in his posture. “Ladies,” he says dramatically, waiting until they both settle into the warmth of his home. It’s a stark contrast to the Hunter’s. All beige and brown. The only color coming from a collection of mugs and caps from around the world.

“Were you actually hiding your porn?”

He tuts in disapproval, his finger waving in the air. “A gentleman never tells.”

But the girl knows better, turning to face her friend to confess the boy’s secrets. “He’s got about five magazines under th-”

“That’s enough!” Eddie cries out, a large hand moving to clamp over her face. He tucks her back against his chest, now dragging her through the small home and down the hall. All protests are muffled as she stumbles along the way. “C’mon, Reid.” He calls out. “The fun is this way.”

She doesn’t follow in their steps upon his command. She instead lingers, arms tight around her torso as she considers what the fuck she’s agreed to. With a steady intake of breath, she braces for what's to come. She’s in it now, and it would be even more painful to make an excuse and bail. So, with one forced step after another, she inches closer to his bedroom, where Heather cries out in disgust. “Your hand tastes like ass!”

There’s a brief pause between the two. “You know what ass tastes like? Ow!” The punch to his arm is hard enough to hear. A muted ‘thud’ followed by clumsy feet as he works to catch himself. The room is exactly what she imagines, matching his personality, or at least what she knows of it. Posters of familiar bands hang up on the walls, his guitar resting up against the dresser that's cluttered with everyday items. It's careless and free, just like him.

He rubs at the unseen injury, a look of agony on his face until he finds Autumn standing in the doorway. The flip seems to switch, then. A bright smile to light up the room as he gestures out to the small space. “Make yourself at home.” Heather is already making herself comfortable, the desk chair pulled out with legs kicked up onto the mattress. She can see the hesitation in the other, giving a kind smile and nod towards the bed. Autumn does as suggested - first just at the edge out of uncertainty. With further encouragement in the silence, she pulls her legs up to cross over one another, finding easy comfort.

Eddie keeps his back to them, mumbling to himself as he digs through the top drawer. She can hear the crinkle of plastic, his deep eyes studying the contents with care before dropping it all back into the depths. Once he finds what he’s looking for, he turns with a victorious cry. “Ah-ha!” The bag contains numerous, rolled joints. Tape across the surface marked with a date and a specific plant name. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“Fuck yes it is,” Heather replies with a grunt, her body now stretched out to rip the contents from his grip. She pauses once the seam is torn open, eyes cautiously looking back to Autumn who has remained mostly silent. “Unless you don’t want to? We can have sober fun.”

She’s not left in the silence for long. The girl before her is already painfully aware of the ache in her ribcage. A heart turning to heavy stone before it shatters to rubble, unable to withstand the pressure life adds upon it. “I think it’s exactly what I need.” It’s all either two need as they settle down, smoke soon filling the air with every exhale. It’s all casual talk in the beginning, waiting for the high to creep in like a growing shadow. Eddie mentions Dungeons and Dragons, looking at Autumn expectantly from his place on the carpeted floor, body stretched out and relaxed.

“Oh, no, no-” She says in panic, waving away the cloud that spills from her lips. “I’ve got t’much going on t’be playing that.”

The boy’s head falls back in a fit of laughter, his linked feet swaying from side to side in pure bliss. “You say it with such disgust.”

The joint is passed across the way to an eagerly awaiting Heather, a smile on her lips as she watches her two friends dive deeper into a genuine friendship. “It’s not disgust.” Autumn corrects. “Doesn’t that game last, what? Months?”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies, a subtle shrug seen as a shit-eating grin grows. “Or like, years.”

“Years?” she practically shouts, eyes wide with disbelief. Eddie’s form is slowly becoming hazy. The colors around him slowly melting into one another, creating an abstract painting before her eyes. “You’re nuts.”

“Best way t’be.” He retorts. The boy follows after the lit embers, a moth to a flame. His torso is sagged forward, heavy as he carries the universe's weight on his shoulders. The inhale of his chest moves in near slow motion, a stupid look on his face as he surrenders to nature's beauty. Giving himself over to whatever she desired.

The room becomes a chaotic storm. Wild conversations and shouts of delight rebound off of the covered walls. Snacks spilling out onto the floor as heated debates began, with pointed fingers yet joy in their eyes. Laughter was always just around the corner. Even through the swarm of madness, and violent winds ripping the world away - it’s hard to miss the way he gravitates to her. An anchor to keep him steady as the eye of a hurricane tears through his sanctuary. Deep brown eyes linger on her when she’s not paying attention, and hers do the same. It’s painfully obvious even through the fog that threatens to blind them all. Autumn wonders if they even know what’s happening between them.

“Fuck.” Heather suddenly blurts out as an idea strikes her like a bolt of lightning. “D’you bring your cards?”

Autumn shakes her head, an effortless laugh rumbling within her chest. “It’s at home.” It’s the first time in a while that the word doesn’t carry a feeling of sorrow and longing. A feeling of emptiness as she wanders through life without a clear path.

“I wanted you t’scare him again.” His eyes roll dramatically, thinking back to the time he spent cowering away from the girl once she depicted his past and future. All written throughout his flesh.

“That’s not hard.” Autumn retorts, watching the way his focus snaps back at her, clearly offended while the girl at his side wears a look of pride.

“I think she just called you a ‘pussy.’”

A narrowed look aims in her direction, a feigned look of anger and a scowl on his lips. “You’re honestly a terrible friend.”

“I could read palms again. Things can always change.” She offers with a small shrug, watching as their eyes light up with excitement. But they never get that far. Heather had scrambled her way across the small space between them to sit at her friend's side, asking for a demonstration on reading palms and what it all means. She holds her hand out to Autumn, and with a delicate touch, she points to every curve and loop of chains. Heather can barely focus, eyes squinting as she pulls her skin closer, not truly seeing what the other could but playing along out of fascination.

Then, the confidence kicks in. She’s slipped from the bed and down onto the floor, where Eddie waits in silence. Heather is muttering to herself, studying both of his hands before taking favor of his left palm. Given the encouragement she needs, she studies through the haze of her high. At first, the action renders the boy pink in the cheeks. Wide eyes flickering elsewhere to ignore the embarrassment of such an intimate moment put on display. She doesn’t notice, but Autumn does.

Heather’s thumbs push and pull at the skin, looking for something that sparks with light in her mind. Then, a trembling smile comes to the surface, holding secrets hostage as she begins to speak. “I see something.” The pair share a look of wonder, though the girl on the bed remains a little more disbelieving, but doesn’t stomp out his fire as he leans forward with intrigue.

“What? What is it?” She has to bite back her smile before forcing it all to fall flat, keeping on the mask for the sake of the game.

“I see,” Cheeks hollow and without warning, she spits into the dip of his palm. A look of pure horror dances across his expression while she continues to bask in her success. “A pool.”

The metalhead is nearly frozen in place, staring down at the dampened spot in his hand in shock. When she begins to snicker, it's then that he retaliates. The hand is ripped away from her grasp to then smooth its way across her face, nearly tackling the girl as she tries to fend him off. “It's your spit! Take it back, you nasty freak!”

[dannyphantom-sabbath]

Sabbath - Act 01, Part 01: Chapter 01 Sneak Peek

Here is a little sneak peek for any on tumblr that haven't have the chance to read the fic on ao3 ^^

----

Near the fridge, the teen dropped the bag at his feet, ignoring the few pieces of trash that tumbled to the floor as the bag flopped over onto the small tiles of the kitchenette where he'd been standing. Rushing to the sliding door of the back room, he raised his hand to open it, noticing, only then, the clamminess and shakiness of his hand, but he fought to control it, gripping the handle of the panel, and pulling it away to reveal the two inside, and the stench of booze and smoke that followed. 

A bare mattress set on a metal frame, save for the strewn, old comforter that hung from the sides of the bed and onto the floor where dark muck and grime painted the tips that were touching the sagging carpet. It was easy enough to get a gauge of the entire room since the bed seemed to take up most of it, save for little sections of the floor leading the broken closet on the opposite wall from where Dash had entered the room. He already knew right where to look; past all of the trash and old, unopened letters that covered the dresser right beside him, to the television, on the news, as it were, resting on a small end table, he could see him, dark, beady eyes staring in from the dark at the head of the bed. 

Dad...though most people that knew him called him 'Allen'. 

Dash always felt small compared to him, even if he was fairly tall for his age. Though, he figured it probably wouldn't be hard to feel small when comparing himself to the absolute size of the man laying on the bed in-front of him. Even here, from his lower vantage point on the bed, it was easy enough to understand just how large the man was; gigantic, bear-like, hairy arms rested at his sides, each pulsing with veins and dark scars, pinpricks serving as physical reminders of long-term drug usage, though the youth found himself largely trying to ignore them. 

He'd never really liked looking at them; they seemed to hurt.

Beneath the folds of his sleeveless shirt, the garment dotted with old, brown stains Dash couldn't name, and holes from age, a great, large, distended belly rested, perpetually present despite having not eaten yet.

It was hard to miss through the stretched-out the fabric. It only added to his size, granting him a reputation for filling rooms just by simply being there, not that his height wasn't something you could miss. Compared to the teen, the older man had Dash by at least two heads, a massive figure that, when at full standing, the boy had little issue remembering, could look directly down at the youth,  and Dash, to compensate, often found himself staring up to meet his eyes. 

In the simplest sense, the man was bestial, almost apish, in form.

And in most cases, had the brutality to match it. 

----

A random excerpt from the fic, and this is just the first chapter! I'll be dropping little bits from each chapter as I upload them (just thought of doing this), so if you want the full thing, head over to the link I provided here:

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Only Survivor

CW: PTSD, recovery whump, two former whumpees meet, referenced murder

Jameson Masterlist | Death Valley (Finn’s story)

For @amonthofwhump, day 2: Unhappy family reunion

-

"Just hang out in the den for a few minutes, okay?" Nat gestures to the room, but Jameson doesn’t get why she calls it a den at all. It’s just another living room as far as he can tell, only smaller and with warm wood-paneled walls that feel decades out of place

There's a couch, a couple of armchairs, a coffee table with a scattering of books and magazines and a TV hanging off the wall. Some blankets are thrown around, thrift store buys on their sixth or seventh home. Some of them, he thinks, might even have been patched.

Who patches a thrift store blanket?

People who need to make them last, he figures, and whose hands work better than this. 

There are other rescues around here, somewhere, but they're staying upstairs and Jameson would rather claw his own face off than make small talk with Domestics and Platonics who think he must have done something to earn all those scars, that he's something to fear. 

Or worse, that he’s a silly brainless slut who can’t be trusted not to try and jump them one by one so he can feel alive.

Maybe he was that, once upon a time, before he was torn to shreds, but he doesn't want to think about it right now. It doesn’t feel true, but he can’t say it isn’t. He can’t face their stares, the whispers behind their hands, their murmuring about how he must have been ruined by his scars, so ruined no one would want him any longer even for resale.

He can’t listen to it.

So he just glares at the ground, very much aware he looks more sullen and sulking than angry, but unable to help himself. "You said we would take me to get Allyn's present-"

"I will." Nat puts a hand on his arm and Jameson doesn't even bristle anymore, just rubs at the back of his neck with his other hand, leaning his weight on the crutch and the leg bothering him less. Her voice is low and gentle, not irritated or snapping, even in the face of his impatience. 

From another room, he can hear low conversation - other people who run safe houses - but he can't quite pick up their words. 

Nat waits, until he looks at her. Then she smiles. "This will take ten minutes, maybe twenty tops, I promise. Okay? There's a couple people here tonight that I don't usually get to see." 

Jameson nods, expression softening against his will. He leans the crutches against the wall and sits down in one of the armchairs, picking up a TV remote. His fingers twitch, the tendons and bones protesting even this small independent movement, and he nearly drops the stupid thing before he clamps down on it so hard it hurts. "Yeah, okay. Don't make me sit here all fucking night, though, yeah?"

"I won't. Girl Scout promise." Nat shoots him a wider smile - one he finds himself returning - and walks out the door and down to the room with the others. He watches her braid, the rich brown more and more streaked with silver, swinging against her back as she goes, against her eternal flannel shirt.

Her voice is added to the chorus of the others, muffled by walls and distance. People greet her with cheerful exclamations and she calls back. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the hugging. 

 He can taste all their voices, layering over and around each other, some in conflict and some in harmony.

He shudders, pulling a blanket over his lap. 

His fingers curl around the bunched fabric, giving him a visual excuse when they won't straighten out, if anyone notices. Nobody's in here, but the motion is still automatic. When his fingers twitch, there's nothing to drop on the ground, nothing to look at. 

Jameson finds some dumbass cop show on TV and mostly ignores it, focusing instead on spending a few minutes slowly reclining his chair, bit by bit, until his feet rest almost straight out from his body. The throb of pain that stretches down his thighs to his ankles is at its baseline, medication holding back the worst of it. 

Thank God for the fucking pills.

One of his knees jerks, bends like a reflex after being hit with a hammer, but the more he takes deep, even breaths the more he is able to slowly unfold it again. Finally, he sits back and relaxes into the low ache. It's so familiar and constant that he wonders what it would feel like if one day his legs didn't hurt at all. 

Would it feel like they'd been cut off, if they stopped hurting? Is it the only way he even remembers he has them, still?

There's a figure in the doorway. It’s not Nat, he can tell that much, so he doesn’t look up. He’s very aware that from this angle, whoever it is will see the scar across his face, the way some of his hair is shorter than the rest, growing more slowly as it comes back. If he keeps his chin down, he can hide the worst of it, maybe hold off questions he doesn’t want to answer.

Maybe, with the blanket, they won't notice anything else. Won’t notice his fucked-up legs. But, wait, the crutches on the wall…

The guy - it’s a guy, he thinks, not that he can see more than a blur without looking directly - is just standing there, silent. It makes Jameson feel uncomfortable, prickly and uncertain that he’s really welcome here, whatever Nat says.

Is it another rescue? 

Another runaway, one who will run upstairs and hiss to the others, Nat Yoder brought one of the whores, what do we do?

Don’t let them touch you. They can’t stop, if they touch you. They can’t stop.

Joke’s on those assholes, Jameson thinks, hunching his shoulders up nearly to his chin. He never wanted to start in the first place, not with anyone but Nanda, not with anyone but… but Allyn. 

You don’t have to get me anything, they’d said, laughing with their hair a mess, a halo on the pillow, as he’d kissed them. I don’t think I celebrated Christmas.

I want to celebrate you, I don’t care what we call the holiday we do it on.

They’d slid their arms around his neck, and pulled him down to them, bit at his lower lip until he hissed from the pain. The memory spreads like liquid warmth through him, then freezes as he realizes the guy is still just standing in the doorway.

“You need fucking permission? Just sit down, if you want, I'm just waiting for Nat to finish." The words come out a gravelly near-croak, more hostile than he means to be. He tells himself to apologize.

I’m sorry. It’s that easy.

He can’t make the words come out.

The guy just shrugs and sits on the couch. Close, but still more than arms' length away, neither of them an immediate danger to the other. 

Jameson, trying not to look, has an impression from the corner of his eye of a brown canvas coat lined with corduroy at the collar and ribbed knit at the cuffs, a thatch of ashy blond hair nearly shaved at the sides and longer on top - brutally neat compared to Jameson's growing messy mop of dark hair. Pale under a driving tan, not like the way Jameson looks now that he sees the sun, the way it feels like his skin was just waiting to soak it up again. 

There's an angular jaw and a blank expression.

Jameson doesn't offer a greeting - neither does the guy.

They just sit in silence for a while. On the screen, police officers investigate the disappearance of a rich woman's Domestic as time runs out before the kidnapper's deadline. One of them shakes the other by the shoulders, insisting we’re running out of time to save them! You have to help me!

"Hmph." There's a world of derision in that simple single sound the man makes.

Jameson glances sidelong at him. Something is familiar about his profile, but he doesn't know what, exactly. Maybe he's seen him at other meetings before. He's good-looking, yeah, but hard and bitter, you can see it in his face. 

Jameson's own scars itch. Just like you can see it in me. 

"Be nice if they actually cared that fucking much when someone hurts us," He says, half-joking. Maybe he means it as a kind of apology for being an asshole earlier. The guy's not big but he has muscle, Jameson can see that, too, and it sets something in him on edge. They're alone in here. Anything could happen. 

He tells himself that Nat is in the next room, that he could call for help if he had to. He could fight him off, no matter how much it hurt. But all the guy does is turn to look at him, a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other. 

He looks like someone Jameson saw in a supermarket a few times, the way you start to catalog familiarity in the world around you even if you’ve never spoken to someone. 

Something about it sets Jameson’s heart to beating faster, and he fights back a wince as his fingers feel like they throb harder in response. 

"It would be nice if they look this much for anyone missing," He says, voice slightly raspy. Just a little, not as bad as Jameson's, but he sounds like he's been hoarse for a long time. His voice tastes like cherry sauce on cheesecake. Jameson fucking hates cheesecake.

He has an accent, mouth open a little too much when he speaks. His th in this comes out like it’s dis. Some kind of European thing. 

And, all at once, Jameson feels the thunderclap roll through him. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stands up and he knows why this guy seems so familiar, suddenly. 

His mouth goes dry, but he swallows hard and closes his fingers tightly around the blanket. “Hey, are you… uh. Sorry, I’m not great at this kind of fucking-... are you Charles Ingvall?"

The guy stills, briefly, and then levels an even analytical stare at him. After a moment, he snorts and sits back, shrugging as his eyes go back to the TV screen, where two detectives beg a shadowy man to just let her go, just let her walk away, nobody has to die here today. "Chaz," He says, after a beat. "Mostly I am called Chaz when I use that name.”

"The cops are looking f-for you, I saw-... uh, an announcement or something-"

"I see it, too. They aren't looking very hard. Thank you for telling me, though.” Sank you for tellingk me. The accent makes him feel a little bit sick. “Is it the police in Utah? They are irritating. Idaho is worse. Montana, they leave me alone mostly.”

Jameson swallows, his throat feeling oddly small and constricted. He looks away - and then forces himself to look back, to meet the man's gaze. He has to see how he reacts.

He has to be sure. 

"They, uh. Yeah, but also… um. They’re looking for you here in California, too.”

Charles Ingvall’s eyebrows raise. They’re darker than his hair, just a little. “California? I do nothing here yet.”

“You’ve… been here, though?” Jameson’s voice is getting worse, rasping itself into a whisper as his throat tries to close. He doesn’t want to talk about Robert. He doesn’t want to admit-

But someone else survived Robert.

Someone else lived.

Jameson wants to know why.

“Yeah,” Charles Ingvall says, and looks away from him again. He picks at the seam of his thick denim blue jeans. The word comes out yah, as hoarse as Jameson’s voice. Not quite as ruined, but not much better.

How often did he hurt you to make you scream? The question dies before Jameson can ask it. Instead, he just says, “They found your fingerprints."

The man closes his eyes. There’s a breath, a beat, and then he shakes his head. "Damn. Where? I thought I had wiped them from the last truck. That is irritating. Next time I will ask for help to be sure. This is what I get for trying to do alone, right?”

Jameson’s heart is racing. He feels almost faint with it, and the constant pain of his hands and legs fades a little under the buzzing adrenaline flooding his system. If he had to, right now, he could still run. His body always comes through in a pinch, when he has to run.

For a while, anyway.

Before his legs give out and he collapses on a sidewalk, unseen, just another WRU runaway starving in the street who should have just stayed and hurt and burned and bled for the pleasure of-

“Robert Weber.”

The words come out like flytrap stickiness, nearly gumming his tongue and lips together with the taste. Just saying it makes Jameson smell, briefly, the scent of lemon cleaning products layered over decay. Dead people stuck up his nose, down his throat, stuffing up his ears with their screams for help that wasn’t coming, help that would never come, help that was locked in a cage with his hands over his ears wishing they would just die already so he could stop caring about them so much.

The man goes still when he hears the name. He seems briefly carved from stone, except for the flare of the whites around his eyes. "Who?"

"You… you know goddamn well who.” Jameson’s voice is thready and thin, barely there. His own voice on his tongue has lost nearly all its taste. “They found your fingerprints in a closet in his house. They’re looking for you, you’re-... your family is still looking for you.”

“I don’t have a family.” Charles Ingvall stands abruptly. “And I do not know Robert Weber.”

“Yeah, you do. Hey, don’t-” Ingvall’s moving away, about to walk out the door, and Jameson pushes himself up, too, nearly crashing right back to the ground before he manages to grab one of his crutches, jamming his arm into the grips and holding tight to the handle. The other one clatters and thumps against the hardwood floor. “Shit! Fuck, don’t leave, look-”

Ingvall pauses in the doorway, looking down at the crutch, then back up at Jameson. “You are injured.” He doesn’t sound pitying. Just someone pointing out a truth. “Let me get that. I don’t want to talk about Robert Weber.” He reaches down and picks up the crutch, helping Jameson get his arm through the guides so he can balance again. “Do you understand? I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Yeah, well-... I do.” 

“I don’t care.” Ingvall turns away again, and Jameson closes his eyes.

He never admits how bad it was.

He never tells anyone what it was like living in Robert’s house. 

He’s swallowed down the pain and the fear and shoved it as far as it can go. But this is his only chance to know someone who has survived what he has, and he can’t stand to lose it. So he follows, thumping along behind Ingvall, and says in a rush, “The cage was made for you, wasn’t it?”

Ingvall stills once more.

Jameson keeps going, his mouth with a mind of its own driving the words even as he feels his shaking get worse. “He bought it for you, but he put me in it, too.”

Ingvall stands there with one hand on the doorframe. His fingernails dig into the painted wood and Jameson wonders if he’ll leave little half-moon marks there, signals of someone who felt something so much bigger than his body and had nowhere for that feeling to go. 

Then he looks back at Jameson, over one shoulder. “He did not buy the cage only for me,” He says, heavily. His cheesecake voice weighs down Jameson’s tongue, sticky cherry sauce on top. “He bought it for someone like me. It was there when he brought me into his home. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If I had not stopped my car to check directions…”

“I didn’t know anyone survived. I thought everyone went into the basement or... you know.”

“Or out, in the barrels.” Ingvall looks down at the ground, closing his eyes and taking a deep, deep breath. Then he turns back to Jameson entirely. “He called me his little Mouse.”

“He called me the goddamn dog,” Jameson says, and finds himself smiling, just a little. He feels it pull at the scar that cuts through the corner of his mouth. “You got out and decided to help the-... the runaways?”

“I was rescued by a man who helped them. He thought I was one, until he met me. I owe him my life, so I have given it to him, to doing his work. You…” Ingvall’s eyes drop to Jameson’s wrist, taking in the tattoo still there just peeking out beneath one sleeve, faded and scarred over but visible. “Robert bought one?”

“No. I… I ran away a long time before that. I just needed a ride.” Jameson is swallowing too much, he knows it, but he can’t seem to stop. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t seem to get around. “He offered me a ride. There was a bottle of-... of water. He drank a little of it, so I didn’t think…”

“Yeah.” Yah, the accent softer as Ingvall’s voice lowers. “I drank the water, too.”

“Why didn’t…” Jameson hesitates. This isn’t any of his fucking business, but… “You remember who you are. You remember yourself, that you’re… whatever the name was, I don’t remember-”

“Finn Schneider.” Ingvall says the words like they’re made of pins, sticking him with pain with every movement of lips, teeth, and tongue. “I remember the name.”

“Why didn’t you go home? You had a home to go to… why didn’t you just fucking go home?”

Ingvall blinks at him, as if he’s suddenly started singing in Spanish. “Because I was not Finn Schneider any longer,” He says, matter of fact. “Were you sold, too? Did he trade you for something new?” 

Jameson’s fingers clench and unclench on the grips on his crutches. “No.”

“Oh. Then how did you-”

“I beat him to death with a goddamn shovel when he made me help him bury another body.” The words are flat and blunt. 

“You… you what?” Ingvall’s eyes are wide again, and some of the hardness and the years fall off of his face. Jameson thinks he can see, now, what Robert saw - just a little - in a younger man who could look worried and vulnerable and not simply hardened. Had he looked like that, when he still felt hopeful, before he knew almost everyone was just shit and would fuck you as soon as look at you, would hit you faster than they’d help you?

“I beat him to death,” Jameson repeats, slowly, “With a goddamn shovel.”

“You-... you killed him?”

“Yeah. I… I was tired of watching people die, just really… fucking tired. And… I didn’t want him to kill anyone else anymore. So I made sure he couldn’t, and then I left.” Jameson feels the strength go out of him all at once, and the crutches are the only thing that keeps him standing. He loves these fucking things so much.

“I never thought to kill him-”

“Yeah, I know. If you had, maybe I wouldn’t be this fucked up.”

It hits Ingvall like a punch to the face, and his eyes close as he flinches at the simple, honest truth in the words. “... I-... I never thought I could-”

“I don’t blame you. I know it sounds like I do, but I don’t, fucking swear it. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Just… We’re the only two of his who lived. I know that doesn’t mean anything, not really, because like… there’s always people who survive bullshit, but… it kind of means something to me. That there’s somebody else.”

Ingvall’s jaw works as he looks down at Jameson - funny, neither of them are very tall at all, but Ingvall’s still tall enough to look down. “Does it?”

“Does it not, to you? Mean… mean, fuck, something that there’s two of us? That we aren’t alone?”

Ingvall’s smile is bitter. It’s not really a smile at all, just an upward tilt of the lips that goes nowhere near his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“But-”

“I am glad you lived,” Ingvall says, softening his voice a little. “I am. But we are all of us alone, in what we survive or what we don’t. All we have between us is a man who could have killed us and didn’t. That isn’t very much. Besides that…”

Jameson’s cheeks burn red, embarrassed and a little angry, too, at the casual disdain in Ingvall’s voice. He looks down, but his voice has fled - all his angry retorts wither up and die in the face of having his attempt to speak to someone, to… what, fucking bond or something… looked at with such distant dismissal. 

Ingvall goes quiet, for a second, just watching him. 

“What? Just fucking say whatever you’re gonna say and stop fucking staring at me.” His left knee throbs with his pulse, a sudden wash of pain that makes his leg twitch. It pulls Ingvall’s gaze to it, and Jameson’s face burns hotter - and so does his anger. “Don’t fucking stare, it’s fucking rude.”

“Sorry.” That’s sincere, at least. Ingvall closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s been so long… I don’t know how to talk about it. I shouldn’t… I have been cruel. I’m sorry. I meant only to say… I guess I just mean-... scheisse.”

Jameson snorts. “Bet I can guess what that word means.”

“Your language stole a curse or two from mine, to be sure.” Ingvall’s voice lightens a little. “I mostly curse in English, but sometimes when I really mean it, well. Scheisse feels more real. What’s your name? I haven’t asked.”

“Jameson. I… I named myself Jameson.”

“The bottles on the fireplace,” Ingvall murmurs. “He always had so many, lining them up-”

“I could read. He didn’t know, usually they make it so we can’t but it didn’t work on me. I could read, and I would sit in the cage-”

“And read the bottles, over and over.” Ingvall nods, just a little. His hands go into his pockets, and he’s still smiling, just a little. Some of the tension has bled out of him. “I did, too. Jameson, what I meant to say, before I was… rude, I was trying to say that we are not the only two who survived him.”

“... we aren’t? There was someone else?” Hope, thin as a thread through the eye of a needle, that there might be other people out there who didn’t end up in the basement or the blue barrels, other people who walked out of that house, or crawled, or-

“You are the only survivor, Jameson.” Ingvall turns away again, and then time he doesn’t turn back. 

“... what? What do you mean, you’re right here-”

“Finn Schneider died in the cage. I left as only his Mouse. I go by many names now, but if you called Mouse, this many years later, still I would run to the call."

"But-"

"Listen to me." His voice stays quietly steady, even as Jameson's has begun to tremble. "We are not survivors. We do not share the journey. The stupid trusting silly boy I was, the one who went into that house? He did not leave it."

Jameson stays silent, when Ingvall pauses this time. His face burns even as his stomach twists cold and grows ice from his pelvis to his heart. “Yeah, okay.” He finds himself mumbling and he can’t make himself look any higher than the guy’s knees.

Ingvall sighs. "I am glad someone did survive, Jameson. But I did not. Do not say Finn Schneider to me again. I don't know that man."

He walks away and leaves Jameson standing there in the room with the credits of the cop show playing pointlessly on the television behind him. 

When Nat comes to tell him they can go shopping now, he tells her to forget about it, he’s hurting too much anyway, and asks to just go home. She nods, watching him as she gets her car keys out of her pocket, but he says nothing else. While she drives, she keeps giving him sidelong looks, but all her soft well-meaning, careful questions get nothing but grunts. 

He makes it to the shower and gets his clothes off before his legs give out entirely. 

He sits in the tub with hot water beating down on his back and shoulders, trickling through his mop of hair, hands over his face, whispering fuck fuck fuck fuck to himself while Trash Cat paws at the other side of the door and meows for him. He doesn’t even try to let her in.

He just lets the scalding water burn against his scars.

-

@finder-of-rings  @endless-whump  @astrobly  @thefancydoughnut  @newandfiguringitout  @doveotions  @pretty-face-breaker  @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow  @boxboysandotherwhump  @oops-its-whump  @cubeswhump  @whump-tr0pes  @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump  @whumpiary  @orchidscript  @nonsensical-whump  @outofangband  @eatyourdamnpears  @hackles-up  @grizzlie70  @mylifeisonthebookshelf  @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp

@whumperfully @pigeonwhumps  @squishablesunbeam  @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot  @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature  @d-cs @honey-is-mesi @whump-queen @sowhumpful

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

Cabin Inn

As the car rumbled along the road, the only sound was the crunch of gravel under the tires and the occasional soft groan from Bubbles in the backseat. Mark drove with a palpable tension, his eyes scanning the dark woods for any sign of trouble. Cesar sat beside him, his worried expression deepening with each passing moment.

The isolation of the drive gave Bubbles time to reflect. The physical pain was one thing—a constant, throbbing reminder of the night’s events—but it was the emotional and mental strain that weighed heaviest on her. The secret she guarded so fiercely, the identity of the Celestial Artisan, felt like a growing burden, one that threatened to expose itself with every encounter with the Alternates.

When they finally arrived at the cabin, the first hints of dawn were creeping over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of soft pink and blue. Mark’s Hispanic friend quickly unlocked the door, and the three stepped in.

The decor embodies the quintessence of rustic charm blended with touches of '90s flair. The trio were greeted by a warm and inviting atmosphere, illuminated by the soft glow of a wood-burning stove in the corner, crackling gently.

The living area features a comfortable, slightly worn sofa adorned with plaid throws and mismatched cushions that add a homely touch. Nearby, a large, hand-knotted wool rug in earth tones anchors the space, inviting anyone to relax by the hearth. The walls, paneled in knotty pine, are adorned with framed landscape paintings and vintage skiing posters reminiscent of the era.

A heavy, wooden coffee table sits in the middle of the room, its surface bearing the patina of years of use, perhaps scattered with a few magazines from the '90s, like issues of "National Geographic" or "Outdoor Life." Nearby, a bookshelf overflows with a mix of classic literature and popular novels from the decade, along with board games and a cassette tape collection featuring grunge and pop hits.

The kitchen is simple yet functional, with aged copper pots hanging from a handcrafted pot rack. The countertops, perhaps a bit dated, are covered in laminate that mimics the look of natural stone. They show signs of wear but are clean and well-maintained. The pine cabinets match the wall paneling, and an old, chunky microwave sits next to a spice rack filled with dried herbs and spices.

A small dining area features a round wooden table and chairs, each chair cushion covered in a floral fabric that was trendy at the time. Overhead, a wrought iron chandelier provides soft lighting, enhancing the cabin's rustic ambiance.

The bedrooms continue the theme down a narrow hallway with cozy plaid-patterned flannel bedding, handmade quilts, and thick woolen blankets. The furniture is sturdy and wood-made, with vintage brass lamps on the nightstands casting a warm glow.

The cabin's windows are covered in handmade curtains, perhaps a bit faded but clean. These curtains offer views of the surrounding woods and let in natural light that plays across the cabin's nostalgic interior.

"Wow... DAMN! I didn't know your guys' cabin you two own was nice!" Bubbles’s eyes sparkled in awe. “So much for living in 2024. It looks really nice to live in here.” She thought. “Ack–!” She winced again, feeling sharp pain shooting on her side.

Mark immediately went to the bathroom to gather medical supplies while Cesar filled a basin with warm water and grabbed some towels. They returned to Bubbles’ side and cleaned her wounds with gentle, efficient movements.

"You're good at this," Bubbles commented, trying to mask her pain with a weak smile as she observed her Hispanic friend handle the cloth.

"I've had some practice," the Hispanic male replied in a low voice. “I used to help my mom with her garden injuries while tending to our roses. I never thought I'd be doing this under such different circumstances."

The brown-haired teen rummaged through a first aid kit they found in a cabinet, pulling out some antiseptic and bandages. "This might sting a bit," Mark warned before carefully applying the antiseptic.

Bubbles tensed, her breath hitching as the solution touched her wound, but she bit her lip and bore it. "Thanks," she breathed out once Cesar began to bandage her up more professionally than she would have expected.

As they tended to her, the silence was heavy with unspoken questions and concerns. Finally, Mark broke it, his voice filled with unwavering support.

"Bubbles, you know you can trust us, right?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "Whatever is going on, whatever you're hiding... we're here for you, no matter what."

Bubbles looked up at them, her eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and fear. She took a deep breath, considering her following words carefully.

"I know," she replied softly. "And I appreciate it more than you can know. It's just... complicated."

Cesar nodded, dabbing at a particularly nasty cut. "We get it. But seeing you out there tonight and the way you handled everything... You’ve almost got yourself killed!"

Bubbles chuckled weakly. "Understatement of the year." 

“Don’t wave it off!” The Hispanic friend scolded her. “You’re always putting yourself in a situation that scares us when you almost die every time! It’s not funny! ¿¡Lo entiendes!?”

"Sí, lo sé." She rolled her eyes slightly.

Mark placed a reassuring hand on Bubbles' shoulder, his expression serious. "We care about you, Bubbles. We don't want to lose you. So please, promise us you'll be more careful next time."

Bubbles nodded, her gaze meeting Mark's with sincerity. "I promise. I'll do everything in my power to keep us safe. But you have to promise me something, too."

Cesar and Mark exchanged a glance, their expressions curious. "What's that?" Mark asked.

Bubbles took a deep breath, steeling herself in case she had to do a reveal. "Promise me that you'll trust me no matter what happens. Even if things seem impossible or I make decisions you don't understand. Promise me you'll trust that I'm doing what's best for all of us."

There was a moment of silence as her words hung in the air, the weight of their implications sinking in. Mark and Cesar shared a look before turning back to Bubbles, determination shining in their eyes.

.

.

"We promise,"

.

.

they said in unison, their voices filled with conviction.

With that assurance, Bubbles felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She knew she couldn't do this alone, and having her friends' trust and support meant everything to her.

“Let’s rest for the night,” Cesar said, rising from his sofa seat. “We can worry about the sigil cards later. Bubbles can explain it to us in the morning since she knows how it works.” He nodded. 

Mark nodded in agreement, his gaze softening as he looked at Bubbles. "Yeah, rest is what you need right now. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow." He helped her to her feet, supporting her as they walked towards one of the bedrooms.

The cabin, with its warm wooden walls and the comforting crackle of the fire, felt like a sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world. Bubbles felt the tension start to ease from her shoulders as they entered the cozy bedroom, its rustic charm underscored by the soft glow of a bedside lamp.

Cesar pulled back the covers on the bed, fluffing the pillows before turning to Bubbles. "Get some sleep. We'll be right here if you need anything," he assured her, his tone protective.

Bubbles managed a small smile, grateful for their care and concern. "Thank you, both of you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "For everything."

As she settled into the bed, the soft mattress comforting against her bruised body, she felt a sense of peace envelop her. The weight of her secrets and the burden of her responsibilities were still there, but for now, she allowed herself the luxury of rest, surrounded by the quiet strength of her friends.

Mark lingered for a moment, watching her with a thoughtful expression. "Goodnight, Bubbles," he said softly before leaving the room with Cesar.

Once they were back in the living area, Cesar looked at Mark, a concerned frown creasing his brow. "Do you think she's telling us everything?" he asked quietly.

Mark sighed, sinking into an armchair by the fire. "I don't know, man. But I do know she's under a lot of pressure. Whatever she's holding back, I'm sure she has her reasons. We just need to be there for her, no matter what."

Cesar nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "Yeah. We stick together. That's how we'll get through this."

They sat silently for a moment, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them. Both were lost in their thoughts, pondering the complexities of their situation and the mysterious entity known as the Celestial Artisan. The night deepened around them, and the dark woods outside the cabin whispered their own secrets.

Back in the bedroom, Bubbles drifted into a restless sleep, her dreams a whirlwind of shadowy figures and echoing voices. She was haunted by the Perpetrator's words, the implications of her own power, and the unknown challenges that lay ahead. Yet, amidst the tumult of her subconscious, a steadfast resolve formed. She would protect her friends, come what may. She was the Celestial Artisan, whether acknowledged or hidden, and she bore the weight of that mantle with a fierce determination.

Morning would come, bringing with it the need for decisions and actions. But for now, in the heart of the night, Bubbles and her friends found a semblance of peace in the solidarity of their bond, the quiet strength of their unity offering a shield against the darkness outside.

[thoraeth]

words: 3600

Summary: Welcome aboard the Challenger, a ship from Egghead with a crazy logpose! While Ava and Buggy find a way to coexist peacefully, Romi and her crew are pressured by Labophase.

Chapter 3 - Ceasefire

<CH2 CH4> | Read on Ao3

Ava is compressed against spiky metal bits, stinging like a million needles on her skin.

She’s been enveloped in the clown’s coat the whole time, but now that the debris doesn't move anymore, she can get that ripped fabric out of her face.

They’re in a big empty room, whose likeness she’s never seen before: the floor is completely hidden by metal scraps while the walls, light colored, are covered in weird panels and glowing buttons. That horrible claw crane is still dangling from the ceiling as an orange light flashes through the room.

“Jester?”

Something’s still weighing on Ava's body. Looking down at her lap, she notices a shadow entangled in the coat. It's an arm, a single arm with a gloved hand.

The woman screams. Crawling back on her elbows, she scans the room again: many other pieces of the pirate are peeking out among the debris, scattered around. Her stomach is in knots.

“It…it shredded him…”

Ava manages to get up when two panels in the wall behind her slide open. The flashing light stops and three people enter the room chatting loudly. They're all wearing a gray coverall and heavy combat boots.

“Allen, Torres, check the crane report. We should have got everything back.”

“Who died and made you queen, Meg?”

A muscular woman jumps in the debris while a brown skinned guy makes faces at her. A fellow big man, bald and middle aged, is tapping with both hands on a glitching panel.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” the woman's voice echoes in the distance.

“Meg? Is everything okay?”

“Guys, we’ve got a stowaway!”

Running through the scraps, the trio is upon Ava, surrounding her.

“How did you sneak in, uh?”

“This can't be for real…” Ava’s staring at the arm on the ground, shocked.

“Ugh, gross! If I see blood, I'm out of here.” the brown skinned man backs off with a disgusted expression.

“Torres!” The other growls “Sorry for your loss, sweetheart.” He brings his face closer to the frightened clandestine, speaking with a gentle voice. “I'm doctor Allen Stein. How about we clean your cuts and talk about what happened?”

With the corner of her eye, Ava is watching Meg: a big burn crosses her face, half hidden behind white curls. The woman picks up Buggy's arm and observes it from different angles.

“Doc.” she calls out “Isn't it a little too clean in here?”

As Meg speaks, the lifeless arm begins to levitate. Suddenly legs, hands, arms, ears fly across the room and swirl rapidly around her body. The pieces fit together in a blue haired man who grabs her from the back, pointing a sharp rod at her throat.

“ ‘Evening ladies and gentlemen. Get me the fuck outta here and no one gets hurt.”

Torres can't believe his eyes. “Where’d that dirty clown come from?!”

“It must be Devil Fruit powers, watch out!”

The two men block Ava and take a step back, pulling out their guns.

“Put all weapons down, please!” the woman yells. “It’s just a misunderstanding!”

“Relax, lads. You can keep her all you want.” the pirate smirks bitterly.

“Buggy, no!”

“Shut up! It's all your fault, shark girl!”

“What? You broke the cannon!”

As the quarrel goes on, one word ignites a sudden exchange of glances among the crew members. Meg looks up, resisting the rod sinking in her neck.

“Oh” she says stiffly “you're the Emperor.”

“Flash and bones, baby: the star clown, the genius jester, Warlord, president of Cross Gild! You’d better drop me off before my men hunt you down!”

“I hope you're a good swimmer, then.” Allen frowns. “We entered the calm belt half an hour ago.”

Buggy rolls his eyes, chuckling “Pathetic bluff, doc. How could you losers navigate the belts?”

“Deck 4, open airlock.”

Torres’ voice echoes through the room and the orange light on the ceiling flashes again.

The wall next to them splits and opens up with a loud hiss, revealing the open sea. Even if a light rain is rippling the sea surface, no wind comes in, the air outside is dense and stifling.

Buggy pushes Meg away, his heart plunging in his chest while observing the gigantic silhouettes of Sea Kings roaming underwater.

“I think you should meet our Captain, jester.” the woman suggests, massaging her neck.

The crew proceeds to escort Buggy and Ava out of the warehouse, through narrow corridors and steep stairs. The clown is quietly observing the place as they go: “That’s crazy! You can talk to the ship and it does things on its own. These shitheads do have something on their hands… I wonder if there's any gizmo I could steal.” He swallows nervously “At least I wouldn't return to Perona empty handed.”

The group stops in front of a wall with a glowing disk where Meg places her hand. Again, two panels activate, splitting and sliding open.

“Romi, we have guests.”

The woman leads the way through an extremely messy workroom, where the stowaways are fascinated by unknown machinery lying on a large counter. All around, glowing texts and shapes are glitching on the walls.

“What is that!” Ava gasps under her breath. A sleek device is cabled to a platform; it has a beat-up hollow wheel in the front and its lucid shell is heavily scratched. With a raspy voice, a dark skinned woman stands up behind the vehicle.

“If it's another hologram from Labophase, I swear…” She adjusts a pair of round eyeglasses in her wavy hair, still focused on her reparations.

Meg clears her throat: “He’s Buggy the clown, one of the Four Emperors. Him and the girl got caught in the crane.” The scarred woman walks up to the platform and whispers “Remember that talk we had before leaving Egghead? All those pictures and bounties?”

“What would you suggest?” the captain asks in a low voice.

“Diplomacy.”

Romi grabs a greasy towel, eying the intruders: Buggy the Emperor doesn't look that threatening in his messed up face paint and striped shirt; same goes for his blonde companion who wouldn't even sustain eye contact. The captain gets closer with a dim smile on her face. “What a privilege for us, Yonko. Welcome aboard the Challenger.”

“How kind.” Buggy replies, his voice flat “As much as I’d love to play tea party, Ma’am, I need you to take me back where you dug me up.”

“On 0348? No prob, it'll take a couple weeks.”

“Come again?”

“It’s our best outcome, so far: fifteen days to complete a lap of the Grand Line.”

The pirate laughs, confused. “You know you can literally turn the ship around, right?”

“No you can't, if the ship's the Challenger. Once we enter the belts, the Algopose decides where and when we stop next. It has to work its magic or we get lost for good.”

Buggy strokes his forehead, inhaling deeply. “A ship from the future that doesn't steer…” He can't decide whether to scream or cry his eyes out. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” he says in a low voice.

“It has its flaws, I give you that.”

“How about Karai Bari, then? How many decades to get there?”

“Let me check with JoyJoey. In the meanwhile, I think you should get some rest.”

Romi heads for the workroom’s exit, signaling everyone to follow her.

As she leads her crew and guests down a metal staircase, the clanging of their steps resounds all around, along with her voice. “You’ll like it in here. Some details aren't top-tier yet, but my ship has nothing to envy to that pretentious junk from Labophase.”

They turn into a wide corridor, evenly lit by tall lighted arches. Left and right, numbered panels tower over them.

“What’s Labophase?” Ava timidly asks.

Romi’s voice gets snarly. “Vegapunk’s lab, the cradle of the future…actually a bunch of old farts with gov money.”

“And weapons.” Buggy adds. “You guys do weapons too?”

The Captain picks up the pace.

“I refuse. Everybody wants to be the next professor V. and what’s come of it? Wooden ships still sink at Reverse Mountain but, oi, we’ve got the Pacifistas!”

Romi stops in front of a door and slaps the digital circle to reveal a bedroom.

“Stay as long as you need. It’s JoyJoey’s room but he never lefts the cockpit.”

Buggy stomps in first, taking a good look at the space. “Wow…gray, grates and weird stuff. Again.” he thinks, raising his eyebrows “What's with this dullness?”

He stops in front of a hexagonal niche and throws himself on the mattress placed inside.

Buggy is quite surprised: a cheerful crowd of shapes fills the hidden space around the bed. Small paper drawings are glued on the walls, in a chaotic whirlwind of colors. A smile lights up the clown's face.

“Ugh, he still hasn't cleaned this mess.” Romi leans inside the bed niche, reaching for a squared button.

A portion of the wall rolls up and natural light fills the room.

“JoyJoey’s our navigator” the woman says “The only one who gets to have a window here. You’re two lucky bastards!” she bursts out laughing.

Buggy sits up “Two? Oh no, Ma’am, I don’t share.”

“This is a small ship. It's either here or top deck, if you fancy the Belts at night.”

“Am I going to sleep on the floor?” Ava presses Romi.

“Hey, chill out! We've got bed modules.”

“Well then, take that module and shove it in one of your rooms.” Buggy growls "Ladies should go with ladies.”

“And strangers with strangers! You're not going anywhere until I trust you two.” Romi quickly reaches her crew, half hidden outside the room. She stretches a fake smile and presses her hand on the wall. The panels close, followed by a steamy noise.

Ava runs to the door, randomly hitting its surface with her palms.

“This is all your fault.” the pirate hisses behind her. “You’re always in my way and it's complete chaos, one bullshit after the other! You got me into this mess and I don’t know how to get out of it!”

As the words come out of Buggy's mouth, his voice gets shrill.

“Do you even understand how fucked I am? If those two find out I’m not at the camp they’ll think I’ve run off!”

“So what?” Ava snaps “You’ve run off! Call your pirate army and…I don't know, kill them. What can they do to you?”

“They own me.”

The two remain still, frowning at each other.

“I owe Sir Fucking Crocodile millions of Berry and the only reason I’m alive is that I’ll have to take a bullet for him if things go south!” the pirate’s face is altered by a desperate grin “I just wanted to forget about my shitty life for a day or two. Now I'm a dead man walking.”

“I’m truly sorry, Buggy. But again, this is not my fault.” Ava’s voice is shaky. “You made things worse by damaging that cannon.”

“Why am I even talking to you?! Get out of my sight!”

“Sure, you only want to talk when I'm useful… Like an hour ago, on that beach.”

Buggy raises his blue eyes towards Ava. “It was a polite chat to kill time.”

“And it was nice, can we stick to that?”

“No. They made us marry, but I can choose not to like you.”

“Ok, so what did I do to you? I was forced into that ring like you, I’m miserable as you are miserable and yet I’ve been nothing but kind.”

“Oh, the hypocrisy! You didn't want to be killed, that's all.”

“That too, yes!” Ava yells, her green eyes open wide. “For the first time I was my own person and I thought it would be great, however I'm still sleeping on the floor and constantly being yelled at…No matter how far I go, I'm still stuck.”

The atmosphere within the room turns sad. Ava tries to hold back tears, her eyes reddened.

“Still stuck.” Buggy echoes, sitting on the bed again. He rests his head on his palms and lets go of a long puff: “Even if I wiped you all out, it would be me and the Sea Kings anyway. I guess I'd better not waste my energy and find a way to handle this mess.”

One of his hands flies towards Ava. The woman’s eyes light up as his dirty fingers take her hand and firmly shake it.

“Now. The only way I can survive Croc and Mihawk is with information; a lot of information. A slave with information is worth more than a Yonko, I'll tell you that much.”

“So you're a slave now?” Ava sighs, sitting on the floor next to the pirate.

“Do you think slaves only come with a skin mark? Buckle up for the real world, babe.” Buggy smirks. “Anyway. During these two weeks I have to squeeze out the science gang and I expect your full collaboration, Ava.”

The woman looks up to the clown’s crazed glance, worried.

“…within my heart

Daisy, Daisy

planted one day by a glancing dart…”

The bright sky of the Belts reflects on a large hexagonal mirror, a translucent surface hiding a tidy bed. Ava is zipping up her gray coverall and leans forward to check a pimple on her forehead. “Enough with the singing, jester, it's time to go!” she chuckles.

Her roommate’s image appears in the mirror: Buggy is untangling his wet hair, shaking the dripping brush towards Ava with a childish grin. She pushes him away and jumps on the messy bed next to the window.

“I’ll miss this a little.” she thinks, tying up her boot's laces.

Over those days, she has grown fond of the clown’s weird songs. She'd often slow down in the morning, listening to him humming with his hair slit back and his face still clean.

“Room, Mirror off.” Buggy exclaims. The reflections fade away and the hexagon goes back to a bed module. Throwing a piece of charcoal on the floor, the pirate exits the room, his face covered in intricate black shapes.

“So, how are we feeling?” Ava asks, walking with him under the light arches.

“I don’t know. I hope our little present will please my colleagues enough to keep my head close to the rest.”

“It’s more than enough; that nose of yours will still be attached to your face tomorrow.” the woman winks at him.

“No shit.” Buggy fakes a grunt “Luckily, you're good at science ‘cause you'd make a horrible comedian.”

“You mean I can't apply for your circus?”

“Of course you can. CEO of Den Dens’ maintenance, right away!”

They enter the lunchroom smirking as the challenger’s crew is eating breakfast around a long metal table, arms chaotically mingling over full plates.

“You two!” Romi shouts “Thank god the jester’s getting off this ship today, I’m fed up with your nightly chats! What’s with sharing your whole life’s stories at 4am? People need to sleep!”

“Sorry Romi.” Ava says quietly, pouring herself the last drop of tea.

“Oh, c’mon Buggy.” the Captain continues. “Stop it.”

The pirate mutters through his full cheeks “I told you a million times, mind your business.” He’s eating with his hands, seated on the table with his legs spread. As usual, Ava sits behind him, hidden from the rest of the crew. After some time, though, Buggy feels a light touch on his arm: Ava's whispering to him to let go. The blue haired man sits properly and drags his chair. “I did what I could, she's on her own now.” he thinks, cracking a smile.

“So…what do I do with Labophase? They called again.” Meg is urging Romi who’s aggressively munching on her breakfast.

“Those Assholes!” the Captain shouts “Five years of research: no questions, no money. We sink half a cannon and it's three calls a day!”

“It might get into the wrong hands; they do have a point.” Allen objects.

“Tsk. They’re just scared they’ll no longer be the ones running the game.”

Torres waves his spoon, spitting cornflakes as he speaks: “I think we kinda leveled the field. If pirates and marines have the same tech, they’re…even?”

“Commoners will appreciate the fair play, no doubt.” Meg snaps, scathing.

“Guys, really, I can’t do this.” Romi’s voice gets weak, her face pale and drawn.

“Tell Labophase we won’t go search for it. Our funds are running out and the drifter is still unusable. I…I can’t sacrifice all of this on a fucking weapon.”

The Captain stands up abruptly. “Yonko, ready to disembark in four hours.” She cuts the conversation short and storms out of the lunchroom.

The atmosphere among the crew has gotten heavy, so Ava leads Buggy out. The two are walking through Deck 2, chatting and joking, when orange flashing lights go off throughout the ship.

A low rumble rises, growing and growing below the hull and the Challenger begins to roll: slowly tilting left and right, the floors become unsteady and random objects come tumbling down from the rooms.

“Shit!” Buggy holds Ava up. “Out of the Belts already?!” he mouths in the middle of the deafening noise. Clinging to his floating hand, the woman cries out: “It's the Algopose! We're early!”

Amidst that chaos, a familiar voice croaks from above: “Initiate safety protocol, remote commands are not responding.” All of Romi’s distress is coming out of the speakers. “Lab 2 is top priority. Ava, take Buggy to Lab 3 immediately.”

Ava visibly gaps. She moves quickly, sliding and falling. The jester presses his hand against her back, guiding her away from slamming into the walls when a new wave hits.

They run past Romi’s lab, where Meg and Torres are securing all the gimmicks, then Ava stops in front of a second door. As its panels slide open, Buggy cannot believe his eyes.

It’s a chemistry lab. Powders, burners, beakers, flasks everywhere. “It’s… beautiful.” the pirate thinks, gawping.

Ava’s cries for help harshly bring him back to reality: all those shiny objects are rolling and flying off their shelves, shattering on the floor in thousands of pieces.

“Lab 3, lock in place!” Ava orders, tinkering with a touch panel and hitting it with the palm of her hand. A number of boxes go back to their position, retained by an invisible force, while others are grasped by Buggy, his limbs moving frantically around the room.

As hours go by, the ominous rumble of the sea seems to quiet and the floor tilting gets gentler. Exhausted, Ava and Buggy slide down a wall, surrounded by glass splinters.

“These people are out of their fucking mind!” the pirate shouts “We could explode!”

“On normal days…it’s all locked up…” Ava wheezes

“Why did they send you? You need someone who knows how to handle this stuff!”

“No one here knows.” Ava replies. “I mean, from what I saw, Romi knows a little, but not nearly enough to help with the Drifter.”

“Is that why Captain Four Eyes was crying into her breakfast?”

“Yup. Last tests didn't go well…It keeps shutting down. Didn't make it past the lab’s doors.”

“I could have helped! There must be something useful here.”

“You could? It’s a pity you did nothing but sleep and eat the whole time, then.”

“Like this and this, or that” Buggy’s finger is pointing at colored liquids and powders around the lab. “Mix together and…boom! Whatever that thing is, they're gonna fish it out of the East Blue!” he sneers.

“That's not the point, Doctor Vegaclown!

Where did you learn all this, though?”

“I loved to do experiments as a kid, back on the Oro Jackson… A lifetime ago.” Buggy smiles while twirling some glass tubes around his fingers. “How do you think I make my Muggy bombs, uh? You don’t need books to make those beauties!”

Ava laughs heartily, as the pirate turns into a rambling child, jabbering on and on about his favorite topic. As Buggy lets himself go, a warm feeling makes its way through Ava's chest. What a shame he had to go back to his Yonko life.

“Hey, Bug, since you're good with chemistry.” Ava looks down “You should find a way to read someone's blood, to check where they’re from.”

“What does it even mean?”

“If you’d test Meara…you'd be a slave with a hell of a leverage. Crocodile won't touch you again.”

“I see.” The pirate frowns.

During their nightly chats, Ava told him about her relatives and Meara’s cruelty to all of them. “But this? What's with Read’s blood now?” he thinks.

“Also, if you keep your head…make something again.” the woman flushes. “It must be nice to be around you when you’re that happy.”

Buggy stares at Ava, looking for a funny, witty remark, but nothing comes to mind. He definitely is unhappy, through and through. Still, he has to admit her words have given him some sort of hopeful, nostalgic feelings; as if there were a small shard of himself, buried deep inside, that isn't completely dead.

Romi’s voice echoes from the speakers: “Attention, crew. We entered the Grand Line in the middle of a storm. Again. But no losses this round, so…good job. Buggy, come to the cockpit, we're one hour away from Karai Bari.”

“It's time.” The pirate gets up, his hands in his pockets. “All in all, it was fun. I'm sorry you got such a shitty husband but I'm sure you'll do great with the science gang.”

As he walks out, a deep uneasiness jolts through Ava's chest. Words escape her lips, louder that she'd like them to be: “I’ll miss our chats at night. Take care, Buggy.”