#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

[1-49]

bare sugars

╰► that’s my baby, that’s my sugar, i don’t need no honey on the side . . . that’s unconditiona-nal.

pairing: f!reader × jaehyun ⁝ tags: motel. lotta tension. jae likes to show skin lol. history i allude to but never explain sry. short scenario inspired by this teaser photo. diabetes keep away 5k

It ’s a place in between places, on the outskirts of some sunbaked desert town. What began as a hopeful promise, somewhere in the chaos of the last seven days , has faded into obscurity.

When this road trip kicked off, the entire crew was pumped on the : ‘No one’s getting ditched; everyone ’s got to be part of ─── no matter how intense the next adventure gets.’ Yet, here you are , left behind with the one person you were hoping to dodge.

A velvety green sofa sets the scene & the honey glow of golden hour falls on wood - panelled walls ─── Lying on his back , Jaehyun rocks yet another one of his 250+ crumpled print tees, retro lettering in: ‘The Grateful Dead.’ Its fabric hiked up , intentionally or not , giving his casual style a little extra edge.

─── This specific old shade of blue denim jeans, those grey Calvins, the belt that struggles to keep the outfit together ... His belly that just kind of vacuums in whenever it wants ... A plush land really ... The faux freckles on his cheeks which mimic sunflower seeds, and his hair that shines like a field of gold ...

A babe , though the design guilt he wears in his dark eyes remains as you capture yet another moment with your camera.

The two shy cuties in his cheeks and his keys lying abandoned on the pink carpet. His languid binks & perpetually movey lips. His Converse’s loose laces.. The unhurried. The lazy. The slow...

It’s all captured on film & as you pull the camera away from your face, he still keeps an eye on you, not necessarily looking for a reaction but... 

Well, you better... drop that feedback, or things might...

take a turn for the worse... 

And—

And they do... with him tucking his hand under his head & his shirt riding up thoughtlessly even more...

And it’s bad. It’s—It’s like he’s in charge of how you feel and is directing the scene. Like as if he’s your television & there’s no turning him off.

This almost ever so present paradoxical quality to him—a blend of approachability and impenetrability that’s hard to elaborate. Or his lazy attractiveness which simply defies logic: for he’s simultaneously doing nothing and everything, drawing you in completely without lifting a finger.

Or... how these are just a few of the countless reasons why you’ve never asked him to bring you the horizon, or, hell, dared to dream about having him.

Of how the four walls and the door close on you and how looking at him strikes you with a funny fear, making you want to melt deep into the contents of the floor.

Oh, to fuck with that...

-

Gently, you adjust the fine black lace along the hem of your brown silk dress; draw in the fluffy cardigan tighter around you; and to escape the perfect features of his perfect face, you walk up to the window. 

Yet, no matter how hard you search for a way out, the four walls of this claustrophobic room offer little in the way of escape. You’re fucking stuck... Counting your fingers anew whenever gets nothing done, and flipping through the channels on the tiny TV does nothing to clear the monotony. The minutes drag on endlessly, and no matter how many board games you play or photos you take, the clock seems to mock you. Each moment drags as if the world has hit the pause button, leaving you with him in this quiet space.

“Uuggh, coome oooon!” You stomp your feet, looking out the window. ��The losers promised they’d be back by six!”

Jaehyun blows a bubble that bursts with a loud snap, grinning at you. “Ummm—You realize promises aren’t really being kept here anymore, right?”

Yeah, right... Fuck promises! You told yourself you wouldn’t get attached to him but look at you now...

Rolling your eyes, you glance out the window again, right as he asks,

“Why? Are you hungry?”

And sure, they were supposed to be the ones bringing the food, but it seems their adventure has taken a detour into yet another town at the end of the world; said, ‘This is what happens when you skip out—So, you two sort it out.’

“Some sweets would be nice. But no, um,” you tensely pull at your cardigan’s sleeves, clenching the ends in your fists. “Are they okay? I’m a little nervous.”

Though all he does is just casually burst another ridiculous bubble...“I’m sure they’re fine.”

Right… So next you’re left to watch him scrape bits of pink gum from his lips, and before you know it, a wave of irritation pulls you back to his side.

You’re barely balanced on the edge of the sofa, aiding in his clumsy efforts. Your thumb brushes against his bottom lip, and the air around him gets to your head just instantly, thick with the sugary scent of the sticky residue that you find yourself obliged to help remove... It’s so sugary that it borders on being revolting! Or perhaps it’s your sweet tooth that’s igniting this feeling?

Silly, cause you feed into this quirky theory that butterflies taste like bubblegum, and now that notion takes on a funny twist, well... considering the butterflies dancing in your stomach.

As you pull your fingers away from his lips, a rush of blood roars in his ears and he quickly adds, “Might have something in my bag, let me see.”

And totally! The bag that somehow collected a ton of pendants during this road trip does sit by the sofa, and with Jaehyun lounging back, stretching his arms overhead to grab it, his shirt gets pulled up even higher, & just like that, it becomes the cause for another thing you wish you never said.

Definitely not the sight you were hoping for... The tee hiked up, way above his ribs, exposing a good portion of his slim waist as he giggles, showing off that boyish grin while rummaging through the bag behind... still looking at you.

The eye contact ****

The fcking gum that just so erratically becomes his plaything, getting relentlessly crushed beneath the pressure of his teeth, repeatedly transforming into a sticky mass that fills his mouth, stressing the rugged contours of his strong jawline...

His fucking belly...

The happy trail...

Godsent personal hell!

Your heart is thumping away in your chest and your ribs aren’t exactly doing much to protect it. The stressed thing seems ready to pop like one of his balloons and leave you in an ever-sticker mess...

“Mmmmm...” he hums, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth and pulling a handful of candies from the bag behind him. “Let’s see what we have.”

Placing each treat onto his stomach as if the world were about to erupt in a frenzy of sugar-fueled chaos, Jaehyun carefully begins to arrange each piece, making sure they’re spaced out just right and sorted into rational portions in case such an outbreak actually happens. In no time, a vibrant array of treats sprawls across him and his funky-ridden shirt, everything from lollipops, chewy gums, gummy bears, and sour candies, to little chocolates.

Imagine a carnival! The flashy colors are super distracting, and those chocolate bars are practically begging you to grab them. Still, you can’t help but tease him a bit to annoy him, specially since you’ve been going back & forth for the past three days.

“Really,” you pout cynically, “You took this many?? You’re such a…”

With a burst of laughter that is hearty & sweet, Jaehyun sends the poor candies resting on the very sides of his waist to tumble down onto the sofa as if that earthquake had REALLY made its presence felt.

“Mmmmm- Why would I want to spend money on fancy treats? Besides...” He spaces out for a bit... then remarks with a smirk, “My theory is basically sweets are sweets.”

And he tightens his lips to seem all serious, but honestly, it just makes everything worse. The dude doesn’t even lift a finger to be funny; it’s like humour just radically appears around him, and the stuff he comes up with...

Poof! A total goof or a creative thinker? It really just comes down to your mood at the time.

You grimace once more, shaking your head at him, and subtly shift your weight to your legs rather than sitting on the sofa, your body ready to leap away at the slightest hint of contact.

With an adorable, surprised expression his eyes grow round as he stares at you, “What!?” His brows shoot up too in effort to justify himself.

“That piñata was there for everyone to go wild and, umm- grab whatever they could!” Lifting his hands defensively, he pouts, “Not my fault!”

Aaaand that fucking shirt of his?

Isss at it againnnn!@#£%^*

Your mind is reeling as the candy mountain spills over in a fun avalanche.

No, because why go through all that trouble to arrange them perfectly just to wreck it himself!?

Yeah,

anyway, you find nothing to match that, indeed it was up to anyone to snatch whatever they wanted, it just looks like he had deeper pockets than the rest of you idiots to stash all that stuff, that’s all there is to it. So you give in to the urge to ‘screw it,’ let out another eye roll, and grab a tiny bag of gummy bears.

-

As if he’s achieved something, Jaehyun’s hands find their way back beneath his head, and the flirtatious smile continues in his eyes. He just basks in the moment until your frustration—the sting of yet another cheeky defeat—causes you to fumble to open the bag and so all the gummy bears go flying everywhere. 

Add chaos?

Check!

Is he into it? 

Also, check.

The pack is but what that piñata was a few days ago, bleeding in beautiful colors and gushing all things sweet.

“Ugghhh!!” Tossing your head back, you groan dramatically.

And understandably so!!! While Jaehyun?

He beams as he sticks his tongue in his cheek, and snatches the empty bag from your hands. He casually spits his spent pink gum inside it, takes a pair of gummies from his abs, and gently runs them against his lips before sliding them in...

And t

And it’s so fucking frustrating that this guy has no clue about the importance of breaking eye contact! You’re always left searching for a word that’s stronger than ‘insufferable,’ but really, the dude just constantly goes all out with everything. Legit! 

It drives you crazy. He—

Munching on them playfully, Jaehyun thinks for a moment, swallows, & then quirks an eyebrow, smirking,

“Wanna hear what the gummies just whispered into my mouth?”

What the gummies have what??

You shake your head at his nonsense but arch a brow back. Because if you had to be honest, those jelly babies aren’t the only thing looking to spill some secrets in his mouth... So, yeah, you’re JUST listening! As a matter of fact, you’re all tuned in to catch what absurdity he’s about to dish out next.

Pushing his lips together, a bratty shape that just begs to be kissed, he sits with his answer. There’s something very precious and terribly frustrating about how he keeps his responses close like they’re the best puns ever. Then he eventually smiles, “Thank you for releasing us.”

........ Woaah, they’ve at least been honest with him! Which is... cool...

Cool! Great! Awesome! You next!

“Mmm-hmm,” for dummies, some skeptical eyes and a cynical head nod are all you have...

When the magnitude of his languid x menacing should be studied!!!

Really, a quirky cotton candy man! A sugar. A delicate toxic substance.

Like, fuck! He—He’s just- unbeatable. 

That’s an overwhelming amount of power for him to have... Like, that’s too much hot... Too much sweet… It’s no good… 

Like-

Like the doses got all jacked up when he was made... Accidentally spilled too much of each, and now he’s just a walking health risk.

Catch it!

-

The disease spreads just like it always has—quickly and definitely. This earthtone babe just knows exactly how to get under your skin.

So hard to resist... So hard to not take a bite...

It’s just how it goes, you know?

Things...

Eyes...

Fingers...

& before you realise it, your fingertips glide past his jeans, over to his skin, igniting a rush of sensations with each line you draw across his abs.

Inevitably, the air gets charged with an energy... that’s not innocent. You feel the sparks. Not the good kind of sparks, but the sinful ones... The—

-

It’s like a dream at first, experiencing the thrill of someone yearning for your touch so badly.

Jae is every bit as tough as he looks, but the moment your fingers brush against him, that narrative shifts entirely. It feels like he’s been craving your touch, and those days without it have been an unbearable! fucking! stretch!

Gentle, sensual skin, a supremely royal shade of luxury milk. Everything that’s connected with a beautiful sweet, sweet & touching is associated with him. 

He’s just spot on! And your stomach is growling. And you’re looking for a bite to eat...

In fact, you’re so down bad, your sweet tooth’s at an all-time high; honestly, you’d probably go as far as to start licking him right now.

In a straight line? Curved? In any manner that sparks your creativity? Anything real—

...The hot transference from his skin onto your hand? The way he teases his lip!?? The way he shyly and discreetly raises his hips against your touch as if silently pleading for

Thisss baddieee!!

Reading into all these crazy action bits has you all jittery that you completely jump when his hand lands on your bare thigh, right at the lace border.

nononono-

With a gulp, you instantly! rise from the couch. How—Just why did you end up falling back so e

-

Fast, desperation kicks in- just- again like those moments ago... and you’re back to pacing this same motel room, seeking an escape from him. Except every aspect now feels as if it’s been cranked up to ten times the difficulty.

The reddish-brown timber panels on the walls give off tough prison steel, and the pink carpet feels all squishy and weird under your bare feet right when you need a stable solid... All while Jaehyun is- just- there... planted in place, now seated, legs all spread, on the green sofa. There’s really nothing you can do but hope he stays right where he is. 

But! once something’s set in motion, it stays in motion. Like a wildfire racing thru dry lands, fierce and unstoppable. And you just happened to let a match slip past your fingers a heartbeat ago, screwing everything up...

Naturally, he gets up. Also, that belt of his really accomplishes nothing... it’s just there to be there, so he’s just got to pull up his baggy jeans himself before he can even take a step forward.

& what his rising does is kick off a frantic chase as you two whirl around the room in a relentless spiral, & he’s hot on your tail... The very thought of him catching up on you sends dopamine through your veins, making your pulse quicken.

Plus that stunning smile? Plus his unconditional happiness? Well, both make him even more irresistible but both also complicate things for you. The excitement mounts as he approaches in the chase, each heartbeat making the thrill even stronger; that once he abruptly stops, the sprinting exertion takes its toll.

His breath comes in heavier gasps, his cheeks are flushed with a pinch of peach, and his bangs are a tousled mess, dancing around him like dandelion fluff does in the wind. Just a pure, natural and effortless elegance. He’s so incredibly attractive it almost hurts to look at him.

The tension though peaks as his words build to a sharp climax of a fact.

“You-um- You’ve been avoiding me this whole trip.”

...That sinking feeling in your heart like a rock just hit it? Yeah...

Yeah, you wish that voice of his didn’t resonate through your very being, scraping against every nerve ending, but that’s what it always does. It freezes you in place, making you overwhelmed and powerless. 

It’s kind of wild how bringing up a heavy topic during a playful moment can make it feel that much more sincere. With so many choices, he went right for the thing that drives him crazy, and that should show you what’s on his mind... at least-

But, you-you

Instinctively, you pull the same fuzzy cardigan around you, clinging to it as though it were a barrier against him, and softly slide your hand from your sleeve, unveiling a lollipop—the only item you managed to pocket earlier.

And this should sweep everything away, right?

-

“Mhmmmm,” Jaehyun hums, back on trend —

acting like he didn’t just mention something that could spark a whole conversation...

— though this time he picks up the bat resting by the bedstand which at the beginning of the week tore through that heart piñata...

And currently, with the sun set, the moon in the sky, and the desert sky glowing a delicate lilac blue, his eyes narrow and his sly grin comes in the same old style as he twists the knob of the yellow lamp, teasing, “So... a thief, huh?” 

...It’s as if he’s putting you in the spotlight, pointing out your crime, and calling you out for being a naughty girl.

& sure, he’s got you in that tight spot he wants you in, okay? But you still tilt your head and nibble on your lip, still going at it, “Maaybee.”

-

& as you start to walk backwards, everything is still beside your breath and the gentle thud of the bat as he taps it against different surfaces. Only muted noise of what seems to be Spanish drifts in from the neighboring room, but neither of you pays it much mind.

His hands fist around the bat tightly, consumed with angry adrenaline, & veins bulge along his smooth skin, sending filthy pulses up his arms. 

It’s a sight that attracts goosebumps all along & across your skin, igniting a warmth that curls from your legs to your belly. The same very electrifying rush of adrenaline wraps around you as if he’s pulling you into the grip of that wooden bat... 

Hiss, twist, loosen, and turn, just like how his hands manipulate that wood...

And you know... it doesn’t take much to find yourself backed up against that mahogany wall.

At once, ‘trapped’ takes on an even greater weight than what it meant before. You feel twisted and turned in advance, completely taken apart by the sheer passion in his deep brown eyes.

Jaehyun lifts a brow. He’s all about this vibe. That big toothy smile of his. The way he’s locked in on you. The ‘Just a couple of steps away, baby.’

Uh-huh, but what about that horrible, horrible crave you’ve told yourself you CAN’T have!??

The itch sits on your tongue, fruity in flavour—perhaps strawberry or raspberry—you aren’t sure. A tang that lingers in your memory, the same as of candy gum that had been in the air around him earlier and one which grew bolder with each step he took toward you. This sickness makes you wish that your tongue is already wrapped in his, tightening for a deeper inspection. 

Yikes! Please, let’s just avoid that!

-

To drive away the feeling, you look down to your toes in the cotton carpet, shift your weight, and then peel away the wrapper of the lemon lolly, seeking a bitter flavor to replace the trace of his scent.

Then eventually, accept the proximity between you two as it is - as you let your back land against the wall, hoping the tension will melt away. 

Feeling the lolly along your lips, you grimace at the acid but take it...

And as you look down, even in your peripheral view, it’s clear that Jaehyun is still watching you, & you realize he’s focused on your mouth. & after giving the lollipop a couple of spins on your tongue, you proudly look up, thinking you’re good and that you’ve totally neutralized the crave for him...

-

Because the suddenly too sure of itself face?

Your neck, your collars, the hard candy prodding at your cheek?

The sleek brown silk and the intricate black lace trim which ascends higher on your thigh as you shift your weight to one leg, elegantly placing the other in front as you find your stance? And then the glossy black polish on your toenails as you draw them from a point in the carpet, just barely hovering above it, & in a straight line with him... As in ???

Yeah, absolutely not; that’s far from a quiet invite...

No! You’re totally not just ‘asking for it.’

On the spur, the dynamics shift... As you let the lemon hang in your mouth, Jaehyun abruptly brings his bat up & uses it to delicately move a piece of your hair aside, and then the very tip of the bat makes a gentle tap at the heart of your collars.

Your breath catches in your throat, a fragile spectacle he zeroes in on as your cords constrict, and then, with knitted brows you swallow in the sour juice of the sucker. 

Really!?? What more does he want of your sorry soul when you’re just trying to get through each breath?

But no! You certainly didn’t ask for it… Just remember he’s not one to give up when told to quit. So, either pack your things or choose a better design, Sugar.

Though that’s the very thing... You can’t deny the magnetic pull of Jaehyun’s game...

Sure, you’re feeling the heat from your toes to the top of your head, but let’s keep things in check, yeah?

Feeling the groove, as you pull out the lollipop to give your lips a little lick, your eyes wander down to what could be seen as a ‘dangerous tool’, and you smirk.

Jaehyun sucks in on his lip, very slowly, very cheekily. The guy’s clearly amused with you. 

“Are you seriously just going to keep looking at me like that?” you ask eventually, taking a moment before adding, “I’m not a fan of it.”

“Mmmmm,” he gives his hundredth low hum, tilting his back head just so, & flexing that tight jawline that always seems to be up for something... something explicit and offensive.

However you pout and slide the lollipop right back in your mouth.

“Tasty?”

...You had to know that was coming, right? And so, as the duel continues, you shrug, allowing a slight grimace to escape your lips, piquing his curiosity about the taste he’s missing out on.

& it runs like a charm.

As Jaehyun lets his eyelids droop in the slowest blink imaginable, &, in his infamous deep voice, says, “I waaanna taste.”

Nuh-uh, even if you tried to reject, it wouldn’t make a difference since he’s right in your face; his mouth hanging agape, eager for absolutely, really absolutely! anything you might have to offer... Cause, there’s always room for a shift in sentiments, wouldn’t you agree?

Though the ‘weapon’ somewhat still stays pointed at you...

Take notes!

For sure! But being the fantastic person you are you tap into your generous spirit & pull out the candy with a satisfying pop while Jaehyun stares at you, mischief even spilling out of his open mouth.

With only inches between you, you gently slide the bad sugar in, pushing it along his tongue and unconditionally savoring the moment and the view.

-

His slightly downturned, sultry eyes as you still hold onto the other end of the white plastic, & he keeps sucking on the lemon in his mouth.

Those damn sunken cheeks of his. The tiny scratch on his nose from a few days ago which has mostly healed, but you can still see it.

The dense, dark brows in disagreement with his bleached hair with a still lingering odor of ammonium hydroxide... Really, a look born from a reckless bet on a chaotic road trip—a decision that seemed utterly foolish but now is somehow working in his favor...

In a way, it’s even funny how the flashy hair is soooo out there… but it’s there, being just one aspect of him. Still, you have to admit its impact is real. A gutsy choice that jazzes him up a notch. This new arc he’s projecting, where it seems, he’s flirting a bit more with his impulsive side? Yeah...

Somewhere between handsome and creamy tabby cat... He’s just bursting with the most obnoxious playfulness, and he’s paired with a smile that raises up his dimples.

The way he’s making you curious and wild >>>  He’s so sexy, it’s unmatched...

And you understand the gravity of wanting such a fine man! The—

(!) The despite knowing, yet failing... or at least in what you think you know and what you think is better.

-

You’re completely focused on his lips, and in an instant, reality just seems to melt away like it’s under a spell.

Tis a state... A mood! The ninth cloud where you can’t feel the air or the ground... All there is is his insane eyes scrutinizing your reaction to what he does to the lolly, and it’s honestly the worst kind of pressure.

Finished savouring, Jaehyun’s tongue casually circles his sensuous lips, collecting all possible leftover like he’s just finished you in style.

“Ummm…” Scrunching his nose at the flirty, piquant taste, he takes a step back. Mulls over the candy choice; pushes his cooked bangs; and hesitates before he says, “Nah, this isn’t the one... I-um... I bet there’s something better out there... It’s likeee” suppresses smile in advance of saying it, “It’s just on the tip of my tongue.” His brows flatten too, mans serious! “Help me think?”

OH, Sir!

A treat that can out-beat this bittersweet taste? A goodie that packs an even bigger surprise?

Your always rambling mind goes thoughtless, & that burning need to press on drops off like a light switch. The coming panic. Your gotcha moment. You go quiet. It hits you that this is the first time your playful teasing has backfired and that maybe you can’t be bailed out of what’s to come.

Worse, as it’s one of those silences that just hangs in the air, making things feel more tense. Your self-imposed rules about ‘what you think you know’ and ‘what’s better’ dissolved, leaving you fully present and stimulated.

& Jaehyun digs right in, spreading the cavity...

He lifts the bat again, its tip gently pressing into your belly, and it’s like you can almost feel his warmth seep through it, then past the fragile silken fabric to your skin. 

You get so hot. This bizarre ripple from your legs to your tummy as you tightrope between pleasure and unease, joy and hesitation... It’s like you two are finally on the same wavelength, knowing what the other is about to say before the words even come out.

A delicate crease develops between his bushy brows which deepens as he tenderly whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Jae- don’t.” you murmur, your lips curving into a sorrowful pout as you gently shake your head ‘no.’

Needless to say, something nuanced only you and him know...

The result of everything that’s happened...

The ‘this whole trip has messed up the trajectory of our friendship.’

The reason why he chose to hang back today...

The tactics which kicked in since everyone piled into that Jeep truck this morning & sped away. 

The from ‘getting schooled’ in all the board games to the countless Polaroids he let you snap of him, to that little “I’m sorry” hand peck he gave you that had you making the death stare, and the “Don’t ever try to do that again!”

The rude ‘skin-feeding’ masked behind the pretense of a ‘generous’ food provider.

And how you slipped past every move, pushed back, and resisted until he has put you up against this wall... and now ‘the-no-escape’.

Still and all- your pushback’s like a sport. Be afraid of what follows...

-

For Jaehyun gnaws into the very walls of your sensitivity as if sensuality were his chosen medium. Each deliberate motion of the bat becomes a brushstroke in the masterpiece of your downfall...

He glides it along the contours of your waist, teasingly skimming over your curves, trails it down your legs and inners, and even lifts the hem of your dress just enough to make your skin hurt in anticipation.

Then, it finds its way to your stomach yet again, as if to indicate something deep & unexpressed, before tracing a direct path up your sternum, sweeping along your collarbone until he’s made your cardigan slip down your arm, taking the delicate strap of your dress with it...

So much of ‘Jae, don’t,’ huh? Oh, sweetheart… 

-

Certainly, the last thing you hope he avoids is the very thing Jaehyun does...

Trailing the bat along your jawline, ultimately he rests it under your chin... Something something about a ‘clear display of dominance.’ His insane eyes about render you completely motionless as he insists on glancing between your eyes and your lips the way one searches a dictionary for definitions. Again and Again... And then gravity happens...

In an instant, the bat slips from his grasp and tumbles to the floor, making you flinch as his lips finally find their way to your bare shoulder, where seems like he’s achieved something.

Oh, the bite-

An insidious heat stroke as you moan the most promiscuous hiss there is.

“Jaee, we shou—”

“Baby-”

Vibrationssssssssss...

It comes out even more whiny as he gets all of that word muffled against your neck. It roughly cuts into your focus, seeps into your ears, and goes straight to the wrong place.

The very last thing you feel yourself do is slide left against the wall, scraping for any last escape routes, but he just moves in sync with you.

Up to the moment he—

The sound of yearning?

Jaehyun’s palms slamming into the hardwood, spreading out like wings on either side of you, creating a cage of flesh. Brushing off the idea of consent, his hot body presses against yours.

With his hands up, that whimsical teddy bear tee yet again peels from his jeans. It constricts around his arm sleeves, flexing the impressive curve of his biceps. His veins, too, scrumptiously pushed in motivation: ‘All mine! You can’t outrun this, baby. I’m keeping you right where I want you.’

Really, the rest it’s all in your perception—either a trap or a safe spot.

-

A little motel inside a world of sand... you’ve never felt smaller than you do now with him towering over you—not literally, size in drive and ambition.

You watch yourself fade&wilt in his unsettlingly lazy eyes like Valentine’s flower petals from their vase falling onto the white desk dirtied with graphite from pencil shavings and candy wrappers. 

It’s so desertly calm, that your nails accidentally strike a chord in tune as your hands casually fall past his belt buckle...

A beautiful melody that makes his dimples grow deeper, though he still tilts his head, frowning adorably as he perpetually continues to figure things out just for the sake of figuring things out...

Yeah?

Cos, what is the motive here? As your hands do settle gently at the hem of his jeans, fingers teasingly dipping into the softness of his navel?

Hook + Pull = Gravity.

Oh, man, do you make him feel insane things? Cause you’ve been on your guard for the whole day, some goals are hard!

Are you coming ahead of all his sneaky schemes? Are you a baddie too?

Cause now you’re just holding up a higher card like you’ve been doing in every game today. Maybe you... are... on top of your game... The candy of victory is better when it’s hard...

Gravity... Your lips inch closer. 

Your slightly parted lips & that parched swallow might just give Blondie a hint of how desperately you want him to melt on your tongue. And you’re over worrying about it. You even yank at his necklace.

The way his hair falls over your lashes creates a delightful distraction as your noses nearly collide. And the best you can pretend in this intimacy is filthy, “I still haven’t forgiven you.” 

“Ummmmm...”

On brand! Disturbingly sexy hum that flows like honey—a sugary glaze, coating your lips in a deliciously gooey way. You’re hit with the sting & the toxin even before Jaehyun has a chance to consider kissing you or taking any steps. He smiles, he’s just that awful...

“You will.”

-

Alas,

the abrupt grating noise of tires screeching to a stop cuts through the dull ambience outside. A lively group seems to spill out of the truck, loud and as if they’ve just been recharged. A voice you both instantly recognize calls out, saturated with sarcasm and clearly wanting to grab ‘someone’s’ ears. 

“Greeat! We’ve just rolled into ‘Losers Place!’”

-

What a Dullass Bullshit Scenario... for Losers.

Jaehyun scoffs lightly, giving a flimsy half-eye roll, his lips pursed in a way that shows just how unimpressed he is with the moment... Inexplicable urgency drives his body into yours one last time, likely a final act of connection.

He hadn’t even had the chance to pin your hands above your head or hold your jaw in a way that would leave you feeling completely—

There was no pulling of hair, nor did you wrap your arms around his neck to-to—

Nor did your tongue map out the crossroads on his stomach...

Or—

Clear anger paints your temple, too, each line bearing frustration... Just there’s something about keeping it a secret that bodies the danger factor, making everything feel so much more smoky and intense.

& you pout as much, nudging your nose against his as to where you feel all deprived but electrified by simply- just- doing that, softly whispering against his lips, breath all drenched,

“Do you think they know?”

Girlie, Fuck! Do you know what you do to him?

© 𝟭-𝟰𝟵. do not copy, translate, repost, and modify my works.

[eowynstwin]

Blackbird, Fly - Three

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. - You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time. - content warning for marital rape after the second break. - ao3

previous

“Come,” says Hans, tugging on your arm, “let’s get you ready for the ceremony.”

Your husband-to-be leads you up the porch steps and into the house, long legs carrying him ahead so fast you must practically jog to keep up with him. You stumble when you enter the house—the interior is fantastically well-appointed, with papered walls and carved wood furniture, framed photos hanging beside paintings, pressed flowers, hunting trophies, rifles and knives and old farm equipment. The floor beneath your feet is polished and smooth, spread over in places with thick, fringed rugs. You don’t see much more of it after your initial impression; Hans pulls you along at a clip.

Even such a brief glimpse, though, proves your long-held assumptions about Hans and his livelihood; his family has done well for itself, over the years. The kitchen, dining room, and sitting room are all separate from each other, and the manor’s first floor alone is larger than the small farmhouse you grew up in. Your family always made an effort to present a comfortable, clean home, but it seems downright drab in memory now in comparison to this.

There’s a bit of a bustle going on as Hans tugs you along—you hear movement in the kitchen, punctuated by the clang of dishes moving to and fro. A rough voice grinds out something short, and a couple of cowboys emerge with covered dishes that they set on the dining table before they return back into the fray. In the sitting room, an older woman with short, sandy brown hair sits at a desk, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She glances up at you, betrays no interest, and then ignores you.

“You’ll meet everyone at the ceremony,” Hans says. He directs you up the stairs. “Right now you need something nice to wear.”

“O-oh,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirt as you climb the steps. The fabric, purchased at a discount after you’d saved pennies and nickels for months, suddenly feels thin and insubstantial between your fingers.

Hans brings you into the main bedroom, equally well-designed with molded wood paneling and brass lanterns on the walls, where he goes to a chest at the foot of the massive bed four-poster bed. Everything you’ve seen so far in this house is much finer than what even the most well-to-do farmers back home could display; you used to imagine that wealth like this could only be within the reach of select few businessmen on the east coast. You never imagined you’d have the chance to marry into it.

“I think this should suit you,” says Hans, turning to you with a stack of clothing in one hand.

You take it from him when he proffers it—a skirt, blouse, and jacket, you find. The fabric is silky in your hands, glossy and cool to the touch and very fine. You shake out the skirt; yards of bustled fabric tumble open to reveal pleated gathers, elegant bows, and velvet trim. The paired jacket is much the same, with pearl buttons down the front, and the accompanying blouse is a weave of tight, delicate lace.

Your earlier fears are soundly confirmed; you are in no way dressed for a wedding to Hans König. Gaz had only been trying to be kind; being here, now, seeing the kind of splendor Hans lived with every day, no one could make the mistake that you could measure up on your own.

“Thank you, Hans,” you say, face warming with embarrassment.

“Think nothing of it,” says Hans, looking you up and down expectantly. “Go on.”

You blink. “Ex—excuse me?”

Hans raises his brows as if it should be obvious. “Why, let’s see you in it, dear girl.”

You blanch. Surely he isn’t suggesting…“But—well, Hans, we aren’t—we haven’t—”

“My dear, I’ve already promised to marry you. Why would I go to such expense on a wedding merely to fool you into showing me your underthings?”

You drop your gaze to the floor, cheeks burning. “It’s not proper.”

“Bah,” says Hans. He takes the clothes back from you, tosses them onto the bed, and brings his hands to the buttons down your front. “It’s not like I won’t see this again in a few hours.”

You are rooted to the spot. He unbuttons your dress with an alacrity that startles you; in a few short moments, he makes an opening wide enough to slip over your shoulders, and unceremoniously he pushes the collar open and lets the dress drop to the floor.

You blink several times. You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time; do they feel suddenly like they’ve been skinned? Does the air suddenly feel much closer, more real than it had before? You remember shearing season on a neighbor’s farm, the angular planes of shortened fleece cropped close to twitching flesh. The sheep had looked unfinished after the deed was done—like wooden figurines only partly whittled.

When you look to Hans’ face, you find him gazing at the tight space where your chemise tucks into the line of your corset. Then, as if in a dream, he reaches out with one huge hand and cups the mound of one breast.

The air vacates your lungs. It’s the first time a man has ever touched you this way.

When young ladies of a certain age gather to socialize, matters of discussion inevitably tend toward the prurient. Your peers delighted in sharing the wealth of erotic experience they’d accrued; trysts in larders, late graveyard meetings, dizzying accounts of hands and mouths in places that sent shame pumping hot and curious through your veins. You lived vicariously through their adventures; opportunities for your own, with three older brothers and a protective father, were nonexistent.

The embarrassing fact is that in matters of your marital duties, you received no practical education.

The one time your mother, a modest woman, saw fit to tutor you, she’d taken you out to the small enclosure in which the family goats were kept. The animals were useful for milk and occasionally meat, so there was always a breeding pair at hand. This occasion, they served the additional use of instruction; the male was rutting.

Your mother had made you watch as the billy mounted the nanny, and shoved its little goat prick into her hindquarters. The billy seemed mindless with want, ferocious, gyrating its hips uncomfortably, which the nanny took with what seemed like resigned patience, if it was paying attention at all. Once the billy finished, it dismounted, chewed its cud a little bit, and walked off. The nanny seemed unperturbed, rather detached from the whole thing, and similarly continued with whatever it had been doing before.

“It’s about like that,” said your mother, unable to look you in the eye.

So you have little knowledge of the matter.

And you have no idea what to do now, as your husband-to-be fondles you and stares down at you with what seems like only idle interest. Hans’ thumb brushes over the space where your nipple would be, hot even through layers of cotton and whalebone. The fine hairs on your arms raise, standing straight up.

What are you supposed to do now? Touch him back? Your stomach turns over at the thought. Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how. Hans is touching you so casually, as if you’ve been his wife for years, but you are as poor in wifely instinct as you are in everything else.

“Lovely,” he says, eyes locked on the place where your chest is rapidly rising and falling.

You inhale shakily. This is fine. He wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t—of course it’s all right, you’re to be married within the hour. It’s only your breast, and only his hand, and it’s over your clothes. It’s fine.

“May—” your voice comes out dry. You clear your throat. “May I dress now, Hans?”

He smiles. You note that he has a thin-lipped smile, and his eyes do not crinkle at the corners. “Of course.”

-

When the guests have all arrived, when the world around you is bathed in the orange-gold light of the setting sun, and when the mandolin plays the bridal chorus, you join Hans König under an archway of lupine and Indian paintbrush. Evening gives way to night as the last day of your old life comes to a close, ending as you say the words that until now you’ve only whispered in the night at your bedside.

For better—for worse—as long as you both shall live. Over and over again, until your tongue recognized the shape of them like the Lord’s Prayer. As if practicing them enough would speed the hour to you all the sooner in which their vow became real.

Hans kisses you for the second time, and then together, arm in arm, you turn to face the congregation’s applause.

Stars begin peeking white faces through the dimming sky as the band strikes up a tune, and as the reception commences, you must shake hands with the whole county. The priest John MacTavish insists upon introducing himself first—a younger man, with vivid blue eyes and an unusual haircut, gives his congratulations in a husky Scottish brogue entirely inappropriate for a man of the cloth. He’s followed by the sheriff, Simon Riley, who practically chases him off—another tall man, near to your husband’s height, and twice as broad. Curiously, he wears a bandanna across the lower half of his face. His greeting to you is gruff, short—polite in a way that seems unnatural for him.

Next is a slightly older woman, splendidly dressed in lace-trimmed taffeta. She comes over to kiss your cheeks in the French style. Hans ducks his head as she smiles at you; you can’t help but feel similar trepidation. She is terribly striking, with delicate creases on either side of her mouth and a mysterious twinkle in her eye.

“The hotel in town is my establishment,” she tells you. “The bath house, as well.”

“Oh,” you say, “how lovely.”

Her smile quirks at the corners; she looks at Hans, then back to you, and softly chucks your chin. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you, darling?”

“Yes, Madame, thank you,” your husband says quickly as your face sets to blazing. “I believe others would like to speak to us, as well, if you don’t mind.”

She gives you another enigmatic smile, tightens the light chiffon wrap around her shoulders, and leaves you to the banker and his wife, who both eagerly step up to talk your ear off.

Farmers, other ranchers, ramblers and gamblers and trappers; it seems everyone in the state has come to pay you their respects, and they all want to meet you at the exact same time. The rough voice you heard in the kitchen manifests itself in the form of a burly man with mutton chops, who introduces himself as John Price the saloon owner. A young woman with an unsmiling face named Ms. Boucher tells you your first purchase at her dry goods store will be discounted by five percent, as a welcome gift from her to you. She punctuates the statement with a narrow-eyed look at your husband, but you have no time to wonder at it before the next guests capture your attention.

A whole line of Hans’ cowboys, headed by the woman you saw working at the writing desk when you arrived, form up to tell you their names and pledge you their loyalty, still dressed in their wrangling leathers but bathed and combed and polished for the occasion nonetheless. The woman introduces herself as Kate Laswell, the foreman.

“I took care of the accounting after Anna passed,” Laswell says to you. “Tomorrow I’ll go through the books with you. It’ll be your job from now on.”

“Now, Kate, you shouldn’t discuss business at my wedding,” says Hans, politely, but somewhat terse. “And besides, that would be far too much for my new bride.”

“Hans, I told you,” you say earnestly, referencing a summer letter, “I want to be a part of things.”

He smiles genially at you—but the expression seems tight. “Of course, dear.”

“Tomorrow,” Kate says to you. Curiously, she looks you up and down. Then, “You’ll need to see the tailor, as well, I think.”

Her words are not said unkindly, but they shame you anyway, reminding you just how poorly matched as yet you are to this life. When you’d put the dress on earlier, it had been immediately clear to you that it was not made to your measurements, but you hadn’t thought it would be so obvious to anyone else. Only Hans’ cowboys proceeding to introduce themselves saves you from having to respond.

One is conspicuously absent.

Unexpectedly, it hurts. Even though it shouldn’t. Gaz had only driven you here, after all. You’ve known him less than a day. It shouldn’t disappoint you, as you keep your eyes on the moving line, that he does not come forward, but it does.

In between meeting the county folk, you manage to get a few bites of the wedding feast—prime rib, lamb chowder, baked fish, seasoned potatoes, collard greens, fried tomatoes, sourdough biscuits, and three different fruit cobblers still somehow steaming from the oven. You and Hans cut the bride’s cake, an impressive sheet of angel food and ivory buttercream that he must have procured at outrageous cost; you are not embarrassed to wolf it down in front of Hans’ guests. It’s the sweetest, softest thing you’ve ever eaten, more delicate than you ever could have imagined any food could be.

As the sky darkens overhead, the faint cloud of the milky way coalesces in the light of the waxing moon, and the band takes up a lively jig as the wedding party sallies forth to the clearing to dance arm in arm. Your husband whirls you along with them, arm around your waist, and then you’re dancing, too, and the familiar two-step lifts your flagging spirits as the cool night air runs quick, soft fingers across your burning cheeks.

So what if some cowboy hadn’t made it to your wedding? You’re dancing with your husband, after months of longing for him; everything and everyone else is inconsequential laid up against this triumph.

Faces blur in the lamplight the night falls indigo around you, and as the music changes Hans twirls you into a new set of arms in a jaunt that has everyone exchanging partners. They hold you only briefly before the music changes again, and off you bounce to another, the world spinning around you faster and faster, jubilant and surreal, and then another—

Suddenly you are in Kyle Garrick’s arms.

He catches you like lassoing a runaway horse, taking your momentum into the pillar of his body as he winds you in close. One of his hands spreads warm across your back, fingers spanning what feels like the entire breadth of your waist. His other cradles your own in his palm, long fingers folded around it like an envelope. You fit against him easily, perfectly, like a couple illustrated in a storybook.

“Mr. Garrick,” you gasp.

“Mrs. König,” he says.

Suddenly you realize you’re out of breath. You take deep gulps of air, and Gaz’s scent permeates your lungs. Lavender soap and bay rum, polished leather, sweet hay. The soft, dense curls of his hair are combed and parted a little, and the short stubble he’d greeted you with on the train platform is tonsured down flush to his jaw.

He leans in closer to you, hovers his lips near to one ear. “You changed your dress.”

He doesn’t keep pace with the other dancers, or swing you around in time with the music; he lets the world slow around you both, the music falling away as he brings the pace of your heart down with soft line of his mouth and the steady, still look in his dark eyes. His hand on your back radiates so much warmth that it cuts through the evening chill just beginning to set in, as if his palm is directly against your naked skin.

You smile meekly. “It wasn’t appropriate for a wedding.”

His dark brows pull together; his hands tighten their purchase on you. You watch him avert his eyes from you, take a great breath in through flared nostrils.

“Mr. Garrick,” you say, feeling too honest, “do you disapprove of me?”

He snaps his gaze back to you. “Why would you think that?”

You swallow. “You don’t seem very pleased, whenever we talk, is all.”

Suddenly Gaz smiles—lets out a short, sharp laugh that bares his even teeth, shows the points of his canines. “That’s not your fault. I promise you.”

“Then what is it?”

He gazes at you. Lamplight casts the angles of his face in shadow, deepens the darkness of his eyes. His shoulder is solid beneath where your hand rests, shaped hard by a life on the range; you could lay the entirety of your weight against him, you think, and he wouldn’t even sway with holding you up. There’s something very present about Kyle Garrick. Something real. It draws you in like the earth draws the moon into its orbit.

“Do you really want this?” he asks you.

You blink. “Of course I do.”

“You hardly know him.”

“I’ve known him for half a year, Mr. Garrick,” you say, somewhat unsure how much explanation you owe this cowboy. After all, you’d vowed to earn his trust, as his employer’s new wife. “I know you might have some reservations about me. I understand, really.”

“No,” says Gaz immediately, dark brows low and serious over his eyes. “Not about you.”

“Mrs. König!” an accented voice calls.

Immediately the world speeds up around you again, music crashing back into your ears, wedding guests spinning and leaping around you, and you turn to see your husband standing at the edge of the clearing.

The dancing comes to a halt at the sound of his voice; Hans outstretches one hand toward you.

“I believe it is time for us to retire,” he says.

Gaz’s hands tighten on you again. You feel the eyes of the other dancers on the two of you, tight lines of attention between you and them.

You have felt it all evening, really—the undercurrent lining every conversation, the askance looks tossed at you and your husband when no one thought you’d notice. The pervading sense of some drama playing out just outside of your comprehension.

You turn to look back at Gaz. His mouth is pressed into a hard line. The wells of his eyes are ink-dark, opaque, eclipsed by something of a shape beyond your knowing. He says nothing as he holds your gaze, only watches you with an expectation so stoic, so resigned, that you feel almost guilty for releasing him.

He lets you go as if his grasp wasn’t even tight in the first place. You turn away from him, from the stone-hard expression on his face, and go to slide your fingers into your husband’s waiting hand.

Wolf-whistles populate the night air as he smiles approvingly, nods, and leads you away. Short bursts of knowing applause behind you draw your shoulders tight together.

“Ignore them,” says Hans, tucking your hand into the crook of his arm. “They’re just fools.”

You look back over your shoulder. Gaz still stands amid the dancers, a wide berth around him. His eyes have not left you; they pierce you in the night, sharp even as the distance between you grows.

You have only one other point of reference, aside from your mother’s tutelage, for how the end of this evening might go. A topaz glimmering in the folds of your memory.

Years ago, before the shine had worn off as it usually does with older siblings, you’d worshiped your oldest brother like he was Jesus Christ returned. You’d trailed after him like a newborn pup, dogging his every step, hoping your devotion would earn you even the smallest scraps of his affection. You’d watched his comings and goings like you could divine the mysteries of God from the merest angle of his movements.

One night, far past the time when everyone should be asleep, he’d slipped out of the small three-room house your family shared. You knew, because you slept closest to the door, and by then could recognize him by the rhythm of his footsteps. Like any nosy little sibling, you’d followed him out once you were sure he couldn’t hear you behind him.

He’d made his creeping way toward the barn, his path and yours lit only by a waxing moon. You remember, sneaking along after him, noticing a dim glow emanating from the cracks in the hayloft door, and guessed that your brother had realized he’d forgotten to snuff a lantern before going to bed—and now he was going to put it out, rather than leave a hay fire to chance.

He went inside. You were about to follow (no sibling, however divine, was exempt from a good ribbing, and nearly burning down the barn was excellent blackmail fodder)—when you heard another voice.

A female voice. Soft, and sweet, and welcoming.

Very little preamble separated that revelation from the next, and what you heard in the following moments rooted you there in place; movement. Rustling. For the span of a few heartbeats, nothing except for the crickets in the fields—and then, like the moon rising on a cloudless night—a growing chorus, voices high and low, moaning together in staccato.

You’d stood there, frozen absolutely solid, as it went on. The high voice lifted higher, and higher, carried on frantic, rapid breaths, until it cut off with a shriek that muffled so fast you knew your brother had covered the girl’s mouth.

Then—quiet, shared laughter.

So you know a little more than what the goats taught you.

Hans leads you back inside the house, where the lanterns have been turned to low, orange specks of light. You fix your eyes on the nape of his neck ahead of you as the two of you climb the stairs, making your way back to the master bedroom. The cacophony of the wedding celebration is far away; he opens the door, draws you inside, and shuts it behind him.

You stand in the middle of the room, looking at him. This whole evening has felt like a dream, but as you gaze at your husband, you suddenly feel like you’re waking up. You have not been alone with Hans since you met him, not really, and you realize he hasn’t felt quite real to you because of it. You almost feel as if you can see him, for the first time, see the words that have made him up in your memory coalesce into the flesh-and-blood man standing before you.

This is him. This is Hans. This is the man you love.

Softly, you approach him. Reach up with two hands to take his face in them; press your lips, shyly, unpracticed, to his.

“Hans,” you say, more softly than you have ever said anyone’s name in your life, looking into the pale blue of his eyes.

He gazes down at you. “Let’s get undressed,” he says.

It’s the moment you expected, but it daunts you nonetheless. You nod, step away from your husband, and he sets to the task—he shucks his coat, dropping it on the floor, and unhooks his suspenders. Swiftly you turn away from him when he begins unbuttoning his shirt, face blazing—of course, you’ve seen men undress before, you have three brothers, but this—this—

The reality of what you are about to do douses you all at once, soaking you to the bone. When you bring your hands up to the buttons of your bodice, they are trembling; you can barely get the tiny pearls between your fingers to undo them. You hear more clothes land on the floor behind you as you struggle, and then nothing. Stillness.

His eyes are heavy on your back. He is silent as you finally get the jacket off, and the blouse along with it; he is silent as you push the skirt down over your hips, the garment piling on the floor.

Your whole body is shaking by the time you’re down only to your chemise, shivering like a foal on new legs as you bare your shoulders. You close your eyes. There’s no need to be afraid as you shuffle the garment down your back. It’s only your husband behind you, looking at you as you bare your buttocks, as you step out of the split shorts, as the cool night air caresses your naked belly.

“That’s enough,” Hans says behind you when your hands go to the ties on your stockings.

You go still.

“Get on the bed, now.”

-

You focus on your breathing. Long breaths, in and out, as you crawl belly-first onto the mattress, which sinks luxuriously under your weight, softer than any bed you’ve lain on in your life. Suddenly, before you have time to adjust, the mattress sinks even more under you, and an envelope of heat and weight looms over you, pressing hard onto you, bare skin and the smell of sweat and the sound of another person’s breathing over you invading your senses.

Then there’s something blunt nudging at the entrance of your sex. A hand on your hip, gripping tight. The blunt thing circles briefly, parting your folds, and then is pressing into you. Pressing in somewhere tight, somewhere that doesn’t want to open to let it in. You hold your breath. It presses harder, fighting the resistance, and then finally gets past it, just a half inch or so—and suddenly it hurts.

“Hans,” you whisper.

He hasn’t seem to have heard you. He pushes harder, just a bit further. There’s another wall of resistance, this one needling and far more solid. You gasp sharply at the dryness of it, the way his member seems to want to push your own folds up into you as it tries to get in, shoving, bludgeoning, and then, mercifully, Hans pulls away.

It’s on the tip of your tongue to suggest that maybe the two of you try this later. Clearly there is something about you that’s not ready for it—but then his hand is between your legs, smearing something slippery around, and just briefly he touches something that pulses with interest. You jolt as little sparks of pleasure dance through you but quickly burn out, and then, the blunt head of his cock is back, pushing in, much faster, much smoother, huge and hard—

Suddenly it is sharp inside you, razor sharp, paralyzing. You shriek in pain, tears welling acidic in your eyes, shocked, betrayed, and he keeps coming, an endless length of him forcing inside, making room where there is none, going somewhere it clearly must not belong—and then he groans, loud and guttural, and begins to pull out.

You don’t have enough time to mistake this for the end of it. He pulls out halfway and then rams back in, slamming against your body, punching what must be the very limit of the space he can make for himself in your body. Pain roars to life around his cock, radiating outward, a ripping and shredding that grows as he forces himself into you again, and then again, and then it’s happening for real, he’s begins thrusting so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs, slapping his hips against your backside as he grunts and groans behind you like a dumb animal. He batters some nexus of agony that sends you screaming, shrieking with every jerk of his hips, tears streaming down your face as you grip the blanket in clawed fingers.

“Please, Hans, stop, please!”you wail. “Stop, stop, stop—”

His hand grips back of your head, turning your face downward—pressing it against the bed, muffling your mouth and nose and eyes into the blanket—

He jerks against you as agony writes itself into your bone marrow. Your hands circle in on themselves so tightly you feel your fingernails bite into your palms. Any memory of laughter you ever had abandons you.

Then, suddenly, mercifully, he’s forcing himself into you as deeply as he can, groaning loud, and something warm blooms in you, squelches out warm and sticky as he pulls in and out a few more times. He stills then from his furious rutting, hanging over you, panting.

Then he pulls out. Your husband lets you go and rolls over, breathing hard on the bed. You lay absolutely dead still, shaking violently, every muscle in your body tensed up painfully tight.

“Hans,” you whimper, “Hans.”

“Mm-hm,” he hums.

“Hans.” Every nerve is vibrating with pain. “Hans, that hurt.”

There is a long silence after. So long, you start to believe that he won’t say anything; that perhaps, even, he’s fallen asleep, and your words have dropped like flies from the air between you before they reached him.

But he hasn’t fallen asleep. Your husband shuffles off the bed, lifts the linen, and shuffles back into it. The lantern light is dim in the bedroom, but light enough that you can see the nonplussed expression on his face.

“Anna got used to it,” he says finally, eyes closing. “You will too.”

And he turns on his side and says no more to you.

You lay there aching. When you drag your fingers through the slick mess between your thighs, streaks of red intermingle with the clear and the white.

Suddenly you want this day to be over. You want to close your eyes and dream that it never happened—or maybe, if you go to sleep, you’ll awaken to find that it was all a dream after all, and you’re still home, your mother cooking just outside the bedroom door. Slowly, you inch off the bed, finding the floor with your stockinged feet, and go to douse the lanterns.

The room is cold and silvery without their light. Darkness gathers in the corners, around the weak glow of moonlight failing to fully penetrate the curtains over the window. You gingerly swipe the cloth from a nearby washbasin between your legs, cleaning up the remnants of your husband’s pleasure, and then, with nowhere else to go, you return to the empty side of the bed and crawl stiffly under the covers.

He does not stir as you settle in beside him. You lay your head on the pillow next to his and fold your hands over your stomach.

Outside and far away, you think you can hear the band still merrily playing. The darkness deepens, and deepens, until you can’t tell where it ends and you begin.

-

next

[the-midnight-blooms]

from the artist's studio | cs

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 to 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."

•••

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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

[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. 

—

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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

[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.

[artist-kreating-stuff]

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.

[optimisticgrey]

A Song of Love and Loss, Part 12: Celeste

Pairing: Named Tav (Celeste), Halsin, Gale, Astarion

WC: 4936

Warnings: This scene contains themes of deep emotional distress.

Read on AO3

Song recommendation

Celeste doesn’t remember the last time she felt this kind of peace. The sun hasn’t risen yet, and the darkness still holds sway, but it no longer looms or casts threatening shadows. The city remains quiet, its usual hum stilled, and she savors the moment with her eyes closed. The linens beneath her fingers are crisp and clean, soft against her skin. She instinctively reaches toward Gale’s side of the bed, but her fingertips meet only the lingering warmth of where he had been. A soft smile spreads across her lips. She opens her eyes slowly. She doesn’t need to guess where he is, the faint clatter of utensils and the gentle rhythm of movement in the kitchen speak volumes. For the first time in months, she rises with less pain. It’s not gone entirely. Her ribs still ache, and her muscles protest as she moves. But the sharp edge has dulled. The worst of the wounds have healed, and though she can’t say how long she has slept, she feels helped amplify her dearest people’s magic. Her gaze drifts around the room, taking in its details in the faint light. Nothing has changed. Gale hasn’t changed a single thing in her absence. Even the chests she uses to store her clothes, much to his chagrin, remain undisturbed. He still hasn’t bought her a wardrobe, despite his exaggerated protests. Everything is as it should be, as if waiting for her return. That’s when she notices it: a shirt of his, crumpled and forgotten on the floor beside his side of the bed. Bending slowly, she picks it up. The moment she buries her face in the fabric, the scent of him washes over her. Warm, comforting, with faint notes of parchment and tea, the kind of scent that feels like an embrace. It smells like himself. It smells like home.

She holds the shirt tightly in her hands, letting the feelings wash over her, grounding herself in the simplicity of this moment. Then, slipping the shirt over her head, she finds it too large, the sleeves hanging loose, but it feels perfect all the same. Scratch lies curled near the bed, his soft breaths even. She crouches briefly, giving him a gentle pat without waking him, then rises and makes her way out of the bedroom. The house is dark and quiet, but it brims with a strange, familiar beauty. The floor creaks beneath her steps in the way she remembers, each groan a reassurance. The wood panels feel distinct under her bare feet, and the faint scent of tea, dust, and old books hangs in the air, mingled with the lingering aroma of something Gale must have cooked. As she passes through the hallway, her gaze falls on the small paintings and arcane scribbles pinned to the walls. Each detail a snapshot of their life together. Her eyes pause on the wedding portrait Gale’s mother had insisted on. It hangs in the hallway, its placement more an act of avoidance than display. She takes in Gale’s forced smile, his hand awkwardly resting on her shoulder, and her own image in a deep purple dress she would never have chosen. It earns a faint chuckle before she moves on. In the kitchen, the room glows faintly, lit by the fire in the oven they had repositioned to the center of the space. The surrounding counters have been cleaned, the shelves below and up the wall organized. Gale has been busy, he usually enjoys a certain level of clutter. Cut vegetables left for later use, half an apple dipped in lemon to keep it from browning. A bottle of milk he got from the cellar just to pass a sip into his teas.

Celeste notices the teapot on the stove and reaches for a dangling cup. The herbal tea surprises her. Halsin’s choice. She slowly embraces the cup with her hands, enjoying the warmth of it slowing working it’s way into her fingers. The steam rising to her face tickles a little but feels nice and warm. For a moment, she lets the sensations flow over her.

“Celeste?” Gale’s voice is soft, laced with surprise and concern. It pulls her from her thoughts, and her eyes flutter open. He steps closer, worry etched into every line of his face.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, my love. Are you alright? Whatever you need, I’ll fetch it for you.” “I woke up and you were not there,” Celeste answers but her mind is somehow…slow. She struggles to find the right words to express herself, her mind heavy and uncooperative. She carefully sips from the tea and smiles as their eyes meet. His eyes, dark and expressive, endlessly deep, are what she has always loved most about him. Though Gale is capable of weaving words into intricate truths or necessary lies, she has always been able to see the raw honesty in his gaze. She reaches out to hug him and a shudder shaking her to her core runs through her body as he embraces her. “Gale.” “Celeste,” he murmurs, burying his face in her hair. For a moment, they just hold each other. “Were you in the garden?” she asks quietly, clinging to him and Gale nods. She can feel the conflict tensing him. He wants to guide her back to bed, to cocoon her in blankets and soothe her back to sleep, but she knows he won’t press the matter. Gale understands that convincing her to rest when she doesn’t wish to would be a losing battle. “I am indeed. You see, while you were… absent,” his voice trails off momentarily as he clears his throat, “it became something of a custom for Halsin and me to share a pot of late tea.” Celeste smiles, gently stroking the back of his head. Simply holding him. “I am glad you are reconnecting. This might benefit both of you.” “I understand, Celeste,” he says carefully, moving just enough to look at her. His hands gently cups her cheek, she reaches for it to kiss it. His hand is wonderfully warm and soft. She wonders if she has ever noticed it before. “What do you understand, my love?” She askes gently, somehow still lost in his eyes. Did they always sparkle like this? “How you feel for him. What you feel for him. And what you need of me in all this… I confess, I didn’t plan to broach this subject so soon. But here you are, out of bed and joining us in the garden,” he said, hesitating for a moment before offering a gentle smile. “I understand that you love and need him.” “I do,” she smiles weakly, her eyes searching his face. “But I always have and you have always known. What has changed?” “That much is true, my love,” he replies, a trace of pride colouring his voice. “I could never have managed your absence without his help. And to be honest, I barely managed at all.” His shoulders fall in a heavy sigh. “I regret how I handled everything in the past and see now how much pain I caused you. Please, allow me to make amends. Let me mend what I’ve broken by giving you the love and support you’ve always deserved.” Celeste smiles warmly, raising her hand to his cheek. “Gale, my love, what are you talking about? You have always loved me deeply.” Finding the right words is incredibly hard and costs her more strength than she anticipated. “Forgive me,” she smiles weakly. “My mind is still slow and somehow…heavy? I have problems finding the right words. Can we sit in the garden? Just for a moment.” “Certainly, my love. Allow me to fetch you a blanket; it’s rather chilly out there.” Celeste refills her cup and walked slowly. She is not feeling unsteady on her feet, yet makes sure to take every step deliberately. Gale comes rushing back, sliding a blanket around her shoulders and offers one for her legs as well. As Celeste enters the garden, she freezes. Her mind stumbles, struggling to comprehend the scene before her. Halsin leans casually against the porch, his legs stretched out, his pipe releasing faint wisps of smoke. He looks up, his smile warm and inviting. But it’s the figure on the grass that steals her breath. Astarion.

Continue on AO3

[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:

[creations-by-chaosfay]

I can't tolerate a messy work space due to my spaces being REALLY small (sewing room is 8x10 feet), my talent for falling (hEDS, epilepsy, ear issues), and an intense fear of having rats/mice/ants in my home. I keep things really tidy. Next year, I'm hoping to paint my walls and install some shelves on them when the room is dry. The shelves will have hooks on the bottom of most, and a dowel rod on the bottom of two others. Those shelves will be above the cubbies holding my fabric, and the rods are for hanging some personal quilts to decorate the space, absorb sound, and help keep out the cold. The quilts will serve much the same purpose as tapestries, which is why I'll be making bookshelf quilts for the bedroom, and some decorative wallhanging quilts for the living room, and possibly dining room.

Small tip: If you're low on space, make wall quilts with pockets. Or make fabric buckets you can hang on the walls. Those will hold more and be adorable.

I have two sets of those cubby cube shelves, and they each hold nine of the cube bucket things. My cutting table has LOADS of storage, and I've got scraps organized in clear plastic bins set up under the cutting table. Most of my notions are stored in the drawers of the cutting table, or a plastic drawer side table thing my mother got for me. It's technically supposed to go under my desk, but it doesn't fit. Next to it is just fine. I have five sets of brown plastic drawers that are supposed to look like wicker, and they each have three drawers. They store pulled fabric and patterns for planned quilts, sewing machine manuals, Crown Royal bags I've been given for quilts, and some random things as well.

I have my patterns organized on two bookshelves, and they're in magazines, binders, and books. I also have patterns stored in two clear plastic bins used for storing hanging files. Those patterns are mostly foundation paper piecing patterns and templates. It takes no time for me to five patterns I want, especially since I have pages in magazines marked for placemats, table runners, and panel quilt patterns. The small patterns are less common in magazines, hence marking the pages with post-it tab strips. There are also probably around a thousand patterns stored on my PC's external hard drive, plus a few are on my tablet, which I have in my sewing room.

Any tips and tricks for organizing you would like to share?

[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.