#collector mr small

[make-me-imagine]

Something Perfect, Something New

Plot: Geon-Woo and Woojin hit it off with the new server at Geon-Woo's mothers cafe, more than any of them are expecting.

Pairing: Geon-Woo x Gn!Reader x Woojin

Request: reader recently moving to Korea (you don’t have to be specific about where she’s from) and taking on a job as a barista in Gun-woo’s mum’s cafe? (I’d imagine she has bigger aspirations later on but we all need to start somewhere, right?) And while the dude bros pay a visit to Gun-woo’s mum they also meet her and hit it off? This can evolve into something romantic for sure ✨

Requested by: @auraee

Warnings: Mentions of being followed/stalked towards the end, creepy guy. but don't worry Geon-woo and Woojin come to the rescue. References to a Poly-Relationship.

A/n's: I hope you meant for this to elude to a poly relationship because that's what happened! lol I see Geon-Woo's name spelled different all the time so I hope I went with the correct spelling (its geon-woo in show descriptions, and gun-woo in translations, but idk which one it really is) I started writing this a few months ago and just came back to it, so if you notice a change in tone or vibes halfway through that's why.

Words: ~4.4k

You smiled brightly at a couple leaving the cafe as you said goodbye. The evening was drawing near, as was the end of your first week at your new job.

After making the sudden, and quite terrifying decision to leave everything behind and move to Seoul to start over, you landed a job at a cafe.

The owner, Yoo So-Yeon had been gone for a while after her cafe was nearly destroyed by debt collectors. She had told you about how her son and his best-friend helped her, and she finally felt secure enough to come back. Though she didn't give much detail, you could tell the ordeal had a toll on her and her family.

You had heard she needed help after re-opening and were lucky enough to land the job. Now you were settling in and trying to discover yourself all over again.

"Quite a busy day today huh?" Mrs. Yoo said with a smile as she walked past you.

You nodded as you finished cleaning off a table, "Nothing we can't handle though."

She let out a soft laugh as she patted your shoulder. She was fond of you, and you of her. She helped you get settled into the unfamiliar city, and had even cooked for you various times. You were glad you met her.

Hearing the cafe door open you glanced up, wondering if someone missed the 'CLOSED' sign Mrs. Yoo had just put up. Seeing two tall attractive men enter you felt your heart skip a beat.

"Ah, there you two are!" Mrs. Yoo greeted happily as she walked over to the two grinning men.

'That must be her son and his friend.'

You watched them for a minute as they spoke, before the one you assumed was Mrs. Yoo's son, due to the scar on his face she had mentioned, glanced over and caught sight of you.

You felt your heart jolt as you bowed your head lightly in greeting and smiled.

Mrs. Yoo followed Geon-Woo's line of sight and exclaimed with a small clap. "Oh, yes! You finally get to meet!"

Mrs. Yoo walked over to you before grabbing you by the wrist and leading you over to the two men.

"This is Y/n, the one who I hired to help. Y/n, this is my son Geon-Woo and this is Woojin."

You smiled at them, "It's nice to finally meet you."

The two of them bowed in greeting smiling at you. Geon-Woo had known his mother hired you, but hadn't made the trip over to meet you, seeing you now, he wished he had.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and as Woojin subtly nudged his arm, he knew his friend was feeling the same thing.

Now sitting around one of the tables, Mrs. Yoo brought over some coffee. You could feel Woojin and Geon-Woo eyeing you, and every time you looked at them they quickly looked away.

You wondered if they feared you would do Mrs. Yoo harm after all that had happened to her. But this fear of suspicion quickly faded as they started asking you questions and talking energetically, as if they were just curious about you.

Your conversation with the two men lasted almost two hours, and you tried to ignore the sly and amused looks Mrs. Yoo was giving the three of you. You couldn't help but wonder if she might try and set you up with one of them.

Eventually, Mrs. Yoo told you to go home before it got too late. The two men offered to walk you home, and after an attempted refusal that went unheard, you gave in and allowed it.

Your conversation flowed as you walked home, and by the time you got to your door, you felt as though you had known the two for ages.

Three weeks had passed since your first meeting with Geon-Woo and Woojin. You had become closer to them than you had expected in the short time you knew them. They came to the cafe almost every day, gave you tours of the city, took you out to eat, and even helped you build the new furniture you bought for your apartment.

The seemed to always be around you now, and you weren't complaining one bit, you even started to miss them after being away from them for short periods.

Mrs. Yoo teased you about them being your boyfriends. You thought she just enjoyed the way it made you bashful and embarrassed. You hadn't quite understood just how serious she was yet.

On the outside, it was nearly impossible to tell who you were dating between them, if either, or both.

It was obvious something was developing between the three of you, but what, you weren't quite sure of yet. You were too afraid to focus on the 'what ifs' that you ignored what was already happening.

Woojin sighed as he stretched his arm across your shoulders, smiling at the new bed finally set up in your bedroom.

"See? Told you it would be worth it."

Goo-Wan smiled proudly as he started to open the new sheets you had bought for the bed.

"I still think it's too big." You said while eyeing the large mattress. You were glad to be rid of the air mattress you had been sleeping on, but this was...a bit much.

You missed how Goo-Wan and Woojin locked eyes as they began unraveling the absurdly large fitted sheet that would surely be a pain in the ass to put on.

You giggled at the two as they struggled to put the sheet on, each opposite corner coming undone as soon as they finished one.

When finished, they high fived in celebration before sitting on the end of the bed. As the looked at you with grins you felt you heart flutter before clearing your throat.

"You know I'm gonna make you two come over and do that every time I have to change the sheets right?"

They chuckled, sharing another look before turning towards you.

"How about some lunch?"

They nodded energetically and followed you out of the room. You promised them whatever they wanted for helping you finish setting up your apartment. It was the least you could do.

Watching Geon-Woo strategically time flipping the meat on the barbecue, you slowly sipped at your drink. You were overly aware of the nearby table of girls eyeing the two curiously as they whispered.

You hated that it annoyed you, so you tried your best to ignore it. Its not like you were dating them.

Looking away from the girls, your eyes locked with a mans at a nearby table. You involuntarily made a soft noise of shock at the sudden eye contact as the man smirked and winked at you.

You looked away quickly, but Woojin noticed the action. He looked back at the man before he gave an obvious look of annoyance as the guy continued to stare at you.

Woojin took a piece of meat and set it on top of your rice as he spoke somewhat loudly, "Here jagiya."

Your eyes shot up in surprise, as Geon-Woo quickly looked over at Woojin as well.

Woojin looked over at Geon-Woo before subtly motioning his head to the man nearby. Geon-woo looked back, seeing the man looking between you and Woojin, a somewhat amused smirk on his face before he eyed you knowingly.

Geon-Woo swallowed as his chest tightened with his own annoyance at the man, understanding what Woojin was doing. Geon-Woo, deciding to do the same, grabbed a few veggies as he placed them on your plate.

"Have some of these too jagiya."

Your mouth was now agape as Geo-Woo joined Woojin in his attempt at shooing off the stranger. You saw the girls nearby eye each other in surprise as they began whispering more.

You leaned forward as you spoke in a bewildered tone, "What are you doing?"

Woojin and Geon-Woo locked eyes for a second before they looked back at you, "Making sure that guy doesn't do anything."

You glanced at the man as he now avoided looking over at you. "What makes you think he was going to do anything?"

Woojin scoffed softy, "Oh please he was looking at you like he wanted to eat you."

You grimaced at the expression as you shook your head, making Geon-Woo and Woojin smirk.

Looking over at Geon-Woo you frowned, "Why'd you join in too? Now we're being gossiped about."

You motioned your head towards he girls who were still talking in hushed voices, but obviously about the three of you.

Geon-Woo and Woojin thought for a second before shrugging and speaking at the same time, "So?"

You stared at them bewildered, "It doesn't bother you?"

They shook they're head as Geon-Woo asked in an innocent tone, "Why would it?"

"Yeah, it's not like we're offended at the thought of dating you." Woojin added.

You felt your neck and ears grow hot, "But you made it sound like you were both dating me."

They nodded softly as if that was obvious and you blinked a few times unsure of what to say now. Woojin let out a soft laugh at your perplexed expression.

"Cute." He mumbled, making your ears burn even hotter.

You glared at him, "Don't tease me."

Geon-Woo laughed under his breath as Woojin stared at you with a challenging glare. "Make me."

You stuck your tongue out at him as you began picking at your food in an attempt to get past the almost overwhelming shyness washing over you. Geon-Woo and Woojin shared a knowing smile as they watched you in adoration.

Making it back to the cafe, you entered to find a few customers scattered around, as Mrs. Yoo had a conversation with another from behind the counter. Spotting the three of you, she waved in greeting.

Heading to the back to get your name-tag and apron, you were glad you didn't come to work during a rush, afraid you had left Mrs. Yoo to fend on her own for too long.

Coming back out, Woojin and Geon-Woo were at the counter talking with her. Seeing you she motioned you over and talked in a soft voice as she motioned to a young man in the corner.

"Your admirer is here."

You glanced at the man and let out a soft scoff, "Have you taken his order?"

"He says he wasn't ready yet. I think he was just waiting for you." She winked teasingly as you left with a soft shake of the head before heading over to the table.

Mrs. Yoo looked over at Woojin and Geon-Woo and repressed a laugh at their glare towards the man.

Woojin turned to Mrs. Yoo and spoke in a hushed and annoyed tone. "Admirer? Who is he?"

"A customer who came in once, and ever since he met Y/n has been coming every day since. But he only orders when Y/n is here."

Geon-Woo and Woojin looked back to watch you. You smiled politely at the man as you took his order. Their chests both clenched tightly as the man stared at you intensely with a smile, obviously crushing on you.

Heading back to the counter, you handed Mrs. Yoo the man's order.

"Did he ask you out yet?"

You spared a glance at Geon-Woo and Woojin and were almost thrown off by their intense stares.

You cleared your throat softly, "He asked when I was getting off work but I just told him I'm not sure. I'm not interested in him like that."

Mrs. Yoo nodded her head in understanding as she glanced at the two boys with an amused smile.

You looked over at the two and paused, "What?"

Woojin spoke with a bold tone, "You should tell him straight that you are not interested."

"I don't want to hurt his feelings."

Geon-Woo leaned closer, "He might get bolder though if you don't stop it now."

You bit the inside of your lip as you glanced back at the man, finding him looking away swiftly.

You sighed, "You're probably right."

Woojin nodded, "We are."

You looked back over at them again, noticing the change in their behavior. It was almost as if they were jealous again.

"Weren't you guys going to the gym to practice?"

Checking the time they both startled, "Ah we're gonna be late."

Woojin ruffled your hair as a goodbye as Geon-Woo went behind the counter to say goodbye to his mother before he gently squeezed your shoulder as he left. You waved goodbye to them before catching the man in the corners eye again. Your chest tightened as you felt a bit guilty at the thought of rejecting him when he hasn't even made a move. What if he just wanted a friend?

Getting back to work, you paid more attention to the customer. Noting that he stayed longer than usual, well after he had finished his food. When he eventually left, you let out a sigh of relief, suddenly realizing just how much his attention weighed on you. You hadn't noticed before, but now that you did, you felt a bit overwhelmed by it. Maybe it would be best to show your disinterest.

Flipping the sign from Open to Closed, you big farewell to Mrs. Yoo as she left, heading out to have dinner with her friends.

You kept the cafe open for longer than usual to let a group celebrate a birthday. But it meant you were now leaving after it got dark.

Checking over the cafe one more time as you shut everything off, you left the cafe and looked around at the darkened sky. Looking down the road, your heart jolted a bit as you noticed a hooded figure lingering on the corner of the road.

Seeing they were standing under a Bus Stop sign you let out a soft sigh. "Don't overreact Y/n."

Turning away, you began heading down the road towards your apartment. It was about a fifteen minute walk, and the night was cool and quiet. You took in a deep breath, picking up on the hint of barbecue nearby, reminding you of how hungry you were.

Walking past a few shops, your eyes caught on the reflection of the road behind you. Yours steps hesitated as your heart sank. The hooded figure from before was across the street from you, and walking the same direction.

You let out a steady breath as you continued walking. "Don't assume, but be cautious." You told yourself, as you kept a vigilant eye and ear out.

Noticing the figure crossing the street and remaining behind you, you decided to test your theory. At the next cross-walk you crossed the street, and your heart raced when the figure did the same. Next you turned down a road you never take, and they followed. You crossed the street again, and so did they.

Having enough, you reached into your pocket and texted your group-chat with Geon-Woo and Woojin.

"Are either of you awake?"

A moment later a text from Geon-Woo came through.

"We're at the gym, what's up?"

"I'm walking home, and I think I'm being followed."

Only a few moments passed before your phone rang. Answering it you heard their concerned voices over the line and the sound of them grabbing their stuff.

"Where are you?" "Are you okay? Why are you out so late."

Already feeling more relieved to be talking to them, you kept glancing at the reflection behind you, still seeing the figure.

"The cafe closed late because of a party. I'm getting close to that store we get our smoothies from."

You heard Geon-Woo's voice in the background, "We're about five minutes from there."

"Go into the store and stay there. Don't let them get near you okay?"

"Okay."

"Stay on the line with me."

As you got closer to the store, you could hear Woojin and Geon-Woo on the line, obviously rushing out of the gym and running. Your heart raced with adrenaline, but also gratitude of Woojin and Geon-Woos care for you. You desperately wanted them there with you now, but took relief in knowing they were coming to find you.

"I'm at the store." You said softly as you entered, sparing a glance back to see the figure was closer than before.

They hesitated as you headed inside. You hoped they wouldn't come in, or would pass by and give up on following you.

As you smiled at the cashier who barely spared you a glance, you headed to the back of the store and acted as tough you were browsing. Hearing the bell of the store as the door opened and closed, your heart dropped as you saw the hooded figure enter the store.

You made sure to keep your distance and you maneuvered through the store, grabbing a few things here and there.

You whispered into the phone, "They came in."

"We're almost there!" You heard a panting Woojin on the line.

You swallowed nervously as you rounded the corner again, the figure getting too close for comfort. Finally hearing the door of the store open with a clang you looked over to see Woojin and Geon-Woo.

You let out a sigh of relief as your body seemed to relax from the building tension in your muscles. As they hurried through the store to you, they glanced at the hooded figure who was only on isle away. The person turned away as Woojin and Geon-Woo approached you.

Woojin spoke out loud, obviously so the person would hear him. "Jagiya there you are. Sorry we're late."

As he got to you he set his hand on your shoulder and nodded. You nodded in return as Geon-Woo reached you, "Are you okay?"

You nodded at him as he gently pulled you to his chest, "Let's go okay?"

Agreeing, you headed to the front, as Geon-Woo took the things from your hand and paid for them, his arm remaining wrapped across your shoulder.

Woojin looked back at the figure and saw his eyes. His face dropped as he was sure it was the customer from the cafe. The figure quickly left the store, avoiding eye contact. Woojin's heart raced in anger as he barely resisted the urge to chase after him. but not wanting to freak you out more, he resisted, knowing he would need to do something later.

Heading back into the street, Geon-Woo and Woojin looked around for any sight of the man. Not seeing him they let out sighs.

Woojin cursed under his breath, "I knew he would do something."

You looked at Woojin in surprise. "He?"

"It was the guy from the cafe."

Your heart jolted, but it made unfortunate sense. A few days prior, you had finally made it clear to the man at the cafe that you were not interested. He asked for your number, and you rejected him. Kindly, you had hoped. But his demeanor changed, and he left silently. You hadn't seen him again since except for once, when you saw him lingering outside the cafe, looking in at you.

"You rejected him but he couldn't take it."

Woojin's words made you shudder and Geon-Woo pulled you closer. "Don't worry we'll handle it okay? I promise." Woojin nodded in agreement.

Their words consoled you as you let them walk you home, allowing them to remind you to never walk home this late without one of them being with you.

The whole way, you continued to glance around, fearing he was still lingering. Geon-Woo and Woojin feared the same, so once they got you to your apartment, they had a conversation while you were in the bathroom.

When you came back out, now in your pajamas, they had made themselves at home on the couch as Woojin ordered food over the phone.

"You're hungry right?" Geon-Woo asked and you nodded, feeling much safer knowing they were there, but fearing when they would leave.

Sitting down on the floor in front of them as you leaned on the table you looked at Geon-Woo. "Should I call the main office and ask the security to look out for him?"

Geon-Woo moved from the couch to the floor in front of you, "We already did."

You nodded, "That makes me feel better. I wont be awake all night."

Geon-Woo smiled softly, "You don't need to worry, we'll be here."

You rose your brow, "You will?"

Woojin hung up the phone and joined the two of you on the floor. "We're staying tonight, we decided."

"O-oh. I mean...that does make me feel better, but are you sure? I don't want to-"

"We want too." Geon-Woo broke in.

Woojin nodded, "We'd feel a lot better staying with you, to make sure you're safe."

You smiled, "I'd feel better too."

After you ate and watched a movie, Woojin and Geon-Woo started to get ready for bed. Meanwhile, you grabbed what extra blankets and pillows you had and began making the living room comfortable.

Geon-Woo, coming out of the bathroom and seeing you, questioned you. "What are you doing?"

"Making it more comfortable for you."

"But we're not sleeping out here."

You stopped and eyed him, "Huh? Then where?"

Hearing a noise in your bedroom, you frowned as Geon-Woo repressed a smile watching as you headed towards the sound. Turning off the lights and checking the door, he grabbed the pillows before following behind.

Finding Woojin in your bedroom, fixing the bed, you watched him in confusion.

He glanced over at you, and spotting Geon-Woo behind you and smiled. "Ah perfect."

Walking over, he took the pillows from him before setting them on the bed.

"What are you doing?"

He looked over at you, "Getting ready for bed?"

"In...my bed?"

He looked at the bed, then to you, then to Geon-Woo and back to you before nodding. "Why do you think we got you such a big mattress?"

Your mouth was agape for a moment as you tried to find words. "S- So you could sleep in the bed with me?"

He nodded as he grinned, finding your realization and bewilderment adorable. Geon-Woo walked past you and finished helping Woojin fix the bed before they both turned towards you expectantly.

You looked between them, before they motioned for you, "Come on."

Hesitantly, you approached, "Which side do you-"

"You get the middle." Woojin broke in.

"The middle?"

"You'll be safest there." Geon-Woo excused.

"And warmest." Woojin added with a smile.

You nodded mutely as you slowly climbed into the bed, your heart racing as they climbed in after. You lied on your back and stared up at the ceiling, overly aware of how close they got to you. Woojin was facing you as Geon-Woo was still sitting up against the back of the bed, looking down at you.

Your mind was still stuck on the fact that they bought you the giant bed for the purpose of sharing. Finally breaking the tense silence, you looked between them. "But you didn't know something like this would happen so why would you be prepared to have a big bed to share with me?"

They shared a glance and smiled before Woojin cleared his throat, "Are you sure you don't know why?"

Your mind flashed back to the various times they flirted, made jokes, or acted as though they were both dating you. The various comments from Mrs. Yoo about them being your boyfriends, or you being like a child to her already.

Looking between Woojin and Geon-Woo again as they smiled softly and knowingly at you, you felt your whole body get hot with embarrassment and nervousness.

Grabbing the blanket you slowly pulled it upwards until your face was hidden.

Woojin and Geon-Woo both chuckled before they climbed further into the bed. You felt them both beside you, and were sure they were facing you.

Feeling Woojin grab the blanket you tightened your grip as he tried to remove it from your head. You heard Geon-Woo chuckle softly as Woojin pulled harder.

"Jagiya" He said softly, making your heart leap.

Suddenly the blanket was yanked from your hands again and you were met with Woojin and Geon-Woo's smiling faces as they lied facing you, sandwiching you between them.

"You don't have to be scared, or worried." Geon-Woo began.

Woojin followed, "We're still figuring this out too. We never expected to meet someone we would both have such strong feelings for."

Geon-Woo reached over and gently caressed your cheek, "We want to be with you, and protect you, and make you happy. If you'll let us."

"It might take some time to get used to the idea, but we'll wait for you." Woojin finished.

You looked between them, your heart racing faster than ever before. "But what if it doesn't work out? Or what if it causes problem's between you?"

They looked at each other and shook their heads gently. Woojin met your eyes, "We've been talking about this for a while, and I really don't think that will happen. But if it starts too I promise we will work it out. We want to make this work. We want to be with you. So we'll go slowly from here okay? But we want you to know our intentions."

"Is that okay with you?" Geon-Woo asked softly.

You thought for a moment, aware of their gazes on you as they waited patiently, though nervously.

It was obvious you had developed feelings for both of them, and your fear of choosing, or being rejected had both been subdued. You weren't sure if it was going to work out. But you knew how you felt now. You adored them, and trusted them, and felt safe with them. You believed their words, and you wanted to be with them too.

Nodding slowly, you looked between them, and they smiled, relief and joy washing over them.

Woojin, overcome by his giddiness leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to your cheek, making you chuckle out of surprise. Geon-Woo chuckled as well, before he leaned forward and pressed a much more delicate kiss to your temple.

After a few more adjustments, you found yourself comfortably and safely drifting to sleep as Woojin and Geon-Woo slept on either side of you, their arms draped across you as they both held you close.

xx End xx

Wasn't sure where to end it, so I chose to stop here. This became a bit of an indulgence fic, but if there is anyone who wants a part two, or continuance of this fic/relationship, let me know, I would def be willing to write it!

General Taglist: @criminaly-supernatural, @imaginesfire, @onuen, @witchygagirl, @alexxavicry,

-Taglist Form-

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

BOO

@fanofstuff01 BOO TO YOU TO BOOO

Happy spooky month! This is bullshit! I'm in pain and have a headache, so take this au, my beautiful online friends!

Dentist!Adam au.

He's a menace. He's not even a real dentist. He just walked into a random dental office and put on a uniform.

I feel sorry for whoever his patients are because fuck numbing- he just pulls out the fucking tooth. And it's usually the wrong tooth. So you have to go back.

He's the only dentist in this area, so good luck finding someone else.

You'll either get your teeth cleaned or he'll ride you- there's no in-between.

People honestly prefer having sex with him because he's actually really fucking hot. As you can guess, people really don't like it if he's in his working heads pace.

Penitent: I- uh- I'm here for 69ing-!

Adam: Sorry, babe, but that canine's gotta come out. Maybe next time~

He fucking eats the teeth. He's a fucked up tooth fairy. He doesn't make the rules.

Then Lucifer comes in. A monster hunter and collector of bones. Monster bones.

He hears about some creepy fuck taking people's teeth out, so he goes to see what's up.

He gets an appointment, but he doesn't let Adam touch him. He instantly knows what he is because he's got the sharpest fucking teeth.

Adam is instantly infatuated with this guy. He loves monster hunters. They taste great.

And Adam thinks this guy is going to be an easy kill because holy shit, this guy is so fucking small.

Lucifer doesn't reeeally want to kill Adam because even though he's creepy, he hasn't killed anyone. So, he finds the basement where Adam lives and ties him up.

Adam: ooh~, what are you going to do to me, Mr big, bad monster hunter~?

Lucifer: I'll going to take your head once I find a fucking person you've killed

Adam: take my head, huh? Oh, baby~, I'd rather take yours~. Allll night~.

Lucifer: ...

Did the real dentist fuck off or something lmao I'm loving this though.

Lucifer: Seriously?

Adam: Yeah, I see the outline from here big boy.~ I can take it.~

Lucifer: You eat people's teeth like potato chips.

Adam: Girls gotta eat babe.~

[mask131]

November is usually my Shining month, and so I want to bring forward again something I have been repeating for a long time now but that I don't see being picked up a lot by people. A detail that is well-hidden inside the Doctor Sleep movie, but that makes the piece even more infinitely appreciable and shows it was made by true Shining fans.

And this detail is... the ghosts of the Overlook Hotel.

Now, when this bunch appeared during the final scene some familiar faces could be spotted. Grady of course, the Injured Guest from the "Great party, isn't it?" scene, the Twins, and of course the Woman of Room 217 -sorry, 237. But there are other faces there - seemingly random people in fancy outfit just for the sake of it. People were confused as to who these people were...

But all you have to do is look at the end credits. And you have a big surprise.

The familiar faces are confirmed to be the ghosts we always thought we were, or to correspond to famous ghosts of the original novel. The twins are confirmed as Grady's two daughters, while the woman in the white dress (not on the picture above but you can her in the scene) is Mrs. Grady. Meaning we have the whole Grady family as ghosts. The woman of room 237 is confirmed to be indeed Mrs. Massey, just like in the book ; as for the Injured Guest (only referred to as "injured guest" in the original scripts of The Shining), the sequel decided to make him Horace Derwent. Meaning he likely can switch between a young/attractive and older/more gruesome form, just like Massey's ghost, since in the original movie Derwent was clearly seen though not named in the scene with the man wearing a dog-bear-like costume (the script confirms it is supposed to be a dog costume though).

Alright, but what of the others? Now this is where things get interesting! The bald man to the right of Grady? That's Vito the Chopper. Yes, the Vito the Chopper from the novel by King, the mafia boss who got his head blown off in the Presidential Suite - as for the two men near him, they are his two bodyguards, Victor T. Boorman and Roger Macassi. Also from the book. These three characters are actually an Easter egg for those who read the book (and we know from the original treatment of Kubrick's movie that the criminal paradise-era of the Overlook and the murders at the Presidential Suite were originally supposed to play a big role in the cinema version of the story too).

But things get even better with the last ghost of the group. He doesn't appear in the picture above either, like Mrs. Grady, but you can notice him during the scene, a large man right behind Mrs. Grady when the ghosts first appear (he is played by Marc Farley). And the ghost's name, as revealed in the credits is... James Parris.

Now, fans of the novel might wonder "Wait... Who's that? I don't recall reading about him". And indeed, you did not! At least if you just read the regular version of the novel! James Parris is however a true character of the Shining, a true victim of the Overlook Hotel, a character written about and invented by Stephen King... But he is part of the deleted prologue of the novel, "Before the Play". You know this prologue that was not part of the published novel but was released in various TV magazines several times, and then finally re-added to the main novel in the collector Cemetery Dance edition of "The Shining"? You must have heard of it - even before the Cemetery Dance release the prologue was going around the Internet, published on small fan websites and discreet literature blogs...

And James Parris was, according to the first part of this prologue (detailling the building and creation of the Overlook... and its first victims) the second owner of the Overlook Hotel. A man that was touched by the same obsession and madness for the hotel that had overtaken Watson's grandfather (the actual builder and first owner of the Hotel), and, if I recall well, ended up dying of a heart attack on the hotel's garden-grounds (near the topiary beasts if I recall well, but I am not too sure, I haven't read the prologue in a while).

So all of that to say - not only did they bother placing an Easter Egg for the fans of King who had read the original book ; but they also placed an Easter Egg for those that knew of or had read the Before the Play prologue, which most regular fans of the novel never even heard about! If this isn't commitment to researching your source material, I don't know what is!

[lilcriceta]

I've been going crazy with Collector AU (by @cutepotatook) lately and I made this babi :> I want to show her off a bit :>

My English is very bad so please don't criticize me if you find any wrong grammars or words ;v;

★ My baby is Collector! Astray. She is a 10 year old little girl :>

★ Her design is slightly based on Collector Y/n's design ;v;

★ Ngl when Astray has great affection or admiration for these two people :>

★ Anyway, Layra by @softlantern :>

★ About Astray's lore, she was born as a creation of God. From childhood, she was always pampered and cared for very carefully by them (God in A's universe has no defined gender). Because of that, she has a great love for her God and is very attached to them like a child would do to its mother.

★ Until one day, the God created new creations, took care of their new children and gradually spent less time with Astray. At first she didn't mind much, but gradually she had a hunch that God was probably spending too much time with her new siblings. One time she asked for a hug from the God, they ignored her, making her feel a bit sad. Even though she told herself that everything was okay, a part of her was harboring jealousy. Astray's jealousy grew stronger and stronger as she observed the children being lovingly cared for and cherished by the God, she could not hold back her jealousy.

★ When she couldn't stand it anymore, she committed a heinous crime. She lured another of her siblings to a secluded place, and with a weapon in hand, she used it to vent her anger brutally on that child. Whatever comes must come, Astray's crime was discovered by the God. They were angry and punished her by causing her body to be tormented in extreme pain, her soul to pieces, she lost all her memories, was banished to a terrible place and forgotten by everyone (the two pictures above are when Astray was banished to the terrible place called The Void Realm). The little girl was banished there with many bleeding wounds in the shape of sparkling stars shining on her body, she was completely exhausted.

★ The Void Realm where she was banished to was not a good place. It is a place where there is no sun, not a single ray of light, it can be said with certainty that nothing like that exists. The Void Realm is a space covered in pitch black (the whole sky is black, the surface is only black water). Due to her exhausted state, she was unconscious there for an unknown amount of time (but let's just say it was a long time). Luckily, she was found by Collector! Wally was in a state where her body was floating on the water. Then Collector took Astray home and let Helper! Wally takes care of her wounds while he tries to put the pieces of her soul back together. The two of them took care of the little girl until she woke up, letting her live in the Collector's mansion :>

★ This is just a silly little comic where the duo encounters someone who wants to harm the little girl :> The truth is that Astray falls asleep very easily when she is in someone's embrace, no matter how big or small the embrace is, she will still fall asleep. Collector and Helper often witness such things, but I think they will simply put her to bed😭😭😭

★ A small fun fact is that Collector often calls Astray by cute nicknames like: Little Dove ; My Angel ; Little one ;... when she got used to life here. As for Helper, he simply calls her by her real name ;v; As for Astray, she often calls Collector Mr. Collector and Mister (she is used to using honorifics, a habit when she used to live in heaven) and with Helper, she calls him Mister or Mr. Blueberry (she calls him exactly what she thinks of him :P)

★ Woof the family trope so much hmu- I think Collector, Helper and Astray fit the family of three, the warm and happi one🥹🥹🥹 (don't mind me, I'm being silli now😔😔😔)

[venomous-qwille]

Ghost in the Machine

This is the master post for Ghost in the Machine links, character refs and FAQs.

I will try my best to keep this post as up to date as possible.

What is Ghost in The Machine?

GITM is a DCA AU and a fic set in the retrofuture (2055ish) long after Fazco has shut down. An eccentric collector has been acquiring versions of the Daycare Attendant animatronic from closed locations around the world. The story involves a reader character who has been brought into repair the original post-Ruin DCA from the games, and hijinks ensue. There are also ghosts.

Where can I read the fic?

GITM is currently being posted on Ao3, and is updated every three weeks on Saturdays. The fic is being beta'd by the tremendously talented @bubbiethesaur. You can read GITM here!

There is also a podfic, which you can find here:

Updates to the podfic will be sporadic, so please be patient <3

Where can I see the art?

On this blog I use the #gitm au and #ghost in the machine au tags for GITM related content. If you are looking for art of a specific character, they also have their own tags: #misuta moon #nova #soleil #clip.exe #sunspot mk1 #fool eclipse #ruin eclipse #sombra #sunflower #mr sandman

FAQ~

Why haven't you answered my GITM ask?

One of three reasons: 1) your ask was too spoilery* 2) I'm waiting to answer it with art 3) ADHD

*spoilery includes but is not limited to: any questions about dual-AI or XYZ character's sun/moon variant; questions about character backstories and lore; questions about characters that have not featured in the fic yet (e.g Nova, Sanii, Harvest, Sunflower, Sandman etc); asks speculating about potential future scenarios (don't get me wrong, I love these asks, but I can't answer them!)

Where are all the Moons?

Read and find out. Seriously. There are at least 5 Moons who are core to the plot but I'm not going to talk about them, no matter how nicely you ask!

Does XYZ character have a Sun/Moon counterpart?

Some of them do, some of them don't. The dual-AI stuff is majorly plot related. If I'm not talking about someone's Sun/Moon counterpart, rest assured you will find out eventually. I won't be spoiling any of it on tumblr though :)

Can I create fanart of GITM?

Yes yes yes please do and please tag me when you post it so I can see it/reblog! If you are unsure if something is ok, please ask.

Can I create fanfic of GITM?

Super flattered about this. I have a longform answer to this question which you can read here. But tl;dr yes you can, please tag/credit me, do not spoil/try to write the lore, and please do not write GITM au (e.g mafia, mer, medieval). I have my own plans for this stuff and I would prefer to release the designs/stories in my own time. If you are unsure if something is ok, please ask.

Can I create NSFW GITM content?

Until recently I had blanket perms that allowed NSFW GITM content. I'm updating this to let you guys know I'm no longer comfortable with people making this content. Back when the community was small, I felt differently, but as time has passed a lot has changed and I've found myself becoming increasingly anxious about it. If this boundary changes again in the future, I will update this FAQ.

Do you have character refs I can use?

There is a collection of art 'refs' for each character on the Misutamojis discord. Latest link here.

There are no proper call-out sheets/refs currently, but I have a huge body of art for the characters on this blog which should give you more than enough info for most of them. I will get around to creating proper refs eventually, in which case I will link them here.

Where can I find the playlist?

I update the spotify playlist fairly regularly, if you have any music recs you can send them over in an ask! You can listen to the playlist here!

I've heard there are secret GITM drabbles, where can I find them?

I used to post frequent drabbles from future chapters in the DCA Palooza discord, I have recently deleted the majority of them as people were going back and binging them which hadn't been the intended reading experience. Anywho, this question probably refers more to the spicy drabbles (which people have very kindly made a lot of delicious art for). These are still around! You just need to access the spicy channel and do some digging.

Is there a GITM discord?

Nope! There is a server for GITM emotes and a busy thread in the DCA Palooza, but currently I don't have any plans to make a GITM-centric discord community. If that does happen in the future it's likely I will simply convert the emotes server (Misutamojis).

It finally happened, I converted Misutamojis. You can join the GITM discord here.

Can I smooch the robots?

Yes.

All of them?

All of them.

[neil-gaiman]

Whenever the topic of meeting ‘celebrities’ comes up, which is a surprisingly consistent recurring theme, I always cite my interactions with you and Johnny Bench among my best.

My dad took me to Chicago Comic Con in 1992. I was 14, it was my first comic convention and this was before cosplaying played such a big part, so it was just a kid and his dad in JC Penney clothes bouncing around. For the most part, I had shit taste in comics and largely bought them for the wrong reasons. “Collectors items” and all that noise. (I bought the “Superman dies!” comic. I didn’t even like Superman.) But I also bought Death: The High Cost of Living, which was actually readable.

I got so many comics signed that weekend and met a lot of the faces behind all the people I threw my money at and I was largely disappointed. Most had assembly line crews with them who would 1. Inspect the item, 2. Prepare the item, 3. Finalize the set up and tweak the angle to minimize the artist’s efforts. The thing would be signed, shoved to the side where a second crew would prepare and hand it back to me. No eye contact, no acknowledgement of existence. This made sense for Mr. T because he was wearing about 100 lbs of necklaces, but Jim Lee was such a d-bag that he signed over somebody else’s autograph. My dad was nice enough to accompany me back to get the thing signed by the first person, who just shook his head when he saw what Jim Lee did.

Then there was Neil Gaiman, who took my copy of Death #1 from my hands and made eye contact as he thanked me for coming and doodled an ankh before signing his name. He asked me about the t-shirt I was wearing (I don’t recall what shirt I was wearing, just that it was black, so of course he would have asked about it) and handed my comic back to me. I felt seen. It was such a small act of kindness but it saved that entire experience.

I know that things get hectic and that everybody has bad days, but a lot of these things are a choice, just like they are for me. You made the choice to be a decent, humble human being and I just want to say thank you for that. I’m about a thousand words, I guess.

I’m glad. I have no doubt that there were times at conventions and long signings where people got a brain dead zombie in my clothes signing their books or comics. But I always tried as best I could to make it real and to be the kind of signing I would like to do if I was getting something signed.

[phramboise]

— collector:: simon“ghost”rileyxfemale!reader

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

tags and warnings: 18+, therapist!reader, patient!riley, mentions of names of psychiatric drugs, disorders, self-destructive behaviours and many other labels that are in the nature of therapy, talk of trauma, persuasion, sexual fantasies, kissing; drugging, kidnapping, nudism, Stockholm syndrome, self-pleasuring (f), vaginal fingering, female receiving oral, semi-public sex, vague ending. More like your obsessive situationship kidnapping you. italics are therapy entries, scribbled notes of the therapist written in her POV; the rest is in third POV. In no way this is praising or normalising any behaviour written -read at your own risk, drugging and kidnapping are not consensual.

wordcount: 3k

;;

When Mr. Riley first crossed your gaze, it wasn't amid your session. Across the road, he stood, and there was no mistaking the man. Here near the thicket, scarcely a few people wear long sleeves on summer fierce, and even fewer have masks on. Until you stop making a mental prognosis even for a person who is not your client and come back from your tea break -or until the end of your shift if you don’t notice- he lingers around, waits at the bus stop, though not seeming to wait for a bus for countless have come and gone, in the hours long.

Another man is what you see, he might be any passerby on the street, and perhaps he is. Mr. Riley embodies one of those afflictions, less unique than he imagines, of those pathologies you've encountered before. When you extend your hand to greet him in your office, he offers no response, nor does he ask of you to address him more sincere. Mr. Riley he remains. He's one who knows himself, aware of his inner discord, though its depths remain veiled. From afar, his black eyes turn warm summer, amber in the sunlit pane, his presence yields little beyond the his file's mundane strain. He avoids talking of his past, and names elude the characters as he tells little pieces of his life. No period of self-destructive history, no suicide attempts. No addiction on gambling, alcohol. No signs of wrist cutting, nor drug injections -seems you misinterpreted his clothing choices. Many hospitalisations, all classified military field papers, one particular on teenage period, one he speaks not about.

Mr. Riley's visits to the office seem to transcend the usual reasons of any other patient, not for seeking counsel or solace; they harbour an enigma you can't quite decode. He adamantly requests your final session on Friday evenings, as if bound by some unseen rhythm of his own. There's no poignant trauma he didn't untangle of himself, no platitude of life's hardships to impart upon him. He has already navigated life's currents, seemingly with ease. There's no sign that he needs a therapist to grasp the stark realities, to know life's not to see through rose-tinted veil.

He is a patient who possesses a profound understanding of himself, sparing you the tire of the week's closing session. There's no need for medical interventions, no requirements for Risperidone, Prozac, or Paxil, nor any hint of sedatives to dull his senses. At times, his answers are so astute that the roles between therapist and client seem to blur. In the dynamic of your therapeutic alliance, there is no predetermined mould, because Mr. Riley doesn't adopt them.

Not a traditional pathology, Mr. Riley is one where not the patient being ready for the therapy, but the therapy being not ready for the patient, one who needs of you to be creative and bold to unravel himself. Of no technique, no book nor rule. So, you suggest roleplay -no voice recorders, not a notepad to write down occasionally. Less practical and even less theoretical. You even offer to do it on the skirt of the small lake behind the office as not to create social desirability. -Not that he bothers of it.

He accepts.

Now, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be, you are no therapist, nor he is a client. He’s not a diagnosis, a test to report, a scale. Not an alienation, not a compulsive or antisocial disorder. Only Mr. Riley.

When you ask him about his first memory he recalls, you realise you must play the maternal figure in this intricate play. When you settle on the bench overlooking the pond, he approaches from behind, enfolding your shoulders before walking to your front, resting his head to your lap. He does not know much about gods; but he thinks that the water is a way of semblance, his soul’s double winks off the reflection, whispers in your voice as you offer solace. “Sometimes” you begin, stroking gently the blond locks that nestle on your lap, “one must mourn to heal.”

He rises on his knees, clinging to your body as you caress his neck, crying to your chest as your cloth is now pulled down with the weight of him resting on you. …Like a baby, his resistance just melts away.

Mr. Riley requests that from now on the therapies take place in the backyard of the building, and since this change of nature contributes to the therapeutic alliance more than the office setting did, and now that he is sure of you enough to remove his mask, and since now when he looks at you he sees you, you acquiesce.

Mr. Riley is touch deprived, he has not yet spoke about his father, but he revealed in our role play therapies that his mother passed when he was only a child - his deprivation leads to a relentless need for contact, that is, after he started to trust me. He shook my hand today, and came with only a mask that covers half his face, which he later took off also. I feel for much further developments with Mr. Riley, which is heartening.

He's by your step as you step around the garden, his presence a silent echo of your every move. His arm wraps around your shoulder as you sit next to one another on the bench. With each sensual step, he surrenders morsels of his shadow, weaving them into your shared space. And when he bids the invitation to walk hand in hand along the water's edge, you accept. Not a drug-treatable depression, rather, it's a serenity born from the tumult of excess violence and the rusty imprints of roads taken, reflected in his eyes. A familiarity in his demeanour, a wash of embrace as if he unravels yourself to you.

Mr. Riley abandons the sessions for a while, it takes a lot of strength to pretend to other clients that you are interested in their problems. When you start to wait in your office on Fridays, even though your last session is available, an empty slot, and when you do this for weeks on end, you realise that this bond is a two-way street, nothing professional. For him, you are a person who will listen, for you-

Someone to listen.

;;

When he does return, the birds are flying south. You find yourself consumed by a gnawing unease of thinking that his routine apathy is back again. Once more, -you prayed so- he seats you into the sanctuary of the bench amidst the garden, yet his eyes no longer linger upon yours with their former intensity. When he pushes you into the water with the strength of one arm, you freeze for a moment, and when he pulls you back in before you soak in the reedy river, he catches you unaware and kisses you harder than you dreamt possible.

One thing you cannot deny, is how his demanding yet sensual kiss is turning you on, leaving not one bit of your responsibility, your authority as the therapist as his hand moves over your legs, circling beneath the curve of your hips. Dipping his hand between your warm thighs, you let his firm touch venture between, supple skin heating cold fingers. His other hand gropes a fistful of your slinking skirt, and you wrap his scent around your loins as he falls to his knees again before the bench. Before you.

Never in all your career you thought you’d be getting into this, to abuse someone who is to solace in the first place, even the thought of it appalled you. Now the thought tightens his fingers on your hips, his tongue rubs idly against your clit in unrushed fashion, he slowly feasts you out.

Mr. Riley will no longer attend our therapy sessions – I said to him that our sessions are not helping him, gave him another therapist’s card, hopefully his condition will move for the better. My efforts were useless I’m afraid.

It’s what you wrote down the day after, but you don’t recall him agreeing.

;;

Three Fridays it takes when he suddenly reappears, he intercepts you locking the door of your office. Adorned with the very mask he tells you he came back to get the other one from you, he’s clad beneath a hoodie, zipper drawn all the way to conceal more than just his torso, hood over his head. You’re not sure what to answer, in a vague indecision, with the haunting realisation that his condition remains as unchanged as ever. Perhaps you should have heeded the warning signs, reconsidered the nature of your occupation, and resisted the temptation to immerse yourself so deeply in his plight— perhaps you shouldn’t have given of yourself to something that won’t heal for the better.

He's your shadow down the corridor, a silent loom trailing behind you as you make your way back to your office. You let out the breath you've been holding as you pick up the pace and create a few steps of distance until you reach your door. Yet, even within the confines of your own space, his presence looms large, casting a pall of uncertainty over your every thought.

In your room, he follows, his silence heavy in the air. As you retrieve his mask from the drawer, he catches your wrist as you turn.

One word leaves your mouth, he’s on you again. Pressing your back against your desk, one hand winding tight around your arm as the other tips your chin up for you to meet his height as he looms over you. The caress of his lips draw tingling heat to your cheek, your lips, your neck. You feel his body against yours deeply as he clines closer, hand on your jaw tight as he tries his way in with his tongue, both hands cupping your head to his, leaving nowhere to lean but him.

His mouth feeds something inside yours, a smooth little dragée that leaves a ragged earthy taste each second you refuse to swallow down, his mouth is on yours to keep it on your tongue, raw liquorice and a sickly sweet taste in your pharynx, your nose tightens in its taste as you try to pry away with a doleful cry — he only pulls away as he feels it down your throat with his thumb, the other wipes the tear on your cheek as he pushes his forehead against yours, cooing it’s okay as you shudder in trepidation.

You leave the room, try to cough it out your mouth.

A hit behind your neck is enough to knock you out.

;;

The sound of spinning tires piercing a howling like a restless banshee against the asphalt wakes you, worn leather feels eerie against your back as you sink into its contours, laid sprawled on the backseat in a short slip gown you don’t own yourself that pools around your hip as the car you’re in hurtles towards the undying disquiet. Cool leather surrounds you, as if offering a hug from the owner on the driver’s seat. The sight outside is a blurred panorama of shifting shadows of a transient night and neon lights racing by in dragging lines before your surly hand moves to feel the ache nestled behind your nape. His gaze grazes your body through the rearview mirror. Deliberately slow is his hand resting over the open window as he drops the stub of his cigarette down, he pulls his mask down before dividing the cold night air mixing with the smoke through the misty window. You don’t know where this road leads, where he’s taking you. Of what he forced into your mouth or when he wore this negligee on you.

Gentle engine lulls you, to some elusive and ephemeral warmth, starts below your stomach, sprouts where you fear it. You were right when you thought, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be. Now he’s to lead, and you’re to follow this fleeting respite of surreal blend. Something in your blood that gets you warm, or it’s the adrenaline of this unknown place. Only Mr. Riley and you. You’re scared, you’re intoxicated. You enjoy it.

You turn your head to his side, wind blows your hair, trails over, snakes through your legs as your hands move to pull the skirt down to cover your hips, holding the satin tight between your thighs. Your own skirt is gone. So are your sheer tights, so is your underwear – he must’ve taken them off before he carried you in his car.

The sultry heat pulsates between your thighs, a yawning chasm that stirs an ache inside. Though, there’s no trace of wetness that already paints your groin, only the searing fire deep within. Your insides burn but you don't feel any strain anywhere except the pain in your neck. You still smell like your own perfume, untouched, without an intrusion of cigarette smoke on his fingertips or the weight of his hands grabbing your skin. Not a single mark marrs your flesh, not even the faintest imprint that dry, rough fingertips as they graze on supple skin. He seems to only changed you in silk, a whisper-soft fabric that clung to you, only piece that’s shielding you from the cool grace of the air. As your fingers brush over the tender swell of your breasts, a shiver dances down your spine. The satin wrapped fabric weaves you into a life that is not meant to hurt, and with each breath, a soft moan threatens its way out your parted lips, a melody of surrender to the lethargy that he trapped you in. You now have a few ideas about the pill he gave you.

Leather smells varnish, aroma intertwining with the haze of his cigarette smoke that hangs in the air. His masculine presence stands as a silent challenge to your frailty. With a delicate touch, you place your hands on your kneecaps, the tip of your tongue running over your teeth as your knuckles leave the skirt of your dress, not holding it over yourself anymore. He must’ve done the same, you imagine his fingers tracing a similar path, grazing against your inner thighs as he lowers your panties, taking them off. Grounded by a thick, scorched, labdanum base, a dark and brooding charred wood and burnt sap, floods through you as the air carries his cologne to you, your nose picks up whatever it is that gets your body wanting more, you caress yourself. 

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

You wish you fingers were to be rougher, thicker and that your fingertips would smell of tobacco. Of something grainy and rugged instead of this slipping silk between your legs for you to rub against. Did he made you sit on his leg as he clad you in this dress that leaves none to imagination, had he rubbed you against his trousers as he put you down? 

Your breathing gets heavier, he changes the hand that steers the wheel, now the car decelerates to keep it in control, now slow enough, a person on a sidewalk would have a flash of image if they were to be as the car glides by- you know you’d do this even if there were no tinted films on the windows- you search for his gaze over the rear mirror, laden with unspoken want. You clench around nothing, mutter words of no meaning, but he knows. You whine deeper breaths, and they soon turn to lilting whimpers. 

You think about him feeding you the pill with his tongue - does he feel as you do right now? You wriggle your hips, let a moan to get yourself going, his eyelids flutter close before yours do slowly. He’s watching you; did he watch you when he stripped you naked? How long was he watching you? Your heart races with the writhing pulse between your legs as you rub your arm along your nipple, your hand moves to your core, brushing against your clit as you move your fingers against your lips, the breeze of the interior now seeping on the slick you play with your fingertips. The car sways a little out the road as you cry out a louder whimper, pebbles rolling under the tires, vibrating the seats, adding you on. 

Some part of you wants him to pull the car to the side, come to join you, grab you by the ankle and yank you out the car, do whatever he wants to you against the asphalt. Some part likes this piercing gaze through the reflection, of him biting the insides of his cheek as he groans lowly and shifts himself on his seat. From the little frame of the mirror, his free hand is out your sight, but you hear it.  Hear his belt loosening as the metal hits the strap. You hum as you increase the pressure, circling your much thinner finger around your hole before sliding in, clenching around them as you slide the latter finger. 

If he were to tell you to call him by his name before, you’d moan it. Now, all that leaves your mouth is loud and lewd sounds as the saliva clicks against your tongue, synching slow with the in-and-out of your motion, trying to reach your g-spot with the tips of your fingers. 

This won’t last long, are you sure if this is what you want?

Open your eyes, where are you going? Did you even ask? Pill wears off slow in time, fear stings beneath arousal’s guise, your slick skin sticks to your hair, to the now warm and wet cushion under you. Everyone seems to be asleep but you two, as he takes you into the unknowns of the lovers. Your fingers demand release, rubbing and rubbing hastened than your breath, ill imagery fills goosebumps on its way down to your spine, in texture of his icy fingers. Your teeth sentinels at your lips, hard against skin, against the impulse to speak his name— a bare boundary to still not cross on your book. Maybe you could’ve stopped it if you wanted, but you’re not the one driving. Truest valour lies not in defiance, but in surrender. So you do, let it all out.

It's a hushed stillness of something trembling under, the radio scratches before it turns a sepia-tone song spilling cadence, a gentle sway as you massage and pull your soaked legs to your chest, laying on your side as the road keeps hurling forward to an endless terrain.

[alexander-arcturus-black-lupin-r]

Hi! If it’s okay, totally okay if not, can I please request a soulmate!Morpheus x soulmate!fem!reader where she is half dream half human (she doesn’t know she’s a Dream or even that any of that exists) and she’s living a completely normal human life, with a human job (kindergarten teacher), human friends, no knowledge of who either of her parents were. But when she’s approached by The Corinthian, her normal life completely shatters. Like he had found out before Morpheus that she’s technically one of his missing Dreams and also Dream’s soulmate, and he takes her as leverage against Morpheus? Morpheus saves her from danger at the hotel with “Collectors” Convention? He’d take her back home to the Dreaming but I’m sure that’d be a difficult change for her to leave her human life

I spy a cooking opportunityyy pour moiiii to the google docss

i have actually been so busy this year it’s not even funny so I’m glad i had something to write. Let me know if there are any Spelling mistakes and errors

You were different, it wasn’t a thought or idea it was a fact. It was proven. You had a power, it was unexplainable and you’d given up on trying to explain it. It started small, lucid dreaming, you could fix, make, create, do whatever you wanted but it was only through dreams. Then, people. Your mom was dreaming of a new shopping spree and you just watched her. She saw you and just assumed you were part of it and in truth you were. You bought so many things and didn’t question where the money was from, it was only a dream that you wished you could bring her, she looked so happy. Until you woke up to your mom screaming in a room full of boxes and bags.

You brought the dream to her. 

Over the years you learned how to control it. Now years later after getting your teaching degree you became a kindergarten teacher and honestly you loved your job, the smiles and laughs of the little children who scurried around you. It was amazing it helped distract you. Seeing their little selves running over to their parents. 

You slowly just dropped your escapades in the back of your mind. You were an adoptee. You were a baby so you have no memories of who your parents were but the Arlings were a good family who treated you like you were a godsend.

“Heyyy, me and Lorrelai were wondering if you could humour us for a sec?” Debby, a fellow teacher like you asked. 

“Sure what's up?” you asked as you perched onto a nearby desk.

“Her ma's coming into town and she's wondering if she shouldn't be in town when ma's here.” 

“What's wrong with your ma?” 

“You know, controlling, demanding, taxing…you know how moms are.” the moment she said that her eyes went wide. 

“A-”

“Hey lass, there’s someone here for you!”  Since you were the only one Layla called Lass saying your byes you made your way to the front desk. 

You rarely got visitors here, maybe a rare parent but by the sounds of it it wasn’t a parent. Yiu giggled as you dodged hree running balls of energy. You could tell them to slow down but then they’d probably just go faster to avoid you, you chuckled. 

You turned the corner and almost bumped into a man. He was tall with blond hair and familiar black glasses from a show you watched a while back. He smiled and you almost flinched. You tried to smile back in the same manner but it felt painful and unreal.

“Excuse me, Miss Arling?” you nodded wondering if he was an uncle or relative you haven't met of one of the kids here.

“That’s me, who are you?” you tried to make your tone light. 

“Ah, how rude of me, my name’s Corinthian.” What an odd name.

“Mr. Corinthian? What brings you here?”

“You.” Your confusion must have amused him as he laughed like you’d just told him a funny joke. You became deathly aware of how it was just the two of you in a room that seemed to be ever shrinking. Maybe it was your imagination but he seemed to get closer without even moving. 

“I’m sorry, is-”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, thank you for how easy this was and don't worry this won't hurt a bit.” In a quick motion his hand swiped over your head and all you saw was black.

Corinthians caught you before you hit the ground. He had taken precautions so no one was going to remember you after you were gone, no bodies left to worry about. 

With a hop skip and a jump the Lord would be destroyed by the very thing in his hands and he was giggly. Slipping you into the passenger seat of his car he darted off as not to be late for his convention.

***

In and out.

You were in a car and now you're not. 

Someone was talking and when they finished people started to cheer and chatter and laugh. Your head started to ache. 

Where were you?

 What were you on?

A metallic smell filled your nose…blood? With heavy eyes you were met with bright lights, stage lights? Focused on you?

“A-ha, you're up, I was starting to think I gave you too much.” The Corinthian guy came up from behind you startling you, pathetically you tried to move away from him only to end up on the floor. He grinned again and you as you moved onto your back inching away. Like a preg before it's predator. 

He was enjoying this. 

“Still skittish I see.”

“Where am i?”

“Don't worry about it just a little collector's convention.” Collector? Is this a slave market?

“Why…” your legs came to and you began to stand and everything became clearer, the figures before you were more defined and you could make out the little devil's face, you tried to hit him but he dodged you quite easily. “What did you do to me? Who are you?”

“Little weak are we? Just a little sleeping dust and I think we already established the second one.”

Before you can speak any further the ground begins to rumble and shake. Bits of sand start to move from the corners joining and linking up. The lights flickered slightly.

“He's on his way people! SHOWTIME!”

WHO?

The sand started to pick up and wind from nowhere blew it high and a man began to emerged from it. His raven black hair was first, he was tall,  his smooth pale skin as the sand glid over him. His long black coat bellowed and a crow or a raven flew from behind him and landed on his shoulder.  The man had beautiful crystal blue eyes and in this moment they were filled with a lot of emotions, the most prominent one was-

“Angry are you?” Corithian grasped your shoulder steering you around. “This'll do you in.” The man met your eyes and something clicked. A dark blue thread began from soemewhere on you and connected all the way to him. 

“What is the meaning of this?” His eyes never leaving you but he was addressing the man holding you inhumanely tight. 

“Come on now I haven't even started.” Corithian spun you around and sat you on the chair you were on earlier. You tried to get up but you were tied to the chair by an invisible rope had you bound down. 

“Now dearie, tell us, have you ever done anything extra ordinary during the night time!” 

The man tried to move but it seemed like he too was bound by something. His head which had been lowered examining his bonds raised and his eyes met yours.

He was beautiful now that you saw him. Maybe he was a god? Considering everything that had happened so far it didn't seem to far from truth. If only the circumstances had been more favorable.

Corithian was a game show host and you both were his unwilling contestants. 

“I-what?” He shooks his head like a director towards an actor who read the script wrong. 

“No your line is yes.” 

“Yes?”

“Yes!” The crowd burst into laughter, you had an audience. 

“Your turn, Dream.” He turned his back to you as you he addresses the man. Dream. “Do you know who this is?” He asked as he pointed at you.

The man said nothing, but his eyes spoke for him. 

“Nope?” Well audience let me tell you a story…Once upon a time there lived a god called Morpheus. This god was the ruler of dreams and nightmares and he was damn good at his job. One day a mortal man believe he could trap death to delay the inevitable however his spell faltered and he caught Morpheus instead and after failing he kept the god trapped in a glass ball.”

You looked at Dream/Morpheus but he did not look at you instead his eyes were focused on the invisible cords on him. 

“A century passed and finally he was free. He roamed the world in search of the thing stolen from him, fought demons, traversed plains, spoken with the moirai. Eventually he reclaimed his tools. It was left with the dreams and nightmares of his realm.”

Corithian paused. “He got most of them except for two. One was obviously the devilishly handsome man that I am and our star guests mother.” 

Your mother? 

You didn't remember your mother, you didn't remember anything from your little years. Your eyes were hot but no tear fell. 

“Little did he know that said dream had found love. This pretty thing was a product of a human and a dream. Incredible. This child lived undiscovered and grew in silence and love. However a dream and a human were never meant to be together for a reason. 

The father was unknowingly sharing his lifespan with his love and when it ran out, so did he and so did she. A child given to an orphange, a mother and a father turned into dust, dead on site”

“Rescued by an orphanage, adopted by humans. Until today this child has been undisturbed, but Where's the fun in that.

“Alrighty visual demonstration then!” 

“Corithian.” The man who had stayed quiet stood forward. Every step tightening his bonds breaking slightly.

“I am not done!” The nightmare truly looks devilish. 

It felt like you'd been pinched.Your skin was melting away, it wasn’t painful rather it was freeing. You felt something behind you and when you reached for it. 

Wings

However, that wasn't the most surprising thing, surprisingly. It was your body. Your elbow had caught your eye then your while arm. It was like you were the physical embodiment of a galaxy. Purple, blue, yellow, red, your head was spinning. Something warms was rushing through your veins

“Ha, I didn't even have wings until I was older, more matured nightmare, maybe 105? But you? My, am I jealous? Well I guess I am,” Corinthian spoke like this was not a hostage situation and you weren't between two men who were definitely not human. 

“What is this? What have you done to me?”

“Oh sweetheart, don't tell me you're all beauty no brains? I tell you I'm a nightmare, I tell you a pretty story, what does that make you?”

“A dream?”

“100 points to whatever Harry Potter house you'd be placed in.”

“How is this possible?”

“And we're back to stupid questions, you mortals are so limited in knowledge it's a wonder you’ve reached anywhere.” 

A gust of sand filled the area but it didn’t feel gritty or painful, in fact it was quite the opposite it was soft and sweet. The particles danced in the air like dangerous flames. Morpheus/Dream/The strange man freed himself and wrapped his own set of bonds over Corithian.

“Ugh look at you embracing it like you’ve known it all your life pathetic, here I thought you might have a shot.”

“Corithian, Corinthian.” the voice from the sand was low and went through you, and it went through Corithian too, however his recovery time was impeccable.

“Oh come on, it was just getting to the best part.” 

“Soulmates! They were, Isn't it an interesting sort? Just like you and Dream here.” Corithian started to laugh a painful laugh. “You two are bonded. Linked. MEANT TO BE”

Soulmates?

“Corinthian, you are not a dog so I will not need to speak to you like one, you will return to the dreaming.” you half-heard the rest of their conversation. You eyes moved over the crowd. Lost in thought?

“And if I say no?”

“You can’t”

“If you think I’m going back to the dreaming with you-” Corinthian begins as he takes off his glasses. You see his eyes and a primal fear grips you, your blood freezes as you look away, nauseous.

“You’re not staying here.” The Morpheus states. “I brought you into this world to serve humanity, not to feed upon it.” 

Corithian looks to him. He puts his glasses back on. His bonds disappear.

“Do you know why I do it.” He shakes his head. 

“So I can taste what it’s like to be human. And you don’t care about humanity, you only care about yourself, your realm, your rules.” 

He's unravelling.

“I contain the entire collective unconscious, without my rules; it would consume me. Humanity would be consumed.” The Morpheus looks sad for a moment ready to cry but something tells you he's been holding it in for ages. 

“Or you might actually feel something, I am not the problem, Dream!” 

“You’re right, it was my fault not yours. I had so much hope for you. But I created you poorly than. So I must uncreate you now.” 

Corithian doesn't move. Slowly red sand begins to rise from him, little picks of his skin turned to dust the specks floating about in the air some brush past you but their not as soft as Dream's sand was infact their thick and jagged. 

Corithian opens his mouth to speak but it slowly begins to disappear as well. 

“I am only sorry I won’t be here to see-” you don't hear the rest as his head is inherrantly gone too.

Morpheu remains calm, he slowly walks over to the sand remains and picks up something so small you could have missed it. A skull.

“Is that…” you lose your voice. He nods turning it over in his hands. 

“Yes.” .

“Next time I make you, you will not be so flawed and petty little dream,” He speaks to the skull then directs his attention to the field of serial killers who’ve been frozen I'm their seats this whole time, it seems the nightmare's magic wore off. He places the skull in one of his pockets.  

“And you who call yourselves collectors, until now you sustained fantasies where you are the victims, daydreams in which you were always right, but no more, the dream is over, I have taken it away for this is my judgement upon you that you shall know from this moment on exactly how craven and selfish and monstrous you are and you shall feel the pain of those you have slaughtered. “

You watched as every single person in the room went out through the doors, looking so similar you thought they were under a new spell. You may not be a high lord but you could see and smell it. 

The fear. 

The agony. 

“What will happen to them?” you ask, your voice low and shaky. 

“Mass incarcerations, I have a fair idea that they will either terminate their existence and or give into the law.”

“What about what they saw here.”

“They'll remember nothing about today.”

“And me?”

“And you…first we must get your glamour up.” His hand carefully brushes against your collar bone and then up your neck and like a switch your back to your human self, you pinched it just to be sure.

“So he was right, he was telling the truth? I'm one of your creations?” You ask your hands sweaty in your grip. 

“He was half right, you are half my creation and half human. You are something new to me but we will find the answers. But first, you must have questions and I shall do my best to answer them.” 

“Your name is Dream or Morpheus?” he nodded.

“I am known by many names and thousand more titles, Oneiros, Somnia by the romans, Fashioner, Dream, Onierus, Morpheus, The Sandman. You may call me whichever you like.

“Morpheus.” A look passes in his eyes that you didn't recognise but it did not scare you in fact it brought you closer and closer. “Your eyes are like stars, they are very pretty.”

Morpheus chuckled. He did not seem like one who would but he did. It was only then you realise how close you were.

“Even after all you've been through today you still come towards me even after all this.” 

You shrug. “You saved me so that's a pro.” 

“Thank you, you have pretty eyes too.” you giggle as he humours you. 

“But…my life here, I can't just abandon everything I've known.” from your childhood to adulthood you have gained many things to live for. How could you just let it all go to follow a diety you just met?

“Corithian is a nightmare who takes measures as though not to have his fun take from him I'm afraid, no one knows who you are, his magic does not have a good record of undoing itself..”

“And if it does? There's a chance right?” You  knew you were grasping at straws but-

“Then you came resume your daily life. 

“You will not truly leave everything behind, you will simply travel between realms and back. Places and back, I can even create a dream in your image to go over your daily chores so your absence is unnoticed.”

“I couldn't ask that.”

“You forget what I made mention of to Corithian, dreams and nightmares are meant to serve humans, any dream to take on your role would be most pleased and honoured. Do we have a deal?”

You gazed over him, he seemed genuine. 

“But what about the soulmate bonds he was talking about?” 

“I will not be forcing a romantic engagement upon you, if that’s what you're worried about.”

“Isn't it killing you?”

“Mere bullets to a bulletproof vest.”

“It still hurts.” You saw a ghost of a smile on his face.

“It seems your values truly are intact even after such an ordeal. You do not ask about yourself? Whether you might find the same end as your father?”

“What will happen to me?” 

“Your human side is more than your dream so I believe you will simply exist perfectly with or without me.” 

“How would I exist with you?” 

“I am a ruler over my own realm of Dreams and Nightmares so to exist with me you would be my wife and queen.”

“Your wife.” Strangely being married to this man did not seem antagonising for a second nor did you feel any sort of fear or anxiety. Infact the idea…pleased you?

“Yes, there's a whole ceremony, then a party, all a formality really to introduce you to the others.” Other gods and goddesses. 

“Right.”

“I understand if this was a lot to understand from Corithian and his activities to becoming Queen of the Dreaming but you have the option to walk out of here enacting no fury upon yourself.” You wanted to smile, he's a perfect gentleman. 

“Is it foolish if I told you I understood everything and that's why I'm still here?” you chuckled cracking your knuckles. 

“No it's human nature, nothing foolish about you. “ 

“And how do you feel about this?” he looked surprised and stayed silent for a minute before replying. 

“Well, I never believed in soulmates for beings like me and so I'm curious, but…” he trailed off looking at you funny. “I wonder what it's like to be loved by you.” 

“I should be saying that to you. I have a lot of questions for you but I can save them for another time” 

“Then,” His hand was back in sight. “Will you come with me?” you had slight apprehension but you slipped your hands in his nonetheless.

“My care is in your hands.”

i hope this fit the bill. <3333

[ask-cupbros-parents]

Somebody at my main blog asked me about the casino crew in this au,

here's the crew in the early stage of Devil's Casino

*Please do not repost, copy, or trace my artwork! Cupbros blog |Main blog| Twitter | Patreon

Pirouletta (Casino Staff. Co-Manager)

King Dice (Manager, host of entertainment show )

Mr. Wheezy (A ranked Debt collector)

Utena Teacup ( Debt collector, also do small jobs of different types, especially those that involve repairing or cleaning things in Casinos)

Relationships :

[twopoppies]

On a recent London outing, Styles dressed down in black Under Armour shorts, tortoiseshell Jacques Marie Mage aviators, worn-in Adidas Sambas, and a JW Anderson crossbody bag that Vogue suggested could be a token of interpersonal goodwill, given Russell’s ambassadorship at Anderson’s Loewe. Interestingly, the musician also wore a maroon crewneck printed with the small serif-font logo of Cadogan Tate, a London fine art logistics firm that specializes in transporting valuable objects.

Eagle-eyed Styles fans quickly surmised that the sweatshirt, which is not publicly available for purchase, must be part of the firm’s staff kit. And while an art-handling company like Cadogan would typically assist dealers and auction houses, it seems Styles may too have had some valuables that needed moving.

In an email to GQ, a Cadogan Tate representative confirmed the musician’s maroon sweatshirt “is part of our team-member uniform program. Mr. Styles acquired the garment after a recent project that our team completed with him.”

The rep declined to comment further on the specifics of the project.

Harry Styles is a big art guy. He posed for David Hockney. He gallery hops. He’s been collecting since he was in his early 20s, when his personal holdings reportedly included a small museum’s worth of taxidermy, gun sculptures, and paintings such as an Andy Warhol–style print of Kate Moss. According to UK tabloid the Daily Star, he once tried to commission the covert British street artists Bambi and Banksy to paint frescoes in his home, but was thwarted by the fact that going to a famous singer’s house would have revealed their identities.

x

Given that Harry moved at least some of his belongs out of Erskine last year prior to the renovation that happened there, perhaps it was the art from that house that they helped him with. But, who knows? I’m here for art collector Harry wearing random merch, though.

[unholy-idiot]

What Punch Out characters think about Garfield.

I have to mix my fixations somehow I must, I just must.

goddd this is so stupid 😭

MINOR CIRCUIT

Glass Joe - Quite content with Garfield, probably has a few merch he simply saw on the selves of some store and got for the fun of it (One of his favorite mugs is a Garfield mug not the McDonald’s one.)

His favorite character is probably Arlene though (at least in the 80’s style not current Arlene)

Von Kaiser - Also quite content with Garfield, he actually finds the Garfield comics quite humorous >_> but…he probably has only one Garfield merch and it’s that one that’s just sitting. He has no memory of how he got this

His favorite character is Lyman. (Does he know?)

Disco Kid - ADORESS Garfield, he definitely grew up watching the Garfield and friends shorts constantly. Has a shit ton of Garfield merch in his mansion because of it, even the really stupid ones like The Garfield couch or that telephone.

His favorite is character Garfield. Sleeps with multiple Garfield plushies staring at him at night.

King Hippo - I don’t think the island Hippo is from had any acknowledge to Garfield. Definitely was a bit freaked out seeing this Orange cat everywhere he went when he first came to America

though I think the cat grew on him, it’s his favorite and only character he know.

MAJOR CIRCUIT!

Piston Honda - Garfield wasn’t as big as a hit in Japan compared to a lot of other countries, so Honda probably wasn’t even aware of his existence until he moved to America. He finds him quite adorable and was given a few merch from Great Tiger as gift.

with the little he has heard of Garfield I think his favorite would be Odie. Not for any reason, just because 🤷‍♀️

Bear Hugger - Didn’t quite get the hype of Garfield. Like, ever. He never understood it but he finds the gazillion merch quite funny.

His favorite character is pooky (you’re not going to believe why)

Great Tiger - Garfield also isn’t popular in India, but when he first saw the merch of him he thought he was some weirdly shaped Tiger that a lot of people just liked for some reason. Until he was told in great detail the garfield lore by a certain Irish. Needless to say, he now loves the cat for no valid reason.

favorite character is Liz.

Don Flamenco - Also doesn’t get the Garfield hype, but couldn’t escape it. Small bits of Garfield comes into his any time he’s in America, in the mall, in the restaurants, in his matches. He’d always see his face, to the point he started growing this humongous biased towards him.

If you ask who favorite character is, he’ll just go on a rant on how dumb for something as simple as Garfield to be so popular. then reluctantly say Jon.

WORLD CIRCUIT👅

Aran Ryan - Garfield was his SHIT as a kid. Ooo lord he loved that dumb cat. Unlike disco though, he didn’t have the money to get merch as kid and his only source of content was the Garfield and Friends show and the comic strips on the newspaper. Knows far too much about Garfield because of this, ask him anything about it he’ll go on a tangent of the whole lore.

His favorite character is odie. Burp

Soda Popinski - Likes the cat, that it. He only knew about him from bootleg toys he finds on the local market until coming to America.

his favorite character is Jon though.

Bald Bull - This is a Turkish man why would he not like a cat character. He doesn’t even know anything about Garfield and didn’t even know it was comic strip and had a show, he just simply thought it was just some marketable design that just…existed. He has a decent collection in his house but isn’t dedicated to it.

Favorite character is Garfield.

Super Macho Man - Doesn’t give a doo doo about Garfield, he has no reason too nor a way to even get into it😭

favorite character is Garfield cause he doesn’t know anyone else in the franchise

Mr Sandman - Loves Garfield a lot, and is quite knowledgeable on it in general. But…he is an AVID collector that man owns Every. Single. Limited edition merch, to ever exist. He basically has a whole separate lifestyle just dedicated to looking for Garfield merch.

favorite character is Garfield. Duh.

OTHERS

Little Mac - Was one of those kids that didn’t necessarily grow up with Garfield, but was a big part of his life in an unintentional way. Like, he will see an old picture of himself from when he was child or something holding a large Garfield plush, or finding old DvD’s of the Garfield shorts he has no memory of watching.

favorite character is Garfield.

Doc Louis - Probably didn’t give much mind to Garfield, similar to Little Mac it would be part of his life in an unintentional way. But more of him getting merch with the intent of actually using it not because it’s Garfield Y’know?

Favorite character is def Jon tho.

[dustandembers]

LOV and their hobbies + interests.

𓏵

SHIGARAKI:

He’s into Ocarinas (which may or may not have been influenced by TLOZ).

But he’s also into graffiti art. He usually would appreciate the work of others but he has a small album somewhere of stuff he’s done as a teen.

TOGA:

Gyaru fashion and “deco den”. But I could also see her being amazed with (and trying out) the kalimba.

When she was a kid, she really enjoyed doing those subscription based arts and crafts projects that are sent to your home every month.

I get the sense that she would also like to journal but lacks the motivation to actually sit and do it. She would definitely be okay with an activity book, though.

DABI:

He’s interested in fish— koi ponds and maybe even aquariums, to some extent.

If he had the chance to do so, he’d probably try his hand at bonsai. For now, he settles for origami on occasion.

He might also have some curiosity toward street racing, as well. He’d never be the one behind the wheel but something about the subculture is attractive to him.

He’s actually pretty decent at cooking.

MR. COMPRESS:

Tactile arts— specifically macrame. Though he’s become smitten with basket-weaving and making wreaths, too.

TWICE:

He’s a collector. The usual coin or card works but really he’d absentmindedly pick up anything that he finds interesting. Once he reaches three of the same item, he becomes committed to the craft.

He likes to see how long he can go before he loses his entire collection— mostly in battle, of course.

SPINNER:

He’s tried woodcarving before—but it’s a mystery on whether or not he stuck with it. He probably does but it’s more of a personal thing he would do on the rare moments alone.

Regardless, he’s interested in painting but more in an abstract or psychedelic sense. He does most of his works on blank, pre-made things like vases, teapots or cups of any kind, et cetera.

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 2

Bruh. My back is HURTING from being hunched over my laptop lol. For some reason I've managed to shit out this next chapter at the speed of light, but I'm back at uni and deadlines are picking up so I can't guarantee another one for a couple weeks. ANYWAY - ALASTOR HAS FINALLY MADE AN APPEARANCE. Not in person yet, but he's here (in spirit). I also apologise to anyone not from Yorkshire, I've used some of our slang from there and it may not make sense, but MC's embracing her Northener crave for violence.

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 6800

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Descriptions of murder and dismemberment. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >

PART 1: Chapter 2

Another box for my trinkets it's trinketville.

Meraki (Definition): To put something of yourself into your work. (Noun)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Thursday, 7th November, 1929.

The first four months of your new apprenticeship had you thriving more than ever before since arriving in the US. The last time you had felt this joyous and satisfied you were nearly eighteen, the tickle of the long grass on your cheeks as you laid in the meadow at the height of spring, holding the bunch of wildflowers against the kaleidoscopic swirls of the evening tones of the sky above you, admiring the way the lowering sun hit the petals and the small bugs that floated around with its golden highlights. It was one of the few times you had managed to bring your racing mind to a stand-still; no voices; no random lines of songs in your head playing on replay; no worries about the chores you were procrastinating or the book your friend had recommended weeks ago that you were yet to touch. You remembered the feeling of the summer dress you wore, the texture of the leather messenger bag beside you gifted by the old woman who lived further down the lane of the village. She used to babysit you when your parents would travel to York days at a time for work or personal errands. You loved to skip down that lane, with your hand running along the rough stones of the ancient stone walls that lined the lanes of your little village you had spent your whole life in – also lining your mind with the cuts it gave you as you tried to climb over them with the twins over the years.

The routine of working at the repair shop had brought the blissful feeling of stability back, the hectic frenzy of travelling from hotel room to hotel room, checking your tickets a thousand times to make sure you were on the correct train platform, then checking again. You no longer had to worry about travel dates that would leave you feeling paralysed from doing anything else.

Mr LeBlanc had been an excellent teacher and manager, drilling skills into your mind since you stepped into the shop for your starter shift. It was certainly an experience: opening the double doors to a vintage collector’s dream, an antique emporium filled from floor to ceiling (and on the ceiling). Ralph had brought you behind the counter, to a room in the back that he gleefully revealed to be concealed by a door disguised as a bookshelf. The workshop hidden behind was every antique restorer’s sanctuary, and it was certainly yours. Drawers lining the walls filled with every tool that could file, chip away, or apply anything you could find. In the centre was a large wooden table – thick, sturdy planks covered in chips and splatters of paint and adhesives used over the years. This table would be the place you would spend the next four months, your hair tied back by a patterned silk bandana, Ralph showing you how to work with materials from wood to porcelain, metal to textiles. You would pour over books you had pulled from Mr LeBlanc’s bookshelves until late into the evening, until he sent you home with them in your bag, and you protected them with your life as you returned on the trams (or ‘streetcars’, as Americans called them) in the evening light.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he taught you everything he could, and you absorbed it all at the speed of light, your mind soaking up every piece of information like a dry sponge. By month three you had been given the go ahead to work on your first object from a customer – a small, spindly regency era chamber table belonging to a local gentleman. All it needed was some chips to be filled and repolishing, allowing Ralph to be confident enough in your abilities to complete it correctly. Your results came out on top, both Ralph and the customer being satisfied with your work, and you received the praise gleefully, along with the hefty tip the gentleman handed you over the counter. To you, everything was going fine and dandy.

Until October hit.

Apparently there were plenty of warning signs, according to most. They knew this was coming, your aunt knew this was coming. It was what she had said when you sat with her on the steps of the front porch.

“Shops are going to start disappearing.” She said, keeping her gaze ahead as she watched the cars sputter by. “With the rate this is going, I’m going to have to pull the boys out of school and get them working – I can’t keep the walls of this house up by myself.”

It had sent chills down your spine when you had picked up a newspaper, the words ‘Wall Street’ and ‘Stock Market Crash’ staining the pages for weeks. You put your mind and body into helping Mr LeBlanc, desperate for him to keep his business up and running. Unfortunately, as prices dropped, less people wanted to splurge the extra cash on something nice and antique, so you both lowered prices where you could, even going to lengths to hammer fliers to every street-post that advertised restoration jobs for any household item, promising customers that they would save money on repairs instead of buying it new.

It worked more than you thought, and it brought in enough income for Ralph to scratch by. He was also grateful you hadn’t asked for a raise to cope with the financial crisis, flat-out refusing when he had tried to hand you some tips he had received.

It was just the beginning of December when Ralph had called the house phone as you were getting ready for work. Ollie had yelled up the stairs to tell you and you scrambled down in your work trousers with your nightgown still on. Grabbing the phone, you listened to a raspy Mr LeBlanc as he told you he had falling ill with the usual winter flu. Unfortunately, being 63 meant that he was more susceptible to the illness, and was unsure if he would recover. If he did, it would still take a while, so he had asked you that morning if you were capable of running the shop solo. You had instantly said yes, refusing to let any sidetrack be his business’s downfall, so, with your head held high, you walked to his house, picking up any essential documents that he said you would need, and kept the shop up and running to the best of your abilities.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Friday, 6th December, 1929.

It was the Friday of the first week of December when you were an hour away from closing. You had been lucky that it had been pretty quiet the last few days, allowing you to settle into working your first ever Monday to Friday and getting to know the everyday things that were essential to keep the doors open. You had brought an armchair behind the counter – the gap between the counter and the wall was spacey enough for you to fit the chair and a small side table.

After not seeing any customers for over an hour, you had wandered off to the small side kitchen hidden by a Persian rug hung over the doorway to fetch yourself a warm cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake that Agnes had slipped into your lunch bag that day. Returning to the front, you placed the food and beverage on the side table, and sank into the chair, propping your feet up and delving into the book you had bought a few months ago.

Your eyes were drooping by the time you finished the tea and cake, and you rested your head on the back of the cushion, lowering your eyelids shut but remaining awake, knowing you had to get up soon in order to close in a half hour. Though the sudden sound of the shop’s bell chiming had you shooting out of your seat like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Scrambling to your feet, you scooted over to plop yourself on the counter stool, fixing yourself to look as presentable as possible as you faced the person entering. It was the mailman, stomping his boots to rid of the snow from the mild blizzard outside on the shoe rug by the door whilst holding a semi-large parcel under his arm. You recognised him from his rounds of the area, normally dropping off the odd parcel here and there for Ralph. Making sure the curls you had pressed into your hair overnight weren’t flattened at the back, you straightened out the silk scarf tied round the front of your head, flicking a curl out of your eye, and faced the man with a warm smile, to which he returned. He was a tall, young looking lad, older than you, but youth still shone in his eager eyes as he approached you.

“Afternoon ma’am,” he greeted, tipping his snow patterned hat. “I apologise for the snow on the floor, m’fraid the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

You waved him off, assuring that you were going to be cleaning up soon anyway. He inquired about Mr LeBlanc’s whereabouts, and you explained that his illness wasn’t letting up any time soon.

“Shame,” he said. “I know you’re probably not getting overrun, but it still must be complicated being a young woman running someone else’s business – especially near Christmas, having to trek home in the cold and wet by yourself.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright.” You laughed with a shake of your head, trying to not let your frustration show at the thought of him doubting your skills because of your gender. “He’s given me everything I need, and I can deal with the weather just fine. Wet and cold is the norm where I’m from.” Changing the subject, you gestured to the half-damp parcel still under his arm. “Is that addressed to Ralph or the shop?”

As if suddenly remembering the reason he was here, he quickly hauled the parcel from under his arm and slid it onto the counter.

“It’s for the shop.” He explained, gesturing a gloved hand to it. “S’pose it’s a last minute repair for a Christmas gift or somethin’.”

Placing your hands on either side, you slid the large square box towards you. Standing up from the stool, you peered at the top. Brushing off the half-melted snow, you read the handwriting that ornately spelled out the address - this was probably another repair.

The parcel itself was probably the neatest you had ever seen anything wrapped. The parcel paper was thick and expensive, the water and snow running off without leaving any trace behind except for a slight sheen, and the edges were folded so crisp and perfectly shaped and flat you wondered if whoever had wrapped it was human. Tied round like a present was a thick twine, looping into a bow directly in the middle of the top. You admired the dedication of whoever had put in the time to wrap this, running your fingers over the corners only to jerk them back slightly as the folds were so sharp they felt like they were slicing at your skin.

Looking back at the mailman, you thanked him for the delivery, and hoped him safe travels back home. Tipping his hat at you, he turned away with a farewell, and the bell chimed again when he opened the door, dipping his head against the wind as he faded into the white wall outside.

When the howling wind finally allowed the door to shut, you began the closing routine, knowing that there wouldn’t be anyone else today with the severity of the weather outside. After locking the exits and pulling the shutters closed and the blinds down, you kept the shops lanterns on as you lifted the hefty parcel with a grunt and shuffled through the hidden doorway into the workshop.

Sliding it onto the table, you got to work opening it up, pulling the twine bow free and taking some small hand-held shears to slice open the glued down folds to reveal a cardboard box.

Pulling the thick brown paper and twine out from underneath, you chucked them onto the other workbench pushed against the wall to the right. Placing the shears down, you pushed your fingernails between the gap of the serrated cardboard and swung the flaps open. Inside was a lot of loose cotton wool, and you reached in, removing the protective layer and chucking it onto the table whilst simultaneously thanking whoever had spent their time padding the box out. This uncovered a semi-large shape swaddled in a maroon-coloured knitted blanket, and you reached your arms in deep to wrap around the object and haul it out.

Laying it on the table, you pushed the box and wool out of the way, and gently began unwrapping the blanket, mindful that some repair jobs may start out with several shattered pieces that you certainly didn’t want to accidentally drop an lose amongst everything. Coming to the final layer, your nails slotted through some of the holes of the knitting and clacked against what sounded like solid wood, and slipping the material off, you had your first look at your new potential project.

It was an old radio. Well, not that old, considering radios had only been in circulation for a decade or so, but it was one of the earlier models, the features you recognised from when you visited the county Mayor’s house when you were in your early teens. It was shaped with a resemblance to a cathedral arch, the wood panelling around the edge looking like pillars that began swirling and spiralling into gothic patterns the closer you got to the top. These patterns decorating the fine grated material that covered the speaker, and a few dials were situated on the bottom half, and you immediately noticed one was missing.

Pulling a stool over, you sat down to get a closer look, and you noted down the damages that came to light. It had obviously been looked after over the years, but, as always, people are prone to accidents, and this radio seemed to have gone through a few. Apart from the dial that was missing, there was a large split down one side, between two of the panels, and scratches and slight dents from where it had obviously been dropped. Grabbing your notebook, you jotted down your initial observations, before diving your hands into the left over cotton in the box to search for anything that could assist you.

To your luck, you found a small linen bag about the size of your palm, that you untied to reveal the missing dial and a few pieces of wood that had come off in some areas. Returning to your notes, you were just about to start a proposal form for treatment when something caught your eye. Looking over to the blanket you had put to the side, your eyes landed on a fancy looking envelope.

Reaching over, your fingers clasped around the paper, the material just as thick and expensive feeling as the parcel wrap, and you brought it towards you, careful not to elbow anything in the process, because if they could afford fancy radios and paper during this crisis, then they certainly were expecting you to repair this with equally expensive standards. Holding the paper up you read the loopy handwriting on the front of the envelope:

To  the Owner.

Turning it over, you pried the even fancier wax seal apart as gently as you could as to not ruin the paper, and opening the flap, you reached in to slide out a folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, you began to read the matching, loopy words.

---

December 4 th, 1929

Dear Owner,

I do hope this package finds you well. I am delivering this fine radio to be repaired at your establishment, as it belongs to my dear Mother and I would be overjoyed to have it completed in time for Christmas. Unfortunately, it has suffered its fair share of drops and bumps, but from what I have heard from others in our beloved city, you should be able to do an excellent job. The outside is obvious with what needs to be done, but there are areas within the interior mechanics that require some repairs. Now, I would take it to the radio shop, but the man who owns it is oh-so unpleasant, and would take weeks to be returned.

I am sure you would be happy to take on this challenge, for my mother’s sake, and that you will do a splendid job.

Regards,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

You blinked. Then furrowing your brows, you read it again. And again. Did this guy want you to not only fix up the look of his mum’s radio, but magically know the ins and outs of radio technology? You shook your head, then did a quick once-over of the words scrawled onto the page. Yep, he wanted you to do a Frankenstein and completely resurrect the old thing.

Placing you elbow on the table, you rested your chin on your palm as you stared at the wall covered in tool across the room. There was no way you could do this, not without Mr LeBlanc still ill – though even if he was here, you didn’t know if he had any knowledge on radios. Sighing, you rubbed at your face tiredly, not caring if you smudged the mascara on your lashes, it wasn’t like anyone was going to walk in on you with panda eyes anyway. Letting out a prolonged groan, you came to the final decision of what to do.

Trudging back into the shop, you quickly made yourself another cup of tea, before snatching some of the letter paper and an envelope from under the counter. Slumping back onto the stool in the workshop, you placed the paper in front of you whilst reaching into one of the drawers attached to the table to grab a pen, then, taking a moment to think of what you were going to say, you began writing.

---

December 6 th, 1929

Dear Mr Boudreaux,

Thank you for your enquiry. As much asI would love to fulfil your request, there are some issues regarding certain stages of the repairs. Mr LeBlanc, who owns the company, has taken ill this last week, and it is not yet known when he will recover, and I am the only member of staff he has employed at the moment. Unfortunately, I am not experienced in radio mechanics, and strongly advise that you come and collect the radio and take it to be repaired at a radio shop.

The radio can be returned here for outer repairs, but I am afraid that is the only option I can offer you at this time. The radio will be ready for you to collect from 9am on Monday morning. I do apologise for the inconvenience.

Regards,

---

Signing the first letter of your name, along with you surname, you read over what you had written. Satisfied, you sealed it in the envelope and got to work wrapping the radio back up. Quickly taking a candle, you took a peek in between the crack in the wood, the light shining on the innards. You definitely had no chance of fixing that, if the absolute mess of dislodged coils, wires and metal pieces inside said anything. Reluctantly you placed it back in its box wrapped up and padded with the cotton, before taping it up and re-glueing the parcel paper and twine back in place. It was a shame that you had to reject the request, the payment for the repair would have benefited you and Ralph quite a bit, and it made you feel awfully guilty to prevent someone’s gift for their mother, but it was out of your control. So, with the guilt hanging over your head, you pushed the parcel into the corner under one of the tables on sale.

Doing one last round of the shop, you extinguished the candles dotted around and flipped the light switches off except the main one by the door. With your coat and gloves on, you made sure the scarf was wrapped tight round your neck before grabbing your bag and did one last sweep of the place. Glancing in the corner, you took one last lingering look at the sorrowful parcel that sat under the table, but quickly snatched your eyes away, and grabbing the keys, you flipped the final light switch and stepped out into the cold, looking for the nearest post-box with the letter grasped in your hand.

--------------------------------------------------------------

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Monday, 9th December, 1929.

Monday came rolling round as usual, and you began your usual weekday routine of washing and dressing yourself before heading downstairs for breakfast. Scooping some scrambled eggs onto the toast on your plate, you trudged from the kitchen to the dining room, the slap of your bare feet on the tiles echoing through the wide hallway.

Shuffling through the doorway, you sat opposite Ollie, who, by the looks of it, was still waking up as he shovelled buttered toast into his mouth with his head still lying sideways on the table. Reaching over, you slapped the handle of your fork against his ear that stuck out from between his loose, dark curls, and he let out a whine as he sat up to face you with one eye glued shut, the other barely open, bread hanging from between his frown.

“You’ll choke eating like that.” You said as you scooped egg into your mouth.

Ollie dropped the toast from his mouth onto his plate. “Good.” He mumbled. “S’better than Miss Sammie droning on and ooonnnn about nonsense.” He flopped his head back on the table.

“Well enjoy it while you can.” You snorted. “If this crash gets any worse Mum will be pulling you both out to find jobs. And I know you two wouldn’t last a day in the workplace.”

He jerked his head back, scrunching his face in offence. “Like you would be any better.”

You deadpanned. “I’m currently working 9 -5, Monday to Friday, dumbass.” You jabbed back in annoyance, throwing a piece of crust at his forehead.

“Shit, forgot about that.” He grumbled, but perked up suddenly. “Yea, but you’ve only been working full time since last week!”

You chucked another crust. “Running a shop full time on my own – something I’ve never done before??”

“Still.” He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

You had opened your mouth to retort, but stopped halfway as Allie’s voice echoed through from the kitchen.

“There’s been another one!” he called out, almost excitedly, the thumping of his feet vibrating through the floorboards as he practically sprinted into the room with the morning newspaper grasped firmly in his hands. The two of us jerked back as he slammed it onto the table.

“Amuver!?” cried Ollie, voice muffled by food, though he quickly swallowed it. All evidence of his tiredness now gone, he snatched up the paper and brought it right up to his face. “It’s barely been a week!”

“I know!” Allie replied, his voice rising in volume every time he spoke. “At this point it could end up happening every month!”

You looked between the two of them confused since you couldn’t see what Ollie was reading. “What could happen?” you asked, perplexed.

The two of them froze, turning to stare at you. Their eyes darted to each other, before Ollie lowered the newspaper and spoke.

“…The murders?” He revealed, as if it was the most obvious thing.

You blinked, then looked between the two, more confused. “What murders?”

“What!?” Allie cried, bracing his hands on the table as he leant over it, eyes wide. “You’ve been gallivanting round town for seven months and don’t know about thee murders??”

You leant back slightly at the sight of your cousin’s crazy expression, and slowly shook your head. “I’m uh – not one to read the newspaper often.” You explained sheepishly.

He gaped, clearly shocked at your lack of knowledge about the subject. His head whipped to where his brother sat, and his hand reached out and snatched the newspaper from Ollie’s. You quickly moved your breakfast out of the way, saving your food from being flattened as Allie slammed the paper down and began aggressively prodding at the headline on the front page. Swatting his hand away, you read the giant words printed above a photograph of a lake you didn’t recognise.

‘BARRISTER FOUND BUTCHERED ON EMBANKMENT’

Suddenly intrigued, brought the paper closer to read the front column.

Tragedy strikes again in New Orleans as the remains of county barrister, Paul Morgan, were found on the embankment and in the water of Lake Cataouatche by visitors to the area. Morgan was reported missing last Wednesday by his wife, Martha, when he failed to return home for two days after a night out on Monday with his colleagues. It was reported that Morgan’s body was dismembered, and his head took several hours to locate. However, certain body parts are still missing, therefore the lake has been closed off to the public for the foreseeable future. Police are calling in and searching for potential suspects, and give their condolences to Paul’s close family and friends, stating that they are working overtime to bring the killer to justice and prevent any further deaths. Due to the nature and severity of the crime, it is possible that this is another victim of who the public dubs ‘The Bayou Butcher’. The Sheriff strongly encourages people to stick to an early curfew and remain indoors after nightfall, as the safety of the public cannot be guaranteed at this trying time. (More on Page 5)

You went to flip through, but the paper was pulled out your hands by Ollie who wanted to read it.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Allie hissed excitedly as he lowered himself onto the chair at the head of the table between you both. “This could be another Axeman!”

Ollie gasped, eyes sparkling. “Shit, it could!”

You perked up. “Another Axeman? How long has this guy been around?” you asked as you brought your breakfast back in front of you.

Allie turned to you, eyes shining in excitement. “The first body was found in 1927 – and the rest have been popping up every 2-3 months, but this is the first time there’s been two in less than two weeks!”

You narrowed your eyes in thought. “How do you know it’s all one guy?”

At this question he seemed to get more excited, practically vibrating in his seat as he gestured to his twin. “Ollie and I have been collecting newspaper clippings on every murder that’s happened, and we’ve tried to eliminate any outliers – like, different weapons, ones that are bleedin’ obvious who did it – the rest all have the same MO: they never find the whole body.” He yammered on at light speed, emphasising each word with a loud thump of his finger prodding the table. “Sometimes it’s not obvious, I think they try to throw the police off by going for something small – like a finger – but there’s always something missing, and we know it’s them.”

You frowned. “Them?”

He shrugged. “Could be a woman.” You raised an eyebrow. “What!? I don’t discriminate! Women can be scary!” You slowly sat back in your seat, staring your cousin down. He pointed at you as he looked at his brother with wide eyes. “See!? You wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged a body in?”

Ollie swallowed the food he was chewing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused the second Great Fire of London because someone stole her food.” He said nonchalantly, before casually returning to his toast.

“Exactly!” cried Allie. “No wonder the government wants you all nice and buttoned up in a strait jacket!”

Dropping your fork with a clatter, you looked up at him in shock, mouth hanging open. He froze, quickly realising what he had said, and his face slowly scrunched up as he cringed.

“Too far?” he squeaked meekly as he glanced at you. “Sorry.”

Pouting, you glared silently before picking your fork back up.

A few moments of silence passed, before Ollie decided he had experienced enough of the dampened mood. “You know,” he began, catching your attention again. “We think the body parts aren’t just missing for the sake of it.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued again.

He looked you directly in the eye. “We think they’re eating them.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oo yummy, like a cannibal?” you queried, eyes darting to Allie, who perked back up, nodding. “So… there’s a cannibalistic serial killer running around New Orleans?”

Allie pointed a finger. “Serial killer, yes. Cannibal, possibly. We don’t actually have any proper evidence for that. I’m also going to skip the ‘yummy’ part, cuz I know you would never willingly consume human flesh.”

“You would be correct,” you confirmed with an amused smile, before glancing at the two. “Has mum ever suggested that you two should consider joining the police force?”

All you got were two matching cheshire grins in response.

----------------------------------------

After cleaning up your food, and disappointing the twins because no, you didn’t bring your serial killer books to America with you, because you didn’t want to be judged by the luggage inspectors on the ferry, besides, Jack the Ripper got a little boring after a while.

Even though it was interesting to learn about the current events of the city you were staying in, the subject of said current events did end up putting you on edge when you travelled to work that morning, with you clutching your bag a little tighter, and intensely staring down anyone who looked at you a little odd on the tram. It even got to the point where you had stepped off the tram, and spent the ten minute walk between there and the shop glancing down any alleyways as subtle as you could, even though you knew you would spot anyone against the white snow that reflected the morning sun into your poor, suffering eyes anyway.

Unlocking the shop doors, you stepped in, stomping the snow off of your boots on the mat before picking it up and shaking it off outside. Crossing the threshold of the room, you ducked under the rug into the kitchen, shrugging off your scarf and coat and hanging them up on the pegs.

You were just dusting off the old grandfather clock that was slotted between the shelves of smaller antique clocks when a knock echoed through the shop. Jumping slightly, you lowered the feather duster in your hand and looked over your shoulder to see the same mailman from Friday waving at you through the window in the door, his smile growing as you made eye contact with him . Placing the duster down, you quickly strode over to the door, twisting the locks before pulling it open and sticking you head through the gap.

“I do apologise Miss,” he began after you said hello. “I hate to interrupt you whilst your still getting ready to open, but my boss handed some priority mail to me – said I had to get it to you as soon as I could.” He held a letter out in front of you.

Frowning, confused, you slowly reached out and took the letter from his hands. “Okayyy…” Turning the letter around you came across some very familiar hand writing:

‘To Mr LeBlanc’s Employee.’

“Oh god.” You groaned quietly, your shoulders slumping. This could turn out to be quite nasty if this was going the way you thought it would.

The mailman glanced between the letter and your very prominent grimace. “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern shining in his eyes.

“Yea! Yea,” you breathed, glancing around the street with the dwindling hope that your client would show up to pick up his parcel, but the letter in your hand said otherwise. “Everything’s fine. Just some very small business issues.”

He glanced at your face again, and went to open his mouth, but hesitated, seemingly switching what he was going to say. “Well, uh, I hope everything goes well, ma’am. I’ll see you around?”

You nodded, still staring down the street. “Yea, sure. See you around.” You said distractedly. Quickly giving him a strained smile, you stepped back to close the door, and the man tipped his cap at you again before strolling away.

Walking over to the counter, you slumped onto the stool with a groan, chucking the letter down in front of you. Leaning your elbows on the surface, you rested your forehead against your palms as you glared at the words inked onto the paper. The way it was addressed to you already screamed passive-aggressive, and you hated confronting anything or anyone with a passion, and you certainly didn’t want to confront this Boudreaux guy because you denied his mum a Christmas present. With a loud whine, you slammed your head onto the counter before blindly patting the surface until you felt the thick paper and slowly dragged it towards you. Sitting back up, you held the seemingly innocent envelope in front of you, and stared at it for a couple more moments, before you couldn’t take it anymore and tore it open.

---

December 7 th, 1929

To the Employee of Mr LeBlanc,

I hope this letter has found you in post haste. I am deeply upset that you lack the skills of radio repair, after all it is a growing medium that most should be learning at this point. Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will refuse your rejection. The fliers you put out stated very clearly that you could repair ANY object, and it would be very disappointing for people to hear that it no longer has that skill to offer, since the only other option for radio repair during these trying times is a very unpleasant experience with that owner I mentioned.

I do hope my Mother’s radio will be fixed on time, I do hate to disappoint her. If Mr LeBlanc does not recover within the period, or you have any queries about the repair, please call the number I have written below.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Best Wishes,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

If your mouth hung open any further than you would be catching every insect that resided in the swamps surrounding the town.

Was this guy fucking for real??

You scoffed slightly. Then again. Eventually you scoffing spiralled into manic laughter as you guffawed at the audacity that this man thought he had. With wide eyes, you slammed the paper down back onto the counter, staring over at the wall because if you looked at those words any longer you would probably end up tracking this man down so you could shove his mother’s radio up his ass along with the fat metal rod that apparently already resided there.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed back the stool and stood up, deciding you needed you reset your mind before the first customers came in. Marching back to the kitchen, you spent the next five minutes sat in the middle of the floor, waiting for the kettle to boil as you very angrily stuffed the blueberry muffin you had brought in your mouth. You glanced at the clock and pouted as you realised you only had 15 minutes before you had to put on your best customer-friendly expression despite the metaphorical grey cloud that thundered above your head.

Thinking for a moment, you shot back up, chucking the muffin case as you strode back through to the counter, and snatched the letter up, marching back to the kitchen over to the rotary phone on the table in the corner. Picking up the handset, you pressed it to your ear as you spun the number written out on the paper in front of you.

It rang for a moment, and you tried to picture the man who would – hopefully – receive your call. You expected to hear the gruff voice of some 50 year old, that would start yelling down the line about how incompetent you were, especially when he found out you were a woman, before you heard a crackle as it was picked up and a polite and much younger sounding “Hello?” came through.

You froze for a moment, your vision of some rude, old guy whooshed away at the voice of a much younger, more spritely man, and you pictured someone like the mailman, until you heard a louder, drawn out “Hellooo?”, the man on the other end seemingly becoming amused at your lack of response.

Snapping yourself out of the character builder you had in your mind, you quickly spoke. “Hello, do I happen to be talking to–”

“Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” You blinked as you were interrupted. “But I do believe you’ve accidentally called an American number!” The man said chipperly, though there was a condescending undertone – his amusement clearly growing at the thought of your apparent mistake. You guessed it was when he heard your accent.

“I- what?” you stammered down the receiver.

“Oh you poor thing.” He simpered over the line like some fake grandma comforting you after you tripped over. He was clearly having fun – you could just picture the fake pout he was putting on. “Like I said, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

No, this was definitely the right one. His attitude over the phone matched his attitude in the letter precisely.

You could hear him being to move to put the phone down, and you quickly called out. “WAIT NO!!” you cried, on the verge of an outrage. “I definitely put the right number in! Now, am I or am I not speaking to a Mister Boudreaux?”

“Oh! Do pardon me.~” He practically sing-songed. Oh, so now he was willing to listen? “Yes that is I, and to who do I owe the pleasure to be called by an English dame such as yourself?” the fake flirtatious tone had you picturing the faceless man laid on his front, kicking his legs as he twirled the coil between his fingers. You pushed that amusing thought down, however, when you caught sight of the piece of paper in your hand.

“I got your letter.”

“Ah,” It was like a switch was flipped, the man’s tone darkening slightly. “I see.”

Rereading the words this guy had put down, you could barely control yourself, and you pictured the time your mother had marched you down the lane to the house of a boy in your school year. That boy had given you a large bruise on your forehead, and instead of telling you that he did it because he fancied you, your mum decided to give him and his family the verbal lashing of your life. ‘I’m not raising you to snap at the slightest pressure like those London lasses, my love’, she had said, ‘You’re gonna go down kicking and screaming like it’s the last thing you’ll do’.

And that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.

“Right,” you began, your Yorkshire accent coming on full force. “I’m gonna need you t’ open yer lug ole, lad, cuz I dunno how you lot do customer service over here in America, but bein’ passive aggressive t’ someone who’s literally done nowt to deserve the absolute shite you’ve just given me makes you out t’ be a right knob’ead, you hear me?” You reprimanded. “If you don’t get your arse down to the shop by the end of the week, I’m putting ya mum’s radio down as unclaimed and selling it t’ the next person I see!”

You quickly slammed the phone down, too fuming to hear anything that Mr Boudreaux had to say. The only reason you felt a little guilty was that you knew nothing about this guy’s mum – she could be the sweetest woman in the world, and you just up and went and threatened to sell her possession! Though, with the way her son behaved, you would be surprised if she turned out to be just like him. Ugh, then you would be dealing with two of them.

Letting out a sigh, you picked up the phone again, instead dialling the phone number pinned to the corkboard on the wall. It rang for longer this time, and when it picked up you received a very loud coughing fit. When it died down, you finally spoke.

“Ralph I need your help.” You groaned, plopping yourself down on the spindly chair next to you with a defeated sigh.

“I’ve got the worst customer in the world.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Does uh, anyone want more memes?

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, and I do apologise for the sudden dialect change, I was desperate for MC to finally speak the way I do lol. See you soon for Chapter 3!!

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*feeds you content a lot earlier than I thought*

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[peaky-shelby]

New Romantics | Mbappé [4]

» summary: in which an arrogant and talented football player (the best of his time as some say) and a focused and harsh critic of a journalist are gonna have to find a way to co-exist.

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» chapter 5: everyday is like a battle

» Writer's note: every chapter will be separated in three parts (sort off). And every part will have each own song to listen to while reading. It's an attempt to get y'all in the emotion hehe. Enjoy reading xx

» Taglist: @moonchildohh @formulahoe @princetongirlll818 @mavieesttriste16 @kiwisa @godessstela @hummusxx @kodzuvk @pink-manz @corbyns-smile @ippid @jayruiewo265738 @blueanfield @mrs-bellingham @sorceresski @sooblovebot @okayymochi @army7g @j-rbps @heli991113 @markhyucksmells @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @i0veless

I was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations...

FRENCH BAR - NIGHT

“They are always using the same starting 11” she drew on the napkin, the paper getting slightly torn apart as she’d write on it. She had a made a sketch of what looked like a small field and drew 22 small circles on it, 11 on either side, representing each team. Then over the circles she’d write the names of the players. “That makes it easy to know how the game will play out.”

She was in the middle, sitting in between Ektike, Ramos, Burnet, Neymar, Hakimi and Kylian. Everyone was looking at her sketches, especially Ektike who was sitting next to her. Kylian was sometimes glancing at it but he was trying to look like he didn’t care much about what she had to say. “They are weak at defending their set pieces-“ she made an arrow from on circle to another “which allows you guys to move freely on the field-“

“But they foul a lot. And they foul hard.” Jumped in Neymar who was sitting on her other side. He pointed at one of the circles “He’s ruthless.”

“So, use that in your favor. They have a habit of fouling on dangerous areas.” She explained. “That alone creates a lot of chances for you.”

“You expect us to stay there and let ourselves get fouled then?” asked Kylian, leaning forward on the table. He was testing her. Hakimi was observing, expecting another round of comebacks and insults to begin.

“I expect you to be smart. If they want to be reckless and stupid and foul you right outside of the box then that’s on them” she smiled “it’s what I did to Verratti today. He could have chosen to pull back, pass the ball over to his teammate but he wanted to go against me so instead his chose to kick the ball on his right leg- he didn’t calculate his injury. Reckless and stupid.”

Kylian didn’t answer but he kept his eyes on her as the rest of the boys continued to listen to her pointers. She turned the napkin the other way, writing down all the weaknesses she had supposedly journal through the season about ANGERS and their approach. Most of the boys seemed to humor her, even agree with her. That’s when he realized two things. First was that she and her boss hadn’t analyze only his career down to the tiniest of detail but she was like a hard disk. She knew the stats of all the players, ready to answer with numbers at any question. How had she memorized all that information without burning her brain cells? Second thing was that the girl had written and sketched out the strategy for an entire match on a napkin. A freaking napkin that someone would come and throw away. It didn’t surprise him anymore that JW had sent her in Paris instead of coming himself. He started seeing her true potential, the reason Marcos and Galtier trusted her as much as they did and he was even more intimidated by it. So, he kept his mouth shut and casually observed the way she was slowly adapting around the members of the team. Even Ektike had began taking a liking at her and Ramos was more friendly than the others.

“You don’t have a favorite player?” Neymar stretched his hand behind her on the booth, leaning closer. Kylian watched them getting closer from the corner of his eye. Taylor put her hand on his face to push him away from her personal space.

“Hoping to hear your name junior?” The boys laughed. Neymar admitted defeat and pulled back. “I don’t because my job is to not be biased.”

“JW taught you that?” Asked Burnet. She got nervous at the question and nodded quickly.

“Yes. That and everything I know.” She motioned at the napkin. Kylian caught her expression changing like she was anxious about something all of a sudden.

“Looks to me like you know a little more than him” Hakimi said while snatching some chips from the middle of the table. Kylian gave him the side eye, was he warming up to her as well? “I mean you’re basically a walking Wikipedia. Does he even pay you enough for what you do?”

She laughed to hide her anxiety. No one else was laughing though, so she choked it, coughing to regain her composure. “Um... he’s- I wouldn’t be half of what I am without him.” In a way it was true. JW was someone she used to be, someone that wasn’t fainting after the first half and that could get brutal if she wanted to. JW was who she would have been if she hadn’t been cursed by life.

“Does he even play ball the way you do?” Ramos asked. She scoffed again, looking away, avoiding making eye contact with any of them.

“He’s a great player. Better than me.” She answered, keeping her voice steady. She looked up, her eyes finding Ramos “He’s… he used to play professionally, like you. He was a great talent.” She smiled weakly “but life happened and unfortunately, he had to let go of the sport. So, he tried to find a different way to be involved.”

“A very annoying way.” Said Ektike, drinking his beer. They started laughing again, complaining about the articles that JW had written about then in the past. Kylian didn’t, which his own friend, Hakimi, thought was very weird of him. When everyone else was occupied paying the bills or trying to at least because Ramos wasn’t gonna let Taylor pay for her drinks, Hakimi leaned closer to Kylian who was focused on his beer bottle. He kept scratching on the label, taking the sticker out.

“You know, You’re the one that invited her.” He told him, low enough so only he would hear. Kylian raised his eyes, he glanced at Hakimi and then at the girl who was getting up, getting ready to leave. He never answered to his friend’s comment. He got up as well, wearing his jacket, he neared Taylor, his hand touching the small of her back. She flinched at the contact, turning to face him and he pulled his hand away quickly, instantly regretting touching her. She examined him, suspiciously. He slipped his hands in his pockets, clearing his throat.

“You need a ride?” he asked but his tone was cold despite the offer like he wanted her to refuse.

“Ramos already offered” she answered. A sudden relief washed over him but at the same time… regret?

“Actually-“ Ramos was looking at the GPS on his phone, tracking the way to her house “Ky’s house is on the way to yours. I’d have to go out of my way.” He explained “maybe its best.”

Kylian looked down at her, accepting his fate. She seemed to accept it as well, nodding. After everyone said their goodbyes, Kylian and her made their way to his car. She felt weird just by sitting on the passenger seat. It was an expensive car, just like the bar she had spent the last couple of hours in. She wasn’t used to that, she never made big money from football, never had this sort of life and it began to dawn on her how her life was changing. Hanging around millionaires and basically celebrities. More than 10 people had come up to their table tonight, asking for autographs and pictures, especially from Kylian. The same Kylian that was now driving her to her apartment and who had deliberately turned the music on the radio so he wouldn’t have to talk to her. Every time she thought that he was warming up to her, he would shut her out in seconds like he was blaming her for all his insecurities. She tried to find a subject, something that had nothing to do with football, maybe about Ann. But she stopped herself before she said anything, every time. She didn’t try to make a conversation, she didn’t want to have another fight with him, she was too tired for that and no matter their relationship he was still driving her home. That was decent of him. Although she did wish he’d let her learn more about that side of him, instead of always getting so mean and abrupt.

Kylian was thinking the same in a sort of way. He wanted to make conversation, he wanted to follow the plan that he had set with Verratti and get close to her but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t stop himself from getting defensive around her, especially when they were talking about football. So, silence settled around them, an uncomfortable kind of silence that not even the radio could make better.

He stopped at a red light. His eyes scanning the roads and the stores on the sidewalks. That’s when he saw a pet shop, he looked away quickly but the idea had already gotten in his head. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about it. He looked at her, she had no idea. She was staring out her window but she hadn’t seen it. He smiled, why was he smiling? He forced his features to get serious. He failed, after a few seconds he was smiling again. He looked at the store, biting is lip as the idea in his head was getting louder. When the light turned green, he started the engine and drove, stopping in front of the store. The sudden stop made her worried, she gave him a weary look while he was unbuckling his belt. He nodded at the store behind her, signaling her to look. She did but she glanced back at him just as quick, still confused.

“Promised I’d get you food, right?” he explained and got out of the car before she could stop him. She laughed at his actions in disbelief. She observed as he entered the store, taking out his wallet, picking out a bag with cat food and giving it to the cashier, then he paid and picked it up again. Coming out and back to her. He entered the car, sitting next to her and handed her the bag. All she could manage to do was stare at him, her mouth open in shock as she held the bag in her hands. She kept glancing back and forth at him and the cat food. Her scoffs turned to chuckles, the corners of his mouth turned up when he heard her laughing like that and he started the car again.

She drew her lower lip between her teeth, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.” She leaned back on her seat and he laughed. He glanced quickly at her, then back at the street. “Is this some sort of peace offering?”

He pouted his lips, his hand falling on the side as he thought about it. “Is it working?”

“I mean it would have gone terribly wrong if Luna wasn’t actually a cat-“ she tried but he started laughing before she even finished the sentence.

“Somehow I never feared that-“

She smacked him on the shoulder. The way she’d smack her friends. He pretended to be hurt by the contact, pulling away from her. Silence returned to the car after a few more giggles but this time it was sweeter, it was easy. She gazed at the streets of Paris, she was slowly accepting that this would eventually be her new home and the guy sitting next to her was her co-worker, someone she’d spent hours on end with.

“I don’t hate you; you know?” he said and she wished she had recorded it. At first, she thought that she heard wrong and she wanted him to say it again but then he said something that sounded more like him “I really don’t like your boss-“ She sneered, looking away. The irony was too much for her but she didn’t say anything. “But I think you’re smart… sometimes.”

She scrunched up her face, almost smiling “Good to know”

He stopped the car as they reached her apartment building.

“Thank you for the ride and you know… not driving me off a cliff” she said, earning another laugh from his.

“Thank you for not poising my drink, even though I’d deserve it.”

“Truth is I tried, Hakimi just stopped me multiple times.”

That cracked him up, he leaned his body forwards as his chest vibrated with laughter. She laughed along with him. They had to take a few deep breaths before they both managed to collect themselves. They would still let out small laughs, that were coming out as whispers, unable to hold back their smiles. He turned his head to face her, his eyes falling on her. He noticed she had a tiny mark of a scar just over her eyebrow. He noticed small things about the side of her face, her sharp cheekbones, her lines. He looked away when she gazed at him, he didn’t want her to know he had been staring. She reached for his shoulder, a move he didn’t expect but he looked at her tiny palm on his board shoulder before connecting his eyes with hers.

“Can I give you an advice without you lashing out at me?”

He thought about it but eventually nodded.

“Be more of yourself on the field. Don’t let insecurities take over you. You don’t have to prove you’re great, we already know you are. You just have to play.” She raised the bag he bought for her and smiled “thanks again” she said and exited the car.

But the secret is still my own. And my love for you is still unknown

TAYLOR'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

She ran upstairs to her apartment, the cat coming and curling at her feet the minute she got inside the small apartment. Taylor smiled down and knelt to pet her, rubbing he ear as she poured in her palm “Got you a surprise.” She sang and shook the bag in front of the little kitten. She put a handful of the food on the cat’s bowl and saved the rest on the cupboard under the sink. She had a shower, washed her face and drank her pills. She poured herself a bowl of cereal and sat on her bed, eating them while staring threateningly on her computer screen. She had opened a blank page, a blank page that she was supposed fill. She started multiple sentences after setting down her ball on the nightstand but she kept erasing them. Starting over again and again and again. She tried to use music to get her mind working, listening to Jennifer Owens. The song “Alone” played on the background, and she started tapping on the keyboard, hoping to get her inspiration flowing but it was worthless. It was like she couldn’t gather her thoughts on one paragraph. She didn’t even know where to begin. Was she supposed to write about today’s training game? Talk about her encounter with the young fan? She just stared on the blank box, waiting for an article to write it’s self. Time would pass and the page would remain empty. Why was she struggling so much? She huffed and laid her head back on the pillow, rubbing her eyes together. Luna crawled up in bed and up to her chest. Pouring in between her chest, taylor uncovered her eyes to see the cat and pouted.

“I think I’m in trouble.” She admitted but the only thing the cat did was lean closer and down to her neck, closing her eyes and sleeping on her skin. She petted the cat, her fingers diving in her black fur. She smiled. “Yeah, you don’t care, do you? Of course, you don’t. you’re just a cat.” She laughed, remembering her discourse with Kylian. She could feel her cheeks burning up, turning red but she waved him off her mind and got up to start writing while everyone else in Paris was asleep, the way lonely people do.

KYLIAN'S HOUSE / BEDROOM - NIGHT

Kylian on the other side of Paris, in a whole different apartment, wide and modern, he sat on the edge of his bed. The view from his window was beautiful, the city lights, the streets, the houses, everything seemed so small from where he was. Even the Eiffel Tower looked small in the distance. He kept replaying the last thing she told him on his head. Surprised at himself that he never responded to her. He laid backwards, closing his eyes. His phone buzzed and the screen lit up next to him on the mattress, showing his father’s face appearing on his screen. He picked it up.

“Oui papa?”

“Kylian, es-tu prêt pour demain?” [are you ready for tomorrow?]

Kylian closed his eyes, his expression saddening. What happened to asking people if they were ok when calling. “Oui.” He answered.

“Tu t'es suffisamment entraîné?” [did you train enough?]

He sighed, moving the phone away from his ear while his father went on and on about every single thing he did wrong on the last match and how he should avoid doing the same mistakes again. A part of him wanted to hang up. Maybe even throw the phone out of the window “Kylian? Kylian? Tu m'écoutes?” Kylian moved the phone back to his ear, his eyes remaining closed.

“Oui, papa. Mais je suis très fatigué. Nous parlerons demain, d'accord?... Oui, moi aussi, Pa. Bonne Nuit.” He threw the phone across the mattress the minute his father hanged up. The usual silence filled the room, the silence of lonely people. He covered his face with his hands, dragging them across his face and he fell asleep after a while his body giving in that silence and the soft mattress. He fell asleep with his clothes, with his worries on the back of his head, with her laugh echoing in his mind and his father’s pointers. You know, the way that lonely people do.

They both woke up at the same time by their alarms, in different bed and different rooms. Taylor had fallen asleep with her computer on her chest and when she woke up, she already had a headache. Kylian woke up in the same clothes, with a slight neck pain because he never moved to lay his head on the pillow. No matter the differences and the miles away from each other, each in their bedroom as they opened their eyes the same words slipped out of their lips “It’s game day.”

Taylor jumped out of her bed, the cat getting scared and tangled in the sheets, the computer almost falling on the ground before she dropped herself and reached her hand to stop it from crashing “oh my god” she mouthed to herself and put the computer back on the bed. She ran around her small apartment, bumping on the walls and stuff that she had left on the floor. It was a messy apartment to say the least. in the bathroom, washing her face and her teeth and then went to her kitchen to make coffee. While the coffee was brewing and her the bread was getting toasted, she grabbed her jeans, putting them on quickly and stumbling, falling on the ground. She got up fast, looking in her closet for a shirt. “What am I supposed to wear-“ her phone began ringing. That’s when she realized it was under the sheets so she started throwing them around, looking under them in panic until she found it under her pillow “Yes?” she answered. “Yes, coach I’m on my way.” She reassured him. From the corner of her eye, she caught her cat getting near the Kettle, smelling it. She tried to keep her composure until Galtier hanged up, her eyes opening wide and she ran to pull the cut away from the burning machine “You’re gonna burn your mustache!” she yelled. The cat meowed, asking for food. She leaned her forehead on the cat, shaking her head. “What’s the worst thing that can happen right?” Luna meowed again.

Kylian’s morning was calmer. He moved around his large apartment slowly, from his bathroom to his kitchen. Everything was on their rightful place; the floors were clean and the white color on the walls and the minimalist decorations were a huge contrast to Taylor’s space. He sat on the table, slowly sipping on his coffee. The slight domestic sounds were the only thing you could hear. He’d scroll on his phone, see a couple of tweets, like pictures on Instagram, answer a few messages. He was calm, used to these mornings. The calm before the storm he called them.

TRAINING CAMPUS / OFFICES – DAY

Taylor rushed up to Galtier’s office, holding all her folders and her papers in her arms and her laptop hanging on it’s bag from her shoulder. When she came in Galtier was on the phone so she looked around awkwardly, wondering if she could leave the folders on the chair or the table. She slowly tried to place them on his desk before the fell over but Galtier stood up, yelling on his phone, which scared her and she pulled back quickly, tripping and falling on the chair behind her, hugging the papers so they wouldn’t fall off her hands. She pretended like she actually meant to sit down, trying to look composed. Galtier threw his phone on the table when he hanged up, cursing in friends. He sat back down like nothing had just happened and looked at her. It took her a while before she got the memo and placed all the papers on his desk.

“These are from yesterday’s conference with ANGERS. I tried to gather everything they said in a couple of pages-“ she handed him two papers. He took them, scanning them back and forth but he wasn’t reading them. “They are certainly trying to provoke but I think it’s because they are scared. They have the same starting 11 as we expected-“

“Were you at the conference?” he asked, looking at her. Her shut in a tight line, she thought about his question, then started shaking her head slowly.

“No sir. I got the interviews online.”

“I want you to be on every conference from now on.”

She nodded “Yes sir.”

“What else do you have for me?”

“I made up my suggestion for the starting 11.” She slipped a paper towards him “An analysis of the approach I think we should follow-“

“You’re nervous.” She stopped, her eyes getting bigger. She didn’t respond. “I can promise you the boys are more nervous than you are. If you wanna do this job you have to learn to be brutal not just on paper but on the field as well. You can’t be looking like you’re going to throw up.”

She gulped, tried to calm her features and her expression to look calmer “I’m sorry sir. It’s just the nerves of the first match.”

“The players will get here at 5, the bus will leave at 6 so we can be on the stadium by 7. I expect you to have gotten your nerves under control until then.” He said and waved for her to get out of the office. She wanted to crawl and hide in a hole. Instead she jut founded the nearest corner and leaned her body against the wall, closing her eyes.

“What am I doing?” she whispered to herself, rubbing her eyes. She looked at her clock, realizing she only had a few hours to finish her pregame article. She went to the kitchen, opening the laptop and began writing. Pregame articles on her website were one of her favorite things to do, she’d write about where she saw the game going and making her predictions. She started writing a sentence about her low belief in Kylian, how she hoped that he would finally get back to the great player he was before the world cup but began feeling this regret in her chest. Like she was doing something wrong. And she didn’t feel that only for Kylian but for all the boys she had grown close to in the last couple of days. She read the whole article ones; she wasn’t happy with it. She wasn’t as harsh with the boys as she should have. Why had she let herself get as close to them? a few seconds later Neymar and Hakimi came in.

“Ola Princessa” called Neymar when he saw her and walked over to her, leaning on the table to peck her kiss in a teasing and flirtatious way. She pulled back quickly. He frowned at her reaction but didn’t say anything. He went to the fridge to get himself a water bottle. Hakimi sat next to her while she tried to keep her distance from him.

“What are you writing?” She closed the top of her computer before he got a glimpse of her writing. Hakimi raised his eyebrows. “All good?”

“Perfect.” She answered and got up, getting her computer with her. She headed for the exit of the kitchen when she bumped on Kylian who was walking in at the same moment. He reached for her arms to stop her before the crashed on each other.

“Careful where you going, can you?” She looked up at him. Ignored his comment and walked past him “Your boss won’t post his pregame predictions?” she stopped on her tracks, grasping on the computer “I was excited-“ Kylian got an apple from the basket taking a bite. “Stayed up to read it last night.”

She turned her body to face him, forcing a smile on her lips “he’d tell you it’s very unprofessional to stay up late before a match. I truly hope it doesn’t influence your playing.” His face fell, he kept the apple in between his teeth while glaring at her. She gave him another smile, turned back on her way. He finally bit on his apple swallowing the piece aggressively.

“What did you do?” Asked Hakimi, standing next to his friend.

“Nothing!” Kylian defended “I even bought her cat food” Hakimi’s eyebrows drew together and Kylian was quick to explain “she actually has a cat- it wasn’t for her. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole.”

On the ride to the stadium Taylor was sitting alone at the front, while the boys were basically throwing a party on the back. She could feel Galtier’s eyes on her, studying her. It was making her skin itch. She still hadn’t posted that article. Before the game the team gathered on the locker room, Galtier was in the middle making on of his speeches and motivating the team. She was standing by the door, arms crossed on her chest as she listened. Kylian gazed at her while she wasn’t looking, he got so carried away at some point he stopped listening to Galtier, he was just watching her. When the motivational speech was over, she left them to get dressed.

“Do you have a spare bottle?” asked Hakimi, looking inside Kylian’s bag.

“Yeah-“

“Dude what is this?” Hakimi pulled out a napkin. It was the napkin Taylor had made her notes on. Kylian grabbed it and threw it back on his bad, picking out a water bottle for his friend and zipping the bag closed. Hakimi laughed and grinned at his friend but didn’t say anything.

Taylor sat on the benches watching at her team. Her team. God that sounded weird but they were in a way, weren’t they? The game started, figures running and chasing a ball or chasing each other. She wanted to run in there and help the team as well. When she saw Neymar shooting an awful pass at Burnet she yelled and jumped up from the benches.

“HEY! LOOK WHERE YOU ARE SHOOTING JUNIOR”.

Galtier looked at her outburst and she was expecting him to tell her to shut up but he smiled. That made her feel better. Ektike scored at the first 10 minutes, giving them a head start. She jumped in excitement and threw herself on Galtier. Galtier remained still and she pulled back quick, looking away. She was starting to get really into the game and she wanted to yell even more but she had to hold herself, reminding herself that the team still saw her as just a journalist. It was when she started giving pointers at Marquinhos that Messi gave her a confused look, watching her from the other side of the field. She realized she was getting out of control so she sat back down and put her hand over her mouth. Then she saw him. He was running with the ball in his feet, kicking it towards the opponents, he was going to score. She leaned forward in excitement, ready to jump and celebrate until he was tackled on his ankle, twisting it and tumbling on the grass right outside the penalty area. She got up rushing as close as she could get, her feet almost crossing the white line. She tried to see him but he was crowded by the rest of the team and the medics. Meanwhile Marquinhos was discussing with referee, arguing about whether it was a penalty or not. Half the stadium was yelling yes and the other half was yelling no. Her eyes were stuck on the man in yellow, waiting to see him signaling and whistling in favor of her team but-

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” She yelled when the penalty was denied “THAT WAS CLEARLY ON THE AREA”. She made a step forward and was pulled back immediately by Ramos. Who wrapped her arms around her and basically picked her up to keep her out of the field.

“You don’t wanna do that chipmunk-“ he warned. Marquinhos and Messi were still arguing with the referee. She could feel her blood boiling- she took a deep angry breath, her entire face pouting. She walked back at the bench, biting on nails. Kylian was escorted out of the field for his injury. She didn’t go up to talk to him but she saw him with his father. Like his dad was reprehending him and he had this look in his eyes, like he was giving up. She felt heart getting heavy on the sight. She looked away.

At some point during the final minutes another foul happened, this time at Neymar and close to her side of the field. But the opponents were never given a card, this time she didn’t hold herself, stepping forward over the line and yelling-

“FUCKING PAID IDIOT OF A REFEREE-“

The man in yellow turned to look at her confused and offended. “Excuse me?” he questioned.

“Two wild fouls and you do nothing about it-“

“Settle your tone young lady-“ oh no he didn’t-

Ramos was now next to Taylor, standing in between her and the referee “Taylor get back” he warned.

But taylor looked over his shoulder on her tip toes and pointed at the referees. Things got quickly out of hand “DON’T YOU FUCKING TELL ME WHAT TO DO WITH MY TONE YOU PIECE OF SHIT-“

Kylian saw the chaos unfolding before his eyes. He got up and along with the rest of the team got near her, swarming around her like ants. Half of them were trying to reason with the referee while the other half was pulling her back. But she would slap their hands off and kick her legs to be let go while she cursed and yelled. Kylian squeezed himself in between the other, trying to hold her arm because he knew what was coming and sure enough a moment later the referee raised a yellow card at her for her attitude and creating trouble in the middle of the game.

“WHY DON’T YOU TAKE THAT CARD AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR-“

“WILOCK ENOUGH!” Galtier yelled. She stopped immediately. The referee glared at her while walking backwards to get back on the middle of the field. Her eyes burned with anger while all the players returned to their position. When everyone was gone Kylian tried to get close, he reached for her arm, she slapped it off so he raised his hands up in surrender. He wanted to laugh. She looked like a little girl who had just been stolen her favorite doll, it took his mind off the chaos in his mind. The regret of getting injured and the anger. She turned her back on him and walked back on the benches sitting as far away from him as she could. She put her elbows on her legs, balanced her face on her hands and puffed.

He tilted his head, taking a note of how her cheeks and nose got red when she was angry and how messy her hair was now. Her lips shaped in a angry pout. She looked… cute.

This house no longer feels like home.

STADIUM LOCKER ROOMS - NIGHT

Despite the incident with the referee the team won and they all celebrated in the locker room. Hugging and cheering for each other. Everyone commented about Taylor’s outburst, laughing at her.

“Thought we had a second coach there for a while.” Messi said while she was pouring herself another glass of champagne. Taylor gazed up to his, her mouth slightly opening. She wanted to tell him the truth.

“Would you like that? A woman as a coach?”

Messi laughed. She immediately regretted her question but then “Greatest coach I had in life was my mother. Why not?” he smiled at her, poking her shoulder and walking away. She thought about what he said, getting some encouragement. She let down the champagne bottle and turned around. Marquinhos had been standing behind her, a smile on his face. She felt embarrassed. He game and sat next to her both leaning on the edge of the table behind them while the watched at the rest of team. They didn’t say anything for a while, she wasn’t sure if she should apologize or not.

“That was ballsy” he suddenly said and she looked up at him.

“You think I’m gonna be in trouble with Galtier?”

“No… I’ll talk to him.” She nodded, drank from her glass. “You’re already prepared to go to war for them. That’s good.”

“That or I just hate paid referees.” He laughed, his chest vibrating. “Possibly both.”

“They’re gonna warm up to you if you keep going like that.” He said “It’s a matter of time before they trust you. Even the cynics. Just remember your job is not just to go war for them or… push them to their limit in order for them to give you, their best. Galtier can do that…” His eyes fell on her and she looked in his “Sometimes you just gotta be there for them”

She studied around the room, counting her soldiers. There were two missing, the broken one and his loyal friend. Kylian and Hakimi.

STADIUM ROOF TOP – NIGHT

Kylian stood by the marble walls, leaning on them. He watched down at the now empty streets. A few hours ago, crowds were yelling for his team, now they were all gone. He looked at the sky and stars, while the chilling air hit his face. He never went downstairs with the rest of team to celebrate, he and Hakimi stayed on the rooftop and Hakimi had just left. So, he was alone. He liked it that way, he could run the game through on his mind, all the things he missed and did wrong. He glanced back when he heard the door opening, that’s when he saw her, dressed in a jersey and her jeans. He rolled his eyes and looked back at the sky “You’ll freeze to death.”

“Didn’t think you’d mind” she said, cuddling herself and rubbing her arms.

“you’re right I don’t.”

She ignored his comment “why don’t you come downstairs? We are gonna head back in a little while.”

“I’m fine up here.”

“You don’t wanna celebrate?” she went closer, standing next to him but he kept his eyes on the empty streets.

“Got nothing to celebrate.”

“Our team just won-“

“Our?” he asked, almost laughing “since when is it our team Ms. I don’t want to be biased-“

“That’s not fair. You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t and frankly I don’t care. Half the reason I played shit today was you-“

“Excuse me?”

He motioned his hands, annoyed at her “you suggested we let ourselves get fouled in dangerous areas-“

“You have to be joking-“ she raised her voice.

“Why don’t you go tell your boss about that before he writes his next goddamn article-“

“What is wrong with you?” she yelled. Her body warming up just by the frustration “I’m reaching out for you- I’m trying to help and every time I think I’m getting somewhere you turn into a dick-”

“You bring it out to me, what can I do.” He shot back, his face holding a dark expression. She let out a bitter breath and decided to turn her back on him, heading towards the door then she stopped. No, she thought, he wasn’t getting away with this.

“You know the issue with you is that you choose to be an asshole. You could be a good person but you choose to limit yourself to other people’s opinions time after time after time- what happened to you?” she cried but he didn’t turn to face her, despite her tone. He bit on the inside of his cheek while she spoke, holding his hands in tight fists to control his anger “You played against 11 men by yourself. You played against Argentina by yourself while the rest of your team was sipping tea and looking at the weather-“

“Don’t talk about my team like that-“ he growled

“I’ll talk about them any way I want because it is the truth.” She got closer “you were by yourself in that game and You scored three goals in one fucking game-“

“Two of which were penalties as your boss and everyone else loves to point out-“ he yelled back, turning to face her and waving his hand “so don’t you fucking give me that speech because even that wasn’t enough to satisfy him- or them” she stepped back while he got closer, not because she was scared but because she was worried, he’d stop talking If went close enough and she really wanted him to keep talking. “I could score 5 goals against Messi himself and it still wouldn’t be enough no matter what I do. It’s never perfect and it’s the same thing over and over again ever since I got back from Qatar- the same articles, the same headlines, the same struggle to live up their expectations.” It seemed he had gotten everything out of his chest. She could guess who ‘they’ was and she knew one of them was probably his own father, who had coached him for most of his life. She caught herself feeling sorry for him, she caught herself wanting to hug him but she chose to stand still. Say nothing. Do nothing and she studied his face while his facial expression was turning from angry to regretful. Regret for telling her all these things. She didn’t know how long they had been staring at each other but she started trembling, shaking from the cold.

He noticed it.

“Get inside before you turn to ice.” He said, trying to look and sound like he didn’t care at all and turned his back on her again. Leaning on the marbles just like he had before, grasping his hands together, expecting her to leave. He didn’t even sense her getting closer, not until she placed her hand on his. Her cold, small hand on his. His eyes shot up to find hers immediately. Her eyes reflecting his sorrow, he thought there was more in them, hidden emotions and words that she wouldn’t say but perhaps it was all in his mind.

“Humans they do that. They see someone better than them, someone they fear and they try to humanize him by setting him up with impossible expectations. They did it to gods and they do it each other. It’s not about you, it’s about them.” Her hand gripped tighter on his just for a few seconds and he could feel it trembling against his skin, searching for warmth, just as she went to pull away, he looked down and put his other hand above hers, rubbing it to give it some warmth. When he gazed up at her face again her rosy lips had began to lose their color. He pulled away and unzipped his jacket, putting over her and her exposed arms, she tried to shake it off but he didn’t care.

He fixed the collar, her eyes studying him while he made sure she was appropriately covered by the cold and meeting his when he lowered his head. And then… silence. Stillness. Warmth. His hands settled on her shoulders while they stared in each other’s eyes. An unfamiliar itch on her throat. An unfamiliar feeling on his chest or maybe all too familiar.

“Go inside” he whispered. “don’t want you freezing to death before the next game.” He paused, she thought he was going to say something nice “seeing you getting a yellow card was really satisfying- “

She cracked up, laughing and he forced a kind smile on his lips. “I knew you’d enjoy that.” She said and his hands fell from her shoulders on her arms, rubbing them for a few seconds before he moved away from her. “If you stay here, you’ll freeze.”

“I’ll be down in a second.” He reassured her and she nodded. She went to take off his jacket but he raised his hand “You’ll give it to me downstairs.” He said and she smiled but she didn’t move. He scoffed, shaking his head “you wanna say something what is it? Another advice?”

“it’s my best one yet. Works on everyone.” She reached for his arm, giving it a squish “go on vacation before you drive yourself insane.” He laughed and she gave him one last nod before she walked away, getting inside the warm building. He returned to his previous position admiring the stars but his mind kept wandering back to her. He heard the door opening and he thought it was her again, a smile appearing on his lips which quickly faded away when he saw Verratti standing in front of him.

“How’s it going? Is the plan working?”

He wasn’t sure what he meant at first, then he remembered. He closed his eyes and nodded quickly “yeah bro, I’m getting close.”

“for a while I thought you started taking a liking at her.”

He laughed “no of course not.” Right? "

-

HE KEPT THE FREAKING NAPKIN 😭😭😭😭😭 so after everyone basically said that they prefer longer chapters i decided to give you what you want and chapters will usually he as long as this one. Especially now that things yk are getting heated. Kylian trying to hide his feelings like PLSSS. Im having so much writing this story and i hope you're all still following and enjoying it as much as mee. Pls pls comment your thoughts and your feedback, it Is always hiiiighly appreciated. I love Youuuu💜💜💜 do you like me adding the songs btw? Or do you think it's too much?

Next chapter ��

[theplottdump]

Agent Number 008, Katelyn Evelyn Miller was- in her very own words- the best at what she did. Surgical, calculated, and thorough- a master of social manipulation, a collector of deadly secrets.

So, upon slipping into the small apartment above the stables she catalogued several key points-

𝙉𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚: The shower was running. She'd need to be quick- the noise would cover her footsteps.

𝙉𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙬𝙤: Even with it's immediate proximity to the stalls below, the room did not in fact smell like manure. It smelled- warm. Like saddle leather and tobacco.

𝙉𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚: Mr. García owned a dog.

In fact, it was the very same dog that had suddenly bounded into the room- claws scrabbling on the old oak floor, barking enthusiastically to greet his new intruder- hopeful for a future exchange of both scritches and snacks.

And 𝙉𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙪𝙧: The shower was no longer running.

García: Well now miss- You seem to be a touch lost.

García: And I'm also quite sure you'll be havin' a real decent explanation for why you seem to be triflin' with my unmentionables and upsettin' my dog.

And I for one would 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 to hear it.

[pregnantseinfeld]

Which @Dril book is the best one?

As a scholar of one of our century's most unique poets, I feel the need to utilize my knowledge for the common good. Here's a run down of which books by Dril are good and which are bad.

Official "Mr. Ten Years" Anniversary Collection, 2018 - If what you want out of a Dril book is a large but carefully curated collection, this is what you're looking for. Has all the classics plus a lot of the hidden gems, categorized by subject matter, and each chapter has an original illustration. Mine has been highlighted several times over.

The Get Rich and Become God Method, 2021 - Could be swapped for first if you're looking for original material. Combines a lot more of Dril's signature '6 episodes on adult swim in 2005' art style between diverse sections of prose that mostly manage to keep the charm and tone of his shorter works. What I find especially interesting here is how it expands on the characters and lore vaguely alluded to in tweets. The only other mention of this blogs namesake is in this book!

The Dril Archives, 2022 - Available in an alphabetical, chronological, most liked, and random editions, this is very simply 10,000 Dril tweets. The text is very small, it's difficult to differentiate tweets, and I think some that only made sense with context or images are included unchanged. If you believe we will soon be bombarded with EMP attacks and forced to eat each other to survive a post-internet world, you could justify this one.

How to CHEAT at Casino Games By Being a BITCH, 2023 - This 49 page pamphlet luckily has much larger type than Archives! This is a couple Grand Mac Tweets stapled together. Don't get me wrong, it is VERY funny! But the joke is on us! He reuses a chapter for games that are "basically the same". It ends with declaring the reader cursed until they send the author money. Only collectors with the same disease as me should bother with this.

Despite my disappointment with the last two years of published works, I will continue to eat up whatever stupid slop he puts out next and promise to keep you all informed.