#he IS wearing a tiny ascot!!

[monkee-mobile]

oh my god

oh my godddd

[deanbrainrotwritings]

—  SWORDS, DRAGONS, AND DIET COKE

SUMMARY : Halloween dressed as the Scooby gang… her dressed as Daphne… things can only go right from there.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : castiel, charlie bradbury, joan carlisle (ofc)

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), oral sex, unprotected sex (barf), fingering, p in v, pussy spanking, violence, anger issues, implied trauma 👍🏻, ghost possession

WORD COUNT : 4.7k

A/N : the devil wears prada song title. also, how come women look hot when they cosplay male characters, but men don’t look hot when they cosplay female characters??? EXPLAIN! SOMEONE, PLEASE!!! Or change my mind ;) XXXXXX

“So we all agree that we look ridiculous?” Y/n asked with a smile as they stepped into the loud and crowded frat house. 

“Cas and I, do,” Dean leaned down to say close to her ear. “You, Charlie, and Joan, don’t.” He circled his arm around her waist, fingers trailing across her jawline to turn her face towards his. He gave her a sweet kiss and moved her dyed hair over her shoulder. 

She returned the kiss with a smile, turning her body to face him fully as he slid his hand down from the back of her shoulder to her ass. She wrapped her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to slip her tongue into his mouth. He squeezed the supple flesh of her ass and she moaned, threading her fingers through his soft hair. 

“Alright, Fred and Daphne, we get it: you’re in love,” Joan giggled, taking Y/n’s waist to pull her away from Dean. 

“That’s fine,” Dean shrugged playfully, letting his girlfriend go while he tugged at the ascot around his neck, “we’ve got a mystery to solve.” Charlie snorted and gave Dean a hard smack across his back that only made him pout.

“Well, technically, yes,” Joan laughed. “Listen, I don’t know if the ghost will come out tonight or not. But I’m glad you guys are here,” she smiled at the group and squeezed Y/n’s waist before letting her go. “Obviously, there’s been sightings in the basement, boring, but sometimes it’s appeared on the second floor, or the attic,” Joan explained, fixing her glasses on her nose. 

“Woah, Miss Carlisle,” two guys passed by wolf-whistled and looked at Joan disrespectfully, eyes trailing over long orange socks against dark skin, a tiny pleated skirt, and a tight ribbed turtleneck—also in a shade of orange. They only glanced at her face to smirk smugly as if her deadpan expression meant they won. 

“Douchebags,” Dean grunted, glaring at the arrogant boys. 

“So, how should we split up?” Charlie grinned, trying to remove their focus from the immature men. They all looked back at her, became relaxed, then looked towards Dean and Y/n. 

“Well, I could check out the second floor and Dean can check the attic,” she suggested, to which Dean chewed his lip and nodded in agreement. 

“Naturally, Shaggy and Scoob stick together, so, uh, Charlie and Cas, you two take the basement,” Dean smiled boyishly at the two, and Cas rolled his eyes, sighing. Charlie laughed and punched Cas’ shoulder gently, causing Cas to smile slightly.

“Right, I’ll stay here, then,” Joan smiled, then gave her old friend, Y/n a slap on the ass. Y/n giggled, and rubbed the spot, hardly feeling a sting. 

“We’ll meet here again after?” Cas asked, they all nodded in agreement, then both Charlie and Cas started making their way through the house to get downstairs. Cas tugged at the neck of the costume with a deep frown.

Dean reached out for Y/n’s elbow and slid his fingers down her arm to hold her hand. Joan stopped her, giving her a half-hug before Dean could drag her away to do their job. “Hey, let’s catch up later, you look so happy now, and also, your boyfriend’s hot,” Joan laughed softly, giving her friend a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Sure, Jay, maybe once the case is done we can all hang out,” she smiled, hugging her friend back. “It’s sort of our thing to go to the local bars. That sound good?” Joan nodded, squealing excitedly, and stepped away. 

Dean smiled at Joan then tugged Y/n towards him—her quiet laughter making him warm. She smiled up at him and let him place his arm over her shoulders to kiss the top of her head. Y/n circled his waist with her arm and clenched the side of his white long-sleeved shirt as they walked upstairs. 

Students drank along the stairs, talking, and laughing with their friends. Properly having fun. There were two friends dressed as Arthur and Merlin, which was cute, and Dean started with interest at the sword sheathed into the leather belt around his hips. 

“I’m kinda hungry, is that weird?” Dean pouted, releasing her so she could walk up the stairs without complications. Their fingertips still touched, their forefingers hooked together, and back he went to holding her once they got to the top of the stairs. 

“Not really, it’s cute,” she smiled, then shivered, either a ghost or the wintry breeze that chilled houses. “Maybe we can find food or snacks here,” she suggested, pulling him close to absorb his heat before he left her to check out the attic.

“You should’ve brought a jacket,” he scolded gently, then playfully squeezed her breast. “I’ll try to keep you warm while you walk me to the attic,” he told her playfully. She smiled and rolled her eyes, then pushed him into the nearest wall. Dean smirked at her, and dropped his hand from her chest, but she grabbed both his wrists to place his hands over both breasts. 

“A jacket will ruin my costume, I look great,” she argued jokingly, pressing herself against him. Dean lowered his hands a little, enough to cup the bottom over her breasts while he brushed his thumbs over her pebbled nipples. No bra beneath the soft, violet dress she wore. 

“Yeah, you… look super hot as Daphne,” Dean breathed out, licking his bottom lip before biting it. “Fuck…” he muttered, his head thumping against the wall when he tipped it back, dropping his hands from her breast to hold her hips. 

“Let’s get this case over with,” she smiled, pushing against his chest to step away. He whined, digging his fingers hard into her hips to bring her back in, and dropped a kiss to her glossed, pink lips—staining his own. 

“Okay, I’ll, uh, leave now,” Dean smiled, and licked his mouth to taste her gloss. She laughed softly and shook her head, fixing the ascot around his neck by placing it back beneath the sky blue polo shirt. “Yummy lip stuff, by the way,” he teased, reaching down to tug her dress down as it crinkled slightly at her hips. 

“Lip stuff,” she repeated with a cute cackle, appreciative of the way he distractedly fixed her dress. “I love you—a lot,” she sighed happily, patting his now-flushed cheeks. 

“Me, uh,” Dean stuttered, “I love you, too. A lot,” he added, watching her smirk and slowly walk away from him. She waved at him and turned around to start knocking on doors.

“If you’re an FBI agent, how come you’re dressed like Daphne?” She pushed past the irritating guy dressed as Tarzan, ignoring him as she looked around the room that he shared with a friend. “And how come you’re not arresting us? We’re doing drugs and drinking, not all of us are twenty-one,” he told her. 

She could feel him behind her, and she rolled her eyes, squatting down carefully to not reveal anything as she searched for anything suspicious, pulling out the EMF detector from her small purse. 

“You’ve never heard of undercover then?” She asked sarcastically, getting up to search the rest of his room. According to him, it suddenly gets colder than usual, he hears weird sounds, he’s heard voices—the typical signs of a haunting. “And the focus on the case isn’t underage drinking or drug usage, it’s… there’s a killer,” she hesitated to share information, but he’s attached himself to her—well, much like this irritating ghost has attached itself to this frat house. 

“Wow, that’s dope,” he burped drunkenly, which irritated her more. 

“I don’t know if I'd call my friends dying dope, but, whatever,” she muttered, hiding the EMF detector as she turned towards the closet. 

“You’re hot, smart, and badass, like actual Daphne. T-that’s why you’re dressed like her, right?” He asked, hiccuping before taking another—large—gulp of alcohol, straight from the bottle. 

“You shouldn’t drink too much, it’s going to be awful in the morning,” she warned, avoiding his question as she went into the bathroom. She heard him follow, and sighed, putting the EMF detector away into her purse once more. 

“Aw, so you do care about me,” he smiled lopsidedly, cheeks flushed with drunkenness. She smiled sarcastically, then glared at him. “I kinda like older women, ya know?” She blinked at him in bewilderment, watching him stumble towards her, but she backed up rather than helped out. “That’s why I let you in an-and said yes to… everything you asked me,” he grinned, setting the alcohol down on the counter, but it slipped and shattered on the floor. “Whoops.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and scoffed, her jaw clenching angrily. She stomped out while he became distracted by the loss of his spirits. 

“Woah, hey,” he jogged towards her, taking her arm. She pulled away from him, anger burning bright in her chest. “We haven’t even-” 

“Get lost, kid, I’m not interested,” she interrupted him. 

“I’m not a kid, I’m turning twenty one this semester,” he told her smugly, reaching out to brush her hair much like Dean had earlier, except this time she didn’t like it. Immaturely, she pushed it forward again, and rolled her eyes. “Come on, Tarzan needs Jane,” he tried flirtatiously, but she turned around, and swung the door open, ready to leave. 

“Well, good thing I’m Daphne and I’ve already got Fred,” she spat, leaving him in the room alone, “I’m gonna get to work now, kid.” 

“All the pretty girls lie about having boyfriends,” he slurred, leaning against the doorway. She grimaced at his words, she didn’t think he could make her cringe more than she already was. Maybe someone could make her vomit without being physically nauseating? That would be impressive. 

“Maybe take a hint and leave women alone,” she told him, but fished for her phone in her purse to call Dean. Still, Tarzan rolled his eyes at her, and boredly watched her put her phone to her ear. It rang halfway when Dean answered with a gruff, ‘sweetheart’ that made her insides warm and delighted. “Hi, babe, I’m upstairs and Tarzan here doesn’t know what ‘no’ means. Please, come save him, I love you.” 

She didn’t hang up when she heard wood break, and Dean swore, “son of a bitch.” She was about to ask if he was okay, when Tarzan grabbed her waist and pulled her towards him, her palms landing on his sweaty, flushed, somewhat hairy chest. 

“Gross, let me-”

“Uh, what?” Dean asked, then she heard his boots, and more thumping as she struggled to get out of Tarzan’s rough hold. “Babe, okay, I’ll be there, love you,” he said quickly, but he also didn’t hang up. She knew he probably had his phone pressed to his ear by his shoulder.

“Save me?” Tarzan laughed, spinning her so she’d enter his room once more. She got angrier the more he manhandled her. 

“Yeah, you gonna back off? My boyfriend’s on his way, and you’re drunk, don’t do something stupid,” she tried to deescalate without violence. 

“You were looking at me and you smiled,” he reasoned, lamley. She looked up at him in disbelief, his irritating icy ice and dirty blonde hair, pimples placed here and there. 

“I.. What? That means you have a free pass into my pants now, regardless of what I say? Wow, I forgot guys like you were real. At least I won’t regret this,” she snarled, slamming his nose with her forehead. 

Finally, he loosened his grip on her, and she stumbled back, rubbing her forehead. It definitely hurt him more than it hurt her. He shouted a loud ‘fuck’ and held his nose as it bled, warm, thick red dripping between his fingers. 

When he started toward her, her eyes widened, and she grimaced at the thought of his blood getting anywhere near her. “No,” she warned him, as if he were a child. 

She quickly moved around him and kicked him, white ankle boots striking his lower back, causing him to trip forward through the door. She heard gasps, but she stepped closer to him, her heart beating fast, but her mind, bread, and movements remained serene. He turned over into his back, looked around at all the people dressed up and watching, too drunk to even think properly. 

Finally, there was that cold chill. She became distracted by the visible puff of white air passing from between her lips, but when he tried to kick her, she jumped back before he could succeed, chuckling darkly. When he gave up, she got down anyway, and straddled his lap punching him once, or twice, or more than that. 

She stopped only when she felt warm fingers around her wrist after who knows how long. A mouthwatering, unsavoury saltiness in her mouth made her splutter. She unclenched her fist, whining at the pain she felt when she stretched her fingers out. 

She looked up and saw Dean’s worried face. He simpered when he saw her, wiped her mouth carefully of salt as she blinked up at him. He helped her up, when she tried to do it alone, and she finally looked around, confused. Joan was helping Tarzan up, Cas and Charlie were telling people to get out of the second floor. 

“Hey, how ya feelin’, baby?” Dean asked, pulling her attention away from the people dressed up in silly clothes. He held her face gently, wiping remnants of salt from her mouth that she now began to taste strongly. She pulled away from him and ran to the bathroom to spit out the tiny, unpleasant grains, her face pulled up in distaste. 

She rinsed it out of her mouth with water from the sink and saw the blood flowing from her hand. Dean appeared once more, took her hand out from the running water, and guided her back into the room, to sit her down on the nearest desk. 

“Tell me you’re okay,” he whispered, brushing his thumb gently over her forehead. 

“I’m fine, just… confused,” she reassured him with a weak smile, taking his hand away to kiss his knuckles with wet lips. “Also that much salt is gross, we should stop shoving salt up people’s mouths,” she added with a laugh. He chuckled, too, and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. 

“I’m gonna find some stuff to clean your hand, uh, I’ll be quick,” he told her, waiting until she nodded. Still, he was worried, so he hesitated to remove himself from her presence. “Want me to stay? I can call Cas up-” 

“It’s fine, I like it when you take care of me,” she smiled at him, and mimicked the tip-of-the-nose kiss he gave to her. Dean hummed in amusement and nodded, whispering a little ‘ok’ before heading into the bathroom to search for the first-aid kit. 

She held her head with her slightly-more-okay hand, realising just how painful that headbutt actually was now that the adrenaline died down. And her hands, they hurt so bad. They were covered in what was now dried blood and she frowned, Cas was gonna have to heal that later. When she was finally relaxed and able to breathe. 

She talked herself down in her mind. Whatever she did was not her fault. She was obviously possessed and while she was furious because of his behaviour, she would have left as soon as he was on the floor. Sure, the intention was there, but who knows what state she left Tarzan in. As horrible and irritating as he was, she wasn’t like him. How stupid of her to feel bad. 

“Babe,” Dean called softly and she averted her abstracted gaze back to him. “Hey, take this,” he offered, a pill and a water bottle in his hand. She didn’t even notice him. 

“Thanks,” she murmured, but he pushed the pill into her mouth goodnaturedly, which made her chuckle. She took the bottle when he handed it to her, and watched him lovingly take her other hand to inspect it, before focusing on her face once more. 

She downed half the bottle and panted, pleased with the cool liquid travelling down her insides. He lifted his other hand up to her face and gently pressed a finger against her forehead. 

“Headbutt?” Dean asked with a smile, she nodded, and watched him take an alcohol wipe out from its square package. He gently cleaned her slightly-bruised forehead, and despite knowing it was making it unsanitary again, he blew air against her forehead to get it dry faster. Her eyes shut instantly, and she laughed, then felt his lips push against the same spot. 

“Mm, feels a lot better now,” she hummed, leaning against his lingering mouth.

“Yeah, I bet,” he mumbled against her forehead with a grin. Dean pulled away and gave her a soft kiss on the lips before tending to her hands quietly. 

He gave her time to process, he didn’t push for answers with a dozen questions, he didn’t bring up the case. Instead, he made her laugh, and he kissed her sweetly, and he caressed her tenderly. Even after he was finished, he threw everything out, made sure she knew he was there, that she was safe. 

He sat with her and held her. 

“Well, I think I know what brings the ghost out,” she started, playing with his sleeves. 

“Yeah? Well, there was nothing in the attic,” he added. Dean watched her closely, she could feel his gaze, the worried shapes he drew on her thigh. It made her shiver. His proximity, the sudden downturn of emotions, his loving nature, all of it was overwhelming. In a good way. “I love you,” he said suddenly, it made her smile. 

“I love you, too,” she responded, looking up at him lovingly. 

What started out as an innocent, emotional kiss, turned into a possessive, heated make out session that left her seamless panties drenched with arousal. 

Dean was everywhere. 

So hot. So loving. 

His large hands kneaded and squeezed, pulled and scratched, pink lips kissing hard and wet at her skin, sharp teeth nipping and marking, tongue licking and rubbing against suction marks. 

“I never knew that I could want someone so badly,” he whispered, lowering her from the desk to shove her violet dress up her waist. She moaned softly, throwing her head back as he sucked and bit at her throat, his fingers slipping inside her panties, moving forward behind the silky barrier to gather her slick. “So wet, good girl,” he murmured, pressing his fingertips into her clenching, wet entrance. He moved his fingers up to her clit and drew circles around it at just the perfect pace, successfully clouding her mind. 

Dean pulled away from the column of her throat, eying the reddish mark on her pulse, and watched her writhe as he massaged her clit relentlessly. She felt his teeth at her chin and she groaned, spreading her legs wider, desperate to feel him all over her body. She felt the quick buildup of her orgasm. Dean wasn’t teasing, he was determined, occasionally switching the figures on her clit, each time it made her tremble, until she tensed up. 

It was then that he pulled away, the material of her underwear slapping electrifyingly against her skin. “Please,” she begged, opening her eyes lazily. Dean smirked and bit his lip, taking her underwear from beneath, he stretched it upwards, moved it up and down, so the silky material rubbed against her clit.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He asked with a chuckle, watching her mouth fall open and her body turn to mush once more. It must have been enough for him—as an answer—because he released her underwear, started to push them down her legs, and settled on his knees in front of her. He lifted her legs, one after the other, to take her underwear off completely. Dean lifted the periwinkle panties up to his mouth and licked her arousal from the crotch with a smug, “yummy.” 

“Stop, we’re wasting time,” she laughed breathlessly, brushing her fingers through his hair. Instead of getting up, Dean took her thigh and lifted it, moving his face forward to tease her clit with the tip of his tongue. “Oh, fuck,” she gasped, her nails scratching the top of the smooth, wooden desk. She slowly sat up on it and watched Dean shuffle closer on his knees to taste her again. 

“You taste so good,” he whispered, sliding his hands up her thighs. She leaned back slightly, watching his mouth inch closer, his warm breath making her shiver, and become aware of how embarrassingly drenched she was. He held her hips and slid the tip of his tongue from her entrance, through her labia, and began circling around her clit a few times. 

She squirmed and moaned, watching him start to suck her clit—hot, muffled sounds of appreciation vibrating through her vulva from his mouth. Slowly, one of his hands travelled from her hip to her abdomen, sliding down with the intent to make her impatient, and then, he pulled away, replacing her clit in his mouth with two of his fingers. He sucked slowly, and pulled them out, coated in his warm saliva to push them into her waiting vagina. 

Dean returned his mouth to her clit, focusing on her pleasure, doing everything the way he’d memorised she loved most. He angled his fingers upwards inside her, pushing deeper and deeper, brushing against the front of her walls. She clenched around him, squirmed needily, and impatiently rolled her hips against his mouth as he massaged deep inside her. 

She moaned his name and tugged at his hair, her body slowly turning stiff and ready for her climax. He pulled away again. His lips made a wet, salacious sound when they parted from her cunt, and he slowly pulled his fingers out of her pussy. She breathed hard, watching him suck his soppy fingers clean of her slick with a moan. He used his other hand to busy himself with his belt as he stood before her once more. 

She took his wrist to pull his fingers from his mouth with a loud slurp and placed them into hers. She sucked softly on them and stared at the slack-jawed expression while moving her hand beneath his shirts and into his unzipped pants. Dean removed his fingers from inside her warm mouth and held her cheek, moaning against her lips when she teasingly rubbed her soft hand over his cock. 

“I need you inside me,” she whispered, wrapping her fingers around his thick cock, warm and hard in her hand. Dean moaned softly and nodded mindlessly, capturing her lips for a quick kiss. 

“Where inside you?” He purred, teasingly brushing his nose against hers, his warm breath tickling her lips. She laughed softly instead of answering him, pushed his jeans and boxers down, slowly sinking down to her knees in front of him. “I guess that answers my question,” he exhaled, slipping his fingers through her hair. 

She looked up into his eyes and let him bring her mouth towards his cock. The tip brushed against her lips, smearing the precum that dribbled out from the slit against her pink lips. She opened her mouth more, letting him guide her on and off his dick. She hummed at the taste of him invading her taste buds, the way it always did, making her mouth water. 

He liked how messy it got when she went down on him. She knew the way she drooled over his thick length set a fire of passion and desire that would make the Sun envious. When tears fell from her eyes across her flushed cheeks, her lashes sticking together, her eyes bright and glossy as she choked on him—he gripped her ginger hair harder and properly began fucking her face. 

Fast and loud, his cock went down her throat and in and out of her salivating mouth, edging himself the way he’d done to her. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Dean praised, starting to slow down throating fucking her until he eventually pulled out of her mouth. A string of saliva and precum connected her mouth and his cock, breaking away when she stood back up. 

He brought her in for a kiss with a smug smirk, lewdly licking her lips for remnants of him before pushing his warm tongue past her swollen lips. They moaned softly and she buried both hands into his hair, her hands flexing before gripping strands of his hair to tug at. “We’re wasting time,” she reminded him, pecking his lips before sitting back up on the desk, using her calves to bring his hips forward. 

“I hope we waste a lot of time,” he licked his lips with a grin. Dean teasingly took his cock and gently tapped her clit with the head of it. 

She laughed breathlessly, squirming when he dragged his cock through her soaked folds, “that’s not funny.” 

“Well, it made you laugh,” he bit his lip, pressing his cock into her clenching, dripping pussy. 

“Your… face is funny, that’s why,” she lied playfully, his lips hovering over hers. He chortled and pulled back slightly, brows furrowed in playful offence, then he slapped his hand over her clit without warning. She yelped, and attempted to shut her legs, but Dean’s hips prevented her from doing so. 

“Come ‘ere, baby,” he whispered, guiding his cock back to her entrance. He cut off her playful protest with a kiss, and gently pushed himself into, digging his blunt nails into her hips. She placed her arm around his shoulder to prevent him from pulling away from her lips, only momentarily catching their breaths as he started to fuck her with abandon. 

Items on the desk rattled as he fucked her hard, the wooden table hitting the wall with every thrust of his hips. Her stomach flipped excitedly, his soft moans against her mouth, small whines from her against his. Dean occasionally bit her lip and kissed her with passion as they clung to each other, pulling each other close, desperate to get closer. 

Their warm breaths mingled together and she rolled her hips against his, her face burning with a blush, her pussy clenching tight around him. He grunted against her lip and buried his face into her neck, pushing his cock as deep as he could into her. His hot cum spilled inside her and she moaned in unison with him, her orgasm triggered by his. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, fucking her through her orgasm before coming to a slow halt. Her neck was damp with his warm breath, her hot skin flushing a deeper rosy colour when she whimpered his name. 

“Thanks, Dean,” she murmured, kissing his temple before he pulled away. He smiled at her, his green eyes lovingly trailing over her face. He cupped her cheeks, pressing a lovingly kiss to her lips, the tip of her nose, and her forehead. “It’s kinda suspicious how long we took, isn’t it?” She laughed, biting her lip to muffle her moan when he slowly pulled out of her. 

“Yeah, uh, pretty much,” he chuckled, pulling his pants up. She watched him with her legs squeezed shut, the flushed afterglow on his face was more than obvious. 

“Oh well,” she shrugged, taking her underwear from the desk. Dean snatched them from her with narrowed eyes and got down to put them back on her. “Let’s go before it gets weirder,” she giggled, moving off the desk to fix her underwear properly. Dean nodded and lowered her dress once more, staring at her with a smirk when she began squirming as she walked. 

“You don’t wanna clean up?” He laughed, slapping his hand over her ass when he joined her. He squeezed the flesh and wrapped his arms around her from behind. 

“We can shower back at the motel,” she shrugged, squeaking when he turned her around and threw her over his shoulder faster than she could process. She laughed with him, clinging to his shirt as he held her with one arm around her, the other hand squeezing her thigh reassuringly. 

“Let’s get outta here fast, then,” Dean smiled, slapping her ass. “Wait, I need to say… I finally got to fuck Daphne.”

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[lamaery]

have you read The Lost Metal yet? would you consider doing Twinsoul for an Inktober?

I have and I did. :D

27 - spores 

Since Prasanva or Twinsoul kind of fit the inktober prompt, so yeah, why not? This here obviously took some inspiration from @botanica_xu s version of him. He is a lovely and pleasant character.  His tea cup ended up looking a bit like Tress‘ ones and from that the story was spun of Hoid at a paint your ceramic thing shop, making a series of cups to present random nice people in the cosmere. And how he probably gave that to someone in the Ghostbloods because he suspected it would piss their leader off, if he knew it was a present from him. 😄 maybe there’s a cup in for every colour. I wonder who has the others.

-------------------- image description:

Charakter sketch for Prasanva or Twinsoul from the waist up, depicting him as a small, old, wiry man, with brown skin and a fluffy white beard around his mouth and chin. He as a receding hairline, but here are still, a short mane of wavy, white hair wafting of the back of his head. He wears a dress shirt, neck tied with a yellow ascot, under an orange vest with a paisley pattern. A long necklace of pink stone beads hangs around his neck. In one hand he olds a tea cup with a small pink butterfly over a pinke ocean waves. The other he holds up over his head, long, rose colored crystals jutting from his thumb and index finger holding a tiny ball of metal between them. He critically gazes at that ball through specs made form the same crystal, which have formed on his face, crystalline vines leading like veins up to the construct glasses.

[annoyingbelieverballoon]

Wally darling (Romantic) head-cannons:

~jealousy~ Word count: 531~

As mentioned before, Wally is not a jealous puppet at all. He understands your need to spend time with others and be affectionate with them. In fact, he’s all about how sharing  is caring.

But like how he can be slightly possessive of his apples, he is also slightly possessive of you.

He won’t comment if he sees you being a little too close with the others, but he will try to join every outing and conversation if you'll let him.

For example, say you’re spending days upon days with Julie. It could be playing games, singing, dressing up, etc.

Wally will eventually barge in softly and join you two. He’s always taking an interest in whatever you like.

This puppet will change his appearance just so he can match you.

If you wear darker clothes, he’ll join you; if you wear pastels, the neighbourhood will be greeted with two pastel-themed neighbours.

It won’t last long; he loves his signature look, so he’ll do it for a couple weeks at most.

Say you cancel a date with Wally to go hang out with someone else (dating stage).

He’s understanding, so he’ll simply reschedule. If it repeats often, though, he’ll probably give you the benefit of the doubt each time.

He’s going to slowly become more and more frustrated internally, however.

He gets rather erratic when frustrated; he starts painting multiple canvases at once. Preparing ways to woo you all over again.

The poor puppet will have gone a full day without his usual ascot or pompadour. His hair would be down, and he’d once again be worried that he was losing you.

His smile is less sincere, and his buddy Barnaby catches on quick; you do too if you’re paying attention to your puppet boyfriend.

Though if nobody tells you and you don’t catch on (or you keep doing this on purpose),

Wally will ask to sit with you for a chat or corner you in your free time.

He struggles with talking a lot, and his inner turmoil just makes it harder.

He’s constantly going over his words and asking the same question.

For once in your relationship with Wally, you see him completely vulnerable and upset.

He’s smiling, but he’s also close to tears— metaphorically, that is.

It’s mostly him asking if he’s doing something to upset you or make you avoid him.

He’s your darling, after all, so he doesn’t know why you’ve been so busy with the others.

He feels so guilty for admitting that he wants your time and attention. He feels like it’s selfish to ask for it so forthrightly.

Now how you react to his confession is up to you. If you’ve really been busy with the others and haven’t noticed Wally, then clearing up the misunderstanding, apologising, and giving him some cuddles will turn your sad boyfriend into a happy cuddle bug.

Either way, by the end of the whole ordeal, Wally will have learned a tiny bit about being self-conscious, something he had never dealt with before.

Making him jealous has taught him that he could, in fact, lose you one day if he does anything wrong. He’s got new fears now.

[per-the-jellicle-magician]

In his den Mefistofeliks has a little stash of things that remind him of his human and of cats he's close with. It started when he was still a kitten because of his human and there's only a few cats who know this stash of mementos even exists.

The inspiration for it was his human, Erik, who made a little baby album of a sort after he adopted Feliks, and over the years has been adding pictures and other things such as his paw prints etc. So wanting to do the same Feliks stole a few of the printed pictures and scraps of paper with Erik's handwriting (the closest thing he could find as his human's paw print) and stashed them in his den at the studio. Over the years said stash grew, he kept stealing a picture or a note here and there, and few pieces of Erik's clothing including one of his favourite pairs of socks. He also got there his latest collar that he wore only once to please Erik. He doesn't like wearing it, but he still very much likes to have it (he knows Erik saved the very first collar he got for Feliks, tiny kitten one that also was worn only once).

Besides his human's things he has lots of mementos of other cats. Most weren't exactly gifts but more of a "oh you can keep it if you want" type of thing, but Ram Ram Tamek and Kasandra, who both knew about it for years have both gifted him things and would sometimes tell other cats that hey this specific thing you dont want to anymore, Mefistofeliks may want it. Eventually two more cats would learn about it, both by accident, said cats being Bombalurina and Munkustrap.

From Tam he's got a little round mirror, a scrap of an old blanket they often used to share as kittens and a photo of the two of them Tam stole from Erik (Tam may tease him a bit for being sentimental, but he still helps with getting the things, and he saved the other piece of that blanket and another copy of that photo too).

From Kasandra he's got two of her bracelets, a broken silver one he saved from when they first got together, and she didn't know about the stash yet (he gifted her a different one then), and a golden bangle with little stones she gave him when they finally and for good sorted their relationship out and went from partners to being just friends.

From his daughter, Wiktoria, he's got a piece of cardboard with her paw prints on it and red and black marble from a little stash of them she found in some forgotten corner of the studio (she saved herself a matching white one).

From his parents, he's got one of Bywalec' ascots and an old broken pair of glasses, and from Plameczka a couple of her hair rollers, plus a few feathers from her feather duster (it took a time to get those things to save, he doesn't see his parents as often anymore)

From Misto a long piece of the glittery rainbow he used in his tricks, from when it accidentally ripped one day and a few playing cards from his favourite, although very much no longer complete deck (Feliks wasn't the only one to receive cards from his cousin, few went to Tugger and Victoria as well).

From Victoria a gem that fell off her collar and a pink ribbon bow she made once for him so the 3 of them could match as family (Misto saved the one she made for him too).

From Bomba he's got her hair clip sometime after they become friends. It was an old one, with a broken clip part (she let him have it after he helped her find a replacement).

From Demeter he's got a silver and gold handkerchief which was bit of an "I'm sorry" note after she accidentally messed up his arm (he wore it over the bandages when it was still healing)

From Munkustrap he's got feathers, saved from every catch Munk would share with him all the times Feliks would visit his cousins at the Junkyard. Munk saw the arrangement Feliks made of the feathers several times when visiting before he realised they were from birds caught by him. It took for a very specific feather to appear there for him to catch on (Munk has saved all the flowers Feliks has ever conjured up for him too, took him one catnip fuelled visit to his den to learn that). Later, one of scarves Munk had in his den, a brilliant blue one, made it's way over to Feliks' (Feliks may or may not have said it reminded him of Munk the most of all things Munk's got and that he liked how soft it was)

[blackswaneuroparedux]

The artist and the soldier: the unlikely friendship of Lucian Freud and Brigadier Andrew Parker Bowles

The painter makes real to others his innermost feelings about all that he cares for. A secret becomes known to everyone who views the picture through the intensity with which it is felt.

- Lucian Freud

Lucian Freud’s majestic The Brigadier, painted between 2003 and 2004, is a powerful, intimate, portrait of Brigadier Andrew-Parker Bowles, a dashing cavalry officer and ex-husband of  Queen Consort Camilla, and thus a venerable member of the British establishment and aristocracy.

Steeped in the traditions of military portrayals, Freud’s painting of a British army brigadier is transformed into a resolutely contemporary painting by his legendary attention to detail and lucid brushstrokes. It evokes the spirit of the grand military portraits that populate art history, yet in Freud’s hands the lucid brushstrokes produce a portrait that captures the contradictions of the modern world in a very contemporary way.

But the portrait also tells a story of a most unlikely friendship struck up by an artist and his subject. They made an unlikely pair: the roguish painter in his eighties, who famously enjoyed a flutter and a fight, and the highly decorated soldier with impeccable royal connections.

Although Freud died in 2011, Parker Bowles is always ready to share his story of his friendship with the uncompromising and difficult late artist. He most famously tells of one story when, “‘At one stage a group of Americans were taking flash photos, which Lucian hated, so he threw a bread roll at one of them. The man complained,’ recalls Parker Bowles. And how did you react? ‘Well,’ he pauses. ‘I was just a tiny bit embarrassed.’ Luckily, the proprietor was on hand to mediate. ‘He came over and said to the American, “I’m terribly sorry but Mr Freud is allowed to do that.” That was it.’ That always gets a bellyful laugh out of the ex-brigadier Andrew Parker Bowles (APB as he’s often tagged).

If you visit Parker Bowles’ cottage in the Cotswolds, you’ll see many interests bits of memorabilia. The last British Union flag that flew in Rhodesia, where he served, is resting on a radiator. Nestled on a shelf amidst medals and trophies is a small bottle of stitches preserved in brine – wrenched from Parker Bowles’ back after he broke it during the hurdle race at Ascot. In another is a lump of cartilage extracted from his knee and pickled for posterity (the culmination of rugby knocks and jumping out of a plane). All, in their own way, are emblems of the rugged masculinity and swashbuckling adventure he exudes even at 83 years old. One can see why the irascible Lucian Freud liked him.

But in the corner of one room are photographs of his old friend, Lucian Freud. They hang next to a bronze bust of Freud’s head and a framed letter: ‘My dear Andrew, since even your more foolish actions have their reasons – why is it that I haven’t seen you for so long? Can we have a ride, a drink, a jaunt or a fight? Please write. Lucian.’

The pair first met in 1983, when Parker Bowles, then Commanding Officer of the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment, received a request from Lucian Freud, who wanted to paint a horse. Parker Bowles chose the horse he thought was best at staying still and Lucian painted away. ‘When he finished, he gave the trooper holding the horse a sketch and said, “Don’t just throw it away, if you want to sell it, go to my agent and he’ll buy it off you.”’ With the money, the trooper bought a house. ‘A rather nice start. I got nothing as a result,’ says Parker Bowles in mock dismay. ‘Except I got to know him.’

Before long, a friendship blossomed. Together, they’d go riding, galloping around Hyde Park, Freud’s scruffy suit covered in paint, his white silk scarf billowing in the wind. ‘Freud wouldn’t wear a hard hat. So it would be me chasing after him, trying to slow him down. Him going flat out.’

Over the years, they’d visit the National Portrait Gallery at night, which would be opened especially for Freud. They went to Paris for an exhibition and to Ireland to see Freud’s bookmaker, who had accrued more than 20 pictures in lieu of gambling debts. They watched the Ascot races, and ‘as I recall, he lost a million pounds betting.’ Eventually Freud stopped gambling. ‘When I asked why, he said, “Well, now I have enough money.” The joy and fun was being short of money and losing it and having people hammering on his door.’ Those debtors, it was said, included the notorious East End gangsters, the Krays.

And yet, amongst all the liveliness, Freud also found the time to work prolifically. He painted well into his eighties, burning through sittings - a nude mother one morning, her nude daughter in the afternoon. Perhaps it was only inevitable that one day the bell would toll for Andrew Parker-Bowles.

It was 2003. At first APB said no. he said, “Look, I have things to do.”’ He had recently left the army and was putting together a few business prospects. No matter, said Freud: “It will only take a few months. It’s a head and shoulders.”’

They’d talked about James Jacques Tissot’s glamorous portrait in the National Portrait Gallery of Colonel Fred Burnaby, a moustachioed war hero who served in the same regiment as Parker Bowles. It would be the inspiration.

So APB went back to the Knightsbridge Barracks and borrowed his old uniform. To his surprise, he discovered that it no longer fitted as comfortably. ‘I’d put on a bit of weight, or otherwise it’d shrunk,’ APB would laugh at recalling his embarrassment. ‘The first morning it was so hot, and the uniform was so tight, I undid it. That’s when Freud said, “That’s it, hold it, that’s what we want.”’

The three-month mark came and went, and the picture continued to grow in size. As APB would recall, ‘He kept on adding canvas. My heart sunk. Soon it was seven feet high.’

By his own admission he was a fidgety sitter and Freud was ‘incredibly slow.’ Parker Bowles got by with plenty of Diet Coke and regular breaks. ‘As you can see from the picture I had rather an inane look on my face. You can’t have someone smiling because you can’t hold a smile for 18 months.’

Freud liked to work in silence. ‘Every so often he would come quite close to you.’ He gestures his hand to his nose. ‘Look at you, and go back.’

When Freud wanted to rest, he’d stop and talk. ‘But then he wouldn’t paint. One was torn between wanting him to get on with it and listening to what he had to say about things.’

At one stage Parker Bowles caught a glimpse of the portrait He didn’t like APB seeing what he’d done, but it was such a big picture that APB couldn’t help but look at it, and complained that his friend had been unkind in the likeness of his size. Freud gleefully painted an extra inch of fat on to Parker Bowles’ middle. ‘He did it to shut me up.’

Freud’s tempers were infamous, yet he and Andrew never argued. ‘Discussions yes, arguments no. In his relationships, the minute something went wrong, he’d cut you off and wouldn’t ever speak to you again. Luckily, he didn’t do it to me. But he did with some of the girls he painted.’

Instead, Freud was ‘great company’ and a routine emerged. ‘It would be breakfast at Clarke’s, then we’d go back and I’d climb into my uniform. Even if he was just painting my face, he still wanted me to wear the whole uniform.’ Lunch might be at Clarke’s again and then back to the studio. If it sounds intense, it wasn’t constant: twice weekly for the sittings. ‘Then he’d wheel in the next victim.’

The starriest of these included Jerry Hall and Kate Moss, though perhaps one of Freud’s most talked-about paintings, unveiled in 2001, was of the late Queen Elizabeth II. Many were critical of the royal portrait, which was, even by the most anodyne description, unforgiving. One newspaper called it a ‘travesty’. Parker Bowles is more sanguine about it. He said in one interview, ‘You have to say it’s accurate. I once asked Her Majesty, the Queen what she thought about Mr Freud’s picture and she replied, “Very interesting.” Which is a very clever answer, really.’

And what of his own portrait? Did it require diplomacy? After 18 long months the oil painting was finished and titled The Brigadier. One critic described the painting as ‘insolent’, ‘scathing’ and ‘melancholic’. He went on to describe its subject as looking ‘saddened and wiped out’. Flattering? Admittedly perhaps not, but a masterpiece, said many. Parker Bowles - who divorced Camilla in 1995 - was a fan of the work, and the painting’s naturalism is one of the reasons why it is so popular. Parker Bowles might have bought it. Instead, it was installed in someone else’s house and eventually sold by Christie’s in 2015 for $35m – a record figure.

Andrew Parker Bowles has always been stoic about missing on buying his own portrait but he lacked the funds by a country mile on his military pension and other holdings. He conceded that he didn’t fancy the idea of, “a seven-foot picture of myself looking rather red-faced and fat wasn’t my idea of fun”.

So there’s no Brigadier hanging in the Cotswolds, but a picture of a friendship emerges and endures. Freud lived to be 88. Parker Bowles went to see his friend as he lay dying in the summer of 2011. Three of his daughters were there; Freud had 14 acknowledged children. Parker Bowles went in. He was unconscious and APB held his hand. They went next door with Freud’s assistant David Dawson and their Irish friend Pat Doherty, whom Freud had also painted, and they had dinner and Freud died that night.

Andrew Parker Bowles continues to have fond memories of his most unlikely friendship with one of Britain’s distinguished artists. He said once in a newspaper profile. ‘Freud was a fascinating man. I wouldn’t say he was a particularly kind man, he was often quite cruel. But his whole life was painting, really, right to the end.’

[twstinginthewind]

So, I may have come up with a description of how I picture Overblot!Ace and his Phantom. I'm not sure if I can draw it as well as I imagine it, so please accept this version of things.

-----

Ace himself is dressed in something that is like a cross between a traditional stage magician and the "freak-style" street magicians that came to popularity around the turn of this century. His hair is wild, floating around his face, and his eyes flash red. The blot has formed a shape that frames his eyes in an infinity symbol. He's in a weathered red leather waistcoat over a loose white tee, and a black jacket with sharp lapels and long tails that whip around him. He wears a long black pocket watch chain, that moves on its own like a snake. His one glove is red, his other hand dripping black with blot. His pants are also red leather, snug and smooth, slung low on his hips and also adorned with black chains. On his feet, black boots with tall stacked heels that click menacingly. Chains and pocketwatches swarm around him in a cluster, lashing out at any who approach.

His Phantom is tall, gangling. It has no legs to speak of, emerging from the mass of black and golden chains at Ace's feet and towering above him. It wears what looks like a deep red frock coat, hanging open and billowing around its skinny body. Like Ace, it wears a tight vest with long chains dangling from it, and a torn, blot-stained white shirt with a ruffled ascot. Its hands are spindly, long-fingered; they clutch at the handle of a tattered black umbrella. Its head is shaped like an hourglass, turned on its side so the sand will not flow. And, in contrast to the rest of it, a tiny pair of fluffy white rabbit's ears sit on top of its head.

They face the intruders, Ace's neck bending at an unnatural angle. "Y̵͌́o̵̓̋ũ̵̚'̴́͆r̸̈̈́e̵̔͒ ̵̎late, you're late!" he scolds.

[motleyquixotes]

Motley Quixotes #10: First Week Montage

[Image ID:

a comic with four panels with a narration box saying "The 1st Week of Freshman year."

Panel 1 is labeled "Monday" and is tinged purple. A college dorm room has a loft bed and a TST baphomet bi flag on the left side, and a plain bed and posters (Gyibaaw, Frost Like Ashes, Drottnar, "The Blood of the Martyrs is the Seed of the Church") on the right side. A leather jacket with a "Die so to Live" back patch lies on the floor on the right side, along with a phone playing music (Lyrics: "Gotas ardientes cayeron en tierra sangre de pacto"). On the left, Renee (a college freshman with light brown skin, black hair in a ponytail, a belly button piercing, and black diamond-shaped pupils, wearing a black crop top, black athletic pants, studded belt with chains, black combat boots, and a moon choker) looks at a sheet of paper on a plain desk and says, "Oh, hey, you're in Intro to Art History, too." On the right, Indigo (a college freshman with warm medium brown skin, short black hair with a half-shaved cut and dark blue streaks, and black pupils shaped like a cross and an ichthus, wearing a black shirt, bullet belt, cargo pants, and black boots) puts a poster on the wall and responds, "Uh-huh. Thinking about it as a major, actually." Renee answers, "Ah, I'm going for anthropology."

Panel 2 is labeled "Tuesday" and is tinged gray-gold. Renee and Indigo sit in class, Renee looking towards the front and Indigo doodling. Parzival (a college freshman with light skin and short curly brown hair, wearing a black shirt and a green and gold jester hat with a feather, a gold cross, and a gold ichthus attatched to the bells) sits in the back sleeping; a thought bubble coming from her head shows (from left to right) three brightly colored prehistoric animals, a human in furs carving cup-shaped hollows into a rock, red handprints coming from the human's hand, a stone cup with blood in it, a mass of eyes with different-colored irises, an eye with a red iris embedded in a hand. Feirefiz (a college freshman with medium brown skin with vitilago and dark brown river-shaped pupils, wearing a purple hijab, a pink long-sleeved sweater, and a maroon maxi skirt) raises her hand and says, "Professor Withers! Wouldn't you say that the fact that the earliest artwork is non-representational disrupts the popular narratives of how art developed? And of what makes good art?" A speech bubble comes from off-panel, answering, "Well, we don't know that cupules were intended as art…"

Panel 3 is labeled "Wednesday" and is tinged orange-red and split into three subpanels. Panel 3.1: Maranatha (a college freshman with pale skin, long wild blond hair, and green pupils shaped like flames, wearing a long-sleeved long blue dress), Kai (a college freshman with light tan freckled skin, short wavy brown hair, and teal pupils shaped like concentric squares, wearing square glasses, one earring, a plaid shirt, a red ascot, and red checked pants), and Indigo sit in a student lounge with red semi-circular couches and windows. Renee has just come in with her arms partially around Jack (a college junior with light skin, dishwater blonde hair styled in a short undercut, and blue star-shaped pupils) and she blushes and says, "Hey guys, this is Jack; he lives on the floor..". Maranatha says "Hi Jack!!!" and Indigo says "H'lo." Panel 3.2: Closeup, Kai says "Oh, he's the RA--" and Renee interrupts, saying "Shhh" while blushing fiercely with a drop of sweat on her cheek. Panel 3.3: Jack pulls Renee towards him, smiling while biting his lip, while one pupil turns black. Renee sticks her tongue out flirtatiously. A tiny chibi version of Indigo meets eyes with Jack, puzzled. From off-panel, Maranatha says "But they said we should make friends with the RAs…." Kai responds, "Uh, Maranatha…" Maranatha says, "What?" and Kai says, "Heh…nothing."

Panel 4 is labeled "Friday" and is tinged seafoam green. Kai, Indigo, Jack, and Maranatha sit at a table in a dining hall while Renee, smiling, is coming up to the table carrying a tray of food. Kai and Indigo are debating excitedly, with Indigo saying, "But the one reason you can trust your senses at all is because of God! He is the axiom!" Kai says, "Within that framework you can't know anything at all, except by divine revelation…" and Indigo responds, "Exactly!" Maranatha says to Jack, "Do you believe in God, Jack?" Jack responds, "Maybe. I'm not really religious." Maranatha says, "Oh! Me neither! I'm just a Christian who loves Jesus!" Jack says, "Haha..yeah I'm spiritual. … I believe in magic." /end ID]

[koffing-time]

Yooo, i’ve secured the footage of the first actual round of the contest! (Again, huuuuge thanks @appeallove )

Also, i have NO IDEA what time it is right now, i sort of completely passed out right after it, it was so exhausting lol! I didn’t see my name yet in the next bracket and i didn’t check for anything else, so i don’t even know if i won! (If i did, i hope i didn’t miss my next performance, i’ll go run and check right after this post hehe)

BY THE WAY, also an incredible huge amazing THANK YOU to Daisy, who was an incredible opponent! Thanks for doing this with me! (idk if you have a rotumblr, actually, but you said i should just ping @battlelegendsredandblue so i’ll do that)

[Another recording from the livestream of the Sootopolis Circuit:

Tix enters the stage, their outfit changed just a bit from the qualifiers performance. They are wearing a black tanktop now, with a design that reminds of netting made of silver string. The “net” is shining and glittering. Behind them, a Koffing is floating. It has been decorated with similar silver fabric strings, which make it look like disco ball. In addition, strange devices are mounted on most of its craters. A large moustache is adorning its face, which makes the whole thing look rather goofy.

“HEEEEY SOOTOPOLIS!!! COLOURLESS TOXIN IS BACK!!! AND NOW WE GOTTA MAKE A DIFFERENT KIND OF MUSIC BECAUSE OTHERWISE IT GETS BORING RIGH?! SO NOW I HAVE BROUGHT A NEW MEMBER WITH ME! THIS HERE IS COFFEE, THE GUY WHO USUALLY DOES THE PYROTECHNICS BUT HE CAN ALSO PLAY THE SYNTH! BUT ONLY TWO GUYS ON STAGE IS BOOORING! SO WE BROUGHT SOME ASSISTANCE, AND I GOTTA ASK YA LADY! ARE YOU GONNA SING, OR ARE YOU GONNA DANCE?!?!”

The woman can’t help but give a chuckle as she steps onto the stage, Chansey nearby like it’ll step on her toes, but it never does. It makes an excited chirp, as if giving its own answer to the question.

Though Chansey isn’t wearing anything on the theme with the other performers, Daisy certainly is, a pink jacket with darker pink stripes, not to mention the ascot like scarf, matching the tendrils on Chansey’s own head. Pockets mimicking its pouch on her shorts.

“Why not both?” She answers, before commanding, “Seych, Sing!”

The move directly hits the floating Koffing, who sinks a bit towards the floor, though his eyes stay open.

“WHOA GIRL!” Tix has been stopped in their energetic track. “The peeps don’t even know what we’re playing yet! But I guess since Coffee needs a moment, I can tell you!”

They have now regained their excitement and turn towards the audience. “THIS IS OUR INTERPRETATION OF GYM LEADER ROXIES SONG “THE SKIES ARE READ BECAUSE THE CLOUDS ARE MADE OF NAPALM!!!”

They strum the guitar with a loud chord, but then play a much quieter, but fast and complicated melody. “IF YOU’RE GOOD; WE NEED SOME HEEEAT! FLAMETHROWER!!”

Coffee seems to have been energised by the music again, begins floating upwards again and inhales a deep breath. At the same time, tiny puffs of smoke leave some of his craters, which results in two large speakers releasing synthetic music. The camera zooms in, to make the delicate workings visible, apparently is this strange construction connected to a synthesizer. Coffee now releases a stream of hot flames towards Chansey

“Sorry! I’m just excited!” Daisy grins. The atmosphere seems way different than what she’s used to. She seems about as excited as the audience with each step she takes, making them quickly as she attempts to keep up with the melody. More used to softer music for sure, but she keeps herself on her toes.

As flames dance around Chansey, it holds onto its egg, twirling lightly to keep it safe. In turn, with the Soft-Boiled move, it looks like it’s ballerina-spun right out of the danger. It gives a soft sigh of relief before giving a cute look of Charm, making sure it looks straight at the audience. If the pout could talk it’d probably say “Look how close that was, won’t you?”

Daisy isn’t done yet though with her movements, making sure her footing is steady, but also her arms reaching high. It may be a slow dance by the music’s standards, but she does a little hop to keep on the beat as she approaches Tix and back again.

“WHOAHO!! You know how to move your feet! But I think we need a bit more atmosphere! Coffee, gimme a solo and set up something, you know what to do!”

With that, the Koffing lets his synthetic music fade into nothingness, when he suddenly drops to the ground and the crowd lets out a shocked gasp. Then, the poison type starts rolling around the stage, carefully watching Chanseys and Daisys dancemoves, not to hinder them. It seems that Coffee is actually trying to match their moves. At the same time, the few geysers that do not have metallic rings attached spew out a beautifully glittering mist, through which the other contestants dance.

Tix has also started making a few moves, mostly keeping it to the side of the stage though, as to not obstruct their opponents dance. They have now pressed a button on the guitar which added a strange crackling to the sound that reminds a little bit of burning wood. The guitarist now also started singing, or rather growling some almost unintelligible vocals, not unlike the guttural sounds their Toxicroak made during the qualifiers.

Daisy watches the little guy roll around a bit, clapping her hands for him. She spins a few times while doing so.

“We’ll have to give pointers afterwards!” The performance is seconds away from ending, either by the time or the energy, but it’s mainly the energy. If it wasn’t for the music, one could probably hear their own heart beating in their chest if they didn’t feel it.

Chansey picks up on the singing, despite the guttural sounds, it waddles up to them with a smile. Then it follows them in Singing, trying to hit lower notes to match, though only gets to a midrange. Regardless if it can hit the pitch or not, its tail wags lightly.

Tix now finishes their solo and singing, taking a deep breath and smiling at Chansey. The round Pokémon dances back towards it’s trainer, taking her hands and the lead, making them both spin in sync with the music that now picks up again and gets even a bit faster than before. Coffee has also begun floating again and is puffing more and more smoke, creating an incredible melody together with the guitar. It seems Daisy and Chansey cannot dance any faster at this point when Tix screams “NOW THE FINALE!” and Coffee starts glowing, his costume reflecting the light all over the stage.

For a single heartbeat, he looks like shining lightbulb. Daisy and Chansey have broken apart and are taking a final stance, when a deafening CRACK and an equally loud chord from Tix’ guitar fill the Arena and Coffee releases a giant fireball from the Explosion-move. All four contestants stand on stage, as if time is standing still, when suddenly, even before the Koffing falls to the ground after the ultimate exhausting move, Chansey cannot hold its pose and trips, falling on its belly. Half the crowd erupts into cheers, the other half lets out another shocked gasp. Both Daisy and Tix run over to help an embarrassed Chansey back on its feet before the footage cuts.]

ooc: I’ve listened mostly to The Enigma TNG  while writing this (and they make incredible music btw), but I think the song played goes more into the direction of thrash, maybe even hardbass or hardcore techno, since it’s only (modified) guitar and synth

[sixpossumsinatrenchcoat]

Auditions — ch 2 (of 5) — lockout

Hajime is just wandering down the beach, thinking about how to track down Komaeda without Chiaki and Sonia finding out and getting all stupid about it, when he trips over a lump in the sand and falls flat on his face. “Oh!” the lump greets him giddily. “Hajime! What a nice surprise.” ...Just his luck. “Hey, Komaeda-kun.” “Are you ever going to drop the formalities?” Komaeda laughs. “You could call me anything you want, you know. I wouldn’t mind.” “Uh huh.” “Even if it was really mean.” Hajime had got that impression, yeah.

[Danganronpa 2 spoilers thru the 3rd trial. You can start from ch 1 here: https://ao3.org/works/51548557/chapters/130285615]

Hajime doesn’t have a crush on Komaeda. It’s just that, now that the girls already brought it up, he can’t stop thinking about how bad it would suck if he did.

It’s Sonia’s fault, really. As the Ultimate Princess, it's her job to decide what’s true. To impose her will on the world around her and expect it to bend to her. Sonia got it in her head that there was a problem to solve, and now suddenly there’s a problem. And the problem is that, all of a sudden, Hajime can’t just be fucking normal around Komaeda. 

“Hajime!” a scratchy voice greets him, and Hajime spits his coffee halfway across the table.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Komaeda says sunnily. “I didn’t mean to ruin your appetite. I should really know better, haha! Looking at me would make anyone sick.”

“N-No,” Hajime rasps. He’s still trying to wring the coffee out of his alveoli. “That’s n—” 

But he can’t force the words past all the coughing. Which is annoying, because for once, Komaeda doesn’t seem to be in one of his moods. His eyes shine clear and bright: serpentine, not jade.

“Haha! Sorry, Hajime. That’s luck for you. But hey, I’ll see you around!”

Hajime can’t swallow around the lump in his throat. So he chokes on it. 

###

“You’re being really annoying,” Chiaki tells him later.

“I’m what?”

“Being really annoying.”

Okay, so he obviously heard her. “How so.”

“All this stuff about Komaeda,” she says calmly, without looking up from her game. “I mean. If you want to know what he’s thinking, shouldn’t you just ask?”

Hah. Wow. Right. Shows how much she knows. Komaeda would never just answer a question. That’s why Hajime has to stay two steps ahead by never asking one.

Chiaki looks dubious. “Are you sure you’re not just scared?”

“S-Scared??” Hajime sputters. “How—or, I mean—of what?”

"I dunno." Chiaki’s eyes stay locked on her screen. "Being wrong. Being embarrassed. Not being on the same page."

“Wh— I’m scared of dying!”

Chiaki's game lets out the crunchy little blip-blp-bl000p of Game Over. When she finally looks up, she looks distinctly unimpressed. “You and everyone else.”

###

Okay, this is getting ridiculous. 

The girls just got in his head a little. That doesn’t mean they’re right. Sonia gets fired up about all kinds of stuff that isn’t real. J-dramas, mostly. Sometimes she’ll get so wrapped up in a series, it's like she can't even remember where fiction ends and reality begins. She’ll start prodding Hajime to trade his tie for an ascot, or begging Chiaki to let her put her hair in pigtails ‘please, Chi-chan, just for tonight; I just know you’ll look -just- like Ai-sama!’

This is probably the same thing. Probably Sonia has been binging some ridiculous BL office drama and got it in her head that Hajime and Komaeda are star-crossed lovers, and not just two normal kids having an insanely traumatic semester. (Well. One normal kid and one total wild card. But the point stands.)

Hajime just has to remind himself of what’s real. By hanging out with the actual Komaeda. And then he’ll remember that, in real life, Komaeda is fucking terrifying. 

Besides. To have a crush on someone, you probably need to know literally anything about them. Any tiny, insignificant little detail that feels true. And Hajime knows full well that he’s never gonna get that from Komaeda. Komaeda is a mystery wearing another mystery as a hat. He’s a ludicrous fucking layer-cake of facades. Masks on masks on even weirder, more unsettling masks until you finally accept that you’re never going to reach the bottom, because it’s masks all the way down. 

…Like he said. Fucking terrifying.

###

Hajime is just wandering down the beach, thinking about how to track down Komaeda without Chiaki and Sonia finding out and getting all stupid about it, when he trips over a lump in the sand and falls flat on his face. 

“Oh!” the lump greets him giddily. “Hajime! What a nice surprise.” 

…Just his luck. “Hey, Komaeda-kun.”

Komaeda laughs. “Are you ever going to drop the formalities? You could call me anything you want, you know. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Uh huh.”

“Even if it was really mean.”

Hajime had got that impression, yeah. “Is there something you want me to call you?”

“Huh? What I want doesn’t come into it! A worthless animal like me shouldn’t get any say in the matter.”

Ugh. Komaeda always looks so cheerful when he’s degrading himself. It’s honestly really disorienting. “Komaeda-kun, then.”

“Haha! You’re so stalwart, Hajime. So unyielding. The hope that might be born of such resolve… Just thinking about it gives me goosebumps!”

“Komaeda-kun,” Hajime says abruptly. He almost loses his nerve when Komaeda aims that double-barreled mirrored stare straight at him. Then he remembers that he definitely doesn’t have a crush. “Do you—uh. Do you ever think about anything other than hope?”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“Like… I dunno. Stuff that catches your eye, or… stuff you want. For you, I mean. Not for ‘humanity’s future,’ or whatever.”

“Haha! Oh, Hajime. Even if I did want something, what would it matter?”

“But if it did.”

Komaeda frowns. (Hajime can never tell if Komaeda is making fun of him or listening with deadly seriousness. Or if maybe it’s both things at once? You can never really tell, with Komaeda.)

“‘But if it did,’” Komaeda muses. “Hm. I guess I must have desires, like anyone else. But I’ve never seen any correlation between wanting something and getting it. So maybe I’ve inoculated myself against… I don’t know. Expectation? Since it doesn’t seem very useful.”

Hajime lets out his breath. As usual, Komaeda’s given him a lot to think about. And as usual, Hajime has no idea what to do with it. “...Komaeda.”

“Yes, Hajime?”

“Do you ever just… not talk?”

“Haha! What an interesting question. But of course I do! Even a worthless animal like me can appreciate a comfortable silence, just like any other man. In fact, some of the most meaningful moments in my life passed me by without a single word. Just the simple understanding shared by two people who have no need for speech. Why do you ask?”

“Huh? Oh. No reason.”

###

“Hajime-kun,” Sonia tells him that night. “Your behavior of late has been… untoward.”

Huh? “Huh?”

“Or, rather—not untoward, but, perhaps… unseemly?”

“...Uh.”

Sonia sighs. “You are distracted, Hajime-kun. Which is wholly understandable, in the circumstance! I am not displeased so much as I am… concerned. Do not fear, Hajime! Such a trifling concern could not threaten our bond! If someone were to invoke the blood-rite of disrespect, I would not hesitate to take up arms in your name!”

“Oh. Or, I mean. Thanks?”

“Of course!! You are my comrade, and I yours! Should the need arise, I would defend you to my dying breath! ...But I would, of course, prefer to avoid such an outcome altogether.”

Hajime is lost. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you're getting at.”

“Oh my god, Hajime,” Chiaki huffs, startling them both. Hajime thought she’d been asleep for hours. “She’s obviously talking about Komaeda.”

“In what world was that obvious??”

“Chiaki-chan speaks the truth,” Sonia admits. “I have the utmost admiration for you, but… I fear that this fixation may compromise your focus.”

“This what?”

“No, Sonia’s right,” Chiaki cuts in. “You’re all over the place, Hajime. No offense.”

“Wh– Of course I’m offended!”

“Unresolved tension poisons the mind,” Sonia agrees, nodding. “Left unchecked, it is as insidious as any neurotoxin. And your wits have been our salvation three times over. I wish to believe that no more of our beloved friends will come to harm, but…” She bites her lip and then shakes her head fiercely. “No. I will not allow it. I will not lose anyone else. Which means that I cannot allow you to succumb to distraction.”

“Okay? I… won’t?” 

“Then you’ll speak to Komaeda,” Sonia tells him. It doesn’t sound like a question. “And seize the answers that you so desire. By any means necessary.”

Hajime runs out of patience. “What answers!! What’s even the question? …And I do talk to Komaeda, by the way. I just talked to him this morning. It’s just that trying to get a straight answer out of him is pointless. So I’m not sure what you want me to say.” 

“I see,” Sonia sighs. “You refuse to make your feelings known.”

“My—??? I don’t have any—”

She shakes her head sadly. “The hard way, then.”

###

So that’s how Hajime winds up locked out of his own cottage, in his pajamas, on murder island. Barefoot. In the middle of the fucking night. 

###

“You guys,” Hajime says. Endlessly, excruciatingly reasonable. “This is crazy. You know this is crazy, right?”

“It is for your own good!!” Sonia wails through the door. “We only want you to be happy!!!!”

“Oh, I’m happy,” he says darkly. “I’ve never been so happy. The only way I could get any happier is if I was in bed. In my room.”

He can just barely hear Chiaki’s breathy monotone. “You can come back whenever you want. You just have to talk to Komaeda first.”

“And say what!!”

“Only you can answer that, Hajime-kun.” That would be Sonia, of course, sounding just as self-assured as she is totally off-base. 

“And if I refuse?”

There’s no answer. 

Hajime rolls his eyes. He’s not sure how Sonia managed to talk Chiaki into this ridiculous little game—or if maybe it was the other way around? Frankly, it’s a little out of character for either of them. But he can sort of see how, together, they might talk each other into it. 

Not that it really matters. Hajime isn’t planning to stoop to their level. Even if he wanted to play along, what would he even say? Hey, Komaeda-kun. Sorry to stop by so late! It’s just that my girlfriends think I have a crush on you, and they’re worried it’s going to make me worse at investigating murders.

…Yeah, no. Hajime will pass, thanks.

He kills a few minutes on the boardwalk, kicking his feet over the edge of the bridge and looking at the stars. Once he decides that it’s been long enough to lend a little credence to his story, he hops up and raps on the door. 

“Sorry, guys. He didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep.”

“You didn’t even knock!!” Sonia shrills.

Chiaki’s voice comes through a little quieter. “You know we can see you, right?” 

Hajime thunks the butt of his palm against his forehead. No, he did not know that. Obviously. “You’re seriously not going to let me in?”

More silence. 

“You guys are being crazy,” Hajime mutters. “This is, like… mutiny, or something.”

“It’s only mutiny if you’re in charge,” Chiaki points out. “This is just coercion.”

“…You’re gonna feel really bad if I get murdered.”

“W-We have faith in our classmates!” Sonia squeaks. 

“Shh,” Chiaki hisses. “You’re encouraging him.”

###

What else can he do? Grudgingly, reluctantly, very much under duress, Hajime makes his way to Komaeda’s cottage. 

The lights are on, but he can’t hear any signs of life. There’s no huff of breath, no scuff of human motion. 

Hajime squeezes his eyes shut. This is a nightmare. He’s not even properly dressed. He was already half-asleep when the girls asked him to “investigate” the “weird noise” that they definitely didn’t actually hear. So instead of his uniform, he’s stuck in a pair of ratty sweats and a sleep-shirt worn so thin that it’s more hole than cotton. It would almost be less embarrassing to lose the shirt entirely. But only almost.

Whatever. The girls just need to think that he tried, right? Then he can set all this exhausting crap aside and go to the fuck to bed. 

He raises one hand and taps at the door with just the tip of one fingernail. If he’s lucky, Komaeda won’t even notice.

“It’s unlocked!” Komaeda calls cheerfully, because of course he does. Because Hajime has never been lucky in his entire stupid life.

Well. No turning back now. 

Hajime takes a breath and shoves the door open.

###

Komaeda wasn’t lying. The door is totally unlocked. Hajime peers through the crack with all the grim trepidation of a man called to identify the body of his only son. "Uh. You, uh. Don't lock your door."

“Are you suggesting that I distrust our beloved classmates?” Komaeda asks mildly. He's lying on the floor, for some reason, even though his bed is literally right next to him. “That’s not very hopeful of you, Hajime. Besides. To be a stepping stone for such powerful hope would be my life’s greatest honor. If one of you Ultimates deigned to dirty your hands with my blood, I could die truly happy.”

Huh. It’s weird… Komaeda is saying the same weird shit as ever, but. It’s like his heart isn’t in it, or something? For the first time that Hajime can remember, Komaeda looks tired. Chewed down to the bone. Even when he was chained up in the old hotel, uncomfortable and underfed and utterly alone, he never looked like this. 

And why is he wearing his normal clothes? It's, like, one in the morning. Hajime might not remember how he got to this island, but he still found a neatly-packed suitcase waiting for him in his cottage. The dresser was stuffed with t-shirts and blazers and crisp white button-downs, a wardrobe that some fundamental corner of his brain recognized implicitly. But Komaeda’s room looks barren. Untouched. Like there’s no one living here at all.

Now that he thinks of it, this is probably his first time seeing inside Komaeda’s room. He’s not sure what he expected. Sculptures made from fingernails and human hair? A shrine in worship to some vague, unspecified future hope? But Komaeda’s room looks the same as anyone else’s. Wide glass windows. White wood walls. Unvarnished floors. Except that Komaeda has a fridge, for some reason. Why didn’t Hajime get a fridge?

“Um.” Hajime shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He can’t stop thinking about the pajama thing. Surely Komaeda doesn’t sleep in skinny jeans. “Uh. Do you… really mean that?”

Komaeda finally looks up. When he sees Hajime’s sleepwear—the frayed sweats; the overstretched shirt—his eyebrows go up. “Trying out a new look? It suits you.”

“Fuck off,” Hajime says tiredly.

“I mean it.” Komaeda’s eyes linger on Hajime’s collarbone and then drift slowly, almost languid, down his chest. “Haha!! You’ve been holding out on us, Hajime-kun.”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “You don’t always have to make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I can’t figure out why everyone always seems to think otherwise. But putting that aside… What brings you here, Hajime? Unless…” Komaeda leans forward, suddenly eager. “Have you finally come to kill me?”

“Uh. No. Sorry.”

“I expected as much,” he sighs, leaning back on his palms. “Ah, well. Then why are you here?”

Right. That is the obvious question. “I'm. Locked out.”

“How strange! I thought our rooms only locked from the inside.”

Of course he wouldn’t just let it go. Hajime bites the bullet. “…Chiaki locked me out.”

Komaeda lets out a startled laugh. Hajime is at least 30% sure that this one is genuine. “But why was— Oh, Hajime, really? You and Nanami-san? Not that I can't see it, of course; two such inspiring minds, trapped in such… compromising circumstances. Still, Nanami-san is hardly worldly. However did you manage it?” Before Hajime can say a word, Komaeda is already answering his own question. “No… You would never make the first move, would you, Hajime? I’ll bet you let her seduce you.”

“Wh. What makes you say that.” 

For the briefest instant, Komaeda’s eyes flash with something like annoyance. “Haha! You’re an exceptional specimen, Hajime, but—if I can be honest? You’re unusually dense.” His smirk, when it arrives, comes with too many teeth. “I’ll bet you didn’t notice what she wanted till she reached out and took it.”

“It’s not like that,” Hajime says loudly. It is actually a little bit like that, but not in the way Komaeda means. “Or. Um. She just—sleeps over sometimes.” No, that still sounds way too suggestive. “Because of. All the murder?”

“I see. Because of the murder.”

“S-Sonia sleeps over too,” Hajime blurts out. Shit, is that better or worse? Why does it feel so important that Komaeda not get the wrong idea about Hajime being off the market? “Uhh. Chiaki wants to invite Kuzuryu. To sleep over. Also. As well.” What the fuck, what the fuck are you saying, why are you STILL talking????

“I see,” Komaeda says again, this time with a glimmer of amusement. “Well! That certainly sounds lively.”

“Y-Yeah.”

“You must have quite a lot of energy, for all that… hospitality.” Komaeda brightens. “Perhaps that’s your talent!”

God, Hajime hopes not. 

“You seem very flushed, Hajime-kun,” Komaeda says innocently. “Are you, perhaps, afraid?”

“Huh? No. Or—of what?” 

“To be alone with scum like me, of course! All alone at night, with someone so disreputable… Aren’t you just a little bit scared of what I might do?”

“What? No.” He’s surprised to find that he means it. Hajime really doesn’t see Komaeda killing him. Or anyone else here, actually. “You’re not gonna kill me, Komaeda. We’re both walking out of here alive.”

Komaeda looks impressed. “Do you know already how you’re going to die, Hajime?”

Ugh. “That’s obviously not what I meant.”

“Would you like to?” 

Hajime freezes. 

“I could tell you, probably,” Komaeda says. Still with that same friendly smile. “If you wanted.”

“Are you… threatening me?”

“That is a romantic thought,” Komaeda says thoughtfully. “But—no. I’m afraid that I could only take a guess. But I'm a very good guesser.” His eyes glitter. “Do you want to find out?”

“Uh,” Hajime chokes out. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. “But. Um. If you guessed right, and then it happened, then… isn’t it sort of like you did it?”

“Is that what you think?” 

“I asked first.”

Komaeda chuckles. “This isn’t a class trial, Hajime. I’m under no obligation to answer. But if you’re really that curious, then… yes. I suppose I do.”

“Oh.”

“Your turn.”.

“—Uh?”

“To answer something for me.”

Hajime stares like a deer in headlights. Tracking the coming impact but helpless to stop it. The thump of meat against the hood. The broken crunch of bone.

Komaeda smiles like a fox. “Why did Nanami-san lock you out?”

“Uhh,” Hajime says. “I—She thinks—or. I mean. Her and Sonia, they both… I guess they think I need to…” God, it sounds so fucking stupid. “I don’t know. ‘Understand you.’ Or something.”

“H-Haha!! Aw, come on, Hajime. Buy me dinner first, at least. I’m joking!” Komaeda laughs, while Hajime sputters. “After all, you’re our best and brightest hope. If you wanted to, you could take anything you wanted.”

Hajime chokes. 

Komaeda’s eyes narrow. “...Oh. That is what you want.” His mouth curves into a thin smile. It’s not a nice smile. “You’re easier than I thought, Hajime-kun.”

“I have to,” Hajime says, too loud. “Go. And. Break into my room?”

“The lock on the window sticks,” Komaeda says absently. “It never latches properly. So it’s easy to force it open.”

Great. That is really cool to hear from the scariest person on this island. “Uh. Thanks.” 

With one foot out the door, Hajime hesitates. “Komaeda?” 

“Yes, Hajime?”

“Do you know how you’re going to die?” 

For a second, Komaeda looks very, very tired. “Haha. Yes. I suppose I could take a guess.”

###

The instant his front door opens, Hajime is already hurtling through it. “I think Komaeda’s trying to seduce me.” 

Sonia brightens. “Oh, good for you!” 

“Yeah, congrats, Hajime.”

“No, I mean—”

“If this is about my prior concerns,” Sonia says bravely, “you needn’t worry! I've already come to terms. The chemistry was undeniable.”

Chiaki nods in agreement. “He’s grown on me a little. He hasn’t tried to kill anyone for ages.”

“He never—!!” Hajime takes a breath. “I just… really think he did that stuff because he knew we’d get through it.” I’m a very good guesser, Komaeda’s memory whispers, and another piece of the puzzle slides into focus. “He was… betting on us, I think. And. Trusting his luck.”

“Hah!” a new voice laughs. “Man, you sure know how to pick ‘em. You got a thing for blondes or somethin’?”

Hajime whips around. “K-Kuzuryu?????”

Against all odds, Ultimate Gangster Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko is sitting on Hajime’s desk, looking utterly at ease. When Hajime turns to stare, he shrugs. “Hey, I’m not here to judge.”

“No, I mean— What are you doing in my room???”

Kuzuryu bristles. “That’s a lotta judgment from a guy who’s shacked up with half the class, apparently.”

“I’m not—”

“Kuzuryu-san came looking for you!” Sonia says brightly. “He hoped to discuss something of grave importance! He was taken aback to find us instead, but it would have been horribly rude to leave him out in the cold.”

It is 86 degrees outside.

Kuzuryu’s hand finds the back of his neck. “Look, you don’t gotta dance around it, alright? I got it. I'll get out of your hair.”

“N-No, no, it’s not that,” Hajime rushes to explain. “It’s just. Uh. I… think we’re gonna need a bigger bed.”

If you wanna find out when I update next, you can always find the latest on ao3!

[pkmn-aide-mel]

What are all of your outfits?

[Image ID: A picture of Dean the Deino in an orange sweater and square, black glasses. He is cheesing at the camera.]

[Image ID: A picture of Scarlet the Sawsbuck with a purple shawl, a green scarf, and bright red flowers littering her autumnal leaves.]

[Image ID: A picture of Peppermint the Petilil in a tiny green sweater. It is the only indication that she's meant to be Shaggy.]

[Image ID: A picture of Sammy the Lillipup, sleeping. She's wearing an orange ascot, a white vest, and a badly-dyed blonde wig.]

[Image ID: A picture of Koromaru the Zorua, Scooby's signature collar around their neck. They're not looking at the camera, instead glancing mischievously around.]

[Image ID: A picture of Melanie grinning at the camera. She is wearing a slightly-tattered black-and-white striped shirt and matching pants, as well as a matching hat. One hand is taking the photo, while the other, attached to a pair of plastic handcuffs, is holding a sign that says, "And I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for those meddling kids!"]

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Strange directions

warning : tiny angst

next chapter , masterlist

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

It seemed after Hamish had spoken these words that even the air around them would stand still and everything was waiting for a discharge. Y/N also felt herself holding her breath in disbelief as she realized what was happening before her eyes.

Her cousin, who looked as if she would like to run away from it all, looked nervously back and forth between the man she definitely did not want and all the guests. Sometimes a few stammered words came out of her mouth, but they were incomprehensible to Y/N and the guests.

The Y/Hc-haired girl saw the rising nervousness in her cousin's brown eyes and was about to run to her to get her away when she felt the hand of her aunt Helen Kingsleigh on her wrist.

A glance at her aunt made it clear to Y/N that she herself was struggling for her sanity not to take her daughter away from the visibly unpleasant and almost sad moment. ,,If you go there now and take her away from saving our entire family, it will be worse for you and your aunt. It will be worse for you and your mother than ever before," came the whisper of her aunt, who leaned down slightly to whisper in her niece's ear.

Y/N stayed in place as quietly as she could at her aunt's behest and for her mother's life, but it also made her nervous to know how bad things could get. After what seemed like an eternity, something happened in front of the crowd Alice spoke something to Hamish before she broke free of his grip and fled into the maze of white roses.

Some indignant remarks and even curses were heard from the crowd behind Y/N and her mother and aunt. A glance at her second cousin Margaret revealed that she was disappointed but not surprised at her sister's behavior and instead went back to looking for her husband.

Her mother was also in her own world again and had already gone back to her place to wait for her prince. But Y/N herself was now standing in a crowd that was wildly discussing and didn't know what to do now.

She saw her aunt who was already being harassed by Lord and Lady Ascot but decided not to intervene because she didn't want to cause any more trouble. So the 20 year old decided that she could bring the coachman a piece of cake to give Alice time for herself and not to press her.

Arriving at the buffet, she was taken aback to find that a new strawberry cake had been served, but any cupcakes with red hearts were missing, which saddened her. A quick embrace of the heart still resting in the pocket of her dress made this go away as she had her personal one.

So she again slid a piece of cake onto the white porcelain plate and again took a silver fork that was decorated with gold like any other. Again armed with cake she started her little journey to the courtyard where the other carriages were standing and either the coachmen were asleep or passing the time by talking to each other.

However, it could be said that her carriage already stood out among the new and shiny ones because of its wear and tear.

Her coachman was still in the same position as she had left him, sleeping peacefully on the seat. She was about to say something when she heard a particularly loud snore from the coachman and decided to put the cake next to the man so that he could help himself when he woke up. 

As she started to walk back, she saw Hamish walking past her with his head red, not even noticing her and probably going to his beloved mansion to sulk. With a shake of her head she started her own way but was stopped by her older cousin, ,,How are you Y/N? We haven't seen each other in a long time, you look good, how is Aunt Imogene?" she showered the younger girl with questions. The Y/Ec-eyed girl knew that her cousin wasn't really interested and was only doing it because she was worried about her mother.

Not forgetting what would happen next and what consequences it would bring, Y/N played along. ,,Me and mother are doing very well, thank you for asking. You look as beautiful as ever yourself but tell me, did you see Alice coming out of the garden or is she still there?".

The girl smiled briefly flattered by the forced compliment before shaking her head and speaking in a regretful tone, ,,Unfortunately no my sister is probably still sulking and has succumbed to her musings." The other girl nodded her thanks to Margaret and went into the garden herself, which was her real destination.

As soon as she disappeared behind one of the rose hedges, she started sprinting as far as her dress would allow to lead her to Alice. She had seen her cousin run in here, but she didn't know where she was going in this maze, which made it difficult for her not to get lost herself.

So she turned the next best corner and circled hundreds of white roses until she came to a stop, panting. Just as she was about to lean against one of the tall green hedges and close her eyes, she saw her cousin's light blue dress waft around one of the hedges and disappear.

Immediately she was on her feet again and ran after the track she had seen. However, as she turned the corner she saw Alice running straight towards the adjacent forest which did not give her a good feeling. However, she didn't want to be among the boring people and her mother had the prince so she wouldn't be missed much.

So she decided to run after her Alice to calm her down and maybe do something together if she felt like it. No sooner said than done she left the estate behind her and also her family who concentrated only on the money and the existence. It took her a while to figure out where to step on the forest floor without falling, but she made it without fail and saw the blue dress again. Alice ran deeper into the forest and already seemed to disappear behind the big almost black looking trees.

So Y/N followed her as fast as she could, trying desperately not to lose sight of the blue fabric through all the undergrowth. So she took a last look at the blue dress before it disappeared in a big hole in an old big tree and left the silent forest behind. Only now Y/N actually noticed how silent and almost eerie the huge dark forest was and almost gave her goose bumps.

When she heard a crackling in the undergrowth behind her she jumped around but saw only a white rabbit. However, when she looked closer she saw a pocket watch in its paw and it was wearing a vest, it seemed surreal as if she had fallen down and was now dreaming or hallucinating.

Both Y/N and the rabbit looked at each other in confusion and uncertainty as if they were both checking to see if what they were experiencing was real. However, Y/N only became more confused when the rabbit began to speak, ,,Oh my goodness, it's way too late, I have to hurry. What if no one is waiting for her downstairs? I have to go," it spoke hastily before it hopped past Y/N and disappeared into the hole.

Now she was alone again, but her ignorance about what had just happened here did not diminish and it was almost like the many leaves that lay scattered and disordered around her. Slowly she approached the hole before she knelt down and looked down.

However, she encountered nothing but blackness and space. To make sure she was looking correctly, she blinked a few times before looking down again, and sure enough, she saw a room at the bottom of the hole. 

She bent a little further forward but when she felt the first lumps of earth and stones under her gave way and before she could rule she fell down the hole. However, to her renewed surprise, it was not dark in the hole, it was already almost cozy around her flew books, pocket watches and even the one or the other piano which made tinkling noises.

Although she heard only at the beginning of her scream which came quite automatically from her but close to her already a few minutes much and she had calmed down as far as it went she heard the ticking of clocks. She thought even in the distance of the entire room through which she heard a lot of trumpets and chatter.

But what worried her was that the lower room was getting closer and closer and she had nothing to break the fall. But before she feared to end up as a lump of mud downstairs, she felt herself stopping ungently on a bed before falling further.

The girl pulled her arms protectively in front of her face as the floor approached and feared that these were the last moments of her life. But when the floor broke open underneath her, she fell another few meters before landing with a thud on the floor of another room.

With a painful moan and groan, Y/N straightened up and knocked the dirt from her dress, which had been damaged here and there, when she broke through the ceiling. Y/N looked around the black and white tiled room and realized that she had no idea where she was.

Once she was aware of this, she set about examining the individual doors, which couldn't be more different. Some were huge while others were so small that even her hand wouldn't fit through them, but they were all made of solid wood that she couldn't break through.

Even jiggling the door handles did not bring anything except creaking and unnecessary waste of time. Although Y/N thought about trying to run into one of the doors to get it open, she didn't because she didn't want to hurt herself even more. Then paused for a moment, remembering the rabbit's words that someone was waiting for her. She doubted it was her, but apparently Alice had landed down here before her and made it out.

Suddenly the scales fell from her eyes and she saw a glass-bottomed table with a key on it that was no bigger than her finger and seemed almost too small. She now had a key but no suitable lock that would accept it. So she walked again around the round room and noticed a lightly curved cloth which, when she pushed it aside, revealed a small door.

She knelt down and inserted the small key into the lock turned it around and sure enough, to her relief, it opened. Y/N squinted her eyes as the bright light hit her from the other side and it was almost painfully bright.

Her head fit through, but the rest of her body was too big to have a chance to get through. So she crawled backwards into the room and straightened up before putting the key into the other pocket of her dress to avoid damaging the heart.

So now she was faced with a new task: to get through the small door without breaking any bones. Her gaze fell again on the table on which was a vial that had appeared out of nowhere.

With a raised eyebrow, she approached the table with a skeptical feeling before taking the bottle in her hand and reading the note. There was written Drink me on it, which did not surprise her less, since she had no idea if it was not poisonous. 

However, after a short consideration, she decided to do it anyway, because what choice did she have. After Y/N had drunk the first sip, she took another before dropping the bottle and breaking it with a clang. Y/N felt first dizzy and then sick and finally she felt small.

When she looked down at her, all air escaped from her lungs and she shrank, and not metaphorically. The dress which had nestled on her shoulder and had also seen better days fell down on her and let her sink into a sea of fabric.

At first she thought that she would be naked under her dress, but with a joyful realization she noticed that her undergarment was a bit loose on her body, but it had stayed with her.

The girl pulled on one or the other ribbon that was attached to the garment and pulled it tighter to her body so that it would not slip. When the girl realized that she was now small enough she marched towards the small door but stopped halfway when she realized that the key was still in the dress sea.

So she dived through the fabric before she discovered the now normal sized key in her hand and continued to search for the heart. She did not know why this was so important to her but the sweet heart had something about it that she liked as if it meant something to her deep in her heart.

Both the heart and the key disappeared into the pockets of the garment which, fortunately for her, had them. The way from her former dress to the small door seemed to take forever with her size. Nevertheless, she remained strong and continued on her way until she finally arrived at the now normal looking door.

The girl took out the key from her pocket, turned it in the lock and opened the door which again threw light on her. This time she was able to put her hand protectively in front of her face to avoid being blinded too much. When she took it down and the light had settled, she stopped in amazement.

Before her stretched a completely new and so crazy world as she had never seen it at most only in her dreams. It was absolutely magical, the flora and fauna looked completely different from England and the whole atmosphere was indescribable.

So the Y/Ec eyed girl started moving again and made the first steps into the unknown world which she decided to call Wonderland.

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

[aercnaut-archived]

@wylanvansunshinc said: gimme lee's formal outfit

outfit headcanons!

following the vaguely historical aesthetic of lee's casual attire, lee's formalwear is edwardian inspired, practical and relatively sensible and follows the same basics as his usual coordination: clean, crisp shirt, a vest, neutral trousers, and a wool coat instead of his worn out duster. he only owns his one pair of boots, so he just wears those, but polishes them. as for neckwear, it'll typically be an ascot or a neckerchief rather than a tie or a bowtie. he can't keep much stored on his ship, so most everything needs to have a practical use as well as nonpractical.

important note: hester does have a tiny pearl bracelet she uses as a necklace. because its my blog, i make the rules, and if hester wants to look fancy she will, dammit!

[grantgoddard]

Attempted murder on the Waterloo express? : 1971 : Bagshot railway station

 Kapow! There was an explosion. Before I even grasped what had just happened, I could see I was covered with shards of glass. What was that noise? The train window I was sat next to had suddenly vanished and was in pieces on me and the seat. Luckily, I had not been looking towards the window at the time, otherwise my face would have been injured. Luckily, because it was winter, I was wearing an army surplus hat with furry earflaps that had protected my head and ears. Luckily, I was wearing a coat over my school blazer, gloves and long trousers that had shielded me, these winter woollies necessary because trains’ heating systems rarely functioned adequately.

I caught the ten-past-eight number 28 train every day for seven years from Camberley station to my school half-an-hour away in Egham. It was part of a commuter route propelling workers on the one-hour journey into London’s busy Waterloo terminus. Travelling to school this way felt like stepping into Narnia through the wardrobe door of our suburban British Rail station. Journeys were populated by strange characters not present in my normal day-to-day homelife. The station platform was awash with bowler-hatted, suited gentlemen carrying leather briefcases and rolled-up umbrellas. Women were a rare sight. Humourless station staff in uniforms shouted announcements about delays in the tone of army drill sergeants. Bumptious Terry-Thomas ticket inspectors walked through train carriages, looking down their noses at our thick green cardboard season tickets as if we were interlopers on their Orient Express.

At least the trains on our line were relatively modern electric rolling stock. As a small child, I recall standing at the top of the open footbridge over Camberley station, looking down at the signal box beside the level crossing and feeling clouds of smoke envelope me from a steam train passing underneath. Or was that a ‘Railway Children’-inspired false memory, acquired from reminiscences by my grandfather who had worked unloading timber for local building firm ‘Dolton, Bournes & Dolton’ in the goods yard beside the station? He had been made redundant in the early 1960’s for the yard to be replaced by a new ring road and Camberley ‘bus station’, in reality no more than a line of bus stops and tiny shelters without a waiting room. After my afternoon arrival in Camberley by train to await the hourly 39B (40 minutes past every hour) or two-hourly 34A bus (15 minutes past even hours) for the final two-mile journey home, I would have to walk over to the railway station lobby and sit opposite the ticket window to keep warm and dry.

My schoolfriends and I were the Pevensie children of Camberley, rendezvousing every morning at the very rear of the station’s eastbound platform that could accommodate only four carriages, despite our train normally being eight. When the train driver pulled up close to the signal at the top of the platform, we could just about clamber up to open the first door of the fifth carriage from the platform’s sloping end. Those rear four carriages became our playground because, until the train reached Ascot station’s longer platform, we had that section entirely to ourselves. No other passengers, no train staff. We could be as loud and unruly as we wanted. We would walk down the corridor to sit at the very rear of the train because, eventually alighting at Egham station’s full-length platform, we would be right next to the exit gate.

When the incident happened that morning, the train had slowed down to pull into Bagshot station and was about to cross the Guildford Road viaduct, a massively tall structure of four arches built in 1878. On either side of this bridge carrying dual train tracks were high embankments with steep, near vertical sides. On the north side, below the railway, was a vast tract of land owned by ‘Waterers Nurseries’ since 1829 to grow and sell plants. Before reaching that was Bagshot Infant School, set back from the embankment, on School Lane that ended in a footpath passing under the embankment towards Bagshot Green farm on the south side. At the time, undeveloped land stretched on both sides and (unlike now) the embankment was not bordered by trees.

Could a person have thrown a stone from the north side to make the train window next to me shatter? Unlikely because the embankment on which the train passed was too steep to stand upon. If the culprit had stood further away, below the embankment, a rock could not have reached the height necessary to make contact with the train, nor would it have retained sufficient momentum to smash the window with enough force for it to have not merely cracked, but to have shattered in its entirety.

What kind of projectile could have caused such damage? A powerful gun of some kind could have generated the necessary velocity and momentum for its bullet to shatter the thick glass window. A gunman (or woman?) would have needed practiced skill to aim upwards from the land below the embankment, or possibly to have lain half-way up the embankment adjacent to the footpath (now 'School Lane Field'). In either case, it would have required planning and experience to succeed in such a challenging topography next to the train route. Since only two trains per hour travelled in either direction, this act could not have been a spur-of-the-moment impulse.

Why was the window I had sat beside targeted? As the train decelerated to enter Bagshot station, the rear carriages would have passed at a slower speed, making them an easier moving target than the front ones. Us schoolboys were habitually the only passengers anywhere in those rear four carriages, making my head the one visible sign of on-board life amongst dozens of otherwise empty train windows. That implies that my window must have been purposefully selected as the intended target. It was a dark winter morning and the internal carriage lighting would have made my outline visible from outside the train.

So where did the bullet land? Only one thing was certain: it had not hit me, otherwise I would not be here to tell the tale. Did we look to see if a bullet had passed over my head and become embedded in the carriage’s structure? No. In that pre-‘CSI’ era, forensic science remained an unknown foreign land. From watching weekly television detective shows, all we understood was that ‘McCloud’ cracked cases by riding his horse down Broadway, ‘Columbo’ used his raincoat and ‘McMillan’ solved crimes by getting into bed with sweatshirt-wearing wife Sally. In the aftermath, I had not even deduced that I had likely been targeted by somebody shooting a gun. That is how unworldly I must have been, though I had always enjoyed the pellet-gun target shooting stall at the fair's bi-annual visits to Camberley Recreation Ground.

So how DID I react to this dramatic event? Did I scream? Cry? Sob uncontrollably? No, I simply stood up, brushed off the glass fragments that had covered me, and our little group moved to an adjoining carriage where the breeze through the vacant window would not make us feel colder. Even had we wanted to, there was nothing we could have done immediately. There were no train staff in those rear carriages and, once the train stopped in Bagshot station, its platform was too short to get out. Only once we reached Ascot was the platform long enough to deboard. So, did we? No, because if we had raised the alarm, we realised the fickle finger of fate might have pointed to us bunch of schoolboys for having broken the window. Which British Rail jobsworth would have believed our story that someone laying on a grassy knoll in Bagshot must have targeted me for assassination?

Leaving the train at Egham twenty-five minutes later, we could see the void where the window had exploded in front of our eyes. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the gaping hole or had bothered to halt the train to investigate. If they had, we might have arrived late for school that day. That would have been a fate worse than death. We had already brushed aside the incident and were more concerned with the school day ahead of us. Once I returned home that evening, I did not even bother mentioning to my parents what had happened. Only years later would I realise what a close call I had experienced that winter morning at the age of thirteen.

For us kids, trekking from one end of Surrey to the other every weekday on public transport, strange events would occur regularly in this otherworld. Our trains were sometimes cancelled, or rerouted through stations that were unknown to us, or suspended when someone jumped to their death off the footbridge at Egham station. In the latter case, some of us would watch morbidly for the arrival of emergency services whose crew had to scoop up the person’s bloodied remains spread along the tracks by a speeding train. Our unspoken attitude was: almost anything could happen on our way to and from school … and often did. It was a daily expedition into a world beyond ours, populated by weird adults to whom we appeared to be invisible.

Once a year, during ‘Royal Ascot’ week in June, our train would fill with bizarrely overdressed racegoers with strange toff accents and extremely loud voices who carried bottles of alcohol, swayed precariously and occasionally were sick on the carriage floor. They were much worse behaved than we had ever been, their conversations often ribald and filled with profanities. Did anyone chastise them, force them off the train or tell them to act respectfully in front of us children? Not at all! They did precisely what the upper classes are wont to do with their own children: they ignored us totally and appeared completely unembarrassed by their own behaviours.

I recalled the Bagshot train incident when, half a century later, I went for a run through rural France on a bright summer morning. There was no traffic and no visible human activity as I ran down the middle of a tarmacked road flanked on both sides by flat agricultural land. The only noise was birdsong until … a high velocity bullet whizzed above my head from left to right. I stopped running, turned in the direction from which it had come and shouted profanities (in English) at the top of my voice. Without my glasses, I was unable to see far enough into the distance to spot the culprit. This was no accident. I could not have been mistaken by a hunter for an animal. I was clearly visible on a ‘departmental’ road, not in the middle of woodland. But I had been the only object moving in this static landscape and that seemed sufficient to unwittingly make me a target.

If I were superstitious, I might be worried about ‘third time lucky’.

[the-black-dragons-wedding]

Geoffery got a cap like the one at the top (which I’ve learned is called an ascot cap) and loves the idea of wearing this style of hat for the wedding, so we’re thinking about doing hats of this era/style for all the men.... Them I’m thinking we’ll have them in button-down shirts with a nice waistcoat. It’s going to be in the warm season so I don’t want to make them suffer through in a whole suit, plus that’ll be a little cheaper for us....

So the top one is an ascot cap... we’ll probably have someone in a newsboy cap (I think his little brother would be adorable in that), maybe a Homburg hat which I had to look up but is perhaps a tiny bit less ostentatious than a fedora, and maybe a trilby but like, a nice one. I can’t remember how many groomsmen he’s having right now but at least that many, I think maybe one more? 

[harlowcharlton]

After tearing apart his wardrobe that evening, Harlow had come to a particularly startling realisation. It appeared that Harlow owned an awful lot of denim.

It had never seemed a problem when he was getting ready for a shift at his favourite bookstore-cum-café. Everything he wore was bound to gain a few coffee stains and be covered in dog hair by the end of the day, anyway. And he never wore anything he had any special attachment to to the stables. To put it bluntly, Harlow was not a man made for dressing up. He was a man made for getting down and dirty, scuffing the toes of his favourite cowboy boots and wearing away the knees of his good jeans. But for Maverick, he really wanted to try.

Turning this way and that in front of his only full length mirror, at the very end of a particularly cramped hallway, Harlow tried to picture the kind of thing Mav would like. Truthfully, he didn’t know the other man very well, not enough to know exactly what he liked in a man, or on a man. But he knew enough to know that maybe Mav liked him. Enough to ask him out, at least. And he knew enough about Maverick to know that the sheer thought of him brought a smile to Harlow’s face. There was something about him, that pretty boy accent, every inch a southern gentleman. Something about those soft eyes, those full, pretty lips, something that made Harlow’s knees feel weak. Safe to say, he was harbouring a little bit of a crush.

Eventually, with every piece of clothing he owned scattered across his small, rustic bedroom, the majority of which lay littered across his hardwood floors, he pottered into the living room to find Marley, knees pulled up to her chest, one hand lazily tickling Bucket behind the ear. The blonde’s eyes were glued to some British sitcom she was currently in a love-hate relationship with, criticising the lazy jokes one minute and snort-laughing the next. It was real sweet, a welcome breaking up of the monotony of his home life. Harlow had had to step right in front the screen, blocking Marley’s view to get her opinion on his get up.

“Now, don’t laugh.” he’d warned, bracing his hands on his hips as he sported his final look. In the end, he’d gone for dark-wash denim jeans, paired with a denim shirt, in something Simon had once politely informed him was called a ‘Canadian tuxedo’, despite the fact Harlow was pretty sure Texans had a monopoly on it. Around his neck, an ascot of deep red lay tucked neatly, moving with every bob of his Adam’s apple. Raising an eyebrow at Marley, he’d asked, “Well, will I do?”

In the end, Marley licking her thumb to flatten an especially stubborn piece of hair that wouldn’t stop sticking up, she’d decided he’d do. Harlow felt somewhat good about himself, and pressing individual kisses to the top of both Marley and Bucket’s heads, he’d set off with a spring in his step and butterflies in his stomach.

He couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to be spending Valentine’s Day with a man like Maverick, a feat he’d previously thought impossible, like capturing lightning in a goddamn bottle. He, Harlow Charlton, had a Valentine! For the first time in a good couple of years, and he felt good about it, too. He’d somehow weaselled his way into a date with a man who made him feel like a giggly teenager. Never mind that there was a tiny, practically minute kicker, which was that perhaps Harlow’s eye might wander every now and again, given they’d be in the same vicinity as his favourite bartender.

When it came to the aforementioned harbouring of crushes, Harlow was pretty damn good at it. Rafferty Reyes was another man Harlow found his mind wandering towards, Harlow often having to be nudged by Billy during his shifts because he’d found himself daydreaming yet again about Raff’s hand wandering across the bar to envelop his own.

But tonight, he would put aside his fanciful daydreams and concentrate on the man who had asked him out. A man who wasn’t utterly unattainable, stuck in a loveless marriage and absolutely not okay for Harlow to fantasise about. Maverick? He was okay to fantasise about. And Harlow did. Quite regularly, actually.

Taking a deep breath as Harlow approached his final destination, Harlow let his boots skid to a stop. He was a few minutes early, after all, and it wouldn’t hurt to stop, repeat some light affirmations and gather up his courage to see not only one, but two extremely handsome men in the same bar tonight. Turning to the darkened window of a shop next door, Harlow tweaked his ascot, smoothed down the front of his shirt, and seriously began to re-think the denim on denim.

He didn’t have long to worry, however, as a familiar honeyed twang pulled him out of his reverie. Glancing sideways, a bright smile broke across the Texan’s face at the sight of Mav striding towards him, looking cute as a goddamn button. His stomach flipped and flopped like a fish on a hook as he lifted his hand in a shy wave.

“Hullo,” Harlow gushed, cheeks tinging a light red as Maverick gave him a quick clap on the shoulder. Before he had time to measure whether or not it was an entirely good idea, Harlow found himself leaning into the man, wrapping the Southerner in a quick, bright hug. Harlow’s lips sought out the other man’s cheek, his stubble rough against Harlow’s chin as he flushed even brighter. This was a date after all, right?

“I sure am!” Harlow chirped, trying to keep the waver out of his voice as he pulled back, tucking his thumb into his pocket just for something to do with his hands. “They got karaoke here?”

He bit his lip to suppress a smile as he thought about just how much Raff must hate that. Tons of drunk assholes crooning into the mic night after night, singing bad renditions of Billy Joel and Celine Dion. Sounded like an awful good time to Harlow, but then again, he and Raff were not all that alike.

“You strike me as a kind of Shania Twain man, am I right?” he chuckled, picturing Mav up on stage, loudly proclaiming that Man, he really did feel like a woman!

Shaking his head as he giggled, Harlow let his nerves do the talking as he surged forward, catching the man’s hand in his own. Interlocking his fingers with Maverick’s, he was surprised at how soft his hands were compared to his own. Nice hands, that helped little kids with their painting and thumbed through books and would probably feel absolutely wonderful running through his hair. The thought tugged on his heart warmly.

“Let’s go inside.” he led the way, pushing the door open to reveal the soft glow of the bar, the ruckus that was always contained inside, and the homely smell of cheap beer.

Pulling Maverick through the crowds, his eyes moved quickly from the few empty tables to the bar. It was pretty packed in the small bar, busier than Harlow had ever seen it actually, probably due to the nature of the date and the deal that had followed. Peering over the heads of the loved up patrons, Harlow could just about spot the sullen but still heartbreakingly gorgeous face of Raff, looking less than enthused about tonight’s crowd.

“You wanna go get a drink and I’ll get a table? First round’s on me.” he insisted, patting his back pocket to show Man he had his wallet on him. “Say hi to Raff for me, maybe?”

When Maverick had texted Harlow to invite him out this evening, he hadn’t actually expected the man to say yes. Despite the other man’s overwhelming kindness and deeply charming personality, Maverick still had an unhealthy tendency to assume the worst in himself. It was the sort of self-deprecating behaviour that he’d spent most of his life trying to untrain in others, but he never seemed particularly good at listening to his own advice. He’d never had a whole lot of friends and, while he had a knack for talking the ear off of just about anybody he encountered, he wasn’t always great at maintaining normal, healthy friendships with other adults. In truth, one of Mav’s favourite things about teaching children was knowing that, without fail, he could always rely on his kids to be honest with him and knock him down a few pegs. 

Despite his fretting, however, Harlow had agreed to spend the evening with him, and Maverick was thrilled to pieces at the thought. There was something about Harlow Charlton that just seemed right. He was like a breath of fresh air, bringing with him a healthy dose of nostalgia and homesickness, with Maverick marveling in the familiar cadence of his accent. Of course, it probably hadn’t gone unnoticed to the whole, wide, spectacular world that Maverick Rojas was sporting quite the crush on the cowboy-turned-bookseller that he’d recently become acquainted with, but he was sure hoping that it wouldn’t get in the way of them sparking up a dandy friendship. He didn’t want to make the man uncomfortable – certainly not after everything that had unfolded with Rafferty. 

Maverick’s mood suddenly soured at the thought of his friend. He was making his way to the very bar that Rafferty worked at, ready to meet Harlow outside in the next ten minutes or so, and he found himself with a sudden case of the jitters. In truth, Maverick hadn’t heard from his friend since New Year’s Day. While Rafferty and Helen had been so kind as to let Maverick stay over, he’d been so embarrassed by both their hospitality and his own behaviour that he’d slipped out early the next morning, keeping his head low and barely sparing their home a backwards glance. He wasn’t much one for texting unless something took his fancy, so he hadn’t had the courage to reach out to his friend and, truth be told, he’d been avoiding the bar at all costs. He could swear black and blue that he was just much too busy with work now that the new term had started back up again, but he was saving himself a whole heap of embarrassment and rosy cheeks by simply tucking himself away in the safety of his dark apartment, with the occasional glass of scotch to drown his sorrows. 

A part of him hoped that maybe, with a bit of luck, Rafferty might have the day off – but, as soon as the thought had entered his mind, Maverick banished it, guilt eating away at him over the mere thought. It felt unkind to wish that he might not see his friend; Strange as things might have panned out for the pair of them, Maverick still considered Rafferty to be his buddy, and he sure hoped the man returned the sentiment. It simply wouldn’t do for Mav to be letting a silly, schoolyard crush get in the way of whatever friendship remained and he was, quite frankly, a master at repressing any romantic or sexual desires he might be harboring. It shouldn’t be too difficult for him to set his feelings aside. 

Upon arriving outside the bar, he gave the area a quick scan, before finally spotting Handsome Harlow just a few short yards away from their meeting point. Maverick smiled to himself as he took a moment to just watch the other man, quietly endeared by the way he was adjusting his collar in the window of the store next door. He thought for a moment that in an alternate reality somewhere, he might quite like to take Harlow out on a date – but for now, he’d have to settle for simply going for drinks with his good pal. 

“Why, fancy seein’ you here,” Maverick called out, a wide smile lighting up his face.  

He felt a twinge in his heart as the reality of having not one, but two crushes on two lovely yet unattainable men caught up with him. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, though, and simply clapped a hand on Harlow’s shoulder as he finally reached the other man. He sure did look mighty handsome today – Maverick was starting to wish he’d made more of an effort past his favourite jeans – Simon once told him they made his booty look spectacular! – and his collared shirt with ducks on it that Ellie had gotten him for Christmas. 

“You all set for a night of cheap drinks, delightful company, and tryin’ to pull me away from the karaoke machine?” Maverick joked.