#hmm color story is less coherent in this one but i think it's okay

[fairweathermyth]

JEONGNYEON: THE STAR IS BORN / 정년이 dir. Jung Ji-in, 2024 Episode Ten

[herstroywritten]

For All Her Colors

Does Alfea have a ballroom? I’m going to assume it does. 

This idea for this fic came to me in the middle of the night and I just had to write it. And by that, I mean that I knew I wanted Riven to simp over Musa in a bunch of different outfits and colors and had absolutely no plot for it. Can’t say it’s my best work, but I enjoyed writing the banter. And thus, I present you Simp!Riven and Flirty!Musa.

And just for research purposes, what colors do you guys classify as “sexy”? My friend and I have had this conversation multiple times and it always gets more and more interesting.

YELLOW

Bright. Brighter. Brightest.

That's what Riven thinks of Musa's smile. He thinks this same thought each and every time he sees her smile.

He likes her shy smiles, the ones where she bends her head downward and plays with the straps of her backpack, the ones where her lips pull up and she tries desperately to hide the blush that frames her cheeks right after he's told her he's particularly fond of her current swim attire.

And he likes her mischievous smiles, the ones that spark to life as her eyes sparkle with understanding and hidden messages. Those ones he has the privilege of admiring right after she's made a joke that isn't quite as innocent as it seems, or when her and the girls are planning something he can only assume will land them all in some sort of trouble, or (and this is his personal favorite instance) when she makes a not so sly pass at him from across a room with just her eyes in a way that he knows will land him in a load of trouble.

And don't even get him started on Musa's wide smile, the one that she currently sports as she throws her head back laughing at Bloom's lame attempt to stay afloat after her not so coordinated cannonball into the lake.

Her hair is loose, a rare occurrence at any time, and he watches as she swims to the shore and walks to where he is sitting pretending to admire the sunset and fooling no one in the fact that he's just staring at her. She's all curves and  bare skin as she steps out of the water, droplets grazing her body. His eyes follow their way downward with each new strip of skin that is revealed as she makes her way out of the lake, fully aware of the fact that she knows he's watching.

"My eyes are up here," she jokes half-heartedly as she plops herself down next to him in a very unladylike manner. Stella would be horrified.

His lips twitch up at her words, but he makes on effort to look up, focusing instead on the way that yellow bikini top lifts and falls as she breathes in and out. Breathing was never something he'd thought of often before her. Sure, a living, breathing human being was a must in any partner. But before her, there had been no long drawn out thoughts about how deep breaths and hitches in a someone's breathing pattern made him want to just… snap. But, now, as he looped his arm around Musa's waist and brought her onto his lap, hearing her breath catch somewhere at the back of her throat, he wondered if breathing could be a kink.

"You going to speak? Or do you just plan on staring at me for the rest of the time I'm in this swimsuit?" She shifts herself on his lap so that they're face to face, and pokes his cheek with her index finger. "Come now, you can do it. You can form a coherent sentence and speak it for me. You're a big boy."

And at that line, how could he not give her what she was asking for?

"You would know." He all but growls in her ear and she throws her head back, flashes the sky one of her wide smiles, bares her throat to him. He leans his head down, presses his lips to her neck, feels her vocal chords vibrate through him as she laughs.

"You're a child. You know that?"

"Not my fault my mind can't control itself."

"Actually, I think that is your fault?" She cocks an eyebrow at him, gives him her mischievous smile.

"Let me correct myself then, love." He makes a show of leaning in as close to her as he can get without actually touching her and says, "Not my fault you're unavoidable in that bikini."

Her eyes darken as she wraps her arms around his neck, "Hmm. What about this bikini is so appealing to you?"

"All of it."

"Would you," she taps a finger to her chin. "I don't know. Would you say the color is particularly attractive?"

That's an interesting question. "Huh?"

"You heard me. This color. The yellow. Do you like it?"

"What?" He tries again, looking at her all perplexed because really, where is this going?

"Riven, I know you're struggling with words at the current moment. But really, this isn't that hard a question. Yes or no. Do you like the yellow?" She huffs lightly and he has to remember to take in air and let it out as he feels her hot breath against his bare chest.

"I can manage words just fine. I just don't know what exactly that question entails?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Do you think this color is attractive? Does it make you want to strip me naked right here, right now, and fuck me senseless?"

He chokes on his own spit at that response. "Okay, first of all, there is never a time when I don’t want to strip you naked. Second, I am not answering that question because I know there's no way this conversation isn't somehow related to the rest of your little pixie friends and I… I don't even wanna know."

"Oh, come on," she whines. She leans down then and kisses his jaw. "Humor me," she whispers to him.

Her breath tickles his skin, carving a path of wanting as it travels through him. And fuck, , is it really possible to be turned on by someone's breathing?

She's trailing her lips over the parts of his skin that are available to her, not quite kissing any part of him but present enough that he's about to lose his goddamn mind.

"Hmm?" she murmurs in question, pushing him to answer her ridiculous question.

And though he's sure that his answer is about to make him the popular talk of the Winx suite, he answers her anyways, "Yeah. Yeah. Fine."

"Fine, what?" Lips brushing past his cheeks, past him jaw, against his mouth.

Fine, dig my grave right now, why don't you? he thinks. Instead he answers with a grumbled "Fine, that's a very attractive color."

Quick as his words come out of his mouth, Musa's lips are off of him and pulled back into her wide smile as she shifts herself around and hollers over her shoulder, "HA! Stella, you owe Bloom money! He's totally into it!"

Good gracious fucking God. What in the devil's name did he just get himself into?

LILAC/LAVENDER

Turns out, what he got himself into was a game of circling rounds. Riven's not sure of the details, not sure he wants to be sure of the details quite frankly. But, the main idea is this: there came a night when Bloom decided the girls needed a good old-fashioned "slumber party" and in between the late night snacks and movies, the girls had found themselves in a heated game of truth or dare. Aisha had dared Terra to start leaving a plant in Dowling's office every day until she noticed, Terra asked Stella for some very juicy information about what was going on between her and that newly-appointed bodyguard of hers, Stella paid forward the embarrassment by asking some very detailed information of Bloom concerning the girl's current relationship and that had led to the conversation of… lingerie? This is where stuff gets a bit fuzzy for Riven. Really, Musa's explanation had all but gone down the drain once he's heard that word. He truly wishes the story had ended there. He would have been fine with that. But no, the pixies had somehow managed to stir the conversation to the topic of… colors? Sexy colors? Again he's not too sure of the details here.

What he is sure of, however, is that Musa now wears a different color every day just for the sake of testing his reactions. And yeah, he's got plenty of reactions.

Take now for example. All of Alfea is crowded into the greeting hall, a raging party is in full swing, and the only lights that can be seen are that of the moon through the large French doors that surround the school and the occasional lighter from a student who doesn't care all that much about getting caught. The whole Winx suite is crowded by one of the round tables situated in the middle of the room, no doubt Stella's choice of seating. Let it never be said that Stella of Solaria was anything but the center of attention even on her worst days. And attention is what she is getting, as she sits ever so daintily on the edge of her seat, leaning forward so that she can graze those perfectly manicured nails of hers across the biceps of who Riven assumes is the bodyguard Sky (and everyone else in their little group, for that matter) won't stop talking about. She's fluttering her lashes at him, whispering something Riven knows for a fact is not very ladylike of her, because the more she speaks, the farther forward the poor sap leans and the deeper his blush grows.

Whipped, Riven thinks to himself. Someone should warn the clueless sap he's in for a hell lot more than what he thinks he's signing up for.

And someone should tell Sky to stop with the heart eyes before they become a permanent fixture on that pretty face of his. Bloom has somehow managed to get him on the dance floor, but from the looks of it, there is very little dancing being done. More stumbling and tumbling across the floor and toward a corner of the room. Riven has to stop himself from laughing out loud as Sky almost tramples over a poor freshman girl in his rush the follow Bloom.

You're not as smooth as you think you are, Sky.

He's not really sure where the rest of their gang is, but he can't really bring himself to care either. The only person he really cares to track down is sitting cross-legged on top of the table that Stella and bodyguard guy are feeling each other up under, and he spotted her the second he walked into this lame party. She's draped in lavender silk, or something akin to it. He's not sure, but he (again) couldn't care less what the material is. The color though, that he is wildly interested in. He knows it's a game. He knows she's looking for a reaction. And he told himself he wouldn't give her one, but far be it for him to deny her anything when she's all long legs and tan skin in just a tiny lavender dress that he swears makes her look like a goddess from the heavens.

And then she curls her lips his way, and he stands corrected. Not from heaven, but hell. Because the pure lavender of her dress cannot possibly match all the thoughts that must be running her mind, all the thoughts running his mind.

She's worn that color before, and his brain has memorized the exact shade of it without him knowing. It's the color of the sweater she wore when he first spoke to her. For days after, Riven hadn't been able to get that exact hue out of his mind. He would see flashes of it in the sky as the sun set, would notice flowers of that color around campus (had they always been there?). He would even see it when he closed his eyes at night.

Still smirking at him, she makes her way over and reaches to clasp her hands at his shoulders when she finally stands before him.

"Thought you might be into this one," she whispers in his ear. They both know she means the color. 

"Can't say I don't appreciate it," he chuckles into her ear, the diamond-dipped earrings she wears tickling his lips as they sway. 

And then she's tugging him to the middle of the dancefloor.

"Hey, I-"

"You don't dance. I know," she smiles up at him. Her wide smile, the dazzling one that makes him forget to breathe. "But… come on, just one song? For me?"

The way she pushes the strap of lavender off her shoulder in a very intentional manner does not bypass him.

In the end, he lets her have as many songs as she wants.

BLACK

Musa wears the color lavender a lot more often for the next few days after that party. Riven knows she likes that it riles him up, likes that she can do that to him, but it's getting to the point where he can't think straight whenever she's around him. And the teachers are noticing his lack of attention during classes, mainly swords training, which Musa has decided to add to her daily activities. Meaning, of course, that she has decided to make an appearance to each of his training sessions, sit on the grass just beyond the training grounds with all her friends, and bat her eyelashes his way as she shows off all the lilac and lavender her closet possesses. 

"You need to stop that," he mumbles to her as she comes to meet him at the boy's lockers after one of those training lessons.

"Stop what?" Her voice drips in innocence, sweet as honey. If he were facing her instead of stuffing gear into a bag, he knows she would be giving her best angel eyes and he would likely let her seduce him into a corner somewhere (or maybe let her strip him right here in the middle of the locker room… he's a man of few requests) and drop the subject altogether. 

"I just let Boris have a win because of you. Fucking Boris. The guy can't even walk a straight line without tripping himself."

"Not my fault you can't stop looking my way."

"That's a lie and you know it."

"No. No, I think it's the truth."

"Musa-" 

"Riven." 

He huffs in mild annoyance. "Seriously, as much as I want you to seduce me into every corner of this stupid school, I can't be letting Boris and all the other wimps of this school keep winning. The other day, Silva asked me if I needed medical attention. Medical attention, Musa! He thought I had hit my head or some shit because I kept tripping!"

"Who's to say you didn't hit your head?" She's laughing at his expense and as much as she loves her laugh, he's a man verging on the edge of insanity with her around him.

"Are you even hearing me?" He takes off his shirt and runs a hand through his hair miserably. 

"Oh, alright." He feels her run her hands up his back before they land on his should blades and she pushes against him, pulling herself to her tippy toes so that she can press a kiss at the top of his spine.

He shivers at the feel of her lips and she laughs against him.

"Tell you what," she says, her lips still brushing his spine. "I'll wear a different color on our date tonight."

"Date?"

"Yeah, you know, that thing couples go on so they can spend time together?"

"You're not as funny as you think you are, Musa."

"Oh, I'm hilarious."

"Did we plan something I'm forgetting about?"

He finally turns around so that he can face her, and she's forced to let go of him.

"No, we did not plan anything. But you've been training all week and I've been watching you train all week. And I've decided you need a break… and you're not wearing a shirt right now, which has reminded me that I need attention." She shifts her eyes across his whole form, stopping just above his waistline as her hands come up to his abs. 

"Well, then. No inhibitions there. Straight to it, are we?" But he has to chuckle at her statement.

"I spend all my free time living in inhibitions, Riven. Biting my tongue. Dealing with other people's emotions and what not. Mind fairy, remember?" Her eyes come up to meet his, but her hands stay where they are. "I know where to place my inhibitions and reservations, and it's not here."

He stares into her eyes, noticing the way they shine under the dim light of the locker room. He thinks they color resembles the darkest toffee, or maybe those caramel chocolates she so loved. It's another color that haunts his dreams. Has he ever told her that? 

"No, baby. You're right. Keep those inhibitions for the rest of this school." He leans down to kiss her, feeling her smile beneath his lips. 

She's doing things with her hands, making them dance across his skin as gracefully as he knows she can dance across a dance floor. He's just about to suggest that they go find that corner and she can continue to corrupt him, but before he can find the words, she's pulling away from him. 

"I'll see you at 8 when you come to pick me up," she says as she walks backwards, aiming for the exit. 

"Wha- You tease!" 

She laughs again, and damn it if the sound doesn't send his heart soaring. Fuck, he thinks to himself. Maybe Stella's bodyguard and Sky weren't the only whipped ones in this rather large group they had formed.

"Don't hate the player. Hate the game," she states with a wink.

"Where are we even going?"

"You'll see!" And then she just walks out the locker room, leaving him staring at the door and surrounded by a million pieces of gear that he was meant to have finished packing ten minutes ago. 

Hours later, he's standing in the Winx suite and watching Terra reorganize every plant in the living room as Bloom and Aisha argue about which Harry Potter movie was the best.

"The first one!" Bloom screams from the kitchen as she waits for her tea to boil.

"What? No! The first one had too many introductions and too little action," Aisha screams back at her from their room.

"You're just saying that because you don't appreciate true art."

"True art?! I'll have you know-"

He's just about to lose it when Musa finally walks out of her room. He hears her door open before he sees her and he has just about thirty second to thank the gods for finally putting him out of his misery, and then he turns around… and his jaw drops.

The dress she wears has long sleeves, a low cut V that leaves very little to the imagination, and hangs off her shoulders just enough so that he can see where the curve of her clavicle meets the lines of her neck. It's shorter than the lavender dress she wore to the party last week. That alone could have been enough to end him, but Musa liked to push her boundaries. She liked to test the water. True to her word, she was not wearing lavender. No, instead she was wearing black. 

Knowing with absolute certainty that his favorite color was black.

"Pick your jaw up off the floor, Riven." Stella's heavily judgmental voice snaps him out of it. She's leaning by the doorway of Terra and Musa's room, watching him with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk on her face. 

"You're one to talk," he shoots her way. "You almost jumped that poor bodyguard during Alchemy class the today."

"Key  word there would be almost," she shoots back at him, no shame whatsoever in her voice. "You two, on the other hand, have actually jumped each other in the middle of almost every event we've been to since you started dating."

"That's not true! They were jumping each other even before they got together. I once-" 

"Terra!" Musa shoots her roommate a poignant look as her cheeks flush bright red. "We said that would stay between us, remember?"

Well, this is interesting, Riven thinks to himself. Honestly, watching these girls interact is like watching a train crash. A very synchronized one where each cart would willingly crash to try to protect the other carts, but a train crash nonetheless. There's always something interesting going on in this dorm.

"Oh, oops! There was no once. I never once saw anything. Nothing, nothing at all." Terra shuffles back to her plants, but it’s too late.

"No, no!" Stella commands. "Please do tell us what you once saw." 

"Yes, please do." Aisha encourages, eying Musa with a wicked smile on her face.

"Yeah, Terra. Come on, tell us!" Bloom's tea is forgotten as she makes for Terra, tugging at her hand and pulling her onto the couch where the rest of the girls go to join them.

"Well-" Terra starts.

"Nope!" Musa all but shouts. "Nope! Nope! Nope! I am not going to stand here and listen to you tell this story. We're leaving. Goodbye!" 

She's tugging him out the room as Stella's voice rings into the hallway, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

And as she pulls him through the hallways and into the courtyard, Riven gets a great view of Musa's dress from the back. The back is so very low that he's honestly amazed that it's able to stay on her body without completely falling off. The tip of the V that shapes the back of the dress reaches the bottom of her spine, and as his fingers accidentally brush the sleeves at her wrist, he notices that the dress is velvet. Soft. Warm. And so willing to bend and curve into the exact shape of her body.

In the darkness of the coming night, even her hair looks like velvet black. And when she turns those chocolate colored eyes to him, and the shadows make their color darker too, Riven remembers exactly why he loves the color black so much.

RED

Black has always been Riven's favorite color, and he doubted it would ever change. Well, he used to doubt it would ever change. Currently, he's having a lot of doubts as he watches Musa descend the stairway of Alfea's ballroom in a dress of red color.

The fabric clings to her body and flares at her feet, moving with her as though it was a part of her. Her hair is up and away from her face, and from all the way down here, he can see the bright red of her lipstick. It's the exact same shade as her dress.

A siren, he thinks. She is a siren. And he is just as big a fool as every other man in the stories of sirens, because he would lay down his whole life for a chance to be closer to her. He would follow her anywhere, and he does for the rest of that night. He doesn't even pretend to complain about the dancing. 

Later in the night, they're swaying back and forth with her hands tracing the hair at the nape of his neck and his hands at the back of her waist. He hasn't stopped looking at her since she approached him at the beginning of the night, and she hasn’t complained.

"I knew you would like this one best." She says softly, as if she knows he's in a trance and doesn't want to break him out of it.

"Mmm?"

"The red. I knew you would like the red best. It's my favorite color. Did you know that, Riven?"

He smiles slightly.

"Of course I know that. Why do you think I always have a red pen on me  when we're studying together?"

"You don't study, Riven."

"No, I don’t. But you do. And I like to watch you study." 

She laughs softly, still not wanting to break the daze they're in.

"You seem to like to watch me do a lot of things lately."

"What can I say? You're a little bit enchanting, my dear."

"I have the girls to thank for that, I suppose. They placed bets on what colors you would like best."

"Do I want to know who suggested what?"

"Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyways. Terra suggested lilac because she noticed how much liked the color on me. Stella said black because she assumed correctly that it was your favorite color, and Aisha sided with her because it seemed like the winning argument. Bloom said yellow because she wanted to go for something different."

"And red? Who said red?" He shouldn't entertain this game if he wants to live past this school year, but he figures he can manage one or two heart attacks. He's been through worse.

"I did." Her eyes sparkle up at him. He laughs at her answer, because he should have guessed.

"I should've known."

She beams up at him with her wide smile. "So, did I win? Is this your favorite color on me?"

His palms brush the bare skin of her back as he dips her, and then pulls her close to him as fast as he can because he craves her closeness like a drunk man craves liquor on his loneliest nights.

"You're my favorite."

And when her eyes glaze over and her gaze wavers as she gives him her shy smile, he knows for a fact that he is further gone than Stella's bodyguard or Sky or any other fool in this fractured world that claims to be in love.

Red becomes his new favorite color.

[pedros-mustache-main]

the arrangement

summary: it is all clear and simple—until it isn’t.

word count: 6.6k+ 

warnings: sugar daddy relationship, age gap (john is ~35, reader is ~23), angst, language, innuendo, suggestive themes & moments (not 18+ but be mindful—probably more so than with anything i’ve written!)

a/n: for the sake of this fic, veronica et al. don’t exist. i refuse to write infidelity. okay i hope you enjoy because i am very upset about the cottagecore!brian fic that i wrote which was eaten unceremoniously by the monster living in this website. xoxo!

1986.

he doesn’t kiss you; you won’t let him. 

it’s all a part of the minutiae of your arrangement. he has his rules: a shower before and after—sometimes together, but mostly alone; meetings out of the public eye, normally his london flat; no contact with his colleagues. you have your rules: no outside arrangements with other women (or men, for all you care); no spur-of-the-moment visits; and above all, no kissing.

he can—and does—have a field day with the curves and contours of your body whenever he gets the chance. his mouth knows your skin well, and you’d like to think you know his in a similar fashion. you know what it feels like to be touched and held and loved by him, but his lips have never so much as brushed yours, and you intend to keep it that way. it’s just a quirk, a bothersome little thing you carry with you to all of your arrangements. kissing is too intimate and, though you’ve been more than intimate with john, there’s a line in the concrete you are unwilling to cross. he respects that, so the arrangement works.

you like him. he’s charming and intelligent, thoughtful when it matters. he never forgets a date despite his busy schedule, and he seems to anticipate your moods, knowing just when to spoil you a little extra to ease the pain of a ruined portrait or sour customer. he supports your art endeavors, though you are firm about him staying away from your studio apartment. like kissing, it’s too intimate, too personal. he pays the rent, though, and is admittedly happy when you confess he has inspired a piece or two.

still, he’s confounding. there’s a pervading sadness about his person, even when he’s laughing. it runs deep—that sadness—and you can’t pinpoint the origin. you suspect he must be lonely even though he’s one of the world’s foremost musicians. why else would he dote on you endlessly? why else would he throw his hard-earned money at the feet of a girl too young to be his proper lover and too guarded to ever give him the chance at something real?

not that he’s tried to move the arrangement to something deeper. he hasn’t. for that alone, you’re more than content to stay with him. you’ve had strings of other arrangements before, but never one that’s lasted this long. it always falls apart eventually—unmet expectations, dangerous feelings, the unfortunate death. a year and a half with john is a long time, and you’re surprised he’s not bored with you yet. you’re surprised you aren’t bored with him.

but truly, he is kind and well-off—physically and monetarily—and so long as he’s keen to have you around, you’ll stick around. you aren’t complaining. 

of all your arrangements, you like john richard deacon the most.

he’s been gone for some time, consumed by the magic tour and promoting the latest queen album. he’s tired, ready for a break, and when he calls you a week before his return, you can hear the shoulder-crushing weariness in his tone.

“i’m getting too old for this, [y/n],” he says. 

his sigh is heavy, and it gives you pause. you hold still, the paintbrush between your fingers suspended in midair. you twist on your stool in discomfort. though you know your role—and you play it splendidly—there’s always a flare of uncertainty in the back of your mind when john muses personal. 

you shift, cradling the telephone between your shoulder and your ear. “you’re only thirty-five, john,” you say after a moment. “hardly an old fart.”

“well, i feel one.” something crinkles over the line. “i think we’ll be on break for a good while after this. freddie is—” he sighs again. “when can i see you?”

you can’t help but smile. you dip your head to the side as you study the foot of the angel in your painting. there’s something not quite right, so you lift the corner of your smock and wipe away the top of her big toe. 

you like it when your men are eager; it means they still intend on supplementing your income and leaving you fine gifts. as soon as the eagerness begins to fade, as soon as the meetings are less and less frequent, you know it’s time to look elsewhere. nearly two years later and john is more eager for an evening with you now than he was at the start. you have nothing to worry about.

“when do you get back?”

“thursday.”

“then you can see me thursday.”

he exhales in something that sounds a lot like relief. you bite your lip to keep from smiling wider. he’s wrapped so tight around your pinky; neither of you seem to care. 

“good, good. i’ll bring you something from barcelona. what do you want?”

"hmm. surprise me.”

“you don’t like surprises.”

“you’re right. how about some of those fun little tiles? the colorful ones, y’know?” he hums in agreement. “i can put those in my kitchen.”

“tiles? my baby wants tiles?” he laughs, and you’re thankful for the thousands of miles between you. the affectionate term, spoken normally in jest, sends your thoughts straight to the gutter every time, loathe as you are to admit such a thing. “fine. tiles it is. see you thursday.”

“it’s a date, mr. deacon.” you pause then add, “get some rest, john. you sound knackered.”

“i am.”

“i’ll see you thursday, handsome.”

he says goodnight, wishes you sweet dreams, and hangs up. you drop the phone to its base and sit back, stretching your arms over your head.

the canvas before you is taller than it is wide—twenty-four by thirty-six. the customer, a repeater, requested something angelic and bright, a new addition to their marble villa in the south of greece. you’re happy to oblige, but you’re stuck on the bottom portion. should the angel be in flight? poised on a cliffside? in a garden? you know it doesn’t matter, that the buyer will be happy regardless, but it matters to you. each painting needs to tell a coherent story, and you like for that story to fit well with the piece’s ultimate home.

your mother says you are blessed with a gift by god. john says you have natural talent. you think you’re just good at copying. it’s not forgery; all of your paintings are as unique as they are original. still, you’re excellent at replicating dead-and-gone styles: renaissance, rococo, romantic, hell even the odd modern piece. whatever the customer wants, you can reproduce it for a fraction of the cost. your work pays handsomely, but averaging only one painting a year doesn’t pay all the bills that pile up on your kitchen island over the months. that’s where john comes in. it evens out in the end, with more than enough on the side to play with.

rising from your stool for a much needed break, you cross the concrete floor, the stone cool beneath your bare feet. the evening has gone drafty, so you shut one of the tall windows looking onto the side garden. you pick up your mail from beneath the flap on the front door and rifle through. nothing urgent, though there’s a letter from your mother. you tuck it to the side.

john would detest your studio if he ever saw it. it’s unfeeling, bare bones and vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. most of the open floor plan is used for your painting endeavors. there’s discarded portraits along the wall, a few untarnished canvases tucked in a corner. there’s a worktable that doubles as a kitchen table, and a cramped kitchen shoved beneath the loft which houses your bed and wardrobe. you don’t mind the gray walls and gray floors and metal and lack of personal touches. if anything, the simplicity allows your creativity to explode.

after a piece of jam and toast for supper, you return to your painting. the angel should be on a cliffside overlooking the sea, you decide; after all, her home will soon be greece. dipping your brush to the mixture of tan and dark brown you’ve been using for her skintone, you curl a leg beneath you and set to work. only this time, you struggle to keep the excited smile from your face.

john’s coming home. you missed the bastard—him and his money.

thursday evening you find yourself on john’s front stoop, fist poised to knock on the door. the dress beneath your coat is silky, like water against your skin. you feel underdressed for the turn of the season but you’re likely to be without clothing entirely within the hour so you grit your teeth against the chill on your legs. you clear your throat, adjust the curled ends of your hair, and knock on the door. the bottle of champagne in your hand grows heavy as you wait, and you finger the small string of diamonds around your neck. 

john inhales through his nose sharply when he opens the door. “[y/n],” he breathes before sweeping you into a tight embrace.

you laugh, crushed against his chest, your arms snug around his shoulder. he smells clean, like soap and fresh tea. you lift your legs, giggling further as he spins you about the rowhouse foyer.

“okay, okay!” you squeal. “put me down!”

he drops you to the floor, your heels clicking against the hardwood. “let me take your coat,” he says, sliding behind you to remove your outer layer. you shimmy out of the garment and bite you lip on a smirk when he sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

“like it?” you ask, twirling on the ball of your foot in a slow circle. your dress—pale pink, short and open in the back—leaves little to the imagination.

“you’re a sight for sore eyes, angel.” 

he steps away from the coatrack to circle his arms around your waist. he settles his hands in the curve of your spine and drinks you in, his pupils expanding with appreciation. you preen under his gaze and rest your palms on his brightly patterned shirt. you never tire of this—no matter who your benefactor is. the glazed look in their eye when they see you wearing a necklace newly bought or sporting a handbag of your choice or simply pushed against their strength is intoxicating. you feel powerful and desirable and unstoppable all at once.

“missed you.” john lifts a hand to brush a lock of hair away from your face, and the gesture is decidedly intimate. it sends a chill down your spine, your mouth tightening. you know if this were any other relationship he would bend forward and capture your lips, marking you as his and erasing the weeks apart with a single touch. you know he’s fighting the urge to do so now; you can see it in the way his eyes flick to your mouth and hold there.

to ease his yearning, you wind your arms around his neck and squeeze him tight, curling your fingers in the base of his recently trimmed perm. you like the fluff; it’s quirky—like him. “missed you, john.” you kiss the corner of his jaw and pull away, trailing to the kitchen.

he’s hot on your heels.

lifting your rump onto the kitchen island, you cross your ankles and grin as he enters the room. “did you bring me my tiles?” 

john blinks, as if he’s not sure what you’re talking about, but then recognition lights his eyes, and he snaps in remembrance. “ah yes, the tiles! hold on.” he slips into an adjoining room before returning with a brown box tied with a white ribbon. “here.”

you take the box, smile at him where he leans against the counter opposite you, and tear off the string. within the box there’s a small index card covered in john’s neat script. you lift it and meet his eyes again; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks as you read aloud.

“[y/n], i thought you deserved something better than a few titles. love, john.” lowering the card to your side, you push back the tissue paper to see a framed pencil sketch of a woman mid-gown fitting. the seamstress is crouched against the floor, her back to the viewer. the woman being fitted is twisted, glancing over her shoulder as the seamstress works, her reflection visible in an invisible mirror. you squint and push your nose to the corner then nearly drop the frame to the floor.

your head snaps up so fast it cracks. “john, you didn’t.”

he just beams, nodding.

tucked in the right hand corner of the sketch is the artist’s signature, a signature you know well. mary cassatt. 

“got it in paris,” he explains. “thought you could use an original from your favorite.”

you brush your fingertip along the signature and feel the sting of tears beneath your eyelids. of all the gifts you been handed—holidays in rome, designer bags and jewelry, luxury rides to and from the city—this, this, is the best. part of you hates the sudden rush of emotion that spreads through your chest, but you allow the feeling to take hold, opening your arms to him. he steps between your legs, and you curl yourself around his body.

“thank you, john,” you whisper. your voice is muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but the way he presses his hand against your shoulder blade tells you he heard you loud and clear. 

he hums against the crook of your neck. the vibrations tickle your throat, and you flush. you draw back, far enough to meet his gaze, but close enough to feel his breath against your face. 

god, you could kiss him.

the thought strikes you like a bolt of lightning, and you resist the urge to gasp. you’ve never thought it before; the rule of no kissing is ingrained in you so deep the mere idea of breaking it sends you for a loop. but there he is—generous and gorgeous and yours. he knows you well, spoils you well, and all he asks is you entertain him in return. 

how did you get to be so lucky?

clearing your throat, you brush past him to hop off the counter. you tug the hem of your dress down a smidgen and touch his shoulder. “want me to go shower?” you ask, cocking your head toward the bathroom.

he turns to face you and shakes his head. “no.” his arms are around you again, as if it pains him to keep his distance for a moment too long. you can feel it in the thrum of his heart against your ribcage. you swallow hard.

your brow pinches in a frown. “but you—”

his mouth is already tracing the lines of your neck, warm and wet and dizzying. he grips your hip, his fingertips pressing through the satin of your dress. “forget it, [y/n]. i’ve missed you,” he whispers, a tattoo on your skin. “come to bed.”

“but the sho—”

he pulls back and lifts a hand to grasp your chin. the touch is not angry, not possessive; it’s just firm. the words in your mouth dry up, and you meet his gaze with wide eyes. “i said forget it.”

you nod, mute.

his eyes lower to your mouth. his tongue darts out to swipe his lower lip.

he steps away, his fingers trailing down your arm until they circle your wrist. he leads you through the house, silent, until you reach the foot of his bed. moonlight washes through the open terrace doors. a misty rain drifts into the room, bringing with it a chill and a whisper of autumn.

you toe off your heels, run your finger down his grecian nose, over his straight jaw. there’s this feeling in your stomach, one you can’t quite place. it’s a mixture of contentment and nerves, joy and apprehension, all at once. it’s a foreign feeling, and there’s no time to dissect it as john leans close. 

his nose nudges yours. “i missed you.”

you sigh, wistful, and pull him onto the bed.

come morning you are sated and sore. you groan through a stretch, curling your back like a cat as you adjust to the morning light. you slept well, better than you have in several weeks. you can’t be sure if the dreamless slumber was due to exertion from your evening activities or pure tranquility. you missed sleeping beside john; he has a comforting way about him, even in the throes of pleasure or sleep.

you turn your face to see john already wake, propped up against a pile of pillows. you grin and reach for him.

“morning,” you mumble on a yawn.

he blinks contentedly at you, a half-smile on his mouth, a lit cigarette between his fingers. “morning.”

“sleep well?”

he nods. “that was the most sleep i’ve gotten in weeks.”

with a chuckle, you pinch his bicep. “funny—i thought the same for myself.”

he pats the space beside him, and you shuffle to lie perpendicular to his body, your head on his bare chest. he drapes an arm across your torso, and you lift his hand to fiddle with his long fingers.

the terrace door is still open, allowing mid-morning warmth and the gentle hum of the street below to fill the room. you sigh and smile when john takes a drag of his cigarette and tilts his head to exhale in the opposite direction. he knows you hate the smoke, thoughtful boy. 

when he turns back, he catches your eye, furrowing his brow as he studies the look on your face. “what?”

you shake your head. “nothing.”

he grunts, shifts a little lower along the pillows. “tell me about the paintings you’ve got going in that pretty head of yours.”

“just one for the moment—an angel near the sea. it’s for the olsons and their villa in greece.”

“olson? wasn’t he the one who bought that nudie fashioned after his wife?”

“precisely the one!”

john smirks. “how’d you feel if i had you paint something like that for me?”

you guffaw, flipping over onto your stomach to slap his breastbone. “john!”

he holds up his hands in surrender, though there’s a mischievous twinkle in his gray eyes. “oy! it’s just a thought!”

you huff. “continue like that and i won’t finish the painting i’ve started for you.”

he leans back against the pillows in surprise. his neck is contorted in the effort it takes to properly meet your eyes as he sits, and you poke the double-chin that’s popped up beneath his jaw. he swats your hand away, though his fingers wrap tight around your wrist. he presses his pointer finger against your pulse point.

“you’ve started a painting for me?”

“course i have. don’t sound so surprised.”

“what’s it of?”

you narrow your gaze. “don’t know if i should tell you. it’s supposed to be a birthday gift.”

“my birthday’s not for a while, [y/n].”

“my paintings take a while, john.”

he sighs, squeezes your wrist, lifts it to kiss the bone on the side of your hand. “tell me,” he mumbles, his mouth against your skin, eyes locked on yours.

on an inhale, you give in. “it’s victoria park. well, victoria park seventy-five years ago.”

his eyebrows rise, and his fingers tighten around your hand. “victoria park? my victoria park? from leicester?”

“where else, silly?”

he goes quiet. 

the air in your lungs stills, and that funny feeling you had the night before flares in your stomach. you feel your jaw slacken as he rakes his gaze over you in such unabashed adoration it makes your gut twist. there’s an overwhelming desire to be near him, to feel him as you’ve never felt him before, rising like the tide, and you are pulled to it like a baby sea turtle searching for the safety of the ocean. it’s a natural pull, but you are determined to ignore it. 

you sit up, brush a lock of hair behind your ear, and turn your back to him. 

he runs his finger along the curve of your shoulderblades. you shiver. 

sensing your discomfort, john sits straight in bed, the covers around his lap rustling with the movement. “you know,” he says, pulling on his cigarette again. “freddie would like one of your paintings.” 

“what?” you look over your shoulder with a frown. “you told him about me?” 

he shakes his head. “no, i just mean what you do is his style. he’d be thrilled to have something so… romantic.” he pauses and lifts a brow in question. “i could mention it to him, ask if he’d be interested?” 

your frown deepens. this is not the john you know. john rarely speaks about his bandmates, preferring to keep his exploits with queen separate from your arrangement. when he does talk about his job, it’s normally a complaint here, a silly little story there. though you’ve been with him more than a year, you know more about his life before queen than his life during. he’s private, like you, and you respect that. it’s why your arrangement works: mutual respect for the other’s boundaries. 

but there’s something different about him. you noted it the night before. first no shower. now suggesting he introduce you to freddie. it doesn’t make sense. 

or maybe it does. maybe this is his way of shifting the relationship, subtly, under your nose, done before you realize what’s happened. 

a thread of panic weaves itself around your spine. 

“what’s this about? you’ve never wanted me to meet freddie before.” 

he shrugs, playing innocent. “just an idea. we’re on break now, will be for some time. i figured meeting you would give freddie something to fuss over.” 

“you know how i feel about my studio, john.” 

“i know, i know. you like your privacy.” 

john stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table then scoots closer, drawing you close with an arm around your waist. his mouth works idle patterns along your shoulder, the spot where your neck meets your back, the ticklish spot behind your ear. 

you tighten your hold on his arm, your nails biting his skin. when you speak, your voice is but a whisper. 

“i don’t want things to change.” 

he stills, lifting his head from your skin. “sorry?” 

“i said i don’t want things to change.” turning, you meet his eyes, nearly losing your breath in the process. he’s close; you can practically taste him on your lips. “what we have works. don’t you think?” 

“’s just an idea, [y/n].” 

ducking your head, you play with the hair on his arm. your heart squeezes tight. “i know. but i say yes now and tomorrow you’ll be…” you lift your face. 

he seems to understand without needing you to finish the thought. 

he untangles himself and swings his legs over the side of the bed. you watch his movements, stiff and irritated. he pulls on a pair of ratty joggers, rising from the bed to shut the terrace doors. you startle at the sound of glass rattling in the windowpanes. 

“john, i—” 

he cuts you off. there’s another cigarette between his fingers now. “better take a shower,” he quips. his eyes remain planted on the cigarette packet in his hands. he taps the thin stick against the cardboard several times before jamming it between his teeth. “you didn’t take one last night, and we wouldn’t want things to change, now would we?” 

the door slams shut, the blast echoing in your empty stomach.

you don’t hear from john for a week and a half. it’s not uncommon, the length between visits. he’s busy, you’re busy. sometimes you can barely find time for yourself, let alone him. still, there’s no box of chocolates delivered to your doorstep, no flowers dropped off at an inopportune time. 

there’s just silence. 

it worries you at first, and you wonder if he’s dropped you like a hot potato. it wouldn’t be unheard of. one arrangement ended in a similar fashion, and you nearly lost your studio in the process. but john is better than that. he wouldn’t leave you on the verge of homelessness, would he? he cares about you too much to do such a thing. 

your fears are assuaged when a bouquet of flowers does arrive one afternoon. you have paint smeared along your forehead, and your neck cracks as you stand to answer the doorbell, but the sight of sunflowers in a pretty blue vase erases all your uncertainties. the note tucked in the ramble of flowers makes you smile—sorry for being a dick. give me a call if you forgive me – j—and you tape it to your refrigerator. 

john is still yours; you are still his. 

you call him that night, and after reaffirming your boundaries, the phone call devolves into a mess of heavy breathing and whispered encouragements and sinful sorts of pleasure. 

as you fall asleep, you’re struck by something he said in the hazy cloud of post-bliss: even if this is all you give me, i’m happy. 

even if this is all you give me… 

he wants more. how much you aren’t sure, but enough that you can’t fall asleep as readily as you normally do. frustrated, you slip from bed and finagle your way down the stairs to the kitchen. you warm a glass of milk and lean against the counter, sipping slowly. your eyes fall along the mary cassatt print, now housed on the kitchen wall above the vase of sunflowers. the milk in your stomach curdles. 

john deacon loves you; and if you tarry any longer, you’ll be close to loving him, too.

the decision to call the arrangement off does not come lightly. you mull over it for days on end, even as a sliver of your heart warms to the idea of allowing john to love you as he pleases, of letting yourself love him back. 

it’s all you can think about the next time you see him face-to-face. as he pours you a glass of wine and lays you out on the living room floor, your thoughts are elsewhere. when he takes you shopping for canvas frames, you let him hold your hand, but you can’t focus on what he’s saying about the best fit. even when he mentions your studio and you find yourself willing to invite him inside, you cannot shake the feeling that you are losing a part of yourself you will never regain. 

but would it be so bad? giving in? 

you’re interested in john, that much you will concede. he’s good and kind and generous and a hell of a good romp and you enjoy your time with him. but the stubborn part of you refuses to let go of your own autonomy. you will not become his plaything, his arm candy at all the queen functions he so dreads. you value your independence too much—the safety of your well-crafted walls—to be anything other than his dirty little secret. 

you’re prepared to shove your concerns aside and continue on until john makes the decision for you. he gives freddie your studio address, and freddie shows up one morning unannounced. you invite him in, sketch out a painting over the worktable, smile when necessary, and ignore his wonderings about your connection to john but on the inside you’re reeling. you’re livid and you’re hurt. 

you’ve never been hurt by one of your arrangements before. 

after freddie leaves, john answers the telephone on the third ring. “hello?” 

“we can’t see each other anymore,” you say, your voice firm. 

he’s quiet for a moment. “i’m sorry—what?” 

“you heard me, john. i’m calling it all off.” 

“why on earth would you do that?” 

unbidden, an answer rises to your mouth: because i think i like you as much as you like me and i’m scared.

with a harsh clearing of your throat, you instead say, “you sent freddie here. i told you not to do that.” 

“he did what? no, [y/n], i didn’t send freddie to you.” 

“then how else would he know who i am? my clients don’t run in his circles.” 

panic laces the edge of john’s voice as he rushes to explain, but you grit your teeth against the sound. “i swear, angel, i didn’t tell him where you live. i might have told him about you, yeah, but he’s my best friend, and i needed some advice.” he hesitates, sucks in shaky breath. “don’t do this. don’t call it off.” 

you swallow hard. for the first time in a long time, you feel a wash of tears over your eyes. “you want too much from me, john. i can’t give you what you want. i’m not the girl for that sort of life.” 

“oh, baby, i—i’m sorry. i know i’ve been pushy lately but i—” he sighs. “god, i love you so dearly. i’d give you the world if you let me.” 

at this you choke on a sob. surprised by the sound, you press a hand to your mouth. 

oh god, you love him too. the feeling crashes over you like a wave, and you’re the sea turtle who has found the safety of the sea. john is your sea. he envelops you, carries you to safety and uncertainty all at once. but you know him—he will protect you, guide you, with everything he is and all that he has. 

you love him, you love him, you love him. 

but it’s not enough. it’s not supposed to go like this, and you both know it. 

“i’m sorry, john,” you whisper. you didn’t remember that tears taste salty. “please don’t call me, okay?” 

you hang up before you can hear his protests any further then you crawl into bed and weep.

several months pass. autumn fades into winter, and you grow colder by the day. 

you’re stressed. you cut john off entirely, opening a separate bank account and shuffling your monies and generally working to disentangle him from your life. but no john means no stable income. you’re fine for the time being, your painting for the olsons paid for and gone; but you’ve taken to rushing your artwork now, allowing customers to sit for hastily and poorly arranged portraits with their dogs and children. the paintings are lovely, yes, but they’re not you. it pays the bills, though, so you can’t complain. 

you continue on freddie’s painting. he paid you upfront, so you owe him that much. in the evenings, after shooing the last snot-nosed kid and yippy dog out of your home, you turn on the lamp above the canvas and return to the sort of art you yearn for day and night. the painting screams freddie mercury all over. 

there’s a man, mustached and tan, draped against a purple chaise in the center of the canvas. he’s flanked by a tall gentleman with wiry hair who is focused on a globe in the corner. to the far right, two other men—one blond, one brunette—whisper amongst themselves. you realize, belatedly, that you are painting queen in some sort of ridiculous nineteenth century daydream. it makes you snort every time you sit down to work. 

you struggle to capture john in the painting. you know his face better than you know your own. you dream of it every night and wake to an image of it every morning. 

you love him. you miss him. 

you’re not certain when you started loving him. maybe six months in when he took you to new york and the moma and the empire state building. maybe nine months in—your first christmas together—when he gifted you a song. maybe a year in when he confessed his deepest fears—fears of loneliness and isolation and an empty old age—and made you promise to stay by his side. maybe when he came back this last tour and you wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt to hold back. 

you’ve never been in love. you don’t quite understand the way it works, but you know enough to know that you love him. perhaps you always will, your disco deaky, the thoughtful boy. 

you finish freddie’s painting come the first of the year. it’s been four months without john, four months entirely on your own. you have no compunction to find another arrangement. no one could fill the shoes of john deacon even if they tried, and the idea doesn’t appeal to you like it once did. you’ll go it alone for a while and revel in the autonomy you so desire. 

freddie invites you to dinner when you call and say the painting is ready, and you reluctantly go. you’re half afraid he’ll pull some trick and invite john as well, but he swears he’ll be on his best behavior. the night of the dinner, you dress warm and gently arrange the framed canvas in the boot of your car. after losing your way twice, you eventually find his house and park outside. jim helps you carry the painting through the tight gate and into the front parlor where freddie waits, hands clasped in excitement. 

“oh, i could just piss myself i’m so thrilled!” freddie squeezes your shoulders when you unveil the completed work. “i look so divine, like bloody oscar wilde!” 

the edges of a smile lift your mouth. “yes, divine indeed.” 

“you are more talented than you know, [y/n],” freddie says. he boops the end of your nose. “you shouldn’t hide your talent.” 

“i don’t! i sell my work.” 

“yes, but you could be a star, darling. i could make you a star.” 

“i don’t want to be a star, freddie.” 

“then what do you want?” 

you sigh, shrug, and curl your lips in a wry grin. “not sure anymore.” 

“perhaps dinner will help you figure it out. come on, it’s ready and we don’t want it getting cold.” 

you follow freddie to the dining room. what awaits you sends your blood running cold as the frost outside. john richard deacon, handsome as ever, sits at the table, a smoke in hand. he looks up when you enter, surprise painting his face at the sight of you bundled in a winter coat in his friend’s dining room. 

you twist in the doorway. your fists tremble with rage. “fuck you, freddie!” 

he cringes. “okay, i can explain. you just have to hear me out before you slit my throat.” 

john rises to his feet. “[y/n]…” 

you ignore him and keep your gaze on freddie. “you promised!” 

freddie nods. “yes, i know, but you see it was my fault that this whole thing fell apart.” 

at this, john turns his head. “what are you on about, fred?” 

“well, when you told me about your relationship with [y/n]”–-he lowers his voice to a stage whisper, looking at you from the corner of his eye—“when you told me you loved her”—he returns to his normal voice—“i got very distracted by the idea of a painting of the four of us. so i ignored your issue and looked her up and then it all fell apart.”

john sucks in a deep breath, shaking his head. he runs a hand down his face, and you note the weariness etched along his eyes. “fuck, fred.” 

“so, you see, it’s my fault. if i had just left well enough alone, you two might still be shagging like rabbits and spending all that hard-earned money instead of moping like a pair of silly-pants!” he sobers, his nose twitching. “i really am sorry. it was selfish of me.” 

“freddie—” you start. 

he shakes his head. “no! i won’t hear any excuses—not until you’ve made up.” a timer somewhere in the kitchen dings, and he snaps. “now… if you’ll excuse me…” he slips from the dining room, shutting the door behind him with a tell-tale click. 

you look to the floor. you should get your winter boots polished. they’re horribly scuffed. 

john speaks first. “you look good, [y/n].” 

lifting your head, you scoff. “you always were a flatterer.” 

“no, i mean it.” 

you run your eyes over him and feel your heart trip. god, you missed him. “you look good, too.” 

“what have you been doing?” 

“oh, this and that. mostly painting portraits.” 

“you hate portraits.” 

“i know.” 

outside, the cricks chirp loudly, but you wonder if john can heart the beating of your heart over the chorus of insects. 

“[y/n], i—” 

“john—” 

he smirks. you look to your toes again. 

“you go first,” he says. 

lifting your head, you dare to step further into the room. you steel yourself, biting the inside of your tongue to keep from spilling your guts at his feet. “i was wrong, too.” 

he cocks his head to the side in confusion. “what do you mean?” 

it’s time, isn’t it? seeing him now... how could you ever live without him?

“i was foolish and stubborn and willful. i knew what i wanted, but ignored it for the sake of my own stupid ideals.” you step closer and catch a whiff of his cologne. it sends a thrill straight to your belly. “turns out i need people just as much as you do.” 

“what are you saying?” 

“i’m saying i was wrong to turn you away. i was scared. i’ve only ever known love with a price tag on it, never real love. not until you anyway. as complicated as it is, you have loved me better than anyone else, and i was blind to it for so long. and even when i wasn’t blind to it, i pushed you away. i’m sorry.”

he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “what—what are you saying?” he asks again.

“i’m saying i miss you and i’m a right git and i love you and i’m sorry.” 

he reaches for you, his touch like fire on your wrist. “i shouldn’t have pushed you.” 

you shake your head in disagreement. “i needed a good pushing. i didn’t realize how much i needed you until you were gone. and fuck all about the money. i don’t care about that. i needed you. i need you.” 

john moves his hands to cup your face, his palms warm on your cool cheeks. he leans downs and presses his forehead to yours. you exhale, sure that if you open your eyes, if you move an inch, you will wake from whatever dream you inhabit. you don’t want this moment to end—him and you and no one else, all the possibility in the world stretching out before you. 

“you don’t know what it means to hear you say that,” he whispers. “i would be content to love you silently, but, god, i love you.” 

you laugh and open your eyes, blinking back tears. you pull away to meet his gaze. “even though i’m a stubborn fool?” 

“i’m more stubborn and more foolish than you ever could be.” his thumbs work over the apple of your cheeks. “i love you,” he breathes. 

“i love you.” 

you grin. he matches your smile. 

“kiss me,” you whisper. 

his eyes widen, his mouth parting. “but—” 

“it’s part of our new arrangement. you can kiss me whenever you like so long as you promise not to smoke in bed.” 

“fuck. i—” he shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut. you lift a hand to his cheek, and his eyes open. 

“i know. me too.” 

he captures your mouth, the touch soft and everything you have waited to find, everything you have searched for in all the wrong places. he kisses you, holds you against his body, weaves his hand in your hair. he moves his lips in tandem with yours, and you feel like you’re floating. 

he kisses you, and you are home.

[cruzrogue]

SUPERTASTER

#Fictober19 @fictober-event

————————————————————————

for fanfiction:

Prompt number: 9  “There is a certain taste to it.”

Fandom (AU if applicable): #arrow fanfiction #olicity

Rating:G

Warnings/Tags: None… I like sugar hence the Jelly Beans!

Summary: Oliver is hosting a food tasting event at his home. People from the local community center where he’s a member of a current food gathering are about to talk about taste buds.

  ~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

This came about because of purchasing Jelly Belly -Jelly Beans, the original pack has 40 different flavors and I’m telling you a lot of them just doesn’t make my taste buds happy. I prefer the kids pack… they may be sweeter but at least I like the majority of them. The Harry Potter addition is a solid no from me. I mean look at the flavors. How could anyone subject their taste buds to earwax? Rotten Egg? Vomit? Just No!

 ~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

SUPERTASTER on A03

People who have a lot of papillae—the bumps on our tongue, most of which house our taste buds—often find flavors overwhelming. They're "supertasters," and as such they add cream to their coffee and order food mild instead of spicy. Subtasters, on the other hand, have low papillae density and prefer their chicken wings "atomic."

Individual taste, however, isn't simply about papillae; it also has to do with our buds' ability to detect different molecules. Although our brains can recognize the same five tastes—bitter, sweet, salty, sour and umami (savory)—the suite of chemicals that can trigger those signals varies from one person to the next. Alexander Bachmanov, a geneticist at Monell Chemical Senses Center in Philadelphia, says that humans carry a range of 20 to 40 genes dedicated to bitter taste receptors.

Different sensitivities to bitter tastes probably arose from evolutionary pressures in different parts of the world. Most toxic plants taste bitter, and nomadic groups that came into contact with a variety of plants would have, over time, developed a variety of receptors. People from malaria-infested parts of the world tend to carry a gene that makes them less sensitive to some bitter compounds, specifically those that contain cyanide. Researchers speculate that cyanide, ingested at low levels, fights malarial parasites while leaving the host unscathed. Juyun Lim, a sensory scientist in Oregon State University's Department of Food Science, says that we have a natural aversion to bitterness and certain odors: "Most people don't like beer the first time they try it."

ARE YOU A SUPERTASTER?

To find out, put blue food coloring on your tongue. Blue dye doesn't stick to taste papillae, so if your tongue doesn't get very blue, you're probably a supertaster. The bluer it gets, the greater the chance you are a subtaster. More hot sauce!

 ~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~sp@ce~~~~~~****~~~~~~~~

Now onto the story...

“Felicity, come try this?” He has a fork out holding a sample of whatever is in the pot.

“There is a certain taste to it.”

“What’s your taste buds first reaction?”

“It’s pungent like your chilly but also savory that it doesn’t burn and wow I may want more of this later.” Oliver nods as he places the spoon down and fills a bowl with it before he heads to the dining room.

Felicity just follows him. She’s heading out to spend some quality time with her sister-in-law. She has no real concept of what Oliver is doing in the meantime. She thought he’d train like he usually does when not at work. Being she’s been occupied getting ready to go out she didn’t notice what her husband was doing.

“Oliver? What’s up with the spread of food on the table?”

“Just an experiment.”

She grabs what seems like a blue bottle of dye. “Is this food dye?”

“It’s part of the experiment.”

Felicity looks around the dining room and back at Oliver who is still placing plates of sliced food on the table.

“Am I missing something?”

“Honey, do you remember anything I said last night?”

Felicity takes a moment to ponder. Last night she came home from work and well she remembers there were plenty of words but mostly words she wouldn’t say in front of children. She sways her head no. She thinks he might have mentioned something about the community class he’s partaken in but once she was nibbling on his neck his words weren’t as coherent.

“I volunteered to host the tasting test here in our home.”

“Oh, okay.” She looks at the red dish ad makes a funny face, “Are those the pickled beets I so abhor.”

“Yes, there is a large spread of different foods. Those come from Marie who raided her pantry to offer the group.”

“Yea! Aren’t you all so lucky?”

“Does that mean you won’t join us in this test?”

“Nope, I’m actually supposed to go shopping with Thea.”

“Say hi to my sister for me.”

“I will. Should I pick William up later just in case?”

Oliver takes a moment to consider the question. The group would most likely disperse by then but he also doesn’t want to be a bad host and kick people out when they’re all having a good time. “Sure, that would be great.”

“Okay than, you have fun tasting all these foods but what is the dye for?”

“To see who is a supertaster. To find out, we are going to place blue food coloring on our tongues. Blue dye doesn't stick to taste buds. So, if any of our tongues don’t get as blue, some of us are probably supertasters. The bluer it gets, the greater the chance the person is a subtaster.”

“Fascinating.”

“You say that with such an ecstatic tone.”

She shrugs, “That’s because it is really super boring.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. He knows she is not into the whole discovery of all different cuisines like he is. He is trying to open his horizons to the different available culinary arts. For so long he’s been surviving and somehow opening up to living by experiencing flavor has made a difference in how he copes. He knows his wife understands and she has shared in his experience into the food mastery he’s taken up but she also allows him to do his own thing. Facing things with others outside his safety net.

“Oliver, if your need me, I’m a phone call away.”

“Thank you. I should be able to handle a few kitchen zealots.”

“Okay than. Have fun. Love you.”

“Love you too.” He brings her closer for a kiss but he sniffs something different. “Hmm. Is that honey with a hint of nutmeg?” Her nod confirms his analysis. When the doorbell rings they pull apart. “I guess the party is about to begin.

“It’s a good thing I know Oliver Queen tastes buds are a lot tamer.”

“That’s probably because I’m a subtaster, never enough is enough hot sauce.”

“Ah, that wasn’t what I was referring…”

“Huh hm.” He’s walking Felicity to the door. Opening it up to his first guest, the woman seems to be in her late eighties.

Felicity smiles and welcomes the woman into her home winking to Oliver in the processes. “Have fun.”

Oliver knowing very well what Felicity meant. He isn’t the party boy of his youth and he doesn’t care. These moments he is going to share with his guests knowing he’ll remember them and it will truly be a more enjoyable experience. He hopes to even learn a new dish or tricks to kicking up the heat for a dish his served many times over. This is his life, the life he is choosing and for once he can think the only thing on his mind is the words. “bon appetit.”

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 5: yellow daisies and white rabbits

Sunday, June 24th, 1990

I shuffle my high tops in front of her door uncertainly while I wait for her to answer my knock. Has it been long enough that I should knock again? Would that seem needy or demanding? Maybe she just didn’t hear me the first time, right? Or maybe I’m being creepy enough just by showing up on her doorstep unannounced and I’d better not push my luck. I’m just about to lose my nerve and turn around when Lucy answers the door, wiping her hands on a turquoise dish rag.

“Hi, Jeff!” She says, looking pleasantly surprised, and her smile blows away all my anxiety like a warm breeze. Until she furrows her brow. “Wait, how did you know which apartment was mine?”

Busted. “I, uh…” I’m mumbling to the dingy carpet in the hall, “I remembered your last name and I checked the mailboxes in the lobby.”

But instead of slamming the door in my face for being a desperate stalker, that smile dawns over her face again. “What for?”

“I, uh,” I try to fight some words out past the grin on my face, “I think I just felt bad that my drunk idiot friends just took over your car last night and we didn’t get to, like, say goodnight, it was just sort of rushed.”

I had been trying so hard to get fuckin’ wasted Stone and Mike quietly up to my apartment to sleep it off that I barely got to wave goodbye to her as we continued up the stairs, and all I’ve wanted to do since then is run back down here, find her apartment, and keep asking her all about her life story, getting to know every little thing about her. The hour that I got to spend talking to her at the Off-Ramp last night (after we found a spot outside where our various asshole friends couldn’t interrupt us anymore) was the most exhilarating hour I’ve spent in I don’t know how long. My slightly hungover friends shuffled off this morning, and I’ve basically just been pathetically wasting time ever since, watching the clock and trying to figure out when’s an appropriate time to show up at her door.

“Well, you’re either really late or really early, it’s like 12:30,” she giggles, leaning against the door frame.

“So I guess we just have to keep talking, then. Kill time until the next goodnight.”

“Seems like our only option.”

“Well, uh, and only if I’m not interrupting anything, that is… since we’re powerless against the force of time and all, do you… wanna go get some lunch while we wait?” Please say yes. Please say yes. I have no idea where I’m finding all this courage, except from the smile that she’s giving me that feels like a sunrise in my chest.

She nods with a little flush of her cheeks, and I have to fight to keep myself from jumping in the air from the adrenaline. “Let me just grab my bag… wanna come in for a second?”

I edge inside her apartment while she ducks down the hallway and into her bedroom. It’s the same layout as mine, just flipped around on the opposite side of the hall. The same boring curdled cream-cheese colored walls, the same scratched up wood floors, the same cheap dingy kitchen. That’s where the similarities end, and I’m disoriented and fascinated by everything else.

Everything in here is a different, vivid color. In the kitchen, she’s hand-painted a trail of daisies on the wall over the tops of the cabinets, and the dishes in her drying rack are bright yellow to match. On the wall leading out of the kitchen, there are some bizarre old botanical drawings in beat-up wooden frames, and the windows are flanked with glittering patterned purple curtains. In the window seat, she’s got a bunch of orchids and cactii in brightly colored pots under an array of neon paper lanterns. The living room… the living room is something else. There’s a beat-up but ornate blue velvet couch, a giant golden tassled floor pillow, and a screaming orange floral recliner resting on an ancient Persian rug. I’m just craning my neck down the hallway to get a load of the mosaic of mismatched, loudly patterned Moroccan tiles covering the wall when Lucy bounces back out of her room, slinging a little light blue backpack over her shoulder.

She gives me a smile that’s almost a wince or a squint, the way it wrinkles her nose. “….what?”

“This… this is your place?”

“Uhm, if it’s not then my life’s about to get a lot more surreal… why? You hate it, right?”

“No! No. It’s insane. I love it. It’s like you live in a fucking Basquiat or something.” I’m grinning like a fool but I don’t care. Something about this place just makes me so deeply happy. It’s all so bright, and chaotic, and loud, and off-beat, and mysterious, and confusing, but somehow so coherent.

She nods. “Somewhat less thought-provoking social commentary. And less heroin.”

“Let me go on the record saying that both of those modifications are fine. Where the hell did you find all of this stuff??”

“Uhm, well, a lot of it I found at garage sales and random thrift shops. Some of it I made, like that” – she waves at the cornea-searing orange chair – “well, I upholstered it anyway, and those” – the curtains – “but the rest of it I’ve just picked up all over the place.”

“Wow. I mean, I’ve picked stuff up off curbs and yard sales for my place too, but it’s all beige and brown and boring.”

Lucy giggles. “And yet you’re the artiste, hmm?”

“Hey be nice, I never said I knew shit about interior design,” I chuckle.

“It’s a lot in here, I know,” she hedges, toying with her hands as we make our way to her front door.

“It’s pretty perfect, is what it is,” I mumble, and I’m not sure if I’m even still talking about her apartment. “So, where should we go?”

***

“Cora? Hey, CORA! WAIT UP!”

The bell at the top of the door to the Cyclops is still ringing in my ear as I step out onto 1st Street and try to figure out who’s yelling at me. I spot Stone about a half a block south of me, waving his arms and breaking into a jog with Mike trailing behind him, toting two guitars over his shoulder.

“Hey, stalkers,” I grin as they catch up to me. “Stone, I thought you weren’t speaking to me after last night.”

“I really shouldn’t, what with the restraining order and all.”

Mike’s watching us with a completely lost expression on his face. Oh, poor thing was so drunk he doesn’t even remember the ride home. “Sorry Mikey, Stone here got his feelings hurt over some crap on the radio.” Mike mouths a knowing “ahh” with a nod.

“Crap on the radio?? See, this is why the court ordered you to stay 500 feet from me. I can’t have someone brutally assaulting my taste in music all the time.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t recognize the ruling, on the grounds that loving Steely Dan that much cannot lawfully be described as ‘taste.’”

Stone gapes at me in horror. “You’re a monster, Red.”

“Takes one to know one. How long have you been following me, creep?”

“Ha ha,” Stone drawls. “We were actually just heading to your building.”

“That makes it so much less creepy, obviously.”

“To see Jeff,” Mike injects. “Stone’s piece of shit car won’t start so we left it back on 3rd. We’re trying to get up to a guitar place in Fremont to get these things looked at, so we were gonna try to bum a ride from Jeff.”

Mike checks his watch with an anxious look, so I start taking baby steps north towards home, and the guys follow along.

“What were you doing up on 3rd? Do you guys live around here too?”

“No, I actually live up by Fremont and Stone here lives with his parents, which is an extremely rock and roll thing for a 23 year old to do.” Mike cracks me up with an exaggerated serious look.

“Whatever, assholes,” Stone grumbles. “Anyway we were just checking out this new practice space back that way. I think it’s gonna work out, so we might be your neighbors soon after all… please, not on the street,” he says as I mime puking in my mouth.

When we get back to my building, Jeff’s not answering the buzzer, even though the guys spotted his car in the parking lot. Stone’s brainstorming out loud about jogging back to a payphone to call a cab and Mike’s fidgeting and cursing Jeff’s name when I decide to speak up. After all, Alex is gone for the afternoon with his buddies, I’ve got nowhere to be.

“Listen, I can drive you guys. You said Fremont, right? That’s not far.”

“Yeah?” Stone asks with a skeptical expression, but Mike’s already making a beeline toward the line of cars I waved towards as I spoke.

“Excellent. Which one’s yours?”

“The white Rabbit,” I say, grabbing my keys from my pocket and pointing at it. Stone’s shoulders drop as he issues the eye roll to end all eye rolls.

“Okay, Grace Slick. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’d give you a jump but the cables are in Alex’s trunk, I think.”

“Of course. Thanks Alex,” Stone says in an acerbic tone, his face darkening into a frown. “Really, you don’t mind? It might take a while, Mike’s a freak about letting anyone work on his guitar.”

“Dude, she said it was fine, let’s go! Shotgun!” says Mike, who’s already hanging on my passenger side door handle like a child, and I let them both into the car.

“So, what are we listening to?” Mike’s rummaging through my tapes as Stone belts himself into the back seat.

“Please, dear sweet god, no hillbilly tunes.”

“STONE GOSSARD IF YOU CALL ME A HILLBILLY ONE MORE TIME –”

“Ooh! Rust Never Sleeps.” Mike pops the tape in with a contented grin.

The sniff that comes from Stone as I fire up the engine indicates that even he can’t think of an objection to Neil, and I quickly stifle a smile so he won’t catch it.

“So this practice space? Does that mean you guys are getting more serious about getting a new band going?” I ask as we turn onto 1st, with Mike occasionally reminding me of directions.

“Oh yeah. Born serious, baby,” Stone says, leaning forward and sticking his face between the front seats.

“Yeah, well if you’re so serious, you’d work harder to get Jeff on board,” Mike shoots him a pointed look.

“Not that crap again, Mike.”

“I mean it! We’ve gotta get Jeff Ament in here.”

“Fuck Jeff Ament.” Stone sits back in a huff, and Mike and I exchange significant looks.

“I thought he was your guy?” Mike asks. “You’ve been playing together forever!”

“That doesn’t mean shit. He’s my friend and all, but I can’t be in a band with him again. I can’t handle his fucking attitude anymore.”

I was going to stay out of it since I obviously don’t know the whole story, but come on. “His attitude? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

Laughter explodes out of Mike as Stone punches the back of my seat.

“She’s got a point, dude,” Mike notes. “I’m pretty sure it took two of you to fuck things up this badly.”

Stone mutters something about a fucking ambush under his breath before grudgingly saying something to the effect of, “I guess I can give it a shot,” making Mike pump his fist and grin.

*

We unload in front of this dingy little music shop that Mike directed us to, and he gingerly picks up the guitars and practically sprints for the door. Stone and I share a shrug before following him inside.

A blast of freezing air hits us as soon as we walk inside, and I shiver involuntarily.

Stone casts a lazy glance over at me before looking over at a wall of guitars. “Cold, Red? Some Arctic explorer you must be.”

“Shut up, Stoner, you forget I’m a Southerner. It’s fucking frigid in here. Come here.” I rest my hands against the little bit of skinny upper arm sticking out from under his shirt sleeve, alternating pressing my fingers front and back to warm them up. He slowly looks over and down at me with his mouth slightly open and massive eyes that remind me of an owl’s.

“Haha okay okay fine, personal space,” I joke, pulling my hands back and stepping away. Stone’s still gazing at me with the same hallucinatory look as the shop clerk heads to the back of the store carrying the guys’ two guitars, with Mike on his heels and peppering him with a million nervous questions.

Stone’s stare is starting to freak me out, so I move away from him to the wall of guitars and brush the strings of an acoustic with my thumb a couple of times. Unable to help myself, I pull it down from the wall and strum a couple of sloppy chords.

“Do you play?” Stone says from just behind me. I might have jumped, except that his voice is so quiet.

“What? No, no. I’m awful.”

“Which is it?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t play, or you’re awful?” he asks, still in that same hushed tone, peering down over my shoulder.

“Two things can be true.”

“You’re, uh, you’re muting that string. Here, like this…” he takes my hand in his, very carefully adjusting the angle of my fingers on the strings. I want more than anything to sneer at him, but as I play around among the small handful of chords I know, I have to admit that tiny adjustment made things a lot easier. He drops his hand back to his side and listens.

“Thanks,” I glance up at him, and he quickly looks away at another guitar up on the wall.

“Uh, sure,” he coughs. “So did you teach yourself, or what? Because you were right, you’re pretty fucking terrible.”

“You’re a peach. Uhm, I learned a few things a long time ago, but yeah, I guess I mostly taught myself.” Dad taught me to play when I was 8, but I’m not about to tell this guy I barely know about that.

“Well, it shows.” Just like last night, there’s that snide tone accompanied with an encouraging smile, just pleading for me to see through his bullshit and play along.

“And I suppose you’re Hendrix, huh?”

“Nah, that’s Mike. I prefer Page, myself.”

“And so modest, too.” He bats his eyelashes at me. “So you think you’ll really talk to Jeff, or –?”

“Oh Jesus, not you too. Yeah, I’ll talk to him.” There’s a snap in his voice that wasn’t there before, so it’s clearly off-limits and I let the subject drop. I hang the guitar back up, and he seems to sense that he’s been a little spiky.

“So what’s life like for you this summer? I mean, you’re a student, obviously you don’t have class, but you’re still working?” He’s fumbling his words a little, trying to recover.

“Yeah, when you’re a grad student, your work is never done. And if it is, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Sounds fulfilling as a flesh-eating parasite.”

“You’re not wrong. Anyway, I’m actually going to Alaska next Friday for three weeks. Soil sampling trip.”

“No way? Wait, when do you get back?”

I scrunch up my face while I hunt for the date in my mind. “The 20th, I think. Why?” I ask, suspicious of the huge grin dawning on his face.

“That’s my birthday. And Chris’s. He’ll be back from their European tour by then and we’re having a party, you should try and make it. And bring this fabled boyfriend of yours. If you don’t freeze to death up north, that is…”

I’m trying to decide whether to punch him in the shoulder for being a dick or thank him sincerely for the invitation when Mike appears out of nowhere, looking a little brokenhearted.

“Gonna need a few days for repairs,” he mumbles. “You guys ready to get out of here or what?”

***

“You did not.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, no, you just didn’t strike me as the type to…”

“…castrate something? You underestimated me, clearly.”

“Clearly,” Jeff says with a wide-eyed smile that’s somewhere between amused and terrified. “How did you… how?”

“One of my best friends back home lived on a cattle ranch, and I used to help her family with the calves all the time. Castration’s not a big deal –”

“That depends on which end of the knife you’re on, Lucy!” he shrieks.

“Okay, so I didn’t actually wield the knife…”

“I knew it! Thank fuck.”

“Haha can I finish? It’s really not a big deal, you just need someone who can help hold the calf down on one end and someone who can sprinkle cauterizing powder on when it’s done. It’s over really fast and they heal super quickly. I usually did the powder part but when they were small enough I could help hold them too.”

“Jesus, Lucy. Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Oh come on, you never encountered shit like this in Montana? You said you lived in cow country too, right?”

“Yeah, but the difference is that I got out of there as fast as humanly possible. I didn’t hang around the ranches, I hung around my hippie uncle with the record collection.”

His expression darkens a little bit when he’s talking about where he grew up, so it’s probably best to change the subject. “You said you got out of there fast? Did you come straight to Seattle, then?”

Nothing makes him light up more than talking about music or art, and I’m completely mesmerized by his face and the excitement in his voice as he tells me about the time he went to California when he was 12, how that trip connected him to skating, to punk music, and to everything outside of Big Sandy that he wished he could have. How he couldn’t wait to go to college just to find some like-minded people, but even then, he could only find a handful of other guys in Missoula who were into punk rock. How even that tenuous little tribe wasn’t enough of a home to keep him there when the college decided to close down his graphic design program, and how he came to Seattle looking for more. As we’re walking back home from lunch and he’s telling me all of this, and I think about everything he told me last night at the Off Ramp about Mother Love Bone and Andy, I marvel at how intensely protective I feel of him already. I’m the typical clichéd small town kid who left home looking to belong, too, so I understand where he’s coming from, but I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who feels that drive quite as fundamentally as Jeff still does, even all these years later. Except maybe Cora. Sort of funny that they have that intensity in common.

We round the corner and wander into the parking lot of our building, in no real hurry to get home or anywhere else in particular, still talking about what brought each of us to Seattle, when I notice Cor’s rusty little white Rabbit pulling off the main road. I take Jeff’s hand and give it a quick squeeze. “Let’s go say hi!”

He trails behind me but allows himself to be led over to the car, and he looks as surprised as I feel when Stone and Mike climb out along with Cora.

“The fuck are you doing hanging out with these two losers?” he laughs at her.

“Bite me, Jeff,” Stone grumbles. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Can you even hear yourself when you talk?” Jeff asks, shaking his head, but Stone continues undeterred.

“My car needs a jump back on 3rd, and I wanted to show you something over there anyway. Can you give us a lift back?”

Jeff glances back at me and it’s immediately clear he’s thinking the same thing – shit, not again, why do the same people have to keep interrupting us?

“Uhm, yeah, man, sure. Just, uh, give me a minute.”

“Lucy!” Cora calls. “Are we hanging out tonight?”

“Yeah, of course. Let me call you later though? I had a huge lunch, I need a nap.” She’s smirking at me and I know for sure that she isn’t buying it, but at least she has enough sense to nod along and keep Stone busy outside for a few minutes. She strikes up a conversation with him about something, but I don’t care enough to eavesdrop as I shoot a grin at Jeff.

I follow him upstairs to the third floor, and once I key into my apartment, I turn around to face him.

“Hey, I’m really glad you tracked me down,” I say, picking his hand up in mine and giving it a squeeze.

“Stalked you, is more like it.”

“Well, I’m glad you stalked me,” I giggle. “You should do it again sometime.”

“Promise,” Jeff says in a low voice that makes my heart thud. He leans against my door frame. “Maybe tomorrow night? Second date?”

“Wait, was this our first?”

“Shit, that’s how smooth I am, you didn’t even know it was happening,” he laughs, and I could swear he’s blushing just a little.

“I think you’re smoother than you think,” I grin, biting my lip as he leans in a little closer.

“I think you’re trying to spare my feelings.”

“I think… I think you should go help your friends, they’re waiting.” But I lean in anyway, savoring the way time has slowed down.

“I think they can wait a little longer.” And as his lips find mine, I’d have to agree.

***

Monday, June 25th, 1990

I’m still daydreaming about our kiss, way up on Cloud Nine, as I make my way through the mostly deserted hallway to my desk. Not even Greta’s customary bitching when I asked her how her weekend went could kill this high. I drop my lunch in the break room, wondering whether I’ll get to see him again tonight, and the only thing that breaks my reverie is an unfamiliar package sitting on my desk. What the hell?

It’s wrapped in beautiful blue paper with a silver ribbon. Cautiously, I check the card to confirm that it’s actually addressed to me, which it is, and I look around for answers but of course no one else is here yet. No one’s ever sent me a present at work before – there’s no way Jeff did this after only one date, right? …right?

I slide the paper off the box, which is a glitzy golden color, and when I open the lid, a folded piece of paper falls on top of the ornately decorated chocolate covered strawberries inside. I crack it open with a shaky hand and eventually decipher the loopy scrawl:

“In defense against the strawberry-free life. Yours, Jake.”

What?

After racking my brain for several minutes, I remember our conversation at the end of last week about his patient, the one with the allergy. He seriously thought about that all weekend? And bought me strawberries because of it?

Wait… “yours”?

…oh, shit.

[jolienjoyswriting]

Electrical Distubance, Ch. IV

Chapter 4 of "Electrical Disturbance," a Rockman (Dr. Chou Numbers universe) fan fiction story.

I sure do love worldbuilding. I'm also a big fan of world-wrecking, it seems.

Word count: 3,296 – Character count: 19,020 Originally written: July 18th, 2020

Kaitlin quickly finds herself on the wrong end of gun as she tries to figure out what's going on.

Elecman, Thomas Right, Roll, Blues/Breakman, “Rockman,” and related characters and concepts created by various people and © Capcom Co, Ltd. "Dr. Chou Numbers" concept and related characters and concepts created by and © Jussy Kaitlin/Thundergirl created by and © KaitlinEXE

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    The room fell silent.  Well, silent… apart from the maniacal cackling that filled it.  Kaitlin had just dropped a bombshell on the room by announcing herself as a Wily-‘bot.  Dr. Right and Roll were positively agog with surprise.  Elecman, however…     “I know what’s going on!”     He went full-aggro on the girl!

    “Elecman, no!” Dr. Right shouted as the robot charged an electrical attack.     “I must have infected her with a time-release program during our regrettable skirmish in Nevada!  She thinks she’s one of Wily’s machines – I must make this right!”     Elecman took a fighting pose and put his hands over his chest, one above and one below, both pointing opposite directions.  As he slid the two across each other, a loud crackle of energy sparked to life between them.  In the next second, his hands went over his head in preparation…     “This is for your own good, Thundergirl!  Thunder Beam!!”     Then, he threw them outward in an open-clam position, sending a powerful bolt across the room and…     “Nooooo…!!”     Straight into Roll’s waiting chest.

    Once again, the room went entirely silent.  Even Kaitlin, who was completely convinced she was going to be zapped, stood in awe of what had happened.     “Roll…” Dr. Right weakly called to his creation as she awkwardly lay on the floor.     “You dear, sweet child,” Elecman whispered, looking away, “what have you done…”     “She…  She saved me.  She saved me?!  Why did she save me?!”     Indeed, just as Elecman had prepared to disable Kaitlin with a Thunder Beam… Roll had run in as fast as her feet could carry her, screamed in rejection, launched herself between the two, then crashed into the closet door, clutching her chest and trembling in agony, her body surging, crackling, and smoldering from her younger brother’s attack.

    “She saved me…”     Kaitlin couldn’t make heads-or-tails of it.     “A Right-‘bot saved me from gettin’ zapped…”     She fell to her knees, her eyes filling with tears of confusion and another emotion she didn’t quite understand.     “I…”     “Get away from her!”

    Just as Kaitlin was about to pull Roll onto her back… Dr. Right came in swinging!  Even though she was only stunned by the coat rack that was smashed against her full-metal head… it was more-than-enough to get her back onto her feet and scurry right out the front door!  She didn’t want anything to do with those crazy Rights!     “Gotta get outta here…” she panted as she ran even faster than before.  “Gotta find a radio…!  Gotta call Papa Wily and… and have him save me…!  Gotta– ooph!”     But, that was going to have to wait…

    After being bounced to the ground, Kaitlin looked up… then she shivered with fear.  Standing in front of her was a man in a gray jumpsuit with a yellow scarf and red boots and gauntlets.  He had a shield on his back and… one very large arm-cannon pointed right at her head.     “You have exactly five seconds to explain yourself, Thundergirl,” he told her in a cold voice that lacked any mercy.  “After that… I’m going to blow your head off.”     A lot of words came out of the frightened girl’s mouth as she stared down the barrel of his glowing plasma weapon.  She could feel it scorching her face as it gathered energy for a powerful attack.  Naturally, seeing that sort of thing was enough to keep her from saying anything coherent, but when she realized she couldn’t get a word out…     “Aaaaahh…!!”     She curled into a ball, covered her head, and hoped for a miracle.     “Okay.  That will do.”     And, that’s exactly what she got.

    The girl dared to peek through her arms, violently shaking and hyperventilating out of pure, unrestrained fear.  Twice, today, she was sure she was going to die and twice, today, she was saved by some unexpected circumstance!  If her luck held out… maybe she could be back in the cozy comfort of her papa’s latest castle before sundown!  She hoped, anyway…

    “Get up.”     The sharply flinched, drawn from her thoughts by the man-in-gray.     “I said…”     A kick to the leg made her yelp.     “Get up.”     She was quick to follow directions, then.  The kick didn’t hurt that much, but it was pretty clear that this man… robot?  This person wasn’t screwing around…

    “Now…”     Kaitlin stood at full attention.  Whatever his next order was… she planned to follow it!     “Explain… slowly… why you decided to make a mess of my family’s house after the doctor took time out of his day to save your worthless life.”     For some reason, the urge to turn it around and call him worthless boiled up inside her.  Thankfully… she decided not to act on it.     “I-I-I didn’t know he f-fixed me…” she openly admitted with a stutter.  “I j-j-just woke up in a s-strange place, s-surrounded by people my dad hates!  I was s-scared…”     “Liar!”     She shrieked as he shouted at her.  A second later, she noticed him cross his arms.     “Let’s try this, again…  Why did you make a mess of my family’s house?”     “I… umm…”  She hesitated before admitting, “I did it in the name of Dr. Wily…”     “Are you one of his creations?”     She shrunk before answering, “Y-yes…  I… I’m a Special Wily Number.  L-like Big Bro Forte and Lost Bro King!”     The man in the red helmet and black visor hummed.     “Has this always been the case?  Wily tends to… ‘find…’ a lot of ‘his’ robots.”     “A-as far as I know…?”  Unfortunately… she really didn’t know.

    “Hmm…”  The unnamed man looked to one side as he thought out loud, “You told us you were an amnesiac, but you never told us you were a Wily Number.  Why the change-of-heart?  Why the change-of-alliance…?”     “What?”  Kaitlin blinked in confusion.  “I-I’ve always been a Wily Number, M-Mister…”     “Breakman.”     “M-Mister Breakman,” she corrected without hesitation.     “Did your… creator… ever specifically tell you of your creation?”     “Um… no.  B-but, a lot’a my brothers don’t remember bein’ created by Papa Wily, either!”     She looked down at the ground, rubbing her arm.     “He doesn’t tell us stuff like that ‘cause, even though we think of ourselves as a family, he just sees us as tools… moving from one ‘project’ to the next…  B-But, that’s okay, ‘cause we kind of are just tools!  People who get attached to ‘tools’ are stupid and wrong!  I mean, that white-haired beardo got all freaked-out when Elecman zapped that dumb, blond maid, and–”     All positive emotion – not to mention color – brained from the girl’s face as she found her eyesight obscured by the faintly-glowing end of Breakman’s weapon.     “Watch your mouth, Thundergirl…”     She thought about keeping quiet.  However…     “W… wh-why?”     A question found its way out of her mouth, instead.     “I happen to like that Right Number.”  He lowered his gun as he added, “She’s the only one who isn’t trying to change me…”     “Ch… ‘change you?’”     “Never mind.”

    Breakman crossed his arms, again, before turning to the side.  Even though Kaitlin couldn’t see his eyes through the visor, she knew he was looking at the Right House.  She figured he was probably thinking, too, considering how quiet he got…

    “Thundergirl.”     “Wh-why does everyone keep calling me that?”     “What?”     He turned her way.  She was scowling and looked annoyed.     “Why does everyone keep calling me ‘Thundergirl…?’” Kaitlin repeated.  “I dunno who that even is!  My name is ‘Kaitlin!’  I guess it’s technically Special Wily Number error: Kaitlin… but ‘Kaitlin’ is way less of a mouthful!”     Though she was smiling… Breakman was not.     “Say that, again,” he half-demanded.     “Say what again?”  She tilted her head.  “‘My name is Kaitlin?’”     “Your full name.”     “My full name… my… designation, ugh.”  She scowled.  “It’s Special Wily Number error: Kaitlin.  I’m a Special Wily Number just like–”     “Again.”     Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.  “I’m… Special Wily Number error: Kaitlin.”

    “Thundergirl.  Kaitlin, rather…”  Breakman leaned to one side, tilting his head.  “Are you aware of what you’re saying?”     “Of course I am!”  She huffed.  “What kind of stupid question is that?”     The other robot smirked.  He liked it when her true personality out-shined her fear.     “Say your full designation one more time.”     Kaitlin stomped her foot and threw her hands down, losing patience.     “I’ll say it five more times if it’ll get you to stop asking!” she shouted.     “Okay.”  He continued to smirk as he told her, “Go ahead.”     So, she did.

    “I am Special Wily Number error: Kaitlin, I am Special Wily Number error: Kaitlin, I am Special Wily Number error: Kaitlin, I am… I… w-wait…”     A look of fear and confusion came to her face as Breakman’s smirk became a smile.     “Why… why don’t I have a number?  Why can’t I find my number?  Breakman…!”     Her anxiety grew into panic and she grabbed the other robot by the shoulders.     “Wh-why can I find my Special Wily Number?!  Wh-what does that mean?!”     “It means…” he started as he knocked her arms away, “you don’t have one.  Wily never gave you a number.”     “No…  No, you’re wrong!” she cried, shaking her head.  “I have a number!  I-if Big Bro Forte is 1 and Lost Bro King is 2, then… then I’m 3!  Zero-zero-three…  I am Special Wily Number error!”     Her eyes shot open.     “I’m Special Wily Number error,” she repeated without meaning to.  “No, I’m Special Wily Number error.  I-I’m Special Wily Number error!  Error!!  Eeerr-herr-rooor…!!”     “I think that pretty much sums it up, don’t you?”     “You…!”

    All-at-once, Kaitlin’s confusion, fear, and anxiety turned red-hot and she took a swing at Breakman!  To her utter surprise…     “Ah…”     It connected.

    “I… I…”     The girl whimpered as she pulled her fist back.  Breakman didn’t even so much as flinch when he was struck.  Even after-the-fact, all he did was stand there, his head jerked back in the position she’d forced it into and his body in a neutral position.  There was one other thing, though…

    He wasn’t smiling, anymore.

    “Oh, god!!”     For some reason, the girl curled into a ball, hugging her head and whimpering in fear instead of running.  She was far too panicked to even consider leaving the area.  It took her a good minute of cowering before she looked up… but when she did…     “Ahh– aah…!”     She found herself pulled by the collar of her hoodie.

    “Well?”     “W… w… w-well…?” the girl stammered, almost too afraid to answer.     “Did you get it out of your system?”     There was a long pause before she asked, “A-aren’t you mad at me?”     “I don’t get mad.”     She blinked as he let go of her… only to make a horrible choking sound as his fist forcefully found its way into her stomach.     “I get even.”

    When he withdrew, she doubled over in pain, tears welling up in her eyes.  She hissed and growled, huffing as she pain kept coming.  He hadn’t even hit her with that plasma gun, but it sure felt like he did!     “You… you sonova…!”     “That’s right, Kaitlin.”  He grinned.  “Get angry.”     “You hurt me…!”     “You hurt Roll.”     “Elecman hurt Roll!”     “She got hurt saving you.”     “You… you…!”     “Me.”     “I’ll kill you!!”

    A few things happened in the instants that followed Kaitlin’s outburst.  Firstly, she found herself on the ground, several paces away, laying there in more pain than before.  Secondly, Breakman had pulled his shield around and, as best as she could figure, used it to whack her over to where she was.  And, thirdly…     “Wh… what…?”     Her hands were sparking and crackling with white-hot plasmatic electricity.

    “Did I– ow!”     Kaitlin tried to get up… only to fall right back down, clutching her mid-section.     “Careful,” Breakman warned in a mocking tone.  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”     “What… what did…”  She looked at her hands.  “What did I just do…?!”     “You just lived up to your name, Thundergirl.”

    After reeling for a minute, Kaitlin finally got back to her feet.  When she did, she noticed… there was a large, veiny sort of scorch mark on Breakman’s shield, as well as something similar on the ground.  Between that, the tingling and crackling of her hands, and the constant nickname everyone kept using, she could only come to one conclusion…     “Did… did Papa Wily upgrade me into a ‘battle android…?’”     For some reason… she started beaming.     “This is the best-worst-best birthday, ever…!!”     Then, when she tried to pump her fist in the air…     “Ow…!!”     She collapsed back on the ground, her aching stomach telling her that it wasn’t going to happen.

    “Ahem…”

    Several moments passed after Kaitlin made her discovery, in which time, she started playing with her newfound power.  For example, she spread her fingers and made a current arc from-one-to-the-next…  She created a series of small sparks that crackled like fireworks…  She even wrote her name in the air with a lovely cursive font!  Just as she was starting to enjoy herself, though… Breakman broke in.

    “What’s up, Breakman?” she called, still full of mirth despite her head and stomach aching from his counter-attacks.     “You’re probably not going to believe this…” he told her, “but, before today, you were galavanting around, passing yourself off as a ‘superhero’ named ‘Thundergirl.’”     “Me?  A superhero?”  The girl blinked her brown eyes.  “I could never…  Well, maybe…!”     As she clapped her hands together and formed a ball of lightning…     “Don’t get any funny ideas.”     Breakman gave her pause.     “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’…” she said, feigning innocence as she popped the ball and started drawing in the dirt with a sweet smile.

    “In any case… this isn’t your first visit to the Right Labs compound.”  Breakman stepped over as he told her, “A couple of months ago, Dr. Right invited you here to study you.”     “That doesn’t sound right!”  She slowly got to her feet, hugging her stomach.  “Ow…  Uh, why would Dr. Right invite me, a Wily-‘bot, to his place?  That’d be like Dr. Wily asking Rockman to come over for cake and punch!”     She winched from her stomach ache, suddenly wishing she’s said “cake and soda…”     “At the time,” he continued, slipping his shield onto his back, “you didn’t announce yourself as a Wily Number.”     “What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense, Breakman…”  She frowned a little, wincing as her head throbbed.  “I’ve always been a Wily Number since… since… why… um… why are there these huge gaps in my memory?”     “You’re an amnesiac.”     “Don’t get smart with me, Scarf-Boy!”     He smirked as she scowled.

    “You came back here after fighting a Wily-controlled Elecman, five days ago,” the robot said.  “He was simply out-of-commission while you had severe internal damage.  Once he was fixed-up, it was your turn to go under-the-knife, so-to-speak.”     Kaitlin tilted her head, listening to the story with a doubtful look.     “My best guess?  The doctor couldn’t help himself and took at peek at your brain.”     “My brain…?”     “Yep.  And, if I had to guess… he screwed something up and set you back to your factory defaults… or at least somewhere around the time Wily first activated you.  The question is… whose side are you really on?”     “Papa Wily’s, of course!  And, with my new electric weapons…”     She gave another mean smile before mimicking Elecman’s pose from earlier.     “I can be a hero for justice!”

    There was an awkward moment where Kaitlin continued to charge and play with her electricity.  She kept tossing Breakman glances, hoping for a reaction of some kind.  When he didn’t give her one, though… she stopped her movements, put her hands into her hoodie’s front pockets, and sighed, looking away.     “Couldn’t you… ya know… at least pretend t’ be scared?”     “Scared of what?” Breakman replied.     “Of me!”     He was grinning when she snapped back… which only made her angrier.     “You’re no threat to me,” he told her with that same grin.     “Oh, yeah?!”     When he nodded, she pulled her hands back out and charged an attack.     “You’d better run!” she warned.  “I mean it!”     Rather than run, though…     “Wh… what are you doing?”     “Calling your bluff.”     Breakman did something crazy.

    As Kaitlin held her attack, Breakman nudged his shield off of his back and… to her continued surprise… tossed it some distance away.  Then, he held his arms out, away from his body, and made the girl a promise.     “If you plan to attack me, Wily Number, then I won’t stop you.  I won’t even try and avoid it.  I’ll stand right here, with my arms out, and I’ll let you hit me.”     “Are… are you insane?!” the girl cried, her face showing anger and befuddlement.     “No.”  He smirked.  “I just don’t think you’ll do it.”     “Of course I can!”     Her smile returned and she hunkered down.     “The Rights are your family, right?  So, that makes you my enemy!  I’d be doin’ Papa Wily a favor by destroyin’ you with my fancy, new upgrades!  He might even reward me!  So, why wouldn’t I?”     “Because…”     She gritted her teeth.  Somehow… she knew he’d narrowed his eyes at her.     “You’re no threat to me.”     “I am too a threat!”     “You aren’t.”     “I am!”     “No, you aren’t.”     “I am, I am, I am…!!”     “You really aren’t.”     “I… I am, though…!”     Even though she seemed ready to strike… her resolve was starting to crack.

    “I’ll do it!” she told him, sounding less confident than before.  “I’ll… I’ll shut you down!”     “Go ahead,” the grey-suited robot said in a calm voice.     “I’ll… I’ll zap you from-head-to-toe and make you hurt!”     “I’m waiting.”     “I’ll… I’ll… I-I’ll…”     She sighed, canceling her attack.     “O-oh, alright, fine.  I won’t attack you.”  The girl kicked a rock and pouted.  “Happy?”     “Almost.”     “Wha–”     “Blues Strike!”

    Time stood still as the girl felt something… odd.  Her eyes went open and the world seemed to turn to gray.  She didn’t know what was going on or how it had happened…  All she knew was that she felt kind of a sharp pinch… but only for a second.  Then, after what seemed like forever… she felt herself collide with the ground.     The instant the touched down, time resumed and color came back to reality.  She heard herself gasp then, all-at-once, felt a burning… seething pain.  When she could finally bring herself to look, she noticed a massive, burning scorch mark covering most of her chest and part of her belly.  There was a little trail of burnt dirt leading up to her, as well.  She followed that line with her eyes… only for another feeling to overtake her.

    “Why…?”

    Her brown eyes filled to the brim with tears and overflowed down her warm cheeks.  She genuinely couldn’t believe that the robot… who had been so nice to her… could have been the one to attack her!  Yet, the proof was right there, pointed roughly where she was a few seconds prior.

    Breakman stood up straight, looking at his target with contempt and holding his smoking weapon upright.  Even if she could see his eyes… she knew she’d see no mercy, whatsoever…     “Because…”     She flinched as he spoke, expecting him to fire, again.  Thankfully…     “You hurt my family.”

    The man whistled a little tune as he retrieved his shield.  Shortly after, he cast the wounded girl another look… then, he huffed with a smirk.  Without another word, a pinkish-red glow overtook him and he disappeared in a beam of light, leaving the girl to lay there… dying.

    “I’m ho– oh, my gosh…!!”     “Kaitlin…?!  Kaaaitliiiiin…!”

    Kaitlin grunted at the new voices.  Both sounded concerned, but one sounded absolutely grief-stricken.  They both seemed to know her, so she tried to ask for help.  However, she couldn’t hear her words… When she tried to turn toward the voices, she could only catch glimpses – her optics were starting to fail.  As her systems powered down, though, she thought she saw two things:     A boy in a blue helmet… and some sort of wild animal with glasses…

[youveneverbeenalone]

Inktober for Writers/Fictober:

Day 15- Intimacy (Darejones)

These just keep getting later and I’m still behind and my apologies. What even is time? Oh well. If something’s not coherent, it’s late, so I’m sorry, and I’ll edit it later. Prompt list here, just in case, and links to previous days at the bottom. Thanks for reading and sticking in there with me. I appreciate the support.

Also, today’s is quite long- mostly because I combined it with a different wip I had in the works based on a beautiful and simple prompt that @onlymorelove asked for like two months ago. I hope it was worth the wait! I had a blast making this stuff up for their backstories, and I hope you enjoy. Oh, and in terms of continuity- pretty general & fits with my other stuff after they’ve been together for a little while.

Day 15- Intimacy

It sneaks up on her, the way so many things do with him (though they are miraculously never bad things, and she can’t find words to express how glad she is about that). This, though, is a bit of a surprise for how suddenly she realizes the way their interactions have been leading up to this, and how she is actually happy, incandescently happy, to be sitting where she is - on her couch, him next to her, holding her feet in his lap while they share stories from childhood. Something she never would have imagined was possible before. Because it’s strikingly and terrifyingly intimate, but for once she’s turning into that feeling of raw vulnerability instead of turning away. And she doesn’t have a good track record for that. She never really has.

Even before Kilgrave, she had the tendency to keep her truest self under lock and key, hidden away, safe where no one and nothing (except for Trish- the only family she has left) could hurt her. Loss will do that to a person, and in her line of work, she’s watched many people learn the necessity of living this way. Perhaps she’s no different from the masses; she’s lost plenty in her life. Everything with Kilgrave just multiplied that loss, magnifying her pain and creating infinitely more layers of separation and security through which someone would need to pass in order to really know her.

So it comes as a bit of a shock when she realizes that Matthew Murdock has come quite a long way toward achieving that feat. Mostly through increasingly familiar and very entertaining bullshit sessions in which they share about their lives. Also, they drink whiskey, and that might have to do with how the questions always seem to get easier the later the night gets. Tonight, though, the questions seem to get particularly personal.

She starts this round, after they toast and she takes a drink from her glass of whiskey. “Alright, time to get into the hard-hitting stuff. What was your most embarrassing moment as a kid?"

"Wow, the gloves are really coming off, huh? Oh god… well, when I was ten or eleven, I was finally chosen to be a server Mass. It was a big deal because I had practiced really hard to prove to them that I would be fine, that I had the route memorized and wouldn’t run into anything or whatever. But when the time finally came, I was so nervous that I ended up tripping on my robe on the way up. And I biffed it in front of a church full of people.”

“Yikes, that sucks. But I did trip in the cafeteria when I was in second grade, with a tray full of food. I was so messy that my mom had to bring me a change of clothes, so I think I win. Your turn.”

“Hmmm… what was the first cd you ever owned?"

The sigh she lets out tells him that she just rolled her eyes. "That’s the best you can do? Whatever. Technically, the first cd I ever owned was something by Mariah Carey, but it was given to me by my aunt who was very out of touch and had no idea what I was really interested in. I don't think I ever even listened to it, so I'm saying that doesn't count. But, the first cds I bought for myself were Nirvana's Nevermind and the Red Hot Chili Peppers' Blood Sugar Sex Magik. You?"

"Oh wow, I don't know. Maybe the Goo Goo Dolls Dizzy up the Girl?”

"Seriously? You didn't own a cd before 1998?"

"Hey, I was lucky Sister John Marie let me keep my original walkman when I moved in.”

The eye roll she gives is automatic more than malicious. “I guess. Well, what was your first tape, then?”

“Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks. My dad was a big fan.”

“Fair enough. Let’s see ... who was your teenage celebrity crush?"

"Yikes, I haven't thought about that in years.. Uhhhhh, I don't know ... maybe, Fiona Apple?”

She does a double take because she really didn’t expect him to say that. “What? Seriously? Not someone like Alicia Silverstone, or ... Angelina Jolie? Or hell,

Madonna? She had that whole fake chastity angle going and everything."

He gives a throaty chuckle at that, and her heart flutters at the sound.

"'Fake chastity angle' aside, consider my criteria, Jess. I lost my sight at nine, and that changed my life and the way I saw the world pretty significantly. This might surprise you, but I'm not a big movie guy. I much prefer music. Hence, Fiona Apple. And have you ever really listened to her music? Her voice is gorgeous- smooth and haunting but also lush and warm. In my opinion, very attractive."

“Uhh huh. And it’s probably just a coincidence that you became a lawyer. Doesn’t have anything to do with her being a ‘criminal’ and needing a ‘good defense’?”

A beautiful flush rises on his cheeks, but he’s a good sport and plays along with her. “That has less than a fraction of a percent to do with it. Believe it or not, I’ve always been this righteously indignant.”

She sighs to keep from chuckling back at him. “Oh, I bet. But, what about ‘ya know, before the accident? What was your type?”

She’s not sure how he manages it, but his blush intensifies, and it’s possible that it’s the prettiest blush she’s ever seen.

“I'm entirely sure that, being the good little Catholic boy I was at nine years old, I didn't have a type."

She snorts derisively at him. “Bullshit. Just because you were nine doesn't mean you weren't looking. You had to‘ve had a preference, at the very least. So share. Was it blondes or brunettes? Or maybe redheads? And I'm positive that by then you had already formed an opinion about tits vs. ass, whether or not you're willing to admit it."

He blinks at her a few times, still and silent where he sits. “Wow. I really don’t have clue how to answer that. And why is this starting to feel like a trap?"

"Oh, come on! I’m not going to take offense at what you say. I'm not insecure, I'm just curious. Besides, you have plausible deniability, anyway.”

She hears him chuckle under his breath as he lifts his eyebrows.

"Well, I will admit that now I'm curious, or at least even more curious, to know what you look like- what color your hair and your eyes are."

“Nice attempt at a deflection there, but I'm not telling you until you phrase it in a question, and you'll have to wait your turn and answer my question first."

He is quiet for a moment, expression intent- as though he’s calculating something. Finally, he lets out a long, belabored sigh. "Well... when I was growing up, I remember- we had this picture of my mom, which my dad kept framed on the mantle. It only the proof of her existence that I had back then, and I remember spending hours looking at it and thinking she was the most beautiful woman in the world. So I guess I'd say... brunette hair- like a warm chestnut color- and bright blue eyes."

She doesn’t know why her heart jumps at that, but it does, so she uses some wit and sarcasm to (hopefully) distract him and keep up appearances for her. "So maybe Freud wasn't too far off with that whole Oedipal complex thing, hmm?"

The look that he gives her at that is priceless. “Oh, god. Tell me you didn't just accuse me of being sexually attracted to my mother."

She can’t help but chuckle under her breath. "Fine, whatever. It's your turn, then."

He shrugs and gives her a knowing look. “Okay. Well... what color is your hair?"

Her heart starts to hammer in her chest, and she feels her cheeks flush, so she forces a few deep breaths to calm herself. When she’s calm enough to use neutral voice, she dodges him again. “Nice try, Murdock, but that's a hard pass."

"Oh, come on! How is that fair, Jones?"

The look she gives then is lost on him, but she’s hoping he’ll feel her weighty stare. “What about me gives you the impression that I care if it’s fair or not?”

He sigh exasperatedly at her. “Fine. Who was your teenage celebrity crush?"

She smirks and takes a sip of her whiskey. "I'd think that was obvious- Kurt Cobain."

He gives her a skeptical look. “Wasn't he already dead by the time you would have formed any kind of a serious opinion?"

She shrugs, a wry smile on her face. “That was part of the allure, honestly."

He’s quiet for a beat, but after taking a drink of his own whiskey, he looks up at her, approximating her gaze. “So, what's your type, then?"

With a shake of her head, she flattens her mouth into a thin line. “Nope, you already asked your question.”

“Oh, come on! You got a two-parter last time. Turnabout is fair play. We've set plenty of precedent for that."

She silently stares at him for a beat. “Again, I ask you: what makes you think I care?”

His shoulders slump, and he shakes his head at her. She thinks that, in this case, it’s the equivalent of him rolling his eyes. “Fine. Next question, please.”

She can’t help but smirk at that and how she was able to shut him down so easily. “What was your superlative?"

"...I don't understand how those words go together in that order." His eyebrow might as well be part of his hairline for how he’s raising them.

"You know, in high school yearbooks - people voted 'most fill-in-the-blank'? What was yours?"

"Oh, right. Well, I was voted 'worst driver'."

She snorts as she takes a drink of whiskey. "Who knew? Turns out Catholic kids have a sense of humor after all.

"Yeah, well Sister Mary Margaret didn't share that sense of humor. Everyone who voted for me got a demerit. A lot of people were pissed at me the last month of school."

She huffs a laugh at him. Yikes."

"Yeah, it wasn't a great time. But what about you?"

"Oh boy. Well, a group of kids got together and created their own write-in ballot section and voted me as 'most likely to die alone'. But Trish was on the yearbook committee, obviously, and she wasn't about to let that slide. Instead, we were voted 'best buds' or some shit like that. But to this day, I'm not convinced that she didn't circumvent the voting process to make sure the only place my name turned up was next to hers."

"Must be nice to have connections."

"Yeah, Trish continues to be a helpful contact that way. You're up."

He starts to blink at her, and she has to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from decking him for the false gratitude he uses in his tone.

“Oh really? It's my turn? How gracious. Thank you. And as penance, I want to know … your worst nickname.”

She grimaces at that. “Oh god. Well, in middle school, after the accident, people just started calling me an orphan. Even if it was true, that was brutal as an adolescent. And then my parents and my brother always called me Messy Jessie. Because my room was always a mess.”

Her thoughts drift off for a moment, to her family and the way things were before the accident. But she doesn’t continue with that train of thought for too long- the memories are too bittersweet. “Wow, I haven't thought about that in years. What about you?"

He sighs heavily. “Well, the kids at school were not all that creative and generally just called me a freak. And then my dad, and later, Stick, called me… Matty."

She chews her lip and looks at the floor before sighing and offering an apology. “Shit. Sorry. Shouldn’t have brought that up.”

"It’s okay, Jess. His death is a thing that happened. That won't change even if we don't talk about it." His expression turns cloudy and distant, and it occurs to her that she should probably ask him about that sometime. Maybe offer to listen and help him grieve. But that time is not today, because she’s already feeling vulnerable enough as it is. So she simply fixes him with a steady gaze.

"Doesn't mean that being reminded of it isn't the fucking worst, though."

The slightest of smirks flashes across his face, but it’s gone in a breath. And then he raises his glass, his mouth a grim line. "I'll drink to that."

She raises her own glass to his and drinks in tandem with him. A heavy silence falls between them, and suddenly she has the urge to share something with him- something meaningful and personal. Her mouth opens and she hears herself speaking before she consciously registers the word that comes out in a hesitant voice.

"Black."

But he’s only confused by that, tilting his head toward her. “What?"

She closes her eyes and blows out an exhale. Part of her wants to take it back, pretend to say something else, but she’s committed. So she tries again, using a louder and surer tone this time. “My hair. It's black."

He doesn’t quite gasp at that, but he inhales sharply, and it makes her stomach do gymnastics. “Jess-"

But she cuts him off, barreling ahead because she knows she’ll lose her nerve if she lets him talk now. "And my eyes are hazel, but mostly dark brown. Not all that different from yours, actually. But sadly, it looks like I’m not your type.”

He huffs a breath and shakes his head once before reaching out a hand and cupping her cheek softly. "Actually, you’re just my type.”

She bites the inside of her lip to keep as neutral an expression as she can. "And what is your type, exactly?"

"An intelligent, strong, dangerous woman who doesn't take anyone's shit.” He draws her closer, resting his forehead against hers as he speaks. He drops his voice- not quite into a whisper, but close- for the last bit. “And I'm a sucker for an alto."

Her heart jumps at that, and takes a few calming breaths. With a shake of her head and a sigh, she leans back from him, raising an eyebrow in his direction. “Does that line actually work for you?"

"It's working for me pretty well right now, if your pulse is anything to go by. But in all seriousness, thank you, Jess. For telling me."

She rolls her eyes and shrugs. "Just consider it my apology for not playing fair earlier... Matty."

She smirks playfully as he shakes his head, a pained look on his face.

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"No. I'm not."

He sets his jaw and raises his chin the slightest bit. "Okay ... Messy Jessie."

She hums at him and leans a little closer. “You've got some nerve, Murdock."

"I'm just following your lead, Jones."

She gives a comically large shrug and uses a teasing tone. "Fine. But you know, I can go back to calling you St. Matthew, if that’s what you would prefer."

With that, he sighs and deflates, hanging his head and conceding his defeat. “... No, you don’t have to do that.”

"That's what I thought... Matty."

The beaming smile he gives her as the endearing nickname fall from her lips is like a star going supernova. It’s brilliant and mesmerizing, warm and beautiful, and it creates a strange, though not necessarily unpleasant feeling in her chest.

It’s a curious one, this feeling- frightening in its unfamiliarity. Because she hasn’t felt this way since… well, maybe ever. And now that she does, she has to admit, it isn’t quite what she thought it would be like. But she can’t deny that she loves it, suddenly yearns for it as if it’s the only fuel on the planet which could sustain her. And all because of the way he smiles when she calls him by that sweet name that so few have called him.

It’s times like these that remind her of how well they are coming to know one another. And it’s because of that strange feeling- which is increasing in its intensity and getting harder to ignore, but which she is still not quite ready to name- that she settles further into the couch, leaning closer to him, and relaxing more fully than she has done in god knows how long.

Day 14 | Day 16

[crzcorgi]

My Guy, My Girl

Catch up with Negan and Number 6 here

Negan x wife Number 6 (reader - Y/N)

Y/N=your name

Y/N/N ~ your nickname

Y/E/C ~ your eye color

Ne - reader’s nickname for Negan

I switch between the reader and Negan’s POV , but I have labeled the changes

Warnings-sexy Negan times & language. Under a cut due to mature aesthetic and story theme and length

I apologize for the amount of time between chapters, and for my less than stellar writing.

2200 words

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 Y/N POV

  As I walked into the bathroom, turning a bit to glance over at Negan, I realized how truly lucky I am. I know a lot of people would never see him the way I do. But I know that I am seeing Negan as he really is, I see him with no pretenses, at a time way before the apocalypse, before life’s circumstances changed him. He was a wonderful husband to me, my best friend and my Savior.

 I had started the shower, stepping in carefully. I was leaning back, enjoying the warm water which we didn’t always have.

 “Starting without me baby girl!” I jumped, almost falling. But Negan grabbed me, pulling my wet body into him. “Good thing I was already fucking naked sweetheart!” He laughed, his nose burrowing into that sensitive place where my neck meets my shoulder.

 He stepped into the shower, never letting go of me. “We don’t have a lot of fucking fuck time, gotta met with Simon and D about the run.

 “The run?” The way he said the I knew he was possibly going to let me go. I couldn’t contain my excitement!

 “Yes, doll, the run. I want you in the meeting. And after, you’re training with Arat or Laura.” He bent down to adjust the water and I couldn’t help myself, grasping his sweet little tush.

 He jolted upright, swinging around and grabbing me tight. “Fuck y/n! You know better than to fucking freak me out like that. Jesus Christ!” I knew I had scared him, his breathing fast and unsteady. His head was obviously somewhere else.

 “I’m sorry Ne, I didn’t mean to startle you that way.” I was rubbing up and down his arms, taking a hold of his face, my thumb lightly caressing his cheek. “I know you’re thinking about work, I promise I’ll be good.”

 Looking down at me, a big grin appearing on his face, “Good, doll? Now where’s the fun in that?” He took a hold of my hands, bringing them up to his mouth, kissing each one. “Now how about you begin making it up to me by apologizing to Negan Jr. first, hmm?” He then ran his tongue over his bottom lip, knowing exactly what that does to me.

 I smiled at him, then with my back to the shower stream, I slid down the front of him, my hands trailing through his wet chest hair, reaching his groin. Tickling his curly hair, I leaned my face towards his upper thighs, my tongue coming out to lick the water droplets off of his legs. I worked my way backwards, one hand reaching up to grasp his now hard cock, slowly stroking, my mouth finding his sack, kissing, licking it. I sucked in one ball, my free hand squeezing the other. His groans were spurring me on.

 Letting his ball pop out of my mouth, I nuzzled into the area at the base of his cock, enjoying his scent. These are the times I love so very much, cherish them, being so close with Ne, showing him how much he means to me, how much I love him. Giving him the attention he deserves. Pleasing him like he pleases me.

 Tipping my head up so I could take in his face, I could see the pure bliss, his eyes closing, his tongue darting out to roll along his lower lip. This man is my whole world and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 I slowly took the head of his manhood into my mouth, my tongue circling it. Relaxing my jaw, I took what I could in, the tip touching the back of my throat. I gently grasped his sack, kneading one ball, then the next. My other hand reaching that delicate spot behind his sack, stroking it, knowing just what it did to him.

 He began thrusting forward, slowly. My actions mixed with Negan’s causing me to feel my own impending climax. I moved my ass around so my clit was rubbing on the side of my heel, giving just enough pleasure with each thrust from Negan forcing me back and forth.

 Feeling my end coming, I sped up my ministrations, bobbing my head in sync with his thrusts, a ball in each hand, squeezing them, stopping when I feel them retract upwards. Negan began to pull out, when I sucked him back in wanting to taste every drop of his delicious cum. This was my heaven.

Negan’s POV

 Good fucking God, I don’t know what I ever deserved to have such a beautiful creature, on her knees, pleasuring me like no other could. She knows me better than I fucking know myself. One look and she has me under her fucking spell. But she never takes advantage of her abilities. She is always ready to make me happy. And that’s why I am going to agree to this fucking run she has her heart set on. She fucking deserves something for all she does for me.

 She knows exactly what to do to make me fucking nuts, those hands, fingers, just the right amount of pressure, that fucking mouth, what she can do with her tongue, fuck! Put them together and I’m a fucking goner. And she had me.

 I tried to pull out but she wouldn’t have it, sucking me back in like a fucking vacuum. With her hands on my balls and my dick down her fucking throat I came, and I came hard. I had to brace myself, grasping at anything, my hands just slip down the fucking shower walls. I was about to fucking fall right on doll, so I leaned backwards, my cock popping from her mouth as I fell backwards, landing with a loud bang on my fucking ass.

 I looked over at doll to see a look of pure shock, her big eyes as fucking wide as could be, her mouth agape. She almost looked ready to cry but soon surprised me when she burst out laughing, falling over onto my legs.

 “I’m sorry Ne! It’s just, I mean, really?!” She was waving her hands between us. “It kinda kills the mood when you fall flat on your ass, don’t you think?”

 Her giggles becoming contagious as I started laughing. As I leaned down to pull her into my lap, the fucking water turned ice cold, causing both of us to yell and scramble as fast as we could out of the shower.

 I leaned in to turn the water off, turning to see doll shaking like a fucking leaf. I grabbed a towel wrapping her up, then I picked her up carrying her back into the bedroom. I gently tossed her on the bed, laughing as she tried to stop herself from bouncing.

 “Negan!” She chastised me as the towel I had wrapped around her fell loose, causing her breasts to bounce free.

 I crawled up the bed, straddling her. “Lookie here!” I leaned down, tweaking each nipple, then taking the left one in my mouth while still sucking the right.

 “Oh god…Ne! You said we…didn’t have…much time! Ohhhh!”

 I knew what it took to get my little doll fucking going. And conveniently for me, it wasn’t much.

 I slid my hand down to her wet pussy, two fingers entered quickly, my reaching for her clit and scratching it, then circling it. I twitched my fingers, knowing what she would do.

 Her back arched causing her tits to push upward into my face even more.

 “Good fucking lord baby girl! You are going to suffocate me!” I laughed. She could barely look at me as my fingers kept up their movements. Her hands were clawing at my back, one reaching around to the front buckling on to my solid dick, tugging at it.

 “Fuck, Ne…I’m gonna…cum!” She was barely coherent, a fucking panting mess that I loved more than my own self.

 “Cum baby, cum for me.”

 And she did, her juices coming out like a fucking geyser, running down my arm to the bed. Her body shivering, shaking. As I began crawling off of her, I heard my radio fucking sputtering.

 “Boss, the meeting’s starting in 15, figured you’d be here by now.”  

 “Fuck!” I sat back on my heels, taking doll in, her eyes closed tightly, her hands still clenching onto the sheets, a bit of a shiver running over her body. But there was a look of pure fucking contentment across her face.

 “Think you’re able to get dressed baby? Got that meeting to go to.” I stood up off the bed, walking towards the head and sitting down beside her. I began rubbing her arm, causing her to flinch. “You okay sweetheart?”

 “Mmhmm, just a bit overstimulated, you know what you can do to me, Ne. Help me up?” She reached over to grab my hands.

 “Fuck doll! Your hands are ice cold!” I took a hold of them, pulling her up and onto my lap. “Give me those hands.” I took a hold of them rubbing them between my own. She laid her head in the crook of my neck, sighing.

 “I love you Negan, I hope you realize just how much.” She tilted her head to look up at my face, a sweet smile upon her lips.

 “Aiming for some fucking brownie points towards going on that damn run, doll?” I snickered, bringing her hands up to my mouth, gently kissing her warmed up fingers.

 I was still laughing when I realized she wasn’t joining in the laughter. “Doll? Why you fucking glaring at me that way?”

Y/N POV

 I love him, I really do, but why must he always turn a sweet, loving moment into me angling for something?! I know I need to not be angry, hurt, but I am.

 “Negan, I’m not angling for anything.” I shook my head, looking down at my feet, hoping he apologizes. But it’s doubtful.

 I couldn’t stand the silence. “Why do you always assume the worst? You know, sometimes saying ‘I love you’ is just saying ‘I love you’ nothing more nothing less. I would think you would know by now that I’m not deceitful, it’s just not in me to be.”

 Sighing, I took a hold of his face, looking into his mesmerizing hazel orbs. “I love you Ne, no strings attached, no ulterior motives. Understand?”

 “Yes doll, I do, it’s just…” I could see a look of sadness, an almost hopelessness.

 “I’m not like the others, Negan. I’m not in this for something, never was, never will be. I married you, wives and all, because I saw something in you, knew that you were a good man. And it no time, I fell for you.” I leaned up enough for our lips to meet delicately. The kiss was sweet, soft, gentle. No tongue, all lips. Just a girl showing her guy how much she loves him.

 Negan’s POV

 I fucking spoke before I thought, once again. I know doll loves me for me, I know what a lucky fucker I am because she does. It’s just sometimes I forget she’s not like every other woman I’ve been with. Always out for number one, what they can fucking get out of the relationship, no true fucking love. I forget that she’s so much like my Lucille.

 “I’m sorry baby girl, I’m so fucking lucky you haven’t walked out on me. You’re too good for me. I apologize for my fucking asinine ways, and that you always have to fucking put up with them, with me.”

 Her hands began running through my hair, her lips coming up to rest against my cheek. “Let’s get ready before Simon comes a knockin’.”

 I knew she was right, but just sitting here, holdin’ my girl in my arms, fuck, this is heaven. My fucking heaven. But we’ll get up and get dressed, go to the fucking meeting.

 “Ne, are you pouting?” Y/N now had both arms tight around my back, looking up at me with a smirk on her lips.

 “Yes, baby girl, I am indeed fucking pouting. I don’t wanna go to the stupid ass meeting.” I looked down into her oh so fucking sweet y/e/c eyes. “I wanna stay here with my girl, have a little fuckity fucking fun.” I kissed the top of her still damp head, taking her in.

 She shimmied into me impossibly tight. “I know Ne, I would love that too, we don’t get many days like that. Sighing, she let go of me, attempting to stand up. I grabbed her hips as she stood. She turned in my hands to face me, giving me her stern face.

 “Don’t look at me like that doll, it’s just making me fucking hard.” I looked downward, hearing her click her tongue at me.

 She placed her hands on my shoulders. “Negan, I’ll make you a promise. You let me get dressed, while you get dressed too. We go to the meeting, I go train with a Savior.” She leaned down, her mouth right by ear and her tits in my face. And purred, “ And I will give you the night of your dreams.”

 I had no fucking clue what my night might include. But I did know it was with my sweet baby girl. And that was all I needed to know.

[shadowofhapiness]

Shards Of Ice (16/20)

Summary: When princess Anna finds herself gifted a personal slave for her twentieth birthday, her life changes, as she becomes fascinated with the broken girl she’s been given as a servant. Discovering her present’s supernatural abilities and how she was forced to conceal them, Anna just might be able to help Elsa heal, offering her the one thing she’d always been denied, love. [Elsanna]

AN: It's really been a looooong while since I've given this story a bit of love and for that I truly am sorry. Here's to hoping that 2017 might see this through to the end though, because there really isn't much left to this 'fic! :)

Rated: T

Word Count: ~ 5.300 words (~ 73.400 total)

Fanfiction.net - Archive Of Our Own

Plotting Against The Crown?

Elsa was over the moon.

Well, not exactly –if someone had taken the time to ask her whether her life was indeed perfect and to be completely and utterly honest when answering, she probably would have pointed out a thing or two she might not have been entirely satisfied with, but right that moment, as she hurried down the royal corridors with one large and expensive dress awkwardly placed in her hands (and, more importantly, desperately trying to not have it trail on the floor and gather up any dirt), this was quite possibly one of the first highlights she’d had in many a week.

As the preparations ran smoothly, the time seemed to fly by, and before she’d even noticed it, the big day was upon them already, the event itself only hours away from them now. The slightly uncomfortable feeling of having butterflies in her stomach had determinately clung to her throughout the day even though Elsa was pretty certain she had nothing to worry about and she was pretty certain her heartbeat kept picking up speed as she approached the door –which was rather odd, given that this wasn’t even about her in the first place, if there was anyone who ought to be having a hard time of things right now, she would guess that it was probably Anna. What with all this princess duty and all, Elsa gathered that that couldn’t possibly easy to manage.

When Gerda had handed her over the dress, all gentle hands and kind smile and enthusiastic “I hope it’ll be okay for Anna!” she’d given her an awkward grin from behind the garment (for it may not look it, but the elaborate gown did in fact weigh a considerable amount, especially after three flights of stairs) before scurrying off, the old woman’s radiant mood making her think for a while as she weaved her way through the many servants and guests slowly piling up in the castle.

This was going to be a big day for Anna, and the old maid’s words had made it dawn on Elsa that perhaps Anna might need the same enthusiasm and support from her this morning –just a few words of encouragement, they couldn’t hurt, right?. Truth be told, Elsa had no real idea what being a princess truly entailed –after all, being born in poverty and sold off for a few gold coins after her mother’s passing didn’t really call for any glimpses into a life of luxury and royal customs (and she was pretty adamant that it was due to a kind twist of fate that she had ended up in Arendelle castle at all), but she gathered that it was probably a whole lot of burdens and responsibilities that Anna was about to take on, and that a smile, hug and reminder that Anna could certainly do this (because Elsa was pretty certain that Anna could do anything) would probably be the kind thing to do.

Mind set, she hoisted the slipping garment back into her arms, carefully slipped past one of their Southern guests –recognizable due to his elegant grey coat and shiny emblems engraved on the area around his chest- mindful to give him a respectful bow before coming to half in front of the large green doors of Anna’s bedroom.

She had her left hand fisted and had been about to knock on the door when she pulled her limb back, unsure as to whether she actually wanted all of this after all.

Did Elsa miss Anna? Of course, anyone could have asked her that question, even the King or Queen themselves, and Elsa was pretty certain she wouldn’t have been able to give either of them a respectful answer, the bubble of ache, want and loneliness which had been growing day by day having now become something almost unbearable to live with at times. She wasn’t about to fool herself into believing that actually going in there, getting to be close to her once –what word could she use to refer to what they had once been? A couple? An item? A fling? Elsa wasn’t even sure if there actually even  was anything that could truly describe it to be honest, it was too singular and special that she wasn’t even sure she wanted to label it- sharing a room with Anna, actually having the opportunity to have a one-on-one conversation (the one thing she’d longed for ever since that fateful evening) seemed quite scary. And Elsa wasn’t too sure she wanted to deal with that.

Going in there meant facing Anna by herself, nobody around them, just the two of them. And the reality of it all, what they had been and what they were now would be something she would need to accept.

She had thought that she’d dealt with those feelings –hell, she’d been so happy not even ten minutes ago at the thought of just spending time with the princess, yet here she was, cowering in front of her door as an unwanted can of worms –of damned feelings- opened up again. And Elsa could really do without those right now.

Dammit Elsa, keep it together!

She clenched one hand beneath the dress, the cold she could feel burning the tips of her fingers almost a welcomed distractions, anything really but the stupid broken heart she should have by all means come to terms with at this point.

Deep breath. Deep breath, Elsa. It’ll only be a few minutes, keep it together.

The sound of her knuckles hitting the hard frame of the door was still ringing in her ears when it opened, only a little at first but was thrown back when Anna’s face peered back at her, almost curious at first then beaming with joy when she saw who exactly had been sent to help her.

“Elsa! Elsa come on in!” And she’d barely been able to form a coherent reply and thank you when a gentle hand came to her back and she was ushered inside, the princess gently closing the door behind them both.

Elsa’s eyes widened a little as she took in the bedroom and all of a sudden, the a dull ache erupted din her chest as her eyes swept around the neat, comfortable and familiar place. As she took in the dresser on the left, the piled up papers on the desk in the corner (poor Anna, having to see to all that must have taken a toll on her) and how the receding sunlight filtering through the grand window cast a soft glow on the bed –the one they’d shared once, where they had retreated every night, safe in each other’s arms  and most importantly, together, Elsa suppressed a sigh as everything she’d lost and could never hope to gain back (at least, not with Anna) came rushing back to her.

She’d been kidding herself the whole time, of course she’d missed this.

The sharp clap of Anna’s hands made her shake her head and bring her back to the here and now, and as she rounded on the princess, she was disconcerted by the smile she bore. A while ago, Elsa would have prided herself in being able to tell whether it was genuine, real and a reflection of what Anna truly felt, but as she looked at her now, she wasn’t so sure she was able to discern witch one it was. And it was quite upsetting, not being able to understand how someone you truly cared about (very deeply, was it wrong of her to still want to label it as love?) when a few months ago, it would have come naturally.

Maybe she’d lost a lot more than she’d fooled herself into believing by abiding with Anna’s decision after all.

“So, um, today’s the big day hmm?” It was clumsily worded as Elsa tried to push her own feelings aside, they weren’t what mattered right now, Anna was. This was Anna’s special day –and the princess had told her how important this was to her- and she wasn’t about to ruin it because of her inability to move on. Quickly and thanks to a skill she’d had the opportunity to perfect over years of servitude, she plastered a smile –maybe it was fake, but it was a smile none the less, and hopefully, Anna would be fooled for the short while they would be together- a give a false impression of enthusiasm. Or maybe it was real, for Elsa truly was proud that Anna had decided to accept her heirloom and birthright, it was just a pity that such a heritage was not compatible with their feelings.

“Gerda asked me to bring you this, she thought you’d want to wear it.” She offered as a way to change the subject, arms outstretched as she handed Anna the golden laced gown. It brought out the lighter streaks in her hair, Elsa noticed, as Anna took it and retreated to the screen at the other side of the room –not that Elsa would have looked anyway, she was much too modest for that.

It took a while, and Anna’s occasional muffling and cursing and colorful words she sprouted towards the fabric definitely made Elsa smile fondly (she’d missed this too, apparently) and the wide grin resulting from general goofiness and a moment of relaxation –dare she say normality?- all too suddenly froze for an instant before melting into a smile of pure and genuine adoration as Anna awkwardly weaved herself out again, hand clutching the front of her gown to keep some semblance of modesty.

“Hey Elsa, do you think you’d mind…?” Her finger pointed towards her back and the crooked grin and barely-there blush quickly spreading across her cheeks had Elsa shaking her head in earnest fondness.

“Of course, don’t move.”

Elsa’s hands hovered over the buttons for a moment, almost not daring to touch out of fear that the second of newfound closeness would be too much, too painful to deal with because they would barely get a chance to graze the smooth skin before retreating again, and it all seemed like a cruel game to her, tease her with a semblance of the intimacy she’d missed and take it away only a moment later. Yet, as a servant whom had been tasked with something, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse, especially not when it was Anna that was asking, and with a deep breath, she brought her hand to the bottom button, nearly at the base of the brunette’s spine.

The tingle in her finger made her breath stop for a moment, a moment where Elsa basked in their newfound closeness, in being handed back something that had been taken away from her –them- and she let it linger there, her pale skin a sharp contrast to Anna’s pink. Oddly enough, it still seemed to fit, a deep contrast she’d remembered Anna mentioning on one of those first nights, waking some poetic comparison to a sun and a moon or something along those lines (it all seemed so far away now that Elsa wasn’t sure she could entirely remember) and how their hands would fit perfectly in each others’ hold. And how Anna wouldn’t want for the world to have to let them go, because she liked how they fit together.

And now she had a chance to fit their broken pieces back together, but in the back of her mind, Elsa knew it was only for a fleeting moment, in a few seconds, she would have to pull them back, lift them up and away, and the short semblance of completeness, of them being together again would crumble back to the dust it was apparently supposed to be.

So much for hope and second chances, huh.

Shaking her head harshly and scrunching her eyes closed so she would not have to look (feeling was torture enough, actually seeing their proximity without being able to do anything would just add fuel to the flame), Elsa quickly grappled about closing up the rest of the buttons, hands unsteady as the she closed the back of the dress up. Once her hand reached up to touch the base of Anna’s neck, she pulled back, gently tapping the princesses’ shoulder.

“There we are, all done.” It was quiet, and her voice sounded rather sullen even to her (apparently, Elsa couldn’t keep up the fake enthusiasm appearance indefinitely it would seem, and while she knew she ought to try harder, especially today, it just seemed to impossible a task for her to complete right now), so she didn’t bother trying).

Anna looked back up at her reflection, momentarily stunned at how different she looked with all this elaborate and fancy attire now adorning her body. This was not her, the Anna she remembered wanting to be, this wasn’t who she was at all, and the disappointment at realizing that she barely recognized herself felt bitter in her mouth. She was careful to hide it of course (being of royal descent and a princess, she had learnt to master the art of hiding her feelings and adorning a mask reflective of the position she held), but the closer this whole evening seemed get to actually happening, the more Anna felt like everything was about to take a sour turn, which was rather depressing considering she and the rest of the castle household spent so long preparing for this.

Nevertheless, a princess she was and a princess she would remain tonight, and as such, she was quick to cover up feelings that had no place popping up at the moment and plaster the forced smile she’d been taught to put on for formal occasions, rapidly coming up with an appreciative comment to make about the dress.

“Gerda must have worked really hard getting it all mended and spotless, it really means a lot to me that she did it. Mind passing along my thanks if you happen to cross her tonight?” She asked, still half-looking at her reflection in the mirror, head slightly turned to her left trying to catch a glimpse of Elsa behind her, whose fingers were delicately arranging her hair over her shoulder, a long silky ribbon tying it out of her face.

“I’ll be sure to drop into her quarters.” Elsa said sheepishly, taking a step back as Anna got back to her feet, the pair chuckling as the princesses’ knees gave an audible crack.

“Here’s to hoping I won’t have to spend the evening standing up.” Anna commented lightly, in an attempt to ease the atmosphere somewhat and to push down the growing anxiety she could feel in her chest. Everything will be fine, there’s no reason why it won’t. Stop worrying.

“Thank you, Elsa.” It was sincere, Anna really meant it as she looked the older girl in the eyes, hoping she managed to convey truly how much it meant to have someone she cared about so much get ready for such a huge thing. The prospect of having to uphold the crown and family name in the presence of so many still had butterflies flying about in her stomach, but the intensity had lessened somewhat since Elsa had helped her get ready. She wasn’t really sure how it had worked but the blonde seemed to have relieved her of some of her initial apprehensions, and if Elsa believed in her, surely convincing the crowd waiting for her in the grand hall couldn’t be any harder, right? Just be yourself, if anything, don’t compromise on that and everything will be okay.

“I guess this is it, then.” A deep breath later, shoulders now set and head held high, Anna reluctantly pulled her hand back from where Elsa had unconsciously been holding it (between both her own, and Anna felt like it should have stayed there, felt like that’s where their hands should belong –together) trudging towards the door. Once she pulled it open, there would be no going back, she would be officially recognized as the heir to Arendelle and next ruler of the throne, there would be little to no chances of this casual intimacy ever happening again no matter how much she kept telling herself that it was unfair. Once the door closed, it would be over.

Might as well get it behind her quickly then.

It took everything not to look back, to keep staring at the embellished symbols painted on the wall right in front of her, but Anna knew turning back now would just make it all the more harder (on both of them, and she really didn’t want to have to put Elsa through more than she already had, it would just be unfair). Her heart beat madly in her chest as she took the first step over the threshold, back into the real world of a busy servants scurrying about making last-minute check-ups and very noticeable guests chattering about incoherently down the stairs. This was her world now, this was where Anna belonged.

It felt stale, cold, wrong.

By chance or pure luck alone (she was not sure which), and anchor of familiarity reached out for her hand before she drowned and Anna whipped her head back as Elsa reached out for her. “Wait!”

“I-I” The blonde fumbled for a moment, as if aware now that they were out in the open that this might not be deemed as appropriate behavior for a servant. A pinkish blush spread across her face, a cute pinkish blush Anna noticed as Elsa’s hand rummaged around in her pocket before pulling out some sort of object wrapped up in a greenish tinted wrapping.

“I thought maybe you might like this.” She said, hands outstretched towards her, the little gift neatly sitting between her palms. “Just in case things get a little overwhelming or something.”

Anna stared at the package mouth slightly hanging open at a loss for words –truth was, she hadn’t expected such a kind gesture form Elsa for tonight, she certainly hoped the other girl hadn’t felt obligated, but as she pulled the string and the wrapping fell open she knew immediately that it was not the case. Formal smile now turned into a genuine grin, Anna picked up the mini chocolate cake from its decorative wrap, biting into it and making the most of the rust of sweetness, the unbidden memories it brought along and just how nice it felt.

“Oh, Elsa, you really didn’t-“

“I wanted to. Thought you might want a little something before heading down. You should probably get down there before everyone starts wondering if the guest of honor might have forgotten their special night.”

“Thank you though, really.” Their hands, which had somehow linked back together, were pulled apart, Anna doing so with much reluctance as they reached the grand door. “I’ll see you later then?” She asked hopefully, about to make her way in, throwing the question back at her as an invitation for them to spend a little while together once the whole official business was over and done with.

“As you wish.” Elsa bowed –and maybe over did it a little, but if it made Anna chuckle, it was worth it.

However, as the doors closed between them, neither one got the chance to see the other’s smile fade from their face as soon as they turned away.

It still took Elsa a surprising amount of willpower to turn away from the door and take the first few steps away from it without casting a backwards glance after Anna had gently shut it. Her hand still lingered on the handle for a moment as if it meant that somehow, she and Anna were still connected, as if the moment wasn’t over yet  –and it was just for just a moment, nobody would notice or mind, right? Eventually though, the guilt at the knowledge that she had duties she was expected to fulfill before the events started and that her being here meant that somebody else was probably covering for her made Elsa pull away, casting one last longing glance backwards before slowly making her way down the corridor. 

Well, to be fair, it wasn’t as hard as she’d anticipate it would be. And the fact that her skin still tingled where Anna’s warm fingers had brushed against it (as if she was somehow there with her right now) made Elsa feel less lonely in an odd way. It was like Anna would be with her for the evening despite not really being there.

Right, back to I then, Elsa. By the looks of the sheer amount of guests Gerda and the servants will probably need a hand in the kitchens bringing out the buffet.

Once again weaving her way down the corridor trying hard not to bump into any of their guests as she did so, Elsa wormed her petite body through small chubby dignitaries, elegant noblewomen and strong handsome lords, apologizing profusely whenever she happened to elbow one of them by mistake, until she finally managed to make it to one of the back corridors not used by their guests.

Leaning against the wall for a second and wiping her brow she took a moment to recover before heading back to Gerda, head bowed, and the initial thrill and excitement for the evening having sizzled out somewhat since helping Anna get ready. It’s not that she didn’t appreciate the fact that she was the one Anna had asked after –no, that was something that she would trade for the world- nor was it the celebration in itself: as a matter of fact, Elsa had been telling herself that tonight was going to be something absolutely huge for Anna, something, something the princess had been anticipating for a lifetime now, and watching her make her formal entrance as Princess of Arendelle and official heir to the throne was something the blonde was sure would make her proud to see unfold –it was simply the stark knowledge that she now had to accept that after tonight, any particular bond they might have had (even that respectful friendly distance they’d kept from one another since that talk she’d had with her parents), that any special and intimate connection they shared (and that a part of her had perhaps secretly kept hoping they might be able to rekindle) had only been an illusion she’d fooled herself into believing to make the fallout of this whole sorry affair easier to deal with on her end.

And while Anna still obviously considered her a valued and trusted friend, Elsa wasn’t even certain that etiquette would even allow either of them to actually openly display after tonight. It would seem like the society’s conventional rules was certainly out to get them, or that Fate seemed to have a funny sense of humor when it came to her life. Turned out she only now realized that she was on the verge of losing so much more than she’d initially fooled herself into believing (and Elsa scoffed at her own defense, that it would have somehow made it easier to bear in the long run. As if).

That doesn’t matter now, just… At least try to at least do what Anna asked of you, it will give her that much less to worry about.

Opening the servant’s quarters’ door to Gerda’s wide wrinkly smile and helpful hands was almost a relief as the old woman took the two damaged shawls Elsa had picked up in Anna’s room before leaving, shaking her head fondly and offhandedly commenting that for all her good-heartedness and enthusiasm, Anna’s tendency to be overzealous and, at times, forgetfulness when it came to looking out for herself (going so far as to bring up one of Anna’s embarrassing childhood embarrassing mishaps, a failed attempt at picking a bouquet of roses from the royal gardens to offer to her mother, which had ended up damaging her frilly blue dress more than anything else) was something she’d learnt to accept along with the princesses many odd but charming quirks.

“Oh! But you shouldn’t stay here dear!” She suddenly exclaimed as she looked up from the piece of clothing in her hands, somehow upset at the thought that she might have been keeping the younger servant from seeing to any last-minute duties she might still have on her list. “You should run along and get ready, and-“ She momentarily took hold of Elsa’s wrist before the blonde politely took her leave. “Take this, for the road.” She added with a little smile, rummaging through her apron’s from pocket.

It was a small square of chocolate cake wrapped in a fancy embroidered napkin, probably a left-over from the kitchens.

The fresh memory of having done the exact same thing for Anna not even fifteen minutes ago brought an unbidden smile to her face.

“Thank you.” She said politely, smiling down at the little treat. The tiny sugar rush would probably be most welcome if it would help her keep her on her feet for the evening.

“Good, run along now.” The old woman encouraged, light hand on her shoulder guiding her back out.

And so Elsa once again found herself wondering about the palace corridors, only difference was that this time, she felt a little at a loss as to what to do. She doubted she had any place in the great hall, since it was reserved for the noble guests and other highly ranked officials, she likely had no place there, but neither did she have any other duties to attend to.

At least, the king seemed to have gotten things going, for the corridors seemed to have emptied out in the short space of time it had taken for her to give Gerda Anna’s damaged clothes. The guests must have all gathered around waiting for Anna then.

Or most of them anyway… Elsa concluded when she heard an old scratchy voice just around the next corner. Maybe he got lost? God knew it had taken her a while to find her way about the palace. She’d been about to make the turn when she was able to make out a second voice, slightly younger though barely audible (or making a point in speaking in a hushed tone). Elsa quickly gathered it was the latter however.

“You certain nobody will suspect anything?” The older voice asked, slightly hoarse.

Well that was certainly odd.

Ears more alert, Elsa inched to the left, still making sure to keep her back to the wall and strained to hear as much as she could.

“I made sure of it, I gave orders for one of our servants to be the one in charge of bringing out the refreshments, said he’d see to princess Anna in person for us.”

“Excellent.” And there was definitely a venomous hiss to the tone now, one Elsa did not like and it sent shivers down her spine.

Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, she dared take a peek around the corner in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whoever it was who was talking. She did not like the look of this one bit, especially not with the festivities so close to opening.

She was unable to make out who the man turning his back to her. The person was obviously tall, with a nicely trimmed haircut, broad shoulders , and as her eyes traveled downwards, Elsa quickly gathered why. With the distinct green and black uniform and the golden shoulder pads, the man had to belong to their delegation of Southern guests, not anybody she’d ever had the opportunity to meet in the castle beforehand. He seemed to nod for a second, producing something in his hand and making sure to let his interlocutor know that “He’d handed an exact replica to Francis who’d make sure it found its way into Anna’s cup somehow.”

What the Hell?

“And you’re certain this will work?”

“Of course it will. Prince Hans is but a convenient scapegoat for me, by all logic all eyes will turn to him when it comes to pining the blame on someone. Foreign prince lusting after power and riches, poisoning the princess of Arendelle to seize control with his army, who wouldn’t believe such a story? And you make sure to twist it that way.”

“Of course sir-“

“And that’s where I come in.” The smug little voice said snidely, and as he moved aside, and it was as Elsa looked down that she finally got a glimpse of the stranger –or so called stranger. It turned out to be that little man with a grand mustache (what was his name already Weaseltongue? Whistletong?) , who’d caught his interlocutor by the collar and was dragging him to his knees.

“The King and Queen will need to form an alliance against the South once the truth comes out, and who better to help them than me? I’ll have them bowing to my will, and with my good heart and willingness to help, they will only be too quick to offer me a reward in exchange for my services. The crown can be mine, and with it, my friend, we will be rich. You, will be rich… If you pull this off that is.” He added sharply, eyes narrowing on his trembling subject –poor man did not seem to particularly want to do this.

“So, once I let go of you, what are you going to do?”

“Go back to the kitchen sir-“

“Good. And?”

“Make sure to pour this into princesses’ cup as I bring it out.” And he motioned the small red vial in his hand.

“And then?”

“Hand it to her as I congratulate her on her official entry into royalty and make sure she drinks.”

“Good.” The elder man snapped, at last releasing his hold on the younger. “You make sure that gets done, I’ll be sure to keep Hans in close vicinity to take the fall for this.”

The other man seemed to hesitate slightly before a sharp glance from Westleton sent him on his way, his unsteady feet leading him towards the royal kitchens, and it was only when the Duke himself turned around in the other direction –towards the grand hall, where Anna was- that it truly sunk into Elsa.

They were after Anna and Anna didn’t even know about it and she couldn’t even tell her!

Stark realization seemed to be the cue her heart needed to begin thumping in her chest madly as Elsa stood there, at a loss as to what to do. She couldn’t just barge in there and outright tell Anna that their guest was about to poison her –it was the word of a servant against a high ranking dignitary, it would never work!- and she couldn’t risk harming his partner in crime, that would certainly backfire to.

But dammit, she had to do something before it was too late! Anna and her might not be anything anymore, but she definitely wasn’t about to sit back and watch a royal assassination attempt unfold right in front of her eyes when she could actually do something. She owed Anna at least that much.

But who on earth could she ever-

Oleg!

Oleg hadn’t made it down to the grand room yet, and surely if she let him in on this, her argument would hold more weight against the Duke than her poor servant voice on its lonesome.

Not even thinking twice, Elsa darted down the corridor, too nervous to even care that she might have knocked a servant or two back to apologize or slow down. She needed to find Oleg right now, or what was supposed to be one of the most special events of Anna’s life turn into one of the worst (or last, she thought fretfully, and that couldn’t happen).

Nobody was about to harm the princess. Not when she could still stop it.