#i never drawn this man before but i like it mostly besides the pose being a bit weird

[happytyrantsubmarine]

my babygirl. my beloved. my silly little guy. 

[bubblesuga]

Turning Page - Part 1

Summary: Sometimes you find yourself in the right place at the right time and unknowingly, you fall in love. Min Yoongi certainly didn’t expect that when he met eyes with you one fateful night in late July. Nor did he expect to end up naked in your apartment while you drew his body.

w/c: 7,302 genre: struggling producer!yoongi au, new relationship, fluff, smut warnings: oral (m receiving), dom!yoongi, switch!reader, raw sex, spanking, reader has a praise kink, yoongi has a dirty mouth (but lets be honest, what else is new?), slight exhibitionism, jungkook is too nosy for his own good

It’s not often that you find yourself at a 24 hour diner in the middle of the night with an insane amount of papers splayed out in front of you as eat your waffles while answering emails and trying your hardest to copy the manuscripts sent to you but for some god-awful reason it’s happened to you on more than one occasion this week alone. 

The manuscript, which the author unabashedly decided to hand write instead of type in this day and age, was way too long and had way too much detail. Unfortunately for you, your boss only reads typed manuscripts and insisted that you copy every word and type it for her by Monday. You know for a fact that your boss is going to get three chapters into this absolute mess of a story and toss it but you have no choice but to listen to her. 

This is definitely not how you expected being an intern to go yet here you are, wondering and waiting for the day that you can move on and start your own company like you’ve wanted to for practically your entire life. 

“Can I get you a refill on your coffee?” A voice asks, and you glance up to see the waitress, an older woman with a smile that could light up a thousand suns. 

“Yes please,” you smile, holding out your mug to her as she pours directly from the pot, “thank you.” 

“No problem, I always see you working so hard so I figured you could use the energy boost.” she grins, patting your shoulder lightly as she begins to walk away and help the other few tables which also happen to be hosting tired college students and early risers or late sleepers. 

Without even realizing it, another half hour passes by you quickly. Your eyes burn, but you count the remaining pages and try to push through. Quickly though, your ears spot the sound of dishes clanking together and you can’t help but pull your attention in that direction. 

A man with blond hair and dark eyes is cleaning the table in front of you. He adorns an apron around his waist and a white t-shirt with black pants. The busboy wipes down the table, and you admire his side profile as he does so. His features are soft, a rounded nose and down-turned lips held almost in a pout. You have never come across a man so stunningly beautiful, it nearly causes your breath to be caught in your throat. 

You’re staring for so long that the man catches on to your watchful eye, glancing over in your direction with a raised eyebrow. You smile sheepishly, “Sorry.” 

The man smirks, shaking his head before hauling the bin of empty cups and plates towards the kitchen. Your heart sinks for a moment, but you shake the feeling to the best of your ability and try to finish typing. 

A few more moments pass, and you hear someone sitting across from you. You glance up and see the man sat across from you, apron gone and a black jacket now covering his torso. 

“Can I help you?” You question softly, clasping your hands together atop the table. 

He bites his bottom lip, “I feel like I should be asking you the same thing.” 

“Pardon?” 

“You were watching me earlier, just curious what was on your mind was all.” He shrugs, his hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets. 

You swallow, the way his eyes scan you causes your face to flush. Carefully, you stack up your papers and clean the table slightly while you try to think a way to dance around the answer to his question. He waits patiently, which only causes you to panic internally. 

“I was thinking that you would be nice to draw.” you finally settle on, and it’s true. He looks like a work of art, and you’d love to have had him as a model in your art class when you went to college. 

He doesn’t seem to expect that answer, his eyes widening slightly as his head tilts, “So draw me.” 

“Ah,” you immediately wave your hand dismissively, “I haven’t drawn in a couple years and I was never any good at it anyway.” 

He leans forward, mirroring your position from earlier, “But if that was your first thought then surely you still have an interest in it.” The smooth cadence of his tone intimidates you to no end, yet it entices you and pulls you in even more. How can a stranger hold so much power over you?

“I’ll tell you what,” you say after a moment, suddenly gaining a brush of confidence when you see a twinkle in his eye, “you come to my apartment tomorrow night and I’ll draw you.” 

“That sounds like a trap to murder me.” He remarks, a gummy grin stretching across his face and you have to hold back a small ‘awe’, your chest twisting at the sight. 

“You want to get drawn or not?” you bite back, just as teasingly. 

He shakes his head, a small chuckle leaving his pink lips, “Give me your phone.” 

You raise an eyebrow, reaching into your bag and pulling out your phone. You unlock it for him and he takes it immediately, keeping the screen just far enough away from you that you can’t see what he’s doing. Soon enough, he stands abruptly and sets your phone down onto the table.

He smirks, “Text me the address, I’ll be there.” 

The stranger wanders down the isle and towards the front door, and you watch in awe at his broad shoulders and shapely figure. Something about the way he carried himself made your mouth water. 

Breaking out of your trance, you quickly unlock your phone and and see a newly added contact. At the top of the screen is a simple ‘Yoongi ;)’ titling the contact. 

You blush, gnawing your bottom lip gently as he passes by the window and sends a wink your way.

~*~*~

He’s going to be here any moment. He’s going to walk through your door with his stupid fucking smirk and attractive eyes and he’s going to be in your living room, posing for a while so you can draw him. 

And you’re freaking out. 

After he left you immediately sent him your address, and since then the two of you have been talking non stop. It was mostly about small things, jobs, favorite foods and favorite colors... Although it may have only been a day, you feel like you know him pretty well. He’s funny and charismatic and oh so charming, no wonder you were so drawn in to his beauty because he’s gorgeous from the inside out. 

You haphazardly through your jackets and shoes into the closet by the front door, only recently becoming aware of how much clothes you leave strewn throughout your home. 

Just as you light a cinnamon scented candle in the center of the room, your doorbell rings. 

You rush over to the door and glance in the mirror to fluff your hair and wipe away any runny make up. Exhaling a deep breath, you open the door and greet Yoongi with a smile. 

“Hello.” you say simply, opening the door wider and motioning for Yoongi to come in. He’s dressed in a black button up and tight fitting black jeans, a stark contrast to his work attire. He carries with him a back pack and a bottle of whiskey. 

He notices the way you eye the bottle, and he flushes slightly, “I figured it could help with your nerves. A- and mine, because I’m a little nervous as well.” 

“Nervous?” you trudge into your living room with Yoongi following closely behind, “why are you nervous?” 

“Well, I’m not exactly sure if you expected this to be a nude drawing or not so I wore nice clothes but I’m also willing to take them off.” He scratches the bottom of his chin, watching as you set up the easel. 

You pause your movements, eyes widening, “N- nude?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, twisting open the bottle of whiskey, “isn’t that what you do in those fancy art classes? Draw nude people?” 

“I- I mean, we did,” you stutter, your throat going dry, “but they were always women because I went to an all female college.” 

“Ah, so you could use the practice,” he grins confidently, but it drops suddenly, “unless you’re uncomfortable with that. Then, fully clothed is fine with me.” 

The thought of being able to see the gorgeous man nude excited you more than you’d like to admit, and seeing as you two were in the safety and comfort of your own home, you had no problem with him doing it so long as he wanted to, and by the way his fingers are itching to undo the first button of his shirt, you figure he is. 

“Go ahead. You’re right, I can use the practice.” 

Yoongi smiles and with trembling fingers he begins to take his clothes off. As he does so, you focus on setting up the rest of your supplies. The charcoal set sits idly on the table beside you and you finally sit down with a sigh. 

As you turn your eyes back to Yoongi, you see that he is splayed across your couch with the bottle in hand. 

Holy fuck, his body is just as gorgeous as his face. He’s lean, but you can tell he definitely works out his arms and his legs are long, a pinkish tint holds itself to his skin and you’re unsure if he’s being shy or if the alcohol has already taken affect on him. Eventually you let your eyes land on his hips, his pelvis presenting itself neatly between his legs. It takes everything in you not to drop what you’re doing and let him fuck you into oblivion. 

“(Y/N)?” you hear, and you’re brought back to the current situation. Yoongi’s face holds a knowing smirk, and he leans forward to hand you the bottle of whiskey. 

You take it gratefully, your heart thudding harshly in your chest as you take a sip. 

“Is this position okay?” he questions, one leg bent at the knee and resting on the other one. His right arm rests extended on the back of the couch while his left hand plays dangerously close to his pelvis. 

“Y- yes.” you breathe, picking up your pencil and beginning the sketch. 

It doesn’t take long for you to get the basic sketch down, your love for drawing coming back in droves as Yoongi sits silently, watching your face as you continue to sketch across the paper. He smiles, your nose crinkling before you erase a line or your tongue poking out as your concentrating on a specific area. 

After a little bit of silence, you speak up, “Do you want me to draw, uhm,” you pause your sentence and gesture towards his hips, to which he responds with a little laugh. 

“My cock?” 

His use of the word shocks you a little bit, but you silently remind yourself that you are a grown woman and are completely capable of listening to a man talk about his anatomy, even when you’re immensely attracted to him and have to continually swallow the drool that threatens to fall from your mouth. 

“Yeah, your- your cock.” you nearly whisper, noticing the way his cock twitches slightly at your voice. 

Okay, he’s getting just as much enjoyment out of this as I am. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, shifting a few inches, “I want you to draw my cock.” 

You nod, turning back to your drawing and beginning the last details. 

Yoongi doesn’t take his attention away from your face, gauging your reaction to his body. He likes the way you’re so attentive, and it’s taking everything in him not to harden, though he’s unsure how much longer he can hold off. 

His mind reels with the possibility of you riding him right on this couch. After spotting you at the restaurant he knew that he wanted you. It’s been far too long since he’s had sex, and his pickiness has become more and more evident, especially to his roommates. However, the moment he saw you, he could nearly imagine the way you would feel around him and when he saw you staring he knew that he was in the clear to come over and talk to you. 

This definitely wasn’t how he expected it to turn out but he has no complaints. 

“I’m almost done,” you murmur, your brow furrowed in concentration, “you can move now. All I have to do is shade a little.” 

Yoongi lets out a small breath, his fingers dancing across his hip bone as he lays comfortably on his back, “Do you need me to get dressed now?” 

You glance up, your face mostly hidden by the sketch pad, “If you would like to.” 

Slight disappointment hits Yoongi as he realizes that he’s not going to be able to touch you today. He sits up and reaches for his boxers, but you stop him. 

“Or you could give me a minute and I’ll undress too.” you say casually, shrugging as you pick up a black pen and sign the bottom of the drawing.

Yoongi’s jaw drops, and there’s no stopping it now. He instantly feels blood rush to his cock and watches intently while you spin the easel around and show him your work of art. 

Across the page, Yoongi sees himself displayed and detail lining every area of the sketch. He notices the way his eyes twinkle even in the drawing and if there were ever a time to think of himself as attractive, it would be now that he’s been drawn by you. 

“Do you like it?” you ask nervously.

Yoongi grins, “I love it.” 

“Good,” you whisper, and you stand up. You take a careful step over to him, and Yoongi doesn’t take his eyes away from you. As you’re about to slip your shirt over your head, he stops you. 

“Let me, please.” he begs gently, and you nod. He stands up quickly and hooks his fingers around the hem of your shirt. You lift your arms and allow him to slip the material over your head. His movements are slow, tantalizing and teasing you but also drawing you into him. 

He places his hand against your side, drawing small circles before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. 

It lasts no more than a few seconds, but you instantly miss the contact. He smiles, his nose crinkling as he does so and your heart can be heard from inside your chest, singing as he looks you in the eyes. He unhooks your bra, tossing it to the side and suddenly his lips are back on yours. 

It’s much more feverish than before, the taste of the whiskey and his strawberry flavored lip balm mix together on your tongue. The combination is harmonious, and he tastes exactly like you thought he would. 

Suddenly, he grips your shorts and pants, slipping them down your legs and softly commanding you to step out of them. You steady yourself on his shoulders and do as he says, your legs trembling with anticipation. 

“Last chance to back out of this if you don’t want it.” Yoongi says, his hands cupping your jaw and using his thumb to swipe gently at your cheek. You smile, “I want this.” 

He nods, “On your knees.” 

You instantly listen, dropping to your knees in front of him and licking your lips hungrily at now being eye level with Yoongi’s now hard cock. He smirks, “You can touch.” 

You nod hesitantly, then reach forward and pump him up and down a few times. Instantly, Yoongi’s head falls backward and a moan falls from his lips, gloriously loud and deep. 

The sound sends tingles straight to your heat, and you tentatively stick your tongue out to lick the tip of his member. His hips flex and you open your mouth automatically to accept him into your mouth. He goes a little further than expected and you gag as you feel him hit the back of your throat. 

“’M sorry,” he moans, “fuck your throat feels so good.” 

He looked heavenly, sweat begins to line his forehead as you use your tongue on the underside of his cock, paying special attention to the pulsating vein. 

His hands gather your hair up in his hands, “There we go, wanna see your pretty face as you suck my cock.” 

Fuck. 

You take him as deep into your mouth as you possibly can and hold him there, moaning at his dirty mouth and feeling yourself grow wetter by the second. 

“Good girl,” he feels your hands begin to roam his torso, his muscles flexing beneath his fingertips, “gonna cum.” 

With that, you pop off of him and see his eyes fall to you incredulously. “I was gonna-” 

“I know,” you grin, “but wouldn’t it feel better inside of me?” 

“You are so fucking hot.” he says, pulling you up to his level and slamming his lips to yours. You tug him down as you fall onto the couch, his cock brushing ever-so-lightly between your legs and causing both of you to gasp. 

It doesn’t take Yoongi long to line himself up at your entrance, your legs wrapped carefully around his waist and guiding him in slowly. Yoongi watches the way your eyes roll backwards as he bottoms out, a moan falling from his lips as he steadies himself.

He had never felt as much pleasure than in this moment. 

The eroticism of the entire situation made everything feel more sensual. Despite barely knowing him, you felt a connection to him stronger than anyone ever before. The way his cock seems to fit perfectly within you, stroking and massaging your velvety walls, immediately has you reeling beneath him. 

“I’m not gonna last very long,” Yoongi starts, his arms shaking as he holds himself above you, “what can I do to help you out?” 

“That’s okay, just fuck me.” You gasp.

You feel him reach a point inside you that sends waves through your body, your back arching off the couch. Yoongi catches the way your breathing has grown ragged, and reaches his hand between the two of you. 

His thumb manages to find your clit, collecting your wetness and rubbing over it gently. His thrusts stay slow and steady, but even so you’re unable to hold back. As your orgasm approaches, you bring Yoongi down to your mouth and feel the way he nibbles at your bottom lip. Suddenly, he speeds his thrusts up and his thumb swipes fast and sloppy circles across your clit. 

You feel your breath catch in your throat as your orgasm washes over you, a mewl of content leaving your mouth as Yoongi soon follows after, strings of hot cum coating your walls and adding to the sensitivity of your heat. 

He collapses on top of you, his lips peppering kisses across your exposed chest while your hand caresses his hair. 

“I would have been able to last longer if you weren’t so fucking good at giving head.” Yoongi nearly whines, his chest heaving while he attempts to catch his breath. 

“It’s okay,” you smile, pushing his hair back and exposing his forehead, “we both got there in the end.” 

Yoongi shrugs, making no effort to move off of you as he buries himself in your chest, “If you hadn’t, I would have no problem making you cum on my tongue.” His words are slightly muffled by your breasts which only causes you to giggle. 

“Hm, I’m open to experiencing that on another day,” his lips turn up against your skin at your words, “but can I give you some pointers?” 

Yoongi’s head pops up, his eyes looking at you incredulously, “you just said that we both got there in the end, what more do I need to do?” 

“Be louder,” you whisper, his tone teasing, “I like when a man is vocal.” 

His eyes glare jokingly, “Okay, you’re on. I’ll be as loud as you want.” 

You giggle, pressing a light kiss to his nose and watching the way his face scrunch up at the contact. 

His chin rests on you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, “I like you a lot.” 

“Are you basing this solely off of the fact that I made you cum?” 

“That plays a part in it,” he chuckles, “but I want to see you again for sure. You seem cool, and I’d really like to take you out to dinner some time.” 

“Ah,” you click your tongue, “we did it backwards.” 

Yoongi laughs, a melodic sound that instantly makes your heart speed up. 

The two of you lay there for a little bit, your hand stroking his hair as you talk about the most mundane tasks. He tells you a little bit about his job, how his friend owns the diner the two of you met at and Yoongi likes to help out every once in a while for some extra cash. 

His real passion lies in music, which is why he was so hellbent to see you make art again. He loves encouraging people to create, to take charge and express themselves in the purest forms. 

After what seems like hours, Yoongi hears his phone ding. With a groan of disapproval, he climbs off of you and reaches into his jeans for his phone. 

You situate yourself on your side, watching the way Yoongi runs a hand through his messy hair and checks his phone. 

“Seokjin wants me to come serve tonight,” he says with a sigh, “I’ll text you after I get off, yeah?” 

You nod, “I need to finish up some work anyway.”

Silently, Yoongi begins to dress himself for the first time since he entered your apartment. You pout visibly as he slips his boxers back on, standing up and following suit by dressing yourself as well. 

As soon as you’re both dressed, you carefully tear Yoongi’s drawing out of the sketch pad and reach out to hand it to him.

“You’re giving it to me?” He questions, taking it with a raised eyebrow. 

You nod, “I don’t feel right in keeping it.” 

He shakes his head, “You should keep it for a rainy day.” 

Your eyes turn to slits while you inspect the drawing. You quietly slip it back into the sketchbook while Yoongi lets out another laugh. 

You lead him back to the front door, your arms crossed over your chest. Different from previous hook ups, you didn’t feel dirty after everything that you did. Instead, you felt comforted by the fact that he didn’t just leave as soon as he finished. He seemed like he genuinely wanted to take care of you and that wasn’t something you came across often. 

As he shuts the door behind him, you can’t help but touch your lips while you remember the feeling of his. 

~*~*~

“Hey Seokjin,” Yoongi greets as he enters the diner through the back door. 

Seokjin flips some sauteed vegetables in a pan and glances over at his younger friend, “Hey Yoon-” he pauses, setting down the pan, “you got laid didn’t you?” 

Yoongi throws his head back, muttering a small ‘damn it’ knowing that he’s going to get grilled until Seokjin is happy with the amount of details he’s received. 

“Yeah I did.” he sighs. 

“Hm, well you don’t seem too happy about it. Was she awful or something?” 

Yoongi whips his head towards Seokjin, “What? No, god no. She was fantastic.” 

“Then why the long face?” 

“Because I had to leave her to come help you.” Yoongi shrugs, chuckling when he feels Seokjin shove him lightly. 

Shaking his head, Seokjin plates up the food while he talks to Yoongi, “Was it the cute editor you were talking about last night?” 

Yoongi feels a twinge of jealousy hit his chest when he hears Seokjin saw you too, but it’s quickly replaced with triumph once he realizes that he got to you first. 

“She’s an intern, not an editor quite yet, but yeah that’s her.” 

“Good man,” he praises, “does that mean you’re back on your game?” 

Yoongi scoffs, “Just because I fuck one girl doesn’t mean I’m immediately going to try and fuck every girl I’m attracted to again.” 

Sure, Yoongi admits he went through a phase of... being well known. Especially in college, Yoongi was known to be a man of many special talents. After a while of random hook ups and making girls scream his name, he lost interest. He assumed it was because he got bored of it, but now he’s realizing that he was much more interested in having a relationship. Ever since he realized that, he had been waiting for someone to fall into his lap. 

For some reason, the moment he saw you he felt some indescribable feeling that drew him to you. Like all that waiting had finally paid off and he needed to talk to the girl with laser focus and a cute smile. 

“Oh, so you like this girl?” Seokjin says, glancing at the screen as another order comes in. 

“Yeah, a lot. She’s an artist.” He grins, calling back from the locker room connected to the kitchen. 

“Awe, did she draw you a picture?” Seokjin coos, a loud laugh following his teasing words. 

Yoongi’s cheeks blush as he suddenly flashes back to the events of today, “Yeah, you could say that.” 

Seokjin glances into the locker room, “I’ll question further later, for now you need to go to section A and help out Hwasa because she is drowning in tickets.” 

“Yes sir!” Yoongi mocks a salute, walking out to the dining area. 

~*~*~

From: Yoongi (received 16:34)

Be ready in 20.  Dress comfortably.

Your jaw drops as you stare at your phone, rushing upward from your position on your couch with a bag of chips and blankets surrounding you. 

You glance your at your reflection in passing and practically run to the bathroom to comb your hair. 

It’s only been two weeks since the two of you met. Your comforted by the fact that your phone always has a good morning text and a good night text from Yoongi. The two of you have yet to have a dry conversation and even if Yoongi is stuck at work or working on one of his secret projects, he makes sure to send a text that he’ll respond as soon as he has the chance. 

Previously you had never had someone so attentive, especially even in just the talking stages. At one point he called you, his voice rough and laced with sleep but the entire time he seemed lively and excited to talk to you. Your heart swelled with adoration the entire time and you’re safe in thinking that Yoongi feels the same. 

Because you haven’t seen Yoongi since the day you drew him, you find yourself regularly looking at the drawing. 

For the first time in what seems like years, you felt proud of something you had created. A constant rut that collapsed in on you like a black hole, drowning you in a state of constant despair, disappeared in half a day. Since then, you’re brain is reeling with creative thought and you couldn’t wait to show Yoongi what you’ve been drawing in your free time. He encourages you in a way that makes you feel like you can be whatever you want to be. 

One thing you were most proud of was your self-portrait. Your legs laid spread in front of a mirror for hours while you tried to perfect a drawing for Yoongi, to give back since he allowed you to keep his. 

“Why do all my cute bras disappear when I need them most?” you whine outwardly, your phone dinging again. 

From Yoongi (received 16:48) 

Oops, I’m early. 

You smile. 

To Yoongi (sent 16:49) 

You’re lucky you’re cute Be out soon

Quickly, you slip on a simple blue laced bra and t-shirt with a red skirt. Hoping that you were still cute in your comfortable clothes, you let out a nervous breath and head to the door. You grab your sketch book before you lock your door, Yoongi’s car parked at the end of the breezeway. You spot him before he spots you, a black beanie adorned on his head with his gorgeous blond hair peaking out beneath. 

You open his door and Yoongi immediately puts his phone away, “Hey.” 

“Hi.” You greet, slipping your sketchbook into the back seat. Yoongi leans over the center console and holds your face in his hand, and he kisses you. 

It’s short and sweet, not as feverish as the first one you shared but it made you realize how quickly you had fallen victim to missing his kiss. 

“I have wanted to do that for weeks now.” He states as if he read your mind, his eyes closed in bliss. 

“Why’d it take you so long then?” You tease, kissing him again. 

Yoongi smirks, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” 

“Does that mean you’re fonder of me?” 

He watches you pull the seat belt over your torso before he responds, “Definitely, I was thinking about you last night before I went to bed.” 

You raise an eyebrow, “Oh?” 

“Mhm,” he hums, a hand moving over to rest on your knee while he backs out of the parking spot, “you’re very talented with your tongue, even in my dreams.” 

You don’t respond, instead you look down at his hand on your knee with a blush.

The drive consists of soft music playing of the speakers of Yoongi’s 2003 Kia. A choice of car you wouldn’t expect him to drive but it oddly fits his personality. It’s quiet and gets him just where he needs to be, a simple thing that Yoongi tells you he takes pride in. 

It isn’t a long drive, but you take the time to admire the way Yoongi looks as he drives. The windows are rolled down and soft summer air breezes throughout the car while you drive across the countryside. The evening sun shines across Yoongi’s face, those soft facial features that drew you in still prominent, his nose curling upward while he laughs at a joke you told. 

“Alright,” he says after about 15 minutes, “we’re here.” 

Yoongi parks near a beach, where you spot a group of people around a fire. You tilt your head, “Are we meeting your friends?” 

“Yeah, I hope that’s okay. It’s just a small get together to celebrate a friend’s promotion.” Yoongi scratches the back of his neck and lets out a nervous chuckle. 

You survey the crowd, cases of soju surrounding them while they laugh among each other. One of them seems to spot the car, waving at the two of you enthusiastically. 

Butterflies swarm in your stomach as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth, “Sure, I’d love to meet your friends.” 

Yoongi rushes to the other side of the car to open your door for you, wrapping his arm comfortingly around your shoulder while he leads you to the group. 

A log was left empty that had just enough room for the two of you. As you approach, Yoongi calls out, “Shut up everybody! This is (Y/N), be nice to her. I like her a lot,” instantly everyone quiets down, and Yoongi points to the tallest first man, “That’s Namjoon, Seokjin, Jungkook, Taehyung, Hoseok, and Jimin.” 

“Hyung, why’d you say my name last?” Jimin pouts, his voice already slightly slurred. You giggle, following Yoongi to the log. 

Namjoon reaches over, sticking his hand out, “It’s nice to meet the girl that Yoongi’s mentioned.” 

“Mentioned?” Jungkook scoffs, “He doesn’t shut up about you. You’re all he ever talks about and it takes a lot to get this man to stop talking about music.” 

Yoongi leans over and smacks his friend on the arm, his cheeks turning red at his admission. 

You giggle, “If it’s any consolation, I talk about Yoongi all the time too.” 

“Ah great, they’re both crazy about each other.” Seokjin jokes, a laugh unlike you had ever heard falling from his lips. His laugh causes you to laugh, and you quickly cover your mouth once you realize what you did. 

“Yah! She’s already making fun of my laugh!” Seokjin remarks, his bottom lip jutting outward cutely while Jimin shakes his head. 

“Take this and shut up.” Jimin reaches a drink out to Seokjin, who laughs and sends a wink your way to ease your mind. 

The night continues on gleefully, exchanging stories among each other and getting to know Yoongi’s friends - and Yoongi - more and more. 

At one point you could tell that Yoongi’s friends were grilling you in an attempt to see if you were a bad person. They were quite bad at it, though, seeing as Jungkook asked if you had ever killed a man and Taehyung was hellbent on trying to get you to say you liked country music. Though, you did admit that Carrie Underwood had a few good songs. Taehyung took this as a win and threw his hands up in victory while Namjoon told him to settle down. 

Now that you were more than a few drinks in, you listened intently to every story that the boys were telling. 

"Just wait until you hear about Yoongi’s parenting diary for Holly.” Hoseok spills, laughing so hard that he leans into Jimin who sits beside him. Jimin eyes disappear behind his smile, and everyone begins to chuckle. 

“No way!” you gape, turning to look at Yoongi who holds a beer tightly in his left and draws circles in your back with his right, “Min Yoongi, you never told me you were such a softy.” 

“I’m not a softy, I’m mean and scary,” Yoongi retaliates loudly, then he leans closer to your ear and whispers, “and I bite.” 

A chill runs down your spine and you immediately turn away, rubbing your hands together in an attempt to conceal your chill. Yoongi chuckles low enough for you to hear, his fingertips reaching beneath the base of your shirt and massaging gently. You didn’t realize how rough his fingertips were, callouses from hours of guitar playing evident on his hands. 

“Alright, children. I think it’s time for us to head out.” Yoongi says suddenly, interrupting a conversation between Hoseok and Namjoon. 

He stands and pulls you up with him. You smile and wave, “It was nice meeting you all.” 

“It was nice meeting you too,” Namjoon waves back to you, “excited to have you back around.” 

As you say goodbye to the rest and walk away, you hear a patter of footsteps walking behind the two of you. “Hyung! Can I get a ride?” 

Jungkook stumbles towards the two of you, and Yoongi glances at you in question. You shrug, “I don’t mind, it’s your car.” 

Yoongi waves Jungkook over, the three of you walking towards Yoongi’s small car. Yoongi opens the door for you, bowing gently and humming while he walks over to the drivers side. In the few short seconds that you and Jungkook were alone in the car, Jungkook leans forward and rests his head on the back of Yoongi’s seat. 

“I haven’t seen Yoongi this happy in a while,” he pats your shoulder, “thank you.” 

You don’t get the opportunity to respond as Yoongi opens the car door and hops in. You swallow, smiling and biting your lip. Your chest swells with the thought that Yoongi is just as affected by you as you are by him. 

The drive is quite, but suddenly Jungkook speaks up. 

“Is this yours, (Y/N)?”

You turn your head back and instantly your eyes widen, Jungkook glancing through your sketchpad. You spot the edge of your Yoongi drawing sticking out, Yoongi’s face visible but Jungkook had yet to spot it. 

“Y- yeah.” you say, praying that he stops flipping through the pages. Yoongi glances over to you, his eyes just as wide as yours. He simply shakes his head as if to say ‘stop him’. 

“These are really goo- oh! You drew Yoongi!” Jungkook’s fingers begin to pull at the piece of paper which causes you to unhook your seat belt and take the entire sketchbook out of Jungkook’s hands. 

He seems lost for a second, “Can I see the Yoongi drawing?” 

“No!” you and Yoongi respond simultaneously, panic lacing both of your voices while Yoongi pulls into an unfamiliar neighborhood. 

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, “You two doing something freaky?” 

Yoongi coughs, “I was just a model for (Y/N) to practice with.” 

“A nude model?” Jungkook asks in a sing-song voice, noticing the way you glance at Yoongi.

“Cool it with the questions, Kookie.” Yoongi scolds gently. 

“Hey, I don’t judge. I posed nude for a sculpting class once, those girls got to look at my bits for hours and I’m sure they enjoyed it as much as you enjoyed looking at Yoongi’s-” 

“Wow would you look at that, we’re home! Get the fuck out of my car.” Yoongi turns around, gesturing for Jungkook to exit. Jungkook holds a smirk on his face, “Be safe.” 

As soon as Jungkook gets out of the car, you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. Yoongi rests his head on the steering wheel, laughing quietly to himself in both embarrassment and joy. 

“Why did you have that drawing in the sketchbook?” He questions as he reverses out of the driveway. 

You shrug, “I don’t know... I just wanted to show you what I’ve been working on since that day.” 

“Like what?”

“A self portrait.” you shrug, opening the sketchbook and flipping to the most recently filled in page. You hold it up so Yoongi can glance at it while he drives, but you didn’t expect his eyes to bulge out of his head while he slams on the breaks and pulls off to the side of the neighborhood road. 

Instantly, he reaches and takes the book from you, his eyes scanning over the drawing repeatedly. 

“Gorgeous,” he breathes, “you’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

You smile gently, pointing your finger to your chest, “I drew my boobs more even than they actually are so I’m not that gorgeous.” 

Yoongi’s eyes turn to slits, “Well this is tainted now. How will I ever be able to hang this up when it’s not accurate to the real thing?” 

You giggle, pushing Yoongi’s shoulder gently. His joking tone diminishes once his eyes fall back on the drawing, the smile dropping from his face while his finger traces the curve of your hips. “Gorgeous...” he whispers again, “Fuck, I love this so much. Thank you.” 

He leans across the center console and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

That’s just not enough, though. 

You slip the sketchpad out of his hands and close it, “You want to see the real thing?” 

Your lack of touch from Yoongi these past couple weeks didn’t seem to bother you but now that you have him alone, you want to jump his bones. 

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate to nod, unhooking his seat belt and leaning his chair back a little bit. You grin, slipping the t-shirt over your head and pressing a harsh kiss against Yoongi’s lips. He welcomes your lips, drinking you in while his hands begin to roam your now bare skin. He slips his grip down to your thighs, pulling you over the center console and causing you straddle his thighs. 

Not breaking the kiss, you begin to grind yourself down onto Yoongi’s quick-hardening cock. He moans into the kiss, his hands kneading your ass roughly. You gasp when you feel his hand lay a hard smack against your ass, the sound resonating throughout the car and causing Yoongi to smirk. 

“Oh, you like being spanked?” he peppers kisses across your neck, “have you been a bad girl?” 

“Mhm,” you moan, “I’m your bad girl.” 

“That’s right,” Yoongi growls, spanking you once again, “my bad girl.” 

You toss your head back when you feel Yoongi’s hips begin to twist beneath you, his cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. You reach between the two of you, unzipping his jeans and threading his cock through the hole. 

Yoongi sucks in a breath through his teeth while your small hand pumps him up and down carefully. 

“No time,” Yoongi groans, “ride me.” 

You didn’t have to be told twice. 

The feeling of the slick between your legs was enough to show that you were ready, so Yoongi’s fingers push your panties to the side while he holds his cock and lines it up with your entrance. It doesn’t take long for him to slip inside, his hands gripping your hips and lifting you up and down while you moaned above him. 

“You like my cock, don’t you baby? You’re gonna cum so good for me, aren’t you?” His voice is gruff, the encouraging tone causing your body to jolt with pleasure. You nod quickly, your mouth opening to respond but the only noise to leave your throat was a whisper of his name. 

He feels the way your walls clamp down on him, leaning forward and nibbling across your breasts. “Fuck,” he curses while you speed your hips up, “your pussy feels so good around me.” 

Yoongi’s words cause your orgasm to creep up on you, his name falling from your lips like a mantra as you pulsate around him. Yoongi bears his teeth as he cums, growling low and deep while his fingers grip your hips hard, sure to leave bruises but you didn’t mind. 

You both sit for a moment while you catch your breath, Yoongi’s tongue licking a long stripe from your collarbones to your jawbone before he kisses your lips. 

“Did so good for me,” he rubs soothing circles in your burning thighs, “was I vocal enough for you?” 

You laugh, “Yes sir. Please keep it coming.” 

You both wince as he lifts you off of him, falling into the passenger seat and sighing happily. 

Your feet rest in his lap after the two of you are cleaned up, his hands gently massaging them while he tells you about a new song that he’s working on and how he hopes that someone will be interested. 

It’s then that you realize that this is going to extend past the need for sex, because the two of you were both genuinely interested in each other’s lives. He speaks animatedly about his interests and listens intently to yours. It doesn’t take you long to begin imagining waking up beside him every morning with the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. 

As he drops you off at your apartment for the night, Yoongi walks you to your doorstep.You unlock the door and turn to give him a goodbye kiss but he stops you, grabbing your hand and stroking across your knuckles. 

“So, do you think you’d be interested in being my girlfriend?” He asks nervously, “I- I wasn’t sure if you were just thinking of this as a friend with benefits situation so I figured I would ask before one of us gets hurt.” 

You nearly coo at the man, watching the way his eyes dance across his feet. 

You bring your arms around his neck and pull him down to your level, slamming a kiss onto his lips one more time. His hand grips the back of your shirt tightly, his tongue exploring your mouth while you lean against the wall. He pulls away with a grin, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Is that a yes?” 

You smile, “Of course.” 

[deadlynightshade-and-hyacinth]

I'm Gonna Crawl

Chapter 24

After we left the restaurant he took me back to the hotel, no blindfold this time. When we got into the suite, he sat me on the bed and handed me an envelope. “Open it.” He smiled widely, his cherub cheeks slightly pinker than normal, the color striking against his alabaster skin.

I lifted the flap and pulled out a piece of photo paper. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.” He grinned, baring teeth. “It is now my most treasured possession.”

“You just took these photos last night…” I was baffled by how quick he had them developed.

“I had them developed today, before Bonzo decided to trap me at the dealership.” He made a face at the memory.

I looked down at the photograph in my hands, debating mentally whether or not it was actually me posing for the camera. It looked like me but somehow a different me. Perhaps it was the fact that I never liked my photograph taken, therefore it rarely happened or perhaps it was the fact that I felt anxious yet happy when the photo was taken, forced, yes, but I was happy to make him exuberant by obliging his request.

“Do you like it?” When I looked up from the photo of me half naked on the couch, his face was that of a six-year-old who wrapped a rock in Christmas paper for his mother, anxiously awaiting her reaction upon opening it.

I nodded my head, gazing back down at the photo. I felt as though I were on a completely different planet, confused by the fact that I felt so far from my own body, as though I were in some stranger’s or in a pod person type situation. I mentally laughed at the absurdity of my recent paranoia. Obviously, I wasn’t in some live version of Invaders of the Body Snatchers.

“These ones are yours.” Jimmy derailed my intensely insane train of thought. “I have another copy of them on their way to my home in Scotland.”

“Scotland? I thought you lived in England.” I put the photos on the end table and walked toward him.

“I have a home in London, but I think I will go back to Boleskine.” He dragged a hand through my hair and held the back of my head in his palm. “With you.” His smile was breathtaking.

“What about my job, Jimmy?” All of my obligations were starting to weigh on me. “My apartment?”

He pursed his lips and gestured for me to sit down on the edge of the bed. He sat beside me and held my hand. “Like I said, I want you to think about it, love. But as for answers to your very reasonable inquiries, I do have some solutions.”

“I’m not quitting my job.” I blurted out, knowing that was the solution he would come up with.

“Of course not, darling.” He gave me a sour face as though what I was thinking was audacious. “With touring, my home life back in Europe is short-lived. Although, I’ve a feeling we all may be taking a larger break than normal…” He was stuck somewhere in his head, thinking and calculating.

“Your point, Jimmy?”

He looked up at me as though I had woken him from a dream. “Right, sorry.” He gave a small smile. “You can come home with me, see all of Europe, we can do whatever you want, all day, every day, then when it’s time for us to tour you can go back to Boston and work for the remainder of the time, then of course come back home with me.” He smiled condescendingly.

“Jimmy, I don’t think my boss is going to go for that.”

“He may if I have a word with him.” The way his accent curled around the word ‘word’ almost knocked me over. I was suddenly amazed by how over the early days of this adventure, I didn’t completely cream myself over his accent alone.

Back to reality, I shook my head at him. “I doubt–”

“Think about it.” He looked at me eagerly. “I’ll pay for your apartment while you’re with me so it’s there when you need it. Please, just think about it.”

I nodded.

“Now for tonight, we think of only tonight. No future, no past, just now.” He stood up from the bed and padded toward the radio and flicked it on. He grabbed my hands and pulled off of the bed and into his arms. He held me as though we were going to waltz and swayed around the hotel room to Dancing in the Moonlight.

When the song was quieting to an end, he looked at me, stopped moving his feet and held my face in his hands. “Do you love me?” There was a vulnerable glint in his eyes.

I was once again stunned by how forward his question was. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out, shockingly to his amusement.

“You’re afraid.” He smiled but disappeared as fast as it had come. “Why are you afraid?”

I took a deep breath and wondered why I was so frightened at the thought of voicing my feelings. “Can I be completely blunt?”

He smiled again. “Of course.”

“Well, I will start by stating the obvious.” he nodded and gestured for me to continue. “You are a ‘rock star’, a very famous one at that…” His eyebrows furrowed quizzically. “You are a notorious whore, James.

The moment you grow even remotely bored of me, you’re going to find some other poor girl to fall in love with then I will be left heartbroken, wondering what’s wrong with me, all the while there is nothing wrong with me, I just fell for someone unattainable.” He opened his mouth to speak so I pulled a Jimmy and held up my hand to quiet him while I continued. “I am not afraid of heartbreak, it is a part of life and in its darkness grows spectacular beginnings, like this. But that’s all this is, a beginning. There is no middle, no end. It’s a dalliance, our dalliance.” I paused and gazed into his wide, soulful eyes. “If I admit my feelings, it will only be harder to walk away.”

He deliberated, taking everything in slowly. I could see the gears shifting behind his eyes, that calculating look he got when being mischievous, then it all clattered and I could see the shattered pieces all over his face and in his posture. A look only a man mercilessly beaten of all dreams has. “You’re not coming home with me.” He seemed to be mostly speaking to himself.

I held my fingers under his chin and lifted his chin to look at me. “No past, no future.” His eyes burned into mine as I spoke. “Just now.”

“Just now.” He repeated, trying to force a smile which quickly disappeared the moment I let go of his face. He cleared his throat and looked at the time. “We should probably get to bed.” He stood up and stalked toward the bathroom.

“Jimmy, it’s not even 10:00 pm.”

“It’s been a long day.” He murmured without turning around and continued into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

My heart sank heavily in my stomach. I could feel it poisoning me, making its way through every vein in my body, weighing me down and making me sick. “Fuck.” I muttered under my breath. I heard the water from the shower head hit the basin of the tub furiously and stood there debating my next move. Go to bed and hope he’s fine by the morning or give him at least one of the things he wants. I stared up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns with my eyes, my fists clenched so hard I could feel my nails tearing into my palms. “Goddammit.” I padded to the bathroom door and opened it quietly.

The shower curtain was drawn, covering the entirety of the tub. I could hear Jimmy softly humming the same tune he had been for the past few days. I took a deep breath and walked toward him, opened the curtain, held my dress up and stepped in.

He looked at me curiously at first then his expression became somber as he turned around to run his face under the water. “You’re going to get your dress wet.” He mumbled through the stream.

“I don’t care.” I placed my hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. My touch sent a shiver down his spine. When he turned back around to face me, I wasted no time. I clutched onto the side of his face with one hand, the other on his chest and pulled his face to mine. I kissed him hungrily, waiting for him to kiss me back with as much fervor.

He pulled away slightly and gazed down at me, his expression still somber. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly bit down on his lower lip and closed his eyes.

I rubbed his cheek with my thumb, my fingers tangled in his wet hair. I could feel the water from the shower head running down my arm, uncomfortably making the right side of my dress wet. “Jimmy.” He wouldn’t open his eyes, he just bit down harder on his lip and I wondered if this beautiful, naked, wet guitar god I held in my palm was crying. I took a deep breath. “Please look at me.” He lifted his head and slowly opened his eyes. Small teardrops fell from them, his emeralds glistening and the whites of his eyes slightly bloodshot. He gazed at me, his teeth still biting into his lip as though he were trying to keep the tears from pooling in his eyes. I held my other hand to his other cheek and pressed my lips to his firmly. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the words swelling to the brim of my throat, scratching their way out. “I love you, James.” I whispered, the beating of the water in the basin much louder than my voice.

His eyes widened and his teeth retracted from his lower lip. “You love me?” His voice slightly cracked.

I nodded my head, my eyes glued to his. I knew I would regret saying it, only because both of us parting and going separate ways was inevitable, but I meant it. This foolishly brazen and stubborn man, though completely obnoxious in his courtship, had made me irrationally fall for him in a way I can honestly say no man ever had.

“Don’t say it to make me feel better.” He eyed me cautiously. “I don’t want that. I don’t want to make you feel as though you need to say it because I - as you so lovingly put it - throw a fit.”

I shook my head, finding it hard to hide my smile. I was elated in his presence. Something I didn’t think was possible only days ago. “It’s a dangerous game we’re playing, Mr. Page.” I looked at him seriously. “A very dangerous game. But I can’t deny how I feel and I can’t lie to you.” His eyes were starting to well. “I do love you, you absolute crazy, frustrating fool.”

He grabbed my face in his hands and kissed me hungrily. Deeper into the kiss his hand inched down my torso and rested on my waist where he clutched onto my dress and spun us around so I was directly under the incredible water pressure of the shower head. I could feel my makeup running down my face as the water engulfed me, his lips morphing to mine. Towering over me, my head tilted back, he kissed me deeper than he had ever before and for a moment I thought we might be stuck like this and if we were to be, I would thoroughly enjoy it forever.

When he pulled away, breathless and shivering he looked at me and grinned. “You still manage to look incredible, soaking wet.”

I smiled back. My eyes were drawn downward, his cock fully erect. I bit into my lower lip to keep myself stable but the thoughts running through my head were that of a very bad girl.

When I looked back up at his face his eyebrow was lifted, his signature cocky grin plastered on his face.

“Am I just a piece of meat to you?” He teased.

I satirized him back with a shrug to which he nudged my arm. “I do enjoy your meat.”

He made a face at my retort and laughed. “You are truly something else.” He looked down at me, my dress clinging to every curve of my body. “How are we going to get this off of you?” He gave my body the same look I gave his.

“Am I just a piece of meat to you?”

He looked up, light in his eyes and shook his head ‘no’. “You are a delicious piece of custard pie.”

“Custard pie?” I poked fun.

His teeth were deep in his lower lip as he nodded, a very distinct fog of lust hanging in the air, thick and palpable. “I want you.”

“Well, I knew that the moment I met you.”

“Cocky, are we?” He raised his eyebrows.

“You didn’t hide it well.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Are you going to have me?”

He nodded his head, his eyes darker than normal.

I grinned mischievously. I moved my hands to the zipper on the back of my dress and slowly unzipped it then untied the straps around my neck. He watched impatiently, his teeth dragging across his lower lip. I leisurely pulled the dress over my breasts, down my torso, hips, until it fell to the bottom of the tub with a loud wet thud. I stretched my arms over my head, feigning a yawn. “I’m tired, I think I’ll go to bed.” I opened the curtain and as I stepped out of the tub he reached for my wrist.

I turned to him and watched as he shook his head back and forth. “No, you’re not.” He pressed his palms to my cheeks and kissed me again. I pulled away as his tongue tried to reenter my mouth.

“Mr. Page, you are being very inappropriate.” I teased.

He shook his head at me, grinning as he did so. “Are we playing a game?” He was excited by the prospect.

“I have no time for you and your games.” I feigned disinterest.

He let go of my wrist, his grin Cheshire-like as he watched me walk out of the bathroom, water trailing behind me. I took a robe from the back of the door and covered myself, listening as he turned off the water and dried himself off.

@tangerine-page @within60s @jimjcm @rocknrollsoul76 @zeptrashahoy @taurusgrl444 @melancholi-e @floatinginthedunes @tessthemess45 @itachiuyeehaw @royalblueviper @fleetwoodgroove @rick-sauvage @magicaldestinytrash @kashmir-baby @70sdeakster @ritacaroline @evhelynn @liviacarol88-blog @electra-phoebe @zralokxwell @deafshepherd @rogertaylorseyelashes @jimmypage7 @discobeezy @mictic @idekatthispoint03 @pleasantcreatorbanditvoid @jimmypages @lady-jane-revisited @missdaisypage @salixfragilis

[jostepherjoestar]

Hewwo queen😔if you're still taking requests, could I ask one with la squadra and an artist s/o? Thank you💕💕💕

La Squadra with an artist s/o

sfw // gn reader // First of all... this was the request I mentioned before. I want everyone the address me with “Hewwo Queen😔” from now on!! it make me laugh so hard cause it reminds me of the “then perish” meme thanks for the lovely request <3

Risotto

Risotto admires your talent, often times when he’s trying his best to relax for once, he finds himself looking through your sketchbooks and drawings. He loves seeing your progress and noticing how you always seem to capture the lighting right.

When he gets to your most recent sketchbooks he starts to notice a familiar figure pop up a lot. Himself. Drawn in all sort of poses, his muscles being a great way to study body shapes as you tried to explain with a cheeky grin on your face when he asks you to explain your drawings of him.

On a quiet night you snuck up to your tall boyfriend, as well as you could sneak up on an assassin, with a present behind your back. Excited to see his reaction you handed him the wrapped canvas. Risotto made sure not to rip the pretty wrapping and had a stern look on his face as he saw the surface of the painting. You knew not to expect too much from him reaction wise so you were curious to hear what he had to say.

He just kept staring at the canvas, it was a painting of the only picture you had together. Privacy being a real issue in Passione. You’d asked Melone to take the photo when Risotto was asleep and you posed beside him, kissing him on the cheek. You’d showed him the picture, promising to keep it on you at all times and not to show it to anyone.

“I love it. So much, really darling this- Thank you.” he almost sounded flustered, reaching out to hug you. His reaction was so sweet, you knew he truly loved it. He placed it on the wall near his desk so he could look at it whenever he was working away, like most nights. A couple days later you found a wrapped pencil case on your drawing desk, new pencils, your favourite kind. A little stick man drawn on the card that said “I love you” in a crooked text bubble.

Formaggio

He’s in constant awe of how good you are, constantly praising you and showing off to anyone who’ll listen. He once showed a small drawing you did of a flower he kept in his wallet to a waiter while paying for the meal, embarrassing you to the max.

Seeing you study plants, people, landscapes, buildings, lighting, shadows, basically everything, he tried to see the world through your artistic eyes. He’d never really payed attention to expressing himself that way so he was curious to try.

Setting up canvasses or sketchbooks, all sorts of materials laid out in front of you to experiment with. You set up a still life on the table in front of you, a vase of flowers and some fruit strewn about. Assuring him this isn’t about how pretty or perfect the result is, but about how he sees the setup and wants to express it on the canvas or paper.

After both finishing you’re amazed by the colours he used and how abstract he painted the flowers and fruits. Your complements boosting his confidence. “But you’re still the real artist here sweetheart.” he said as he squeezed your hip as he admired your sketch.

You put his little painting in a frame and set it on your drawing desk, reminding yourself of your number one fan whenever you looked at it. It became a new relaxing activity for the two of you to enjoy with a glass of wine and snacks as you painted and drew together.

Illuso

Illuso loves art, but in particular he loves renaissance art. Whenever you two can, you’ll visit a gallery to admire the large paintings and sculptures. Illuso is quite judgy as well, offering no soft commentary on work he doesn’t enjoy. It’s mostly modern art he doesn’t like.

You try out different styles every now and then whenever you feel stuck in your own personal one, seeing if it could inspire you. To help in those situations Illuso has bought you multiple heavy books on his favourite painters. He isn’t afraid to venture into more recent styles, but he keeps it mostly to Italian or European artists.

When you tried out a more modern style in your newest experiment, he was surprised that he liked it as much as he did. “This is actually pretty good amore.” the complement sounding perhaps more like an insult, but you knew he meant it well.

Illuso himself however couldn’t draw, paint, sculpt or even photograph. He just had a hard time expressing himself in an artistic way, commenting one day that  “Can’t I just be the art myself?” earning a chuckle from you.

Prosciutto

Now Prosciutto likes art, classical paintings and sculptures but he doesn’t pay them any mind for too long. Yes it’s nice to look at but honestly he’d rather spend his time on other stuff. So when he met you he learned to appreciate art more. You’d show him around your workspace and show him the projects you’re working on.

The more you showed him the more he realised that being an artist isn’t just a hobby, it could also be a job as well. He never really thought it about it this way, realising that art is literally all around him. You were able to broaden his view, that you teased was sometimes a little too narrow.

He looks up to you for being able to express you thoughts and ideas and make something beautiful out of them.

As a gang member who has a lot of responsibility he prefers to spend his little amount of free time with the people he loves and trusts, like sitting around reading the paper or a book while you’re working away at your next piece.

Whenever you make him something, be it a drawing, painting, sculpture, and tell him he inspired it he will try his best not to blush. Taking you into a tight hug to cover up his face, thanking you for thinking of him. Honestly he loves that you’re creative and made him open his eyes a little more to the world he thought he already knew so well.

Pesci

The two of you have a cute tradition ever since you started going out together. A couple dates in, he slid you a napkin, face flushed red, with a scraggily drawn Pesci asking if he could be your boyfriend. Of course you happily accepted, having kept the napkin and pinned it to your wall next to your bed. Since then every time you go out and there’s a napkin around the two of you draw each other a funny figure or object.

To the other’s chagrin sometimes, creating way too many inside jokes that they don’t get. What do they not get, it’s a bowl of pasta with cheese on it saying “Cheesed to meet you!”

Besides the cute napkin drawings you store safely in a box, Pesci loves helping you out whenever he can. If you need him to help transport stuff he’ll gladly rent a car and drive, making sure that the ride becomes a cute little date.

He’ll always cheer you on when you feel stuck, doing whatever he can to aid you. Or if you’re having another failed all nighter, fallen asleep on your desk, he’ll come pick you up and carry you to bed. Blushing when you kiss him on the nose to thank him for it.

Melone

Melone absolutely loves that you’re an artist! He loves analysing art and the way people respond to it, the human psyche just really excites him. Often times asking people what they were feeling or what they interpreted when looking at your work. Like he was asking around for a survey, it was just his own curiosity.

He also loves modelling for you. You want him to sit in the garden on a rock between the rose bushes? No problem! Nude? NO PROBLEM! He’ll suggest it every time you ask him to model, assuring him that you won’t need another upclose muscle study for a fourth time this week.

He’ll be your personal promoter and manager if you want him to be, making sure if you want a personal gallery opening that you don’t get scammed for rent and that you can hike up the prices just a tiny little more on your own pieces. He’ll get you connected faster than the speed of light if you want him to.

But most of all he admires how hard you work and the effort you put into your art. He sees a piece of you in every project. You’ll find him staring at your work, a love struck look in his eyes. He’s quite a sappy guy when it comes to this stuff.

Just be sure to not let him near anyone who doesn’t like your work. Another attempt at murder at a gallery opening is not the publicity you want.

Ghiaccio

Ghiaccio loves abstract colourful art. Other styles that are too complicated or overhyped just makes him annoyed. He loves the simplicity of it, not paying any mind to any hidden meanings. If you do a lot of stuff in a modern or abstract style he’d pay you for the pieces even though he’s your partner. He just really loves supporting you and knows some people don’t compensate artists enough.

You were surprised at his interest, thinking him to not have the temper for art. Although you did discover, during a visit to a new modern exhibit in a local gallery, that Ghiaccio HATED it when the artists act pretentious and the vision of their work doesn’t match up with Ghiacco’s. Mumbling under his breath how “It’s just a square, a beautiful one yes, but it’s not representing how your mom didn’t love you!”.

You don’t comment too much on the meaning behind the modern pieces, he doesn’t seem like he wants to think about it anyway. So you let him enjoy the colourful shapes in his own way.

For his birthday you’d painted an abstract shapely piece in his colours; icy blue’s and the pop of red from his glasses and shoes. Swirly shapes that represented his hair. When you presented it to him his eyes lit up, earning you a passionate kiss that lasted a little too long, you had the rest of La Squadra waiting to eat the birthday dinner, eyerolls and clearing throats making Ghiacco let go with an annoyed growl. He loved it, since you made it and customised to him, he’ll cherish it forever.  

[pinnithin-writes]

The First: Aftermath (Part 4)

A collaborative work between myself and @reneethecyborg on what happened after Lupin III: The First. Part 4 of 4, 1405 words.

The pain after a heist is nothing new to Lupin. It’s part of the job. There’s always the stab in his hips from running and jumping and climbing, the ache in his shoulders from pushing and pulling and carrying, the throb in his wrists from drawing schematics and fiddling with locks, the headache from too many all-nighters spent planning and replanning and planning some more. It’s usually not quite this extreme, but still, these things come with the territory. Besides, some broken bones and angry joints are a small price to pay if it means the entire world is no longer in jeopardy.

At least the worst is over. And now the three of them are away from that whole mess, holed up in some hideout or another. Lupin’s pretty sure it’s one of his, based on what little he’s seen of the decor since they arrived, but these places all sort of bleed together in the post-work haze of pain and exhaustion. It’s been raining on and off since they got here (a few hours ago? yesterday? the day before?), which is nice. Would be nicer if he could sit by the window and watch, but the sound of it hitting the roof is almost as good. Goemon says hearing the rain is better, because of course he does.

The bed is also nice, though Lupin’s starting to resent being trapped in it. Big enough for all of them, with the pillows Goemon likes and the thick comforter Jigen likes. Now that Jigen’s back from his outing to town, he’s seen fit to make himself comfortable in his usual spot to Lupin’s right. “So,” he says, fluffing his pillow and propping it up so he can lean against the headboard, “I went and called Zenigata like you wanted, Lupin.”

“And?”

“Sounds like he’s up to his ears cleaning this up. I had to call five times before I got through.” Jigen smacks his pillow a few more times before he seems satisfied with it. “Told the receptionist I had information on the whereabouts of the Lupin gang, Zenigata’s ears only.”

Goemon goes ‘hm’ from his typical spot sitting cross-legged to Lupin’s left. “I suppose solving crimes generates a lot of paperwork.”

After several seconds of shuffling around, Jigen seems to find the most comfortable configuration of limbs and gets settled. “I told him to take a month or two off after this.”

“Wait, what? Why? That’s—” Taking a deep enough breath to get more than a few words out isn’t pleasant, but the great Lupin III won’t be silenced by a petty little thing like broken ribs. “That’s kind of unfair, isn’t it? Pops won’t be ready for our next job.”

The look Jigen aims his way would be scathing, if it weren’t coming from a guy lounging in his pajamas (who even wears nightshirts in this century?). “Hey, Lupin. Quick question. When, exactly, do you think our next job is going to be?”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. But he’s being given a chance to save himself! How merciful. “...Not for another month or two?”

“Alright, good. Just making sure we have an understanding. You sounded kind of confused for a second there.” Jigen’s old mob ties come out in the strangest ways sometimes. With that, he does what Lupin sometimes mentally refers to as a big ol’ stretch, holding the pose until his back cracks. “The way I see it, none of us are doing jack shit for the next while—” he throws another pointed glance Lupin’s way, which Lupin dutifully pretends not to notice— “so we might as well let Pops off the hook too. He deserves a break, what with all the hell we put him through.”

Goemon nods sagely. “We do torment him quite often.”

He does have a point. Lupin can’t deny that they hassle Pops perhaps a bit more than necessary. “Yeah, but it’s good for him. Builds character.” It’s also made him a lot more crafty, but that’s the price you pay sometimes. Jigen’s very good stretch over there is making Lupin excessively aware of how stiff he’s gotten lying here all day; he makes a tentative attempt at stretching his arms, but that one shoulder muscle he can never remember the name of seizes up on him almost instantly.

In a perfect world, nobody would notice, but Jigen and Goemon have both very obviously noticed. Jigen manages to replicate his classic look of squinting at Lupin from under his hat, but it’s distinctly less threatening from under a nightcap. “You’ve been on bedrest half a day and you’re already pushing it, huh?”

“I’m fine. Just a spasm.” Everything’s back in its proper place now—insofar as it can be—but his joints still feel like they might fall apart again at a moment’s notice, and every muscle he can think of is either unbelievably sore or drawn so taut he can barely move without hurting himself. That’s pretty much to be expected, after such a beating. It’s been a long time since someone’s pummeled him this bad. With luck, it’ll be a long time before it happens again.

Jigen doesn’t seem terribly convinced that it’s fine, judging by his expression. With some grunts befitting his status as the world’s oldest twenty-something, he shifts to prop himself up on one arm—Lupin wishes he could do that right now without breaking something—and pokes around at the muscles in Lupin’s shoulder with his free hand. Always careful, always gentle. If he weren’t so tired, Lupin would try to string together something about a sharpshooter using his hands for caring instead of killing. “Christ, man, it’s like you’re made of stone. I’d look for knots, but I think you’re all knot. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“It’s not that bad. Most of the time I don’t even notice.” He’s noticing now, but these are extenuating circumstances.

“I’m not sure I buy that. You need one of those massages where they jab you with their elbows.”

“Are you volunteering, Jigen?”

He was mostly joking, but Jigen pauses in his proddings like he’s genuinely thinking it over. “Sure, why not.” Goemon opens one eye to fix Jigen with a stern look. “Later, though. When your ribs won’t turn to dust.”

“Alright, deal. As long as you don’t poke any holes in me with those pointy elbows of yours.” Jigen goes ‘tch’, as is his wont. “Maybe I will. Might deflate your ego a bit.”

Touché. “I’m not sure you’re in any position to pass character judgments, monsieur chemise.” He takes a chance and waves a hand at Jigen’s silly little nightshirt; his wrist twinges and pops, but holds firm.

Another noise of annoyance from Jigen. His French might not be great, but he knows enough to know when he’s being insulted. “At least I don’t wear vinyl pants.”

“You leave my pants out of this!”

“You’re the one who started an argument about clothes. Not my fault you think vinyl pants and leather suit jackets are a good combo.”

Lupin loses track of his very strong and argument-winning retort when he notices Goemon chuckling quietly at the two of them bickering like children over their respective poor fashion choices. It’s nice to just sit around talking about nothing. Part of the routine, really. The work is done, and now they can relax. This time yesterday, Lupin wasn’t sure he’d be around to do this when the dust settled. “...Listen, guys. I’m sorry about how all this turned out.”

The mood shifts a little, but not in a bad way. Jigen and Goemon exchange a look for a moment before Goemon speaks. “Nobody among us is at fault. We simply need to formulate our plans more carefully in the future.”

That’s a very tactful way of putting it. “I probably should’ve let you talk me out of the Hitler thing.”

Jigen makes a noise akin to shrugging. “I think that part was alright. One of us just should’ve gone with you to kill that prick before he got violent, is all.”

He has a point. Lupin’s usually not a fan of killing anybody, but even he can admit that there was really no other way for his tussle with Geralt to end. “Yeah, well. Next time.”

“There shouldn’t be a next time,” Jigen grumbles more than says.

“Sure, but with our luck? Within the year. Calling it now.”

“Well, now you jinxed it.”

Part 3 (by Pin) < --- Part 4 (by Cosma)

[retrievablememories]

style | jaehyun

title: style pairing: jaehyun x black!reader genre: fluff request: “I was watching the bts for the photo shoots for neo zone and made think about how fun it would be on set with them. Do you think you could write something more jaehyun centric about being like a new makeup artist on set. It can be a black reader as well if that’s cool with you” word count: 2.8k warnings: none that i can think of except some cursing a/n: oof okay my mind somehow skipped over the “new” part so the reader in this fic is actually pretty experienced w/ being a makeup artist. i could rewrite it but i didn’t want to wait any longer to post this fic since it’s already been a couple weeks since the request. i’m sorry if this is not what you were looking for anon, let me know 🤕

Being a Black makeup artist in a mostly Korean music industry can be weird at times. It’s not the life of roses and perfume that many others at the beginning of your career would’ve had you think it is, but you have managed to carve out your own niche. You have friends and people who support you, and a nice apartment you’re able to pay for with the salary you receive from SM, which is enough for you.

It also doesn’t hurt to be surrounded by pretty men all the time.

You worked for many different groups and solo acts before landing a steady job at SM Entertainment—some were nicer than others, and some were straight-up assholes. You can’t say you miss those days much, especially when you were just starting out and not always certain of where your next paycheck was coming from. Now, your most consistent clients have been NCT, which you are grateful for; they’re always pleasant and fun to work with.

Your latest work with them involves NCT 127’s new album, Neo Zone. You’re coming in today for the first day of the album jacket photoshoot, which you’re excited about; you haven’t seen any of the NCT members since you worked on Coming Home. You don’t mind doing makeup for the other SM acts, but there’s a certain connection you have with this group that you just can’t explain.

With your makeup bag on hand, you enter the studio where the boys are going to be shooting today, already taken aback by the loud orange checkerboard pattern on the floor. There are even garish deer heads and hooves mounted up on the walls; SM has really outdone themselves this time.

“Y/N, it’s you!” Jaehyun looks excited to see you, and his enthusiasm rubs off on you; you shoot him a welcoming smile back.

“Hi Jaehyun,” you say, walking over to where he’s standing. Jaehyun doesn’t hesitate to open his arms to give you a hug, and you appreciate the soothing smell of his cologne before pulling away.

Jungwoo and Mark run up to you too, crushing you between them in a hug, and pretty soon you end up embracing all of the boys as they come over for your attention.

“Wow, that is some hairstyle…” you say as you pull away from Johnny. You reach up to pinch one of his twists between your fingers, examining it with a look halfway between mortification and amusement.

“Do you like it?” he asks, an equally awkward grin on his face.

“Um…I’m sure the fans will love it.” You can only chuckle and pat him on the arm before making your way back over to Jaehyun to start on his look for the shoot. You pull your supplies out of your makeup bag as Jaehyun watches you from the chair; his attention is eventually drawn away when Taeil comes over to show him something on his phone.

When you have everything ready and have pinned his hair out of the way, you start painting his face.

Jaehyun only has one AirPod in his ear; you’re not sure where the other is, but you figure it must be with Taeil or one of the other members. You think he’s just listening to music without paying you any mind, but he says suddenly, “I like when you come around.”

“Oh, really? Why is that?”

“I dunno, your makeup just looks better…” He lowers his voice as if he doesn’t want the other makeup artists to hear, and you laugh inwardly.

“Maybe it’s because I know how to use the right foundation shade.” You both laugh openly at that, and Haechan takes notice, dropping in beside Jaehyun.

“What are you two laughing about? I wanna laugh too,” the younger man says, his eyes round and mischievous.

“Just the fact that it’s no fun to walk around with makeup looking like Casper the Ghost,” you say, and Haechan scoffs.

“Try telling that to….” Haechan’s eyes dart around, and you suspect the makeup artist he wants to throw shade on must be at the shoot with them right now. “...nevermind, that’s a discussion for the group chat!” Instead, he goes over to Taeyong to bother him.

“Group chat? I feel left out now,” you say jokingly, continuing with Jaehyun’s makeup.

“You don’t have one with your stylist friends or something like that?” he asks.

“Yes, but I wanna know what you guys are talking about…” You raise your eyebrows. “That’s just nosy me, though.”

“Nothing interesting,” Jaehyun replies, though you can tell by the look in his eyes that that’s far from the truth.

“Mhmm, sure.” You purse your lips together and shake your head. “Don’t let me find out you’re on some fuckboy shit.”

“If I was, would you punish me?” Jaehyun says this loud enough to draw a few mildly scandalized glances from the stylists and makeup artists standing nearby, and you duck your head, feeling equal parts tickled and embarrassed.

“You’re a mess, Jaehyun. I’m trying to keep this job, okay?” you reprimand him, but there’s no seriousness in it at all.

“Of course, you’re right—I’d never want to see my favorite staff member gone.”

“Shiiit, now I’m just a staff member?” You put a hand over your heart, acting hurt. You both laugh and joke around for a while longer until you’re done with his look for the photoshoot.

Once you finish with Jaehyun’s makeup, you do Mark and then Taeil, chatting casually with them all the while. Taeil is still a bit quiet with you, but he’s incredibly funny when he wants to be, and you can always appreciate a good joke or two. You know Jaehyun “flirts” with you noticeably more than the other members do, but you’ve gotten used to all their subtle differences and you don’t think to chalk it up to more than innocent playfulness—or over-playfulness, maybe.

You’re always somewhere nearby in the background, ready to jump in and retouch someone’s foundation or redo a highlight whenever necessary. You sit back and watch Jaehyun take his solo pictures, admiring your good work on his makeup—or maybe his handsomeness all on its own. He has a good face, you think, and try to convince yourself that you’re only thinking about it in terms of how easy his features are to work with.

Your front row view of the show is interrupted when one of the stylists comes over to ask you a question, and you’re pulled to another area to handle an issue. There’s never not something to do on days like these, though you don’t really mind it; being busy doesn’t bother you as much when the work is fairly fun. 

The other boys continue playing around on the set as they wait their turns for solo photos and then group pictures. You eventually end up back in front of Taeil again, fixing a spot on his foundation with a Q-tip as a hairstylist fusses over his strands.

You sit on one of the couches on set for a moment’s break after finishing with Taeil. Johnny comes creeping over to you with the polaroid camera he’s been carrying for the past half-hour, and you can already guess what’s about to happen. You hold your hands up, blocking your face.

“I know you’re the aspiring photographer and all, but can you give me and my visage a break?”

“Just one?” Johnny begs, giving you his best pout. You give him an unimpressed look and cross your arms, but your face eventually cracks when he keeps throwing you exaggerated pouty expressions.

“It’s not happening! I’m not even prepared for pictures today,” you insist. Your complaints are interrupted when Haechan slides onto the couch beside you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

“Don’t you want to take a picture with me, at least?” He tries to press his cheek against yours and you gently chide him about his makeup, not wanting to create more work for the other girls on set who’ll have to fix it. “I knoww, I knoww. If you take a picture with me, I’ll stop!”

You sigh in mock distress. “Fine, one photo! Can’t keep these paparazzi off my back, can I?” You and Haechan end up striking multiple poses for Johnny while he pretends to be an enthusiastic photog capturing a celebrity couple.

“Hope Jaehyun doesn’t get too jealous,” Johnny says absentmindedly, holding one of the shiny polaroids between his fingers. You cock your head at that.

“Now why would he get jealous?”

“Because that’s how Hyung is,” Haechan replies, quickly getting off the couch and trying to usher Johnny off the scene. He acts as if the older man has just said something he wasn’t supposed to, and Johnny belatedly notices his “mistake” with an awkward shrug. Before he leaves, he hands you one of the polaroids of you and Haechan.

“Put it in a scrapbook or something!”

“Sure, Johnny.” You stare at the small photo in your hands, though Johnny’s words stay floating around in your mind well after the first day’s shoot is over.

The next day is hectic, much like the last, though the set is quite different this time around. You definitely feel a bit better about having more space to move around in without other staff members practically standing on top of each other. Johnny’s hair is back to its normal state, though now Taeil and Haechan have braids; you can’t help but squint your eyes at that, though you say nothing. It’s not worth falling out with the hairstylists again—you learned early on that these companies are gonna do whatever the hell they want.

“You look really good today—all thanks to me, of course,” you tell Jaehyun after he finishes recording his part for the BTS video. “Aren’t I magic?”

“Don’t knock the hairstylists, they wouldn’t like to hear that,” he snickers.

“I’d like to do more than knock them, but we ain’t got time for that.” You wave your hand and change the subject. “Did you enjoy yesterday’s shoot? I dunno about you, but I think it went pretty well. Hopefully today is the same.”

Jaehyun nods his agreement. “It was great.” Then he pauses before casually mentioning, “I heard you and Haechan were getting close yesterday, though.” You notice Doyoung and Yuta out of the corner of your eye, lingering around as if they’re waiting on their turn for photos, but it’s clear that they’re eavesdropping from the looks on their faces.

“Yes, so sue me for hanging out with an NCT member that isn’t you, how could I ever betray you in such a way?” You cover your mouth in faux horror and the other man shakes his head, grabbing your elbow.

“I don’t know if my heart will ever recover,” he says, going along with your act. He pulls on your arm and brings your hand to chest. “Feel it—it’s broken!”

This feels like a bold move even for him, and Doyoung makes a noise in the background that confirms your surprise. You whip your head towards the other two men and they immediately scatter, finding other things to preoccupy themselves with to avoid your scolding.

Jaehyun’s heartbeat is a little faster than it should be under your palm, and at this point you can probably guess why. Johnny’s words and Haechan’s near panic come to the forefront of your memory again. You behave as casually as you can, drawing your hand back to your side and quirking an eyebrow at him. Someone calls your name from the other side of the room, and you go to see what they’re hollering about, but not before calling over your shoulder,

“Your heart rate’s elevated, might wanna see a doctor about that!”

You end up having to retouch Jaehyun’s makeup more than usual throughout the shoot because of his playing around with the other boys, whether it’s riding in a shopping cart or trying to pedal a damn bicycle up the wall, and you almost have to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose.

“You’re really gonna make me work for this job, huh?” You put your hands on your hips after finishing your quick fixes.

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“So, you admit you think I’m cute?”

“What do you expect me to say? You certainly ain’t ugly...don’t let it go to your head, though.” You pat his shoulder and steer him towards the cameras. “Now go on! Don’t make me have to stay past midnight fixing your makeup all day.”

The rest of the jacket shooting goes smoothly—as smoothly as anything can on a busy set, anyway. Yuta even manages to get you to dance with him to one of the songs blaring over the studio’s speakers, though you scurry off again as soon as you see Johnny coming with his phone in hand. You know his blackmail folder must be huge at this point, and you’re not trying to become a part of the collection.

The boys come over for their hugs again as you pack up your makeup bag. Pretty soon, the only one left without an embrace is Jaehyun.

“Saving the best for last?” you ask as he watches you. He really does do that a lot, you realize.

He shrugs as if he’s unaffected by your compliment, but his dimples peeking out give him away every time.

“You can just say it, you know.” You look around and lower your voice. Though the playlist is still cycling through as loud as ever, you’d rather not have anyone else’s ears in your conversation right now.

“Say what?” he whispers back, still smiling.

“Hello! I think we both know.”

“You want to hear me say it that bad?”

“That’s rich coming from you! I’m not the one who pulled a move literally out of a kdrama earlier.” As you speak, you accidentally knock over a bottle of setting spray on the table, and both of you reach for it at the same time. 

Jaehyun’s fingers linger on yours, sending little sparks of excitement up your arm and through your body. You risk a look at him, and although you’re supposed to be keeping it low right now, you feel as if you’re the only two left in the room. He leans closer, and his familiar scent hits your senses again, threatening to wrap you up permanently in its hold.

“You’re right. I like you.”

Jaehyun picks up the fallen bottle and presses it into your hand, and it takes you a few seconds to react and put it back in your bag.

“I knew it,” you lie. You’re not sure why you feel so nervous about this, or why you feel like you’re doing something you shouldn’t. It’s not uncommon for idols to date their stylists; after all, they’re around each other all the time. But that doesn’t mean the company or anyone else will approve.

“Yes, Detective, you’ve figured out the big mystery.” You glare at Jaehyun for that, but he remains unphased. He turns around and leans against the table, giving off a casual air when he’s really checking to make sure no one is heading in your direction. “So...what do you say?”

You decide to draw this out a little longer just because you can. “To what?”

“I know you like me too.”

“Maybe,” you say, mimicking his earlier answer. “What are you gonna do about it if I do?”

“Make you my girlfriend, duh.” He says it with all the confidence in the world, but then backtracks a little when you give him an amused look. “Only if that’s what you want, though; we don’t have to do anything if—”

“You’re overthinking it!” You shake your head as you put the last thing in your makeup bag and zip it up. “I want to. Really. But you’re gonna have to take me out first.”

“Just tell me where you wanna go. I’ll take you anywhere.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder and sigh. “Have you always been this good with words? Or is it just because I like you?”

Jaehyun pushes himself off the table and steps closer, crowding into your personal space. “You tell me.”

“Don’t be so obvious.” You step back when you notice one of the managers’ eyes lingering where you two are standing. “Just...text me. You know how to reach me, right?”

“Of course.”

You continue stepping backwards towards the entrance, not wanting to let him out of your sight just yet. You smile and wave with both hands, still playing the role of “makeup artist to a super-famous kpop idol” and not “departing girlfriend” like you want to. “Then we’ll talk next time! Bye, Jaehyun!”

Jaehyun waves back, and you don’t turn around until you’re well into the hallway and one of the other boys has called him to hurry up. Leaving the building, you lean against one of the outside walls to take a breather before you head to your car.

“Holy shit.”

[peachyteabuck]

under cover of darkness

summary: a 24-hour convenience store, the night shift, and the man who gets you through day. 

a commission for @lovelycarose​

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 5510

trigger warnings: mentions of a break-in with canon-level violence, fluff, mentions of an unspecified chronic pain disorder

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are some good things about the night shift. It’s easier to balance classes and your precarious mental health, plus the pay wasn’t terrible – a few extra bucks per hour were thrown your way after eleven and before five.

So you kept with it, one earbud in so you could listen to music while the hours ticked by at a pace so slow it felt like some supervillain had not only completely frozen time – but was also determined to thaw is at room temperature.

That was another thing about the night shift – the customers. It was mostly regulars, or tourists who forgot something at home but didn’t want to spend airport prices for a travel sized container of deodorant. None of them really stick out, none interesting enough to stick in your brain for long as you mindlessly pack their various items into white plastic bags.

That is, until he starts coming in. Tall and impossible big – it’s hard not to marvel at him as if he was a breathtaking skyscraper, like you had never seen something so magnificent. His flowing dark brown hair, his tight jeans…it’s all nearly too much for eleven-at-night-you. (Also for “I haven’t had sex in so long and I think I’ve eroded the ridges on my vibrator from using it so often and holy shit I would do anything to have that man under/above me” you, a you only made stronger and more desperate by how late it was and tired you were.)

He walks around with the confidence not often seen in newcomers, your eye used to college students too drunk to stand up perfectly straight. You’re used to people stumbling around with eyes-half closed, rubbing their temples as the bright white lights feel like cheese graters shaped like ice picks against their already hurting brains. You’re used to watching them stumble around, using some Neolithic instinct to find the cool fridges where they’ll rest their faces against the glass for an oddly long amount of time before opening it up to grab as many Gatorades as they could hold before attempting to grab one or two (or five) frozen pizzas, never able to access the higher order thinking necessary to understand that maybe grabbing one of the baskets by the entrance is important.

Or, on the other end of the spectrum you’ve come to know as normal: soccer moms searching for alcohol for their husband’s post-game barbecue. Moms with large dark circles under their eyes who probably read (and watched) the Fifty Shades movie unironically but still feels weird when their husbands suggest having sex in any position besides missionary with the lights off. Moms who went to college just to meet some mediocre-looking frat boy who votes Republican just because his father did and thinks thirty seconds of oral is enough foreplay.

They don’t spend as much time in the store as the drunk/high students, but it’s still just as entertaining watching them grab the food and drink – but not before lingering in the makeup aisle, staring at bold shades of red and waterproof mascara and the bright hair dye whose advertisements have terribly applied photoshop.

No matter the type – no matter the customer – they were nothing like the man who stood on the other side of the store, staring intently at your soft drink selection. None of them were beefy men with crumpled grocery lists, permanently furrowed brows, and the most beautiful five o’clock shadow you’ve ever seen. None of them wear thick black work boots that make not a single sound as they walk around the store, none of them wear jeans that are so criminally tight around a perfect ass.

Not even a perfect ass – the perfect ass. It’s symmetrical, looking as if it was drawn by a pin-up artist in the 50’s whose specialty involves drawing super buff men in poses meant for petite, slender women with perfect curves. As he walks you half expect sparks to form on his backside as if you were in some kind of Anime, or for each individual cheek to bounce up and down on their own asynchronous accord. Normally you’d be terrified of being caught staring – of him turning around and catching your eye and mocking someone like you for having the nerve to be attracted to him.

But that doesn’t happen, because for once in your life the universe is kind to you. For once in your life you’re allowed to listen to music and stare dreamily at the hot guy who checks the ingredients on every snack dip option you have available before choosing three different ones with a small, disappointed huff.

You watch him with that same silent intensity as he fills the bright red carrier he grabbed without a sound when he first strutted in, the packaging of the items crinkling being the only way to track his location when he steps out of your eyeline. If your boss wasn’t the one on security cameras you’d be angling all of them to follow him around the store, your eyes hungry for another look at him at whatever angle and whichever quality you could get. You feel like a fangirl obsessed with some boyband, your heart rate determined by the amount of the mountain of a man you can see between displays of holiday-themed candy and cheap make up.

You’re not sure how long it is before he’s approaching your counter (time appears to have lost all meaning the second he stepped into the store), but whether it had been five minutes or five years, he still takes your breath away. As he steps closer you realize he’s fucking massive – something your grandmother (a wonderful woman, but one lacking when social situations called for, among other things, any kind of brain-to-mouth filter) would call a “shit brickhouse.” He doesn’t even need one of the baskets as he prowls the aisles – scanning every item like a lion watches the Sahara through tall grass. It’s hard to look away, to go back to the book you’ve been trying to read the same page from since long before the little automated bell above the door had announced the man’s arrival – but the only distraction before had been the tiny, exhausted voice in the back of your mind that was shaming at you for not sleeping before the night’s shift.

Now, though, the voice has quieted to allow your tired eyes to follow him, pupils tracing along every inch of him.

The man checks out without a word; shaking his head when you ask if he has a rewards card and paying in cash. When you give him $7.26 in change, your hands touch for a brief moment and you nearly stop breathing – lungs suddenly void of their capacity to hold air as sparks fly from his callous fingertips to the bottom of your spine. He pulls away, eventually, because he has to – depositing the totality of the meager amount of money you’d just handed him into the donation box plastered with facts about victims of domestic violence right next to your register.

The box is made of an opaque deep purple plastic, the coins making a loud clink sound as they crash into the near-empty container. The man stares at it for a moment, swallowing an apparent lump in his throat as his eyes go blank for a fraction of a second before he digs into his pockets and fishes out a thick wad of perfectly folded five dollar bills before stuffing them into the hastily cut slot at the top.

Neither of you say anything as he does so, you too stunned by his generosity and him too occupied with making sure he had no more money hidden in his pockets to try and muster some vague capacity for speech. Still, as he turns and leaves, you cough to clear your throat and call out a loud and slightly hoarse “thank you!” to which he just turns and gives you a small smile in return.

The moment between the pair of you is fleeting but still makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest, swelling until your lungs feel tight against your ribs as you struggle to breathe. Fuck, you think. You haven’t felt like this since middle school when Jamie told you that your Katniss braid was adorable and you followed him around for two weeks until he agreed to take you on a “date” during lunch. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re fawning over him as if you have another girlhood crush.

God, you need to learn his name.

Luckily, you find out the next time that his name is Eliot, even though the name embroidered in red above the right pocket of his dirtied coveralls says “Evan” in a fancy looped script (whatever, you don’t question it. You regularly wore your roommate’s sweatshirt from her alma mater even though you didn’t attend the university – must be the same thing, right?). That time all he buys is hair ties and chapstick – lots of hair ties and chapstick, just another thing you don’t question – but stays to talk with you about the Robert Frost poem you were annotating.

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?” he reads aloud, smiling a little as he does so. “Is that for class, or…”

“It’s for class, but I’m liking it a lot more than the other obligatory readings for my degree,” you tell him a small laugh. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

Eliot shrugs as he grabs the full bags. “Oh, ya know. Just the occasional piece. You have a good day now.”

You smile as he walks toward the exit, butterflies pounding in your stomach once more. “You too!”

God, you think as he disappears from eyeshot. You’ve got it bad, girl.

He comes in again, irregular in each way except for the fact he arrives. Sometimes he’s clean cut, standing straight as he takes his sweet time wandering the store – as if he has nowhere to be, no need to rush around.

On those days, he buys a lot of things. Duct tape, orange soda, hair ties, sour candy in all shapes and colors. He makes conversation, asking about the book you’re reading or what you’re listening to, asking about your classes when you wear a jacket embroidered with your university’s logo on the front. On those days, he waits a little – even when all his items are bagged and there’s no real reason for him to stay – picking up on anything that would give him another thread of conversation to pull at.

“Something new?” he asks when you dogear one of the first few pages of a poetry book your friend had lent you.

“Yup!” you perk up just at the sight of him, cheery now more than you had been the entirety of the day now that he’s arrived. “Told a friend of mine about the assignment I was working on the last time you were here, and she shoved this anthology into my hands.”

You like those days – you look forward to them each time you step through the large door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in large white letters that stand out against the incredibly depressing brown that’s been peeling since the day you interviewed here, spots covered sparsely by the maintenance guy who you’ve never seen. Those days are good, fun – they make you smile hours after he leaves and occupy your thoughts until you go to bed, sometimes even making it into the margins of your notebook when you’re zoning out in class.

Sometimes, though, he comes in nearly limping – at least one eye blackened and dark navy baseball cap pulled as far down his forehead as he can.

It scared you the first time, watching as he grunted with each step, every item he grabs from the shelves seeming like it pained him, his face scrunching into a wince each time he raises an arm above his ribs. You checked his items (bandages, ice packs, gauze, antifungal cream, a few first aid kits) with bated breath, terrified of making his mood worse.

It isn’t until you tell him the total, until you finally look up from your hands – that you finally look him in the eyes. They’re always warm like plate of freshly baked macaroni and cheese (and always make you feel just as gooey), but now appear to be clouded with a type of pain you can’t pin down. He doesn’t say much – or anything – as you bag his items, placing them gingerly into the paper bag as if it was an extension of him.

You try to keep a happy face throughout the entire ordeal, not wanting to push him in case what happened was particularly bad. Eliot gives you a similarly small, but earnest one in return – even if he barely hides the wince in his side as he does so.

But that was the first time things seemed a little off – your first time, specifically – and the others get easier as time passes.

At first, “easier” meant a return to days similar to the good ones – telling him things about your day as you ring up all his first-aid related items. He doesn’t respond with as much enthusiasm, doesn’t have the same witty banter – but gives you a small smile that you recognize nonetheless. But then, as the weeks bleed into months, you learn how to handle both the terrible days, the bad days, and the good days all the same.

It’s on one of the good days that he buys tampons, a piece of every kind of chocolate item you sell, and enough Acetaminophen to knock out a horse.

“Your girlfriend is very lucky,” you tell him, blushing as you bag the items. For a minute you think you’ve embarrassed him, crossed some line as a sickening silence grows between you two like mold on two-week old leftovers in a fridge that was turned off. It’s just as disgusting, too, which is why you’re so happy that he still gives you a small smile when you dare look up from where your scanner’s red line centers on the barcode of one of the tampon boxes.

“Nah, just,” Eliot’s plump lips look so kissable it makes your heart pick up. “A roommate, uh. She needs this. Her boyfriend is doing some game night thing and couldn’t pick it up. So I, uh. I got drafted.”

You give a little snort as you grab the receipt, smiling wide as you place it in the bag. “Well, your roommate is very lucky to have you.”

Eliot laughs as he grabs his stuff, cheeks heating up as he blushes. “Can I kidnap you for a little while so you can come remind her of that?”

In a rare moment of confidence, you lean forward and grin. “Is it kidnapping if I want it?”

The blush rages as he sputters a response, eyes downcast as he turns to leave. You get no witty response back, but the way he turns to wink at you as the automatic doors part is enough of a rebuttal for you to feel satisfied with your quip.

No matter what kind of mood Eliot is in, you look forward to his visits, watching and talking with him. Each evening you get ready for work you wondered if he would come in that night, if you would be able to tell him about the dumb thing this guy in one of your seminars said, or how you won an argument during bar crawl over the weekend using some of the random things he had taught you during the very conversations you now wish to have with him. It’s nice, the nicest thing you have in a long time – and somehow that doesn’t scare you, and somehow that makes you feel even better each time you see him.

But then “The Day” happens, and it changes everything.

The evening of “The Day” you woke up from your pre-work nap with this unexplainable feeling that something was going to go wrong. This feeling deep in the bottom of your stomach that you can’t quite place, one that makes the back of your knees sweat and where your ribs feel just a little tighter. Each and every sound – the cars that drive way too fast down your street, the creaking in your house, the dogs that bark obnoxiously – seem loudly, harsher than usual. When you sit up in bed when your alarm goes off it’s like you can feel the muscles in your back contract, feel the bones in your joints grind against each other. There’s some electricity in the air like when it’s right before a storm – only the sky is clear and your weather app doesn’t predict any rain until next week (and, even then, it’s only a drizzle).

At first you think it’s just a bad pain day; not bad enough to keep you home, or make you forget even the idea of doing anything besides groaning in pain in your bed and taking as many pain medications as your doctor says you’re able to. Still, it’s quite noticeable, and occupies your thoughts as you go through each part of your pre-work routine. Even as you shower, turn on your coffee pot, do the minimal make up required to make it look like you didn’t just roll out of bed or are some Victorian orphan plagued by tuberculosis and possibly a deep sadness embodied by the terrible weather that crashes outside their overcrowded London orphanage – you can’t seem to get rid of the proverbial dark cloud that settles itself between your brain and skull, clouding your thoughts and making your stomach hurt just a little.

It doesn’t get better when you get into work, either. There’s a tenseness in the air you can practically taste – electricity in the air that settles over your skin and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straighter than the carefully constructed sales display of some B-list celebrity’s nail polish collection, the one you spent hours fussing over during one of your very rare day shifts. It somehow only gets worse when Eliot arrives, whistling some tune that normally would be wistful and happy, but given the context sounds like something straight from a horror movie trailer that invades your otherwise-sweet daydreams for weeks to come; one of those songs that everyone knows but no one knows the name of that sounds really creepy when played slowly over a clip of some old, beat-up doll being held by an adorable little blonde girl with black-out contacts in.

You don’t tell him to stop, but the tune does slow when he notices your tense state when he passes to get to the soft drink aisle. When he gives you a questioning look you just shrug, hoping he forgets (or finds it in himself not to ask) about it by the time he finds what he needs. Judging by the song, lack of list, and spring in his step – it’s a good day, one where he intends to meander around the store and grab whatever it is catches his attention. Today that appears to be anything with sugar, most notably soda in every color but orange.

At some point he finds his way closer to you – more specifically he finds his way to the chocolate aisle, which faces your register – and strikes up a conversation. It’s just small talk, and doesn’t do much to distract you from the twisting in your gut, but you appreciate his efforts nonetheless. The small talk just feels like a dead-end – a polite road to nowhere that feels pointless to engage in. Still, it’s Eliot, so you give half-hearted answers and ask half-hearted questions and hope he doesn’t press you too hard on your slightly-sour mood.

And, because it’s Eliot, he draws a few small laughs and a couple of tiny smiles and it’s…nice. It’s not the usual “Good Day,” but it’s not a bad one, either.

But then it happens. And it happens quick – all of it.

Three men, dressed head to toe in black, enter guns a blazing as if they own the place. They’re wearing masks over everywhere but their eyes, the thick, black material likely silencing their voices if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs.

They enter in an oddly-triangular formation – one you’d describe akin to the Charlie’s Angel’s post if you weren’t scared out of your fucking mind. One of them runs to the aisle where you keep cold medicine, the other ransacking the liquor aisle and shoving heavy glass bottles of your most expensive bottles of alcohol into the black duffel bag slung around his shoulder. The last one – the one you think is the leader – keeps his eye on you as he steps closer to where you are at the register.

It’s the scariest fucking thing to ever happen to you, and what occurs next happens too fast for you to describe.

You blink once and find that you’re staring down the barrel of a handgun that’s definitely loaded and definitely has the safety off. The end shakes just a little, as if the robber is nervous, and you wonder why he’s the one scared. Both of your hands are up in the air, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle while sweat pools at your brow and your bottom lip trembles. It’s the most terrified you’ve ever been in your entire life, and if you had enough in your stomach you throw up, you totally would’ve.

But then – Eliot.

You’re screaming at him to stop, to get away and hide and what are you doing? They’ve got a gun! Get away! You could be hurt! Eliot!

But then you realize that, holy shit, he’s actually taking the guy down. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the face. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the gut. Holy shit, Eliot just disarmed that dude while punching him.

It’s only when the guy that targeted you is screaming in pain from a dislocated shoulder that the other two realize something’s up and come rushing towards the man that stands just in front of your register. You’d scream if you weren’t stunned – eyes not sure where to look as Eliot disarms them with the grace of a professional ballet dancer at the same fucking time. He’s fierce but controlled – not breaking any bones but definitely leaving some bruises as he knocks them to the ground and kicks their guns across the carpet.  

It’s then – when the inferior robbers are writhing in pain on the ground – that he grabs the leader by the collar of his black hoodie and pulls the teenager’s wincing face close to Eliot’s raging one.

“I will give you one warning,” he hisses, teeth bared like an angered wolf as he spits. “one warning to leave this place and never come back. If this,” his left hand raises to gesture to you in all your petrified glory. “Nice lady tells me that you have returned to so much as buy a single stick of gum, I will track you down and find you and make sure you pay for the damage you’ve done here today. You got that?”

The still-masked teenager immediately nods furiously, eyes wide with terror and legs already kicking at the ground to leave.

Eliot gives a small, faux smile, and shoves the kid back down onto the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “Good, now get the Hell out of here and don’t come back.”

Without hesitation, the would-be robbers scatter as fast as their damaged legs can carry them, clutching their bags to their chests as they rush to their crappy getaway van.

If you weren’t scared shitless you’d admit you’re a little turned on at the feat, especially as Eliot flips his hair from his face as he watches them speed away.

Your boss appears a few seconds later, apparently one more to watch from his safe room in the back than to interfere. Thank Heavens Eliot was here, you think. Facing those three kids on your own – even if they were, indeed, kids – makes your blood pressure spike once more.

“Should I call the cops?” he asks, looking at the wreckage around the store. The only silent alarm is located under the counter where the register is and, given your petrified state, you weren’t one to trip it.

Eliot just sighs and shakes his head, kicking a broken bottle of whiskey that for sure was going to stain the carpet. “No, they can’t do much – those kids probably don’t have a record and I don’t think you’ll get much out of ‘em if they do find the bastards. They’re young, broke, and I don’t know how much priority your case will be given.”

Your boss sighs, rubbing his face. It’s not as if they stole more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise, but being the victim of a robbery is still both tiring and rage-inducing – especially when someone like him has gone so long without incident.  “But, I, what am I supposed to do? I just-“

Eliot grabs his wallet from his back pocket, reaching into it to fish out a small, professional-looking business card that he hands to your boss. “Call the number there come sun rise and tell them Eliot referred you. They’ll help you out with whatever you need.”

The man who signs your paychecks furrows his brow and reads the block print allowed. “Leverage, Incorporated? They can help me replace what I lost?”

Eliot nods, placing a comforting hand on your boss’ shoulder. “Everything.”

Immediately the man nods and steps away to go out the back exit, leaving you and Eliot in the center of it all.

It’s then – just as you’re alone – where the sun’s just coming up and the large windows in the shop allow its warm light to bath the both of you in a beautiful soft orange. There are no other customers there, and with your boss preoccupied with calming himself down, it really does feel like it’s just you and Eliot – just the two of you with the whole world still asleep around you. It’s nice, perfect.

He’s the one to break the silence, voice gruff as he flashes you a small, shy grin. “So, uh…you want to go for coffee?”

Your heart rams in your chest even louder than when you were staring the possibility of a gunshot wound to the face, the poor organ exhausted as your brain screams at you to accept his generous offer. It takes what feels like an eternity to muster up the courage to do so, but before you can Eliot’s already speaking once more.

“Not that you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Not that you should feel, uh, pressured, or anything. I just mean like, hey, you worked all night and just went through a pretty rough event, and you’re probably tired, and probably pretty hungry as well, and a coffee place just opened up a street away that I’ve heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it out, for a while actually, and I wanted to, uh, see if I’d have the honor of you joining me…”

“Eliot,” you laugh as you step closer, placing your hand on his face to guide his eyes to yours. “Don’t be stupid. I’d love to go with you,” he smiles and it warms every bit of you. “Just let me grab my bag and clock out, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He sputters through an “okay, sure, yeah,” before you both turn to leave – him out the front doors and you behind the large one your boss had just been hidden behind. Your hands shake just a little as you insert the little card into the dinosaur of a machine, the loud noise and sputtering sound it makes now white noise as you grab your purse and rejoin him outside.

When you arrive at the coffee shop (aptly named “The Bean Spot”) you order a caramel latte with a cheese Danish, Eliot getting a simple black coffee with cream along with a walnut muffin. You wait for your breakfast in relative silence, neither you nor Eliot sure what to say after such an event. When the food and drink are handed over to you, you find a spot tucked in the back with an excellent view of the whole place.

The coffee shop is nearly empty since it’s still so early in the morning – the only patrons coming in, getting their coffee, and zipping off to the next part of their day. It’s nice to be the only inert thing, the movements of the people around you providing a nice cover as they zip past, locking you and Eliot in your own little world as the world stretches its arms and prepares for another day of hustle and bustle.

By contrast, you and Eliot are wide awake, laughing as you swap horrible roommate stories and whatever else comes to mind. He asks about your degree but has enough class not to ask you about your graduation year (a rare feature of conversations these days), talking to you about all the books you’ve read and professors you’ve liked.  

It’s odd – not bad, per say – but odd nonetheless, to be able to talk freely and openly and having him in front of you, within arm’s length as your knees barely touch under the small table. Seeing him in this space, a space more conducive to conversation and watching his hands as they pick at his blueberry scone and watching his mouth as the corners of his lips twist into a smile every so often and watching –

You blush at your own serial-killer-like thoughts, trying to suppress them with another sip of way too expensive but totally worth it coffee.

Eliot notices, because of course he does. “Hey, you alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. “Y-yeah, just-“

He smiles warmly, one hand moving to cradle your chin – to guide your downcast eyes to his. “It’s weird, seeing me in a new place, isn’t it?”

Once again, you nod. “It’s not that I don’t-“

“It’s okay,” his smile widens even as he now avoids your gaze, his hands moving to his lap as he fiddles with them. “It’s…I understand. Trust me, I get it.”

You exhale deeply, your shoulders falling a little. “I’ve thought a lot about this moment for, like, since you walked into the store for the first time…to have you here,” you gestured vaguely to the rest of the coffee shop, to the very few customers and baristas chatting about something you can’t hear and don’t care to pay attention to. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s not as if you’ve fallen short of expectations-“

Eliot gives a little chuckle, mumbling an “I sure hope so” with a glimmer in his eye that makes you want to jump on his lap and kiss him right there. Somehow, you find it in you to continue.

“It’s just super, super weird,” you tell him honestly. “And I don’t like it.”

The man in front of you leans forward, placing a hand over yours to calm you down.  

“How about we get out of here,” Eliot murmurs, voice warm and thick like the caramel drizzle over your latte. “I have an espresso machine at my place, and could make you homemade baked goods a million times better than whatever you bought, and we can continue this in a space where the baristas don’t misspell my name on overpriced coffee.”

He gestures to the cup labeled Elliott, wincing as he does so. It makes you laugh, and you nod in agreement. Together you down the coffee and throw the empty cups along with the wrapping for your pastry away. It’s natural – the way the two of you move – as if you’ve known each other for a millennia, as if whatever it is between you two that’s formed is already as strong and sturdy as an oak tree.

Eliot places one of his large hands on the small of your back as you exit the cafe, thumbing at the fabric of your sweater as you wait to cross the street. It’s comforting – just a flash of the fire that he started for you back at the store a mere hours earlier, heat warming your blood from your toes and up your spine. As he guides you to his apartment his hand finds yours, his fingers fitting neatly next to yours as he points out parts of the city you’ve never slowed down enough to see.

You may not have known Eliot for very long, but even within that short amount of time (and even shorter conversations) he had become a safe house for you, one that you could easily make a home.

And, unbeknownst to the other person, the both of you intended on doing just that.

[dragonoffantasyandreality]

Kamen Rider Thunderbirds Chapter 3 (Bit 5 End)

Prologue, Bit 1, Bit 2 Updated, Bit 3, Bit 4 

Finaaaly! I finished Chapter 3! :D

Big thank you for @janetm74 for the beta read, thank you @myladykayo for helping me through the story. Tagging @willow-salix, @katblu42, @gumnut-logic and @dreamycloud)

So let’s end this chapter, right? :)

-0-0-0-

“So you are saying that you’ve been attacked by some unknown monsters?” Jeff asked, his fingers gripping the paper. The bandaged up boys nodded.

“Yeah. And we believed it was a set up." Virgil pointed out.

"It seemed like deliberate sabotage by those… things, so we came in and fell into their trap." Scott theorized. He continued explaining: in fact, the way the fires started was suspicious, the flames appeared in random parts of the building, according to the recent investigations. And according to the testimonies of the rescuees who were trapped underground, the humanoid fire-monsters appeared out of nowhere and they are the ones who started the whole fires, and then… they were simply waiting. The field commander finished that the poor fellas acted as bait for the monsters to finish him and his brothers off.

"Long story short: they were after our heads apparently." Gordon concluded.

Their father had a look of extreme concern. To think those threats with impossible yet fantastic power to bring down a building were after his sons was very alarming and pose a threat to their lives and security. Here he thought that time where they had to save the world from a mind-controlling alien sphere was a close call!

"Thank heavens the Kamen Riders came and saved us!" Alan chirped, his ocean eyes sparkled like stars with memories.

"Yes. You guys are very lucky. And those rescuees as well." Agreed Jeff, "However, we don’t know if we could trust those bug-eyed warriors.”

“But dad! They saved us!” Argued the youngster, “They saved us from these creatures! I am pretty sure they are our allies! Friends even!”

"Alan! We don't even know who they are!" Pointed out Gordon.

The young blonde crossed his arms and gave the most dramatic pout. Jeff sighed, gently shaking his head with a slight sympathetic smile, “They may be on our side now, but we still don’t know what their intentions are. Especially when they got those… other-worldly powers. So take their alliance with caution.” he said sternly.

The brothers nodded in agreement, including Alan who simply cocked his head to the side. They did tell John about the whole thing, in which the middle brother had mixed feelings. Concerned, relieved and interested. But mostly worried.

After the debrief, the atmosphere was a lingering silent worry.

“Hey kiddo, don’t be upset.” Gordon smiled optimistically.

“You sure?” Huffed his youngest brother.

“Yeah. As much as I am suspicious about them, I am also curious.” his innocent smile turned into a cheeky smirk.

Alan’s grumpy face slowly transformed into that of an excited gremlin that the redhead knew and loved, “Alright! How about we go talk to Brains? See what he thinks of this rescue.”

Gordon grinned, “Right behind ya, Sprout!”

And soon enough, the terrible two vanished through the door of the lounge, their excited feet echoed through the halls.

“What do you think of the Kamen Riders, Scott?” asked Virgil, placing a gentle hand on his older brother’s shoulder. 

Scott shrugged, “I don’t know.” He was mostly worried about those monsters. Those… things. What are they after? Why do they want International Rescue dead? Of course it was only one time, but what if they do it again? He was beginning to feel dread. Being possessed by an alien was bad enough, but almost getting burned alive by monstrous animal-headed gladiators with powers to control fire was out of the question!

“You know, I do have a hunch that our bug-eyed acquaintances are on our side.” admitted Virgil, “But, I also have a feeling that we’ll meet them again, considering the circumstances.”

Scott looked back at his brother. Sky blue meets earthly brown. There was a silent conversation. An understanding. And then a nod from the eldest brother. They sat there in compassionate silence.

The quiet must’ve been killing his brother, because all of the sudden the mechanic asked, “Say, would you like to play the piano again?”

“Why’s that?” Scott raised a brow.

“My fingers are sore from fixing the Mole in a rush back there.” Virgil smiled with a little embarrassment, as he revealed his bandaged hands.

Scott gently tapped his brother’s shoulder with a chuckle. He got up from the couch and walked over to Virgil’s beloved white piano. He sat on the stool once more, opened the lid and stretched his fingers, “What should I play?” 

“Anything, I don’t mind.” His musical brother shrugged, standing beside him.

As Scott thought which song to play, his mind drifted back to the moment when he looked into the eyes of the golden Rider. It seemed to him that there was something warm behind those bug-eyes… something human. Scott wondered if there's a sensitive soul behind that mask.

Maybe it was just in his mind, maybe it was not true, but it made him relax. Pressing the keys, he began playing a familiar, jazzy beat as he remembered that moment. After a few repeats of the rhyme, he went to the main part of the song.

“Ah, my favorite! Take Five!" Jeff exclaimed, "Just like you guys.” he chuckled.

Scott smiled at his father as a response. There were some remnants of his stress, but it didn't bother him as much as he was in the morning. Jeff gave him a relieved nod before continuing doing paperwork, quietly humming and tapping his foot to the beat. Virgil smiled widely at his brother before humming as well and snapping his fingers along with the melody of the immortal piece of Paul Desmond.

Scott jumped into improvising like he was here to woo the girls at a party. As he was playing, he thought back of their victory. And his tension melted away. Outside the villa, the soothing music echoed through the beautiful nature of the island and into the night sky.

-0-0-0-

The moon shone in the night sky and the cold was a constant companion. The sounds of distant cars driving through the streets could be heard from the top of the skyscrapers. On one of them stood four figures, taking their time enjoying the view from above.

The Kamen Riders were resting after the heated fight. Gills was leaning on a wall next to the entrance, between his legs lay his loyal dog. G3-X was finishing writing a report of the fight on his custom laptop. Kuuga was laying on top of the entrance, admiring the stars. And Agito was standing near the railing, staring into the lights of the city.

"Oi, Agito!" called Kuuga all of a sudden. The golden Rider turned to his best friend.

"Nando(What is it)?" asked Agito.

"Why wouldn’t you come up here and watch the stars?” suggested the red Rider, "It's beautiful up there."

"How can you see stars from here?" objected G3-X, "Ya can't see Shiitake with all those slagging city lights!"

"They can see them through their visors," scoffed Gills, making the robocop Rider whistle a sound of realization before turning back to his computer. 

Raider looked up and tilted his head as if trying to see them, but after a few moments he gave up as he put his canine head back to the ground.

Agito had taken a moment to stare at the city, then moved towards the entrance, climbed and sat next to Kuuga.

"Not too cold buddy?” the red Rider asked, only to receive a shake of the head from his golden companion. The two took a moment to appreciate the stars in the cold night sky. Few stars faintly glowed in the dark sky.

"Man, can't believe we just met with International Rescue in person!" excitedly said Kuuga, "I gotta say, they are quite tough guys, ne? Especially Noodle, he looks quite young!"

"Noodle?" asked the golden rider in confusion.

"The blond kid! The one I saved from falling into a ravine and returned the gun to?" Kuuga sensed Agito raising an eyebrow that cannot be seen from the cover of his mask. "We should give them nicknames. To… you know, to know who's who we're talking about?" He explained, shrugging.

A sparkle of mirth could be faintly seen behind the faceted eyes of his friend, a warm smile could be felt radiating from his breath. "Sure...But why the blond kid 'Noodle'?"

"Because his blonde hair reminded me of noodles. And to be honest, 'Noodle' sounds kawaii~! Don’t you think he looks kawaii, ne?” A big grin was radiating from behind the mask of the red Rider. Agito laughed wholeheartedly. Kuuga continued, "The auburn hair guy; I think we'll call him 'Kuma'! He looks so serious, strong and tough, like a bear! Remind me of someone…"

The golden Rider laughed again as he nodded. "So um… shall we call the leader 'Sky Eyes'?"

Kuuga rubbed his silver chin for a bit, "Hmm…the one who pilots that big-hyper-speedy-rocket-jet thingy? Why's that?" he asked.

"Because… his eyes reminded me of the sky...” The red Rider saw the sparkling human eyes behind Agito’s red bug-like lens. Kuuga nodded, agreeing that the name was well suited for the blue sashed commander.

"What about the redhead guy? What should we call him?" asked G3-X as he looked up at the two Riders, seemingly curious.

"Clownfish..." Gills dropped the answer. There was an awkward pause. "He smelled fishy..." He deadpanned. Everyone laughed, acknowledging his typical 'I don't care, deal with it' attitude as they accepted his answer.

"Noodle, Kuma, Sky Eyes and Clownfish. Sounds good for our mystery gang of rescuers!" Kuuga clapped and rubbed his hands excitingly

Agito chuckled softly before looking back at the stars once more. The more he stared at the little faint glistening lights, the more the made him think of sky… sky eyes… the man whose eyes were always drawn to the sky.

He felt a warm feeling as he remembered those cobalt irises. He wondered why he felt like that. He barely knows that man, let alone the fact that International Rescue seemed to keep themselves secret. Maybe he'll never know. But one thing for sure, they'll cross paths again. Because of those things...

Those kaijins… they were new. He had never seen them before. And they are as aggressive and dangerous as disasters. Agito… Yuuki sensed that whatever they were, they seemed to be after International Rescue. But for what? And why?

The answer will remain unknown, for now...

-tbc-

[nelllraiser]

adventures in guilt | dave & nell

TIMING: shortly after nell summoned a shark-jellyfish demon. PARTIES: @seizethecarpe and @nelllraiser. SUMMARY: dave returns the jacket nell forgot on the boat, and the two try to navigate a life with guilt. CONTENT: sibling death mentions.

Dave carefully folded down the coat over his arm, smoothing out the material idly. That wasn’t the full reason, the texture of the scales under his fingers was captivating, more interesting than anything else nearby. But this was the college campus, Dave wasn’t sure he would want to touch anything else, the risk of beer stickiness on everything was too damn high. It was drizzling, cool gusts biting the needles off of nearby trees and blowing them around the park bench. As unbothered as he was by the cold, Dave hated icy winds. The sooner the ‘caster showed up, the better. He waved at her when he spotted her, standing up from the bench. This’d be interesting. 

Generally Nell didn’t come to campus this early. Her visits to the university mostly consisted of visits to her friends, and the occasional sleuthing for a bounty, but classes hadn’t even begun yet for the day. Thankfully she hadn’t overslept, because the witch hadn’t slumbered in the first place. With Bea gone to New York, the house was just herself and Luce, and far too much like it had been when their third sister had been struck down, existing only as a ghost. It made for restless nights that came more often than they already had, though Nell had managed to fill a good amount of them with work. As Dave came into sight, Nell felt the familiar sensation of guilt flooding her stomach, a feeling that hadn’t left her since the accidental deaths she’d caused— but one she’d learned how to manage in a way that allowed her to function rather than wallow. Unfortunately the sight of the selkie brought all the regrets of that day back the instant she set eyes on him, though she squared her shoulders in sheer refusal of letting them overwhelm her. Finally getting within speaking distance, she gave the man a nod before speaking. “Hey.” Shit, what else was she supposed to say? There had to be something else, right? “Thanks for keeping my jacket.”

“Wasn’t about to do anything else with it,” Dave said, handing it over, scrutinising her with a trademark scowl, that did little to show what he was really thinking. Somehow, she looked older now than the last time they’d met, and he knew how that kind of guilt could eat at someone’s youth in the worst possible ways. But he also knew that the younger you were, the more important it was to be able to hide that kind of shit, and he had no doubt that plenty of her younger friends didn’t see it at all. “You holding up alright?”

Under any other circumstance Nell might have jokingly asked about whether or not the jacket was his color, or if he’d sneaked one single try on. Nevermind the fact that she was fairly certain he wouldn’t even be able to get his arm into the sleeves of the tiny jacket. Instead, she just accepted the jacket wordlessly before layering it over the sweater she was already wearing. Yet another thing she hadn’t inherited along with her lack of fire abilities was the heightened body temperature that went along with it, and Nell was almost endlessly cold in the winters of Maine. His question caught her wholly off-guard, rather convinced that he still thought her some idiotic, and guitless spellcaster who didn’t know what she was doing, and didn’t care to think beyond that. Surprise flickered ever so briefly over her features before it was quickly replaced with a frown, and suspiciously drawn eyebrows. “I’m not the one who got eaten by a demon shark.” She wasn’t about to admit the truth to a man who’d witnessed one of her greatest mistakes when she barely admitted it to herself.

“No. But I know a thing or two about being eaten by guilt,” Dave replied slowly, like the words were being dragged out of him. That he knew he could offer her the comfort that people who hadn’t been there couldn’t. He still wasn’t convinced she deserved it. He wasn’t convinced power like that, the kind that was at once a tempest and could summon a tempest, ought to be allowed to live. But that sorta shit wasn’t his call to make, not unless she was deliberately slaughtering people. Hell, in a town like this, there was probably some sort of person who specialised in ‘casters. 

Nell watched the man with a guarded gaze, as if trying to see below his exterior to see what secrets or well-hidden intentions were hidden underneath the apparent concern he was now exhibiting. Though even calling it concern might be a bit of a stretch. His words seemed reluctant— almost as unwillingly spoken as her reply was. “And you think that’s what’s happening to me?” Nevermind that it was the truth. Beyond her inability to properly express herself was the question of why he was bothering with her in the first place. WIth the way he’d reacted on the boat paired with his attempts to pin her against the railing- she’d thought he’d want to get in and out of this situation as quickly as possible.

 “Don’t know. It’s why I’m asking. Doesn’t mean you gotta answer.” Dave replied with an off handed shrug tracing his fingers over the grain of the bench. The arm of the bench had been smashed off once or twice before, the wood was a different age to the age of the sea, but even still there was an unnerving stain deep inside the grain of the wood, that couldn’t quite be washed out no matter how hard the college tried. Dave knew a thing or two about that sort of stain, too. “Well,” he said after a moment, “If that’s all,” He eyed her, just the hint of softness buried in all his wrinkles. “I know how busy you young folk are. Wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“But...why do you care to ask?” Nell replied with another question, still not entirely willing to answer his question. There was still a wariness to her gaze, as if she were waiting for him to turn around and start yelling like he had on the boat. Why did he care whether the guilt was eating her alive or not? She couldn’t help shake the feeling that Dave was simply waiting to turn the tables once again, that he’d change his mind and cast her out just as easily as the coven and her parents had. He was right about her being busy, though. Between the demon cult, her bounty hunting, and potential new jobs she’d been kept running. Still...there was something making her want to linger despite her anxious certainty that nothing good would come of it. Perhaps it was the smallest hint of softness beneath his words, and the fact that she found so little of it these days. “What about you? You said you know about being eaten by guilt.”

“I can take the question back if it bothers you so,” Dave replied with a nonplussed lookin on his face, because the answer to her question was complicated as hell. “Sure do. Life as long and messy as mine, I got plenty to feel guilty for. Not summonin’ demon sharks, I’ll give you that, but enough messes with a body count, that’s for sure.” Dave rubbed the bridge of his nose. Grey clouds overhead were beginning to promise rain. He wasn’t about to share the nature and brunt of his messes, whether they were the sinking boat variety, victims of a monster Dave had failed to stop, or drowning someone who… it was probably not right to have drowned. “Just saying, storing that emotional stuff like a Molotov’s just gonna have it blow in your face. I’d know.” 

“It doesn't bother me,” Nell commented defensively, even though the opposite was true. She just didn’t want to admit such a thing. Not to herself and certainly not to the man who’d already see too much of things she wanted to hide or forget. “Does my question bother you?” She posed the rebuttal as a means of trying to get the burden of explanation off herself, shifting it in Dave’s direction instead. The mention of a body count wasn’t something she’d expected from the selkie, and it was plain to see her curiosity had been piqued. Fortunately, she knew better than to ask for details at a time like this, but that didn’t stop her from asking another question. “Well then...what do you do with it?” Her tone was uncomfortable, arms folded defensively over her chest. She wasn’t fond of appearing weak in front of people she barely knew, or asking for help at all, but desperation was starting to get the better of her. Besides- maybe he would just think she was asking for someone else’s sake. 

“No,” Dave replied honestly, eyebrows raised at her defensive demeanor, quietly letting her know that he could see just how reticent she was to talk about it. But he didn’t push again, getting ready to leave her to her coat and her guilt when she pried another question out of herself. Dave’s look was probably more understanding than she’d like, but he still sighed. 

“Agh, hell,” Dave ran his hand through his hair, turning so he was side on to her when he leant against a nearby fence, his brows dipped deep in thought. For all his gentle cajoling, he wasn’t quite ready to open up to a stranger either. “Different things for different guilts. Some folks act like they never did anything wrong, bottle it up and continue on like nothing ever happened. Some folks spend a lifetime chasing a type of redemption that doesn’t exist, so they can do enough good to outbalance the bad, like it’s some cosmic scale they just gotta weigh up right. Hard to say which way leaves you more fucked up. Guess I deal with it with something in the middle. ‘M not a good person, but I can ensure I don’t make the same fuck ups as before. Focus on what keeps me going. If I face judgement after, I’ll have earned it.” He looked at her sidelong, trying to parse her reaction. “That answer your question?” As vague an answer as it was. There was no talking about the nights with angry outbursts, darker shades that he saw the world in, how quickly his mind twisted to the thought of solving issues by killing. He barely knew this girl, after all. 

Nell still didn’t understand why he’d taken the time to answer her questions to begin with, constantly surprised when he continued to linger with her as they spoke. She was silent as she mulled over Dave’s words, trying to fit them into cracks that lived in her as a result of her own guilt. She knew redemption wasn’t an option, one good thing didn’t magically replace one bad. And ignoring her guilt had never been an option for her, not when she was much better at wallowing in it. “So what you’re saying is it doesn’t get any better,” Nell snorted somewhat derisively, but it was meant as a comment at her own expense rather than Dave’s. She was thankful for his words, even if they hadn’t necessarily filled her with hope. Her foot scuffed at the ground, still uncomfortable despite letting the clam shell of her emotional state open in the slightest. “I mean- thanks for answering. I guess it makes sense that you just gotta learn from it and then deal with it.” After all that had been her experience so far, hadn’t it? Something about not being a good person struck a nerve in her, and she couldn’t help but think of how close Adam’s guilt had gotten him to making a lifelong mistake. “I think trying to be better is at least...the mark of a decent person.” That was the closest she managed to get when it came to offering Dave an opinion on his judgement day.

"Wouldn’t say it doesn’t get easier with time,” Dave replied, tilting his head until his neck cracked, easing some of the tension this conversation was giving him. “More manageable, less raw. Easier to put these things in perspective. You’re still young, you’ve got time to figure out how you want to deal.” Even if it didn’t, Dave was always aware that when he talked to young adults about shit, they had so little framework for how much they still had time to change and grow that he didn’t want to say shit to stifle that. The surest way to keep someone the same was to tell them they had no chance of changing. He looked at her sidelong, the tiniest corner of a smile on his face. “I like to think so,” he replied, in a distant, hypothetical way. It wasn’t something he was interested in applying to himself. 

He was right, technically. Nell was still young. But it felt like she’d been aged some fifteen years in that last twelve months alone. Being raised in White Crest meant she was more than familiar with its oddities and quirks, but she hadn’t remembered the little town being quite so emotionally destructive. Or maybe she’d just been too wrapped up in the swaddle of youth to experience it herself before she’d left, only to return after seeing how gruesome the rest of the world could be. For some naive reason she hadn’t expected it to follow her back home, but here she was with the literal scars along her arms and neck to prove otherwise. Her lips pursed as Dave refused to take part in her little charade of ‘asking for a friend’, feeling set off kilter when he addressed her and the guilt she held directly. “I never said I was talking about me,” she replied stubbornly as her face took on a somewhat petulant expression despite it being obvious that she’d been doing just that.

The beginning of his smile also caught Nell off-guard, and parts of why she’d found it so hard to believe that he could turn his anger from the boat around so quickly fell into place. She’d wanted him to be the persecutor, to tell her that she’d fucked up and confirm her as deserving of the guilt that lived in her chest like an iron set of chains. To give her the punishment she felt she deserved like her mother had done. The realization had her looking away from him, not wanting to give away any more emotion than she already had. “So you...what? Don’t have time to figure it out anymore?” For once her words weren’t meant as an old person joke at the expense of who she was asking. “Or have you just been letting it ‘get easier’ and put into perspective? And that’s the thing you’ve figured out?”

“Hmmm,” Came Dave’s noncommittal response, just looking at her sidelong. When she pouted like that, it was damn hard to remember that the girl was an adult who had gotten folk killed, not just a lost kid finding her way through the world. Which was what made her more dangerous.

“No. Just got bigger fish to fry.” It was a pact he’d made with himself a long damn time ago, as unhealthy as anything else on his list. He’d face his penance, whether that came at the end of a hunter’s knife or an Aipaloovik’s embrace. Dave knew damn well there were consequences to the choices he’d made over the past couple years, but that didn’t slow him down. He’d face it all, but only once the fury was dead, and he had his family’s pelts once more. He could carry the other, less important deaths he’d caused by choice or negligence or malice until that day. He was, in fact, doing just what he’d told Nell not to, letting a guilt define every part of him. “When it came down to it, I learned to carry what I needed to so that I could do what I had to. That’s all.”

“Yeah...yeah I get what you mean,” Nell mused as she thought back to the other times guilt had threatened to consume her. She’d gotten Bea killed. Watched her sister die because she’d been reckless and selfish, and hadn’t taken care of her problems properly. But even as that sickening knowledge had clawed away at her gut, she’d learned how to stomach it well enough to focus on bringing Bea back. Done what she needed to do...just like Dave had. Or at least it sounded that way. At this point she wasn’t sure what else there was to say, already feeling as if she’d said perhaps a little too much. “Anyway...thanks for the jacket.” Nell shrugged her shoulders to help it sit better on her shoulders as she stood and waited to see if Dave had anything else to say on the subject of guilt and otherwise.

“Sure,” Dave replied, noting the quick shut down of conversation with a wry smile. He straightened, shaking his head to work out any cricks as he began to turn to leave. “I know when I’ve been dismissed.” He began to walk away, before turning back to give her a stern look. “Don’t summon any more demon sharks, kid. I won’t be so nice next time.” Dave said, tapping the top of his head like he was tipping his cap to her. This time when he turned, he did not look back. Hell, he even whistled a tune he hadn’t been able to hear for 30 years.

[linssikeittomies]

The Place Between Here And There - Chapter 10: ...And Happiness In Private Life(cont'd)

Masterpost AO3 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7  Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 9(cont'd)

I've finally updated the status of the fic to ABANDONED, I was going to do that way earlier but I didn't want to admit defeat, and then I just kind of forgot... Time really starts flying by as you get older, it totally doesn't feel like 2 years passed by^^' I'm still writing scenes for later on in the fic, and I've had the general outline of the story planned for a long time, but I haven't been able to write complete chapters for any of my projects for over a year now, it's very annoying. Anyway, this is the rest of chapter 9, not my best work but at least I like the part with Toris. He's noticed Ivan's small efforts of being nicer and wants to encourage them. Thanks for everyone who read this story and sorry for not being able to bring it to conclusion for all of you who were invested!

-

Ivan sent Fredya home until Wednesday – claiming it was so he could concentrate on work, but he was sure Fredya could tell he was just fretting about the upcoming meeting. Ivan was terrified Katyushka would get carried away, and that was closer to certainty rather than possibility, and then Fredya would walk out of his life. He had known from the start that the time would come sooner or later, but he had much hoped it would fall on the later end of the spectrum. This was a wholly different case from that of his first girlfriend - the one he had been with all of three days before Katyusha started talking about weddings. She had left him the next day, not surprisingly, and he hadn’t really cared one way or the other - she had been far too practical to occupy his thoughts when she wasn’t in sight. But if Fredya left as suddenly, and he was certainly impulsive enough to do so on the spot, then... Obviously it still wouldn’t be the end of the world,of course it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, losing a home for example would be far worse than losing a companion, it really wasn’t that big of an issue when you thought about it – there was no reason to lose what little will to live Ivan had left over something that insignificant. No reason.

So Ivan would not worry about it – he slammed the door on the thought, and worked hard to put all his concentration on his notes. He had not yet studied Rogers enough, his files on the computer had sat abandoned for too long. Opening his folder, going over the routes again, verifying time codes, Ivan fell to a comfortable, familiar routine, cup of tea beside him growing cold. Rogers didn’t have much of a routine, which made observing him a challenge and data collecting a thrill. At least this was an activity that Ivan could still lose himself in despite whatever non-turmoil was boiling in his gut. Comparing coordinates, discovering overlaps, identifying patterns, data was something Ivan was good at. Data had no emotions, so it was easy to handle. Data didn’t mind his extracurriculars, didn’t judge him for his jealousy, didn’t snoop into his past. Though it also didn’t text him at 3 am to tell him about a silly dream it had. Even less it cared about whether he was coming home for the night or not. It not wanting to watch brainless, cliched superhero should have been a positive, but in the dark, the brain gets sentimental. Ivan suddenly wished he had a file on Fredya. Ivan certainly had enough data on him, though so far it was all in his brain and a few lines in his notebooks. One photo on his phone, a selfie Fredya had sent some weeks ago. It was taken with one of those filter things, Ivan wasn’t familiar with the apps so he couldn’t tell if it was instagram or snappychat or whatever others there were. Fredya had cartoon glasses on his nose, on top of his real-life glasses. He was doing a victory sign, and there was a badly drawn pink heart floating in the lower left corner, not anchored into anything. The composition of the photo was bad. A large dead space occupied the top left, a pile of dirty clothes was poking into the frame from the bottom right. The lighting was scarcely better, the only diffuser was the dust inside the light fixture. Fredya’s artistic ability was nil, though he did make for an attractive subject, harsh shadows and all. It would be nice to have proper photo of him, before he got out of reach. With a reference to guide him, it might be possible. Ivan quickly scanned his bedroom for inspiration.

Perhaps it was too much effort for 2 a.m., but Ivan rather liked the end result. The handful of stars drawn on the wall to form a suggestion of a halo – however wrong it looked on Ivan – and hands posed to form a heart on the chest, and some minor lighting adjustments on photoshop, he thought it near perfectly captured how Ivan saw Fredya. Bright, innocent, center of the universe, unashamed of his affections. Fredya wouldn’t put as much effort in to it, even if he did take his own version of the photo as Ivan had requested, but that was also good. It wasn’t in Fredya’s nature to try too hard at something he didn’t feel like understanding - such as art other than of the moving pictures variety. Together, the photos formed a piece – the fantasy and the reality. It was a commentary on expectations. Fredya may or may not look at the photo when he inevitably got up to go the bathroom sometime soon, but he wouldn’t take his own until afternoon if ever, so Ivan finally went to bed. He only had a few hours before his shift started.

-_-_-_-_-

Fredya had sent an emoji Ivan didn’t understand the meaning as response to the photo, followed by hearts and something that seemed to be an abbreviation, Ivan didn’t research the meaning. It likely wasn’t important. Ivan got coffees for everyone again, and Amanda gave him a incredulous look. It was getting suspicious, Ivan acting nice. He should dial down on the social interactions for the next few days. It would be good practice for when Fredya left him, anyway. “Oh, thank you for going through the trouble”, Toris commented smiling. Ivan studied the smile, trying to map out proportions and gauge timings, but again he failed to replicate the gesture. It kept coming out as sarcastic. He would prefer if both would just shut up and their coffees without scrutinizing his intentions. Let a man act civil to fellow humans beings in peace. “If everyone is done sitting around, we need someone to go interview Fowler’s parishioners.” Predictably, Amanda volunteered for the task. That left Ivan and Toris at the office, reading through statements, comparing alibis and viewing security footage, the same draining and pointless sinkhole of never-ending choppy black-and-white footage that glared a print of the screen in your soul, so that in the end when you lost everything else to dementia and cataracts, you would still see that stinging bright rectangle staring you in the eye, smirking gleefully, taking pleasure in removing everything one used to take joy in, and replacing itself in place of loved ones. That metaphor ran a little wild at the end, there. In all fairness, it could be intriguing work when results could reasonably be expected, but everyone and their mother knew the only thing learned from these particular ones would be just how much time were wasting on them. Even Toris, being his professional self, couldn’t resist glancing at the clock every few minutes. He would of course try to make it inconspicuous, just letting his eyes dart to his wrist and back again, but it was noticeable enough when one was more concentrated on the coworker than the work. It came to Ivan’s mind that perhaps this was another aspect of Toris he should try to simulate, rather than keep studying, his work ethic was excellent. Surely that was something most people would approve of. And Fredya did often complain Ivan was rather lackadaisical about his work, he would appreciate the effort. “How do stay so focused?” he asked sincerely. It was admirable, really, how Toris could throw himself at something so tedious. Toris blinked at him in confusion, probably surprised to see his colleague who was supposed to working beside him blatantly ignoring said work. “I’ve practiced it for years, there’s really no easy trick for it.” “Ah. Shame.” “I find that meditating regularly helps. And a good diet.” Well, that was already two things Ivan would not be trying out. “I could send you some articles  if you’d like.” “You should spend your free time on yourself. You work too much.” Ivan went idly back to his files, not really feeling like working, but deciding to at least give it a shot, but feeling Toris’ curious eyes still fixed on him was too much of a distraction. After several seconds of silence he couldn’t take it anymore. “Yes?” “Thank you. That was considerate of you.” Ivan didn’t know how to answer that. It had been such a banal thing to say. Not warranting any response, really. Just a stock phrase, however true of some people and situations - such as this particular specimen. Toris must have heard the exact same statement hundreds of times in his life, knowing that he had an actual social circle who cared for him. Ivan was outside that circle, and people rarely care for the things outsiders say in matters like these - surely Toris should feel nothing particular about anything Ivan said. There was no need for him to smile like that, it was just embarrassing for a grown man to get so giddy about faint praise. Ivan scoffed and went back to his work.

-_-_-_-_-

U maek a habot of drawning on walls huh Outside of his brief childhood, Ivan had only ever drawn on walls three times - once in a drunk, misguided bout of creative frenzy, once to write his number on an intriguing man’s wall to annoy him, and once in an attempt to save a relic of happier times for the future. Mostly when you are involved, it seems. Perhaps you are my muse for wall-related artistry It had been a while since Ivan had drawn a portrait, but now might be the time to dust off that skill set. Ivan considered himself more of a photographer, but there was also something appealing about creating from scratch. Although... he would need to keep the portrait hidden, it would raise questions and pity later on. Ivan wished he was better at abstraction, that way it wouldn’t look like Fredya to anyone else, but his mind seemed to be too observational for it. It could only make sense of things that connected together in realistic ways, it couldn’t create anything out of feelings alone. Perhaps he simply didn’t have enough of them for that kind of art. The dinner with Fredya and his sisters was a few hours away, but Ivan was already nervously ironing his clothes. He once again pleaded Katyusha to control her romantic impulses, and of course she promised, but Ivan knew that meant little. She had very bad self-control. Tasha’s picking me up, we’ll meet you there Natasha was coming? Nataliya was coming?! Fuck - what was she - this was bad news - why hadn’t she said - oh god, forget about Katyusha ruining everything if Nataliya Grigorova was coming! She never mentioned wanting to come along That sneaky little girl, she told me you said it was okay, haha He would not survive this night sober. He wanted to make a good impression. He did not want to be drunk when the only three people who mattered to him were all in the same room. He wanted to be fully conscious, to enjoy an outing with his family while being fully genuine, not just sedated into calmness. But lord knew he would not survive the night sober.

-_-_-_-_-

Remembering the fit Fredya had thrown the last time Ivan had driven not-strictly-drunk-but-also-not-sober, he was glad that they had arranged beforehand for Fredya to pick him up. Because he was observant in the most inconvenient ways, Ivan had been sure Fredya would notice something was off, maybe a smell or the slow movements to counteract the unsteady hand-to-eye-coordination, but fortunately he was too stoked about meeting Ivan’s sisters again, officially, to notice Ivan’s oddly calm demeanor. He babbled excitedly the whole way there, and was halfway across the street before Ivan had even fully exited the car. “Come on you snail! They’re gonna think we ditched them!” “It’s only a few minutes away, you can afford to slow down”, Ivan chuckled. Fredya was so adorably excited, he resembled a puppy on a walk. “Being overeager is as bad as being late.” “Beg to disagree! Pick up the pace slowpoke!” Fredya sped up ahead, Ivan kept his leisurely pace. He missed the re-introductions, but it seemed like he hadn’t been needed for those at all - Fredya and Katyushka already looked like old friends, while Tasha regarded him with a haughty look, but nary a nasty word. She raised an eyebrow at Ivan, as if saying really, you chose this clown over me?, and he simply smiled pleasantly at her. As they waited for their food to arrive, Fredya and Katyushka were unsurprisingly the only ones to hold up conversation. They had found a common ground in Star Trek - in that Katyusha had heard a lot about it, but had never watched an episode and was interested, and Fredya was an expert in all the series and films and liked talking about them. They went through the pacifistic ideas on the original series and how it sometimes contradicted itself on it, analyzing the casting choices for the remakes, some more things that Ivan had no interest in.  When their plates were brought, the were in the midst of trying to speak klingon - the attempts of both of them were saddeningly hilarious. Or perhaps they were both surprisingly accurate. Ivan had no way of knowing, the franchise being something he had never taken an interest in. Of course he liked space, but he was more fact-oriented than a fan of fanciful fiction. “You seem so young, it’s almost like you’re still in college”, Katyusha giggled, and Ivan could not agree more. The youthful energy Fredya exuded was refreshing, at least most of the time. “Never went to college, I went straight to work from high school”, Fredya explained, crumbs flying. That was the one habit that Ivan never found charming in Fredya, it was just plain disgusting. Tasha made a small chortle of contempt that passed Fredya by. “Our brother is a very intelligent man”, Tasha commented sharply, and Ivan knew exactly what she was going for – he had come to the same conclusion, himself. And truthfully, neither of them had been wrong - Fredya really was stupid. “Oh, tell me about it”, the insulted man chuckled, not understanding what was being implied. Ivan would have liked being able to defend Fredya, but the thing was that Fredya was not intelligent – intellectually or socially, and attempting to claim otherwise would have been pointless. He might have been considered smart in some useless areas, such as entertainment trivia, but faint praise is just as damning as admitting faults. Trivia! There was the opening Fredya needed to impress Tasha! “He has a master’s degree in movie trivia and celebrity gossip, if nothing else. Just give an actor’s name and he will tell you every movie they have ever been in.” “And not just that! I can also tell which year each movie came out!” Fredya exclaimed proudly. Ivan started with an easy one - Tom Cruise. Tasha did look reluctantly impressed as the titles and dates kept on coming, but refused to admit defeat. She tried her favorite actor, someone much more obscure. “Ken Foree?” “Hmm… The midnight man, 2017… Rift, dark side of the moon 2016, Cut slash pri- no wait, I think he was in Divine tragedies, 2015, Cut slash print 2012 –“ However, since

Tasha’s obsession with her brother refused to give way to respect for her perceived enemy, she realized that to claim victory she could simply ask about any non-American film star. “Anastasia Zavorotnyuk.” “Anastasia who?” Of course he pronounced the name the American way, but Ivan was still mildly impressed he could tell Анастасия and Anastasia were the same name. “Zavorotnyuk.” Tasha allowed herself a malevolent smirk as Fredya racked his brain for the name in vain. “A true expert wouldn’t limit himself only to Hollywood”, Tasha hmphed in triumphant malice, believing to have proved her superiority over him once and for all, despite not showing an ability to counter his. It seemed the point had only been to prove Fredya was not omniscient. In Ivan’s eyes, it was enough to be merely well-versed. “He does hate subtitles to the point where I thought he might be illiterate”, Ivan joked. “Hey, at least I speak the language of the country I live in!” “Verily, my darling, thou speakest with the most biting of tongues. Shakespeare himself would envy your prowess.” “The guy lived like hundreds of years ago, who gives a shit? Ivan Drago was famous in the 80’s.” “Ivan can sound almost native when he tries”, Katyusha said, trying to diffuse the argument, not knowing the workings of their relationship well enough to tell it was all said in jest. “I haven’t tried in years, I doubt I could anymore”, Ivan thought. He had tried training his accent away in high school, so he would sound less foreign in job interviews. Having a foreign name was bad enough in an application. He had never achieved a smooth, natural accent, he had to concentrate very hard which caused the words to come out very slowly and robotically, and still there was always a hint of foreign phonemes. Combined with his attempts to deepen his voice – an incredibly embarrassing failure on its own – had made him cringe, even back then. Tasha had encouraged him, of course, because in her mind anything and everything her dear brother did was the right decision. Excluding taking romantic interest in someone other than her, of course.

The rest of the evening went by in much the same fashion. Fredya and Katyusha got along swimmingly, Tasha made snide remarks about Fredya, Ivan defended him in mean ways, Fredya played along. It was all very pleasant. Finally the staff started dropping hints that it was time to vacate the table, so they got up and parted ways. Katyusya was enchanted enough to not wait long enough to be out of earshot before starting to gush about her baby brother’s relationship, which made for a perfect opening for eavesdropping. “Don’t you think Vanechka looks so much happier than usual?” Katyusya said, nearly clapping her hands in excitement. “Idiocy might be contagious”, Tashenka grumbled in response. “I never imagined he’d go for that type, but I guess it goes to show opposites really do attract!” Katyushka squeed. “It’s only for the moment. That American moron will start getting on Vanya’s nerves soon”, Tashenka claimed, not sounding too confident herself. Ivan had expected that to happen as well, in the beginning. “I hope he won’t, I think Alfred is good for Vanechka. He’s come out of his shell.” What did she mean by that? As far as Ivan was aware, he had never been shy around his sisters. Or other people, for that matter. “What’re you frowning about?” Fredya asked. “I’m eavesdropping. Katyusha likes you, and Natasha doesn’t despise you.” “Well that’s good news isn’t it?” Fredya smiled, and tried to hear the women. “Man, you got great hearing. I can’t hear them at all.” Yes, it did take some practice to achieve Ivan’s level of spying on other people’s conversations. And by then they had gotten far enough that Ivan couldn’t hear then anymore either, actually. “Your eardrums must be damaged from the all screeching you do.” “You’re walking home, asshole.”

-

Tasha + Katyushka = affectionate nicknames for Nataliya and Yekaterina. Tashenka + Katyusya = one level more intimate. Ivan is being drunk and sentimental so at the end of the evening, the way he feels about his sisters is something like most people do when seeing tiny kittens. Thanks again for reading! Maybe in like 10 years so I'll add a final "chapter" describing the rest of the plot, but I know myself and won't make any promises. I have some more snippets on the masterpost if anyone wants to frustrate themselves with a story that will never be finished.

[kilesplaysthings]

Sketches

Title: Sketches Fandom: Ikemen Vampire Character: Leonardo da Vinci  Genre: romance Warnings: None really. Just mild suggestive content. POV: female reader POV; second, I guess? Word Count: 2k+ Other comments: this just popped in my head the other day. idk I just like artists drawing their love interests. bet y’all can tell what movie I thought of, though I actually don’t really like this movie lol. I took the same liberties with da Vinci that the game does, fyi. Enjoy! ^^

***

It was morning. The dim sunlight streamed in gently, slightly hindered by dingy curtains and dodging the piles of books, maps and other endless clutter that surrounded the room. It landed gently on your fluttering eyelids and you slowly willed them open to glance up at the nearby ancient clock that hung on the wall before you.

Half-past eight?! Your eyes flew open. Oh no! You were late! Sebastian was going to kill you! Or at least, give you a whopping headache from one of his powerful flicks to the forehead. You sprung upright, about to scramble out of bed, when you paused and took a look around you. It was then that you finally realized where you were. You weren’t in your own room. Looking down, you then realized you weren’t even clothed, your nightgown discarded at the foot of the bed. Only a rumpled sheet served as your covering, and then, only barely.

Oh right, you realized, you had the day off today. You’d been given a holiday to spend with your beloved. You both had been working hard as of late and had been unable to spend much time together. Therefore, after asking Sebastian’s permission yesterday, the two of you had spent the night together in celebration of your day off. He hadn’t been opposed to it in the slightest, either. After all, Leonardo could be very persuasive.

The tiny scare had fully awakened you and you knew by now that you wouldn’t be going back to sleep. So, you took a moment to stretch a bit and rub the sleepiness out of your eyes. Your eyes then drifted down to see the man himself stretched out beside you, still fast asleep. He was lying on his back, turned slightly towards you. One arm was resting up on his pillow by his head, which gave you a full view of him. It was quite a sight to behold, with his bare chest slowly rising up and down, and only the sheet covering him – again, barely so.

A soft sigh escaped your lips; a dreamy smile came over your face. He was beautiful. You were reminded of all of the trips to art museums and of all of the art classes you took back in your school days; observing so many beautiful portraits and near-perfect sculptures that were created by Leonardo’s contemporaries. Lying there beside him, you were certain that the sight before you would have made those men green with envy. He was indeed a sight to behold, especially when he was asleep with such a carefree and almost vulnerable expression on his face. You couldn’t help yourself; you stretched your hand out to run your fingers down his cheek and neck, across those well-defined collar bones and over to one of those broad shoulders. His olive skin was smooth to the touch and it thrilled you to feel him beneath your fingertips.

All of a sudden, his larger hand came up to grasp yours and golden eyes met your own.

“Buongiorno, cara mia,” he sleepily mumbled. His voice was a gravelly timbre that sent delightful shivers down your spine.

“Good morning to you, too,” you happily replied, unable to resist the urge to bestow a tender kiss on his cheek.

Your small gift made a smile bloom over his face and he turned on his side to face you more. A muscular arm slipped around your waist to pull you closer.

“Did you sleep well?” You asked him, trying not to stare too long at that small bit of sheet that was slowly slipping off of him.

“Quite well, and you?” He quietly answered before he kissed your shoulder.

“I slept like a log.” You giggled from the ticklish kiss and ran your fingers through his chestnut locks. His low chuckle mixed with yours and he gave you a tender smile.

“If I were to be honest, I’m surprised you woke up before me,” he remarked.

“Yes, well, I nearly forgot I had the day off today,” you said wryly. “And I gotta admit, it was a pleasant sight to see: you sleeping so peacefully.” You grinned.

“Oh really?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Mhm.. if only I had a camera to capture such a moment..” you teased.

He smirked and drifted a hand down your arm. “Well, I suppose you could lug a camera up here, but I would think it would take a while for you to get a photograph of me.”

“Au contraire!” You exclaimed, holding a finger up. “I meant to say, if only I had a camera from my time! In the future, technology has evolved to the point that cameras can take a photograph instantly.”

His eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Oh?”

“Yup!” You eagerly nodded. “Not to mention, photographs can be developed and printed in an instant! It’s so common that people frame their photos and hang them on the wall or display them around their homes.” You explained.

“That sounds fantastic.” His nimble fingers danced along your collar bones, similar to what you had been doing earlier to him. “If only we had such a camera. I would love to capture your picture as well, especially like this…”

Your cheeks felt a little warmer than usual and you couldn’t help but giggle. Suddenly, an idea popped into your head. Maybe it was because of your positions, maybe it was because you were with such a man as Leonardo da Vinci, or maybe because it was April that a certain movie came to mind.

“Well, since it’s you, I know a different way you could capture me like this,” you hinted. “It’s not as fast as a futuristic camera, but it’s just as effective.”

He figured out rather quickly what you were implying. A delighted hum resonated from him.

“Hmm.. are you suggesting I draw your portrait?”

You nodded and he grinned. It was obvious the idea thrilled and inspired him.

“What a perfect idea. I have yet to properly draw you, after all, and this is the perfect setting.” His eyes drifted lovingly over your naked form before he slid out of the bed.

You watched as he went over to one of the many piles of books lying around. He pulled out what looked like a sketch pad with loose pages slipping out between its leaves. Then, after settling down in an armchair that was draped with his discarded clothing from last night, he reached over to the desk behind him and fumbled through a charcoal-crusted glass until he pulled out one of his drawing utensils.

“Now then..” His golden eyes were gleaming again as he studied you still lying in bed. He propped one of his legs up on the chair and balanced the sketch pad upon it.

“I think this calls for a couple of sketches. Just do ask I ask, capisci? I’ll tell you how I want you to pose.”

You nodded eagerly and with a grin, he got to sketching. For the next several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the gentle ticking of the clock and the scratching of his charcoal stick on the paper. Every now and then, your eyes met with his piercing gaze as he studied you before returning to the paper in front of him. You admired the intensity in his features as he concentrated on capturing you lying there amidst the sheets. Every now and then, he would quietly ask you to move around in different positions: on your stomach with your head resting in your arms; stretched out on your back with your arms above your head; reclined on the side facing him for all of you to behold. Sometimes he’d want your hair spread out on the pillows or partially covering your face. At one point, he asked you to sit up into a kneeling position, glancing at him from behind.

And oh, was he enjoying himself. As he sketched page after page, each drifting down onto the desk behind him one after the other, a satisfied smile stretched across his face and his eyes shone. You were such a sight for his artists’ gaze. Drawing you was one of the finest pleasure’s he’d ever had.

The session lasted for around half an hour, yet you were never uncomfortable. Lying in the bed was relaxing and he never asked you to do anything too strenuous. Your mind did begin to wander and you bemusedly recalled the scene of that specific movie that inspired you to suggest this idea to him. Suddenly another thought popped into your head and you couldn’t help but laugh a little.

He peered over at you from between strands of hair that fell over his eyes.

“What’s so amusing?” He wondered.

“I couldn’t help but think,” you answered as you relaxed against the headboard, “I’m being drawn by the Leonardo da Vinci. Who knows? These drawings might be discovered in an old desk drawer that’s bought at an auction someday. That’s how people in my time find artists’ lost art sometimes.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken, cara mia,” he said softly. “No one will ever find these discarded in an old piece of furniture. I’m keeping these with me at all times.” The grin on his face was devilish and made you shiver in delight.

“Well, maybe that’s a good thing,” you murmured. “I don’t know how I’d feel about a bunch of old historians looking at nude portraits of me…”

“Exactly.” He set his charcoal down, wiped the powder from his hands on his discarded shirt, and gathered the sketches together. “Want to see them?” He asked you before joining you back on the bed.

“Hmmm…” You were a bit nervous but shrugged in agreement nevertheless. After all, nude or not, it wasn’t everyday that you’d get drawn by da Vinci himself.

Your eyes widened at the sights before you.

“This is me..? This is how you see me?” You whispered in awe. The woman before you was beautiful; smiling happily in some sketches, while adoringly gazing with longing in others.

“This is how I see you,” he replied in the affirmative. “You are my beautiful tesoro. I honestly don’t know if I did you justice, though,” He admitted. “All those years ago, when I started becoming an artist and making a name for myself, I drew mostly men, as I found them easier to paint. Throughout the years, as I watched time pass and met different people, I did start to improve in my paintings of women, yet I never knew if I could depict them as well. You, however.” He leaned close and ran the back of his fingers down your cheek.

“I have no trouble capturing you. You inspire me so easily. Your beauty and grace charm me effortlessly to the point where I could have no other muse. So many people praise my art from all those years ago, but it is only now that I have met you, that I feel like my art can truly reach its full potential.”

To say your were moved was an understatement. Your heart was beating fast in your chest and you had a feeling your cheeks were flushed. “Leonardo..” you uttered his name softly and copied his movements by stroking his own cheek.

“Thank you. I am so glad I can inspire you,” you said in a hushed voice. “I look forward to what you will show the world after this.”

He wore a satisfied grin on his face. “Then we shall see, cara mia, what the future brings. For now, though…” He took the sketches and set them aside on the nearby chair.

“I want to do more than just draw you from afar. I want to touch you and feel your warm body tangled with mine. We could even explore some of those positions I had you do earlier. What do you say, mi amore?” He winked playfully.

You had the same devilish grin on your lips that you saw on his. Wrapping your arms around him to pull him on top of you, you whispered in his ear.

“I think that’s a marvelous idea.”

[ericsonclan]

Beach Date

Summary: Clementine and Louis go on a double date with James and his boyfriend Jesse.

Read on A03:

“Those look nice on you,”

Clementine turned to see James standing behind her, smiling as she stood before him in a pair of sunglasses from a beachfront boutique. The couples had paused in their walk to the beach to peruse one of the local stores and Clementine had immediately found herself drawn to a certain pair of aviator sunglasses. She pulled them down to see James more clearly. “Find anything you like?”

James shook his head. “I’m fine,”

That didn’t surprise Clementine. James didn’t exactly strike her as the type to own a lot of stuff. They’d only known each other for a few months since they paired up on a project for their college social studies class, but Clementine felt like she’d known James far longer. There was something calming about him that always put her at ease.

Suddenly Louis burst out of the dressing room, proudly strutting forward in a shirt that had Clementine giggling. It was one of those bikini body shirts that women wore to look comically sexy while in the modest comfort of a t-shirt. Louis struck a pose as soon as he spotted Clementine, the rhinestones of the drawing of the hot pink bikini twinkling under the store lights. “So, what do you think? Is it me or what?”

“Oh, totally,” Clementine quipped. “I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you if you’re wearing that sexy number,”

Louis winked playfully at her. “I’m nothing if not alluring. Well, I’ll get changed and then we can go,”

“Wait, so you’re not buying it?” Clementine asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I…” Louis paused, uncertain. “Do you want me to?”

“I’m teasing, you weirdo!”

“O-OK then,” Louis stumbled back towards the dressing room without another word.

Clementine shook her head knowingly. That boy could dish it, but he could never take it. She loved seeing him flustered.

Jesse emerged beside James. “You guys almost ready to go?”

“Mhm,” James turned to look at his boyfriend. “Did those trunks work out?”

“Nah, the fit was off. I’ll find some others later,” Jesse looked at Clementine with fascination. “Nice shades, Clem,”

“Thanks,” Clementine didn’t know much about Jesse, but from what James had told her he seemed like a nice guy. He and James had met in an environmental studies class; Jesse was planning to be a park ranger. He’d recently moved to West Virginia so he didn’t know many folks in the area yet. Maybe on another date he and James could drop by Ericson’s Diner and meet the rest of the crew.

Louis reemerged from the dressing room, this time wearing a bright blue t-shirt that read “I need my vitamin sea”. “Alright, I’m ready to check out. Clem, do you want those aviators? They look badass on you,”

“Sure, that’d be nice,” Clementine handed the sunglasses to Louis who promptly headed over to the counter. She didn’t know where her last pair of sunglasses had ended up, but searching for them this morning had proved to be a lost cause. Considering how bright it was outside, she knew she’d be thankful to have this pair on hand.

Their purchases made, the couples headed down toward the beach. As the grass beneath them turned to sand they kicked off their shoes, holding them in their hands. Louis’ and Clementine’s free hands linked, swinging back and forth lazily as they continued to walk.

A mischievous expression suddenly came upon Jesse’s face. He lightly tapped James’ shoulder. “Race you to the water,” With no further warning he was off like a shot, leaving James in a dead sprint to catch up, lightly laughing as he gave chase.

Louis turned to Clementine. “While those two are doing their thing, you want to find a place to set up?”

Clementine nodded. Luckily it wasn’t too busy a day at the beach. None of them had classes today and Violet had promised to cover for Louis back at the restaurant. Taking off her backpack, Clementine got out the towels and beach mats to set up. Louis handled getting the umbrella in place. It took a little ingenuity and several rocks he picked up from the edge of the beach, but eventually he had it securely in place.

Clementine applied sunscreen to her face, arms and legs before beginning to take off her outer clothes. She’d figured it was best to just wear her swimsuit under her clothes for easy changing, though she’d end up a bit damp on the way home. Her swimsuit was forest green, a one piece with an open back with crisscrossing straps. Clementine turned to Louis, holding out the bottle with a shy smile. “Could you do my back?”

Louis’ eyes widened before a goofy grin crossed his face. “Yeah, definitely!”

Clementine turned her back to Louis, brushing the curls that tickled the base of her neck to one side.

A loud splort came from behind her. “Uh, Clem? I think I got too much,”

“That’s OK. Just use some on yourself,”

Louis began to apply the sunscreen to her back. She shivered a bit at the coldness. “You know, now that I think about it I don’t know if I’ve ever burned,”

“Really?”

“Yep. Never needed sunscreen most of the time either,”

“Well, I guess you are a lot darker than me,” Clementine looked out at the water. Jesse and James were knee deep in it now, splashing at each other playfully. “I didn’t get to go to the beach much when I was younger. It’s nice going now,” She felt Louis’ arms come round her shoulders to gently pull her into a hug. His lips brushed quickly against her shoulder.

“Here’s to making it the best day ever,” Suddenly an annoyed exhale left his mouth. “Shit, I got sunscreen all over the sleeve of my new shirt,”

“Here, let me help,” Clementine turned around, scooping up some of the sunscreen onto her fingertips. She applied it behind her ears and across the bridge of her nose before reapplying the rest to her shoulders. Could never be too careful.

“You’ve still got a spot on your nose,” Louis grinned at her. “Right… there,” He quickly rubbed the smudge into her skin before leaning down to place a playful kiss on the tip of her nose. Before he could pull back too far Clementine had wrapped her hand round the back of Louis’ neck, pulling him in for a longer kiss. They were both smiling once they pulled apart. “So…” Louis said, awkwardly scratching the back of his head, “Sandcastle time?”

Clementine’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Let’s do it!”

Jesse and James soon joined them in their castle-building endeavors. Louis and James began to make trips down to the water to get wetter sand while Jesse and Clementine dug out the moat that would surround their castle. Jesse and James had dropped their shirts off by the towels. Now that his shoulders were bare, a tattoo on Jesse’s shoulder stood out to Clementine. Some of the letters looked like English to her, but others were unrecognizable.

Jesse noticed her gaze. “Got a question for me?” He looked over, his long black hair falling along his side.

“Your tattoo – what language is it?”

“Tsalagi. It’s my mother’s Cherokee name,”

Clementine remembered James mentioning that Jesse was Native American. The tone he’d had when mentioning his mother made her feel like there was more to his story, but she didn’t want to pry.

Jesse watched her inquisitively. “You’re part of the club too, huh?”

Clementine looked at him in confusion.

“The My Parents Are Dead Club. Seems like we’re always able to spot each other. How long’s it been for you?”

“It happened when I was eight,”

“Sorry to hear that. I was thirteen when I lost her. Never knew my old man.”

“It never gets easier, does it?” Clementine asked, looking down at the trench they’d dug.

“No, it never does,”

Suddenly they heard footsteps behind them.

“Hey, guys! Look how much sand we got!” Louis ran forward, holding his shirt in front of them. He’d put it back on to use in lieu of buckets. James followed closely behind, his arms full of sand.

Jesse turned back to Clementine with a grin. “Ready to build the tallest sand castle ever?”

“Hell yeah I am,”

----

It didn’t end up being that tall. Every time they got some good height going, part of the structure would crumble, leaving them scrambling to rebuild. They still had a ton of fun though. Louis brought back some plastic cups with their lunch and he and Clementine ended up using them to mix water and sand, dribbling the mixture down their fingers to form little turrets across their castle. Jesse and James got really into the outer sculpting of the castle, adding brick detailing and even little guards round the perimeter and along the wall. The guards mostly looked like nondescript mounds, but it was still a nice detail.

They were in no hurry to get home, so once the sandcastle had achieved ‘perfection’ in their eyes the couples parted ways for a time. Clementine and Louis decided to take a nap, curling up together under the shelter of the umbrella, while Jesse and James took a walk along the water. Clementine found herself drifting in and out of her sleep as the sun warmed her, keeping her in a satisfied, dreamy haze. She turned to face Louis, smiling as she found herself inches away from his sleeping face. She lifted a hand to brush across his dreadlocks. How hard was it to get the sand out of them? She knew she’d be finding sand in her own shower for days after this. Leaning forward, Clementine placed a soft kiss atop his nose before settling down to sleep once more.

----

Night was falling by the time they headed out. Louis and Clementine carried all the stuff in the backpack and beach bag while James carried Jesse. While they were walking in the water Jesse had nicked his foot on something sharp. An unfortunate accident, but he seemed happy enough with the resulting piggyback ride. His head rested against James shoulder as the two of them talked softly amongst themselves.

Louis and Clementine were holding hands again. He turned to look at her, smiling before blowing a stray clump of sand off her shoulder. “So was the beach everything you hoped it’d be?” Clementine nodded. She could feel a blissful, sleepy warmth settling deep within her. “It was a lot of fun. Thanks for inviting me,”

“Anytime, my darling,” Louis glanced over at the two boys, bobbing his head in their direction. “They seemed to have a good time too. We should invite them over to Ericson’s sometime,”

“I was thinking the same thing,”

“Great minds,” Louis said, grinning proudly.

They’d reached the car now. James had switched to carrying Jesse bridal style in order to help him into the car even though Jesse insisted he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. Louis got behind the wheel while Clementine took shotgun. Louis adjusted his mirror, looking in it toward the back. “Everybody ready to go? Seatbelts on?”

After a chorus of yeses Louis pulled out of the parking lot, turning the car toward home. Clementine leaned her head against the back of her chair, feeling her eyes drift shut again. It had been a wonderful beach day.

[kusunogatari]

[ ObiRyū October | Day Twenty-Seven | Upside Down ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Hatake Kakashi ] [ Verse: Into the Abyss ]

[ Previous ] [ Next ]

“Seal team?”

“Ready.”

“Witnesses?”

Along a wall, the other four Kage watch dourly, expressions and poses wary. “...ready,” Gaara offers, arms crossed but otherwise appearing neutral. Quite a change from A’s teeth-grinding grimace. Both Mei and Kurotsuchi mimic Gaara’s cool look, each a shade of curious.

Giving the group an unreadable glance, Kakashi’s eyes then look back to the subject at hand. “...Obito?”

The Uchiha, currently kept strapped and sealed in a chair at the center of the chamber, heaves a soft sigh. “...ready.”

Around them, a small group is allowed to gather: a record’s keeper to document the event, a backup squad of ANBU...and Obito’s wife.

It’s her he glances to as the four-man cell of fūinjutsu experts surround him in preparation. She looks unusually tense, face drawn and eyes flickering over the room before meeting his own. For a moment, she attempts a smile...but it doesn’t quite register.

He knows she’s nervous. This is, after all, a big day.

For over a year now, he’s had basic access to his chakra, kekkei genkai unlocked only when sent on missions and after prior approval from all five Kage. But after having proved no (current) intention to misuse or mishandle his abilities, Obito is being granted unfettered access to his bloodline limit, and his chakra.

All that will remain of his prior seals will be the Hyūga-like imprint kept at the rear of his head, under his hair: one that, when activated by a small, trusted group of individuals, will completely immobilize him and cut off access to any energy or Sharingan.

It’s never been used...and for that he finds himself thankful.

And he doesn’t plan on it ever being used, either.

Once in position, the seal team all hold their hands aloft, pointed at Obito.

“...begin.”

In rapid, synchronized succession, they all begin forming a series of hand signs. Only once the long, complicated string of gestures is complete do they all lay a hand on Obito’s body: one on each shoulder, one on his back, and one on his chest.

A hot flash of chakra washes over him, earning a quick grunt of pain as the previous seals are released. Along his stomach where they glow, they flash a bright white...and then fade.

Silence falls over the room.

“...and with that, I think we’re finished,” Kakashi offers, hands in his pockets and stance loose as a sign of trust. He blinks owlishly.

Behind him, the ANBU remain tensed.

“Go ahead and unbind him.”

There’s a tick of hesitation, and then the seal team does as ordered. The seal-laden straps along Obito’s ankles and wrists are released.

He doesn’t do much beyond giving a subtle look around. One wrong move, he knows, and he’ll be slammed to the floor and restrained.

Another thing he’d rather avoid.

“...well, as you all can see, he’s hardly leaping up and beginning to destroy the village,” Kakashi then notes, tone almost jovial. “The restraining seal is still in place, and still accessible by myself, the ANBU captain, the other Kage, and his caretaker. If anything happens - which, as I’ve reiterated a hundred times, I doubt - then we can immediately bring him to a stop and reapply the removed seals.”

Unbidden, Obito’s nose wrinkles. They still have to refer to Ryū as his ‘caretaker’, given her supposed role as his control switch. It bothers the hell out of him, but...well, it’s one of the major factors that’s let him come this far. Without her so-called ‘hold’ on him, ensuring he behaves, he’d probably still have his chakra sealed by now. But with her as both a lock and a bargaining chip, he’s managed to earn his way up to this point through good behavior and her diligent reports and management.

Neither of them like it, but...it’s the price they pay.

“So, with that, I believe we’re finished here. The records department will provide copies of the process’ transcripts to all of the Kage for their records. We’ll have the rest of our meeting, and then you’ll all be free to return to your villages, so long as nothing goes wrong. ANBU, you are dismissed - records, you’re free to go make those copies. If you would, fellow Kage, we’ll return to my office to finish our business before retiring for the afternoon.” He then gives his friend a glance. “...and you’re free to go. Just behave yourself.”

“No plans not to,” Obito replies with a sigh, remaining seated as everyone else makes to leave the room.

Everyone but Ryū.

Only once the chamber is empty does she cross the space between them with quiet footsteps. “...well, that went about as smoothly as we could have asked,” she offers dryly, letting a hand come to rest on his shoulder. “Are you all right…?”

“Fine. Stung for a moment but that was it.” As a test, he builds chakra behind his eyes to summon his Sharingan, and then the Mangekyō.

Ryū watches wordlessly, expression unreadable.

“Everything seems to be in working order,” he reports, letting the red eyes fade back to black. “...still odd to have both, though.”

That earns a whisper of a snort.

Considering her silently, Obito then asks, “...are you all right?”

She seems to weigh that question for a moment. “...yes and no. I’m glad you have your freedom back, at least as far as they’ll ever allow. But I’m worried.”

“Why?”

“Because now they have an even greater excuse to hurt you if something goes wrong. You’ll be punished far worse now than before should something go awry.”

Obito wilts a bit, reaching and taking her hands. “It’s going to be fine. We just have to be careful.”

“I know...but there’s only so much we can do.” At his questioning look, she explains, “You still have enemies. People who might try to harm us. And while you should be allowed to fight back, any lean out of line has the potential to see you blamed and punished.”

He sighs. “...true. But we’ll just have to keep going and roll with whatever punches we’re given. Kakashi, I’m sure, will have thought of this too. He’ll be keeping an eye out.”

The wrinkle of worry in her brow doesn’t ease, giving only a hum of affirmation.

“Well...let’s go home,” he offers after a lengthy pause. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

At that, Ryū gives him a weary glance. “I’m fine.”

Obito pointedly ignores her, standing and letting hands rest on her waist for a moment. Which is getting harder and harder to do, given the swell of her middle.

Looking at it still gets him giddy. Touching it? He’s over the moon.

Part of him still has a hard time comprehending that their baby is growing in there. Their baby…! A conception that was a struggle in and of itself.

Which is why, after so much effort, he tends to get a little...overprotective at times. Besides Kakashi (and maybe to an extent, Naruto), he really doesn’t have anyone else he trusts, let alone cares for.

Gods help anyone that tries to do them harm.

Ignoring her pout, Obito then lets an arm rest across her shoulders, the pair of them leaving the sealing chamber behind. He knows that, for the next couple of weeks at least, he’s going to be watched like a hawk by the ANBU...and not necessarily at Kakashi’s orders. By now the Rokudaime is more than aware that Obito has no foul intentions. Convincing everyone else of that is the hard part.

But he doesn’t mind. He’s gotten rather good at ignoring the feeling of eyes on his back since being released from prison. It’s a near constant. So in reality...little will change. It’s not like he has any plans to abuse his powers.

...well...there is one thing he wants to try, but...that won’t harm anyone or anything. Just a little experiment he wants to attempt for technically the second time. But at a smaller scale, and just to entertain an old idea.

No one will even notice.

Once they’re home, they work on lunch together, both of them having been cleared for the day off. While Obito insists that it must be getting close to time for Ryū to start her maternity leave, she’s been stubbornly continuing little jobs and tasks at the hospitals. Nothing like her usual surgeries. Mostly just outpatient monitoring and patrolling the hallways for any patients in need of help. She’s not due for a few weeks yet, and she claims she wants to ‘miss as little as possible’.

So the forced day off is something he can’t complain about.

They take the rest of the day easy, eventually climbing into bed for the night. Obito wraps arms around his wife, breathing in her scent as he pulls her to his chest.

“Sure you’ll be all right tomorrow?” she asks, referring to her needing to get back to work while he has a rare second day off in a row.

“Yeah, gonna just lounge around and enjoy it. Something you should be doing.”

He can feel her eyes roll. “Soon enough. Send Fubuki if you need anything, okay?”

“Will do.”

With that, they settle in for the night, Ryū rising early for another shift and leaving him alone to doze.

By the time he’s fully awake, she’s already long gone.

Sitting up with a grunt, he lets the blankets pool at his waist for a time, considering his options.

...maybe he could…

A hand reaches up and rubs at his chin, considering it. He doesn’t think it’ll go awry...no one seemed to notice the first time he tried it. And even then, he technically wouldn’t be doing anything to anyone else...just himself.

...to hell with it, he’ll try it. Just for a bit.

Rising and dressing, he downs a quick breakfast first. Then he sits atop a cushion in the middle of the sitting room floor. Sharingan spinning, he concentrates his chakra...and then casts the genjutsu.

As before, it takes a good amount...but when he looks around, he doesn’t feel too tired.

And thankfully, he’s alone.

Heaving to his feet, he glances surreptitiously around the little house. It...doesn’t look much different. Not that he really expected it to.

Whether or not anything else is different, as when he first tried it...well, he’ll just have to go out and see.

Peeking out the front door, he finds the street empty, and makes his way out, attempting to look nonchalant. And once out, he makes a beeline for the administrative building.

“Ah, Hokage-sama!”

Jolting a bit, he pauses as a random chūnin smiles and waves at him.

...it worked…!

He grins, giving a wave back and feeling oddly...giddy. It’s a silly notion, but...well, he just wants to try it, just for a little while.

Limited Tsukuyomi went over well enough the first time, even if he failed to catch Naruto (which...turned out to be a good thing). And this time, though smaller in scale, it seems he’s managed to implement the change he wanted.

He’s Godaime Hokage, being named after Minato to take the seat.

Sure, it was a childhood dream, but...well, given he’s at a place in his life where he can take a little time to indulge himself, why not? Just for an hour or two. Just to see what it would have been like.

So the only remaining question is...will everyone be flipped as they were before? It was a mirrored world, everything backwards in regards to personalities, and some once dead still being alive. He’ll have to find someone he knows well enough to tell.

But for now, he continues on toward ‘his’ office, greeting everyone who does so in turn with a smile. He has to admit...it’s a nice change of pace to the usual glowers and nervous glances he gets.

No wonder Naruto got so wrapped up once he realized the Minato and Kushina of the dream world viewed him as their son. It’s a dangerous temptation: what could be.

But Obito knows he won’t fall completely into it.

He has something far better waiting on the other side.

Still, for now, he reaches the proper building and starts climbing the stairs until he reaches the right floor, opening the door that’s usually concealing Kakashi.

Only this time, he...uh...wait, he’s still here?

“Hokage-sama!” Standing at attention beside the door, Kakashi then gives a swift bow.

Obito stares at him for a moment, a bit...weirded out.

At least now he knows the personalities have indeed been mirrored again. There’s no way Kakashi would greet him like that, even if he were Hokage.

“...er...good morning,” he greets a bit stiffly, still processing his friend’s reaction.

“I’ve prepared today’s paperwork for you, and would like to remind you that the Mizukage will be here for that meeting you scheduled early this afternoon. There’s also the roster of jōnin candidates for you to review when you have a moment. And then of course we have the block to assign missions today. The new genin teams will be arriving today.”

...oh. He’s actually going to have to work, is he? “Thanks. Let’s...start with the reviews.” It’s not like his decisions will have lasting impacts - as soon as he closes the genjutsu, this will all cease to exist. Not that it really exists at all, but...well, semantics.

Settling into the chair, he lets Kakashi hand him the folders of the new candidates. He doesn’t recognize any of them...probably all generated solely for the purpose of the genjutsu.

Either way...this is going to take him a while.

All throughout, people walk in for one reason or another. To Kakashi’s credit, he helps redirect anyone unnecessary, allowing Obito to work in relative peace.

Hours later...he realizes how late it’s getting. It’s actually starting to get dark outside…!

He wasn’t going to be in the illusion for this long!

Granted, time doesn’t pass at the same rate - it’ll have been an hour or two at most outside. And given he hasn’t been pulled back out, it’s safe to say no one’s discovered him. He probably just looks like he’s meditating. But he really should think about getting back.

“Anything else for the night?” Kakashi asks, standing dutifully beside the desk.

Sinking in his chair with a sigh, Obito waves a hand. “No, I think we’re done. Go home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leaning an elbow against the desk, Obito braces a cheek against his fist before an idea strikes him.

“...actually…”

“Yes?”

“Do me a favor, and summon Suigin Ryū to my office.”

Kakashi blinks. “...Suigin Ryū?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“N-no sir, of course not. Right away.” Giving one last bow, Kakashi dips from the room, letting the door snap shut behind him.

...what was that all about…?

Adjusting his posture, Obito sits up straight, arms folded along his desk. He’s curious what Ryū will be like - will she be reversed as everyone else is? Or maybe she’s somehow avoided it due to his subconscious interference.

Because a particular daydream he’s entertained in the past is stuck in his head, and...maybe he’ll have a chance to give it a try.

Gods know it won’t ever happen in real time.

He jolts, however, as someone flickers into the room.

Several feet out from his desk, an ANBU officer kneels, head bowed in respect. A tightly-woven bun of white hair is all he can really see to define them, otherwise garbed in the rank’s usual attire.

“Tōshō, reporting.”

Eyes wide, Obito blinks. Tōshō...frostbite? Is that their codename?

...wait…

“...er…” He’s...not sure what to say.

This is not what he was expecting.

But as his silence drags on, the ANBU looks up, revealing a dragon’s mask. And behind the gaps in the porcelain, Obito can see a pair of silvery eyes, pupils constricted like a cat’s.

Good gods it is Ryū.

“...permission to speak, Hokage-sama?”

“Of...of course.”

At that, her demeanor suddenly changes. She straightens to her feet, gloved hands (tipped with metal claws) urging her mask from her face.

She looks exactly the same, and yet...different. Her air is sharp, cold, and...confident.

“You shouldn’t ask for me so directly,” she then offers, tone soft and yet oddly firm. “Kakashi is already suspicious, Hokage-sama.”

“Sus...suspicious?” He has no idea what she means.

A small, curt sigh escapes her. “It’s not proper. While we are not breaking any laws, it’s still hardly appropriate for a Hokage to be maintaining this kind of...relationship.”

...okay. He’s...not sure what she means, but he also gets the feeling asking would bring up questions he can’t answer.

His awkward silence, however, prompts her to go on. “All of the previous Hokage had proper marriages and courtships. I know I am not a suitable match for you, and my...disposition may not be -”

Before he can stop himself, her denial of her qualities sets him off. “To hell with that, I love you!”

They both jolt - Obito because he realizes he’s just spoken highly out of turn...and Ryū because she clearly wasn’t expecting that.

“...you…?”

Color blooms hotly in Obito’s face. Oh, how to save this… “I...I don’t care about reputations! You...you…” He wilts. “...you mean...so much to me. Regardless of the circumstances. And your disposition isn’t an issue. You are who you are...but I’m still here calling you, aren’t I?”

To his surprise, she gawks at him, and for a moment this cold, disciplined version of his wife looks very much like her soft, uncensored counterpart. It makes him burn with curiosity about her entire backstory to end up like this. A hardened ANBU with none of Ryū’s typical warmth or loving nature. How on earth could that come to be…?

...but it seems there’s still something between them. Just...nothing ‘proper’, in her words. So some kind of...secret relationship? True, an ANBU and the Hokage could be rather compromising, but...

Slowly, her expression settles back into a cool neutral...but tinged with doubt. “...I am an assassin,” she murmurs. “A trained killer, with suppressed emotions and no regrets. I am...hardly a proper partner for a Hokage. If you were to take a wife, I am the furthest candidate to consider.”

“And how many lives do you think I’ve taken, to get this far? All shinobi kill, Ryū.”

“But few do it as well and as coldly as I do.” She lifts her hands, palms up, looking to them in confliction. “...sometimes I wonder if I am...still human…”

“Of course you are.” Obito stands, coming around his desk. This is...a bit unsettling, he won’t lie. “If I had any doubts on that front...you wouldn't be here.”

Her gaze lifts back to his face.

“Never mind what’s proper or not. I certainly don’t.” A hand lifts to cradle her face, and he has to admit...her lack of reaction to it is...odd. To be this blank...is it possible she was caught up in Root…?

The thought nauseates him, given her actual encounter with the band of shinobi. But it would explain her odd coldness and rank.

She sighs. “...the village expects you to settle down. Properly. And you deserve someone warm. Someone who would be a good wife, a good mother. I fear I could be neither of these things, Hokage-sama.”

Okay, this is really weirding him out. Ryū is an excellent wife, and he’s sure she’ll be a phenomenal mother! Hearing her say otherwise bothers him more than he’d think. “Nonsense. And please...call me Obito.”

“...of course, Obito.”

Sighing, he lets his hand drop back to his side. All of his earlier plans now feel...entirely inappropriate. He can’t do this. Not with...not with this Ryū. As much as he adores the real one...he can’t bring himself to feel the same for someone so completely her opposite, even if she looks exactly the same. This isn’t the woman he loves...all the things he loves her for are...are gone.

“...perhaps we best leave this for another night,” he murmurs. “I...didn’t mean to upset you. And I’d best get some rest.”

Nothing is betrayed in her expression, simply declining her head in agreement. “...have a good night, Hoka-...Obito.”

With that, Obito conjures another surge of chakra, breaking the genjutsu as he finds himself seated back in the sitting room. It looks to be early afternoon, a far cry from his initial sitting this morning.

But Ryū isn’t home yet.

The strangeness of the other world leaves him feeling...itchy. Unsettled. Uncomfortable. So much so that he has to get up and start moving lest it overtake him.

In fact, he leaves the house behind, taking a familiar route. And halfway to his destination, he finds her.

Seems she’s coming home a little early.

Relief washes over him in a way he can’t describe, and Obito goes so far as to flicker the rest of the distance.

“Oh -!” Ryū startles as he appears in front of her, clinging to her tightly (but mindful of her belly). “O...Obito? Are you -?”

“I love you so much,” he murmurs in her ear, face tucked into the crook of her neck.

“Obito, what’s wrong?” She can tell he’s clearly upset, carefully bringing hands up to embrace him back. “Did something happen?”

He can’t explain. Not right now. Instead, he starts rambling. “You’re the best wife I could ever ask for. And...you’re going to be the best mother. I’m so lucky that I have you...that I have this family. If I ever lost it...I…”

Prying him off enough to look at his face, Ryū’s own is pinched with worry. “...koi, please...you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“...I...I used my Sharingan. Made...another world. I’ve done it before: a mirrored world, a test for Mugen Tsukuyomi. I wanted to...to see what it would be like. To live in a world where I became Hokage as I once dreamed. And at first, it was...nice. Everyone recognized me, smiled at me, respected me. But you...you were…” His grip moves to her shoulders, shaking his head. “...you were all wrong…! ANBU, and cold, and...nothing like the real you. It just...it…”

She listens quietly, piecing together the whole story from his jumpy thoughts.

His head bows, and to his surprise, tears bead in his eyes. “...it made me realize how...thankful I need to be. How thankful I haven’t been.”

“Koi, you’ve more than proven what I mean to you! You don’t have to -?” She’s cut off as he hugs her again, staggering back half a step. “...we both know how lucky we are. How blessed. Neither of us take the other for granted, not even for a second. I don’t doubt you. I never could. I’m sorry that...illusion unsettled you so much.” She takes his face in her hands, guiding his brow to rest against her own. Eyes close, trying to convey her feelings. “...I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere. Ever. You have my word.”

His own eyes still open, Obito flickers them over her face. Her soft, open face that can never hide her intentions or her emotions. He loves that about her...he loves it so much, it hurts…!

“...I’m sorry,” he then croaks. “I...must have really scared you. I just…”

“It’s all right. I’m just glad you’re okay.” She looks back to him, expression full of boundless ardor. “...let’s go home. We’ll take it easy tonight so you can regain your bearings.” She moves, taking his hand in hers and giving it a comforting squeeze. “It’s going to be fine, Obito.”

Swallowing harshly, he nods, letting her pull him back down the road toward home.

“...so, how was it, being the Hokage?” she asks, trying to change the subject.

“...boring,” he admits. “I no longer envy Kakashi. But he was my assistant.”

“Oh? Did he do a good job?”

“He did, actually. Almost too good...it freaked me out how helpful he was.”

That gets her to laugh, spare hand hiding her mouth. “Don’t let him hear you say that, he’ll be offended!”

“It’s true!” Obito insists, a warmth blooming in his chest at her laugh.

...no more genjutsu.

He has everything he could ever want, right here.

     Well, I had a very...different idea for this, but Obito ended up noping out on me xD Which...I can’t really blame him. Seeing your wife-not-wife might ruin any ideas you get when it comes to being alone in the Hokage’s office, huehue.      Anyway, I’m still behind :’D And this weekend looks like it’s gonna be a little busy, so I doubt I’ll catch up fully by tomorrow. BUT I will of course be finishing either way. Just...late, as usual xD But on that note, I’ma go~ Thanks for reading!

[internetbynight]

𝙊𝙣 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙇𝙞𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙖-𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙎𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚

In some remote corner of the universe, poured out and glittering in innumerable solar systems, there once was a star on which clever animals invented knowledge. That was the highest and most mendacious minute of "world history"—yet only a minute. After nature had drawn a few breaths the star grew cold, and the clever animals had to die.

One might invent such a fable and still not have illustrated sufficiently how wretched, how shadowy and flighty, how aimless and arbitrary, the human intellect appears in nature. There have been eternities when it did not exist; and when it is done for again, nothing will have happened. For this intellect has no further mission that would lead beyond human life. It is human, rather, and only its owner and producer gives it such importance, as if the world pivoted around it. But if we could communicate with the mosquito, then we would learn that he floats through the air with the same self-importance, feeling within itself the flying center of the world. There is nothing in nature so despicable or insignificant that it cannot immediately be blown up like a bag by a slight breath of this power of knowledge; and just as every porter wants an admirer, the proudest human being, the philosopher, thinks that he sees on the eyes of the universe telescopically focused from all sides on his actions and thoughts.

It is strange that this should be the effect of the intellect, for after all it was given only as an aid to the most unfortunate, most delicate, most evanescent beings in order to hold them for a minute in existence, from which otherwise, without this gift, they would have every reason to flee as quickly as Lessing's son. [In a famous letter to Johann Joachim Eschenburg (December 31, 1778), Lessing relates the death of his infant son, who "understood the world so well that he left it at the first opportunity."] That haughtiness which goes with knowledge and feeling, which shrouds the eyes and senses of man in a blinding fog, therefore deceives him about the value of existence by carrying in itself the most flattering evaluation of knowledge itself. Its most universal effect is deception; but even its most particular effects have something of the same character.

The intellect, as a means for the preservation of the individual, unfolds its chief powers in simulation; for this is the means by which the weaker, less robust individuals preserve themselves, since they are denied the chance of waging the struggle for existence with horns or the fangs of beasts of prey. In man this art of simulation reaches its peak: here deception, flattering, lying and cheating, talking behind the back, posing, living in borrowed splendor, being masked, the disguise of convention, acting a role before others and before oneself—in short, the constant fluttering around the single flame of vanity is so much the rule and the law that almost nothing is more incomprehensible than how an honest and pure urge for truth could make its appearance among men. They are deeply immersed in illusions and dream images; their eye glides only over the surface of things and sees "forms"; their feeling nowhere lead into truth, but contents itself with the reception of stimuli, playing, as it were, a game of blindman's buff on the backs of things. Moreover, man permits himself to be lied to at night, his life long, when he dreams, and his moral sense never even tries to prevent this—although men have been said to have overcome snoring by sheer will power.

What, indeed, does man know of himself! Can he even once perceive himself completely, laid out as if in an illuminated glass case? Does not nature keep much the most from him, even about his body, to spellbind and confine him in a proud, deceptive consciousness, far from the coils of the intestines, the quick current of the blood stream, and the involved tremors of the fibers? She threw away the key; and woe to the calamitous curiosity which might peer just once through a crack in the chamber of consciousness and look down, and sense that man rests upon the merciless, the greedy, the insatiable, the murderous, in the indifference of his ignorance—hanging in dreams, as it were, upon the back of a tiger. In view of this, whence in all the world comes the urge for truth?

Insofar as the individual wants to preserve himself against other individuals, in a natural state of affairs he employs the intellect mostly for simulation alone. But because man, out of need and boredom, wants to exist socially, herd-fashion, he requires a peace pact and he endeavors to banish at least the very crudest bellum omni contra omnes [war of all against all] from his world. This peace pact brings with it something that looks like the first step toward the attainment of this enigmatic urge for truth. For now that is fixed which henceforth shall be "truth"; that is, a regularly valid and obligatory designation of things is invented, and this linguistic legislation also furnishes the first laws of truth: for it is here that the contrast between truth and lie first originates. The liar uses the valid designations, the words, to make the unreal appear as real; he says, for example, "I am rich," when the word "poor" would be the correct designation of his situation. He abuses the fixed conventions by arbitrary changes or even by reversals of the names. When he does this in a self-serving way damaging to others, then society will no longer trust him but exclude him. Thereby men do not flee from being deceived as much as from being damaged by deception: what they hate at this stage is basically not the deception but the bad, hostile consequences of certain kinds of deceptions. In a similarly limited way man wants the truth: he desires the agreeable life-preserving consequences of truth, but he is indifferent to pure knowledge, which has no consequences; he is even hostile to possibly damaging and destructive truths. And, moreover, what about these conventions of language? Are they really the products of knowledge, of the sense of truth? Do the designations and the things coincide? Is language the adequate expression of all realities?

Only through forgetfulness can man ever achieve the illusion of possessing a "truth" in the sense just designated. If he does not wish to be satisfied with truth in the form of a tautology—that is, with empty shells—then he will forever buy illusions for truths. What is a word? The image of a nerve stimulus in sounds. But to infer from the nerve stimulus, a cause outside us, that is already the result of a false and unjustified application of the principle of reason. If truth alone had been the deciding factor in the genesis of language, and if the standpoint of certainty had been decisive for designations, then how could we still dare to say "the stone is hard," as if "hard" were something otherwise familiar to us, and not merely a totally subjective stimulation! We separate things according to gender, designating the tree as masculine and the plant as feminine. What arbitrary assignments! How far this oversteps the canons of certainty! We speak of a "snake": this designation touches only upon its ability to twist itself and could therefore also fit a worm. What arbitrary differentiations! What one-sided preferences, first for this, then for that property of a thing! The different languages, set side by side, show that what matters with words is never the truth, never an adequate expression; else there would not be so many languages. The "thing in itself" (for that is what pure truth, without consequences, would be) is quite incomprehensible to the creators of language and not at all worth aiming for. One designates only the relations of things to man, and to express them one calls on the boldest metaphors. A nerve stimulus, first transposed into an image—first metaphor. The image, in turn, imitated by a sound—second metaphor. And each time there is a complete overleaping of one sphere, right into the middle of an entirely new and different one. One can imagine a man who is totally deaf and has never had a sensation of sound and music. Perhaps such a person will gaze with astonishment at Chladni's sound figures; perhaps he will discover their causes in the vibrations of the string and will now swear that he must know what men mean by "sound." It is this way with all of us concerning language; we believe that we know something about the things themselves when we speak of trees, colors, snow, and flowers; and yet we possess nothing but metaphors for things—metaphors which correspond in no way to the original entities. In the same way that the sound appears as a sand figure, so the mysterious X of the thing in itself first appears as a nerve stimulus, then as an image, and finally as a sound. Thus the genesis of language does not proceed logically in any case, and all the material within and with which the man of truth, the scientist, and the philosopher later work and build, if not derived from never-never land, is a least not derived from the essence of things.

Let us still give special consideration to the formation of concepts. Every word immediately becomes a concept, inasmuch as it is not intended to serve as a reminder of the unique and wholly individualized original experience to which it owes its birth, but must at the same time fit innumerable, more or less similar cases—which means, strictly speaking, never equal—in other words, a lot of unequal cases. Every concept originates through our equating what is unequal. No leaf ever wholly equals another, and the concept "leaf" is formed through an arbitrary abstraction from these individual differences, through forgetting the distinctions; and now it gives rise to the idea that in nature there might be something besides the leaves which would be "leaf"—some kind of original form after which all leaves have been woven, marked, copied, colored, curled, and painted, but by unskilled hands, so that no copy turned out to be a correct, reliable, and faithful image of the original form. We call a person "honest." Why did he act so honestly today? we ask. Our answer usually sounds like this: because of his honesty. Honesty! That is to say again: the leaf is the cause of the leaves. After all, we know nothing of an essence-like quality named "honesty"; we know only numerous individualized, and thus unequal actions, which we equate by omitting the unequal and by then calling them honest actions. In the end, we distill from them a qualitas occulta [hidden quality] with the name of "honesty." We obtain the concept, as we do the form, by overlooking what is individual and actual; whereas nature is acquainted with no forms and no concepts, and likewise with no species, but only with an X which remains inaccessible and undefinable for us. For even our contrast between individual and species is something anthropomorphic and does not originate in the essence of things; although we should not presume to claim that this contrast does not correspond o the essence of things: that would of course be a dogmatic assertion and, as such, would be just as indemonstrable as its opposite.

What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms—in short, a sum of human relations which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.

We still do not know where the urge for truth comes from; for as yet we have heard only of the obligation imposed by society that it should exist: to be truthful means using the customary metaphors—in moral terms: the obligation to lie according to a fixed convention, to lie herd-like in a style obligatory for all. Now man of course forgets that this is the way things stand for him. Thus he lies in the manner indicated, unconsciously and in accordance with habits which are centuries' old; and precisely by means of this unconsciousness and forgetfulness he arrives at his sense of truth. From the sense that one is obliged to designate one thing as red, another as cold, and a third as mute, there arises a moral impulse in regard to truth. The venerability, reliability, and utility of truth is something which a person demonstrates for himself from the contrast with the liar, whom no one trusts and everyone excludes. As a rational being, he now places his behavior under the control of abstractions. He will no longer tolerate being carried away by sudden impressions, by intuitions. First he universalizes all these impressions into less colorful, cooler concepts, so that he can entrust the guidance of his life and conduct to them. Everything which distinguishes man from the animals depends upon this ability to volatilize perceptual metaphors in a schema, and thus to dissolve an image into a concept. For something is possible in the realm of these schemata which could never be achieved with the vivid first impressions: the construction of a pyramidal order according to castes and degrees, the creation of a new world of laws, privileges, subordinations, and clearly marked boundaries—a new world, one which now confronts that other vivid world of first impressions as more solid, more universal, better known, and more human than the immediately perceived world, and thus as the regulative and imperative world. Whereas each perceptual metaphor is individual and without equals and is therefore able to elude all classification, the great edifice of concepts displays the rigid regularity of a Roman columbarium and exhales in logic that strength and coolness which is characteristic of mathematics. Anyone who has felt this cool breath [of logic] will hardly believe that even the concept—which is as bony, foursquare, and transposable as a die—is nevertheless merely the residue of a metaphor, and that the illusion which is involved in the artistic transference of a nerve stimulus into images is, if not the mother, then the grandmother of every single concept. But in this conceptual crap game "truth" means using every die in the designated manner, counting its spots accurately, fashioning the right categories, and never violating the order of caste and class rank. Just as the Romans and Etruscans cut up the heavens with rigid mathematical lines and confined a god within each of the spaces thereby delimited, as within a templum, so every people has a similarly mathematically divided conceptual heaven above themselves and henceforth thinks that truth demands that each conceptual god be sought only within his own sphere. Here one may certainly admire man as a mighty genius of construction, who succeeds in piling an infinitely complicated dome of concepts upon an unstable foundation, and, as it were, on running water. Of course, in order to be supported by such a foundation, his construction must be like one constructed of spiders' webs: delicate enough to be carried along by the waves, strong enough not to be blown apart by every wind. As a genius of construction man raises himself far above the bee in the following way: whereas the bee builds with wax that he gathers from nature, man builds with the far more delicate conceptual material which he first has to manufacture from himself. In this he is greatly to be admired, but not on account of his drive for truth or for pure knowledge of things. When someone hides something behind a bush and looks for it again in the same place and finds it there as well, there is not much to praise in such seeking and finding. Yet this is how matters stand regarding seeking and finding "truth" within the realm of reason. If I make up the definition of a mammal, and then, after inspecting a camel, declare "look, a mammal" I have indeed brought a truth to light in this way, but it is a truth of limited value. That is to say, it is a thoroughly anthropomorphic truth which contains not a single point which would be "true in itself" or really and universally valid apart from man. At bottom, what the investigator of such truths is seeking is only the metamorphosis of the world into man. He strives to understand the world as something analogous to man, and at best he achieves by his struggles the feeling of assimilation. Similar to the way in which astrologers considered the stars to be in man 's service and connected with his happiness and sorrow, such an investigator considers the entire universe in connection with man: the entire universe as the infinitely fractured echo of one original sound-man; the entire universe as the infinitely multiplied copy of one original picture-man. His method is to treat man as the measure of all things, but in doing so he again proceeds from the error of believing that he has these things [which he intends to measure] immediately before him as mere objects. He forgets that the original perceptual metaphors are metaphors and takes them to be the things themselves.

Only by forgetting this primitive world of metaphor can one live with any repose, security, and consistency: only by means of the petrification and coagulation of a mass of images which originally streamed from the primal faculty of human imagination like a fiery liquid, only in the invincible faith that this sun, this window, this table is a truth in itself, in short, only by forgetting that he himself is an artistically creating subject, does man live with any repose, security, and consistency. If but for an instant he could escape from the prison walls of this faith, his "self consciousness" would be immediately destroyed. It is even a difficult thing for him to admit to himself that the insect or the bird perceives an entirely different world from the one that man does, and that the question of which of these perceptions of the world is the more correct one is quite meaningless, for this would have to have been decided previously in accordance with the criterion of the correct perception, which means, in accordance with a criterion which is not available. But in any case it seems to me that the correct perception—which would mean the adequate expression of an object in the subject—is a contradictory impossibility. For between two absolutely different spheres, as between subject and object, there is no causality, no correctness, and no expression; there is, at most, an aesthetic relation: I mean, a suggestive transference, a stammering translation into a completely foreign tongue—for which I there is required, in any case, a freely inventive intermediate sphere and mediating force. "Appearance" is a word that contains many temptations, which is why I avoid it as much as possible. For it is not true that the essence of things "appears" in the empirical world. A painter without hands who wished to express in song the picture before his mind would, by means of this substitution of spheres, still reveal more about the essence of things than does the empirical world. Even the relationship of a nerve stimulus to the generated image is not a necessary one. But when the same image has been generated millions of times and has been handed down for many generations and finally appears on the same occasion every time for all mankind, then it acquires at last the same meaning for men it would have if it were the sole necessary image and if the relationship of the original nerve stimulus to the generated image were a strictly causal one. In the same manner, an eternally repeated dream would certainly be felt and judged to be reality. But the hardening and congealing of a metaphor guarantees absolutely nothing concerning its necessity and exclusive justification.

Every person who is familiar with such considerations has no doubt felt a deep mistrust of all idealism of this sort: just as often as he has quite early convinced himself of the eternal consistency, omnipresence, and fallibility of the laws of nature. He has concluded that so far as we can penetrate here—from the telescopic heights to the microscopic depths—everything is secure, complete, infinite, regular, and without any gaps. Science will be able to dig successfully in this shaft forever, and the things that are discovered will harmonize with and not contradict each other. How little does this resemble a product of the imagination, for if it were such, there should be some place where the illusion and reality can be divined. Against this, the following must be said: if each us had a different kind of sense perception—if we could only perceive things now as a bird, now as a worm, now as a plant, or if one of us saw a stimulus as red, another as blue, while a third even heard the same stimulus as a sound—then no one would speak of such a regularity of nature, rather, nature would be grasped only as a creation which is subjective in the highest degree. After all, what is a law of nature as such for us? We are not acquainted with it in itself, but only with its effects, which means in its relation to other laws of nature—which, in turn, are known to us only as sums of relations. Therefore all these relations always refer again to others and are thoroughly incomprehensible to us in their essence. All that we actually know about these laws of nature is what we ourselves bring to them—time and space, and therefore relationships of succession and number. But everything marvelous about the laws of nature, everything that quite astonishes us therein and seems to demand explanation, everything that might lead us to distrust idealism: all this is completely and solely contained within the mathematical strictness and inviolability of our representations of time and space. But we produce these representations in and from ourselves with the same necessity with which the spider spins. If we are forced to comprehend all things only under these forms, then it ceases to be amazing that in all things we actually comprehend nothing but these forms. For they must all bear within themselves the laws of number, and it is precisely number which is most astonishing in things. All that conformity to law, which impresses us so much in the movement of the stars and in chemical processes, coincides at bottom with those properties which we bring to things. Thus it is we who impress ourselves in this way. In conjunction with this, it of course follows that the artistic process of metaphor formation with which every sensation begins in us already presupposes these forms and thus occurs within them. The only way in which the possibility of subsequently constructing a new conceptual edifice from metaphors themselves can be explained is by the firm persistence of these original forms That is to say, this conceptual edifice is an imitation of temporal, spatial, and numerical relationships in the domain of metaphor.

We have seen how it is originally language which works on the construction of concepts, a labor taken over in later ages by science. Just as the bee simultaneously constructs cells and fills them with honey, so science works unceasingly on this great columbarium of concepts, the graveyard of perceptions. It is always building new, higher stories and shoring up, cleaning, and renovating the old cells; above all, it takes pains to fill up this monstrously towering framework and to arrange therein the entire empirical world, which is to say, the anthropomorphic world. Whereas the man of action binds his life to reason and its concepts so that he will not be swept away and lost, the scientific investigator builds his hut right next to the tower of science so that he will be able to work on it and to find shelter for himself beneath those bulwarks which presently exist. And he requires shelter, for there are frightful powers which continuously break in upon him, powers which oppose scientific truth with completely different kinds of "truths" which bear on their shields the most varied sorts of emblems.

The drive toward the formation of metaphors is the fundamental human drive, which one cannot for a single instant dispense with in thought, for one would thereby dispense with man himself. This drive is not truly vanquished and scarcely subdued by the fact that a regular and rigid new world is constructed as its prison from its own ephemeral products, the concepts. It seeks a new realm and another channel for its activity, and it finds this in myth and in art generally. This drive continually confuses the conceptual categories and cells by bringing forward new transferences, metaphors, and metonymies. It continually manifests an ardent desire to refashion the world which presents itself to waking man, so that it will be as colorful, irregular, lacking in results and coherence, charming, and eternally new as the world of dreams. Indeed, it is only by means of the rigid and regular web of concepts that the waking man clearly sees that he is awake; and it is precisely because of this that he sometimes thinks that he must be dreaming when this web of concepts is torn by art. Pascal is right in maintaining that if the same dream came to us every night we would be just as occupied with it as we are with the things that we see every day. "If a workman were sure to dream for twelve straight hours every night that he was king," said Pascal, "I believe that he would be just as happy as a king who dreamt for twelve hours every night that he was a workman." In fact, because of the way that myth takes it for granted that miracles are always happening, the waking life of a mythically inspired people—the ancient Greeks, for instance—more closely resembles a dream than it does the waking world of a scientifically disenchanted thinker. When every tree can suddenly speak as a nymph, when a god in the shape of a bull can drag away maidens, when even the goddess Athena herself is suddenly seen in the company of Peisastratus driving through the market place of Athens with a beautiful team of horses—and this is what the honest Athenian believed—then, as in a dream, anything is possible at each moment, and all of nature swarms around man as if it were nothing but a masquerade of the gods, who were merely amusing themselves by deceiving men in all these shapes.

But man has an invincible inclination to allow himself to be deceived and is, as it were, enchanted with happiness when the rhapsodist tells him epic fables as if they were true, or when the actor in the theater acts more royally than any real king. So long as it is able to deceive without injuring, that master of deception, the intellect, is free; it is released from its former slavery and celebrates its Saturnalia. It is never more luxuriant, richer, prouder, more clever and more daring. With creative pleasure it throws metaphors into confusion and displaces the boundary stones of abstractions, so that, for example, it designates the stream as "the moving path which carries man where he would otherwise walk." The intellect has now thrown the token of bondage from itself. At other times it endeavors, with gloomy officiousness, to show the way and to demonstrate the tools to a poor individual who covets existence; it is like a servant who goes in search of booty and prey for his master. But now it has become the master and it dares to wipe from its face the expression of indigence. In comparison with its previous conduct, everything that it now does bears the mark of dissimulation, just as that previous conduct did of distortion. The free intellect copies human life, but it considers this life to be something good and seems to be quite satisfied with it. That immense framework and planking of concepts to which the needy man clings his whole life long in order to preserve himself is nothing but a scaffolding and toy for the most audacious feats of the liberated intellect. And when it smashes this framework to pieces, throws it into confusion, and puts it back together in an ironic fashion, pairing the most alien things and separating the closest, it is demonstrating that it has no need of these makeshifts of indigence and that it will now be guided by intuitions rather than by concepts. There is no regular path which leads from these intuitions into the land of ghostly schemata, the land of abstractions. There exists no word for these intuitions; when man sees them he grows dumb, or else he speaks only in forbidden metaphors and in unheard-of combinations of concepts. He does this so that by shattering and mocking the old conceptual barriers he may at least correspond creatively to the impression of the powerful present intuition.

There are ages in which the rational man and the intuitive man stand side by side, the one in fear of intuition, the other with scorn for abstraction. The latter is just as irrational as the former is inartistic. They both desire to rule over life: the former, by knowing how to meet his principle needs by means of foresight, prudence, and regularity; the latter, by disregarding these needs and, as an "overjoyed hero," counting as real only that life which has been disguised as illusion and beauty. Whenever, as was perhaps the case in ancient Greece, the intuitive man handles his weapons more authoritatively and victoriously than his opponent, then, under favorable circumstances, a culture can take shape and art's mastery over life can be established. All the manifestations of such a life will be accompanied by this dissimulation, this disavowal of indigence, this glitter of metaphorical intuitions, and, in general, this immediacy of deception: neither the house, nor the gait, nor the clothes, nor the clay jugs give evidence of having been invented because of a pressing need. It seems as if they were all intended to express an exalted happiness, an Olympian cloudlessness, and, as it were, a playing with seriousness. The man who is guided by concepts and abstractions only succeeds by such means in warding off misfortune, without ever gaining any happiness for himself from these abstractions. And while he aims for the greatest possible freedom from pain, the intuitive man, standing in the midst of a culture, already reaps from his intuition a harvest of continually inflowing illumination, cheer, and redemption—in addition to obtaining a defense against misfortune. To be sure, he suffers more intensely, when he suffers; he even suffers more frequently, since he does not understand how to learn from experience and keeps falling over and over again into the same ditch. He is then just as irrational in sorrow as he is in happiness: he cries aloud and will not be consoled. How differently the stoical man who learns from experience and governs himself by concepts is affected by the same misfortunes! This man, who at other times seeks nothing but sincerity, truth, freedom from deception, and protection against ensnaring surprise attacks, now executes a masterpiece of deception: he executes his masterpiece of deception in misfortune, as the other type of man executes his in times of happiness. He wears no quivering and changeable human face, but, as it were, a mask with dignified, symmetrical features. He does not cry; he does not even alter his voice. When a real storm cloud thunders above him, he wraps himself in his cloak, and with slow steps he walks from beneath it.

Frederich Nietzsche

[mainly-kpop]

A Pirate’s Life For Me

Chapter two. Pirate!BTS Maid!reader 

Warnings: Nothing but a cut on her knee and man handling Taehyung Summary: You had always wondered about pirates, about a life outside these walls. On your 23rd birthday, you would finally find out what both were really like.  Word Count: 3k 

‘Princess?!’ She heard one of the guard’s yell, coming bursting into the room. She sighed relieved, storming out of the closet. The guard stood confused for a moment. The princess didn’t look like herself, usually she was proper and calm. Right now, she stood, hair a mess, cheeks puffy from crying and in rags no less.

‘Get these rags OFF ME!’ The guard nodded shaking himself out of his shock, calling for a maid to help undress her. The maid scurried in instantly, following the princess to the room divider.

‘And she just let them take her?’ The guard stood by the advisor as he spoke, trying to get answers from her. He had a tinge of worry in his voice, the guard could only assume now that the rumors were true.

‘Yes, she switched our clothes and told me to hide. One of them took her hand and disappeared with her.’ She muttered behind divider, protecting her modesty from the men in the room. They almost thought they heard her voice break, a sniffle break through the silence, but it was covered by a cough before they could figure it out.

‘What a kind girl, although she has been by your side since she was a child. Regardless, we must find her. Would you like to send a ship to search for her miss?’ He questioned, already leaving to get a search party ready. He paused in the doorway at the sound of her protest, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

‘What do you mean no? She was your best friend once you know?’ She rolled her eyes, best friend. How could a lowly maid, be friends with royalty?

‘There is no point in searching for one lowly maid when there is enough chaos to deal with here. Do you not remember they were after me? No, we will double the guards and show the people we are okay. Forget the maid Robert, we don’t need her we have plenty.’ The advisor just rolled his eyes, sighing pathetically. She may be a princess, but her attitude was atrocious.

‘Enter.’ The captain spoke, standing looking out the back window, the little quarters giving him the only windows on the entire ship.

‘Captain, we have a problem.’ Tae spoke, dragging you in behind him. He rolled his eyes, taking in your night dress clad form. You looked scared; hands held timidly before yourself. Avoiding all eye contact with him, he couldn’t help but frown at you, he wasn’t that scary, was he?

‘What’s the problem? Is she not one of the boys one-night stands?’ He questioned, twirling a gold coin between his long fingers. It was only distracting for a second before the words clicked, he just called you a whore. You broke out of the grasp of the man beside you, storming up to the man in front. He towered over you slightly, having to look up to look even slightly intimidating.

‘How DARE you call me a one-night stand. I may not be the princess you intended to steal, but I am far from a whore “captain”.’ Tae whistled behind you, impressed with the courage and sheer anger you possessed. Yoongi made eye contact, with him, signaling for him to leave the room.

‘I didn’t insinuate you were a whore darling. However, you do pose me a small problem. Please, sit.’ He pulled out his own chair from the desk, allowing you to sit on it. Doing as you were told you take a seat. Finding it a lot more comfortable than you assumed, you settled waiting for him to speak again. He rounded the chair, sitting on the desk beside you, still playing with the golden coin.

‘We wanted the princess, purely for ransom. What exactly is it that you do on your island dear?’ He questioned, looking you up and down. Only just now are you realizing how revealing this night dress was. It was long, pale white silk, but the neckline dropped much further than you would have liked. He picked up on your discomfort, throwing a ratty blanket to you. Quickly you wrapped it around your shoulders, covering your breasts.

‘I’m a maid, for the princess. I switched our clothes and told her to hide when I saw them from the window.’ You spilled, not scared to keep anything from this man for whatever reason. He sighed, putting the coin down on the desk, favouring rubbing the bridge of his nose.

‘In that case, I cannot have you here not doing anything. I assume I will not get any gold for you, no offence. I can either drop you at the next island, or you can stay, you just have to pull your weight.’ You looked at him confused; eyebrows drawn together in a pretty frown. He couldn’t help but thinking you were kind of cute, but that’s not something he should be feeling towards possible crew.

‘Wait, you’re not going to make me jump ship? Or walk the plank while tied up so I can’t swim to shore?’ He laughed at your outburst, placing a hand on the arm of the chair you sat on.

‘Oh darling, how many fairy tales have you heard? We are not the pirates in stories. We do not wish to rape and pillage. I do not wish you dead, I would quite enjoy another set of hands on this ship. Pirates are not like the tales anymore darling, and you are not a princess in need of rescue.’ Every sentence he spoke he came closer, he smelled sweet, like candied apples. You let your eyes close, enjoying the scent before he yelled a name, breaking you out of it.

‘I’m going to get Taehyung to put you under the deck for the time being. Yes, it’s a cell, but I’m not trying to hold you. I’m giving you time to think the decision over. I shall see you in the morning.’ Tae grabbed your arm just as harshly as before, dragging you to the little door on the ground. He climbed down the ladder first, giving you time to climb down yourself. On the last step your foot slipped, caught on the silk dress. It tore under your foot, you let go of the ladder, falling before you even knew what was happening.

‘Please be careful, we don’t have medical supplies to fix a break.’ The man whispered in your ear, strong arms holding your weight as you steadied yourself. Getting back on your feet you examined the dress, seeing a rip all the way to mid thigh.

‘Thanks.’ You muttered, trying and failing to protect your dignity. ‘May I?’ The boy motioned to the rip, you blushed crimson but nodded regardless. He ripped off a chunk of the bottom, tying it around your waist. He also took a slither handing it to you.

‘I saw you had the captain’s blanket around your shoulders before. It’s not cold so I assume it was to hide yourself, tuck this in that section, it provides some privacy for yourself.’ He was sweet, roughly your age, the blush evident on his features as he talked about your breasts. You did as directed, seeing the layer of fabric hide your breasts from sight. Sighing contently, you smiled, allowing him to lead you where you needed to go. The little cell was, well, little. It was dark and dingy, but you expected nothing less. Sighing, you slipped through the little door, situating yourself on a part of the floor, legs out before you as you snuggled into the corner.

‘Uh, one of us might come down here at some point. Some supplies and whatnot are down here, so don’t be surprised if you hear someone. I’ll uh, leave you to it. See you tomorrow miss…’ smiling kindly at the young boy, he walked back up the ladder, leaving you alone.

Having time to think things over wasn’t so bad, but honestly, the choices given weren’t all that bad either way. You could either stay on the pirate ship, where you had been curious of since your child years. Or you could get dropped at the next island, get a ship back to the princess and continue as nothing happened. Neither sounded bad, but one sounded worse than the other. The door above you opened, uncrossing your legs, you sat them in a more lady like Manor.

‘Hey, are you awake?’ A small voice spoke, timid and quiet. You debated not answering, letting him believe you were indeed asleep. Curiosity killed the cat however, and you’d never been one to let an opportunity pass.

‘I am, what brings you here?’ You mumbled, recognizing the boy. He was the one who’s gaze made you cower at the island. You shuffled further into the corner, watching the boy beyond the door.

‘There is no need to be afraid I promise. My name is Jungkook, I thought you might be hungry…’ He held out a roll to you, giving you plenty of time to think it over. Slowly, you reached for the roll, snatching it before he had a chance to pull it away. He smiled as you ate it, he eyed up your body, not in a pervy way, honestly you felt weirdly comfortable with him doing it. He caught the small cut on your knee, pulling out a small bottle and a cloth from his pocket.

‘Do you mind if I clean it? You don’t know what you could catch and I don’t know when you cut it open. I’m the ships surgeon, really its just a fancy name. I deal with colds and sickness mostly…’ You shifted closer to the bars, putting your knee as close as you could. He poured some of the rub on the cloth, dabbing gently at your knee as you nibbled the roll.

‘Why did you lie to them?’ He whispered, trying not to startle you. He didn’t need to ask more; you knew exactly what he was talking about.

‘I didn’t lie, they assumed who I was. I just didn’t correct them.’ You muttered, watching as he placed a small bandage around your knee. Slight overkill, but you were thankful regardless. He just nodded sharply at your reply, sighing.

‘Well, in any case, I’m happy you’re here. You’re pretty and I hope you stay. Get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow!’ Before you could reply, he was gone, shooting up the ladder. Jungkook huh? He was sweet.

‘I assume you’ve made up your mind darling?’ Yoongi spoke, the same coin being tossed between his fingers. You nodded, looking round at the faces before you. You recognised the faces, but could only tie names to two.

You were woken up at what you were told was 6am. A soft hand pulling you towards the ladder, this was the second time you had held this boy’s hand and they were so beautifully soft. You really had to ask him what he was using? Was salt water secretly good for your skin?

‘I would like to stay, if it’s not too much to ask.’ You said in a small voice, not sure if everyone was going to be okay with this. The captain let a small smile grace his face before nodding.

‘Get yourself acquainted then meet me through here, we have to discuss some things.’ You smiled, bowing slightly for him as he left. You were cute, he would give you that.

Jungkook and Taehyung were the first to re introduce themselves. Jungkook checked the little bandage on your knee, kneeling down to unwrap it.

‘All better.’ He mumbled, looking up at you with big round eyes, he looked very young. Definitely younger than yourself. You could tell he had a cheeky and flirty side though, you figured he was going to cause you the most trouble. Taehyung just stepped aside after apologizing to you. He didn’t mean to drag you around the ship, and he hoped deep in his soul you didn’t get any bruises because of him. The other boys briefly introduced themselves and you were told of their positions. Figuring you would be working with Jin a lot, you smiled warmly, his strong features catching you off guard for a moment.

‘And we are the sailing masters!’ Jimin spoke excitedly, clearly happy with how important their jobs were. Jin tutted from the side of you, folding his arms over his chest.

‘Namjoon draws squiggles on parchment and Jimin cockily tosses a wheel around, don’t be too impressed.’ The other boys huffed, trying to fight their case. So soft hand boy was Namjoon, God those dimples were deeper than your hopes and dreams… While they were all distracted, Taehyung pulled you to the side, taking you to the captain’s door.

‘I really am sorry; I hope I didn’t hurt you too much…’ He mumbled, avoiding eye contact, much to your dismay. He had such pretty eyes; it would be a shame to not look into them any second you got.

‘Don’t worry about it, I basically grew up homeless, a small bruise on my arm is child’s play.’ You smiled sadly, slipping behind the captain’s door before he had a chance to speak. He would be asking you about that later though, no way do you get away with saying shit like that then disappearing.

‘You wanted to see me captain?’ You smiled warmly, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. He smiled warmly at you, he was soft for all his crew, but you might turn him into a pile of mush if he wasn’t careful.

‘Did you get acquainted with the boys?’ He questioned, raking through a chest at the back of the room. You nodded, sitting on his desk.

‘I did, they are all very kind. What is it you are doing?’ You peaked over his shoulder trying to see without being too obvious. He turned around, a small pile of clothes in his hands.

‘We don’t have much here unfortunately, but I can give you these until we get to an island. We will buy supplies for yourself.’ He looked you up and down, before setting the clothes on your lap. He cleared his throat turning away from you.

‘Go ahead and change, let me know when you’re done.’ You did as instructed, taking the silk dress off, throwing it on the desk. In the corner of his eye, Yoongi saw the fabric, having to clamp his eyes shut to focus on anything else.

‘As much as I am thankful for being rid of that dress, why must I change?’ You muttered, slipping the shirt over your head, tapping the captain so he could turn around.

‘That dress, now ripped and shorter, is very uh, tempting to them and myself. As much as we see women on a regular, and we get our fair share of whores and whatever else. We don’t get normal women not here for sex, you are off limits and that makes you tempting. I’m simply giving you protection until they are used to a woman on board.’ You nod simply, letting him continue. Really you hadn’t thought much of that, forgetting they had male wants and desires. It had been so long since you had been around someone of the opposite sex who was not a higher up.

‘Anyway, I’ll be dotting you around a lot here since we need help with, everything really. So, if the boys say they need you, help them when you can. Make sure your tasks with one are finished before you help the other though. That will be all, oh sleeping! You have two choices. You can sleep in the boy’s quarters, sharing with them or, you can share this room with me. There is one bed, but it’s quite large, I also tend to not sleep that much. It’s up to you dear, but my door is always open to you...’ He didn’t say anymore, instead reading over something on his desk, you took that as your cue to leave. You bowed, exiting the room, closing the door behind you. Why was your heart fluttering so violently? You sat up with the boys for a small while, until they decided to turn in. Jimin had dropped the anchor long ago, holding his hands out for you to join him. You shook your head, rejecting his invite.

‘I think I’m going to wait here a little bit; the sea looks pretty tonight…’ He nodded his head, smiling putting a comforting hand on your shoulder. He turned promptly, chasing Hoseok through the back.

You sighed watching the waves crash against the body of the ship, sighing over dramatically.

‘The stars look pretty too, don’t ignore them.’ A quiet voice sounded behind you, making a warm smile spread across your face.

‘I didn’t not mean to ignore such beauty captain; I just never saw the sea so close before.’ It’s true, you had seen it from windows, from the Palace gates. You had seen it in photos and paintings. Never close enough to touch, to smell. To feel the splash on your cheeks.

‘Don’t call me captain, it makes me feel so old. Yoongi will do fine in moments alone. Will you come to bed?’ He questioned, crouching down beside you. Smiling warmly at him, you take his offered hand, both of you slipping into his quarters.

To prying eyes, it may have looked sexual, maybe even romantic. The way he let you step in first, closing the door quietly behind you both, but it was far from it. Mostly awkward and tense.

‘Um, I can give you a night dress from a girl who slept once before. Not a whore I promise, I’ll turn away until you are under the sheet.’ Keeping to his word he turned away, peering out of the window. The fabric was soft on your skin, frills of the sleeves tickling your upper arm. Slipping under the sheets you cleared your throat, letting him know he could turn.

‘Join me, won’t you? I would feel strange taking your bed from you.’ He blushed, stripping himself of his top layers, leaving just his underwear, climbing in beside you. Both of you settled into the sheets, and air of tension surrounding you.

‘I never caught your name…’ He spoke, tiredness lacing his voice. I rarely sleep, my arse you thought.

‘Y/n.’ You spoke, closing your eyes letting sleep take over.

‘Sweet dreams y/n, sweet dreams.’

[brax-was-here]

Scarlet Briar: Unrequited Love

For Tyria’s Library Valentine’s day “Disastrous Date” prompt.

Written by Braxxus

Editing by Arwen Darkblade

The midday sun shone down upon Amaranda as she walked the dolyak drawn wagon up to her home in Brisbane Wildlands. Dragonflies danced around the plants growing along the exterior of the sylvari style house that now bore traces of asuran architecture mixed in. She had just returned from her bi-weekly trip to Mabon Market in Caledon Forest for food and supplies. In the past the trip would have taken a full day, but with the hovering carriage her sister had designed and built, the dolyak is able to travel much faster instead of hauling her old wooden wagon. Since Ceara’s arrival so long ago, her life had become more sophisticated, but easier at the same time. It was tough to adjust at first, having someone so adept at technology living with her. But the items and gadgets that Ceara had created for her home soon proved their worth. There was even a security system around the perimeter of the area to alert them if anyone was approaching. She paused outside the home for a moment wondering where her sister was. Normally she would be outside to help her bring the supplies in. Entering the front door, she could hear soft music coming from Ceara’s room. She stepped into the doorway to find her sister sitting at a low table dressed in her trademark armor looking into a small mirror. She noticed a wreath of laurels adorned her sister's head, which led her to realize what was happening.

“It’s that time of the year again, isn’t it?” Amaranda asked.

“Mmhmm, yes, it is,” Ceara replied, turning to her sister. “How do I look?”

“Well, you look…” Amaranda paused, noticing the earrings her sister was wearing. They were small white crystals that gave off a slow soft pulsating glow. “Earrings?”

“Yeah,” Ceara said with a smile.

“Who are you?” Amaranda asked in a serious tone. “Where is my sister?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You never wear earrings. Why all of a... wait a minute…” Amaranda further realized what was going on as she stared at Ceara, who was beaming. “Please tell me you aren’t going to try to impress Lord Faren.”

“Yes!” Ceara raised her voice excitedly. “I’m going to show him this year that he has nothing to fear from me.” She turned back to the mirror and started checking herself again.

“At least wear something a little more conservative. You mostly wear human clothing these days. Shouldn’t you be wearing something a little more formal, perhaps?” Amaranda suggested while rubbing her forehead.

“You never know what might happen at the Crown Pavilion. I need to be ready for anything. The Seraph might try to pull something.”

“That was five years ago. If they were going to do anything, they would have done it long before now. I don’t know what mother did, but she must have pulled on a lot of strings to get even the highest powers of the land to look the other way for you.”

“Your choice of words hurt me, Amee.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not how I meant it.”

“I know. It just still...still hurts sometimes. Here, smell this.” Ceara sprayed some perfume into the air. Amaranda took a light sniff.

“Smells like lavender,” She noted.

“Yes. You think he’ll like it?”

“You know that outfit might spark some bad memories for him.”

Ceara hung her head low and sighed deeply. “Fine. I’ll change my clothes.” Ceara got up from the table. “You should come to the festival as well. It’ll be fun!”

“No thank you,” Amaranda replied sternly as she left the room to retrieve the supplies. “You know I can’t stand being in the big cities.”

“Feh,” Ceara chided as she followed her. “You do need to get out more. Travel more. Adventure more!”

“I’ve had enough adventure to last me a lifetime,” Amaranda replied while unloading the carriage.  “And just how do you plan to win over Lord Faren?”

“With my wily ways and upbeat charm, of course.”

Amaranda snorted, stifling her laughter. “What? You don’t think I have what it takes?” Ceara placed her hands on her waist and struck a pose, shaking her hips in the process.  

Amaranda smiled, chuckling to herself. “Dear sister, you know as well I do you’re going to need more than that to win him over..”

“Well, I have a plan!”

“Ok, and what is the plan?”

“You’ll have to come to the Crown Pavilion to find out, won’t you.” Ceara smiled at her.

“No, Miss Silver Tongued Sylvari, I won’t be.”

“Fine, I’ll just have to go by myself.” Ceara playfully sighed.

“Have fun and be careful,” Amaranda said to her as Ceara activated her waypoint device. She drew a deep breath. “She never changed her clothes…”

Ceara stepped out of the waypoint beam onto the landing at the top of the stairway that lead into the Crown Pavilion of Divinity’s reach. Taking a deep breath, she made her way down the crowded steps in the pavilion proper. The smell of fresh fruits and vegetables floated through the air, mixed in with the aroma of various meats cooking at vendors around the pavilion. Visitors set off sparklers and small fireworks as the festival celebrating the Canthan New Year.. Citizens from all over Tyria and as far away as Elona were present for the festivities. Sylvari, norn, charr, asura, and humans all intermingled, joyously celebrating, enjoying hearty meals and frothy ales, and partaking in festival events.

“Now where would he be?” she softly said to herself, a sly smile across her face. She slowly started walking through the crowd, searching for her heart’s desire.

“Lord Faren, the first race will start soon. Should I check to make sure your steed is ready?” an attendant asked.

“First, Amanda, I am not Lord Faren. You will address me as Masked Racer F, the champion of racing in Tyria. And yes, please see that my trusty-“ Faren paused abruptly.

“Lord Faren?” the attendant asked, noticing his eyes wide behind his visor.

“Oh no…” he gasped, beads of sweat started forming on his forehead.

“My lord, is something the matter? Are you not feeling well?”

“It’s…it’s her…” a slight tone of panic in his voice.

“Who? Who is it?” Amanda asked, turning to look over the crowd. Faren didn’t answer as he watched Ceara make her way slowly through the crowd, stopping at a food vendor.

“I…I need a moment to freshen up. Please see to my steed,” He stammered anxiously as he quickly dashed from the area.

Ceara looked over the selection of delicious looking food on display at one of the various vendors. A male asura was busily preparing meats and vegetables as a dark skinned sylvari stood by a makeshift grill, steadily searing the ingredients, filling the air with a delectable aroma of spices. Ceara breathed in deep, savoring it. A young human woman manning the small counter turned to her.

“Can I help…you?” The woman asked, her tone changing when she looked at Ceara. Ceara’s face fell as she knew the woman recognized her.

“Hey!” the cook shouted while banging one of his cooking utensils on the side of the grill. “You treat her just like any other customer.” The woman glanced at the cook, sighing deeply before turning back to Ceara.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Ceara paused for a moment, looking at the cook, who gave her a quick smile before returning to his food. Ceara looked at a small rack. It was heated with a display of meats and vegetables skewered on small wooden rods. “What is that?” she asked.

“Beef from the farms of Ascalon, and vegetables grown right in the Grove itself,” The cook shouted over the grill.

“May I try a sample?” Ceara asked the woman. She reluctantly served her a strip of the meat. It was very tender, almost melting in Ceara’s mouth. “I’ll take one.” The clerk handed her a rod from the rack as Ceara laid out some coins on the counter.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

“Please come back again!” The cook shouted as Ceara lightly sprinkled some spices on the food. She smiled at the cook before turning away making her way through the crowd.

“Lord Racer F will return shortly! Please be patient!” A woman’s voice caught Ceara’s attention as she slowly picked at her meal. She spied a human woman dressed in an ornate gown standing on a small platform, looking somewhat distraught. Ceara approached her.

“Who is Lord Racer F?” she asked, swallowing a piece of tomato.

“Lord Racer F is the greatest mount racer in all of Tyria! He’s never been beaten in any race!” the woman responded, seemingly very excited. Ceara slowly chewed on a piece of beef.

“Lord Racer F, huh?” she asked the woman, a half smile on her face as she disbelieved the woman. “Isn’t Lord Racer F actually…”

“Isn’t his name Masked Racer F?” Ceara was interrupted by a charr standing behind her.

“Ah! Yes! It is! I’m so sorry! Masked Racer F will be back shortly!”

Ceara snorted a chuckle. “You can’t fool me, Lord Faren,” she said to herself as she slowly walked away from the platform, finishing off her meal.

“You don’t understand!” Lord Faren pleaded with a Seraph guard. “She’s here to kill me!”

“Lord Faren, rest assured that we are keeping an eye on her. She’ll be stopped long before she even tries to raise a hand to you.” The guard smirked slightly. “And besides, aren’t you Master Swordsman Faren now?” he asked sarcastically.

“Yes, I am. But right now, I have a persona to keep up, and having that woman here…she’s…she’s insane!”

“Your people are waiting for you, Lord Faren,” the guard said to him in a commanding tone. Faren sighed furiously and turned and stormed out of the guardhouse.

“Sam, follow him to make sure he gets back alright. And keep an eye out for that sylvari.”

“Scarlet Briar, sir?” the soldier asked, seemingly unsteady.

“Yes,” the guard said wearily, closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly.

Fashioning the end of the wooden rod into a makeshift toothpick, Ceara approached the registration booth for the daily festival race around Divinity’s Reach.

“Yes?” a gruff charr stationed at the booth asked.

“I’d like to register for this race.”

“Have you ever ridden a raptor before?” he asked, pulling up a sheet of paper and a quill.

“Yes, I have. I’ve even raced some out on the beetle course in Brisbane.”

“Ah, so you have some experience. Good. What name will you be using for the rank board?”

Ceara smiled slightly. “Scarlet,” she said slyly.

“Scar…” the charr looked up at her smiling face. He held the quill up to her. “That’s not funny.”

“What? Is something the matter?”

The charr breathed deeply, staring at her. “Here. Sign this paper. It absolves the race organization of any injuries and damage you may incur during the race and places the blame on the rider that caused them.” Ceara read over the paper carefully before signing it.

“The race starts in 30 minutes. Be sure to be at the starting area early.”

“Gladly!” Ceara smiled as she turned away and headed to the race area.

Lord Faren steadied his raptor as he sat at the starting line. Normally he would be focused and riding high on the wave of excitement of the race, but this day was different. Seeing the sylvari that tried to turn him into “Faren Chowder” years before at the first Queen's Jubilee walking the streets of Divinity’s Reach rattled his nerves to the core. Yet, he knew he couldn’t let that show. He had to put on a good race no matter what. He breathed deeply and focused on the route that took him through the streets of the capital city.

“So tell me, M’lord, what happens if you lose this race?” an all too familiar voice spoke behind him. He froze, a chill running down his spine. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes wide under the visor of his racing helmet. He gasped as he saw the smiling visage of the insane sylvari that tried to cook him long ago. He snapped back, sweat starting to bead on his forehead.

“Come now, Lord Faren. I don’t bite. At least, not anymore. I’m all better now. Come, you can talk to me,” she spoke softly.

“What?” Faren said shakily through gritted teeth.

“Just calm down M’Lord.” She continued. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to prove that you have nothing to fear from me.”

“You put me in a cauldron and tried to make “Faren Chowder” out of me!” he shouted. “You’re insane!”

“Lord Faren, keep your voice down. People are staring at us. They might get…the wrong idea.” She looked at him playfully. “I will admit that I was not myself at the time. Life is pretty rough when you have dark primal forces controlling you. They make you do the strangest things sometimes,” she spoke thoughtfully, looking off into the distance.

“What do you want, woman?” he asked.

“Well, Mr. Fancy Panties, since you asked. How about a little wager?” she asked in a sultry tone. “If you win the race, you and I will spend the evening together over dinner and drinks at the Maiden’s Whisper. How does that sound?” She said in a raised voice, making sure others could hear her.

“If…If I…If I win!?” he stammered.

“Oh yes, it should be rather easy for you. You are the greatest racer in all of Tyria!” she smiled brightly, mocking his attendant from earlier. “Besides you wouldn’t want to tarnish that perfect record, would you? Especially in front of so many people watching. Also, I believe I hold the upper hand. How many people here know that the so called “Masked Racer F” and the illustrious Lord Faren are one and the same? It would be a shame for your secret to get out.”

“You. You disgust me. You are nothing but wicked and evil.” His voice rose in pitch and volume as his lip began to tremble.

“Lord Faren, how could you!?” Ceara gasped, holding her hand lightly over the middle of her chest. “You wound my tender heart. I cannot believe that you of all people would say such a thing to a lady.”

“Sir, is this woman bothering you?” a voice spoke behind them. They both turned to see a Seraph soldier standing near them.

“Kind sir, Racer F and I were just having some pre-race chatter discussing our dinner plans for tonight. Nothing to be alarmed about, right darling?” Ceara replied, throwing a playful glance at Faren, who was none too pleased.

“Sir, please remove this woman from the raceway. She is a nuisance to everyone here,” Faren demanded.

Ceara gasped again. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing.”

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the area immediately,” The soldier ordered.

“Hmph,” Ceara grunted as she dismounted off the raptor. “Remember our wager, dear!” she shouted at Faren. “Seven thirty sharp. I’ll be waiting!”

It wasn’t long before the race was underway. Masked Racer F took the lead instantly and made his way through the twisting course through Divinity’s Reach. The course ended in the courtyard of the palace where the “greatest racer in Tyria” crossed the finish line almost a full minute ahead of the next racer. A cheer went up through the crowd as he pulled his raptor to a stop in front of the heavy palace doors. Turning, he waved to the crowd, pausing when Scarlet’s foliage caught his eye. She playfully blew him a kiss and made a heart shape with her hands and mouthed the words “seven thirty” to him, smiling coyly. He stared at her a moment before turning his attention back to the crowd.

The time was approaching as Ceara arrived at the Maiden’s Whisper Tavern. The whole area was in a festive mood as the place was crawling with citizens of all kinds happily drinking and celebrating the night. She paused momentarily, looking at the clusters of patrons.

“Maybe not my best choice,” she thought. She hated the thought of being surrounded by large groups of people. Especially in a small area. At least the pavilion had lots of room to move about. She sighed deeply and entered, taking in the smells of food and beverage. A busty human woman approached her.

“Welcome to the Maiden’s Whisper!” she shouted over the raucous crowd. “What can we do for you this evening?” she asked, a bright smile on her face.

“I’m here for a dinner engagement. There will be another joining me in a few moments,” Ceara replied somewhat smugly.

“Oh! Then take a seat at any open table! And I love your earrings! Where did you get them?”

“An acquaintance made them for me,” Ceara replied as she scanned over the large room.

“Oh! Well I would love to have a pair if you could have another made!” Ceara paid no mind to the woman as she looked over the crowd. There were people everywhere. Her hopes of finding a table away from the crowds quickly diminished. She eventually took a seat at a small table that had a view of the entrance. She called for a bottle of wine, which was brought to her quickly. It wasn’t long before Lord Faren entered the room.

“He actually showed up,” she thought to herself, holding one of the small wine glasses up in front of her.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Faren muttered to himself as he walked into the Maiden’s Whisper. It didn’t take him long to spy the bright foliage of the sylvari woman he hated. He approached the table where Scarlet Briar sat, who was smiling brightly at him. He stared at her in disdain as he dropped a single black rose in front of her, tossed a few coins on the table, and grabbed the bottle of wine before turning to leave.

“Lord Faren,” she called to him, her voice serious. “Have you ever…” she paused. “Do you know what it is like to have an elder dragon rampaging through your mind? Controlling your every thought? Not knowing if…what you are thinking, what are you doing is actually you or someone else?”

He turned and looked at her, tempered anger still burned in his eyes.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you. In the Jungle of Maguuma when Trahearne ordered the pact to attack Mordremoth. The sylvari fell under his sway and turned on their friends and allies.” She paused, staring at the candle in front of her. “I fell under Mordremoth’s sway 6 years ago.” Her voice was solemn, quiet.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Just give me this evening.”

Faren stared at her briefly before sitting across from her. “You have one hour,” He said reluctantly.

“Good!” Ceara shrieked excitedly, her eyes bright.

Faren sat mostly in silence, focused on the meal he had ordered while Ceara talked about anything and everything that came to her mind. After he finished, he stood from his chair.

“Oh! Is the time over already?” she asked, eating a strawberry.

“Yes, finally,” he snapped at her, pushing the chair in. “You have a lot to learn about love and kindness, woman. I hope you find it one day,” he said as he turned away from her to leave. Ceara watched as he disappeared out of the door.

“One day,” she whispered to herself as she sniffed the aroma from the black rose.

The morning sun was rising over Venin Vale of Brisbane Wildlands, washing the land in bright hues of orange and red. Amaranda stepped from her home, stretching as she breathed in the fresh morning air. She could see Ceara casually walking up the hillside towards her.

“Are you just now coming back from the festival?” she asked as Ceara approached.

“Mmmhmm…” Ceara replied. Amaranda took notice of the black rose sitting in Ceara’s foliage. She also could smell the aroma of winterberry ale on her sister.

“How did it go?”  Amaranda asked.

“I had a date with Lord Faren!” Ceara shrieked whimsically, chuckling to herself with excitement.

“Why…you know, I would think you are lying to me, but I have the feeling you’re telling the truth.”

“Why would you think I was lying? We had dinner at the Maiden’s….place…whatever it is.  And he gave me a flower!” Ceara smiled brightly as she pulled the rose from her foliage. She walked past her sister sniffing the flower before turning to Amaranda quickly. “I made him a wager, Amee. I said ‘If you win the race, you have to have dinner with me.”

“That…doesn’t seem much like a wager. Or a date.”

“Oh! It was. He has a perfect race record. I told him it would be a shame for him to lose in front of all those people watching.”

“So you blackmailed him?”

“Amee, me? I cannot believe you would accuse me of such a thing!” Ceara stifled her laughter as she playfully brought her hand up to her chest, covering her heart, acting like an accused innocent.

“So how was he?”

Ceara face fell deadpan for a moment. “Amee, he’s somewhat…boring. He just sat at the table staring at his food and kept saying ‘uh-huh, yeah, um.., right.’ And then he would look around the room and go back to his food saying ‘yeah, uh-huh, sure’”

“You probably had the poor man terrified,” Amaranda said, chuckling.

“I told him he had nothing to be afraid of. That I don’t bite anymore.”

Amaranda started laughing. “Dear sister, you have so much to learn. Come, come inside so you can sleep that ale off.”