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callboxkat · 4 years ago

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Second Chances part 8: The Visit (2 of 2)

Author’s note: The second half is here! I hope you guys enjoy it! :)

Summary: Between some difficulty getting along with his coworkers and his quickly approaching visit with his parents, Roman has a lot on his mind. He can only hope that things will turn out well

Warnings: fear of being rejected, arguing, food mention, death mention, knife mention, injury mention, blood mention, Remus mention, accidental misgendering, some Spanish but not a lot

Word count: 7310

Second Chances Masterpost!

Writing Masterpost!

...

It was sunset by the time the bus pulled into its destination.

Roman stared out the window at the station as they approached, searching the small crowd for familiar faces. He wasn’t quite sure whether or not he wanted to find them.

As the bus came to a stop, Roman turned away from the window and slid Logan’s book back into the suitcase, zipped that shut, and picked it up. He waited for everyone ahead of him to file off of the bus, and then followed suit, clutching the flower pot to his chest.

His legs might have been shaking rather badly, but he did his best to ignore that fact.

His shoes hit the asphalt, and a cool wind ruffled his hair. He breathed in deeply and stepped up onto the curb, searching the crowd.

He thought he recognized a few people, people he’d perhaps gone to high school with or seen around town when he was younger; but it was entirely possible that he was simply feeling paranoid, like the earlier incident at the café.

He walked through the crowd, feeling very nervous and rather lost. As the seconds passed with no sign of his parents, he was beginning to think that maybe they had changed their minds, that maybe they had decided they didn’t want to see him after all, that maybe he’d made a mistake in thinking that he’d get to just see them again after lying to them and disappearing for so long.

And then he saw them.

They were about twenty feet away, watching what Roman realized was the wrong bus. Both of them had more gray hairs than Roman remembered, and his dad looked thinner, but it was them. It was really them. A rush of excitement went through his body… only to be instantly overwhelmed by fear.

Roman stared at them, suddenly unable to move.

Just then, Roman’s mamá turned, and she saw him.

There was no anger on her face, only joy as she gasped, running for him.

Roman let out a laugh that may or may not have strongly resembled a sob, and jogged towards his parents before he could overthink things any more.

“Dad! Mamá!”

People were quick to get out of the way, even if they griped about it; and then she was hugging him; and she smelled just like the same combination of cinnamon and perfume that she always did; and Roman was crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he said, needing to say it again, to their faces. His mamá shushed him, kissed him on either cheek, then just held his head between her hands, searching his face. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“Mijo,” she whispered. “Mijo, mijo, estás aquí.”

“I’m here,” he assured her, his voice breaking.

“Maybe we should go to the car,” Roman’s dad said, standing to the side. “We’re making a scene.”

Roman’s mamá sniffled, nodding. “Yes, yes, of course—you are right.” She pulled back from the hug slightly. “Oh, you are so thin….”

She reluctantly released him, but kept one of Roman’s hands in a firm grip as they made their way out of the crowd and away from the bus station.

“Oh—um, I got this for you.”

His mamá paused, apparently only then noticing the small, flowering plant that Roman had barely managed not to drop or allow to get squashed during their hug.

“For me?” she repeated.

Roman nodded.

“Thank you, mijo. Las flores son bonitas.”

“They’re forget-me-nots.”

“Oh, I would never forget you.”

Roman smiled, ducking his head slightly. “And Dad, I….” He fished a small box out of his pocket and handed it over. “This is for you.”

“I’ll open it in the car,” his dad promised, giving him a side-hug. They started walking again.

“We drove here together,” his mamá said. “We both wanted to ride back with you.”

Roman frowned, and he took only a few more steps before coming to a stop. “Why—why wouldn’t you have driven here together?”

His parents glanced at each other, and then back at him. His mamá reached up and rubbed his back.

“Roman,” his dad began, avoiding looking at either of them, “you have to understand, it’s been a long time since you left.”

Roman glanced between them. He realized he couldn’t feel the ring on his mamá’s finger where she gently rubbed his back. “Wait. No.” Please don’t let them say what I think they’re going to say.

His dad let out a long, weary sigh. “We got divorced two years ago.”

“We wanted to tell you in person, cariño,” his mamá added. “We decided it wasn’t a… phone conversation.”

Roman didn’t know what to say. Except, very softly… “Was it my fault?”

They glanced at each other again.

“No,” his mamá said. “No, Roman. It was… it was a lot of things.”

Roman wasn’t sure he quite believed her, but he just nodded and allowed himself to be led to the car. It was his mamá’s car, the same one he remembered. The tassel Roman had worn at his high school graduation no longer hung from the mirror. He forced himself not to read into that.

He got in the backseat, and they drove.

…

Being back in his home town was strange.

A lot had changed in the five years he’d been gone. Things looked older, there were new buildings where there had once been empty lots (or different buildings), and there were empty lots where other buildings had once been.

Most of it, though, looked just the same, which was somehow stranger than what had changed.

It took him a while to realize that the car wasn’t going the way he would have expected to get to his parents’ house. He didn’t mention it, though. The atmosphere in the car was rather awkward, and Roman was content to stare out the window rather than break the silence just yet. After their initial greetings, and the bombshell of breaking the news of the divorce to Roman, no one had seemed sure of what to say to each other.

There had been one brief respite, when Roman’s dad had opened his gift. He had been impressed when he saw the ancient coin that Val had helped Roman pick out. But that conversation had only lasted so long, and they fell back into quietness again.

What did you say to your parents after lying about going to college, disappearing for five years, becoming homeless, and then one day calling them out of the blue to tell them that you were not, in fact, dead?

Yeah, Roman didn’t know, either. “Sorry” probably didn’t cut it.

Sure, they’d been talking on the phone every night for over a week since then; but this was different. This was in person.

The changed route made sense when they reached their destination: It was not the house he and his parents had lived in when he was younger. Of course it wasn’t—he should have realized. Why would his parents still share a home, if they were divorced? And why would one of them pay to live alone in a home built for four? Neither case made sense.

He didn’t recognize the house they pulled up to. It was a small, modest home, painted a pastel yellow. Hostas lined the walkway up to the door, which was a pale gray. Flowerbeds decorated both sides of the house, filled with various flourishing plants. A small, frosted window was set into the door. It was a cute house, Roman had to admit.

“This is your mamá’s place,” his dad said, sounding unsure of how Roman would react. “We’ve set up the guest room for you.”

Roman stared at the house for a long moment before he unbuckled his seatbelt. His dad grabbed the little suitcase, and they all went inside.

Roman’s dad turned to his ex-wife as they entered the house. “Is it alright if I take him to his room?”

“Of course,” Roman’s mamá replied, locking the door behind them. “I will come with you.”

They walked upstairs. Roman’s mamá opened the second door, and Roman stepped through it, into….

His room.

It was his room.

Everything was arranged how it had been in the old house, down to the placement of the posters on the walls and the pillows on the bed. He bet that if he checked the dresser drawers, the clothes he hadn’t brought to “college” would be there. It was much cleaner than Roman had ever kept his room as a kid; and some of his knick-knacks and toys appeared to be missing; but he could see some boxes under the bed; and he guessed he could find them there. Small details like that aside, the similarity was striking.

“You kept my things,” he finally said, sounding rather shell-shocked.

“Of course we did,” his mamá said. “I… we always hoped… you might come back,” she admitted.

Roman rubbed at his eyes. “Oh,” he said, his voice cracking.

“We’ve missed you,” his dad said from the doorway.

“If there is anything you want to take, you can,” his mamá said. “It is all still yours, after all.”

Roman sat down on the bed. The sheets felt freshly washed.

“Took a while to get everything just right,” his dad was saying. “The room dimensions are a little different than the old one. I think we got it, though.”

“Yeah,” Roman said softly, looking around. “You did.”

It was strange.

“So, your mamá and I were thinking of making encebollado soup tonight,” his dad said, changing the subject. He set down Roman’s borrowed suitcase on the floor, beside the desk.

Roman looked over at him, daring to smile. “Since when do you know how to make encebollado?”

“Okay, your mamá was thinking of making it.”

“I would appreciate some help, if you want to give it,” his mamá tempted.

“I’d love to,” Roman said, and he meant it.

…

Roman and his mamá split the work of cutting everything up for the encebollado, including the fish, onions, tomatoes, and yuca.

Once that was done, Roman’s mamá took care of putting everything together into the soup, adding pickled onions and plenty of spices.

Meanwhile, Roman was put to work cutting up the avocado and limes, as well as the plantains for a side dish. He put the sliced avocado and quartered limes each into a bowl and set those at the table before returning to cook the slices of plantain.

“Not too long, mijo,” His mamá said, watching. “They could burn.”

“I like mine crispy,” he reminded her.

(That brief exchange felt so much like one they might have had years ago, before everything changed, that Roman froze for a second, and had to minutely shake himself to get back to what he was doing.)

“It smells amazing,” his dad chimed in. He was mainly serving as a cheerleader where he sat at the kitchen table, commenting on how great everything looked and smelled. He wasn’t a great cook, and Roman’s mamá didn’t trust him to operate a cutting board. Probably for good reason.

Roman glanced up to see him stealing an avocado slice.

“Hey, I saw that,” he said, his heart beating faster as he tried to take on a joking tone.

Thankfully, his dad just smirked. “Saw what?” he asked, taking another slice.

Roman pointed the spatula at him as if in warning, narrowing his eyes.

His dad stuck the avocado slice in his mouth and smiled. Roman gasped as if affronted by his audacity.

Roman’s mamá seemed amused (and possibly relieved) by their antics. “How was your trip, mijo?” she asked, stirring the soup. Roman’s dad was right. It did smell amazing.

“It was fine,” Roman said. “The bus driver was really nice, and I got a window seat.” He flipped over the plantains he was cooking. “Pat and Logan dropped me off,” he added, smiling a little. “They were waving goodbye even as we were pulling away.”

“They seem like good friends,” his mamá said approvingly.

“They are,” Roman agreed. He didn’t deserve them.

…

After dinner, which was only about a quarter of the way as awkward as Roman had feared it would be, Roman’s dad took his plate to the sink, squeezing his son’s shoulder on the way.

“I have to go, but I’ll be back in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” Roman said. He watched his dad as he walked into the kitchen, rinsed off his bowl and set it in the sink, and went to grab his coat.

“Bye,” he said.

“Bye,” said Roman.

“Chau,” said his mamá.

The door closed, and Roman’s mamá, who was loading the dishwasher, paused, clearly thinking about something. Roman watched her, starting to grow worried. As he’d expected, she turned to him.

“May I show you something?”

Roman, still sitting down at the table, shifted uncertainly; but he wasn’t going to refuse. “Claro, Mamá.”

She nodded, and walked over to a different part of the kitchen counter. “Some months after you disappeared,” she said, retrieving something from a drawer, “we received a phone call.”

Roman frowned.

She hovered behind the counter, looking down at whatever it was she had taken out. “It was from the police department in a city called Clearwater. They said that they had received a 911 call from someone who reported anonymously that a group of men had attacked a man under a bridge.”

Roman forgot how to breathe.

He knew exactly what she was talking about.

Those men. Their laughter. Their accusations. A knife, gleaming in the night.

The thin scar just under his jaw felt like it had been outlined in ice. His ribs and his tongue ached in memory.

They’re gone. You got away, he reminded himself. If they were going to find you and kill you, or send the police after you, it would have happened a long time ago.

He squeezed his hands together, and he waited.

His mamá hadn’t seemed to notice his reaction, too distracted by her own thoughts. “They said that by the time they got the call, no one was there.” She took a shuddering breath. “That there was only garbage, and… blood.” There were tears in her eyes. “And this.”

She walked back to the table, holding a clear plastic bag. She sat down and slid the bag over to Roman. Inside was a broken phone, the corner of it bent, with cracks spread across the screen, and in a case broken in two. A few small pieces of glass that had come free sat at the bottom of the bag.

It was Roman’s old phone.

“They were able to get some of the data off of it, and find out it was yours.” She let out a shaky exhale. “The police returned it to us because it technically belonged to your dad.”

Roman stared down at the phone.

“This is all we had, for nearly five years,” she said. “We told the police to look for you, but they said that there was nothing they could do. We went to Clearwater ourselves, for a week, to try to find you… but we couldn’t.” She paused for a second, apparently decided against saying something, then continued, “We were afraid that… that they had” —she swore in Spanish—“that they had killed you, and… you were gone.”

“I left,” Roman murmured. “I couldn’t stay; I….” He shook his head. The why didn’t matter. “Mamá, I’m sorry.”

His mamá looked at him. “May I ask what happened?”

Roman subconsciously rubbed a hand across his jaw, over the scar there. “It’s not important,” he said. “Some jerks decided to mess with me, because I was there, and they could. But I’m okay. It was a long time ago.”

“Cariño… I did want to know that, but I meant….”

Roman looked away. She meant why he had disappeared in the first place, of course. How he had ended up homeless, and why he hadn’t tried to ask for help before it was well past too late.

He’d already told Logan and Patton most of the story, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to tell his family. Especially since he suspected that—assuming they believed him—they would think it was their fault, if they knew some of the details. He’d only told them the basics up until then—the fact that Saint Gabriel had retracted their offer of admission, that Roman hadn’t wanted to tell his parents, and that he’d run out of money after leaving home and ended up on the street. But they didn’t know much more than that about the reasons why that had happened in the first place. Or why he’d been so against telling them about being in trouble.

The seconds were ticking by, and Roman still hadn’t said anything.

She studied his face for a long moment, as if deciding whether to push the issue, or to let it go. Finally, she nodded to herself, and she took his hands in hers. “When I heard your voice on the phone, I was so sure it was a cruel joke. But it was really you. You are here.”

Roman’s eyes flicked back towards her, and he gave her a watery smile.

“You have no idea how happy it makes me to see you again.”

“I thought you’d be furious with me,” Roman said, his voice cracking.

“I was,” she admitted. “You know that I was.”

Roman recalled their first phone call with a wince. There had been… quite a bit of yelling, on that call, once she’d been convinced that it was really him on the phone. He didn’t blame her, though. Five years was a long time to go without any word, especially since he had disappeared without any warning.

“But I love you, and your brother,” she said. “And that will not change, whatever your mistakes.”

Roman swallowed hard. A second or two passed in silence.

“…Could we have hot chocolate?” he asked.

“With cinnamon?”

“Yes, please.”

…

Roman stood in front of his old over-the-door mirror, staring at the loose folds of fabric that draped over his thin frame.

After his conversation with his mamá, Roman had come upstairs to the guest room—to his room. Or to the room that eerily mimicked his room, anyway.

Simply to pass the time and definitely not as a way to nostalgically relive the past, and since all his old things were right there, he decided to try on a few of his old clothes and see if they still fit how they used to.

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t.

Well, it wasn’t that they didn’t fit, exactly. Technically, they still fit. But they were a lot looser than Roman remembered them being. The pants he had on might not have stayed up if it weren’t for the belt he wore.

Roman put his hands in the pockets, frowning.

He wondered how this outfit would have fit during the worst days of his homelessness. There had been some… rough times.

He’d never been very good at being homeless.

Roman shook his head, deciding not to dwell on that. He was supposed to be moving on with his life, wasn’t he? He wasn’t homeless anymore, and he wasn’t alone. He had Logan, and Patton, and Val, and his parents. He was fine. The past didn’t matter anymore.

He pulled the shirt back over his head and threw it on the bed with a bit more vehemence than was strictly required. Instead, he picked up the one he’d had on before, one that Logan and Patton had gotten him, and pulled it back on. He changed back into his better-fitted jeans, moved the discarded shirt, and sat down on the bed. He stared for a long moment at the still-open drawer of the dresser, and the neatly folded clothes within.

A thought came to him, and he got back up, looking in the closet. It probably wasn’t there, but just in case, Roman figured there was no harm in checking. He stood on his tip-toes, searching.

His old duffel bag sat on the shelf, just about where it would have been in Roman’s old room. Roman snatched it and pulled it down.

Maybe his old clothes were rather loose; and he didn’t particularly want some of the old t-shirts emblazoned with logos for bands he’d never been a fan of in the first place; but he could still wear most of the clothes. And his parents had said that he could take whatever he wanted from the room.

Roman unzipped the duffel bag and started stuffing clothes in. Even if they were too big now, they might fit better eventually. And for every shirt he could keep from his old things, that was one less shirt he would have to buy for himself later on (or worse, have bought for him).

The half-full duffel bag joined the small blue suitcase on the floor, and Roman went to bed. He would have expected to lie there, awake, for hours, overthinking the next day; but he fell asleep too fast.

…

It turned out that Roman’s parents had gone ahead and made plans for what they and Roman would do over the long weekend. It seemed that they really wanted to make up for lost time, judging by the packed days.

Saturday morning, they went to the local park, revisiting old haunts that Roman hadn’t seen in a long time. The duck pond, the reservoir, the fountain, the old trees and picnic tables where the family used to have picnics when Roman and his brother were kids.

Almost all of the meals Roman had that weekend were homemade—save for when they stopped for ice cream at the mall, or Saturday evening, when Roman’s dad insisted that they go to Olive Garden to celebrate. Apparently he’d gotten a gift card a while back and was looking forward to using it. In any case, all of the meals were rather large. Roman’s mamá made so much food, it was as if she were trying to get her son to gain back all the weight he’d lost over the years within just that one weekend.

…

On Sunday, they were planning to go to the zoo. Roman came downstairs to find that both of his parents were already there, presumably waiting for him. His dad must have come early, so that they could get out the door and have more time at the zoo. Except… something seemed off. They each had plates of breakfast set out in front of them, but the food appeared almost untouched. Roman paused, wondering what was going on. Clearly, he was missing something.

His mamá looked like she was trying not to cry. His dad looked like he was trying to decide whether to be horrified or enraged.

Roman considered just going back upstairs, and “sleeping in” until whatever was going on was over. He took a hesitant step back.

“Roman.”

Too late.

His dad had spotted him, and was beckoning him over. Roman very reluctantly shuffled nearer.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” his mamá said.

Roman glanced between them. “What’s going on?” he asked, hoping he wouldn’t regret the question too much.

His parents glanced at each other. His mamá looked slightly guilty.

His dad cleared his throat. “Your mamá, ah… told me some new information,” he said.

“He needed to know,” she added.

Why did Roman feel like he was about to get in trouble?

“She told me what you told her. About the phone, and Clearwater.”

“…But I didn’t tell her anything,” Roman said, frowning.

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t appear happy with that impulsive response.

“You told her enough,” his dad said.

Roman stared between them. All he had told them was that some jerks had been mean to him, and that he had left the city afterwards to get away from them. How was that any new information? They had already known that his phone had been left behind after some guys had attacked him, and….

Wait.

His mamá had said “a man”. She had said a group of men had attacked “a man”.

Roman gripped the back of the nearest chair.

No. They couldn’t have thought….

“You thought I was one of the guys who attacked someone?” he said, his voice like a dry desert breeze.

“No, mijo, no—”

“Yes, you did!” Roman said, taking a step back. He stared at his dad with wide eyes. “You did, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t know what had happened,” his dad said. “We didn’t know anything, or what to think.”

Roman tried to speak, failed, and shook his head.

A long silence fell, and then his mamá said, “Perhaps… we had almost hoped you were. It was better than thinking you had been….”

His dad sighed. “We’d rather you had been a criminal than dead,” he reluctantly admitted.

“Well, I’m not dead,” Roman said bitterly.

“No, you’re not,” his mamá said. Roman noticed with a sinking heart that she was crying now.

His dad leaned forward. “Roman, what happened? Who were those people who attacked you? Why were you there in the first place?”

Roman squeezed his eyes shut.

“Please. Something happened. Why would those people attack you for no reason?”

Roman’s nails bit into his hands. Maybe it wasn’t on purpose, but his dad was making it sound like it was automatically his fault he was attacked. (Which, okay, maybe it was, but the assumption still hurt).

“Roman—”

“I messed up, okay?!” Roman cried, fisting his hands in his hair. “I messed up, and I was—I was just hungry, okay? And those guys found me, and they—they had a knife, what was I supposed to do? I just—I was just trying to—” Roman turned away, his breaths coming in heavy gasps. He kept stammering, hardly knowing what he was saying, just trying to say that it wasn’t his fault and that he was sorry and he’d just run away like a coward because he had no choice and why did they even care about something that happened so long ago and why would they ever think he’d been one of those thugs—

He was suddenly crushed in a hug.

Roman’s stammering broke off, and he buried his face in his mamá’s shoulder.

“Breathe, cariño, please,” she murmured. “Todo está bien, te prometo.”

She held him like that until he had mostly calmed down, and then she gently led him to the living room, where she sat him down on the couch and wrapped him in a blanket, taking her place beside him. She put a hand on his back, occasionally murmuring reassurances.

But his dad kept staring at him.

“This isn’t really news, is it?” Roman said eventually, breaking the silence and steadfastly ignoring the way his voice threatened to give out. “I already told you I was homeless. I messed up. Why is it any big shock that I messed up again?” And again, and again, and again.

“You just said that you were attacked, with a knife,” his dad said. “You could have died!”

Roman shrank into his blanket. “I didn’t.”

“But you could have. And I’m sure there’s other things that happened that you’re not even telling us about—God, five years. It’s been five years. Roman, why didn’t you just talk to us? We could have helped you! You could have stopped all of this before it started.”

His mamá looked at her ex-husband. “James, stop."

Roman worked his jaw. “I did try to tell you, but….”

“But what?”

“But you didn’t believe me! I tried to tell you, I tried to tell you I didn’t plagiarize, but you didn’t believe me. So why would you believe me about anything else? You already think I’m just like Remus.”

“Roman….”

“You do! You do. I know it’s true. Mamá told me, but she didn’t have to.”

His dad’s eyes flicked to Roman’s mamá, who closed her eyes in resignation. “She told you what?”

“That you were angry with me, that you said it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. She said that—that—that I probably ran off to get away from you guys and join a gang or something.”

“I didn’t say you’d joined a gang.”

“But I know what you think of me, what you’ve always thought of me. But, Dad, I’m not him. Please. I’m not Remus.”

“Roman, if you’re trying to say I don’t love you, that’s not true. I love you a lot. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care.”

“No—no, I know you love me. You love him too. That’s not what this is about.” He looked away, swallowing painfully. “You love me, yeah, but you’ve never trusted me. Not really.” He took a shaky breath. “And I just couldn’t… I could see the looks on your faces when I told you I wasn’t going to Saint Gabriel. I couldn’t.”

A long silence fell.

“I’m going upstairs,” Roman croaked. He got up, ignoring his mamá’s protests, and walked past his dad, who just stared at him, clearly still trying to figure out what to say. Roman didn’t give him that chance. He kept going, hurried up the stairs, and fled into his room. He quietly closed and locked the door, and sat down on the bed, staring at the floor, the blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

Morning turned to early afternoon. Roman didn’t leave his room. He heard voices occasionally. It sounded like his parents had decided to give him some space.

Finally, around 1 pm, he heard someone coming up the steps, and there was a knock on the door. It was his dad.

“Roman?” he asked through the door. “Please open up.”

Roman swallowed, not moving.

“Roman, I’m sorry.”

The floorboards creaked.

“I believe you,” he continued. “If you say you didn’t plagiarize, I believe you. Your mamá does, too. We should have believed you before, and I’m sorry we didn’t. I’m sorry you thought you couldn’t come to us for help. And I’m sorry if we ever made you believe we didn’t think you were a good person. We’ve always known you were a good person.”

It was a little too late, but… it was something.

Roman unlocked the door and returned to the bed.

After a second, his dad hesitantly opened the door. He stepped inside, and silently sat down on the bed at Roman’s side.

Roman pulled the blanket more tightly around himself. His dad stared at one of Roman’s posters for a moment, clearly not actually taking it in, then turned to his son.

“…Were you hurt?” he asked softly.

Roman swallowed. “I’m okay now.”

His dad recognized that as a yes, of course. He sighed through his nose, working his jaw. “How badly?”

Roman hesitated, then tilted his head slightly and touched the inch-long scar just under his jaw. It was faded, but he knew his dad could see it.

“Is that from…?”

“Yeah.”

His dad swore. Roman wasn’t sure he’d ever heard him swear like that before.

“Who were they?”

“There’s no point.”

“We could—”

“There’s no point,” Roman insisted tiredly. Even if they had any proof of who it was, and even if Roman knew more than one of their names, and even if it hadn’t already been four and a half years since the attack, there would be no point. It wouldn’t change anything. Not to mention that the whole reason it had happened to begin with was that Roman was a thief, and he could very well end up as the only one in trouble. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He could tell his dad wanted to argue further, but he let it go.

“Do you want to go back downstairs?” he asked instead. “We could just watch a movie. Have a lazy day. We can go to the zoo some other time.”

Roman bit his lip, then slowly nodded. “Okay.”

His dad got up, and Roman followed him downstairs.

…

Things were better after that. Maybe that conversation hadn’t gone exactly how any of them would have chosen for it to go, but it was clear that they had needed to confront the elephant in the room.

Roman’s mamá apologized, too, once he came downstairs, hugging him tightly and telling him that the only thing that mattered was that he was safe, now.

The rest of the day, they just watched old movies from their collection, and Roman’s mamá played with his hair like she had done when he was very small.

The next day, they still didn’t go to the zoo—maybe a future visit, they decided—and instead went to the mall, where they had fun playing with the puppies at one of the pet stores; and Roman’s dad bought him a couple of books. “For on the bus on Monday,” he claimed, even though there were already books in Roman’s room.

Finally, and yet all too soon, the last day of Roman’s stay had come and gone.

A couple of hours before they had to leave for the bus station, Roman’s mamá came to get him, and she led him downstairs, where his dad waited. His parents sat down at the table, gesturing for Roman to sit down across from them. Once he did, his mamá placed her warm, calloused hands over his own. She opened her mouth, had a false start, then spoke.

“It has been wonderful, having you here for the past few days. I know that not everything was perfect, but I know that it will get better in time.” She took a deep breath. “Mijo, I know that you are planning to go home tonight… and I know that this is a lot to ask, but we were hoping, maybe… you might stay? Here, with us?”

There was a long silence. Roman didn’t know how to respond.

“If you want a week or two, so that your job has some warning, that’s okay,” his dad said, before adding, “We both want you here.”

Roman looked between them.

“…You want me to stay because you think I’m gonna screw up and end up homeless again or something, right?”

“No,” his mamá said firmly. “We want you to stay because we love you. We have missed you, so, so much. We want a chance to try again.”

Roman fell silent again.

He thought of all that his parents had been trying to do these past few days. He thought of the cinnamon hot chocolate, the excursions and movie nights, the big family meals, the not-so-subtle attempts to spoil Roman, and the way his parents seemed to be pretending to still have the same relationship they had always had even though they had been divorced for years. He thought of the guest bedroom, carefully constructed to mirror his old one as exactly as possible. Like a snapshot into a former life. A former life that he couldn’t get back, whether he wanted to or not. And maybe that was okay. He had changed since then. Not necessarily all for the better, but not necessarily all for the worse, either. Going back, pretending he was the same Roman he had been in high school, wasn’t just wishful thinking. It wasn’t realistic; and even if he could do that, it would be a move backwards.

“I think it’s best if I move on with my life,” he said finally. “It won’t do me any good to just go back and pretend the last five years never happened, that nothing’s changed.” He squeezed her hand. “I… I have a job now, and I really like living with Logan and Patton and Val.” And they did want him to come back, he reminded himself. They did. He looked up at his dad. “I do still want to see you guys, though. I’d really like to keep calling you, and visit sometimes, if… if that’s okay.”

His mamá looked sad, but she nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

His dad didn’t look surprised. He laid his hand over his son’s and his ex-wife’s.

Roman smiled shyly. “Plus, we never got to go to the zoo.”

…

When Roman went home, with Patton’s suitcase and his own duffel bag of clothes, Patton and Val came to pick him up. Logan was unfortunately at work, and he couldn’t make it.

As the bus pulled up to the curb, and Roman struggled to blink away his drowsiness (it was a long drive) he saw the pair at the front on the sidewalk. Val looked pretty relaxed, but Patton looked like he was vibrating with apprehension. He was talking to Val, who looked like she was trying to reassure him that everything was fine.

Roman picked up his things, thanked the bus driver, and was one of the first people off the bus.

Patton wormed his way closer, while Roman made his way away from the crowds. As soon as they met, Patton latched onto Roman like a koala bear.

“How’d it go?” Val asked, while Patton was busy trying to crush Roman in a hug.

“It went okay,” Roman said, putting his arms around Patton. He took a deep breath and let it out, smiling. “It went okay.”

Val reached out, and her fingers just barely touched his sleeve before she let her arm fall. “I’m glad.”

Patton finally let go for them to head to the car, already pestering Roman with questions about how his visit had gone, and if he needed to fight anyone or not.

Roman smiled, and he told him about the good parts of his visit. He was sure Patton already knew that there had been hiccups—how could there not have been?—but Roman wanted to focus on what had gone right.

…

On Tuesday, Roman went back to work. He was early, as was becoming his custom, but he showed up only a few minutes before Thomas did. His manager looked perfectly fine, now, so it appeared that whatever had kept him at home for two days the week before had passed. He leaned on his car for a moment before he came in, as always, but he seemed okay.

“Hey, Roman,” he said as he came in, pinning his name tag in place.

“Hey,” Roman responded. He wasn’t sure whether it was bad manners or not to ask his manager if he was feeling better, especially since three days had passed. And he didn’t want Thomas to misinterpret anything. So he didn’t. “How was your weekend?” he asked instead.

“It was good,” Thomas said. “How was yours?”

Roman shrugged. “It was… interesting. But good.”

Just then, the door opened, and Roman glanced up to see Virgil standing there.

Virgil, who was wearing a skirt, and a name tag that said “Rose”.

Otherwise, the outfit under Virgil’s Sanders Café uniform consisted of the barista’s typically emo attire. Black leggings, combat boots, purple nail polish, a distressed long-sleeve shirt, and purple piercings. But instead of jeans, Virgil wore a knee-length, lacy black skirt.

The barista stalked forward, head held high, as if daring anyone to say anything. Thomas just smiled and called out a greeting.

Roman kept glancing at his coworker throughout their shift that day. Virgil was surely aware of it, and maybe it was rude, but Roman couldn’t really help himself. He—She? They?—never said anything about it, but did seem more stiff than usual. But at least Virgil wasn’t being openly hostile. That seemed to have stopped after Roman’s… embarrassing incident, on Friday. Virgil didn’t even comment when Roman bumped into an open, quarter-full milk carton and spilled it across the counter. Thomas noticed too, but he didn’t seem inclined to intervene, instead serving customers like normal while Roman cleaned it up.

Roman glanced at Virgil’s skirt, and remembered several days before, when he’d tried to break the ice with Virgil by making a joke about the “Mary Lee” nametag that the barista wore at the time.

…Roman might have really f*cked up.

He had to know if his guess was correct, but he wasn’t about to ask in front of so many customers, or in font of Thomas.

Finally, there was a break in the crowd; Thomas went in the back for a break; and Roman awkwardly walked over to his coworker.

Virgil tensed immediately, looking suspicious. “What?”

Roman flinched slightly at the tone. “Sorry, I just, um….” He glanced down at Virgil’s skirt. “I just wondered…” he trailed off, gesturing at Virgil, at the skirt and the name tag and the admittedly gorgeous purple lipstick. “Are you…?” God, he was awful at this. He knew exactly what he wanted to ask, but what if he was wrong? What if Virgil got offended at him for even asking? Virgil was already rather volatile to begin with. He didn’t want to break their fragile truce.

Virgil looked unimpressed at Roman’s garbled attempts at a question, arms crossed, an eyebrow cocked as if daring Roman to continue. That wasn’t helpful.

“Are you… Are you a he? Can I call you he? Or is something else… better?” Roman finally got out. He was pretty sure he was the color of a tomato.

Virgil stared at him, looking ready to chew him up and spit him out if he reacted the wrong way. “She,” Virgil finally said in a clipped voice. “It’s a ‘she’ day.”

“Oh,” Roman said. He let out a breath, relieved at not being screamed at. “Okay. Do you want to be called Rose, then, or….?”

Virgil glanced down at the name tag on her lapel, and she actually laughed. “No, no. Virgil will do. This is just one of my collection.”

“Okay. So… if today is a ‘she’ day, does that mean not every day is?”

Virgil pursed her lips. “If you’re asking if you can get away with calling me ‘he’ or ‘they’ every day, the answer’s no.”

“What if I’m not asking that?”

“…Then no, not every day is.” She looked back up then and seemed to be studying Roman’s face. There was a mixture of suspicion and something else in her eyes. Roman shifted uncomfortably. Before either of them could say anything more, the bell over the door rang, and they both snapped back to attention and went back to work.

Various times throughout the remainder of their shift, Roman could feel Virgil’s eyes on him.

Finally, two o’clock came and went, and Virgil and Roman were both in the back, getting ready to leave. Roman took the opportunity to approach his fellow barista. Virgil looked up from her phone as he approached, but didn’t do anything to discourage him from speaking. So Roman cleared his throat.

“Hey, um… about that joke I made a while back, about the “Mary Lee” name tag. I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t know you were… that you weren’t a guy. It was just my stupid attempt to talk with you. I was just fishing for something to say. I’m sorry.”

Virgil stuck her phone in her pocket. “It’s fine,” she said.

“Is it? Because that was pretty sucky of me, I’d say.”

She sighed. “You didn’t know. But I’d appreciate if you didn’t make jokes like that in the future.”

“I won’t. I promise. And if I ever do something stupid again, please tell me.” It would be a lot better than days of hostility without explanation, at any rate.

“Deal.”

Roman felt relief wash over him.

“So…” Virgil said, “how was your family thing?”

“It was good,” Roman said. “We didn’t watch Lord of the Rings or play any video games, though.”

“No? Dang. Weekend wasted.” Virgil shook her head. “Please tell me you at least slept in.”

Roman laughed.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #ts valerie #ts sides #ts roman #ts virgil #ts patton #ts logan #sanders sides fan fiction #ts fic #ts fanfic #fanfiction #ts #tss #second chances fic

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unicyclehippo · 5 years ago

Note

a prompt on the no-magic beau track, and since people keep doing magic to make jester feel better: beau tries to keep pace with the others in her attempts to console jester and it maybe gets out of hand.

beau returning late in the night isn’t rare, isn’t anything uncommon. it’s just that usually she smells of sand and sweat and ale and returns with a swagger to her step that screams of victory. bruises she’s never shy at showing off. sometimes a sack of coin.

tonight, and the last few nights they’ve stayed in the xhorhaus, it’s been different.

beau eases the door to the balcony open, slips inside. she obviously didn’t expect jester to be awake from the way her eyes widen behind her goggles but she recovers quickly, throws her an easy smile and tries—and fails—to hide her bandaged hand behind her back.

‘hey,’ she says. chucks her chin up in a nod. ‘still up? can’t sleep?’

‘i’m alright,’ jester tells her. ‘are you?’

beau cocks her head to the side. ‘huh?’

‘your hand.’

beau shifts, hiding it fully behind her back on reflex and for a moment, as a wave of stubborn guilt washes over and off beau’s face, jester is struck full in the chest with adoration, breathless with it, so easily able to imagine beau as a child, a teen, always with the same mulish expression.

‘it’s fine,’ beau says, a little gruff, pulling it out so jester can see.

the bandage is neatly done, that’s true, but jester still moves to the end of her bed and reaches out for her. beau obliges.

the wrappings stick a little on whatever ointment beau has applied; it smells strongly of antiseptic and something else, a little sour but not terribly so. burn salve? jester is careful with it, taking her time. beau starts to fidget but stills as jester’s tail curls around her leg. beau’s knee twitches when it drags up slightly to tickle and the girl laughs.

‘stop that.’

‘are you ticklish, beau?’

‘no.’

jester grins up at her but doesn’t comment. after a moment, the bandage is off, just the end stuck wet with a yellow tinged salve to her palm. beau hisses as she peels it off, though jester keeps up a litany of sorry, sorry, sorry’s as she goes.

‘washroom,’ she suggests, and they walk together into the next room. it doesn’t occur to either of them for jester to drop beau’s hand. it’s a small room and they have to crowd a little around the basin but the night is late and they are both tired and it is comfortable when beau leans into wall, trusts jester with the fate of her hand. jester doesn’t need to, but she leans a little into beau as well. the other girl smells sharply, beyond the antiseptic. like metal and fire. it’s a familiar smell but not to beau and jester forgets about it in favour of healing.

jester washes it clean and examines the burn—a straight glossy line across beau’s palm—as she does.

‘ouch.’

‘looks worse than it is,’ beau tells her, but jester thinks it might be a lie.

‘mm. hold on.’ still with her hand under beau’s palm, cupping it, jester holds her other hand over beau’s palm until they’re so close she can feel the heat radiating from the burn. the magic comes slowly after such a long day but it does come, smelling of cinnamon and oil paints and faintly of salt, all the smells of home she loves so dearly, and the green light falls like a shower of sparks from jester’s palm to beau’s. jester doesn’t watch it; instead, she looks up at beau’s face as watches as the tension drains from her jaw, the corners of her eyes.

‘better?’

‘much. thanks, jessie.’

beau’s fingers tickle jester’s palm, the callouses drag rough on her skin as she pulls her hand back to examine it. the burn is still there but as if long healed and when beau closes her hand into a fist there is no sign of pain or discomfort. she nods approvingly.

‘nice work.’

‘well, i am a healer.’

‘sometimes.’ beau grins wide when jester sucks in a breath, clearly affronted. ‘i’m kidding, i’m kidding, you do amazing.’

with eyes narrowed, jester warns, ‘i know inflict wounds today. be very careful.’

they return to their bedroom. beau changes into her sleep clothes and as she strips, jester smells no sand or ale. hadn’t when they were pressed so close in the small washroom.

‘hey, beau?’

beau grunts. turned away, jester listens as she steps into—no, out of her pants, stumbling as they catch around her ankles.

‘where were you? tonight? and, like, the last couple of nights?’

‘just...doing stuff.’

‘expositor stuff?’

beau hesitates. then, ‘no. no, uh, i was at a blacksmiths.’

the surprise of that makes jester roll over to face her; catches her dressing still, moonlight seeming to enjoy her abs as well as it gilts the muscles.

‘like what you see?’ beau teases, waggles her brows. her goggles are off now so she can’t see jester’s darkening cheeks.

jester hums. ‘why were you at a blacksmiths? were you making something? more throwing stars?’

‘ah. not exactly.’ jester’s vision is just fine and she watches as beau reaches for her cloak she laid on the bed, toward one of the pockets. she stills, then pushes on. ‘i was—uh—i know you’re worried about traveller con and y’know yasha and cad are playing for you and caleb and fjord’ll probably do some magic stuff, nott has something in the works i’m sure. and i can’t really—i thought—here,’ she says, and comes around the bed and drops a handful of small metallic objects into jester’s palm.

metal wire, curled and shaped into pins, jester realises. small, simple archways, but delicately and carefully made.

‘for the cloaks you got,’ beau explains. ‘i thought—it’s been a while since i’ve done something with my kit beyond popping jewels out,’ she confesses, ‘but i thought i’d try.’ she sorts through them, pulls out a wonky version. ‘this one is the worst, it was the first one i did. the others aren’t so bad, i think.’

‘beau,’ jester whispers, awed. ‘they’re beautiful!’

‘well,’

‘they are,’ she insists. ‘i didn’t know you could do this!’

‘got a couple secrets still,’ beau laughs. ‘anyway. i’ll make a few more when i can, since we don’t know how many are gonna turn up.’

jester just shakes her head. ‘beau, they’re wonderful. thank you.’ she finds that wonky pin, the archway not quite rounded, the working of the metal more obvious, and she sets it on her bedside. ‘this one is mine.’

‘no, jes, pick a good one—‘

‘i’ve picked,’ she tells beau, tone decisive. ‘it’s perfect.’

#cr tag #prompt fill #tagging my stories

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deceitful-jester · 4 years ago

Text

Irrelevant Details About The Color Trio

This exists because I said so. As usual it’s for my primary AU.

- Henry smells overwhelmingly of strawberry shortcake naturally. Angels usually have strong, unique scents, but his is very unusual even by angelic standards. Nobody understands why this is what he smells like, but nobody is complaining. - William smells like blackberries with a tinge of rotten, fermented roses usually, but unlike Henry he has to work to maintain this. His natural scent is a stronger version of the dead roses smell mixed with cat hair. - Jack smells like vanilla and cinnamon as a result of the kind of diet he keeps and the candles he keeps burning all over his house constantly. He has also found this scent specifically useful for covering up more unsavory scents like dried blood and mold. - Henry has very cold hands and very soft skin. He keeps his nails long, sharp, and even as a status symbol. It is sometimes difficult as he does still work with his hands but he manages to do so to preserve his pride. - William’s hands are dry and usually scratched up or blistered from work. He also tends to accidentally cut his hands with his finger bones, which he has sharpened. - Jack is quite warm and has rough, callused hands. He keeps his nails short for practicality, but did start painting them black after he started dating William. - Both Henry and William stopped trying to breathe a long time ago, but Jack still does his best to breathe despite being dead simply to help pretend he is alive. - William’s mouth doesn’t move when he talks. His voice comes from somewhere near his mouth but doesn’t come from his actual body. This makes most non-magical attempts to shut him up ineffective. - Henry often forgets to use only one voice and thus frequently accidentally drifts into Be-Not-Afraid territory. This also sometimes jumbles his use of mortal tongues because human languages are meant to be spoken in one consistent voice, not fifty fragmented ones. - Jack has a Scottish accent but hates it and does his best to speak in the standard American accent. The American accent slips more the angrier he is. It would likely slip if he experienced any other strong emotion but it is rare for him to openly strongly emote anything besides anger and disgust. - William’s favorite music is generally stuff made in the thirties to sixties range. His absolute favorite song is Poisoning Pigeons in The Park. - Henry loves Classical and more gloomy melodies, but also has a soft spot for Lehrer. - Jack mostly listens to Nine Inch Nails and Awolnation. He’s not picky, though, and will listen to just about anything made with an ounce of skill.

#dsaf #dsaf henry #dsaf dave #dsaf jack #dsaf jack kennedy #dsaf dave miller #dsaf henry miller #dsaf au

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dirt-cup-draco · 5 years ago

Note

“It’s our mutual friend’s wedding and they keep shoving us into each other because we’re the only ones at the ceremony who are single” AU. from the au post with edmund pevensie please !

YESSSS :D Love my boi.

————

“Princess!” You huffed, chasing after Rose as she bolted down the hall, the guards meant to escort her far behind as they struggled to keep up.

“Soon to be queen, my dear Y/N!” She sang as she glided down the hall, every bit the royal she was born to be. Her marriage to the king Peter would be one of the most highly celebrated unions since the four rulers had arrived. Peace had already been won, years passing as Peter and his siblings ruled strongly.

Rose skidded to the left and you struggled under the weight of all the dresses you were carrying for her, blocking your line of sight as you tried to follow the sound of her excitement. Unfortunately, you hit something sturdy and fell to the ground, all of her finely pressed dresses falling down around you.

In horror, you realized that you had run straight into the King Edmund the Just. He was scowling, having fallen himself. You gaped and scrambled to your knees, bowing with your head hung low. “I’m so sorry!” You stuttered. You’d been severely punished for less before Rose took you as her “right hand”, even if that just meant you were her glorified maid. She called you friend, however, and you would go to the ends of the earth for her because of it.

“What’s going on?” Rose said, head popping back around the corner she had disappeared from after she had realized she had left her entire entourage behind.

“I-It was my fault I didn’t see where I was going-” You said, as Rose went to your side instead of the King’s. Her future brother in law, for god’s sake. She helped you up and you immediately went to picking up her things just so you wouldn’t have to look at the King on the ground.

Edmund helped himself up, brushing off his trousers, momentarily chatting with Rose before he grabbed the last dress off the floor. “Maybe if I take half, you won’t run down anyone else,”

Your ears burned but you nodded as he took half of the heavy dresses from you. He didn’t really smile but you saw the corners of his lips turn up. You kept your head down as you followed Rose to her room, happy when Edmund laid the dresses on her luxurious bed, welcomed her one more time with a reminder of the celebratory ball that night, and then left.

“Dear god Y/N!” Rose giggled as the rest of her belongings were shipped into her bedroom. “Your as red as well, a rose!” She burst out into more giggles at her silly joke and you rolled your eyes. “Might you fancy the king?”

You nearly choked, “No!” You hadn’t even noticed the adorable way he had scrunched up his nose when he had stood you how his eyes had a gleam to them that you couldn’t put your finger on or how his hair fell in beautiful, wild curls around his ears, brushing the sharp angle of his jaw.

“I’m just embarrassed I ran into him,” You explained, hanging up her things as she sat in front of her new vanity, brushing through her hair while she prepared for the ball. It was in a couple of hours and she always needed at least half a day to decide what outfit she deemed appropriate for the occasion, along with makeup and hair. She hit a particularly stubborn knot and you heard her huff in frustration.

“Here,” You said, grabbing her comb from her as you brushed through her hair more gently, starting at the bottom and working your way up the the top.

“You take such good care of me Y/N,” She said with a smile on her lips. You hummed and couldn’t fight your own smile. “You know I always want you to be happy, right?” She continued and you were suspicious to where this conversation was going.

“Of course,” You finally answered, continuing to brush through her sun kissed locks.

“I wouldn’t be mad if now that we were in a different land, one full of magic and possibilities, if you were to- if you wanted to leave me,” Rose said, gaze now unable to meet yours as you paused completely. “I’d let you go with no repercussions,”

“What are you talking about, princess?”

“You’re my friend, I don’t want you to waste your good years bowing to my every whim, you are a person and I cannot be the one who keeps you from living as you wish,” She said and your heart warmed at the sentiment.

“I am happy by your side, I think I’d be quite lonely without you. You’re my best friend, princess,” You admitted. “Besides, how would you survive without me?” You teased and she playfully swatted you in retaliation.

“You’re my best friend too, Y/N,”

As you finished brushing her hair, a comfortable silence having fallen down around you two, Rose practically jumped from her seat, eyes wide with an idea. “Attend the ball with me!”

“I will be there,”

“No, I mean, not just standing to the side until I need something, I mean borrow a dress of mine, be my equal,” Rose had always been so kind, so welcoming and you loved it but sometimes the future she hoped for seemed impossible.

“Princess, you know that isn’t realistic,” You said, trying to mask the sadness you felt at the truth of your words. Rose pouted and fiddled with her skirts.

“Well why not?! I’m going to be a queen, shouldn’t I have a say in how I treat my servants and the servants who are soon going to be my citizens as well?”

“You do, and you can do what you wish, but sometimes leaving things as they are is the best. There is a reason for this hierarchy. Serving you and your family has been my entire life, what do I have outside of my duties and the shelter I am provided, the clothes, the food? I don’t speak for everyone yet I don’t know who I’d be or what I would do if I weren’t your simple maid,”

“Oh Y/N, you are far too happy to let others dictate your life…” Rose sighed but she squeezed your hand. “As long as I know you will be there watching out for me, that is all I can ask for,”

When you two got to the ball, Peter was immediately at her side, escorting her to a table that stood above the floor. Queen Susan had a straight back with watchful eyes, mirth painting her features in a warm light. Queen Lucy was giggling with a mouse that had found it’s place on their table, a tiny sword strapped to his side. For an adult, albeit a young one, she had a childishness about her- yet you had heard the tales of her strength and heart. King Edmund looked bored frankly, not displeased, just bored. He rolled his neck and stretched in his seat.

His eyes skimmed the crowd similarly to his sister yet they stopped on you. Or you thought they had before he was averting his gaze anywhere else. Maybe you were mistaken. Rose’s words were getting to you. You looked for your princess and found Peter pulling out her seat for her, by his side at the grand table that overlooked the narnians.

You stood and let your mind wander as you knew it would be a very long night of doing very little but standing off to the side. Everyone had their fill of food before an impressive orchestra played lively music, encouraging everyone to join the floor. Lucy dragged Susan and Rose did the same thing to Peter. Edmund was left looking unimpressed yet he swayed gently to the music in appreciation of it. Your friend and princess looked lively and overjoyed. The king on her arm looked smitten and it made you smile. They would have a happy marriage if he always looked at her with such unabashed adoration. You hadn’t realized Edmund had moved from his spot until you caught his eye as he awkwardly maneuvered around a woman who was trying to dance with him.

He finally broke free of the wave of people but Rose was there, grabbing his arm and dragging him towards you, you realized with alarm. You couldn’t just disappear but you nearly almost hid underneath one of the buffet tables.

“My friend here has no dance partner! Why don’t you dance with her Edmund?” Rose grinned, Peter now behind her, watching with some confusion. “You two are already acquainted so we’ll leave you to it!” Just as quickly as she had come, she was now gone.

“Friend huh?” Edmund spoke.

“Come again?” You asked, confused by what he meant.

“She calls you friend, even if you are just her maid,” He said simply. “It’s strange.”

You bristled at his words and he seemed to notice because he quickly scrambled to save himself. “It’s not a bad thing! I just rarely meet a royal who has respect for others that are less than them, well not less, no person should be held above someone else, yet we are- I um. Sorry, I ramble at gatherings like this.”

A king was standing before you, apologizing for saying that no person should be put on a pedestal like he had been. That there was nothing wrong with being a maid. That it was strange, but he quite liked the fact, that Rose considered you a friend. It was endearing, it showed you that he had a good heart. It made sense why he was considered the Just King.

“It is strange, but she has always insisted that i was a friend, not just her servant,” You felt him staring at you and you suddenly felt like you had been too relaxed. “Your highness,” You added, just in case yet you weren’t prepared for him to wince.

“She has the right idea, please, Edmund is fine. I hate the title.” He grumbled and you nodded.

“I know it isn’t exactly normal, but why don’t we dance?” He finally added as an uncomfortable silence was pushed upon you.

“No disrespect, your high- Edmund. But why not one of the girls that have been vying for your attention this entire event? They have a much better standing than I do, I don’t wish to bring any shame on your good name,” You spoke honestly.

“That’s all bullshit,” Edmund said, shocking you with his language. “And besides,” He grinned a wicked grin. “They may have better standing but I’m positive that not one of them have half the personality you do,” The last bit was whispered into your ear and you couldn’t help but become intoxicated with his closeness. He smelled of cinnamon and some gentle musk that must be a cologne he had. You were positive you were as red as a tomato when he gave you your personal space back.

“Lady Y/N,” Edmund smiled, extending his hand. “Care to give me this dance,”

Lady. He called you Lady! Your mind screamed as you took his hand. It was oddly comforting to have your hand encased in his.

“It’d be foolish of me to say no, your highness,” You added, and he nearly scolded you yet stopped when he saw the teasing smile on your lips. His heart pounded uncomfortably at the sight. You were quite pretty, weren’t you?

You could leave your statuses behind for at least one dance.

#edmund pevensie x reader #edmund x reader #ask #request #au #edmund pevensie #narnia #drabble

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let-it-raines · 6 years ago

Text

Betting on the Bullseye (Part 10)

Summary: Emma Swan loses a bet that means she has to ask her celebrity crush to be her date to her office’s annual fundraising gala. Killian Jones is that celebrity crush. She expects all kinds of humiliation and for her dignity to be completely lost. What she doesn’t expect is for him to say yes.

Rating: Mature

A/N: Do you guys ever read your own fic summaries that you wrote when you only had chapter one written and cringe a bit? Because I do. Writing summaries and coming up with titles are weirdly difficult things, which I find funny since we all write so many words with little issue (sometimes lol).

Anyways, I know you guys are excited about this chapter, and I feel like I should tell you that rating definitely applies here. :D

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

Tag list: @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91@branlovesouat @dreadpirateemma @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @galaxyzxstark @lifeinahole27 @andiirivera @ultimiflos @hollyethecurious

“Did you forget something in California?”

Emma’s standing in front of him with wet hair falling down her back and the brightest smile on her face. He’s not sure if it’s the color of her t-shirt or the smile on her face, but her eyes have never been so green. And she’s never been this beautiful. God, he’s missed her in a way that he’s never missed anyone, not at all caring how much of a sentimental fool that makes him.

He is one. Definitely.

“Hi,” Emma sighs, her shoulders slumping in relaxation as she moves toward him and wraps her arms around his waist as he does the same to her, the mug falling to the ground and clanking against the concrete. She’s warm against him and her hair smells strongly of the vanilla of her shampoo and body wash. He missed that, too, his sheets losing the scent after he washed them two days after her departure. He pulls her in a little closer, burying his head into her neck and kissing the skin there, and he simply savors this moment. He felt like he was never going to be here, the days and weeks seemingly stretching on longer than physically possible, but he is here. He’s here. They’re here.

“Hello, love,” he whispers into her neck before pulling back and releasing her to cup her cheeks, her skin as warm and as soft as her lips when he dips his head and bends his knees to slant his lips over hers. Yeah, he’s missed this too. He’s pretty much missed everything, but as she moves against him, her hands threading into his hair while the tempo of the kiss changes from soft and sweet to harsh and passionate, he knows that they’re not going to be wasting any time.

Emma pulls back from him when his tongue runs across the seam of her lips, but she doesn’t go far, resting her forehead against his while their breaths intermingle. “My poor swan mug has been abused since December. I hope you know that.”

“Oi, you were supposed to bring it back with you after your visit.”

“Only because you stole it.”

“Eh, that’s questionable. You did invite me into your apartment on the night we first met.”

“Speaking of,” Emma chuckles, pressing up on her toes and quickly sliding her lips over his, “do you want to come inside, KJ?”

“Absolutely.”

She pulls back from him then, the loss of heat immediate, but then she’s bending down and grabbing her mug and his bag before walking inside, her hips swaying in a way that he knows is intentional. Bloody minx.

He follows her inside, stepping out of the cool Boston air and into the warmth of Emma’s apartment. He remembers it well, even in his brief night here, but he can tell the subtle differences. It’s definitely cleaner, and he chuckles to himself thinking of how she’s likely spent the entire weekend before straightening up. There are some new pillows on her couch, a new coffee table without stains and scuff marks, and she definitely painted. He’s pretty sure the walls were an unfortunate beige last time where they’re now a light mint green.

But the kitchen is still tucked into the corner of the room, more like a kitchen alcove than anything, and it smells of cinnamon from a candle that’s lit on the kitchen counter. He shuts the door behind him, realizing he’s left it open far too long, and twists her locks, making sure to get each bolt and chain. Emma’s standing in the kitchen alcove, rinsing off her mug as if she doesn’t think he did that before boarding his flight, and he shakes his head and walks over to her.

“I washed that, you know.” He wraps his arms around her waist, only the slightest bit of hesitance despite how they greeted each other. But she relaxes into his arms, leaning back against him and looking up at him with a cheeky smile before bringing her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I don’t know where you’ve been. This has been out of my possession for a long time.”

“Again,” he hums, taking the mug out of her hand and grabbing her left wrist before kissing the small dot that resides there, “that is only partially my fault. You had an opportunity, and you missed it, Swan.”

“And I’ve gone without coffee for so long without my favorite mug.”

He quirks an eyebrow as she turns in his embrace and wraps her arms around his neck. He’s very aware of how real this is, of how she’s actually here with him again, but he keeps waiting to wake up from a dream. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened in the past few months. So his hands snake up underneath her t-shirt, feeling the warmth that’s radiating off of her soft skin and firm muscles, and he knows this is real.

Definitely.

“That is a lie, Swan.”

“Definitely a lie.”

Emma leans forward a swiftly brushes her lips over his, once, twice, three times, before he tugs her impossibly closer and runs his hands up and down her sides, feeling her lack of a bra and groaning into her mouth while his thumbs brush the underside of her breasts. Her breath is warm when she gasps into his mouth after he finds her nipples, feeling them pebble the slightest bit under his touch, and he smiles into the kiss, their teeth clanking together as their heads turn.

“I totally intended to talk to you and spend time with you and, like, just watch TV and eat dinner or something, but I’m kind of thinking that’d be a bad plan right now, KJ.”

“How so?”

Instead of answering his question, which was stupid on his part, she slides her mouth over his and tangles their tongues together in a slick, warm slide, his breath escaping him with every movement. He feels his body come to life slowly as they move together. He thought it would be faster than this, harsher, and more desperate, but it’s slow as their tongues dance together and his hands continue to run up and down her sides and her back while her hands stay firmly planted in his hair, tugging on the strands to keep them in place, occasionally bringing him closer.

So maybe she answers his question without any words. He never really needed the words anyways. Emma’s hands leave his hair and trail down his chest to begin tugging on his shirt, trying to get it off but with no success while his grip stays against her hips and his body stays melded into hers. She huffs, whines almost, and he laughs against her lips before kissing against her jaw, trailing along her jawline until he gets to her ear, nibbling the slightest bit, and he hears her moan the sweetest of sounds that nearly cause all of the blood to rush away from his brain.

He doesn’t need that anyways.

“You need to take – to take off your shirt.” “An eye for an eye, Swan.”

“You mean a shirt for a shirt?”

“Aye, and then maybe we’ll do everything else.”

“Sounds like a plan, Stan.”

“Oh, God,” he laughs, nipping at her ear one more time before pulling back and stepping out of her embrace, grabbing his t-shirt at the nape of his neck and pulling it off while Emma watches him with her bottom lip in between her teeth and with her eyes trained on all of the skin he’s now exposing. He feels his cock twitch in his jeans, tenseness in his spine building, and he’s honestly not sure how they managed to take it at this pace…not that it’s been entirely slow. “There, darling, I’m shirtless. Are you happy?”

“Very.” She quickly lifts her own t-shirt over her head, her bare breasts coming into view while her wet hair falls against her skin, gooseflesh immediately rising. “Shit,” she whines, quickly taking the shirt and squeezing out her hair in an attempt to dry her locks, “my hair is still far too cold and wet for this, hold on.”

God, he loves her so damn much, and watching her bounce around her kitchen half naked while attempting to dry her hair with her t-shirt is now one of his favorite things in the world, especially with the way she’s muttering curses under her breath and desperately twisting and pulling at her hair.

“Just pull it up, love.”

“I know, I know. It’s the principle of the thing. You could have shown up, like five minutes later, and I’d have had it mostly dry.”

“Oh, okay,” he chuckles, taking a step toward her front door, “so I’ll just step outside and wait five minutes, okay?”

“No,” Emma groans, grapping his wrist and tugging him back to her so that he’s following her out of the kitchen alcove and down the hall to her bedroom, “that’s not necessary in the slightest. I’ll just get pneumonia from my wet hair or something.”

“A very solid choice.”

Emma turns and enters her room before he does, immediately stripping down and out of her leggings and socks while he undoes his belt and slings it off before unzipping his jeans, struggling to get them down over his boots until he manages to kick those off as well. He leaves his boxers on as he stalks over to Emma, threading his hands through her damp, pulled up hair and kissing her while gently pushing her back on the bed, attempting not to knee her stomach or crush her with his weight. They keep with the same pace as earlier, but he can feel nearly every inch of Emma’s skin against his, their hips rutting together in a slow rhythm, and he thinks he might lose himself right then and there if they don’t stop. Forty or so days doesn’t seem that long in the grand scheme of things, but when you’ve just started something only to have it ripped away, it may as well be a lifetime.

Or maybe he just desperately needs to be with her.

His lips trail away from Emma’s, tracing down the skin of her jaw and her neck, worrying the beginnings of a mark into her collarbone, only moving away so as not to actually leave a mark. He lets instinct lead him, listening to where Emma gasps and groans to know what he’s doing right for her. They’ve only been together for a few times, all in one night, so he still has to discover the ins and outs of what brings her pleasure. But as he runs his tongue around the perimeter of a nipple, he knows he’s found a sweet spot.

“Oh fuck,” she moans, bucking her hips up and harshly threading her fingers into his hair. “Do that again.”

So he does, tracing her skin with his tongue before kissing the pert nipple, sucking and teasing all while his hand teases the neglected breast, Emma’s heart beating wildly within her chest while sounds of pleasure escape her mouth. When her fingers become even tighter in his hair, almost hard enough to pull his hair out, he bites down for a brief moment, pulling away and standing up while Emma blinks up at him.

“What’s wrong?” she questions, curling in on herself.

“Nothing,” he groans, pulling his boxers down and freeing his cock from its restraints. “Absolutely nothing is wrong, but you are driving me insane.”

“Oh.” Her eyes trace him up and down, and he smirks, stroking himself the slightest bit while she watches, her tongue flickering out over her bottom lip. “Well, um, condoms are in the drawer.” “That’s awfully presumptuous of you, Swan.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, sitting up and crawling over to her bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out a box, ripping the package open before carefully tearing a foil package off of the strip.

“A new box, love. You keep proving that someone thought she was going to get lucky.”

“You are awfully cheeky for someone who’s going to get blue balls if I change my mind.”

“Right then,” he laughs, stepping over to her and sitting down on the edge of the mattress, reaching to take the condom out of Emma’s hand only for her to deftly roll it down over his length, her hands nearly as light as a feather, though that doesn’t keep every touch from driving him mad.

“Lie back.”

He does as she asks, maneuvering around and resting his head against the pillows while Emma follows him, kissing up his thighs and then straddling them, taking him in hand and teasing his tip between her folds until she slowly sinks down onto him, her walls encasing him in their heat. His hands find her hips even as his breath leaves him, but Emma doesn’t need him to steady her. She takes control, swiveling her hips up and down in slow, deep motions that make his eyes roll back.

She feels bloody fucking fantastic, every move of her body and bounce of her breasts driving him insane, and he tells her so through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw while his thumbs rub circles into her hips and her fingernails trace up and down his chest, tugging at the hair. When her movements start to falter, her legs shaking the slightest bit, he gently stops her movements, encouraging her to move off of him and lie on her back. She does so, her hair falling out of its loose band while she moves, and he takes but a moment to hover over her and cage her in, easily sliding back into her while her legs wrap around his arse. He begins to control the movements, the pleasure in the base of his spine nearly ready to burst with every thrust.

“Shit,” she whispers against his lips when he begins to swivel his hips, brushing her clit with the movements. “I’ve gotta – you’ve gotta…”

“Aye,” he responds, sliding his lips over hers and snaking his hand down between them, curling his fingers where they’re joined and spreading her arousal while he rubs circles around her bundle of nerves, making her gasp and bite down on his upper lip. “You are bloody brilliant,” he grunts when he knows that she’s getting close, every movement of his hips and his thumb driving her just as mad as him. “I have missed you, missed this, missed the way you feel wrapped around me, so tight and wet.”

Her eyes shut then, tightly, and he can see the sweat beading at her forehead, can feel the sweat on his, and she falls apart on a stuttered breath that nearly steals his. He tries to work her through it, pushing into her and finding his own pleasure while her hands continue to curl into his shoulders, holding on tightly even as her eyes open and a smile graces her lips.

“Hi,” she sighs, but he can’t respond to it, burying his face in her neck and whispering her name over and over again while he falls apart, nearly collapsing on top of her as his legs shake.

“Oh my god,” he groans, his body coming back to itself for enough time to brush his lips over hers, once, twice, three times, before pulling out of her and standing on shaky legs to get ready to dispose of the condom.

“Emma will do.”

He turns to look at her, his lips gaping open all while he carefully ties off the condom. “That was by far the worst joke you’ve ever made.”

“You don’t even know, bud.”

Later after they’ve cleaned themselves up, Killian slipping back into his jeans instead of bothering to get his suitcase from the other room and Emma pulling her oversized t-shirt back on, Emma tucks herself into his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his stomach while he pulls her closer, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her left wrist. He’s content to sit like this for hours, until his limbs fall asleep and he has to suffer through that awful, painful buzzing that occurs when the blood flow has been stilted. After so little time together and so long apart, he wondered if they’d fall back into this sense of comfort or if things between them would be stilted, unsure. He’s never done this before, never been with someone who doesn’t live in the same city as him, so this is all new, uncharted territory.

He thinks they’re doing pretty well.

Emma’s fingers start tracing patterns in the skin on his chest, her nails parting the matted, sweaty hair and causing him to shiver at her touch. “Did you have a good flight?”

“W-what?”

“Did you have a good flight? I didn’t ask, and I feel like that’s something I should have asked about.”

“What’d you do? Make a list of small talk conversations for us to have. The weather outside is delightful, love. I think it’s a balmy sixty five, which is good for my hair. The humidity and all.”

“Shut up,” she giggles, the sound sweet even as she slaps his chest. “You know what I mean. I always have weird stuff happen to me on flights. I figured you might too.”

“Aye,” he answers, lifting her wrist and kissing her skin, “all of the time, but this time I simply boarded the plane, put my headphones in, and caught up on a lot of the shows I’ve missed while filming. Oh, and I ate any entire bag of salt and vinegar chips without my tongue breaking out. That was pretty exciting.”

“Wow, you are living the life, KJ.”

He scrunches up his nose as he dips his head and captures Emma’s lips with his before she can say anything else, smiling into the kiss when she gasps at the contact. He feels something inside of him twist, which is definitely not biologically possible but happening all the same.

“Hush, love. You’re just lucky I brushed my teeth again before I got here.”

“Wow, and you made fun of me for expecting to get lucky.”

“Well, maybe I just brushed my teeth because I really care about dental hygiene. It had absolutely nothing to do with you or making sure that I don’t absolutely repulse you.”

“Too late for that.”

She squirms away from him them, surprisingly quick on her feet as she moves to the other side of the bed, stretching out and reaching toward the end table when he grabs her waist and holds her back, leaning down and kissing up her thighs while she laughs, kicking her feet at him.

“Killian, st-stop,” she groans, reaching back while he continues to rub his chin into the back of her thigh, scruff leaving faint red marks, “I’m trying to get my phone. It keeps buzzing.”

“That’s my phone.” “Well, then, I’m trying to get your phone.” He lets her go, Emma scooting forward enough to grab his phone off the table. “You have a hell of a lot of missed texts from Elsa. Also, is this your girlfriend in your photo? She’s super hot.”

“She’s my lover actually,” he laughs, holding his hand out for his phone, “and I agree. Smoking hot. What’s Elsa saying?”

“Um, I don’t know. I don’t know your passcode.”

“050886.”

She quirks an eyebrow, folding her legs up underneath her and pulling her t-shirt down over her thighs. “KJ, is your phone password your own birthday?”

“Possibly.”

“That’s so predictable.”

“It’s easy to remember.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Emma types the numbers into the phone, swiping her finger and presumably going through Elsa’s texts, her facial expression neutral the entire time. “Oh man, are you in deep water with your sister-in-law.”

“What? Let me see.”

“No, no. You, my friend,” Emma laughs, untucking her feet from underneath her and standing on the bed, somehow not at all concerned how close she is to the running ceiling fan, “have forgotten to tell your family that you safely traveled across the country, and they are having a meltdown.”

Oh shit. He really did forget to text someone, anyone, and let them know he landed, and that does not fly with Elsa or Liam. Hell, even Will freaks out on him sometimes.

“Shit, let me text her.”

“What are you going to say? You forgot because you were having sex?”

“Exactly,” he smirks, shaking his head a bit and leaning forward to grab Emma’s ankle, running his fingers over the bones there while she continues to sway back and forth above him. “Elsa’s an adult. She understands.”

“Elsa is very much an adult who has sex with your brother.”

“Swan,” he groans, throwing his free arm over his eyes and trying to get that image out of his head, “why would you point that out?”

“Just to mess with you.” Emma squats down and quickly glides her lips over his before handing over his phone. “Why don’t you call her back? I’m going to go get some water. You want some?”

“Sure, darling.” Emma gets off the bed, gently hopping down onto the floor without so much as a stumble, and walks out of the room, her curly, tangled hair bouncing with every step.

He takes the moment to scroll through his phone, a few texts from Will and Robin having gone unread, but he mostly sees all of the texts from Elsa, each of them increasingly more worried about his whereabouts. The last one even uses Aiden to guilt him, a picture of the poor lad crying all while the caption reads I’m having a meltdown because my uncle won’t text my mom back. He shakes his head in disbelief over he sneaky tactics, just a little dramatic there, El. He presses her name, letting the dial ring until her voice sounds on the other end.

“Well, it looks like you’re alive,” Elsa groans into the phone, her displeasure with him even clearer than it was in the texts.

“Hi, El. Nice to talk to you too. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit dramatic?”

“Only Anna. And that’s just when I used to get mad at her for stealing my clothes. But seriously. You can’t just not tell any of us you’ve landed.”

He reaches up and runs his hand through his hair, knowing that it’s likely a disaster from the flight and the exertion with Emma. “I’m sorry. It slipped my mind, but I promise I wasn’t going to let you think I was dead. I’d have sent proof of life at some point.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’m sure you would have eventually remembered us as you traipse off to go visit your girlfriend.”

Almost as if she knew Elsa had referenced her, Emma walks back in her bedroom then, holding a glass of water while she sips on the other one, placing his on the table next to him before crawling back into bed beside him.

“I would have, El. I would never forget the little people.” “God, you’re corny,” Emma groans, shaking her head back and forth before taking another sip.

“Oooh, is that her, Killian? Is that Emma?”

He can practically imagine Elsa sitting at home bouncing up and down on the couch while Liam stoically sits on the other end reading one of his many war strategy books, the oddball.

“Aye.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Emma’s cheeks go red, obviously hearing Elsa’s words. “Do you want to?” he mouths to Emma, trying to read her emotions.

“Sure, put her on speaker.”

So he does, hitting the button and hoping that this is not some kind of disaster. If he were one to wish on stars, he’d wish that these next two weeks go without any hiccups. “Um, Els, this is Emma. Emma, Elsa. I’ve got no bloody clue why you want to talk to her, but here you go.”

“I just wanted to ask her to make sure you stay safe, you know? And that you come back home. Anna is coming into town for your birthday, and let me tell you, she has been plotting out cakes for you like you haven’t eaten a carb in years. Are you coming, Emma?”

Okay, so there’s hiccup number one. Emma’s eyes go wide, her lips parting, and he watches as she works through her words, noticing the way she nearly bites her bottom lip twice before speaking.

“Oh, um, I can’t. It’s in the middle of the week, and I have work. Maybe the weekend after though. I’m sure you guys will have a great time bringing Killian into old age.”

“Oi, I’m turning thirty-three, love.” He reaches over and pinches her side, even as she swats him away. “I’m not old.”

“You are pretty old, Killian.”

“You’re older than me, El.”

“Semantics. I don’t think that really matters here. You definitely have more wrinkles than me,” Elsa laughs, her voice carefree. She obviously wasn’t too worried about him not making it to Boston if she’s in this good of a mood after just a few minutes. “Emma, it’s so nice to meet you, or hear your voice really. Maybe one day you’ll come back to California, and I can meet you in person. I promise you I’ll be much nicer than my husband was. Sorry about that by the way.” “Well, he doesn’t exactly leave room for competition, but that sounds wonderful, Elsa. I’ll have to figure something out.”

“Sounds perfect. Be good and be safe, Killian. Don’t be a stranger. Love you.”

“I love you, too. Give Aiden a hug for me. Maybe toss one in there for Liam.”

The moment he hangs up the phone, he shuts it down and places it on the bedside table, picking up the glass of water and taking a sip, not realizing how dehydrated he is until he downs the entire thing in one continuous gulp, his throat soothed the more cool water trickles down. When he looks over at Emma, she’s picking at imaginary lint of her shirt, her hair falling down and covering her face while her long, tan legs stretch out over the sheets. He reaches over and tucks her hair behind her ear, thumbing at her chin so she looks at him.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing.”

“Swan, we are so far past lying to each other. Tell me. I won’t judge even if it’s something like wanting to hang clown paintings up on your ceiling.”

He entire face scrunches up, the very obvious disgust at the idea evident on every inch of her skin. “While I appreciate your vague The Good Place reference, both Elanor and I, and any sane person, do not want clowns everywhere…anywhere.”

“What then?”

“I feel bad.”

He scoots his foot over toward hers, knocking them together and wiggling his toes. “About?”

“I’m going to miss your birthday. Your family is apparently having a party, your friends are going to be there, and what? I’m going to be sitting in my office eight thousand miles away? Is that how this is going to be? We just miss all of these big moments?”

“Emma,” he sighs, leaning over and thumbing at her chin again so she looks at him, her eyelashes fluttering down before she actually looks at him, “it’s fine. I’ve had quite a few birthdays, and this one isn’t anything special. Don’t get yourself worked up over it or freaked out.”

“But – ”

“But what? It’s just a day, and I’m leaving here, like, three days beforehand. There’s absolutely no need for you to waste a vacation day when you’ll spend all of it on a flight, maybe get to eat a piece of cake, and then get back on a plane again.”

“I hear the cake selection will be good though, might make it worth it.”

“Swan.”

She groans, throwing her entire body back against the bed. “I kind of hate that you’re being logical about this.”

“Well, someone in this relationship has to be the smart one.” He leans over and kisses the corner of her lips. “Now let’s go get something to eat. Is there going to be anything in the kitchen or do I have to put a shirt on for us to go out?”

“Who says you have to wear a shirt to go out?”

When he wanders into Emma’s kitchen, opening up the cabinets in search of food, he’s genuinely surprised to see it completely stocked and organized. This is not the Emma he knows, and his earlier thought of her cleaning before he arrived rings true. She did not have to do that, but he appreciates the effort, grabbing the bag of bread and figuring a sandwich will be fine. Emma jokingly protests, claiming she got better food at his house, before getting up and fixing her own food, the two of them eating standing in the kitchen, not even bothering to go sit down.

He eventually gets his suitcase from where Emma dropped it, rolling it into her room and opening it up so he can find some of his sweatpants, his jeans beginning to rub into his waist after wearing them all day. But before he even gets the chance to change, Emma grabs onto his belt loops, pulling him toward her and back to the bed, every intent that she has evident in her eyes. It’s much faster than the first time, the desperation they both felt at their separation finally coming to head (and to bed if he’s honest with himself) as they move together in quick, harsh movements, the only sounds in the room their harsh pants and their skin slapping together. Faintly, he thinks he can hear the busyness outside, cars speeding by, horns blaring, and a curse or two from Emma’s neighbors. But he doesn’t care about anything out there.

Not at all.

He must have fallen asleep without knowing it because when he wakes, it’s to the sound of the shower running. Emma’s side of the bed is cold, the sheets cool to the touch when he reaches out for her in an attempt to recreate the way she’d curled around him before he fell asleep. He groans as he twists to the side, his body a bit sore from last night, and fumbles for his phone, unplugging it from the wall. Emma must have done that as he definitely didn’t, and he smiles a bit until his phone displays the time of 3:14 in the morning.

“Bloody hell,” he grumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, looking over and checking Emma’s phone as well, hers showing 6:14. “Fucking time change.” He shouldn’t have any issue with it, his sleep already screwed from filming, but he feels like he’s been hit by a truck. Literally. Not at all figuratively.

He makes a futile attempt to fall back asleep, but then he hears the water in the shower turn off, Emma coming out into her bedroom five minutes later wrapped up in a towel, her hair completely dry and pulled up into a bun.

“Hey, did I wake you?”

“No, just woke up. I think my sleep schedule is going to be screwed up for awhile, until I get used to normal living, at least.”

“Okay, well,” she walks over to her dresser, shuffling through the drawers and pulling on her underwear before dropping the towel, her body almost completely exposed to his gaze while her hips move as she dresses, his mind replaying images of just a few hours ago, “I have to be at work at eight thirty. I was thinking of going in early to try to get off earlier, but if you want to get up and take a shower, we can go out and get breakfast.”

Groaning, he rubs his eyes before throwing the covers off, already trying to think himself down as if that would work. “Yeah, I think I’m going to need a cold shower after that little show you just put on, so that sounds like a brilliant plan.”

“You,” she looks back at him over her bare shoulder, her neck infuriatingly long, and winks, “are disgustingly insatiable, but I’ve already showered so that’s not happening.”

“That’s the point of the shower, darling.”

“No, that’s because you smell like sweat.”

He pinches Emma’s thigh on his way over to his suitcase, shuffling through for some clothes before he heads into the bathroom and takes a quick, cold shower. He didn’t remember to bring his own body wash in here, so he uses Emma’s, not at all minding that he’s going to smell like vanilla for the rest of the day. Before he knows it, Emma’s ready for work, he’s dressed, and she’s leading him out of her building, wandering down the cramped alleyways outside. He’s not familiar with Boston’s layout, but Emma obviously is, navigating the small roads and alternating busy streets with ease.

She leads them to a small coffee shop, the lights dim inside and the patrons quiet, and he appreciates it as he tugs his baseball cap further down on her forehead and keeps his sunglasses on until the last minute.

“I’m going to order while you get a table. There’s a really cool table upstairs that’s inside of an old bank safe. No one ever sits in it because the wifi is bad.” “That sounds dangerous.”

“The door doesn’t close, KJ,” she laughs, reaching back and squeezing his hand. “You want anything specific besides your coffee?”

“The blueberry muffin that’s sitting at the top of the display case.”

“Gotcha.”

He heads up the stairs, steps creaking and groaning under his weight, and finds the room Emma was talking about. Sure enough, it’s a small, empty section that looks to be within an old bank safe. It’s actually pretty inventive, though he does wonder why this place has a safe on the second floor and how exactly someone decided to change an abandoned bank into a coffee house. Emma joins him five minutes later, two to-go cups and a paper bag in her hand. She practically downs her entire drink in one sitting, the heat somehow not burning her, before shoveling her croissant in her mouth. The entire time he’s waiting for his coffee to cool, staring her down and slowly picking at his muffin.

“What?” she laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.

“You are inhaling your food. How have you not burned your mouth?”

“My creamer and stuff cooled it down, and old habits die hard. I’m usually eating breakfast while getting ready or while driving. And we walked here, which means I’m going to walk to work, so we really only have, like, twenty minutes.”

“It’s been three.”

“Oh,” she laughs, shaking her head while his coffee cools and his affection for Emma warms. Indefinitely, he thinks. “Sorry.”

“Tis nothing, love. I was just watching a modern medical marvel take place.”

She sticks out her tongue, showing the maturity of the twenty-eight-year-old that she is, and he barks out a laugh, throwing his head back and being thankful that he wasn’t drinking his coffee. He eventually does eat, sipping on his coffee even after they leave to walk toward Emma’s office, and despite the fact that it’s still before five in the morning for him, he’s glad to be awake.

He realizes that he’s never actually been to Emma’s actual office, only having gone to the museum for the gala, so as he follows her up several sets of stairs, the lighting dim within the corridors, he takes in the surroundings, trying to put together all of the things he’s imagined while talking to her on the phone. The actual office is a bit brighter than he imagined, large murals obviously painted by children coating the walls, and when Emma turns the corner into a small room, he knows it’s her office simply by the fact that she has a shelf of coffee mugs to the side of the room.

“For someone who made a big fuss about the damn swan mug, you seem to have quite the collection of other options.”

“Oh,” she gasps, almost as if she had forgotten he was behind her or that the mugs were there, “I don’t actually drink out of those. We have a Valentine’s Day party with a lot of the kids every year. Some of them hate it, which is understandable, but for the younger ones, they draw something and we get the picture put on a mug later on. I’ve just kind of collected them.” She shrugs, putting her purse down behind her desk. “They make me happy.”

That thing within him that twisted yesterday, the one he is sure is biologically impossible, twists again, his face heating as his lips stretch into a wide grin. Emma is incredible, in more ways than one, and he shakes his head back in forth in disbelief that she wants to be with him of all people.

“You make me happy.”

“Wow, cheesy.”

He shakes his head again, walking over to Emma and placing his cup on her desk before resting his hands on her hips, thumbs running circles on the skin under her shirt. She’s looking up at him with a bit of disbelief, and he understands. That’s how he looks at her sometimes.

“I’m serious, Emma. You do make me happy.”

Emma’s hands reach up to caress the apple of his cheek, tilting his hat up the slightest bit before speaking on a slightly shaken breath, “You make me happy too, Killian. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

#betting on the bullseye #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic

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yeoldontknow · 7 years ago

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Ere

Author’s Note: happy christmas @yeol-stole-my-soul <3 i adore you so much and am so thankful i get to call you a soul sister <3 i hope you enjoy this gift as im pretty sure it checks some of your boxes~~ Pairing: Jimin x Reader (oc; female) Summary: After a long night of surgery, you come home to find Jimin waiting for you. You find comfort in him as you remember the night you met. Genre: AU; fluff; angst; drama Rating: PG-13 Warnings: some depictions and descriptions of blood; references to car accidents Word Count: 2,373

When you get home, your hands are shaking. This is not the tremor of anxiousness nor is it the tremor of regret or even anticipation, rather it is the quiver and quake of exhausted precision. All day you have held and nurtured bodies, made cuts into their skin and sewn their organs back together without so much as a furrowed brow. Even now, you can still feel them, the wet softness of life cradled between your fingers, leaving permanent stains on your empathy.

But now, now with the cool metal of the doorknob beneath your palm, you can shed the skin of your surgeon’s gloves and simply be you.

This you is tired, frowning at the ache in your back and the odd way you seem to have become numb to the tension in your toes. Walking feels complicated, heavy and uneven steps carrying you to your door with little thought behind the action. There's a growl in your stomach, the kind that reminds you your last meal was a black coffee and, as you push through your door, you realize through the fog of your mind that tepid drink was more than nine hours ago. You'd guzzled it, running to another operating room, and even when you focus on the memory you cannot remember the taste. Perhaps, you think, it is for the best.

With a heavy sigh, you drop your keys and bag on the counter, lowering your chin to your chest as you gather the strength to walk to your bedroom. Around you, the Christmas fairy lights glow like fireflies, signs and symbols of comfort and safety. He’s left the lights on for you, welcoming you home without welcoming you at all, and your chest clenches with ardor.

Glancing at the clock on the microwave, you frown. 3:00AM. All of you wants to be in your bed, pressed against the warmth of Jimin’s bare skin with his mouth at your shoulder. But the couch is closer, you think, and comfortable enough to be a cloud. The couch requires less motion and movement, less steps and less gathering of the strength you gave to strangers.

Contemplating the merits of the couch, of your legs no longer having to brace for everything and nothing at all, your vision starts to fade and your mind wanders. Focusing on the tree, you hear Jimin’s laugh as you decorated in a rush, ornaments placed haphazardly on branches and tinsel messily wrapped in irregular circles. You’d only had a few hours before your next shift, but Jimin ensured it felt like days, weeks worth of holiday cheer flooding your veins simply because his laugh cascaded over your skin, warm like cinnamon.

The memory quickly gets tainted with scalpel slices and measurements of drugs, sharp needles and cheeks wet with sweat or tears or, sometimes, both. Everything bleeds when cut hard enough, everything lives and dies, and you think briefly on how the smell of pine will soon fade from your house, even your own tree caught in a perpetual state of decay.

Grim, you think. Grim and grim, no room for seasonal happiness if you’re too worn and tired to feel it. Glancing back to the microwave, you sigh. 3:10AM. Definitely late enough for the couch and, you assume, sleeping by the tree will rebuild the sense of merry taken from you daily, continually chiseled away with saline and silver blades.

The warmth of the flannel blanket draped over the sofa lingers in your mind before it is wiped from your focus, strong arms winding around your chest and pulling you against a strong body.

‘Only one hour late,’ Jimin whispers into your ear, lips pressing warm kisses to the shell as he speaks. ‘Must be a new record.’

‘Car accident,’ you hum, settling back into his embrace and feeling your muscles relax. ‘Black ice,’ you continue, and you almost regret saying the words.

They’re heavy things, warped and distorted with personal feelings, tragic feelings, and you can feel Jimin tense against you. He breathes deeply into your neck, processing his thoughts and collecting his composure.

‘Did they make it?’ he murmurs eventually, and you hear the way he delicately gives shapes to the word, kisses them free with kindness.

You hesitate in the luxury of his closeness, and it pulls a frown across his lips in apprehension. Smiling slightly, you press yourself flush against him and nod. ‘Yes. They all did.’

‘I'm glad,’ he murmurs, squeezing you tightly as though he imagines it was you who had been injured. Always he does this, holds you close and remembers the easy way skin tears. Any word of an injury, similar or otherwise, and immediately he is reminded of the way blood sticks. Even well past its removal, you can feel it there, a scar upon your gentleness.

For a while you remain this way, his soft breath cascading through your hair and down your neck, warming you deep into your bones with every exhale. Draping one arm back and around his neck, your fingers tease idly at the individual strands until this motion halts. You're drifting, dozing, comfortable in his touch and in this love, adrift and at peace.

When you wake, you find you are in bed. Beside you, Jimin is not a sleep, merely blinking at you slowly as though he is admiring all your hardest parts - all the hard things that soften when he is near. Jimin wears wonder on his face as though he does not know how to keep his love for you a secret, as though he does not want to. Daily, you wake to find him surprised you are in his bed, and, daily, you too are hit with the overwhelming sensation of luck. In a daze, you blink at him, and let two fingers trace the silken length of his cheek down to his jaw.

‘I'm glad they made it,’ he says again, weaker now than he did before. Gentle, and implying so much more than mere affection for memories. His voice is thick, heavy with meaning, and it makes you press yourself closer to his chest.

‘Me, too,’ you affirm, and even in these few words you know you're matching his reverence.

‘I'm glad you stayed,’ he says, stroking meekly at the real truth of his words.

Glad you healed him. Glad you loved him. Glad you did not run when he needed you most.

‘Me, too.’

You meant. Oh, how you mean it.

THREE YEARS AGO - DECEMBER 20

You aren’t sure when you got used to the rhythm of the ER, when the blur of colour and abrupt movements of hands became singular, discernable actions, but you keep pace easily, unphased by the woeful sobs of people around you. It takes you several minutes to notice him, sitting silently in a corner attempting to make himself small. People less wounded than he scream as though their very limbs have been torn, but he lets the blood drip from his forehead down into his eyes and does not blink it away. Across his skin, it is smeared, either by his hand or someone else’s in the efforts of letting him see, painting his face with handprints and blood prints. Still, he does not move, shellshocked and lost in thought, as though the act of bleeding reminds him he is alive.

Dropping a chart back on the counter, you rush to him, kneel in front of him and watch the way he does not acknowledge you. Inside himself, he is swimming, seeking answers to questions his mind cannot fathom but asks just the same. For a moment, you linger on your knees, immobile and patient, waiting for a flicker of recognition to spark in his eyes.

When it does not come, when he remains frozen as though time has stilled around him, you lean forward and try to ease him back into the world.

‘Hey,’ you try, keeping your voice soft.

At the sound of your words, he becomes present though not altogether alert. He tugs the blanket wrapped around his shoulders tightly around him, and fixes a pleasant smile on his face.

‘Sorry?’ is all he manages, weak and disoriented.

‘Do you know your name?’ you ask, studying his eyes for signs of pupil dilation. ‘Do you know what day it is?’

It takes him several seconds to answer, the silence hanging heavily between you, thick with tension. While he gathers his thoughts, you start counting time, hoping and praying his head injury is not severe, hoping and praying the gash on his cheek is not deep. And as you count time forwards, so too do you count it back, wondering how long he had been sitting on this chair waiting to live or waiting to die, and feeling strongly about neither.

‘Jimin,’ he offers eventually, nodding with a slight wince. ‘Park Jimin. It’s December 22.’

Sighing with relief, you lean back on your heels and reach for his wrist.

‘I’m going to take your pulse now, okay? Jimin?’

Lingering over his arm, you scan his body for other injuries. Externally, he appears fine, though he has sunken in on himself. Already relatively slim, he suddenly looks fragile, withdrawn and surrendering easily to the pale horror that comes with trauma. Something about him, about the small way he caves inward, about the way he looks at you as though you are a tether, a hope, makes you feel protective of him.

And so you smile, reassuringly and hoping that it’s enough to wipe the worry from your features. He needs the warmth, you can tell, craves the knowledge that things will continue even if they will not be fine.

Jimin simply nods, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches the gentle way you ease his arm down towards you. Beneath your fingers his skin is cold, covered in a slick sweat that comes from shock rather than heat, and you find yourself holding tightly to him, irrationally imagining him fading away.

As you watch the hands of your watch move in circles, you feel Jimin’s gaze all over you, pressing and penetrative. Somewhere in his analysis of you, he decides you are the answer he has been seeking, you are the missing piece, and he leans forward abruptly, hoping to get close and hoping to know.

‘Will they live?’ he announces, breaking your concentration.

Your gaze flashes up to his, and you stifle the surprise that builds in your chest at seeing him so wired. His eyes search yours for truth, hard and no longer wandering. He means to pull it from you, means to confront the ugliness of death and hopes that you will greet it at his side.

Still, his questions means he can remember, and means that he is now in the throes of remembrance. It’s a good sign, one that means his short term memory has not been affected, and the thing you need to worry mostly about now is concussion or neck injury.

‘You know you were in an accident?’ you ask slowly, making him answer important questions first.

‘Yes, I…’ he tries, looking beyond you as he struggles to form words. ‘We....they were hit.’

You know the details of the case: drunk driver on black ice, speeding, careening around a corner into two cars and a telephone pole. The scene was bleak, and one car was on fire - you do not know whose. Some lived, some died, and these are the details he does not need to know, not just yet. Not until you have what you need from him first.

Keeping the tone of your voice calm and even, you comfort him by holding his hand. ‘Did you hit them?’

Again, you know he did not, but it’s important he remembers on his own.

‘Yes,’ he says, before furrowing his brow and quicky amending his answer. ‘No. I was hit first, and I went into them.’

Them. The family of five, jovial and happy, or so you like to think. They might have been, and perhaps would have been, and yet.

‘They had children with them.’ Jimin shakes your hand and makes you focus on him, distraught by this statement.

‘It’s not your fault,’ you nod, keeping your voice serene.

‘I know,’ he presses, urgently shaking his head, dissatisfied. ‘But, will they live?’

With a sigh you turn your gaze away from him, glancing at the charts on the desk you abandoned when you saw him. Three dead, three critical. He does not need to know the details, only that some have hope.

‘We don’t know until they come out of surgery,’ you say, turning back to him and keeping your voice detached.

Jimin remains unhappy with your answer, upset that is unclear and erring on the side of etiquette. Promises of non promises, unclear and vague truths, the perpetual management of expectations tasting bitter on both your tongues.

‘Did he live?’ he asks, and this time his voice is hard, demanding. Now, he will not let the question go.

‘No,’ is your cool response. ‘He was dead on the scene.’ You’re unforgiving with the way you the say words, and you do not feel ashamed for your judgement.

Another gurney is rushed through the doors, your eyes following it as it moves briskly down the hall towards OR 7. The pull to move tugs at you, the need to help and useful flooding your veins all at once, but Jimin’s hold on your wrist is stronger.

‘Stay with me,’ he pleads, eyes boring into yours and making you feel flushed.

The blanket on his shoulders has fallen down, nestled now in the crooks of his elbows, but he does not seem to mind. Now, all his hope and faith relies on you.

All of you wishes it was simple, that you could devote your night to him, to watching him heal. But you know that you cannot, that he is not the only deserving soul in the room. And so you sigh, offering a compromise before breaking both your hearts.

‘I’ll stay as long as it takes you get you patched up.’

You did not think you would stay forever.

But he did. Oh, he did.

AN #2: for @writtenwhalien xx

#jimin x reader #jimin fic #kpoptrashtag #kwriterskollection #noonanet #jimin au #jimin fanfic #jimin scenario #jimin fanfiction #bts au #bts scenario #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #park jimin

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theladyofdeath · 7 years ago

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Intoxication. {Nessian}

I cursed the moment I opened my eyes and found myself lying naked in his bed.

Groaning, I rolled myself over to bury my face in his pillow only to find that his sheets smelled just like him – like cedar and tobacco. I cursed, again, over the fact that I knew his scent better than anyone else’s. After peeking under the covers, only to find that I was, I fact, completely nude, I wrapped the heavy wool blanket around my shoulders and allowed my feet to hit the cold, oak floorboards.

“Cassian?” I whispered, unsure if I actually wanted him to answer me or not.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirror and cringed at my reflection once I faced it full on. My golden-brown hair was a mess, only a small portion of it still in its braid, and my stormy blue eyes had smudges of make-up underneath.

“Oh, Nesta….” I breathed, and instantly regretted it. My breath…..my breath smelled atrocious. After sprinting to the bathroom, and quickly rinsing my mouth with something that smelled strongly of cinnamon, I walked hesitantly down the stairs of his townhouse.

His scent hit me in full blast when I reached the bottom of the stairs, along with that of bacon and eggs.

“Good morning, beautiful,” his melodic voice filled the air before I even turned the corner.

Once I did, his bare back was turned to me, a pair of loose trousers hanging low on his hips. His feet were bare, which I didn’t think I had ever seen and found it oddly intimate. His wings were opening and closing, ever-so-slightly.

“Is that some sort of exercise?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“No,” he laughed, quietly. “It gives me a little breeze while I’m cooking, though.” When I didn’t answer, he continued, “Sleep well?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Do you remember anything from last night?”

There was humor in his voice as my cheeks turned scarlet.

“I’ll take your silence as a no.” He finally turned to me, and his pristine beauty instantly made me feel like a train wreck. Although his hair was tousled from deep slumber, he looked like a painting. A masterpiece. His broad shoulders and his muscled chest watched me as he hopped onto the counter. “What is the last thing you remember?”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “Um, dancing with the girls?”

He chuckled, taking me in from head to toe. “Well, you showed up on my doorstep around three this morning, and by the time I opened the door you were already half way out of your dress. I tried to get to you before the neighbors heard a member of our court yelling, “Cassian, kiss me!””

Mortified. I was mortified. “I did not say that,” I snapped, but his eyebrows simply raised.

“Oh. You did,” he winked. “That, and more that I won’t bother to repeat. I don’t want to embarrass you too much.”

“You’re a prick,” I mumbled, rubbing my temples.

“You’re spending too much time with Feyre,” he crooned, hopping off the counter to tend to his meal.

“Did we –“ I stopped, ashamed to continue.

After slowly turning to me, he blinked. “No, of course not,” he shook his head, as if he were offended. “I would never try, or ask that of you, in the state you were in.”

Cassian and I had been taking it slow in the previous months. He had never pushed for more than I was ready for, and I was grateful for that. I knew he wanted more, though. I could always smell it on him when things got heated.

“Was I that bad?” I whispered, covering my face with my hand.

His devious smile returned. “At one point, you tried to unbutton my pants while begging for my sea dragon to save you from your shipwreck. Yes, yes you were that bad.”

“What does that even mean?” I groaned, shaking my head, afraid to show my face ever again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replied, genuinely. “One time I said the same thing to Azriel.”

This made me laugh, just as he hoped it would. When I opened my eyes, he was placing two plates on the small table that sat in front of blue-curtained windows, a small ivory vase holding a single, yellow rose in between them.

“Join me for breakfast?” he asked, walking lazily toward me.

Memories from the night before flashed through my mind with every step he took. Me removing my clothes, not minding at all that I flaunted my bare body in front of him. Him politely carrying me to his bed, and tucking me in. The sea dragon incident. When he told me he would be sleeping downstairs, on the couch, if I needed anything. When he ran downstairs to bring me a glass of water and a tonic before I fell asleep.

“You’re good to me,” I said as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

“I love you,” he said, simply. It was the first time he said it, and he said it so casually.

Unsure of how to respond, I laughed, nervously. “Even after last night?”

“Especially after last night,” he confirmed, kissing my forehead gently. “Even smelling strongly of whiskey, which is a very impressive drink choice, by the way.”

I rolled my eyes, and pressed my lips tenderly against his. “I love you, too.”

As I said it, I felt its truth, even though my entire body was convulsing from the intimacy.

And, after I said it, I let my blanket fall to the ground.

#nessian #oneshot #nesta #cassian #acotar #acowar #acomaf

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two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat · 2 years ago

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So most recipes for watercolor binder recommend using clove essential oil for its antimicrobial and antifungal properties (so your paints dont start growing mold)

Well I could not find clove oil for a reasonable price anywhere near me

I did however find cinnamon essential oil at walmart

So I did some digging and cinnamon oil can be used in place of clove oil for antimicrobial and antifungal properties. SO im not sure why all the watercolor binder recipes that tell you to use essential oil specify clove oil. I thought maybe other oils might make the paint weird? But I figured it was worth a shot to try the cinnamon oil. So far the paint seems to work just fine and its hardening nicely.

So if youre making watercolor binder but can't find clove oil (and you want to have an essential oil in there for the added antifungal properties) just know that any with antimicrobial and antifungal properties are likely ok to use. (This note isn't the point of this post I just feel the need to put it cuz I had a very confusing week of digging around online to figure out if I could substitute clove oil for another type of oil because literally every single recipe that recommended using an essential oil said CLOVE oil which makes me think that clove oil must have something about it that makes it different from other essential oils with antimicrobial and antifungal properties thats making all these other people use it specifically and was finding NOTHING and decided to just say "fuck it" and see what happens-.....anyway.)

This has had the lovely effect of making my paints smell very strongly of cinnamon

Which is definitely an upgrade from how I imagine they wouldve smelled had i not added essential oil at all. The gum arabic solution smelled very bad lol. The cinnamon oil helped quite a lot.

#like. besties. i am autistic. if you tell me to use a specific thing. and it gets repeated over and over to use that specific thing #im going to assume theres something about that thing that is necessary or that a substitute would fuck it up somehoe #unless you specifically add a note that substitutions are ok #i was so worried that substituting cinnamon oil would fuck it up somehow #EVEN AFTER RESEARCHING AND FINDING NOTHING THAT CINNAMON OIL AND CLOVE OIL BOTH HAVE SIMILAR #ANTIFUNGAL AND ANTIMICROBIAL PROPERTIES #AND CONFIRMING THAT ALL THE CLOVE OIL IS DOING IS ADDING THOSE PROPERTIES AND ALSO MAKING IT SMELL BETTER #anways highly recommend cinnamon oil for watercolor binder #not the best quality watercolors i have (those would be the viviva color sheets) but definitely the best smelling ones lol #also i didnt need nearly as much binder as i thought i would for the amount of eyeshadow i had #so now i need to ask around to see if anyone i know that wears makeup has some expired eyeshadow (or eyeshadow that they dont use #cuz most of the people i know dont wear very bright colors and so if theres any of those in their pallettes they dont get used)#that way i can use up the rest of my binder #cuz most of the recipes i found say it only stays good for about a week in the fridge #thankfully i only used half the gum arabic #so i can make more at some point if i want

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weannewashere · 7 years ago

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#KeepingUpWithKym

Who comes into my mind when I think of the phrase “partner-in-crime?” Definitely not Kym. Hahaha because honestly, the things we do when we’re together are as close to crime as Duterte is to being presidential. Basically we attend paint classes, watch musicals, bake cookies, comment on each other’s tumblr, and make loom bands with pediatric patients. If we had a reality show, we’d be the GeneralPatronage-rated version of Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie - we literally receive the middle finger from irate Italian drivers for slowing down to let them pass.

But it works, because sharing the exact same interest for grandma activities means we automatically know what each other wants to do when we hang out. (Also, look at us, how cute do we look in our matching pajamas hahahahaha effort tong mga pictures na to in fairness, photo credits to Kym’s camera stand lol.)

For example, this weekend. Kym had flown in from California to spend her vacation leave with her loved ones (ehem) in the Philippines. When she told me she had time in her schedule for a day together, I didn’t even have to think twice about our itinerary - stay in McKinley Hill for the night to drink tea and read books haha, have breakfast at the Venice Piazza Mall, and soak in some art at the Pinto Art Museum (we also wanted to try our hand at this archery place, but alas we ran out of time).

Good morniiiing.

Breakfast at Mary Grace. Their mushroom cheese omelette and lemon squares are DIVINE.

Riding a gondola in the Manila version of Venice instead of actually going to Venice because the angry Italian drivers traumatized us lololol.

The Pinto Art Museum is my absolute favorite museum in the Philippines. The old Filipino/Greco aesthetic, the unique contemporary artwork by local artists, the huge windows and natural light, the open, intimate vibe of the place - ugh I seriously could stay here all day.

What I love most about the artwork at this museum is that they all reflect contemporary issues - poverty, inequity, colonial mentality, gender, urban life, politics - making the art so completely relatable and thought-provoking.

Here, let me try to show you a sampler of the art:

Oh wait, you mean like paintings and sculptures? HAHAHA yes sure the museum had those too. There were so many interesting pieces, but here are my favorites because well, they made me feel things:

The Hollow Man Alab Pagarigan I dunno, I like calling this one Turning Invisible lol. My photograph isn’t too good, but at the right angle, it really looks like the figure is slowly turning invisible as he rocks back and forth on his swing.

Roulette Leonard Aguinaldo The roulette is marked with various traits such as galante (generous), magalang (respectful), malandi (flirtatious), praning (paranoid). Around the roulette are the words ikaw (you), ako (I/me), sila (them), tayo (us). I guess this artwork spoke to me because it deals with the human tendency to define people by one specific trait, as if we all get one spin at the character roulette of life.

Manyika Elmer Borlongan The painting unfolds like a tense drama. At the edge of a railroad stands a middle-aged woman in a dress, her plumpness and vacant stare suggest a form of mental retardation. She seems to have been under care for so long, but what startles us is a mannequin leg of a man that she clutches like a doll. Is she lost? Where has she come from? Why is she here? And where did she get that leg?

Even in his early career in the 1990s, Borlongan has been drawn to observe and paint unusual street characters in the urban metropolis. These are people with idiosyncracies who, under the artist’s rendering, stand as monuments to the dissonance we encounter in the streets of Manila: armless guitar players, homeless children, blind men leading other blind men, and people swimming in reused oil drums, head first.

Manyika resonates this everyday strangeness. She is someone we can indeed encounter roaming some back street in Tondo, or Paco, or even in some remote edge of megapolitan Makati, holding the limbs of an amputated mannequin like a cherished toy. Is the leg an ersatz for a partner or a relationship that is too difficult for a person of her disability? Does it stand for a lover, perceived as real? Is this a personal fetish? Does it startle us to realize that even in mental regression, the desire for a connection is present? Manyika challenges our questions, engages our concept of humanness, of personal longing. It also addresses the difficult question of Otherness: Why does she look like an Other, in her strangeness?

Tinggang Baluti Salvador Alonday The subject of this bust sculpture is Superman. Look at his face and discover the little kiss of hair that is suggested across his forehead. But it is a Superman reimagined and reinterpreted in the manner of Christ as Sagrado Corazon, the Sacred Heart. Alonday merges the image of both heroes, tongue-in-cheek to create a cross commentary on the idea of redeemer and savior. After all, both heroes are not from this world, reared in the simple hearth-centered morality of farmers and workers, which in turn provides a check against their overwhelming powers: Superman with his brute strength and invincibility and Christ with His healing and ability to overcome death. This core of values lies beneath the shell of Alonday’s Superman - a heart that is both exposed and covered.

Alonda’s Superman is made to appear to be made of two metals, copper and lead. But the title refers to the possibility of Superman having a shell or outfit made of lead, the only thing that shields him from the radiation of Kryptonite. Thus with his tinggang baluti, Superman becomes truly invincible, invulnerable. He is rendered safe from weakness and death, and being so, he is able to expose his own heart. Does the artist imply that there is a need for an effective and powerful layer of protection before one can choose to be vulnerable? That even the most powerful of heroes need to wear a shell before choosing to be open to the manifestations of the heart? Alonday’s Superman casts his eyes downward in a glance of compassion. The work thus forges a wonderful sense of ambiguity, the paradox of power and love.

I don’t remember feeling this empty Joanna Helmut The painting is of an unusual visage: a young girl suffering from the throes of depression. I don’t remember feeling this empty is set in a bare blue room with an empty picture frame and a lone stool standing too close in a corner. Occupying almost two-thirds of the picture is a girl in a pink dress, with her one hand clasping her forehead in a gesture of culpability. The title of the piece could very well serve as her inner monologue and we are left to wonder why. What can cause such emptiness in the heart of a child so young? Joanna Helmut’s work derives its power not just from her carefully arranged elements and muted hues, but also in her courage to represent what the Filipino public once dismissed as taboo: the affliction of melancholy. The dismissal is one of non-acknowledgment, confident as we are that the time-honored structures of family and friendship could soothe any depression, which is misunderstood as sadness. Helmut’s emphasis on the condition of emptiness, that is the loss of vital meaning for living, is efficiently portrayed here and even strongly amplified in the subject of child sufferer. It is a work that requires the choice to observe and affirm that life is simply not a precession of values and generations, but also a cycle of vigor and shadow.

The script at the top left of this piece reads:

Poetry Loaves Wash your hands. Rid them of a lifetime’s hesitation. Roll up your sleeves. Keep paper towels on hand Preheat oven to 375. Combine flour and loud pauses for flavor Add spices to thrill away boredom: cinnamon risk, a dash of blanched candour to taste one-half teaspoon of doubt to balance. Fill the room with baking smells. Lose your hands in a mound of batter, the hill of bound matter, not yet ready for climbing. Knead the mixture until it tumbles into birth. Cover dough with a damp cloth, and rise to unseemly heights. The sun will appear in this unbaked loaf Poem should double in bulk after one uncertain age of introspection, many reincarnations and editions. Pound down dough, it will survive and be the stronger for it Do not follow recipe too closely: shut your eyes and burn the rules Roll into loaves of different shapes and sizes. Even an outspoken lump has its place.

Kasal sa Hatinggabi (Wedding at Midnight: The Church and the State) Elmer Borlongan, Karen Flores, Mark Justiniani, Joy Mallari, Federico Sievert This painting ridicules even as it exposes what hte artists perceive as a “testy and treacherous” alliance between Church and State. The scene is a parody of the rural wedding dance that often includes the release of doves hiding in a makeshift papier mache bell. The wedding couple: a politician and a cleric stand beneath this bell arch, at a dance that occurs curiously in the dead of the night, each with a weapon in one hand, while an arm seems to embrace the other. By showing them as marrying, even if in the most treacherous of arrangements, the artists declare openly that it is a match that is so ominous in their prospect for everyone. It is a painting of warning.

Oblivious Steph Lopez Two sculpted figures in wire approach each other in a tentative embrace. The taller male form stretches his right arm out to touch the female’s hip, while his left hand is bent back, reluctant. The more engaged female is inches away from a caress, her face focused on the moment of the touch, even as the male appears withdrawn, impassive, like a distant deity. The work hints at an incipient moment of intimacy, which somehow fails, and we are left seeing the gestures of affection that has either waxed or waned.

Kubli Elmer Borlongan With its face and bodily proportions stretched out like the figure of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, Elmer Borlongan’s painting of a child sleeping in a dimly-lit corner on a bare concrete floor possesses a foreboding drama that is rare in the artist’s oeuvre. The single source of light casts a long shadow of a post that runs across the feet of the dormant boy, like an ominous presence that watches over his slumber. Yet, with his palm as a pillow and the other nestled for warmth between his knees, our sleeper is unaware, almost dead to everything else in the world. It is the sleep of extreme exhaustion, from going through a day’s worth of work, or of endless meandering and seeking alms and food. It is the sleep of an animal that has run out of energy to scrounge and is content to find the darkest, most secure place it can find, as shelter.

The Undelivered Project Think of the one whom you have loved and lost. Take a pen and write an anonymous letter to him or her using the stationery provided. Empty your thoughts. Fold and seal the letter. Deposit the letter in one of the drawers - Let it remain undelivered - Move on!

#travel

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