#like no i dont want to do this in front of an oil painting of satan. otis. thank you.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Witchy Selfshippers!

How do your F/O's feel about getting involved in sex magic with you?

[evilgwrl]

ExHusband!Simon x Reader

You Want a Divorce? (One)

Note: I'm having the WORST writer's block now so pls excuse my lack of proper writing... I'm currently sitting in front of a beach writing in hopes that ill gain inspo

CW: Angst, mentions of sex, jealous/possessive Simon, PLS DONT LEAVE YOUR KIDS IN THE CAR !!! Or break into someone’s house

Inspired by: Ex!Husband Simon

PART TWO

Simon stared at you. The shades of his eyes simmering into endless voids of obsidian, blonde lashes moulded against his greased lids, the residue of the perpetual torture his body had succumbed to during deployment.

“You want a divorce?” He spoke, voice deep as he flickered between your shaking heads, sweat soiling into the papers gripped firmly and your swollen face, cheeks feverish with a red hue, eyes even more so.

You held back a rough sob, throat stripped of all moisture evident in your hoarse voice as you spoke, “Yes, Simon. I think it would be best for our family… for us.”

He scoffed. “You think the best thing for our family is to separate?”

“We already pretty much are. You’re away for days, weeks, months at a time. We’re hardly a family and it’s difficult to explain to the children why I’m crying.”

“Ok then.”

That was it. You would admit, it stung. His lacklustre tone felt like a stab in the gut, the blade drenched with anthrax as it reared blistering sores internally, the effects having shown through your putrid complexion. Your skin was dull, practically lifeless, the only living form of you grew day by day through the darkening of eyebags that almost made you look apocalyptic.

It had been 12 months of separation, officially 8 being legally divorced. You kept his last name, the permanent burn of hearing Mrs Riley still searing through you with every syllable, yet you feel it would only hurt you more if they said Ms.

Simon was often away now, and the minimal family time he used to get felt pointless as the shabby apartment he moved into after the sudden interference of your mind-boggling news barely fit the two kids you shared. His body felt more relentless on him, the taunting of his mind fulgurated the inoperative reality that he would come home to you, to his family.

His voice, almost like it dropped an octave had grown richer in aggression, tormenting those he deemed suitable, both with his tongue and with his bruised knuckles, an oil painting of blue and purple hues radiating across the pale flesh as he shrugged it off to his team as “pushing himself and others to do better”.

Couldn’t you realise your mistake? Wouldn’t you prefer crying in his arms about his absence than never having it fulfilled again?

As he looked around the bleak environment, tan stained walls revolting the creaking mattress he had brought someone home to, someone who wasn’t you. It made him feel sick like a viral infection had slunk its way into his bloodstream as he laid next to a woman that failed to make his cock throb, endless images of you sprawled out under him flickering. No wonder he called out your name instead.

You felt the familiar shake of your hands every time your phone dinged; Simon’s dreary tone was evident through his dry “On the way” text. You ushered a day of your children’s life into their cartoon-themed backpacks, innocent smiles adorning their skin, doe-like eyes of brown, far too familiar to Simon’s staring up at you.

The sound of his car scraping into your paved driveway almost made you feel like throwing up, the nerves of seeing him combined with the already present pit of anxiety due to your date later turning you into one big shaky mess as you brushed it off as “too much caffeine”.

The echo of his car door slamming shut rung through your ears, staining you with the reiteration that your ex-husband was now at your door, heavy fists knocking upon the wood. The image you saw of him in your mind morphed back to reality as you stared at him, a blank expression on your face.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi, Simon.”

Your frown was clear, the pet name you were so used to becoming a distant memory in the past few months. It was a hole you were attempting to fill, to clear yourself away from his teasing tongue and faux impression of a healthy relationship. You were divorced for a reason, you knew that, but as you gazed upon the lack of life in his skin, it was almost like he was holding a mirror up to you.

“Daddy!” You watched as your 5-year-old, Ella, practically leapt into his hefty frame, his hands coiling around her like second nature. You could feel his warmth, the heat that would build in your stomach when you felt those same digits touch you.

“Hi sweetheart,” his voice gruff, yet tone lighter as he placed a delicate kiss on the skin of her forehead, “You miss me?”

She nodded, her face buried in the hem of his neck as your other child cooed from the bouncy chair, tubby legs attempting to wheel himself to the door.

“There’s my boy,” Simon practically cooed as he placed Ella down, bounding inside as he lifted the toddler out, grabby arms reaching out to pull at Simon’s locks, gentle tugs causing you to laugh.

Your voice cut through the scene like glass. Why would you want to destroy such a happy moment? Weren’t you supposed to be reuniting? Just say it, tell Simon you want him to come home, that you need him.

“This is Ella’s bag,” you speak, holding up the pink Minnie Mouse bag, “And this is Toby’s.” Your son giggled as he muffled out the words, “Transformers”.

Simon nodded, “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Ella practically screeched, “Mummy’s going on a date!” The thrill of her laughter that followed only seemed to make the situation more awkward.

“A date?” Simon’s voice was deadly, the hair raising on your arms as you shook your head, a tight smile on your suddenly dry lips.

“No, no, nothing like that. Just catching up with an old colleague of mine.”

“But he’s a boy, Mummy,” Ella giggled. Who was raising your daughter to be such a big mouth? Your face formed an annoyed look, eyebrows raising as a line of wrinkles crinkled against your forehead, your pointer fingers massaging your temples.

“An old colleague?” Simon practically gasped. Had he met him at your old work Xmas parties?

“Let’s get you guys in the car.” You fumbled with Toby’s car seat as you strapped him in, your nimble fingers shaking with anxiety before you shut the door, pressing a kiss against the window before wiping away the minimal residue of dirt. Gross.

“Who is he?” His tone was acerbic like he was looking for an argument. How dare you try and replace him? He was your husband, the father of your two kids? Have you seen this random man before? Had he fucked you?

“God, Simon-“

“Who is he?” Simon was relentless, bullying his way into getting the answers as his arms folded across his chest, tattoos practically screaming at you too.

“His name’s Andrew. I ran into him at a coffee shop a few weeks back and he just wanted to catch up. That’s it.”

A loud scoff sounded in the air. “You mean that geezer from that corporate job you hated? The one who didn’t know it was weird to blatantly stare down your dress when you were standing next to your fucking husband?”

“He didn’t stare down my dress! You’re not my husband anymore, Simon. I can see who I want.”

“I don’t want our children to grow up thinking they have multiple dads.”

You’ll admit, that stung.

“Multiple dads? You’re out of your mind. The only reason they would ever believe they have multiple dads is if their real one stopped showing up. And where have you been, Simon? When have you shown up?”

Simon held his tongue, the warmth of the metallic taste gashing through his teeth as he practically snarled past you. “I’ll bring them back tomorrow.”

The dress you wore was practically suffocating you as you tucked your stomach in. Simon never minded the change in your figure after motherhood, he found himself liking it even more. He loved knowing that his seed put you through that, that he made you swell with his children, and he brought out the glow in your cheeks and the delicate stretch marks that laced your hips.

Andrew was nice. His tone was comforting as he walked to your door, ushering you to his car as he insisted you could order whatever you wanted. He was handsome, the salt and pepper hues of his hair settling your insecurity.

“We’ll take the Pinot Noir,” he spoke, looking at you with an almost arrogant sheer in his blue eyes. You only liked white. Simon knew that just like he knew everything about y-

You’re not with Simon anymore. You had to realise that. Maybe that’s why you brought Andrew home, let him shove his cock (that was a lot smaller than what you were used to) inside your heat, as you let out moans you had mimicked from the porn you watched with the actor that resembled far too much of your ex-husband.

Simon's fingers gripped the steering wheel early the next morning, your two children snuggled up in the backseat as he drove back to his old house, your old home. He wasn’t a man who gave up easy, he would show you, prove to you that you made a mistake. You needed each other.

Hold on. You don’t drive a red car?

His car lurched into the entrance of your home, nearly ramming into the garage as he shoved it in park, rolling down the two back windows slightly for air as he dug around in the small side compartment of his car.

The familiar gold key he had stolen from you the night he packed up all his stuff stared back at him, practically egging him on. Go on Simon, march in there. So he did. His hand rattled against the door knob, glancing back to peak into the car for a second before he slammed the door shut.

Your body froze. Were you being robbed? No. It was only Simon. A very angry-looking Simon. You stood, the white sheet barely shielding your naked body as he took in the sight of the man next to you, his hands wrapping around his shoulders as he practically ripped him out of bed, flinging him onto the floor as he grunted, eyes reared with hatred.

“Simon, what the fuck are you doing? WHERE ARE THE KIDS?”

Andrew groaned, on the floor, covering his groin as Simon chucked the masculine clothes at his head, the thin boxers soiled across the man’s scalp as he trembled.

“Our kids are asleep in the car, waiting for their Mummy to come to the zoo with them.” Simon’s words were despicable, laced with an acrimonious tone, small particles of spit seething through his lips as stared at you.

He turned to the man, a giant frame staggering over the top of him. “Get the fuck out, and if you wake up our kids when you go past, I will personally put a bullet straight in the middle of your skull,” he said, pushing a thick digit against his forehead as Andrew rushed out, clothes barely on before you felt the front door shut, a cry of apologises leaving your lips as you tried to assist him but Simon only held you back, a tight grip coiling around your arm.

“What the fuck was that? How’d you get in?” You couldn’t even place the words to say, humiliation roaring through you as you snuggled the sheet closer to you, away from his peering eyes.

“It’s time to be a family again, don’t you think love?”

[withonly-sweetheart]

Back to the Sea

The mysterious stranger on the boat happens to be your roommate and you can't help but wonder who he is. Something about him captivates you, but what happens when an artist loses his brush?

a/n: so... this is all @chesue00's fault. dont get me wrong ilysm pookie but i cannot tell you how much this was going through my head the entire day like i wanted to get home so badly and write this i almost told my teach to fuck off... but thank u ur so talented it hurts like that inspired me sm and thats what art should do! ty! <333

tw: angst?? bc its not my fic unless its got angst (hopefully...) uhm mentions of like illnesses and the flu and stuff but idk help

wc: 5.2k - yes im not even kidding i wrote this all tdy and its not even grammar checked will do that later hehehehehe <333

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm golden hue across the vast expanse of the ocean, you sit at the edge of the ship, gaze fixed on the endless waves stretching out before her. The gentle sway of the ship beneath you, the salty sea air mingling with the haunting cries of the seagulls soaring overhead; it all served as a reminder of sorrow and loss that clings to you like a heavy shroud.

You take it between your fingers, as if you can feel the harsh, unforgiving ivory material form under your hand, and wrap it around yourself tighter, cherishing the small bursts of warmth you get from sitting up here.

Each wave that laps against the side of the ship fails to cover the whispers of the crowd steadily disappearing around you, pointing fingers shamelessly, wondering why a girl your age is sitting, all alone, staring wistfully out at the cerulean abyss.

Someone clears their throat behind you. The last thing you want is to be bothered, so you twist over your shoulder to dismiss them, but somewhere up your throat, the words clump together into a soft gasp.

You have seen him around the ship, when you were first boarding, but you didn’t get the best look at him. Now that you do, you know one thing as true as the sky is blue.

He’s breathtaking. His eyes, reflecting the azure of the ocean, flash with lightning quick irritation, as if your presence inconveniences him. The curve of his lips set in a straight line, tightening almost imperceptibly, jaw clenching ever so slightly.

If you weren’t looking so hard, you could’ve missed it all. 

But how could you miss anything he does, when each ripple of his feature is like a brushstroke? An artist’s slow, deliberate intentions, painting the man in front of you.

“You are taking up the seat,” he mumbles, so quietly you almost don’t catch it. “Apologies,” you respond, shifting to make room for him. The dip between his eyebrows deepens and you find yourself frowning back. “Is something wrong?”

His gaze clouds, turning a muffled shade of gray. “No.”

You hum in response before turning back to the ocean. The heavy silence writhes between them, its unseen grip tightening with each breath. Your mind churns, sensing dark depths his haunted eyes warn away.

So you stand and stroll away, not sparing a glance at the brooding figure. You don’t wish to descend into his sorrow. You have enough of your own, and the tension crackling between you is nearly tangible. 

You know well that behind every handsome man, there is a troubled mind.

And the windows to those thoughts are the eyes.

<><><><>

“If the brothe bee to sweete, put in the more wine, or els a litle vineger.” 

You recall this line from a cookbook your mother once owned as you stare down at the barely distinguishable liquid in a bowl in front of you. Chips of wood flake off and dissolve into the mess of what you think are minced vegetables pooling at the bottom. Though the bubbles of oil faintly remind you of home, nothing else is the same.

You can’t remember the last time you had traditional soup, from the homeland, where everyone's the same as you and food is plentiful, rich in the scent of tangy spices and fresh vegetables and ripe fruit, where the forest birds sing sweet melodies in your ear.

But you are no longer there. It will, as all things do, fade with time, resolving as just a landscape drawn in your head, reduced to nothing but scribbles.

With a sigh far too troubled for your age, you gingerly push the bowl away, careful not to slosh any of it over the edge. You know you are being picky; food is food, and starvation will slowly creep up on you when you least expect it.

But it is better to starve than throw yourself from the starboard, letting the choppy waves consume you. Hunger takes time, crescendoing pain and ache until you cannot bear it. Suffering will suffice, at this moment.

And across the dining hall, the small room housing yet a few late night eaters, you spot him saunter in. Long, black trench coat brushing his ankles, a hat you did not see that now casts shadows upon his chiseled face.

His overalls strain with effort and crumple into wrinkles as he sits a few tables away, raising a hand, wordlessly summoning a bowl of soup that carries from tentative hands. He waves the aged woman away, and perhaps he does not catch the longing look in her eyes.

She has not seen a man so divine in years. Her time at sea has clouded her judgment. This is yet another reason why you must traverse the ocean blue, to prevent the jobs piling up at what you thought was your home, near the port, where the docks carry back the ashes of your family.

You used to love the ocean, the beach, the shores. When the sea hurt you, your father would kiss the tears away, murmuring soft assurance in the shell of your small ear. Although she was nearly a decade older, your sister would never decline an offer of yours to hunt for the little creatures that popped up from the swirling sand, watching them disappear underneath your slow hands.

You miss them. Influenza never failed to take, take, take; the greedy fingers latched on to your family before you could arrive home that day to sick corpses so pale you could not recognize them.

The doctor had suggested a traditional burial,but you knew there was one more thing the sea needed. You lit the pyres, watched their souls mingle with the smoke that gasped for the clouds, and waited.

When all that was left of your loved ones was charred, ivory dust that seemed to sparkle back at you, unaware of its fate, you gathered it into a pot that your grandmother gifted you.

The ocean rejected your offering, at first. It veered away, pulling water from the shore lines, but you stood fast. And it came back, gathered what was already gone, and took it away from you.

The sea never fails to remind you of what you’ve lost.

But here, on the ship, a marvel of engineering, keeping you afloat, you are not truly with the sea. You will not make yourself mold to the pitiful, lonely girl everyone expects you to be. 

With that resolve, you cradle the soup back to your chest, staring it down with defiant eyes. The ocean will not have another victim, you will make sure of that.

It burns your throat all the way down, saltier than the sea. Bile raises to combat it but you force spoon after spoon into your stomach. All that remains from your battle is the wood, which you tried your best to separate from the soup, but you are sure that you definitely swallowed at least some of it.

As the thinnest definition of dinner warms your insides against the cold that threatens to seep in, your eyes find him across the galley. He sits alone, as always, nursing a tin cup and gazing into its contents as if answers lay within.

You recall your chance encounter in the night, the rare moments of grace amid tumult never far from his eyes. Though he often keeps away from the streams of people, you have the feeling it has less to do with aloofness than wounds not easily unveiled.

As if finally sensing your gaze, his eyes lift and meet yours across the dusty space. There seems to be no cracks in his steely expression, his stormcloud eyes, but there is a flicker of emotion - curiosity, or perhaps kinship's first stirrings. 

You offer the barest nod before returning focus to your meager meal. Yet all the while, currents stronger than the sea pull at your thoughts, drawing them ever back towards that quiet figure and mysteries that beg to be revealed. You tilt your head to the side, rubbing fingers down your neck, feeling your pulse race underneath your skin. Massaging the area, you force yourself to relax.

You force yourself to believe that those eyes haven’t jarred your thoughts.

<><><><>

“I must… have the wrong room.” Those same eyes stare back at you, hands trembling slightly around parchment yellowing at the edges, swirling with confusion. “I apologize.”

“It wouldn’t, by chance, be 930, would it?” you ask. 

“Er… yes,” he admits with a dip of his head, looking almost embarrassed by the situation. “I suppose I’ll go request another-”

“It’s quite alright,” you race to say before you can stop yourself. “I do not mind.”

A small corner of his mouth lifts, if only for a second, and when his expression goes back to being neutral, you find yourself wanting to coax more emotions from him. 

You help him get settled in, telling him he could take the bed on the right. When he’s finished fussing with the sheets, you sit on your respective mattresses, awkwardly staring down at your hands.

"I... thank you," he finally replies, his voice soft. "I did not expect to find understanding here."

“Your name, sir?”

“Leon. Your name, I already know.”

“How fascinating.”

“You are a… popular subject of gossip upon this vessel.”

“Why are you traveling to England?” you ask, finding yourself making small talk to switch the topic. “Are you simply traveling?”

“Yes.” 

“Where is your hometown?” His eyes glaze over with the familiar homesickness you can recognize.

"My home lies in a small village far from here," he replies, gazing into memories only he could see. "A quiet place, surrounded by green countryside and simple folks." His eyes find yours with rare openness. "And you? What brings one so young to cross the sea alone?"

“I’m paying my lovely aunt a visit,” you say vaguely, trying to make your voice light. But he must hear the undertones of it, because he cocks his head to the side, arching a golden eyebrow.

“Is that so?” he muses. “I hope you enjoy your trip.”

“I’ve noticed you carry that briefcase around quite a bit,” you say, quickly changing the subject. “Is it dear to you?”

He laughs, a warm, rich tone that sparks something in your heart. 

Maybe… just… maybe?

“Not so,” he explains. He leans over to grab the case resting on the nightstand and clicks it open. “This is the reason I am traveling, you see.”

You peer over the top of the rusty case to reveal… pencils?

“You are… an artist?” you ask, slightly confused. You hadn’t taken him for a participant of the fine arts, but at your query, his eyes seem to light with an inspiration not previously there.

“I have lost my flame,” he says slowly, cautiously, as if placing his words carefully. “I thought England would fix… the problem… but perhaps… you could help me?” At your face, he bites his lip. "A smooth sea never makes a skilled sailor, as they say."

“Who has ever said that, and who am I to decline a stranger in need?” You chuckle, and his grin seems to usurp his entire expression. 

“You need not do anything,” he rushes to say, hands flurrying to unpack the materials carefully stowed away in the briefcase. The determined, set look on his face is enough to convince you, and even if it hadn’t, realistically, would you be able to say no?

He stills suddenly, observing you, sweeping over you, drinking in everything, as if to absorb your being. When his gaze meets yours, he smiles and it truly reaches his previously emotionless eyes.

“You are… perfect,” he whispers. He holds his pencil up, bottom lip disappearing as he frowns, grumbling in frustration. “But this lighting is… not quite correct.”

Leon eyes the room, then stands suddenly. You watch him, watch him drag a chair from the small writing desk over to the foot of his bed, planting it firmly. He points a finger to the empty space, gesturing for you to sit there.

“What exactly are you planning?” You ask with a smile.

The one he returns matches your curiosity. “We shall see.”

And that is exactly how, a few minutes later, you sit with your legs crossed, hands folded over one another in your lap, with a soft smile decorating your face.

“You must stay still,” he chastises, gazing at you with a languid look in his eyes, voice dreamy, as if he sees something in you that you can’t.

“You have not yet answered my question.” You ignore the red blooming up your neck at his fluttering gaze. He lounges further into the bed, hiding more of himself away, spinning the pencil between his fingers.

He looks almost thoughtful as he scribbles away, muttering to himself, lost in a trance. You lean against the dresser, resting your body weight on it, feeling yourself relax.

His eyes move back to you, and he jolts, like something drastic has changed. His hands fly rapidly across the paper, gaze locked onto you. He smudges something with his finger, erases something here and there, and eventually, he huffs a sigh and leans back, looking somewhat satisfied with the paper.

Intrigued, you stand from your position, stretching your stiff joints. “May I see?”

Leon snorts a laugh. “Of course not.”

“It is my portrait, no?” You grin. “Show me.” Without another word, you lean over the foot of the bed, over the elaborate carvings of wood, and try to sneak a peek at the paper.

He lets out what you can only describe as a boyish squeal, and yanks the pad away from you, clutching it to his chest. “I said no!”

Leon tries his best to play-keep away from your hands, folding the paper carefully in half as he stuffs it into an inner pocket of his shirt. When you try to reach for it, instinctively, he flushes a red hue that matches the crimson of your bedsheets.

“Apologies,” you whisper.

“It’s alright,” he whispers back.

The air has gone back to tense, anguish, as if you are both hurtling towards something you cannot stop, racing towards a finish line in a race you do not wish to compete in. When he climbs into bed, wordlessly, you wonder what you did to deserve this torture, to have a masterpiece sleeping a few feet away. 

He purses his lips and blows out the flame in the lantern standing proud on your nightstand, murmuring a quick goodbye.

As your eyes adjust to the absence of light, you watch the blanket blow out around him, creeping over his body, hugging him tightly. His snores come quickly, gentle and quiet, not bothersome.

You sigh and close your eyes, wishing for the relief of sleep to come as fast as his.

<><><><>

Strangely enough, someone rouses you from your sleep, something you didn’t expect. Breakfast calls were a luxury reserved for those with money, but you weren’t going to complain. Missing the first meal of the day had serious consequences in your household.

This isn’t your household, though. These aren’t your rules.

And that definitely isn’t a handkeep’s fingers clutched around your arm.

“Leon?” you murmur, rubbing your eyes, savoring the fuzzy corners before every comes into focus with sudden clarity. He stands beside your bed, gaze darting here and there. 

“Oh… you are awake,” he says as he isn’t the reason it is so.

“You woke me,” you state blankly, blinking up at him.

“I suppose… well,” he mutters, then sighs, shaking his head. “Never mind that.”

“How often does this happen?” you ask quietly, sitting up. “Are you plagued by night horrors?”

“I am not a child!” he snaps, then immediately softens, regret pooling in his eyes. “It is just… I thought you had left…”

“Yet I am here, no?” you say, slightly bemused. The tips of Leon’s ears turn a salmon pink as he lets out a shuddering breath, nodding. 

“I see that,” he says with a small smile, sitting beside you, leaving enough space to respect your privacy. You return one with just as much carefully measured emotion, not wanting to scare him away, wanting him to open up.

As gray dawn spreads its thin wings slowly over calm waters, he recollects himself. He tells you fragments of his past, picking up pieces of his past until it fits into a puzzle perfectly. An orphan, talent stripped from him by the urge to survive.

You faintly think that he should also be a writer, because the way he tells his story is akin to the way an author paints a scene with just words. You can see his parents in the shadows, echoing in his laugh, in the slant of his nose, the pucker of his chin. 

He shrugs, twisting to face you. “I almost died, there, on the streets.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

His eyes meet yours, “So am I.”

Seeing him in such a vulnerable state, you can’t help but feel inclined to share what truly happened to you as well.

“I’m not… just visiting my aunt.”

A ghost of a smile graces his lips. “I was thinking as much. Tell me, what is the true purpose of your visit.”

“My family recently passed from influenza. Only sorrow trails me in the States. Perhaps returning to my hometown will provide… solace?” You offer a dry laugh, but Leon’s expression goes stony as he takes your hands into his.

“I… did not know,” he says, sounding as sincere as you’ve ever heard him. “I made such a joke without understanding the full context… I apologize.”

“It is really nothing,” you rush to assure him, but more so because the crestfallen look on his face is something you do not wish to bring upon. “I forgive you.”

“You are still tired,” he says with another sigh. “I will wake you for breakfast. Sleep.”

He’s right. Too sleepy to protest, you clutch the blankets around you and shut out not only the slowly growing beams of sunlight from the window, but also the relief that emanates from Leon’s very being, flooding over you, bringing you the peace that lets you drift off.

<><><><>

You wake to frigid air seeping through cracks in the ship's walls, clouds hiding the sun’s bright smile. Throwing off your thin blankets, you grasp the warmth, hoping it still lingers. But your hand meets only cold, empty fabric. 

Panic rises in my throat as you rush from the sleeping quarters. Out on the icy deck, figures hustle to and fro under a pale, stormy sky. Your eyes scan for one in particular, relief flooding through you as you spot his lean form near the rail, gaze lost to the sea. 

"Leon," you call softly so as not to wake the other sleeping passengers. When he turns, worry is etched into his brows. You brush it off with a shaky smile. "I had feared the night's dangers had claimed you at last." 

“At last?” His lips turn up in return, reassuring you with his movement. But you can see the shadow neither of you could outrun, not with Death stalking your decks in his grim dance. 

Drawing near, you trace his stare to the horizon, limitless and cold. You stand in front of him as he lingers behind, hesitating, arms outstretched. 

“I wish to fly, one day,” you say jokingly. “But I suppose for now, swimming will do.”

“I cannot swim,” he admits quietly. “I never will.”

“Of course you can,” you insist. “Anyone can-”

“Not everyone has lost their brother to the sea.”

 The answer burns, searing your back in the way he delivers it, venom in his voice. But eventually, he sighs, as if giving in, and you can feel him get closer.

“May I?” You admire that he asks before anything, and when you nod, he wraps his arms around your waist, pushing you gently against the railing that you clutch tightly. He rests his head on your shoulder, craning his neck to stand comfortably.

Then he speaks again. “My deepest apologies. As you can tell… I miss him.”

"Then we'll face such fears together," you say with such finality you believe it yourself. "None are meant to wander depths of sadness all alone. But your brother's memory lives on you - a gift more precious than any sea could claim. I know this. And what are you doing now?”

Slowly, you can feel his lips curl upwards against your neck, sparking at your words, growing into that smile you’ve come to cherish. 

“You wish to fly? This is as close as I can get you, beloved.”

With a grin of your own spreading across your face, you outstretch your arms, leaning into the wind, wanting to let it carry you both away. Your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, coming to rest on his beating pulse that lives on despite all the world has tried to steal away.

You don’t know what overtakes you, the immense feeling of admiration you feel for him, that might be what spurs you to lean in. And, much to your surprise and pleasure, as soft morning light limns sea and sky in a hopeful blend of blue, your lips meet in a kiss - brief, chaste, yet speaking everything you need to hear. 

“At least I’ll have you,” he says, melting back into your embrace, tightening his arms around your hips. “One thing the sea will never take.”

But you should’ve known.

The waters are never done taking.

<><><><>

You do not know when the screams started. All you know is that they came with the rough tides, crashing against the boat, with the crackle of thunder and smoke hissing in the air. Everyone rushes to cram into the sleeping quarters, but living near the port all your life, you know better. You know exactly what is happening.

The boat is sinking.

And strangely enough, your first thought is to find Leon. He had asked you to wait a quiet moment on the deck, and you had both dismissed the rolling clouds, steadily creeping towards you while he disappeared below the deck.

You had been hoping that he would show you his art. Now you hope that you can get him out in time. But before you can scrunch up your dress and scramble into the quarters, someone grabs your arm.

You do not see the face. You know it is not Leon, he is infinitely calmer and more gentle than the rough fingers of whoever your captor is. As you struggle to look up at the face, you are tossed into a boat that hangs on the side of the ship.

“Women and children first!” a gruff voice calls out, presumably the one that just manhandled you. You try to protest, saying you need to go back, but the small boat fills up quicker than you expect, and eventually you are being slowly lowered down onto the choppy waves.

You stand on tiptoe, trying to make out any sign of Leon on the ship, hoping he makes it out okay. The people rowing the boat harshly yank you down before pushing away from the boat. Every stroke they make takes you farther and farther away, until the dense fog shrouds the entire ship from your view.

And the unexpected happens. You hear a loud crack and the boat immediately splinters into two. The women and their children huddle to one side, the bigger side, while you and some other girls stay put, eyes fixed on where you last saw the ship.

With no one to steer, you veer back towards it and it comes into view, only this time, it is on fire. Flames lick the sides, hissing where it meets the salty sea, climbing up the ship. And you see the mess of blond hair that you so desperately recognize.

“Leon!” You shout, screaming for his attention. His eyes snap to your general direction, scanning the area with a wide, panicked expression before landing on you. Almost immediately his face softens before it returns to its stony, default look.

You are confused for a moment before he quickly surveys the area. A raft hangs from the side, unused, calling his name, and you realize with shame that your boat is starting to sink, dipping into the water.

You and the other girls lean to the other side, pleading for help. Summoning all fading strength, you yell his name once more as waves close over your head. Darkness swallows your cries, drowning them in the murky ocean depths, yet in your fleeting consciousness, your trust for him remains like the anchor you wish him to be.

Breathless, gasping, you break the surface amid a sea of shrieks and sinking debris. There through the smoke a ragged shape appears, slicing swift as any bird towards you. Strong hands grasp and haul you aboard the makeshift raft, lying there to cling and spend your remaining prayers in thanks to Leon as he attends each soul amid the roiling deep, ferrying them from the ocean’s inky grasp with steady hands and calmer gaze.

“Are you alright, dear?” he calls to you after the third and final girl is pulled to safety, gasping for breath. “I did not expect this situation whatsoever.”

“Neither did I,” you murmur, spitting the remnants of the salt in your throat back into the sea, like returning a gift. “I suppose we will be alright now.”

Leon’s face crumples. “I’m afraid not.”

You groan. “What is it now? Is it the sharks from the depths? I will fight them with my bare hands, just you watch!”

You watch his expression flash through amusement, then back to pain. “We… I…”

“What troubles you so?”

He gestures a hand to the sea around you, to the drenched figures, far too many for the raft to carry. You realize this with the drop of your heart.

“There are too many of us,” he says apologetically, like he’s only hurting you. “One of us must leave.” 

For a second, you consider pushing one of the girls off. Anything to keep him. But you realize that your selfish thoughts should not take control. You grab his hands, clutching them tightly, holding them to your chest.

“Then it shall be me.”

Leon offers a weak smile. “No.”

“No?” you sputter. “What- it was not a question!”

“It will not be the answer either, my love,” he says gently, prying his hands from yours. “I will be the last. Please make sure of that.”

And before you can plead for him to stay, his weight shifts and you can feel the raft rising again. He casts one more, sorrowful look at you before he glides into the water, descending effortlessly. You reach for him, and your fingers brush his knuckles before he disappears forever.

Before he is gone. 

Yet another loved one.

Lost to the sea.

<><><><>

You wait for an indeterminate amount of time, waiting for the news to arrive one day at your aunt’s doorstep, that he is still alive, awaiting your arrival in some uncharted region. But no such idea comes. And eventually, the denial washes away and you are left with the loss that nothing can fix.

You rock in the chair of your living room, the smell of your aunt’s soup no longer bringing saliva to your mouth, but tears to your eyes, because now everything reminds you of Leon.

The bell rings outside and you can’t bring yourself to rise and answer the door with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Your aunt knows this, so without sparing you another look, allowing you your privacy, opens the door just a smidge.

She makes conversation with the person standing outside before turning back to you with a soft smile. She hands you an envelope, and you cannot lie when your heart races up to the sky, finding purchase in the fluffy clouds.

You cannot find the words to thank her, but she knows this as well, and walks away without another word. When she disappears behind the kitchen corner, you rush to open the letter.

The first words send your heart plummeting back to where it was, perhaps even crashing through the layer of obsidian and burrowing itself in a place where it will never return. But upon scanning the rest of the thoughtful, heartfelt message, there is a tug that forces you to check the rest of the envelope.

And when you unfurl a piece of paper, long since forgotten in your brain, you muffle a cry with the back of your hand, the parchment trembling in your five, shaky fingers.

It is the portrait Leon drew of you. It made its way back to you.

You know, after seeing this, there is one thing you must do. You lie the paper down on the round table beside you, careful to preserve it.

You wash up, put on a dress your aunt lent to you, a blue, rippling thing that seems to reflect the ocean waves back at you. You tie your hair up, wanting to look somewhat presentable. 

And you call out a goodbye to your aunt, who’s smile you can hear in her voice, evident as she waves from the kitchen, ecstatic to see you out and about. But there is only one place you must go. One thing you must do to find the closure you are aching for.

Back to where it all started.

<><><><>

Tears that are the crystals of salt found in the ocean's depths stream down your face, as unnatural as the mixture of saltwater and freshwater, where one stops, another begins.

In the ocean, you slip from your skin, thoughts descending down a mad spiral, the spirits watching as you mingle with the essence of saltwater stinging your sunburned skin. The night air does little to nothing to cool your thoughts.

Is he there? In the droplets that cradle the back of your hands, trickling from the pool cupped in your palms. You can see him standing, just a few feet away, knee deep in the water, as constant as the waves and as calm as the tides.

Leon’s hair waves in the moonlight, a silent greeting to you, cerulean bathing his face in a ghastly blue, making him seem more and more like the ghost he is.

You raise a hand, out of instinct, choking back a sob. 

A smile curves those salty, timeless lips.

“You left me too,” you whisper through tears, crystals disappearing under the crescents of water brushing against your shorts. “Why can life not just be… easy? Simple?”

Leon chuckles, face softening in sympathy. “Did you forget what I told you already?”

You lift your head, rubbing granules of sand against your nose to muffle your sniffling. “What?” His grin is somehow both brighter than the moon and darker than the water you can’t see through.

“A smooth sea never makes a skilled sailor.”

[revscarecrow]

hi rev i just wanted to come here and rant for a second because i feel like you'll understand. i hope you dont mind.

i'm really, REALLY frustrated that a lot of the current culture around artists complaining about ai is people being like "ugh artists are so sensitive, this use case isnt even that bad, its just funny, its just a meme, etc etc"

as an artist myself i feel like i cant even complain about it in my current online social circles because i will be met with people being like "its not that serious when its used to make memes"

i fucking hate seeing ai. period. it doesnt matter if its google gemini, or chat gpt, or some rancid ai meme, or an ai voice. i hate ALL of it because it reminds me that the ONE THING i thought couldn't be taken from me by robots (my ability to make art/video) is being taken from me in front of my eyes.

even my other artist friends partake in this culture. i seriously dont understand it. it is DEEPLY upsetting and makes me feel so hopeless and powerless.

maybe it's an "if i dont laugh, i'll cry" situation. i dont know. i want to hear your thoughts on it. much love

I talk about AI "art" on my art youtube channel. Suffice to say that generative AI and neural nets can be used for good things like mapping the human brain to help better understand the systems at work and how to help with dementia (this is a real thing that's being done and it's rad btw). While this tech does a lot of energy I think it's worth it to learn how to cure horrible diseases. The tasks that this can do helps solve problems that are either too complex or time intensive for humans to do. Art is about expression to some degree. Some people are just about the aesthics but for me personally I think that the process of coming to and finishing the idea is the art and the canvas is the record of the process happening. As such the spirit behind the creation of an object is core to the aesthic of the piece. If I make a painting out of shit or blood it's going to have a very different vibe than one done with paint. Why was that choice made? Artists make these choices at every step. Some just pick things as a default but that is in itself a choice. I use acrylic when I paint canvases because of the drying time and because I fear my cats will attempt to eat the sugary smelling liquin medium used with oil. The nature of my work area I have means the canvases I paint are smaller. These are choices that change how my work looks but also speak to who I am as a person. AI art does not consider this because how could it? It does not think. It's a disgusting similacrum of the human experience. Memes still gross me out I'll be honest.

[octocringe]

Krita and Autodesk Sketchbook!

I think left??

only vent/personal art tbh

tigers!!!! sonic characters!!!! rabbits and sheep!!! and a lot of animals that have their eyes more on the sides of their head rather than in the front

i think i post 80% of the art that i've spent more than 15 mins on, but if i only spent a few minutes, i might share like 10%

all the how to draw manga books i loved as a kid, no matter how hard i try to escape mark crilley, he always comes back

Oil painting!!! It looks delicious but having to wait 5 years for a coat of paint to dry is just too much

Noo I can't admit i've lost interest in any of my ideas... too scary

i usually leave the automatic csp name, but i sometimes also describe what sth is, like splatoon sketch or sth

hoodies!! and jumpers and scarfs

usually just a playlist of my current faves or a random yt video

the chest/tummy area, i love love love

i think mtg card art type of artists? like almost realistic fantasy art

idk...

on the couch where i do everything else ;w;

i hate to say it... but realistic figure drawing

i drink coffee or diluted syrup with water! and i might eat snacks

1 drawing tablet and 1 samsung s pen

flowers!!!

i dunno

these very delicate-line anime drawings, not the super-polished ones but the ones where it kinda looks like it couldve been done in ms paint but its still the prettiest

the closest thing to that would be reaching for my tablet unfortunately

very rarely... darken and dodge at most

yes! i love stock images

idk!!!

i dont think i have that

"warm ups" distract me and i end up being too tired to continue after im done w them lmao

not yet but i want to so bad!!!

minecraft!!! i have seen a lot of good minecraft and mcyt art but i dont like making it personally

that quick sketch of a random lady i did one time like 2 years ago damn i still really like it

Weirdly Specific Artist Ask Game

Didn't see a lot of artist ask games, wanted to make a silly one.

(I wrote this while sick out of my mind last year and it's been collecting dust in my drafts, I might as well let it run free) 1. Art programs you have but don't use

2. Is it easier to draw someone facing left or right (or forward even)

3. What ideas come from when you were little

4. Fav character/subject that's a bitch to draw

5. Estimate of how much of your art you post online vs. the art you keep for yourself

6. Anything that might inspire you subconsciously (i.e. this horse wasn't supposed to look like the Last Unicorn but I see it)

7. A medium of art you don't work in but appreciate

8. What's an old project idea that you've lost interest in

9. What are your file name conventions

10. Favorite piece of clothing to draw

11. Do you listen to anything while drawing? If so, what

12. Easiest part of body to draw

13. A creator who you admire but whose work isn't your thing

14. Any favorite motifs

15. *Where* do you draw (don't drop your ip address this just means do you doodle at a park or smth)

16. Something you are good at but don't really have fun doing

17. Do you eat/drink when drawing? if so, what

18. An estimate of how much art supplies you've broken

19. Favorite inanimate objects to draw (food, nature, etc.)

20. Something everyone else finds hard to draw but you enjoy

21. Art styles nothing like your own but you like anyways

22. What physical exercises do you do before drawing, if any

23. Do you use different layer modes

24. Do your references include stock images

25. Something your art has been compared to that you were NOT inspired by

26. What's a piece that got a wildly different interpretation from what you intended

27. Do you warm up before getting to the good stuff? If so, what is it you draw to warm up with

28. Any art events you have participated in the past (like zines)

29. Media you love, but doesn't inspire you artistically

30. What piece of yours do you think is underrated

[wh6res]

chase — renhyuck

“needy kitty. i can’t wait for purge night.”

tw bullying, violence, swearing, yandere themes, possessive themes, blood, weapons (a gun, a grenade), implied noncon, implied kidnapping, mentions of stalking

disc i dont condone this behavior

wc 5k

‏‏‎ ‎

29 hours before the annual purge

“hold her down—i said hold her down, idiot!”

putting everything into account, they saw you more like a glorified chew toy than an actual person. 

they ruined your life simultaneously and it's ironic, that despite being sworn rivals, it seems you were their neutral ground—after one has had their own fun, you’re passed on to the other person so they can deliver that final, shattering blow that weakens your resolve. 

it was meant to be that way because it had always been that way. you’re the unlucky loser that ignited the worse sides of both lee haechan and huang renjun. 

they’re like oil and water; they don’t mix but with you, they found a compromise. stealing your lunch money, trashing your homework, quickies in between lectures. all of these should’ve been enough to give them a good power trip. but they’ve developed a hunger so severe that these past instances are but mere crumbs that hardly satisfy their cravings. 

it was beyond exhausting, being caught in between two headstrong people that were unwilling to back down at any cost. their aggression and anger towards each other directly being channeled onto you as they shove and swing you around like some ragdoll. 

you weren’t a bunch of kids, you knew that. you don’t cry and sob and say that it’s unfair, you hold your chin high and walk up to the guidance counselor’s office to report them for bullying. but you never should’ve underestimated the power of money and their respective families’ broad network of connections. 

without a doubt, the empty promises for justice is what broke your heart the most. it breaks with every bruise, every tight grip, and every nasty name the people willingly turned a blind eye to. 

it’s sad but it was a reality you taught yourself to get used to—the meek mouse learning how to evade the cats hot on her trail. 

but you weren’t as lucky today. 

“i am holding her down.”

a pair of lips comes in contact with your neck. its feathery and light at first until its biting down to mark you with his teeth. not too strong to draw blood, but enough to dent the surface of the skin. 

haechan has an oral fixation. biting his lips. his nails. whenever you see him, he always has a lollipop on his mouth and if he doesn’t, he’s painting hickeys across your skin. you hated his oral fixation, especially when makeup and clothes proved useless to hide the marks he gives you. 

“why run?” renjun asks you, slipping his fingers underneath your skirt as he kneels. “you know you have nowhere to hide in the campus.”

haechan snorts. “or anywhere else.”

it’s always the same thing. you go to school. you sit in your first period for thirty minutes until one of them shows up. then the other boy probably felt a gut instinct that he’s missing out on the fun. last time, it was an empty classroom in the abandoned left wing. 

they like taking you there all the time, it was always dark, the blinds pulled and shut tight. not to mention it was incredibly dusty. but both male knew you’re afraid of the dark, exactly why it’s their favorite spot. but empty classrooms and supply closets are close seconds, too. 

“you’re so pathetic. useless—only know how to whine like a fucking pornstar,” he quickly comments, feeling you arch against him when renjun’s tongue comes in contact with the pearl between your legs. “my cumdump.”

you feel a sharp exhale against your lower lips. you shudder. renjun clicks his tongue in annoyance. “can you shut up? you’re making my dick soft with all that talking.”

but haechan had ignored him completely, blissfully ignorant of the petite boy’s frustrations as he angles your head up to crash his lips onto yours. when he slightly pulls away, still playfully nibbling your bottom lip, what he said next made your blood run cold. 

“needy kitty. i can’t wait for purge night.”‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

6 hours before the annual purge

the price to pay for protection started rising again this year and you, much like your neighbors, are in a sense of turmoil. jamming the doors with cabinets and nailing your windows with wood is hardly enough to satisfy the gnawing feeling in your stomach. much less when you didn’t even have a weapon to wield other than a wooden bat and a cheap taser you bought on sale. 

“its not like anyone will be coming for you, right?” the little girl says, touching the randomest stuff in your apartment. her name was naeun and she never really liked pink and sparkles like most girls her age, maybe that’s why she took a liking to you. 

her mom works a 9 to 5 and her grandma stays with her on occasion. but the old lady loved to sleep, naeun said, so she gets the chance to slip out and come knocking on your door. you tried shooing her out of your apartment countless times but she’s stubborn. 

she reminds you of yourself. 

“well, i hope no one does.” you joked, putting on a turtleneck. 

naeun’s mom doesn't like you as much as it is, but if you yourself let naeun see the bruises on your skin? you’d hate yourself forever. “now, come on little missy, go back to your grandma. i need to head over to the bank to settle my protection fees.”

“but you just said no one is going to come for you anyway,” she whines stomping towards the door. “mom already settled ours yesterday becase grammy forced her to. mommy said it was just a waste of money because who’d bother to rob us anyway?”

a memory flashes in your head. two boys who’ve sandwiched you between them in the dark of a fucking supply closet at uni. wandering hands, labored whispers, curt giggles, one pair of lips trailing up your neck while the other up your inner thigh.

“needy kitty. i can’t wait for purge night.”

you needed that protection. that was no slip up because haechan never makes mistakes. if he wanted to make you feel like some animal on the run after catching a whiff of trouble then he sure is doing a good job. 

“hey! i think you just went someplace else there,” naeun says, nudging your side irritably to get your attention again. 

you try forcing out a chuckle but it doesn't work, still deeply peeved by a memory from last week replaying vividly in your mind. if they ever mean what they meant (which you know they do) then this is now more than just trying to get through the night—you have to survive, prepare, and pray neither of them finds you. 

“i think your grandma’s right in doing what she did, naeun. with humans, you’ll never know.”

and just like that naeun went silent, bid you goodbye, and disappeared behind the apartment door.

the bank was a quick walk from your apartment. you hardly broke much sweat and you even managed to stop by the grocery store to make some last-minute runs. the store’s nearly empty, deserted of any human being as the seconds slowly but surely ticked away. it was only when you walked past aisle seven did you pause, the hairs on your back standing as a slow chill crawled up your spine. 

you look over your shoulder. 

no one’s there. 

you swallow, quickly looking down your watch to check the time as you made your way to counter. 3 hours before the annual purge. you needed to get your ass moving. you just need to grab one more thing and you’ll best be on your way. 

you practically ran towards the dairy section and just as you spin around, strawberry ice cream pint in your hands, you jump as he appears before you in thin air and you drop whatever you’re holding. 

“such a skittish little kitten,” renjun clicks his tongue, bending down to retrieve the ice cream on the floor. “here you go.”

you couldn’t even stare at him in the eye. your hands shook but it wasn’t because of the cold desert. now you get it. it’s his eyes you felt on you earlier, ever intrusive and piercing as he watched you from afar. was he stalking you?

“i didn’t quite catch a thank you, kitty.”

how foolish of you to think he’ll let you duck away without at least speaking to him, hm?

“thank… thank you?”

renjun grins, satisfied with your stuttering as he raises a hand to ruffle your hair—he ignores how you flinched away from him—before walking away with one hand in his coat pocket, whistling an eerie tune that can haunt your nightmares way after purge night. 

“see you later, kitten.”

if it wasn’t the whistling that set you on edge or that clear promise of your doom—it’s the pack of zip ties and duct tape in his hands.‏‏‎ ‎

you were watching a rerun of your favorite morning reality tv when it cuts to the dreaded blue screen showing the flag of korea. 

this is not a test.

this is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the annual purge sanctioned by the south korean government. 

weapons of class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during the purge. all other weapons are restricted. 

commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. 

police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning until 7 am when the purge concludes. 

may god be with you all.

you’ll never get used to the blaring siren that echoes through the empty streets. you can feel the floor vibrating and it travels throughout your whole body as the dread starts sinking deep into your skin. 

you’ve already double checked all your windows and the front door. activated the security system provided by the bank. and you’ve also already charged your taser and have hammered down nails into your wooden bat. fine. if they wanted to scare and bully you into a panicked frenzy, it did its job but fuck no will you go down without a fight. 

you shut all the lights, the apartment basking in the moonlight glow brought by the translucent curtains as you make your way to your bedroom, nearest the emergency exit just in case they barge through your front door by force. 

at first, nothing happened. it was peaceful. tranquil. you can hear a pin drop with how quiet it was. both inside and outside. you were almost tempted to cover your mouth in case you were breathing too loud. 

it’s silent. until it wasn’t.

your phone rings. it’s there, vibrating on your desk and you make long strides until you’re face to face with a set of numbers on your screen. an unregistered contact. there’s a debate inside your head whether to answer it or not, fingers hovering between the red and green button… until it eventually lands on the green. 

you put it up to your ear, hands sweating as you wait with bated breath for the person on the other end to speak. 

“kitten?”

it’s renjun. you don’t answer. 

“i can hear you breathing, you know. i can’t wait to see you. we’ll have so much fun together. it’s sad that i have to share with that imbecile but better half of you than nothing of you, right?” he laughs and you feel a rush of anger surge through you. yet, you don’t bother to give him the satisfaction of a reply. 

“i can see you’re angry, little kitty. while it’s cute and hot… don’t be. turn that frown upside down for me, wouldn’t you?”

but the blinds are drawn he couldn’t have seen you—

“you’re never going to get me, you fucking bastard. i’m not scared of you,” you sure do hope he can’t hear the tremble in your voice. “whatever you plan on doing to me, you’ll fail.”

you walk back slowly, eyes darting everywhere to look for a camera they could’ve installed in your room. they have connections and the money to do it so you won’t put it past them. 

“oh, my stupid kitty. how can we fail when we already got a head start?” 

the floorboard behind you creaks and before you could turn around, someone slams your head against the desk. you hear a crack, whether it’s the screen of your laptop or your nose, you couldn’t tell. the person is agile and silent as he maneuvers you to the ground and seals your lips with duct tape. 

“after all,” haechan giggles. “you can’t lock out what’s already inside, kitten.”

your phone lands somewhere near your head. renjun has already dropped the call and the line goes silent. 

squirming, you glared at the person on top of you. is this how you’re gonna go? you can’t deny, even you yourself find this pathetic. the security alarms you bought, the nail-studded bat, your taser, everything was all for naught? just because you didn’t check under your bed to make sure no one was there?

how long was haechan waiting? when naeun was still here? when you went out to buy groceries? 

you thought it would be fear you’ll be feeling as you get caught but the emotion isn’t present at all. instead, it’s white hot anger that overrides your system and forces you to act without thinking—and it just fucking saved your life. 

haechan always saw you as a vulnerable, sad little human being who couldn’t do shit on her own. it’s easy to underestimate you and that’s his first mistake. 

the second is rather foolish—not tying your legs up first. it’s all too easy to slam your forehead against his before jerking your leg up to knee him in the balls. 

you can see the anger in his eyes clear as day as you made a run for it to the kitchen, having come up with another escape plan—because surely if you went down the emergency exit, haechan would’ve caught up easily with those long legs after he’s recovered from your assault. 

your nose was probably bleeding and your head is in the early stages of a full blown migraine, at least you were able to function enough to wobble your way towards the trash chute situated near the stove. you had cursed that chute the first day you moved in here (who would put a trash chute next to a fucking stove) but the day has come for you to thank the gods that you have that in your house. 

going for a swim in all your neighbors’ trash is disgusting and unplanned (plus, falling down maybe six floors to your doom) but you’ll choose that over lee haechan and huang renjun any day. 

“don’t you dare fucking think about it!”

you flashed him the middle finger to tick him off. a petty retaliation for all the bullshit he and renjun put you through but it felt good nonetheless. 

“catch me if you fuckers can.”

and you were falling down the trash chute.‏‏‎ ‎

okay, yeah—maybe you should’ve thought it through before hurling yourself six floors down only for some half-filled dumpster to catch you but at least you’re still alive, right? alive and free, mind you. but you don’t have time to celebrate. 

it smelled awful and you swear your knees and elbows are bruised but you scramble to climb out and run away as fast as you can. 

it was only haechan inside your apartment. no sign of renjun but he did see you somehow and you have no doubt it was a camera inside that room. you didn’t have much time to ponder for how long they were installed in your room. it’s the least of your worries at the moment.

you’re outside. 

during purge night.

even if you did manage to escape it felt more like a win than a lose, forced out of your own apartment in nothing but shorts and a shirt—heck, you don’t even have shoes on!—it felt like they won. again. 

if you’re not going to die in the hands of some other wacko, you’ll die of hypothermia. how nice. 

you didn’t know where you were running to, the only thing you knew was you need to get the hell out of this neighborhood as fast as you can. you didn’t want to run in alleyways and risk getting stabbed for fun. maybe the sewer system… oh, right. you don’t have your phone on you and it’ll probably be pitch black down there. 

you really, truly, genuinely didn’t want to run so out in the open but it was the best you can impulsively come up with. 

when you feel like you’ve put a reasonable distance between you and the apartment, you stop, hands resting flat on your knees as you crouch to catch a breath. just as quick the adrenaline appeared as fast as it had disappeared. you feel the weight and tension crushing your legs, not to mention you’re really starting to feel that headache settle after headbutting haechan. 

you almost collapse against the brick wall. 

the last person you ever thought you’ll see jumps out from the corner of the alleyway and you almost broke their nose. 

until you saw who it was. 

“NAEUN?”

their apartment got raided, some buffy sickos who they had the misfortune of breaking into their house to purge. luckily they got away, but after getting attacked on the streets, naeun got separated after she ran for her life just like you did. you can’t help but feel sorry for the little girl, who experienced the full effect of this godforsaken holiday. 

this is bad. you can’t leave her but it’s tough enough to have to fend for yourself. you’re not so sure whether you can protect another human being but you’ll have to try. 

“did your mom or grandma tell you anything? anything at all?” you ask, crouching to her eye level. “you said your mom knew the way… where? what do you mean?”

“mom said they’re providing refuge on the other side of town but it’s a 30-minute drive. walking would take longer.”

shit. you didn’t want to risk it. you don’t have a car and you’d rather die right here right now than walk another step out in the streets—

“who’s ‘they’?”

“i don’t… i don’t know. she didn’t say.”

you licked your chapped lips. you can’t trust what she’s saying, not when you didn’t even know these people. it’s too risky, not to mention you’re already running from not one, but two people.

naeun sits next to you against the bricked wall of the alley, looking down at her lap. “i’m scared,” she admits. you hear a tremble in her voice. “are mom and grammy de—”

“no,” you cut her off, pulling her tiny body against yours. when you feel her fists clutching your jacket, you swear to protect this girl with your life. “no, they’re not. i’m sure they’re heading there now to the refuge center just like we are.”

her head pokes out, looking up towards you. “we’re going? i thought you didn’t want to.”

you shake your head, wiping her tears. “well, it’s the one way for you to meet your mom and grammy, right?”‏‏‎ ‎

walking down the streets during purge night—man, this has got to be the most ballsy thing you’ve ever done after that one time you spat at renjun in the eye. you managed to find a litter of bodies way into thirty minutes of walking and you nearly sent naeun flying onto the asphalt with how hard you pushed her back. she couldn’t see this mess, you’d be damned to allow a nine-year-old walk right into psychological trauma. 

you pocket a gun—you didn’t have enough courage to fight with a knife. you wiped the blood off using your shirt before shoving them down onto the garter of your shorts. you didn’t bother to take their shoes, none of them would’ve fit you anyway and it’ll just slow you down. 

“hey, are you alright? is that blood—”

“it’s not mine, naeun. come on, let’s get moving.”

for two hours you walked towards this mysterious refuge center on the other side of town and both you and naeun managed to evade death three times. 

the first attack: a group of high schoolers with their uniforms on. there were three of them, about your height, and while you weren’t responsible for the blood on your shirt, you’re not so sure about their lot. they looked crazy, excited even, but sloppy in the way they flung their knives and bats around. their first purge, you assumed, so it was fairly easy to take them down. a bullet to the head worked like a charm. naeun didn’t say anything when you urged her out of her hiding place to flee the scene. three bullets left. 

the second attack: it was a surprise, one that got you stabbed in the shin of your right leg. it was a drunkard with a knife, you could smell him as you walked past by his slumped form in the sidewalk. he wasn’t moving, so you thought he was dead and it was poor judgement on your part. it’s pathetic getting injured this way, you thought, but at least it was you who faced the consequences and not naeun. two bullets left.

the third attack: two men but deadlier than the girls and the drunk. you didn’t get to reason out with either of them, not when they drove their cadillac at 140 miles per hour and nearly ran you over. a chill crept up your spine when you saw the bloody, naked women strapped down onto the hood. victims. you didn’t engage in any form of combat, it’s impossible, so you took naeun in your arms and ran straight to the back alleys. number of bullets remain the same.

three lucky strikes. 

three times you’ve cheated death. 

but time is up and your luck has run out. 

“beating up a girl? what a coward, if you ask me,” you say, spitting out a tooth after someone kneed you in the face. you were in no position to say such things when they’ve got you busted up and bloody, left eye swollen after one hard punch. 

naeun is nowhere to be seen. 

good. 

who knows what these assholes could’ve done to her. you told her to run so she better fucking run and make sure she lives through this nightmare. 

another kick flies to your ribs and you lie sprawled on the dirty pavement of an alleyway—what an uncool way to die but at least you’ll die with a clear conscience. 

you passed by city hall a few minutes ago. surely, the refuge center is not too far from there. naeun will make it safe. she’ll make it. 

“what’s that look on her face? is she dead?”

another one scoffs. “well… if they’re after her then she’s as good as dead.”

you blacked out. ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

you hate the scent of disinfectant. it crawls up your nose and you hate how the stench is so strong you can taste it on your tongue. this isn’t heaven, not when you know you’re better off burning in hellfire.

unless you weren’t dead—your eyes shoot open, sitting up in haste as you clutch the thin blanket. 

rows upon rows of the same cot you were lying on greets you. people injured, some standing, some sitting. there were people treating them, too, but they were in normal clothes so this can’t be a hospital. in fact, it looked like you’re in some warehouse, stacks of metal crates sealing off all entrances. 

“it’s the refuge,” you whisper. 

“you’re awake!” before you could even turn around, a body launches itself onto you and nearly makes the cot collapse. judging by the small frame and the pitchy voice—

“naeun, be careful!” her mother hisses but the girl in between your arms couldn’t care less. if she’d been an adult, she’d be squeezing the life out of you. when she pulls you closer, your healing ribs made a strike of pain surge through you. 

you groan, bowing in the pain. distantly, you can hear the mother and daughter fighting and it was a banter you’ve never experienced with your own mom. it nearly made you tear up from the overwhelming wave of emotions you were feeling but all else disappears when a person tenderly grips your shoulder. 

“thank you for taking care of my granddaughter.” the old lady was smiling appreciatively as she stared at you. 

that was it. it could’ve been the happy ending to a gruesome and bloody storyline—it should’ve been, family of three reunites again and that was all thanks to you, right?

but even heroes have their own bad endings. 

you heard the ticking of the grenade only seconds before it detonates. the other refugees didn’t even have the time to take cover as some closest to the sealed doors were sent flying so far back they crashed into the row of crates behind you. 

you were severely injured, limping, ribs broken, and you only had one good eye to rely on—yet the first thing you thought of was protecting naeun. maybe the midget had a way of worming herself into your heart. but before you even push yourself off the cot, a figure emerges from the smoke. 

petite and harmless, pretty as the tips of his hair grazed porcelain cheekbones. renjun’s eyes are as cold and calculating as can be and it’s the only thing that terrifies you to no end. when he opens his mouth, anger is hidden well underneath that calm tone. 

“i’ll give you one minute to come here willingly.”

there’s no room for bargain, he needn’t when he knows you have absolutely nothing to offer him but yourself. he doesn’t finish his sentence but he trusts you’re smart enough to figure out the silent threat—come, or he’ll turn this place into a fucking bloodbath. 

cornered and weak, defenseless. weird how they have a fixation for calling you ‘kitty’ when they’re the cats in this chase. 

“naeun,” you whisper, trying to crane your neck to look for her in the filth of rocks and debris. please don’t be hurt.

you freeze when you feel a barrel pointing at your head. it was only there for seconds, haechan probably doesn’t have the guts to hurt you in any way permanently (unless it’s inflicted with his own hands and not through some other medium). 

“ah, look. now we have matching black eyes,” he giggles like a madman, craning your neck up and the leather in his globes brings discomfort to your skin. 

you see the way the other refugees looked at you—scum, dirt on their feet that brought about trouble in their lives. they were already badly hurt as it is and now, this happened? you don’t blame them. 

not one man tried to stand up for you as haechan hauls you up and throws you down on renjun’s feet. your ribs were screaming and you’re cold and so, so afraid. with shaky fingers, you gestured towards the crowd. “just... please, don’t hurt them. they don’t have anything to do with this.”

renjun coos. such a cruel smirk for a pretty face. “aw, such an angel my darling is. always thinking of others instead of her own safety. funny because i don’t think you’ve ever done such a thing for me and haechan, though. i wonder why...”

the latter digs his heel in your injured legs and you scream as black starts to surround the corners of your vision. you tried to crane your neck back, pleading eyes wanting to look at the assaulter but renjun’s calloused hand is gripping your chin too tight.

“should we make a bargain, kitten?”

you stare deep into renjun’s eyes. he knows you don’t have anything left, he can see it in your glassy eyes, too wide and vulnerable. he’s doing this all for show, trying to make you even more desperate and self-aware of your eventual demise.

and you thought haechan was the only cunning one.

“what… what bargain?"

renjun practically gleams in pride. “i’ll let everyone walk free—even your precious little naeun—that’s her name, right? the little girl you’ve been protecting the whole night?—we’ll let her and everyone in this building walk away unharmed. that’s my bargain. you know how those work, right? now, you need to give me something i want.”

forcing you to offer yourself up to them.

what a brutal way to crush your pride.

choice wasn’t an option. if you don’t oblige and choose to run away on your own, they’ll kill them and still hunt you down. you gotta say, it was a tempting bargain that appealed to the sense of heroics in your heart. naturally, you have to choose where there is less blood shed. and as renjun lets go of your chin and lets you look over your shoulder to meet little naeun’s eyes, how she sobbed against her mother’s arms and shook her head and screamed…

“hurry, kitten. i don’t like to be kept waiting.”

you know what needs to be done.

“me. i’ll give you… me.”‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎

they stood playing a game of pool in the dead of night. it’s peaceful inside the estate while the city beyond rampaged and burned. they achieved their goal, had finally seen an end to a plan that had been set in motion for years. they’ve succeeded and the broken woman lying on the bed meters from the pool table is proof of their victory. 

“don’t you just love it when an elaborate plan works like clockwork, injun?” he asks, voice like trickling honey as he hits number 9 with the cue ball. 

the other, more petite male, rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree. “oh, please, people like us always triumph, donghyuck. it’s nothing new. although i am surprised that little girl and her so-called “family” played along so well. almost had me fooled.”

“i agree. it's such a shame they had to go.”

‎

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‎

jenoluck (c) all rights reserved

[loremaster4aot]

FLOCH FORSTER HEADCANONS

floch x reader

NSFW, filthy smut, heavy degradation, sexual intercouse, lots of cum, oral, masturbation, body shots, facial, good aftercare, possession

IF YOU DONT LIKE FLOCH JUST IGNORE THIS, BUT IM SURE YOU WILL LIKE THIS IF YOU'RE AS TWISTED AS ME

this starts as innocent headcanons but it slowly turns into hard smut

also this will be long!

well, i had to repost this so here we go

some of this was originally posted on my tiktok (@sf.ck)

floch asks you every morning to help with his hair routine

he definitely owns a red iphone and has picture of you on his lock and home screen

he’s smart at logical subjects, so he will help you with math, chemistry…

he’s jealous and controlling, but caring

also the most loyal bf on the planet

would text you every hour and ask who you’re with

he hates your male friends

floch wants to be the ONLY man you give your attention to

TAGS you in every meme he finds so others can SEE it

floch has always warm hands, even in winter so he warms your cold hands with his big palms

if you catch him staring, he doesn’t look away

doesn’t let you wear clothes that expose too much of your skin in public

praise him, he needs his ego boosted

bad attitude towards everyone, only shows you his soft side

but also his sadictic side

the only time you saw him blush was when he asked you to rub your knees on his growing bulge one morning

he’s a 🍒 guy, size doesn’t matter to him

one look at your bare chest and he will see you as his goddess

he’ll beg you for a boobjob and it’s your only opportunity for you to be dominant with him

loves falling asleep on your soft breasts

gives you painful hickeys, really painful, they’re all colors of dark blue and purple

also asks you to mark his body

when he showers and sees the purple spots of your mouth on his naked body he starts thinking about you

he hopes you do the same

doesn’t mind fukin you when you’re on your period, he actually loves it sorry

floch uses handcuffs and 🔫 in bed

enjoys seeing you powerless

if you don’t obey him he grabs your wrists tightly to prevent you from moving

he’d grab your jaw and spit in your mouth afterwards

,,little too persistent are we? listen, not being obedient will only cause you pain. so learn your place, i know youre a total whore for me.“

his pleasure matters more to him than yours

floch starts meaningless fights because he enjoys arguing with you

kinda a turn on for him seeing you cry, but then he regrets it and feels bad

flochs favorite position is classy missionary

before he pulls into you he rubs your clit with his tip

,,you like this, dirty little slut?"

moisture you with his precum

the silhouette of his strong stroking member is visible through your stomach

that makes him feels as the most powerful man in the universe

enjoys when you scream from pain, it encourages him to go even rougher

when you’re obeying him all night, he lets you decide where he finishes himself

calls you his filthy whore whatever spot you choose

his favorite spot to palm himself off and release it all is ofc your chest and belly

also wants to paint your insides because one time, it could permanently seal the relationship of you two

he’s a moaning mess during his climax

it’s extremely messy, a huge load comes from him, even he is surprised of himself

very, very vocal as his chest quickly rises and drops because of breathing from pleasure

seeing you covered in his hot sticky liquid makes him needy for second round

,,youre such a slut for me, look at you, enjoying my dirty mess on your pretty skin”

buries this image of you deep into his mind as detailed as possible for his future needs

while observing your helpless body he grabs tissue afterwards and starts cleaning his mess you caused him

,,but you’ve made me do this, teasing me so much and being so tight. i know you wanted this you needy girl, so better be thankful"

floch touches your cheek and locks deep eye contact with you as his red bangs tickle your face

he doesnt want this to end yet so without asking he picks you to take a bath with him

your back laying on him feeling his member growing steadily

your head on his chest as he holds your waist and pushes you even closer

,,you were so obedient this time, as a reward you get to taste every inch of me"

water pours on your bodies as you take his again-hard member into your hands. he scratches the wall. your small femine hands are milion times better than his

you gave him slow strokes and then took his member into your warm mouth

your tongue gives his tip the most delicate touches on the most sensitive spot

he never lasts long in your sweet warm throat

,,this time, you swallow the dirt you will cause. understood?“

you do as he says and suddenly his liquid pours down your throat

he tastes like olive oil

floch pulls himself away, your saliva mixed with his cum still connecting you two

by your surprise he starts quickly palming himself

you flinch and close your eyes as you feel heavy thick white liquid covering your eyelids

he felt like the most powerful man in that particular moment. he marked his territory like some animal.

,,no one can do this to you. only me. i own you” he said while still giving his member more quick strokes

your eyes wanted to see him pleasure himself in front of your naked body so you briefly opened them. his load still on your eyelids. it was heavy to open you eyes.

you could see it a bit from your half-closed eyes, but you couldn't keep up with his fast hand. he surely is skilled.

,,i-i want more if it. please give it to me" you beg

the last warm drops of his juices landed your cheeks, other gave your neck a grand pearl necklace.

you felt the ultimate connection forming between you and floch. it was beyond intimate. some would say this is perverted or disgusting but NO. with person you love, everything you do is perfect. and you were so happy to be with him. it felt special, he doesn't treat anyone like you.

,,im the luckiest girl in the world for being with you" you grabbed his quick wrist and kissed the tip of his member.

he looked deeply into the eyes, your face still covered with his sticky cum

,,y/n, i love you. i always will. just look at your beautiful face, id never let another man do this"

you know he tells the truth. you trust him so much. he's always been so loyal, ignoring girls staring at him. his eyes were made only for you.

floch helped you wash yourself. his hands which helped him make mess on you are now cleaning your body. he's usually rough, but now you feel softness and kindness from his touches.

after he cleaned your face, floch cupped your cheeks with his hands and connected his lips to yours. his tongue then slid on your neck and he gave you tons of sweet kisses. they weren't lustful, but romantic.

,,you must be very tired after all that" you said, hand laying on his chest

floch hugged you as you fell asleep that night in his warm, safe hands after he kissed your forehead a sweet good night

[modern-vellichor]

In Her Blood; Three

Summary: Steve's birthday gives plenty opportunity to play your little game. Bridges are being rebuilt between you and Steve when Sarah doesnt come home.

Pairing: DadsBestFriend!Bucky x Reader, Sam x Steve

Warnings: smoking, angst, drinking, alcohol use (not abuse), uncomfortable family dynamic, age gap relationship.

Previous Chapter || Masterlist

Sam, Sarah and Bucky are all standing around the kitchen counter, Steve is blowing out candles on a birthday cake.

You shoulder through the front door, carrying a large cardboard box on your hip. You place it on the counter in front of Steve, and you smile.

"happy birthday, Steve-o"

He looks a little confused at first, he's wary opening the box. He's faced with oil paints and synthetic brushes, canvases and a mole skin sketchbook.

"were these spare from school?", he asks her, trailing his finger down the spine of his notebook.

"nope, bought them in my supply shop before I flew back, been hiding it in my trunk", she smiles, sitting herself in the stool beside Bucky.

"well", he says, surprised. "Thank you"

You shoot him a kind smile and turn to Sarah as she explains the plans for the night; "we're going to a new place, it should be nice and quiet considering it is the fourth of July"

The next time you're all together, Sam and Steve are clad in suits and you and Sarah are tugging dresses along behind you. You climb into your car and shout to Sarah through an open window.

"I'll pick up Barnes and follow yall there, wait for us outside!"

She throws you a thumbs up and you pull up outside of Bucky's house, honking your horn.

When he opens his door you have to hurriedly pick your jaw from the floor before he slides in next to you, his suit hugging every muscle perfectly.

You throw a pack of Marlboro Golds at him and he knows what to do. Lighting one between his teeth, he passes it to your lips. You nod in thanks, and then he drops his hand to your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

It isn't long before you're parking on the curb next to your family and throwing your butt out the window. Bucky is opening your door and offering his hand before you even have your belt unplugged. You take his hand and graciously step into the humid summer night.

The bar is quaint, dimly lit. Your dress shimmers in the flickering candle light, warm and homely. Bucky's hand stays on the small of your back, rubbing hot circles on exposed skin.

You and Bucky are the last to slot into the curved bench around a large table, you only have to step over Bucky to escape, but he's got you trapped, right where he wants you.

You all drink the night away slowly, whiskeys and Manhattan's, a cranberry vodka soda for you, a dangerous drink.

Bucky's hand stays on your thigh the whole night, hidden under the table, the slit in your dress the perfect place to slip his hand to bare flesh.

It's just gone midnight when Sam and Steve are sauntering onto the dancefloor and swaying in eachothers arms.

Bucky turns to you with a mischievous grin and an outstretched hand, "would you like to dance, doll?", his tone mocks innocence and sincerity, enough so Sarah isn't suspicious of your secret rendezvous.

Your smile is equally as devilish, you take his hand, "Actually, I would"

He smirks as he leads you to the floor by the hand, its terribly intimate and the risk of being caught looms dangerously close, neither of your care. He spins and dips you, holding you close to him. You catch Sam's eye and he winks at you with a joking smile, you throw a thumbs up behind Bucky's back and smile.

"they're so clueless", you whisper into his ear, breath tickling his neck as you nibble at his earlobe.

"kitten", he growls, "stop that"

"you're so scary", you mock, but you stop nonetheless, parting from him and dragging him to the bar and then outside.

You hold your cigarette between your fingers and your glass is hanging lazy from your other grip. Bucky stands behind you, chin on your shoulder and arms iron-tight around your waist.

When you bring the smoke to your lips he allows you a long pull before taking it from you, placing it loosely between his oh-so-kissable lips.

He takes a drag for himself and then presses his lips to yours, sticky smoke fills your lungs and you smile, he pulls away and you blow a cloud in his face with a giggle.

Bucky and Steve are driving everyone home, their tolerance higher than everyone else's, and Sarah too tired to drive.

You rest your hand on Bucky's thigh as he pulls into your driveway, you're leaning on him as he walks you to your room. He's tucking you into bed and you're pulling him in next to you. He lays in your arms for a moment before he's making for the door. You let out a disappointed whine, but you stop at the click of a lock. You smile as he slips under the covers next to you. You press sweet kisses to his lips, tangled in each others arms.

He slips into the guest bedroom while you're still asleep. You and Sarah are the only two awake early the next morning, Steve already out for his run.

"god is real", you giggle into your coffee mug.

Sarah smiles back at you, she sees your stupid grin and blushing cheeks, "really?", she presses.

"he was sleeping in my bed night. God in jeans", you grin, sipping your strong coffee.

Steve comes in then, pouring himself a cup, you and Sarah stop talking.

"morning girls", you both mumble back a 'mornin'.

That afternoon, the five of you all gathered in the living room, Sarah excuses herself.

"I'm going out with Nate"

You all smile at her and wish get goodbye. Then you turn to your parents confused. Your head is resting on the armrest while your legs are thrown over Bucky's lap.

"who the fuck is Nate?", you question.

"language", Steve mumbles, not looking up from his fresh sketchbook.

"Nate is her boyfriend", Sam explains, you smile knowingly, shooting Bucky a discreet wink.

The day passes lazily, and soon you and Steve are the only ones awake. You stroll into the living room where he is sat, reading some old book.

"Sarah not home yet?", you ask as you make yourself comfortable in the armchair.

"no, not yet?"

It's already late, and so you turn to him. "why dont you go to bed, I'll wait up for Sarah"

"no it's okay, I'll stay up, why dont you get some sleep"

"I'll keep you company"

Its oddly comfortable, the two of you cozy in armchairs and warm lighting. You're curled up in a blanket, typing away on your laptop, Steve sprawled out across the room with his book.

The night rolls on and you both grow more worried.

"should we call the police?", he says, his back is straight, he's anxious.

"no", you say softly.

"arent the first 24 hours the most crucial in missing persons cases?", he stresses.

"that's missing children, Dad. She's almost nineteen", you both pause, that's the first time you've called him Dad since you turned 16. "if she's not hone by morning we'll call the police, and then we'll round up a gang and go looking"

You shut your laptop and settle next to him, you throw you arm over his broad shoulders and comfort him. Eventually the two of you fall asleep.

You're startled awake he next morning by the sound of the door opening, you both scramble up, expecting Sarah. Instead you find Sam and Bucky.

"is Sarah home?", you question, still groggy. Bucky smiles at your sleepy form.

But Sam looks worried, "I dont know, why?"

You shoot Steve an anxious look and bolt up the stairs, you find her bedroom empty, and jump back down the stairs. "she didnt come home last night"

At that moment, Sarah bustles in. Her makeup is smudged and her clothes wrinkled, dark circles prominent under her eyes. You and Steve's demeanors immediately change to angry and defensive.

"where we're you?", you say simultaneously.

"out with Nate, I told you"

You and Steve glance at each other before he's ordering Sarah into the kitchen. You follow after Steve, Sam leads Bucky away into the living room, distracting him.

You have always been able to tell you were Steve's daughter. You both tower over Sarah as she rubs her temple. You hold yourselves with the same power, the same dominance. Bucky and Sam watch discreetly from the hall, and Bucky cant deny the similarities.

When you talk you use the same rough tone, "where the fuck were you?", "what were you thinking?", "we were gonna call the cops, do you know how worried we were?". Its biting and cold, you're both furious.

"you would never do this if Y/N disappeared for a night", she snaps. You both freeze, Steve straightens up, you're shocked into silence.

"Y/N knows how to hold her own. Y/N is an adult, I trust Y/N to ge safe, and to keep herself safe incase anything were to happen", he states, tone unnervingly even and monotone.

"I'm an adult too", she whines.

"You're not even nineteen, Sarah", you snap. "We still have to order you coke and chips whenever we go out, you may be a legal adult but you sure as hell don't act like one"

At that Sarah storms up the stairs and slams her door. You and Steve sigh as Bucky and Sam amble into the kitchen. Steve pours everyone a cup of coffee, you all sit in comfortable silence.

"Hey, what if we all go up to the lake, its perfect this time round, I'm sure we can all fit in the cabin", Steve says after a while. You all nod in agreement, Sam starts up the stairs to tell Sarah.

"wha'd'ya think, Y/N?", Steve smiles, all of a sudden shy. He's not used to being so soft with you, the two of you hadn't properly gotten along since you were 14, and here you were, together, close.

"I'll start packing", you smile.

@vicmc624 @adriannajackson @zizzlekwum @chipilerendi @madaroni37

[sp00kyjellybeans]

Spa day with Freddy, poly ghostface and michael hc?? Like face masks, hair masks, foot spa, mani pedis typa stuff??

ah wait this is so cute

sadly i will not include michael or freddy in this just bc i dont know how to write them just yet so i wanna get it right when i do!!! expect me to get back on this in the future tho :) to make up for it, this is a longer hc!!

Poly!Ghostface - Billy and Stu

First of all, you didn’t even need to ask for this.

The boys saw that you’d been stressed with working, schoolwork, and finals all piling up; and they haven’t had the best time with murders lately. It was growing to be tiring for them.

So Billy and Stu decided that the three of you needed a day off! They even got it all set up at Stu’s house.

Billy knew that you hated being spoiled, and it would be too obvious where the three of you were going if you all went to the actual spa in town (he likes to surprise you), so Stu offered to buy everything y’all needed and surprise you at his place.

You had just rolled out of bed when you got a call from Stu to come over. You thought nothing of it and went there straight away. Neither of them answered the door when you arrived, which you found peculiar, so you walked in and made your way up to Stu’s bedroom.

Billy stood in the corner of the room with his arms folded, smiling at the look of surprise on your face.

Stu was right next to his bed where all the creams, face masks, oils and nail products were laid out. He lifted his arms up like a child and grinned, “Surprise!” :D

You were ready to get started straight away but before you could even touch any products you were guided promptly to the bathroom.

It was dimly lit, the only lights were candles and a warm bath had been drawn. The wafting scent of citruses and bath salts filled the air. This alone could have gotten rid of all of your stress. You looked at both of your boys who were seemingly eager to get you undressed (you know, to relax ;)

Let’s just pretend Stu is so rich that he has a big enough bathtub for the three of you

You, Stu and Billy sat in the incensed tub, both of them on either side of you. And boy... was this what you needed.

You were leaned up against Stu’s larger body, he insisted on this because he wanted to bathe you. Which was super nice. His hands were delicate as they caressed your skin with the soaps and shampoos.

On the other hand, Billy was entirely focused on releasing tension. As Stu washed you, Billy’s strong grip was pressing tightly on the tight muscles of your calves and feet. Working at the video store had you on your feet all day long and he knew you needed to release that muscle tension!

Once the bath was finished, you were more than ready to get started on the fun spa stuff!

“Time to exfoliate!”

The boys had everything set out. Bottles of exfoliation! Mud masks at the ready! Hell, Stu even went as far as getting tubs of water for each of you to do a steam treatment.

the steam treatment water had rose petals in it. oh stu and his flowers

After you all finished that, you took turns putting on the mud masks. Billy applied yours, you applied Stu’s and then Stu applied Billy’s. Stu was all for it but you could tell Billy felt weird putting mud on his face.

“It’s hardening... is it supposed to be hard??”

“Yes, Billy-”

“It’s crusty! Stu you got it in my hair >:0″

Eventually you washed away the face masks (Billy washed off his two minutes earlier than necessary) and Stu slammed down everything needed for a mani pedi in front of you and Billy.

The look on Billy’s face said it all.

For you see, the boy was as comfortable with his masculinity as much as an abandoned teenage boy can be. He’d let you paint one, one, fingernail of his black to test it out during the entirety of your relationship. That was once!

Now all of the nail products stared back at him with the intensity of his normal gaze. Shudder

Stu on the other hand, went wild over the fact that you wanted to paint his nails sometimes. He’d ask for the brightest green or blue and show it off to classmates, proud that his s/o did amazing work

There was also a process to this so you were able to walk Billy through it slowly, like approaching a cat. You trimmed and cleaned his nails yourself (he didn’t trust Stu’s chaotic ass to cut his nails correctly) but he refused to have his feet touched. And he wanted to pick the color himself (you didn’t allow black so he went with an edgy dark red. Blood, you know?)

Stu was all in. He wanted the same treatment from you! He loved having your soft hands all over him so he let you go crazy with whatever you wanted. You chose a soft pink for his nails. (he luvs it)

Then, of course, the boys did your nails. Stu doesn’t have the most steady hands and felt the need to try many colors on each fingernail. You ended up with a messy nail sequence of neon green, dark blue and pastel purple. He was proud of himself.

Billy was surprisingly good at painting your toe nails. It was very neat and he made your feet look very pretty! He chose purple :D

Overall it was such a relaxing day and all the stress had vanished from the three of you. You were more than grateful for your boys. 

[crabbng]

did this on twitter for hana and bon! i’ll put all their answers under the cut, please enjoy <3

HANA:

1. what's their favorite beverage - alcoholic and/or non-alcoholic? hana likes nice, comforting warm drinks like hot chocolate and apple cider, he hasn't really had experience with alcoholic drinks 2. what's their favorite flavor? (spicy, sweet, sour, etc.) umami tbh, some nice hearty savory stew flavors 3. what's their favorite food? BEEF Clapping hands sign STEW Clapping hands sign he also like sweets, pastries and candies and whatnot 4. breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks - which do they look forward to the most? dinner cause he imagines it as a family meal, and also it's the heartiest meal 5. do they have a food or flavor they absolutely hate? bland things like.. boiled green beans.. like.. wet tasteless vegetables.. he is not a fan but who is tbh 6. can they tolerate spicy food? yeah! he likes some good heat in his meals 7. what is their favorite animal? DRAGONS! cause they're cool. also... because baby. 8. what do they wear to bed? boxers or nothing in his own home, in the castle tho he wears like. pj bottoms. 9. what position do they like to sleep in? curled up around a pillow or in a blanket, or flopped on his belly 10. are they a morning person or a night owl? he would like to be a morning person, but he tends to get excited about whatever he's working on and accidentally staying up late, which then makes him sleep in late.. 11. are they a heavy sleeper or do they wake up easily? HEAVY SLEEPER. the boy sleeps like a rock. 12. it's a rainy day, what will they do cooped up inside all day? hana has a WHOLE ROOM of stuff to work on. he tries to get old tech up and running again (with.. limited resources) or to get it to be useful in other ways. 13. do they have a favorite scent or smell? honestly... musty smell of city that was cut off and unused for a thousand years. 14. what do they smell like? do they wear perfume or cologne? a little bit sweaty, a little musty from hanging out in an abandoned city, a little like oil, wood shavings.. he smells like whatever he's been working on. he tries to just smell neutral around other people. 15. baths or showers? BATHS! BUBBLES! RELAX TIME!! taking time just to be hana. nice. 16. how good are they at cooking? it's not gourmet or anything but he can cook a tasty meal. he's worse at baking but he's practicing!! 17. what's their favorite time of year and why? winter!!! pretty snow.. relaxing quiet.. getting to go inside and get all warm and cozy.. nice. 18. do they have a favorite holiday? tbh i dont know what holidays there are in kos world... i oughta think of that.. but anything with people getting together and celebrating together is something he'd like to participate in someday 19. do they prefer buying or receiving gifts? buying!!!! hana loves giving gifts. tbh he doesn't receive a lot of gifts. maybe like.. a jar of jam one time and it made him cry. he kept the jar. 20. how tall are they, and how do they feel about their height? 4' even. he's fine with his height tbh, his insecurities come in when he thinks about what OTHER people think about his height. he definitely recognizes that he looks different than everyone he's been around. 21. can they play any instruments? not really.. he made a guitar once. was NOT good at it. 22. do they have a nice singing voice? NO! cant keep a tune to save his life, but he's the only one (besides baby) who's heard him sing so it really hasn't mattered 23. do they talk to themselves? YES! it could seem like he's talking to baby, but really... she can be asleep or somewhere else and he's just still talking to himself. who else does he have to talk to?! let him live. 24. do they enjoy music? what kind? tbh he probably enjoys "old timey" music he found in the ancient city so like.. synth pop LMAO 25. do they make friends easily? yes! surprisingly, from his popularity in the town. he had a bad first impression whoops. but he's just very charming and sweet and wants to be your friend. 26. surprise birthday party! how do they react? crying. happy crying. but a lot of crying. he won't stop. please stop crying hana. second surprise party would go over better, he'd just cry at the beginning and then have fun at the party. 27. what is their favorite flower, if they have one? hydrangea.. symbolize heartfelt emotions 28. how does your character feel about wearing jewelry? neutral? i like putting him in a lot of jewelry, but it's not something he'd do himself. besides like. his ear and nose piercings (and the other one lol) those are kind of special. he's had those since before he can remember 29. if they wear jewelry, what's their favorite piece? his teal earrings! he was gifted those (one of the like 2 gifts he's received lol) by someone very important to him 30. fashion forward or fashion disaster? fashion neutral? he's definitely not fashionable when he dresses himself (in the clothes he made himself lmao) but he's not like.. offensively disastrous 31. what kind of underwear does your character wear? boxer briefs? for comfort. that's hana's goal picking out his own clothes. comfort. 32. do they wear makeup? what kind? not regularly but he's not against it. he likes looking pretty. he likes eyeliners especially but will sit there and let u put whatever on his face. 33. do they paint their nails? HELL YEAH he paints his toenails since he works with his hands and it'd chip off. after bath nail painting time. paints baby's claws too. 34. are they quick to get haircuts or do they often let it grow out? after his introduction to the townspeople with his hair that had been grown out for years and NOT well taken care of.. he keeps up with haircuts now. he doesn't want to give people reasons to dislike him lmao 35. do they know how to whistle? through the front gap in his fangs yes 36. or how to braid hair? he knows how to braid his own hair for sure. he hasn't had other hair to practice on but he would know how to braid like.. leather cord or stuff for other crafts projects. so i think he'd be good at it. he'd learn like fancy patterns and such 37. are they scared if anything in nature - bugs, snakes, lightning, being on the water, etc.? lightning and storms definitely. he spent his formative years under a mountain, safe from all that, any sort of dangerous weather freaks him out. 38. have they ever thought they were about to die? not that he remembers. but there were times. 39. how do they react to getting sick? a big baby. snuggled up in a thousand blankets with chicken noodle soup and hot teas. 40. are they afraid of blood? not especially? he's been injured before and had to patch himself up. bad injuries tho... lots of blood..... he wouldn't do great with that. 41. how do they earn money? hana builds and repairs stuff for the town mostly in exchange for produce and such. he doesn't really.. have money. 42. are they satisfied with their occupation or long to do something else? he enjoys helping people, so in that way he's satisfied. he'd rather people were more interested in his side job of repairing old tech and making his own tech stuff but... that's not legal. 43. how creative are they? quite creative! he has a number of different crafting hobbies and is always looking for more. he's not great at like.. like if you gave him a paintbrush and were like 'paint' he would just paint whatever was in front of him. not some imagined thing. 44. do they know how to draw? how skilled are they? he's good at like.. accurately drawn schematics? technical drawings. i dont think he would be great at like. portraits tho. like. he could probably draw an accurate face but it'd like completely lifeless. 45. what do they carry around with them during the day (ie in their pockets, a bag, a purse...) 1) a baby 2) his tablet, that's what's with him all the time.. except rn in the story.. when he is without both.. :( 46. do they have a sweet tooth? OH YEAH. he doesn't get a lot of sweets where he is (he's working on learning how to bake them) so he really enjoys good sweets when he gets his hand on them 47. haute cuisine or cheap eats? hana likes good homemade food, i guess cheap eats would be the closer of the two 48. do they know how to swim? HONESTLY.. PROBABLY NOT.. boy has not been around water much 49. do they have any scars? how did they get them? nah! at this point he is more or less scar free. i'm sure he has a few tiny ones from like.. when baby was playing a bit too wildly or something and he got a nasty little scratch but nothing like... big. 50. what kind of handwriting do they have? neat, messy, cursive, MESSY. like a kid who was never really taught how to write. he usually writes on his tablet, which has been taught how to recognize his handwriting and converts it to readable text.

BON:

bon can be hard so on questions where it's not really applicable now (like.. favorite foods and the like), i'll just go with what WOULD have been the case. when he was younger. 1. what's their favorite beverage - alcoholic and/or non-alcoholic? flavored sparkling waters, he likes the bubbles. he likes high alcohol content drinks, so it does its job. 2. what's their favorite flavor? (spicy, sweet, sour, etc.) he likes fresh, citrus-y flavors, whatever category that slots into. 3. what's their favorite food? THE ALL POWERFUL ORANGE, a good orange is a treat for bon 4. breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks - which do they look forward to the most? snacks, cause he can generally eat them alone and not be judged 5. do they have a food or flavor they absolutely hate? puddings and yogurts and stuff like that, soft foods 6. can they tolerate spicy food? a fair amount, but he does have limits (he will not admit it) 7. what is their favorite animal? farm animals, especially working animals, they're nice and usually calm, bon likes that 8. what do they wear to bed? either whatever he's wearing at the time he knocks out or nothin 9. what position do they like to sleep in? huddled in a corner 10. are they a morning person or a night owl? BOTH! he's not a sleeper. if you find him sleeping its because he was probably up the past 3+ days and he just knocked out. 11. are they a heavy sleeper or do they wake up easily? if he's sleeping cause he hadn't slept the past week, he doesn't wake up easily, but if it's a purposeful rest he wakes up to a pin dropping. also re: bon sleeping, he technically can go without sleep indefinitely but he has to go into his lava form to kinda.. refresh his stats so to speak 12. it's a rainy day, what will they do cooped up inside all day? pre-incident: read! study! practice magic. post-incident: think about mortality and stare at a wall 13. do they have a favorite scent or smell? fresh air on a cool day. but he's also nostalgic about the stink smell of a tavern. 14. what do they smell like? do they wear perfume or cologne? ash and smoke. and on special days ;) burnt flesh ;) he doesn't wear perfume or cologne, he just smells weird all the time. 15. baths or showers? showers, a quick spray down and then he's out of the water as quick as possible. 16. how good are they at cooking? QUITE! bon can cook and he can cook good. he's stayed with a lot of families over the years and learned a lot of good tricks and recipes, plus what he learned from when he was growing up and would somewhat regularly cook for himself. 17. what's their favorite time of year and why? summer. he does well in the heat. also the days are longest. bon likes it when it's light out. 18. do they have a favorite holiday? bon doesn't like holidays! cause holidays come with traditions. and traditions come with expectations. and expectations come with punishments. 19. do they prefer buying or receiving gifts? giving, i guess? receiving gifts can come with a price. but it's nice to give a gift and know you expect nothing in return. 20. how tall are they, and how do they feel about their height? bonk is 5'9", he's fine with it 21. can they play any instruments? YES!!! he can play a variety, his favorites are harp and fiddle, though he also can play a mean flute, though that was mostly from his upbringing so he doesn't like it all too much 22. do they have a nice singing voice? YES!!!!! he has a most beautiful voice. he can rouse a room with a good folk song or bring a room to tears with a mournful ballad 23. do they talk to themselves? ahahaha yes. we have already seen this in comic. bon struggles with differentiating between reality and his.. imagination i guess. so. that can often lead to him just talking to himself. 24. do they enjoy music? what kind? yes! bon enjoys all sorts of music, but mostly songs you can sing along to. bar songs, shanties, ballads, he enjoys them all. he like songs that have an emotion to them if that makes sense. 25. do they make friends easily? NO. bon is both unfriendly and untrusting. however. if you are nice to him but once........... he Will die for you. and he will die for any child. loves childs. 26. surprise birthday party! how do they react? POORLY. either confused why people thought it would be a fun idea or angry that he was caught off guard. now... if you do it right..... have the surprise just be like.. a cake waiting at home or something.. a quiet night.. he will appreciate it. he Will die for you. 27. what is their favorite flower, if they have one? daffodil.. rebirth.. eternal life.. unrequited love.. perfect 28. how does your character feel about wearing jewelry? he's not a huge fan tbh. makes him feel like someone's shiny show piece. but he does like an earring or two or three 29. if they wear jewelry, what's their favorite piece? he doesn't wear jewelry regularly :( but he likes earrings! he likes little hoops that go on the top of his big ears 30. fashion forward or fashion disaster? more fashion forward than a disaster. he doesn't dress himself like.. super well.. cause his clothing tends to not last super long, but he knows how to look good 31. what kind of underwear does your character wear? NONE he's flying free 32. do they wear makeup? what kind? again, not any regularly, but will rock a good eyeliner if offered 33. do they paint their nails? no lmao good luck painting his lava nails, he'll melt ur brush, oh god and im sure the smell of burning nail polish is just awful 34. are they quick to get haircuts or do they often let it grow out? he cuts his hair pretty frequently (not well) he cuts like.. parts at a time. like 'hm this section looks a lil long' CHOP~ 35. do they know how to whistle? like a got damn bird 36. or how to braid hair? yes! he is good at this. 37. are they scared if anything in nature - bugs, snakes, lightning, being on the water, etc.? not really? he's had a lot of experience living outdoors so things that may have scared him at one point have been dealt with and most things it's like 'well i cant die so it really doesnt matter', cold and rain it's like 'well ill get real hecked up for a while but.. whatever' 38. have they ever thought they were about to die? YES! quite a few times, though not anymore lmao. one of the first times he ran away from home and nearly starved to death, the... incident, and when he was turned into a basbeo, just to name a few 39. how do they react to getting sick? pretending like he's not. pushing himself too hard until he cannot pretend anymore. nowadays tho.. he just turn into lava man and boom. all better. 40. are they afraid of blood? nah, he's seen plenty of it by this point to just not even register it. not even mostly his own! see this isn't a sad answer. 41. how do they earn money? HE DON'T! what use does a dog have for money u feel me 42. are they satisfied with their occupation or long to do something else? bon was basically a travelling bard at one point and oh boy he longs to go back to those days. his current occupation of 'guy who steals, kidnaps, murders and destroys on command' just isn't fulfilling for him. 43. how creative are they? i'd say pretty creative. he's not really doing anything with it right now, but he's a pretty imaginative guy. 44. do they know how to draw? how skilled are they? i think so! i figure that would be part of his lessons when he was younger. so he's probably.. too good at it. opposite of hana, where he's be good at portraiture and like.. pretty scenes. this also makes me think of little bon running around and putting lil devil horns on his mom's portraits 45. what do they carry around with them during the day (ie in their pockets, a bag, a purse...) doesn't really have.. a lot of things.. in the same vein tho, that jacket he wears, he's had for a while, and it's been through a lot now (i.e. the missing bottom) but. it's something he repairs and takes care of. it's special to him. for reasons. 46. do they have a sweet tooth? not especially, he doesn't like Sugar Sweet stuff, but he does like.. apples n stuff. he'll eat a peach croissant and enjoy it. everything in balance. 47. haute cuisine or cheap eats? cheap eats: more food for less 48. do they know how to swim? yes but he doesn't do it anymore cause he'll get too cold and seize up and lava man will just become a rock. he can use like.. hot tubs and very warm baths. he CAN enjoy those. 49. do they have any scars? how did they get them? well! bon had scars previous to his charred limbs (you'll see them soon) from being burned. because of.. reasons. i never know how depressing to get when talking about bon :( anyways, his charred limbs didn't happen immediately after becoming a basbeo. it basically happens when there's like.. a struggle for control between bon, his elemental, and who or whatever (maighstir, priomh, tera, his cuffs, etc.) is trying to control bon's transformation abilities. like either trying to use more power than he's being allowed, or to resist using it at all. they feel weird and crusty and leathery and warm! so the last one is kind of nice. it is unpleasant to hold his hand. 50. what kind of handwriting do they have? neat, messy, cursive, BOY CAN'T WRITE ANYMORE! he used to have really neat cursive handwriting like.. calligraphy style.

[always-against-the-grain]

thirds

Summary: You invite Negan over for dinner when your parents are out of town. Continuation of party favor

Pairing: AU Negan x reader (female, named Eddie)

Tags: AU Negan, Negan smut, Negan x reader, rough-ish smut

A/N: no proof read. we die like men

“Oh, fuck” you complained to no one, feeling your muscle soreness settling in as you hopped off your fathers SUV.

You had just come back from the gym and were excited to have the house to yourself. Your folks left town for your mother’s work and you had your whole night planned, get a stoned, eat some lasagna your mom pre-made for you, shower, smoke some more, watch some stand-up, and rub one out.

As you walked towards your front door you heard the faint clinking noises, accompanied by soft rock music; noticing Negan’s half open garage, beaming white light escaping onto the gray pavement.

You entered your home and read the note on the counter:

Eddie,

Your dad and I left for my work trip (that free loader). Left some lasagna in the fridge. 375 45 min.

Love you,

mom (and dad)

DONT USE THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL. Negan will take a look tomorrow at 9am, so please be up to let him in and get coffee going.

Knowing Negan was going to be in your home soon brought tingles to your insides. Reminiscing on how you fucked you in the bathroom a little over a week ago.Your memories aroused you, but frustrated you as well, remembering how he toyed with you that firework infused night.

You snapped yourself out of it and began setting the oven when the door bell rang.

You walked over an peeked through the side window.

Negan?

You opened the door and without a proper greeting you asked, “Um, weren’t you supposed to come by tomorrow?”

“Well hello to you too” Negan commented on your weak hospitality.

“And yeah, for the sink... I’m just here to let you know you left your headlights on” he informed you, tilting his head to the direction of the driveway.

“You couldn’t call?” You questioned his motives for being at your doorstep.

Not that you wouldn’t fuck him over and over, but you wanted to be the one to initiate that. He wasn’t gonna control the situation this time.

“Your folks got rid of the landline.”

That comment served as a potent reminder that you hadn’t physically lived in that house other than school intermissions, and that you didn’t know that much about Negan regardless of how good friends he and your parents were.

“And I don’t have your number, cause that would be inappropriate” He added with a smirk, knowing you were miles past appropriateness.

“Funny” you commented on his response in a dead-panned tone.

You reached for the keys on their respective hook on the wall and walked out towards the car, Negan followed behind. You unlocked it and reached your arm in to switch the lights off.

You shut the car door, noticing Negan was cutting through the lawn, half way towards his front door.

Having already gotten you slice of Negan you couldn’t resist him. Flashes of what tonight could potentially lead to infiltrated your mind.

Fuck

“Hey!” you called out to him.

Negan stopped in his tracks and turned his head towards you.

“You like lasagna?”

He paused in thought for a moment.

Should he enter your home without your parents? What if a neighbor saw? What would they think?

“Is it your mothers or that frozen shit?”

“It’s a Frankie original”

“Fuck. Alright” he was easily convinced.

Your mom did make a mean lasagna.

You set the prepared lasagna on the counter as you continued to wait for the oven to heat.

“You can take a hit of that if you want” you gestured towards the packed glass pipe and lighter sitting at the edge of the bar countertop.

“This what you always do when your parents aren't around?” He asked, reaching for the pipe.

“Smoke? Or invite not-age-appropriate men over?” You teased.

“Both” he said as he struggled with the lighter.

Spark after spark with no flame.

“I think that ones out. Let me get another” you skipped upstairs to your room.

Negan waited patiently, flipping through his phone. He noticed some leftover oil and grim on his fingers and got up to wash his hands. While you were in ransacking your drawers, your phone rang downstairs.

Negan let the first call go, but when the second call came he peaked over, concerned it was one of your parents needing to get a hold of you.

He was thrown off by the name on the screen.

Myles

“Found one” you said coming down the steps, Negan in the middle of drying his hands.

“Here” you handed it to him feeling the dampness on his fingers.

“Thanks doll. Your phone rang by the way” He let you know as he sat back down on one of the stools.

Negan took a couple hits as you opened up your phone and typing a quick message before setting it down.

Negans curiosity quickly unraveled.

“So whose Myles?” Negan asked, smoke exiting along with his words, “Myles with a Y...”

“Um. He is.. he’s my.. boyfriend” you said awlwardly, knowing how fucked up it sounded.

“If he’s your boyfriend, why the hell did you sleep with me. Twice for that matter” Negan questioned, almost interrogating you

“One, don’t come at me like that,” your defenses riding

“Two, it’s not like I’m doing anything he’s not already doing” you replied, taking a hit.

“Shit really? How do you know?”

“We were on a date one night, it was a normal day” you spoke holding your breathe and smoke in.

“and- and I don’t know, I looked at him, and I just knew.” Your voice becoming clearer as the white clouds left your body.

Woman’s intuition, Negan thought to himself. Reflecting on his own past.

“And his messages proved it so, there’s that” you added.

“Shit I’m sorry doll” Negan empathized, taking the pipe for his turn.

“It’s okay...” you said, a bit of sadness painting over your face.

“...you’ve help me get over it quite a bit” your voice lightening up, trying to keep yourself from getting down.

“Does he know you know?” he asked sparking another hit.

“Nah, not yet.”

“Why haven’t you told him? Hoping to work it out?” Smoke blowing from his lips

“Fuck no!” you laughed

“I didn’t confront him about it cause it was right before summer, he’s abroad, I’m doing an internship here. Would’ve been really stressful dealing with a break up right now.”

“But that a bridge we’ll cross when we get there, in the mean time I’m just gonna dick around” you said nonchalantly as you reached for the pipe once more, intentionally grazing his hand half a second slower.

Your final hit closed the conversation on your relationship.

You set the pipe down, free for Negan to grab if he’d like to continue.

“Okay, what about you? What’s your is deal, what do you do around here?” You guided the conversation towards his occupation, rather than his love life, worried that that information might put you off.

Negan grabbed the pipe.

“I teach” he said before taking a puff.

“You teach? You? A cigarette smoking, beer drinking, motorcycle driving, bachelor?” You busted his balls

“First of all honey, there’s not a wrong way to live a life. And secondly, I know I’m not perfect. Hell, I’m light years from perfect, but I am proud of what I do. I’m a good ass teacher, I make these kids find awe in bi-fucking-ology .”

“Biology? I’m sorry, but this is wild! I didn’t expect you do me a science geek.” You were actually intrigued, “How’d you get into teaching?”

“Well, I did my undergrad degree in biology. And I TA-ed a course and I realized I really liked teaching so after graduation I went ahead and got my Master’s in education.”

“Wait, I thought you coached”? You jumped to the next question

“I do that too. I teach 4 classes, 2 intro bios, 1 ap bio, and one health period. Then coach after school”

”What do you coach?”

“Coach women's basketball in the winter, and help out with baseball in the spring.”

“I’m guessing you like it? You seem very passionate.”

”I love this teaching shit. Plus, I’m someone these kids can talk to, someone who can guide them and be raw-fully honest about anything- I don’t patronize these kids. I get to be the person I needed at their age, it’s a sweet gig” He couldn’t help the smile spreading on his face

This conversation fine tuned your image of Negan. You found yourself lost in the dichotomy of it all. Here he was, shirt covered in black oil stains, smoking weed, cursing, yet vulnerable, gentleness peaking through his macho-ness.

Beep

You walked over to lay the lasagna on the rack. Negan admiring your ass as you bent over. He stared for as long as he could. Blood flowing to his manhood.

“So, we got 45 minutes to kill” you closed the oven and walked around the counter towards him.

Your hands went towards his knee cap, pushing his leg out to fit your stature between his seated figure.

“What can Coach Negan teach me in that time?” you whispered as your lips gravitated towards his.

You wantonly kissed him. Sliding your tongue in his mouth to wrestle with his. His hands firmly cupped your ass, pulling you closer to him.

“There she is.” He applauded, as you tugged on his lower lip.

“I was waiting for your dirty side to come out and play” he said, knotting his fingers through your hair that was in a post-work-out messy bun.

You tried to bring your mouth back to his and you got close, but his firm grip held you back.

“Uh-huh” he said, barely audible.

Negan stuck his tongue out slightly, leaning towards you. Your lips were ready to welcome him, before he sprung back.

“Fucker” You let out a sigh that was between a laugh and utter frustration.

He toward over you, staring at you lustfully.

He had you desperate for more. Negan felt your try to fight against his grasp again.

“You lack patience” He informed you, keeping you away from him.

“And you’re a tease” You immediately shot back at him

He closed his fist further, the taut strands pulling on your scalp, “I’m not a tease. I just know what you can handle.”

“I don’t think you do” You were up for the challenge.

“Oh, honey” He smirked doubtfully.

Butterflies flooded your gut, tingles shot across your upper back. You were nervous, but gave him no indication of that, so he figured he’d teach you lesson, put you in your place.

“Other than the word ‘stop’ is gonna make me stop. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes” You answered attempting to kiss I’m once more.

Negan kept a tight grip of you hair, but allowed you to bring your mouth to his.

He brought his other hand to your clothed center. Pulling his lips away to see your reaction.

Breathily moans began spilling out of you. Your eyes fluttering shut, focusing on his touch.

He stopped his maneuvers, “Look at me”

Once you opened your eyes and locked with his he resumed to pleasure you.

He stood up, hands still wrapped in your hair and on your womanhood. He kept you neck extended, staring into your eyes as you both stumbled toward the living room couch. His eyes told you he was excited to show you what you had not yet experienced.

He gave your final rubs before as you arrived to the L-shaped couch.

You began undressing other other. As each item of clothing disappeared you found new areas to grope each other.

“Oh fuck,” he mumbled as you reached for his heavy member, pumping him slowly.

Negan grabbed the sides of your jaw, giving you a nasty kisses before directing you in a face down position. He placed you on your knees, your rear directed upwards. The feeling the cool air gust over your wet center gave you shivers.

He lightly tapped your clit with his dick. He did that multiple times before sliding it between your folds, lubricating himself with your fluids.

“Ugh Negan... fuck” you mewled

You started to lean back into him, wanting more contact. Negan didn’t appreciate it that. He held your hip tightly with his other hand as he teased you for what felt like hours. He eventually stuck the tip of his cock inside you and sat still.

You knew if you moved he would make you wait longer. You decided to be patient and let him make the call. Admitting to yourself that he took the wheel form you once more.

Once you’re breathing settled, Negan stuck the entire length of his member in one motion, accompanied by a load groan.

“Oh fuck” you yelled as your entrance stretched around him.

Negan brought his hand to the side of your face to hold you down. You felt your check rub harsher against the couch cushion as he built up speed. The sound of his balls slapping against your wet pussy filled the family room.

His thrusts were euphoric and dominating. He was punishing you and wanted you to enjoy it.

In between his plunges you were able to catch a whiff of his cologne with his natural musk sprinkled in. That scent did something primal to you.

Your felt your release was close.

“Ne-, I’m- I’m” you started to inform him.

He began to force himself harder and deeper. You couldn’t keep your position, your pelvis dropped, your leg fell of the edge, squirming and kicking.

“Mmmmm!! Fuck!” Your toes splayed as your climax enveloped you.

You thought Negan would slow down after cumming that hard, but he kept pushing into your prone body at the same pace. Your hand reached back to brace his quad, hoping to diminish his thrusts.

Negan roughly gripped the hand that was trying to stop him and pinned it over your head, his long torso over your back, closing the space between you.

His hips continued to drive into you as he growled in your ear, , “This is what punching above you’re weight class is baby.”

You began moaning, not you’re typical moans though. The sounds escaping you sounded like a porno. If you heard a voice recording of this moment you would swear it was staged

Groans bubbled and escaped Negan as he felt his release building.

He clenched your hair and pulled out of you. You were relieved as you were becoming over sensitive.

He brought his member over your face, holding your head down onto the cushions.

His manhood hovered over you, swiftly pumping himself.

“ughhh” You heard his as his warm milky seed splattered on the side of your face.

He was breathing fast and heavy after his release. He used his member to scoop some of his cum from your cheek and brought it into your mouth.

“Dirty girl” he smiled as welcomed his cock, and sucked tenderly on his bulbous head, extracting all of him.

Afterwards Negan helped you sit up.

He picked up your shirt from the ground and handed it to you to wipe your face.

“Thanks” you said weakly, yet satisfied.

He sat beside you. Hand grazing your thigh, slowly working towards your center, as you rid your face of his seed.

The instant his finger touched you nerve bundle, you jolted away from him, lightly swatting his hand away.

“You okay?” He chuckled, stopping his movements but pulling you back close to him.

“Yeah” you answered “It was just a lot, but it was really good”

“Are you gonna listen to me now? When I say what you can handle and what you can’t?”

“Yeah”

He stared at you, wanted a different answer.

You know that look. It was the ‘yeah’-is-not-an-answer look, given to you by your own coaches.

“Yes” you said clear and respectfully.

“Good” He brought his lips to yours, slipping his tongue through.

Your make out session was interrupted by the oven.

Beep

“Let’s eat” He said.

____________________

After dinner you both hopped in the shower. You had sex again. And he was much slower and gentle in that second round.

Negan sat the edge of your bed, towel around his waist. He looked around your room, while you found something suitable for him to wear.

Half of your room was neat and well put together. The other half looked like an artists went on a bender. The wall and ground were littered with your drawings and ongoing project ideas.

“Here” you handed him unisex navy blue tee and sweats, “Let me know if they fit or not.”

You went back to your dresser to dress yourself in a Nike long sleeve and compression shorts

“How’d that work out?” You asked facing away from him.

“Take a look” He said waiting for you to see what was wrong.

You turned around and didn’t see anything fit too tight or too loose. Then you noticed the sweats were well above his ankles

You burst out laughing “Never thought I’d see you in capris“

“They fit around the waist, that’s what matters” He laughed

You both went back downstairs. Drank beer and played the stand up you had planned on watching. You both sat close to each other, in the very spot you had fucked earlier.

Mid-way Negan interrupted the special, “Hey, when do you head back to school?”

“Two weeks. We’re gonna have a little party. I’m sure my folks will invite you. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering” he said, but he really was plotting your farewell gift.

[rkivepacks]

TITLE: i’m good, i love you Series: why are you sorry? it’s not your fault you don’t love me [see previous work] Pairing: taekook/kookv/vkook (Kim Taehyung & Jeon Jungkook) Rating: PG13 Genre: angst but you’ll live Word Count: 2,029 Trigger Warning/s: swearing(?), one or two sentences of questioning self worth but not too graphic Cross-posted on: AO3/dtgloss

NOTES: ∟ banner by @rkivepacks​ ∟ request banner here ∟ request prompt/send commission here

∟ unbeta-ed ∟ the requests for a sequel for the first one was from a long time ago and im p sure when they said requests they were hoping for a fluff one but i wasnt in the mood for fluffy when i did this so...

Summary:   the difference between want and have is you

his eyes roam the words carefully printed on the wall, on the lower left part of the painting. it is where the title, date and artist are usually placed.

a piece of me is always found right beside you it follows you wherever you go it’s lonely from what i see where i stay far from you

alone.

taehyung, these days, is alone.

he is used to it but routine never makes it okay to be alone.

his sadness should not be a routine but, oh well, it is.

he stays in his average house that’s one in the lined town houses in the village. the area itself is decongested, only the people habituating each house goes in and out of their little village and everyone is almost familiar, if not knows, each other.

his own house in particular looks lived on. more so on the side of used but not so worn out. maybe the walls are not as white and clean as they used to be, a few scratches and dirts that got on it as days pass by but no ceiling has started falling down unprompted and everything works how they’re assigned to function.

taehyung would like to think he’s more sad than alone. he still has friends anyway but friends cannot always live with you on your house guised under the cover of it being a sleepover that turns into days.

but friends just like him have their own personal matters and cannot always be with him. he understands when hoseok cannot stay for more than two days and has to leave just before lunch to meet up with a close friend of his, one from outside of their group of friends so taehyung can’t have the option to ask to come with. he understands when jimin cannot come on days he’s asking him to and sometimes comes on a saturday instead of his friday night invite.

when he’s so down, he thinks he’s not entitled to his friends times but they assure him it’s not the case.

so no, he is not alone.

he goes over to the next display, going over the sculpture itself and then to the artist description posed near the display. the sculpture itself is a form that resembles a man that is slightly haunched, although it takes more than a second to realize as the form only captures the head to chest of a human body, but considering that the back part of it protrudes slightly the way a man would when lax. the main body is that of charcoal color but it was designed to portray a visual effect of a dripping paint from its head, represented with different colors which are bright enough to contrast its dark body.

the display is almost familiar and it has been staring at him longer than he stared at it.

the title is printed in bold, a sinner

love is not a sin but my thoughts about you and the way i see the word love around you is

taehyung moves on to another display, it being a worn out stack of paper that looks as if it has 300 pages of a4’s binded by a clip. he steps closer to it to inspect, knowing displays are off limits and can only be appreciated through the eyes, he skims over the word of what he found out would be a script of some sort.

he reads,

i’m drunk, i love you

the difference between want and have is you

he walks over to the last one if its placement by the exit is anything to go by, just like the last one he’s looked over, it’s a display with a single ring in the middle.

all alone

and it sits there as if it has been assigned to mock him and the ring that sits on the very bottom and far end of a box full of things he doesn’t need but can’t seem to throw away.

he reads the title and wow, yes. it’s definitely mocking him. he had been giving it the benefit of the doubt but the title is the last straw. this whole exhibit is out to mock him.

taehyung thinks he��s being over dramatic. but he also thinks this last display is offensive to him, absolutely personal.

—

taehyung sits at home, eyes on the tv he has playing as he waits for night time news.

it seems like the words of the last display he went to see that day have been imprinted on his brain, on the wall in front of him, on the ceiling as he looks up, when he close his eyes.

—

Once you told me, your eyes are always on me.

And you did, you took care of me.

Because you are that kind of person.

You put me before you.

All the time.

Which is why you are the best.

To be honest, I would not even put me before me.

—

taehyungiehyungihyung,

have you been well? i hope you are. the longest time i’ve been away from you is now and still counting— the present. the second one would be during Christmas breaks because you and your family spend it on your relatives home alternately and don’t come back until after new years. anyway... is your hair longer now? i hope it is and i hope you dont cut it. i seem to have a lot of hopes.

im packing up for a trip to a long trail not too far from here. they said it was too pretty to pass up and you get to reach the clouds.

, jungkook

taehyung reads the letter. he received it yesterday late afternoon and it doesnt have a date. jungkook often forgets to write dates so he assumes they were written at least three days ago.

it wasnt the first letter he received. he doesnt keep count but he has a few kept behind his door where he puts his mails.

in the first letter, jungkook said its best to not have taehyung write back. he goes from one place to another, he said. so, taehyung merely reads them and keeps them.

in the first letter, he also said about his sudden departure. he wanted to be away for a while and he knows his best friend would need him for the wedding so he decided to do it after. he didnt even get to say goodbye and only got a whiff of the younger when the letter came that day.

jungkook didnt say why he left and where he went. he just did. right after taehyung’s wedding, he packed up and went away from taehyung’s vicinity as far as he could.

does he know? taehyung asks. does he know i’m not married anymore?

—

his divorce with minji was something that stemmed off a petty thing.

falling out of love is a petty thing.

but, he guesses, they both cannot trap themselves in a house they’re not happy in anymore.

it was sudden, the divorce.

minji told him that she doesnt feel the same anymore. they agreed to stay off the house and after more than a week of a cool off she said she doesnt feel anything at all.

in taehyung’s case, he did not feel it the same way minji did. he only noticed once minji told him she felt that way. it made him feel that the heaviness in the room when they’re both in it was a foreboding for something.

taehyung is a giving lover. the time away from minji made him think a lot. he knows he doesn’t have a choice but to agree on the separation. forbid his thoughts, but he doesn’t want the time to come when the both of them completely falls out of love and seeks warmth from another person and then go home at night to sleep in the same bed.

he texts minji, because as accepting as he is about the decision, he’s not too keen watching a soon to be ex wife pack up and leave.

both of them were gradually moving out their personal items from the house. properties they bought with their shared money will be sold as secondhand items and some are donated.

in between moving out and settling in to a new apartment, he’s had namjoon and jimin with him and if yoongi has extra time mostly at night, he helps sort out his things.

he knew there was a missing person. he wanted to tell jungkook about it.

but jungkook wasn’t there.

—

until one day, jungkook is back.

suddenly, he’s there attending the dinner party for jin’s birthday, sat beside hoseok.

he casted him wary glances throughout the night. at some point he was even referencing to taehyung like everything’s so normal, but taehyung knows it’s just a very jungkook way of letting him know ‘i’m here and i will talk to you and acknowledge your presence whether you like it or not’. taehyung isn’t one for being petty so he went along with it. thankfully, their friends don’t seem to give too much thought into their two other friends sat on the opposite sides of the table.

the next day, jungkook seems to have arrived in taehyung’s new home at the same time a delivery for taehyung came. it eased jungkook’s nerves that he doesn’t have to go through knocking and then purposefully being ignored.

“did you order anything?” jungkook asks just as the delivery person makes their leave.

“i went and bought some essential oils.” taehyung silently gestures for the other to come in and jungkook did, locking the door behind him.

“how are you, taehyungie?” jungkook was sat in front of taehyung in the living room. there’s only the makeshift coffee table and some mats on the floor to sit on since taehyung have yet to buy a sofa.

“tired these days. in between work and unpacking. i’m jealous of kids who do nothing when they’re moving into a new home because they get a free pass to not do things around.” taehyung pouts silently, looking at the soda in can at hand while he traces a finger on the lid.

jungkook chuckles at that and after, no one speaks until, “i’ve heard about it.”

when taehyung makes no motion to respond to it, jungkook continues, “jimin hyung mentioned it to me one time that they were helping you move out so i asked... sorry.”

“it’s okay. i had friends who helped me. i got by.” taehyung winces.

“i wasn’t.” jungkook says, the here that follows hangs in the air which they know would follow.

“you were busy.” taehyung says instead.

jungkook would retaliate but he knows there’s no point.

“i sent you an invite to my exhibit. you went?” jungkook asks, hopeful.

“i did.”

“you didn’t insist to text me or write. i kind of assumed you would once you see it, but it’s okay. at least you did go to it.” jungkook pats his own thigh lightly to distract him.

“i wouldn’t know what to say. at the wedding, and even before that. i would feel something but i didn’t want to be that person and assume. i could be seeing it wrong, i don’t know.” taehyung rambles. “but then the other boys would also drop a few comments here and then.” and it’s true. sometimes jin would say teasing words and taehyung only acts as if he doesn’t get it and sometimes, he acts as if he didn’t hear it at all.

“you were happy. i don’t have any excuse.” jungkook whispers.

“now-“

“now what?”

“i guess to some extent, i liked you back. but i didn’t see it until now so i’m not going to rush this and jump into a relationship with you right away. it’s not fair to the both of us.”

“i understand. after all, your divorce is not yet finalized. i’d be here for you but i’m not gonna distract you from it.” jungkook assures him and that’s all he needs. everything will be okay.

“i know it’s the last day of your exhibit today. wanna go together?” taehyung smiles at jungkook and indeed, everything’s okay.

[labrujitaverde]

I wanted to do 2 things with this portrait use my gold paint marker (Duh) and practice fabric which is something I do not like to deal with but guess what I like how it turned out I think this girlie looks sooooo cute. I found the original reference on twitter as a skin tone picker reference and looking over them this lady caught my eye because: #1 she looks so prideful and #2 the color of her hijab is so beautiful and it blends so nicely with her skin I just think its a simple, shiny and stunnning look. Do I think I went overboard with the highlight? Yes. Do I love it? YES!! Yall wont belive but this took a while like. fu cking weeks because the markers are oil based so I have to wait until its 100% dried ugh thats why i dont touch oil paint lmfao im too impatient I literally put my watercolors in front of a fan to dry so I can keep working anyhow if you read all the caption tell me how do you like it? 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 🍁 #thisisatagfornewartist #arttag2020 #labrujitaverde #dtiys #dtiyschallenge #ilustradoras #ilustraciontradicional #dibujosencuarentena2020 #dibujoacolor #traditionalillustration #hijabifashion #traditionaldrawings #hijabiinsta #illustrationsofinstagram #illustrationstyle #hijabiillustration #muslimwomen #blackwomenportrait #portraitillustrations #portraits #headshots #portraiture #inktober #ink #mixedmedia #watercolors #oilmarkers #paintmarkers Ok ya mucho por que leiste todo esto xD https://www.instagram.com/p/CF7eEjsjDC6/?igshid=zflutpoo0v0z

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Please more of artist Jamie!!! So beautiful!

Follow up to this story

--

January 1976

 Elias Pound had known Mandy MacKenzie for all of fourmonths – but he already knew he’d gladly follow her anywhere.

 So when she proposed they spend an evening at a downtownart gallery – in a neighborhood she called SoHo (“But we have one of those inLondon,” he had protested – and she’d replied “This one has a capitalized H,silly goose”) – he immediately leapt at the chance to be with her. Even if itmeant following her on the subway (“Don’t you have one of those in London?” shehad teased), gaping at the half-beautiful, half-terrifying graffiti scrawledover the walls and seats and windows and exterior of the cars, stepping around thegarbage and panhandlers on the platform at Times Square and Grand Central whenthey transferred from the 1 to the Shuttle and then to the 6.

 Once above ground at Spring Street, he thought she’d madea mistake – for the neighborhood appeared to be stone dead, even at arelatively early hour.

 “Where is everybody?” Elias dug his hands into thepockets of his peacoat, pulse rocketing from a mix of fear and sheer joy asMandy slipped her mitten-clad hand through his arm.

 “Barely anyone lives down here,” she explained, lookingboth ways before stepping off the curb. “It’s mostly artists and galleries.They love the big old buildings – fantastic twenty-foot ceilings in the rooms.”

 A cab appeared out of nowhere, horn blaring. Mandy tuggedhis arm to stop – and the cab squealed by, the driver hurling obscenities.Calmly Mandy kept walking down Broadway, turning right onto Prince Street.

 “And how did you find out about this exhibit?”

 His eyes darted over to her; she just smiled and keptwalking.

 “Here we are!”

 And they were – for in the first sign of life since they’dleft the subway, a line snaked out of an industrial metal doorway and aroundthe corner. Elias could only see a tiny sign above the door – The Broch Gallery – and a burly man outfront, clearly the security guard.

 Elias steeled himself to wait outside in the cold –regretting he hadn’t brought his knit cap – but then Mandy marched right up tothe man at the door.

 “Hi – I’m Mandy MacKenzie,” she explained. “Elias here ismy guest. I should be on the list.”

 The man fished in his pocket and produced an index card;he squinted, looked up at Mandy, and nodded. “All set, miss. Coat check is onyour left.”

 “Thank you,” she smiled sweetly, taking Elias’ hand anddrawing him inside.

 A woman wearing black took their coats and handed themeach a small booklet. Before Elias could even glance at the cover, they turned anothercorner and came face-to-face with a panel of text on a gallery wall.

 JAMES FRASER: ART WITHOUT LIMIT, 1920-1975 – A RETROSPECTIVE

 Elias could see several dozen people milling around in atleast six adjacent galleries, sipping champagne, studying the walls intently.

 “Who’s James Fraser?” he whispered.

 Mandy looped her arm through his. “Someone I’ve admiredmy whole life. You’ll see why. Don’t bother reading the labels – I’ll be yourtour guide.”

 And she was.

 The first gallery displayed small pastels and watercolorsof New York City street scenes in the 1920s – old cars rumbling down widestreets, women in elegant dresses pushing old-fashioned baby carriages onsidewalks, children playing tag on a gorgeous summer day in Prospect Park, ruddy-facedmen toasting their joy in cavernous long-gone beer halls.

 These were interspersed with photographs. A combinationof society portraits and even more street scenes.

 “Is that the Flatiron Building?”

 “It is. Can you believe that it wasn’t yet twenty years oldwhen this photograph was taken? Even then it was still so controversial.”

 Elias tilted his head at a series of three of formal,posed paintings of different women. “Who were they?”

 “Wives of wealthy businessmen and lawyers.” Mandy noddeda thank-you to the woman who offered a tray of snacks. “He made a good livingas a portraitist. Back in the day, that was a way for men to show how muchmoney they had – by paying an artist to paint their wives. Even after photographybecame popular – they still insisted on it.”

 Elias chewed thoughtfully. “I’d think it still is a wayfor men to show how much money they have. Someone I went to school with – I rememberthere was a painting of his mother in the house. I never quite understood it.”

 Mandy led them to the next room – and Elias’ jaw justabout dropped.

 It was another portrait – but so radically different fromwhat he had just seen.

 A beautiful woman – her curly brown hair rioting aroundher ethereal face – wearing a dress that could only be described as anincredible shade of electric blue. Surrounded by sumptuous plants andblue-and-white Chinese porcelain. Strongly, confidently facing the viewer – a hintof mischief evident on her perfect lips.

 “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Mandy squeezed his hand. “Thiswas the first work that truly got him noticed.”

 “I should think so,” Elias breathed. “She’s – she’s so alive. So much more alive and presentthan in what we saw in the other room.”

 “The artistry is without comparison,” Mandy agreed. “But thescandal that surrounded the painting made it even more notorious.”

 “Scandal? What scandal? It’s a modest dress.”

 She shook her head. “This portrait was commissioned byFrank Randall, on the occasion of his wife Claire’s thirtieth birthday, in thefall of 1925.”

 “Frank Randall? As in Randall Steel? That Randall?”

 “The same,” she grinned. “Anyway – Claire Randall wasvery famous in New York society at the time for throwing very grand parties attheir townhouse on East Sixty-Eighth Street. Somehow James Fraser got aninvitation to one of their parties – and once Frank learned he was an artist,he commissioned him to paint Claire.”

 “I don’t see what’s so scandalous about that.”

 Mandy smirked above her flute of champagne. “Well – you canimagine that Claire got to know the artist quite well as he painted herportrait. So well that when the painting was delivered to the Randalltownhouse, she told Frank she was leaving him, packed her bags, and moved inwith Jamie.”

 “Oh my God!” Elias exclaimed. “Did she take the portraitwith her?”

 “Of course! It hung in Jamie’s studio on East TwelfthStreet for many years.”

 “And did they stay together?”

 Mandy set down her empty flute on a passing waiter’s tray,and took Elias’ half-empty flute. “See for yourself.”

 The next gallery was full of Claire Randall. Oilpaintings of her draped in a Japanese kimono. Pastel drawings of her reclining nudein bed, surrounded by rumpled sheets. Striking, black-and-white photographs ofher hands forming different shapes, and the curve of her spine, and the back ofher neck.

 “She was his muse,” Elias murmured.

 Mandy nodded. “My favorite is right over there.”

 It was a small photograph – just about as big as aletter-sized sheet of paper. At the bottom right of the frame was a reflectionof the old-style camera; at the middle of the frame was Claire caught mid-laugh;and peeking over her shoulder was a man – hair parted down one side, eyescreasing with laughter.

 “It’s called Joy;he took the photograph on their wedding day,” Mandy whispered. “In a publicbathroom at City Hall. Probably ten minutes after they exchanged vows.”

 Elias swallowed, his heart soaring at the explosion oflove and adoration captured so simply and elegantly in the photograph.

 “I’m surprised Randall gave her a divorce.”

 “Apparently she threatened to go to the papers with proofof all his affairs. My understanding is that it was settled quite quickly.”

 He wanted to know more – so very much more – but sheushered him into the next gallery.

 Here the artist’s style had clearly matured; thecityscapes were bolder in outline, brighter in their use of color.

 “He immigrated from Scotland as a very young man. But NewYork City has always been his home. His art documents what it’s like to livehere.”

 It did – subways, and buses, and even photographs ofairplanes landing at Kennedy or LaGuardia. Interspersed with photographs ofClaire as she got older – still smiling, now in color – in what appeared to bethe same East Twelfth Street studio.

 Before he knew it, they were in the last gallery. Whichheld a single artwork – another painting of Claire, posed almost identically asshe had been in the scandalous portrait. Surrounded by ferns, and Chineseporcelain; wearing another electric blue dress. Her face had more wrinkles, andher hair was gray – but she was still so vibrantly alive.

 Mandy withdrew her arm, but he didn’t realize she hadcompletely left his side until an unfamiliar voice spoke beside him.

 “Personally I prefer this one to the older one.”

 “I’d have to agree,” Elias remarked, turning to his newneighbor. “In fact – ”

 He froze.

 “It’s you,” he croaked.

 Claire Fraser – hair still curly after all these years,wearing a bright green dress and gorgeous silver jewelry – smiled.

 “It’s me,” she agreed. “Jamie painted this one to commemoratemy eightieth birthday last October – and, of course, the fiftieth anniversarysince the first one.”

 “Oh my God,” Elias breathed. “I – you – um, you are verybeautiful.”

 Then Mandy appeared, and slung an arm around Claire’sside. “Are you flirting with my grandma?”

 “Grandma?”

 “Come on, Mandy – you’ll make the poor man suffer a heartattack right here. I thought you told me you liked him.”

 Stupidly Elias stuck out one hand. “I’m Elias Pound.”

 Claire laughed. “Yes, I know. Mandy’s told us all aboutyou. You study engineering together, right?”

 “Always had a head for numbers, that one.” An older manappeared beside Claire, and kissed her cheek. “Just like our daughter – her Mam.God knows where she got that from.”

 Claire nodded at Elias. “Jamie, this is Elias.”

 Elias gulped. “H-hi,” he stammered.

 “Ach, no need to be shy, lad! I dinna bite.” Jamie Fraserheartily clapped Elias’ shoulder. “So – do ye like the paintings?”

 “Be honest,” Mandy teased.

 Elias cleared his throat. “I – um – yes. I’m stillgetting to know New York, and it’s so interesting to see how your workdocuments how the city has changed.”

 Jamie looked over at his granddaughter, one still-redeyebrow raised. “Very astute observation. Good that he appreciates things thataren’t numbers.”

 Mandy groaned. “Be nice, Grand-da. We go to museums allthe time – we get in for free with our student IDs.”

 Elias cleared his throat. “Also, sir, your work is one ofthe most honest and pure representations of love that I’ve ever seen. I – I can’tquite describe it, but I can just feelit pouring out of the frame. It makes my heart race. And that’s something thathasn’t changed – am I right?”

 Jamie and Claire and Mandy – she had Jamie’s eyes, herealized – looked at him, eyes wide. Quietly Mandy stepped forward to take hishand, squeezing it. So proud.

 “Thank you,” Jamie whispered, drawing Claire to his side.“You understand. She’s everything.”

 “Yes,” Elias agreed, looking at Mandy. “She is.” 

[hortascountrysidenotes]

Reasons to be cheerful part 4

Lots of reasons - first of all Maigold is coming out and she is a tonic.  She has been here for 30 years, never fails to disappoint, and when the sad day comes that she no longer feels inclined to live, she will be missed like a dear old lab for the joy she brings.

Second, I finished my painting of the lovely Primula Guinevere and got what I think would be the equivalent of an A from my teacher with best composition yet, red ink gold star - so it is being sent to my sister for her birthday next month.

Thirdly, I have come late to the story of Captain Tom, but was fully alerted to him during a moment of intense scrutiny of the BBC website, when I saw his tie - Hello I thought, that looks like a Duke of Wellington’s Regimental tie - Blood and Steel - and sure enough on further investigation it turned out to be so.  Not only that but he fought in Burma and India and my brother who commanded the Dukes, is now investigating to see if he could have fought alongside our father during the same campaign.  Further investigations into the story have brought information as to the difficulty the Yorkshire Regiment (as they are now called) are having, with the logistics in Covid time of providing the guard of honour and dealing with all the unexpected media!  I gather Captain Tom quite rightly has politely told some of the media to buzz off as he wants to talk to the soldiers! Great chap.

Fourthly - well lots of small reasons really, the continuing quietness in the countryside and the time to watch the birds and natural world.  Each morning whilst doing my PT down the bottom of the common I have been watching a delightful pair of Bullfinches in the blackthorn bush beside me - picking off the buds and chatting to each other.  His red shirt looks so smart against white blossom and azure sky.  This morning a chiff chaff, swaying on a high stem dishing out Chiff Chaff Chiff Chaff with the energy of an opera singer. 

Asparagus is coming on and we have had two very small helpings.  The roses are recovering from their deer attack and new shoots are forming up.  Peonies that have been blank for years have got fat buds so I am continuing to water them. Even the disease ridden Pyracantha outside the back door which normally looks like its got measles looks better - could it be because I watered it prolifically three weeks ago with a tonic of iron and seaweed - maybe it has a stay of execution.

I have also given a bucketful of the same to the Star Jasmine - Trachelospermum jasminoides under and around the sitting room windows. I find this plant, despite being Mediterranean, needs a decent amount of water which being against a house wall it does not get.  It also gets attacked by scale insect which leaves a horrible black sticky secretion on the upside of the leaves.  I have therefore sprayed it with soft soap - actually Savon du Fer which comes from Marseilles - is black and treacly, but when mixed with hot water and dissolved, forms a brilliantly organic (semi) spray against all kinds of insects such as aphids.  It has also been used this time on the sage against capsid bugs who leave those horrible little holes in the leaves of all the salvia family and indeed dahlias.  Another fellow being pursued currently is our smartly turned out visitor THE LILY BEETLE - they are a real pain but jolly sporting - they sense you coming and leap off, falling upside down so as not to be seen with their undercarriage being black.  But years of practice have taught me how to creep up on them.  As an experiment I have squirted the last drops of the soft soap on the plants - today I shall go a hunting, and see if I can see any.  I am particularly protecting my martagon lilies which are doing so well at the top of the garden.

Swallows are settled and one of the nests duly repaired and got ready. A pair of jays are hunting too hard for my liking but I am trying to be tolerant - at the top of the garden I did see a blackbird chasing them off - no doubt its nest has been discovered.  The Shellduck are back nesting on the farm.  In the meadows and on the common Ladysmock is now out and the bluebells in the woods a delight.

The only reason not to be cheerful is the continued lack of rain - a very very little came our way on Friday night and early Saturday, not enough to even make the tiles run.  So I must continue watering the new young plants and the veg.  Next big job will be preparing the greenhouse for the tomato plants which I am going to do slightly differently this year.  I am going to dig out the little planting strip in the greenhouse removing the old soil and refill it with some of the pond silt and fresh compost - I have 40 bags of Dalesfoot Compost coming on a pallet on Monday, as I am beginning to think grobags are not very nutritious - our tomato cropping rate compared to my genius brother in law is very low.  He grows his in the special little gadgets as do I, which you fill the outer part of, with water, but allows them to root directly into the soil underneath in his greenhouse . 

Once my compost arrives I can also sow the leeks in the root trainers and next spring’s brassicas.  Last year’s leeks were a complete disaster as I was lazy and tried growing them direct into the soil - clearly they were gobbled up by ants or someone as we got the princely number of 2 out of 100 which is not a good rate of return!

Lastly the girls - they are so happy - Inca lies in her favoured position in front of the Holm Oaks whenever the sun is hot enough.  Mavis bustles about from compost heap to bonfire and basically wherever she might find the butt end of a piece of brassica.  She absolutely ADORES them, so much so, that as we walk the lanes she grazes gently on oil seed rape as she goes along - quite bizarre - she loves the fresh flower heads and comes out covered in yellow pollen!  Scouty is in her dotage now - she still loves a good walk, but only once a day and makes it clear that her place is now outside the front door in the morning sun - please put my bed there - outside the back door in the afternoon and then as it gets chilly around 6 she moves to her favoured position on the sofa waiting for the evening’s entertainment to start.  She looks wonderful,  the fur is nearly fully back and I think she is a very happy dog with her beloved Miss Horta at home all the time. We are doing a little training most days - Mavis is loving it - yesterday we should have been doing a Novice Test at Sandringham - a shame these things have had to be cancelled, but it may get rescheduled for the autumn - Mavis might be in pup by then, not counting my chickens at all on that one, in which case we will be a non runner, but we wait and see - it is impossible to make any plans.

Jobs to do - time to sow courgettes and french beans etc if not already done. Prick out and pot on seedlings, tomato plants etc.  Keep an eye for bugs and beasties now and if a plague then use the above method if absolutely necessary.  Tie in shoots of climbers and make sure clematis are secure in case of high winds.  Stake and put in supports for herbaceous plants.  Water - if you have containers full of tulips etc - photo attached - remember they have had no significant rain and could be very dry.  Lift hyacinth bulbs from pots as soon as foliage has pretty much died off, store in a sack in a dry place for replanting in autumn.  Sweet peas can be planted out if not already done. Masses of veg to sow.  Potatoes should appear soon so be ready to earth them up. Dont cut lawns too short while they are under stress from lack of rain. Maybe learn to live with them a bit longer - saves fuel and allows a few low growing wildflowers such as ground ivy and clover to flower for the pollinators.

HORTA

[imnotcameraready]

chivalry is dead (10)

A/N: asdklgasldf logan is the second main character at this point, i realize. i dont have any Qualms with that but also there’s gonna be whiplash once he starts being not-super-main. also meet the artist, more!!! he’s a very interesting one

WARNINGS: arguing, yelling, knife, threatening, death threats, food/food mention (i should have tagged that in chapter 8 — gonna fix that ASAP it’s written on my arm :’D) — if i missed anything too, please let me know!!! 

Words: 6325

AO3 link!

MASTERPOST!

@starlightvirgil @forrestwyrm @daflangstlairde @marshmallow-the-panda@askthesnake @k9cat @patromlogil 

General: @jemthebookworm​

enjoy !!! <3 <3 <3  <3 

Logan woke up first.

He rubbed his face, not changing his position just yet. He noticed that the room’s ceiling was red, with baby pink clouds floating along. Perhaps this reflected on the weather outside, or the sunrise? Either way, it was pretty.

He sat up, putting his glasses on fluidly. Patton was still fast asleep, light snores drifting  from against the bean bag he was spooning. The Child seemed to be a rambunctious sleeper, as his legs were bent over the bed’s edge, blanket covering his face.

He hadn’t forgotten their revelations from the previous night, not at all, and a small, content sigh escaped his lips when he saw that both of his companions were asleep sound. It was a well deserved rest.

According to his internal clock, it was definitely past sunrise, a fair 7:12 a.m. It occured to Logan that “after sunrise” was the most nondescript timestamp he could have placed on their reunion with Deceit and Virgil, but he didn’t have the energy yet to worry about that. After all, he doesn’t function well without coffee. He also should have been concerned about the Artist downstairs. Surely he has to sleep, too, though? And it was unlikely he’ll attempt violence this early in the morning.

Most important, however, is the fact that Logan needs coffee.

Carefully, he stepped around Patton towards the door, taking his cloak with him. He took care to move slow down the stairs, letting the wooden steps creak slowly instead of in loud snaps.

The ground floor hadn’t changed since the previous night. Paintings and art equipment were still strewn about in an organizational method probably only understood by the Artist himself. The man in question was splayed out on what seems to be a small couch — in front of the easel from last night. Along with that, the stool had disappeared. It wasn’t a healthy practice, but Logan had to admit that it was efficient to simply change one seat for another as bedtime rolled around.

Coffee time.

He walked around the couch, still careful about his footsteps, and entered the kitchen. There was a coffee machine in the corner that Logan immediately put to use. Now, with a warm mug in his hands, he squinted around at the setting.

He should make breakfast for everyone. He had the time, and food would greatly sustain himself, Patton, and probably the Child for their future endeavors. Perhaps the Artist would also enjoy a meal? Yes, the Artist reportedly doesn’t like them, but it would be against Logan’s nature to take that sort of statement at face value without running his own experiments.

First, he had to know what he had to work with. Logan opened the refrigerator — why were there modern appliances in a medieval setting? He would have to ask….someone — and found it sparse but useable. There was a full carton of eggs, and milk.

After water testing each egg, Logan set a pan over one of the stove burners. He would have to ask about consistency in setting because, um, a stove? He wasn’t about to not use it, but he was judging the “historical accuracy” that the Playwright had harped about.

Speaking of the Playwright. Logan leaned on the counter with his butt and took the Playwright’s book out of his jacket pocket. In all of last night’s hassle, he’d forgotten to check the “Author’s Notes” section, and there had to have been even more updates since then. He nearly flipped the cover on instinct but a distinct golden glow caught his eye.

The ribbon decal was still adorned on the front, though it was noticeably less impactful than the golden circle in the center. The sun of Roman’s crest. The Child. Logan ran his thumb over it, watching as it actually exuded a warm yellow glow around his finger. If Logan was still willing to trust the Playwright’s explanation, then that meant they’d won the Child over. That he trusted them.

He squinted at the cover. The ribbon was a divot in the cover, like leather pressing. Probably to mark the book, maybe even to fool the Sides into letting him go without argument.

Even lighter on the cover, though, was the outline of the crest. The leather was a dark red color, but closer to the center was a lighter red, more matching of Roman’s sash, and there was a light indentation marking where the crest’s border would be. Perhaps it was because they had met more figments? Or maybe Virgil and Deceit had met with another part enough to make a mark? Either option was promising.

The former seemed to be the case, because the Table of Contents had extended to include….multiple more Romans. It seemed that Virgil and Deceit had been busy. Below the Playwright and the Author Notes was now “The Child,” “The Thief,” “The Artist,” “The Bard,” “The Dragon,” and “The Damsel.” That was all seven. Transfixed, he began flipping to “The Dragon.”

There were bullet pointed notes, but no sketch like there had been for the Playwright. Perhaps it would update with more once they’d found him.

“- Lives in the castle

- Wants to kill everyone

- Would not hesitate (bitch)

- Captured and tortured Damsel

- I cannot stress this enough — DO NOT ENGAGE”

Logan raised an eyebrow. A villain. A very cliche villain, too, given that he was a dragon. He wasn’t necessarily inclined to trust the Playwright’s warnings, though. Surely there wasn’t really a form of Roman who would want to kill all of them? Perhaps throttle, but not murder.

“You’re not Teacher Dude, are you?”

Logan nearly dropped the book. He snapped it shut and whirled around, ascot flapping into his face. The Artist stood in the kitchen’s entry, sleep still evident in his eyes behind the same glasses Logan wore. He squinted at Logan as though daring him to lie.

Which, of course, he did. Logan straightened his posture and fixed his outfit, carefully sliding the book back into his jacket pocket. “I am. Cur of you to say that,” the Teacher Dude smiled, right? He was a little more of a funny man. Logan smiled.

The Artist winced. “You sure as hell aren’t an actor. Dad Guy wakes up first. Teacher Guy’s has a trash sleep schedule, since he procrastinates on grading papers. You’re Logic.”

Logan….supposed that was valid. He didn’t know enough about the Teacher’s character to refute that claim. He cleared his throat and turned back to the pan, beginning to crack the eggs for the scramble.

Hang on. Was his smile that unnatural?

The Artist took his silence as a yes. He nodded to the coffee machine. “Mind if I take some of that?”

Logan nodded, stepping away from the machine. “Of course.”

The Artist nodded back and began fixing himself a mug. He stood beside Logan, who pushed the half-cooked eggs around the pan in an effort to maintain some air of regularity. He only felt a little awkward, considering the Child’s warnings and the yelling match he had with Playwright the night prior.

It didn’t seem that the Artist cared, though. After he poured himself coffee, he stayed in the kitchen, leaning on the counter and watching Logan cook.

“The Child brought you, right?” The Artist sipped his coffee, watching Logan’s shoulders hike up when he spoke.

“Yes. He did,” Logan said.

“So Padre’s upstairs, too.”

“Yes,” Logan exhaled slowly, “Do you want any breakfast?”

The Artist looked at the eggs. Logan really just made them breakfast, huh?

“I don’t eat. We don’t need to,” he looked back up at Logan’s face, squinting, “Wouldn’t that be illogical?”

Logan raised an eyebrow. Okay. Maybe he was a little scared, but Logan wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to point  out that he was being a petty baby.

“Well,” the Artist rolled his eyes as Logan began to explain. “Roman typically eats meals with us, so everyone maintains an even circadian rhythm. While unnecessary in the literal sense, breaking from that routine has likely damaged your stamina, resulting in phantom hunger cramps. My current hypothesis is that that’s what you’re feeling, or….that you don’t want to eat because I’m here.”

There, he said it. Logan could see the hostility in the Artist’s eyes. There was more, something heavier and deeper, probably a nuance he wasn’t picking up on, but the bitterness was indisputable. Or was it simply sadness? Nevermind that.

The feeling in his chest was tight now, not like the fluttering he’d pondered last night. This was more upsetting. It felt like the thing gripping his lungs had a tighter hold, almost threatening. Why was this such a surprise? He knew that the Artist didn’t like him. He should stop developing preconceived opinions of these different Romans, because it wouldn’t benefit him if he continued entering these situations with fallacious speculations.

The Artist averted his gaze, and then turned around. A quiet concession, it seemed. He opened the freezer and pulled out a bag of hash brown patties. “I’ll make hash browns,” his voice was low, almost a whisper.

Logan didn’t want to let it go, though. He had to know. “The Child mentioned that you dislike us.”

Oof, maybe he was being too bold, because he winced at his own words. The Artist was also taken aback; he probably didn’t think Logan would bring up the room’s incredible tension.

For a few seconds, they just stared at each other, unsure of how to continue. The Artist recovered first, with a sharp shake of his head. “I don’t,” he said, even quieter.

He opened the bag and took out another pan, heating some oil. Logan took a step back, setting the eggs down on the counter.

“So you do like us? Us being myself and my compatriots.”

“I mean. I don’t not like you,” the Artist began flipping the patties, “Doesn’t mean I like you.”

Logan frowned. “Can you elaborate?”

The Artist cast him a wary glance, then looked back at the hashbrowns. “I’m indifferent. I don’t need you, and you don’t need me, so we’re at a comfortable numbness.”

Comfortable numbness. What was that, a call back? Logan leaned on the wall, watching the Artist cook quietly.

It seemed that the Artist quickly forgot his presence, too, as he began to hum. He flipped the finished patties one by one onto the drying plate. A little airheaded, perhaps? But he had been quite astute earlier. Or maybe Logan just was a really bad actor — he didn’t know. He did know, however, that the tightness in his lungs was softening.

Logan cleared his throat, and the Artist didn’t react. “What are your….plans?”

“Paint,” he responded simply.

“....anything else?” Wow, it was hard getting this one to talk. The Child had been so ready to explain everything to himself and Patton the night prior.

The Artist seemed to consider his question for a second, as though contemplating if it were worth his time. It seemed to be. “Kick you all out. You, Pitterpatt, and Child being here is puts a target on my house, Professor Binns. I would prefer to not draw Dragon’s attention.”

That was understandable. Logan let his shoulders relax — he definitely hadn’t been worried about an argument or actual physical confrontation, given how the biting the Artist had been the night prior — and he followed the Artist in arranging a plate.

They worked in silent tandem, though once the Artist was finished, he set his plate aside and opened the cabinet overhead. He pulled out a toaster, then a loaf of bread, and finally, to Logan’s surprise, a jar of Logan’s berry Crofters jelly.

The Artist caught a glimpse at Logan’s expression and met him with a tired shrug. “It’s a good flavor,” he turned back around once the slices of toast popped up. Logan’s face mustn’t have changed, because the Artist squinted at him again, suspiciously, and added, “What are you, the jelly police? Fuck off.”

Logan blinked, then turned back to the eggs. He stepped back again, now feeling out of his depths as the Artist toasted eight slices of bread and set all but two aside. Those he took for himself, spreading each with a thick layer of jelly. When it looked like he was done, Logan stepped forward, but the Artist just turned toward him with a stoic expression.

“I’m going to start painting. Don’t,” the Artist pointed the spreading knife at Logan, voice dropping to a threatening tone, “Interrupt me. After you’re all done eating, I want you all out of my house.”

It seemed that he really cared about his work. Logan fixed his glasses, lowering the jelly covered knife with his finger.

“Of course,” he said, licking his finger clean of jelly.

Oh, fuck yeah, that was the good shit.

The Artist, happy with his response, nodded and swiveled the knife around. Logan took the handle and they rotated, the Artist walking away to his easel and Logan to his jelly. It occurred to Logan, then, that if he had a question he should ask it now. Before it became a safety hazard to ask.

“Wait.”

The Artist, just about to sit, looked up at him with a frown. “What?”

Logan looked around at the piles upon piles of paintings. They had intrigued him since the night before, but he’d wanted permission before inspecting.

“May I look at your art after breakfast? I assure you that I will not damage any of your works.”

The Artist looked around, too, and pinched his brows. His hands came up to run through his hair.

Logan shifted his weight awkwardly. It was a fairly simple question, but the pregnant pause implied some deeper worry.

Well, it was Logan. While he wasn’t a big fan OF Logan, he and Virgil were the least likely to physically damage them.

He loved Patton, but the man would probably drop a few of them without realizing the damage that’d do to the canvas. And Deceit….he wasn’t a big fan of fake compliments.

On the alternative hand, Logan was most likely to critique them.

The Artist was sure he couldn’t take that. Not right now, not with this ridiculous art block and murder game interfering with his creative process. On any other day, he would be able to bear the brunt of….no, no. He probably couldn’t take any criticism. That sort of mental processing went to another facet of himself.

But, when Logan PRAISED him….it felt like the world. It felt like the sunset casting a warm glow upon the summer’s night. Like a bird training to fly who’d fallen from a nest only to take off and soar. Like glimmering flashes across a lake at sunrise.

Oh, it felt like heaven.

Was it all worth that one possible compliment?

“Sure,” the Artist found himself saying, hands resting on the back of his head, “Knock yourself out.”

Logan frowned. “I assure you, I do not plan on making myself unconscious.”

The Artist waved his hand, suddenly more distracted looking as his eyes flew around between his current work-in-progress and the other paintings. “It means go ahead. I’m going to begin painting. Tell Pat-in-the-Hat and Child not to disturb me.”

He screwed his eyes shut, drew in a breath, and….summoned a sketch pad and pencil. Logan watched as he began repeating the same hand movement over and over across the blank page, an art warm-up.

For a second, he was honestly proud that Roman remembered his suggested warm-ups. He’d been worried, once Roman first took up sketching as a means to jot his ideas down, that the creative side’s erratic nature would mean less self-care, so he researched a few ways to prevent hand cramps when drawing. Adequate art warm-ups was one of those ways and was a way to prevent one’s hand growing stiff.

Well. This whole morning was definitely a shift from the snappy, angry Artist from last night. Logan briefly wondered what the change may have been.

No matter. He should probably eat before engaging in any of the art; he would hate to dirty it. He also didn’t want to get in the Artist’s way. The Artist had just put his plate down beside the stool and immediately begun working, and to be honest, that didn’t bode well for the food. But it was too late for Logan to bring that up, especially with such explicit instructions.

For someone who disliked order, the Artist followed his personalized organizational methods to the dot.

Logan stayed in the kitchen, watching him paint from afar, letting his eyes wander over the other pieces. Slowly, he sat on the ground, crossing his legs and leaning against the wall. It was peaceful

Okay, well, that was interrupted by pounding on the steps above. Logan turned just in time to see Patton peek out from around the stair’s bend, hair still fairly disheveled and glasses lopsidedly resting on his nose.

“Well, good morning!” he said with a grin.

The Artist didn’t react, continuing in his warm-up routine, but Logan waved. “Good morning, Patt,” he said.

“It’s nice to see you, Roman!” the Artist rolled his eyes, but stiffened immensely when Patton hugged him from the side.

He didn’t loosen when Patton let go and moved on to Logan, still leant on the counter, hand resting on his chest, emotional outburst behind him. Patton had hugged him.

“Good mornin’, Logarithm!”

Okay. Logan drew in a small breath. That nickname? “Did you just call me logarithm?” Logan asked, raising an eyebrow.

He was a little astounded that Patton knew what a logarithm was. Patton nodded, still chipper as ever. “Yep! If you write logarithms in their regular, no numbers-form, it’s your name!”

Logan squinted.

Holy fuck.

While Logan ran that pun through his mind, Patton went to the kitchen. “Did you both make breakfast?” he asked, ignoring that Logan was still trying to figure out how he hadn’t discovered his own name-pun and that the Artist hadn’t un-frozen yet from his hug.

Despite the lack of response, Patton continued, making himself a plate. “You’re so sweet! I’m glad you were working together this morning, then!”

Logan smiled a tiny bit. They had worked fairly well, hadn’t they? He stole a glance at the Artist, who was still frozen. He was looking at Patton with a weirdly choked expression, though. A cross between anger and something else.

His eyes flicked down to the Artist’s food, mostly eaten. He must have eaten it while Logan wasn’t paying attention.

“Logie, did you eat?” It seemed that Patton hadn’t noticed how stressed the Artist looked.

“Yes, Patt, I did. Thank you for your concern. I am going to do my and the Artist’s dishes now,” Logan picked up the Artist’s plate from the ground, not looking at him as he took them both to the kitchen. “Has the Child woken up yet?”

Patton shook his head, leaning on the wall behind the counter while Logan began to clean the dishes. “Nope! He’s out like a light!”

He looked over at the Artist, who was still as a statue, and turned back to Logan in a more hushed voice. “Is he okay?” he asked.

Logan glanced at the Artist, then looked back at Patton. “I cannot say. He was fine earlier,” did Logan want to mention that he stiffened only after Patton hugged him?

Yes. It was better to not hide these things. “He hasn’t moved since you hugged him,” Logan whispered, “Maybe he is a touch-averse Roman?”

Immediately, Patton was regretful. Gosh, he hoped he hadn’t upset the Artist. Roman was usually the only Side okay with spontaneous hugs, and he’d been too sleepy to remember that the multiple Roman situation meant every Roman might have different boundaries.

Should he apologize? Probably. That was the good thing to do!

Patton spun back around and walked up to the Artist, who was still frozen. “Sorry for the hug, kiddo,” Patton said, rubbing the back of his head, “I, uh, hope I didn’t paint myself in any bad light!”

The Artist blinked, then looked up at him, mouth pressed into a firm line. Patton actually flinched from the confused anger in his gaze. The pun couldn’t have been that bad. Could it?

He opened his mouth, irritation clearly mounting, but then clamped back down and bit his lip. He looked away, not reacting to Patton’s bewilderment, and simply starred at the painting he’d been working on. It hadn’t been ruined, oh, no, he hadn’t even started yet. His mind had just been abruptly yanked away from the Zone.

“It’s okay,” the Artist spoke through gritted teeth, “I already talked to Delbert Doppler over there. Please leave me to my work.”

Patton stepped back when the Artist extended his hands, conjuring a paintbrush and the palette that they’d seen him using the previous night. And then he set to painting.

It’d be a lie to say Patton wasn’t a little hurt, despite the already-negative impression the Artist had left. But he was hoping that’d been a late-night kind of fluke! A little moment where the Artist was just too tired and stressed! And he’d heard Logan and him working together well earlier….

“Patt,” Logan’s voice drew his attention back to the kitchen.

He was holding a plate fully set with eggs, hash browns, and two lightly-jammed slices of toast. Logan met Patton’s surprised expression with a small smile. “Breakfast?”

“Oh!” Patton took the plate and plastered on a smile. “Thank you, Lo!”

Neither seemed sure of what to do — did either remember the events of last night? After a few awkwardly quiet moments of smiling at each other, Logan cleared his throat and stepped back. “I am going to look around at the paintings that Artist has done. I would recommend staying in here,” he gestured to the kitchen, “As Artist is….fairly serious about not damaging his work. And not being disturbed.”

“Oooh, gotcha. That’s probably why he’s been a lil’ snappy, right?” That made sense in Patton’s mind! If the Artist wanted to not be disturbed, and Patton had unintentionally disturbed him, it made sense that he’d be a little peeved but not too mad or sad. Smad, if you would.

Logan nodded. “Perhaps. Either way, it would be better if we don’t disturb him,” he looked around at the art and picked up the first painting.

While Logan parsed through the different works, Patton sat down cross legged in the kitchen, munching happily on the eggs. Logan must have made them, he really did make the best eggs! The perfect level of juicy and cooked.

….It made him miss Virgil. The routine was to do famILY breakfasts, with Virgil, Patton, Logan, and Roman all sitting around the kitchen table. Patton leaned back on the wall and let out a small exhale. A small part of him wondered if they’d ever get to do that again, if Roman was going to be so changed after this. The Playwright hadn’t actually taken their words into consideration. He didn’t know how much they loved him.

How much Patton loved him.

Because, yeah, he could admit it. Patton was in love with EVERYONE. Virgil, Logan, Roman, even Deceit — it felt like swimming in honey, thick and goopy and wrapping around him in a warm embarrassment whenever Roman yanked him into a dance in the kitchen, or Virgil leaned on him during movie night. Whenever Logan read him a favored part of whatever he was reading, or when Deceit would trade puns and one liners with him.

He was floored, surrounded by this bubbly love that felt like a celebratory champagne.

Probably. It was probably love. Sifting through emotions may have been part of his job description, but that didn’t mean he was good at it. And he didn’t know if anyone felt the same, if anyone loved him back. Logan’d said something the other night, but…. And it wasn’t his job to sift through HIS emotions. Just Thomas’, technically.

Wait, was this just a different take on Thomas’ self-love?

Either way, the fluffiness he felt, the warmth at the tips of his fingers and the tingling in his cheeks when he smiled at seeing his lovely boys….It was nice.

It was all nice.

Just as nice as those paintings.

Logan had peeked through two stacks and found a lot. First, none of them were finished. Whether it simply lacked depth, or was literally half-painted, or only had base colors, none of these paintings were remotely completed. Every single one that Logan had seen was a work in progress.

Beyond that, he’d found multiple scenes of himself and the other Sides. There was one in particular he was….quite fond of, in all honesty. He’d looked it over for a few minutes. It was a half-finished painting of himself, sitting on the couch in the Mind Palace. And the only “finished” part was himself, fully colored in a semi-realistic impressionist warming glow.

Was that how Roman saw him? He knew that the impressionist movement emphasized the perception of events and movements, taking care of the lighting in environments to reflect not only upon the realistic light sources, but also on how the artist perceives such moments. It seemed….

Well, he didn’t much believe that the Artist was disliked them. Not after seeing these. But it unnerved him that so many were unfinished and unfocused. What was Roman lacking? Was it just an art block?

Patton stood up and patted Logan’s side. “I’m gonna wake up Child,” he whispered, glancing sideways at the Artist, who was painting now, “Get him some breakfast so we can be on our way.”

Logan nodded, putting a painting of a simple house down. “Very well. As soon as he is ready, we should leave. The Artist expressed a desire for all three of us to leave.”

Patton’s brow furrowed, and looked at the Artist, who wasn’t paying them any mind. The Child had to leave, too? Patton just wanted to say goodbye, he didn’t think that they’d be taking him with him. Wasn’t it dangerous outside?

“Wouldn’t it be safer for him to stay here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Logan now.

Logan pursed his lips.

Patton was probably right. It….was logical, that the Child would be safer hidden here, between multiple failsafes. “The Artist didn’t want him to stay here,” Logan murmured, “I am unsure why.”

“Well, how about we ask him!”

“Ask who what?”

Patton and Logan looked up to see the Child standing in the stairway, rubbing his eyes, yawning wide. He smacked his lips and grinned at them as they stood in the kitchen entryway, watching with slightly stricken expressions. If he saw anything wrong with that, though, he didn’t say.

“Awh, is that breakfast?!” the Child bounded down from the stairs and launched himself from the base, sliding his socked feet along the smoothed wooden floor.

He slid straight into Patton, who caught him with a “Woop!” This Roman was much more of a hugger, as the Child wrapped his arms around Patton’s hip and squeezed him tight.

Love

The Child snuggled his face into Patton’s side, until he caught a whiff of the eggs. “Oh my God,” he leaned back, though kept his hands balled in Patton’s shirt, “Did Loga–Did Logic make eggs?”

Okay, Logan honestly had no idea his eggs were this popular. “I–um, yes, I did,” he stepped back into the kitchen, “Are you able to make your own plate?”

“Um,” the Child rubbed his chin in thought — Patton was going to die, right here, in the Imagination, because Roman as a kid was so adorable. Just, the cutest. Curse the natural dad instincts — “I think I can!”

He hopped over to the counter, which he could barely peek over, and grabbed a plate. Carefully, and Logan watched just in case, the Child loaded up a plate of eggs, hash browns, and toast. And the whole rest of jelly jar.

He shot Logan a squinted, suspicious look, and held the jelly jar closer. “This one’s mine,” he hissed, “You jelly fiend.”

Logan didn’t know whether to be offended or pleased that that was his reputation. Like….this was a child. But also, he was a serious man with serious problems to attend to, and being labeled a “jelly fiend” was detrimental to that reputation.

But he was talking to a child, THE Child. He may as well play along. He looked to Patton for help, but only found the moral side with his fists pressed up to his cheek, figurative stars in his eyes while watching the Child spoon the jelly out of the jar and consume it.

Logan put his hands up in defeat. “I will not take your jelly,” he said.

“Promise?” the Child asked, pointing the spoon at Logan accusingly.

Alright. He’d admit it. The Child was a positive influence. “I promise.”

The Child raised an eyebrow, but said nothing else. Evidently placated by Logan’s promise, he licked the spoon.

While Logan dealt with the Child, Patton moved closer to the Artist. He hadn’t let go of the whole you’re-letting-a-child-lose-in-a-murder-situation thing and really, nothing anyone said was going to make him let go of that.

And, yeah, sure, Logan and the Artist both said not to bother him. But it couldn’t be that bad! They’d be out of his hair as soon as he said he’d let the Child stay. Patton didn’t understand the harm in a quick interruption. “Artist?”

No response.

Patton frowned. He didn’t want to touch him — Logan’s comment about him being touch averse still lingered in his mind — so Patton just stepped around and stood behind the painting, waving a hand and hoping to attract his attention.

“Hey, Roman!” he said. “Artist!”

Finally, the Artist acknowledged him, in a quick “Mhm.”

“Look at me?” Patton asked.

“Mhm.”

Okay, so the Artist wasn’t paying attention. This was a really important topic, and Patton, sadly, needed his full attention. Patton grabbed his shoulders, and the Artist stiffened again.

Careful of the painting, Patton pulled the easel back, squatting in front of the Artist so they were about equal height.

Uh oh. The Artist looked stricken, staring at Patton with eyes as wide as the moon and a mouth slightly open, slackjawed and confused. Behind them, the Child babbled to Logan about stars while Logan responded gently about constellations. Neither seemed to know of what was going on.

“Hey, Artist,” Patton smiled a little, trying to ease whatever tension there may be, “I’m sorry for bothering you! I just wanted to ask, um….” he bit his lip, it’s okay, just ask, “Would it be okay if Child stayed here?”

“What?!”

Hearing his name, the Child looked up. He and Logan both starred at Patton and the Artist, finally realizing that Patton had done the one explicit thing that the Artist had been adamant that no one do.

And, well, to be fair. Patton wasn’t usually one to press boundaries. He would be okay with letting the Artist paint for however long he wanted, so long as he took healthy breaks and ate a lunch and dinner eventually. But this was a dire situation. The Child had someone hunting him! Someone who wanted to hurt him.

Letting him hide, stay out of trouble, that was the right thing to do. Roman would understand, surely.

“No,” the Artist said.

Well.

Patton frowned, running his hands along the Artist’s upper arms and gently holding him steady. Maybe he just had to explain?

“Well,” he said, “It’s deadly outside, and we don’t want him getting hurt, right? Don’t you wanna keep him safe?”

The paintbrush and palette disappeared from the Artist’s hands as they slowly curled into fists. His lip was twitching, too, revealing a barely-contained anger.

Patton had done the ONE thing….

The Artist sucked in a breath. “....I don’t give much of a fuck, Dad. I told you all to leave.”

Someone yanked Patton back, causing him to let go of the Artist. He turned around, ready to reprimand Logan, only to find that Logan was nowhere to be seen.

The Child tugged Patton back a little more away from the Artist, teeth pressed together into a wide grimace. He shot Patton a small look, terrified and distressed, and pulled him toward the door.

“We’re on our way out, Arty!” the Child said, running around Patton and giving him a sharp push toward the door, “ I’m sorry, I didn’t tell Pat to say that, we’re gonna head out—”

Logan ran down the stairs, holding Patton and the Child’s cloaks in his arms. He handed the Child’s cloak to him, letting him put it on himself.

He wasn’t entirely sure why they had to leave so soon, but after Patton said the Child’s name, he’d turned to Logan with a petrified expression and whispered that they had to leave immediately. While Logan was certain that there was more to the Artist than a quick temper, he wasn’t confident that the Artist wouldn’t lash out.

It seemed that Patton was pretty confident, though. After all, why WOULD the Artist do anything?

He shook his head when Logan offered him his cloak and turned back to the Artist.

“No, no we’re not leaving,” Patton marched right back to the Artist, still sitting on his stool, hands trembling in his lap. “I thought you cared about protecting everyone. Why can’t he stay?”

The Artist stood up, causing the Child to jump back in fright, though Patton didn’t flinch. He just stood nose-to-nose with the Artist, who glared right into his eyes.

“He’s a distraction,” the Artist spoke slow, quietly, though the trembling of his hands and the twitch in his eye betrayed ��It’s bad enough you’re all here. I don’t like distractions while I’m working, and you in particular keep distracting me—”

“Is that why nothing is finished?” Logan asked.

The Artist stepped back, as though he’d been slapped. Logan came up behind Patton, carefully putting a hand on Patton’s shoulder.

Patton gave him a small smile of relief. He wasn’t sure he could argue this well enough without him. While attacking the Artist’s art probably wasn’t the best method, he was glad that the responsibility of reigning him in wasn’t all just on Patton.

Having back up was nice.

That, and they still had to get information. Perhaps Patton’s opinion that the Child should stay here was logical and morally right, but that didn’t mean the Artist would abide by it when angry. They had to be strategic.

Logan cleared his throat, continuing with a gentle after the Artist’s lack of response. “All of your paintings. They all seem to be in some state of incompletion,” he gestured around the room, hoping to redirect the Artist’s focus. He didn’t want to come off as overly critical, though. They were wonderful, truly, but….well. You cannot blame him for having curiosities. “When you are distracted, do you not finish?”

The Artist just kept staring at him. He didn’t move, barely breathed, mouth hanging open a tiny bit. He did seem a little slow on the uptake, with lethargically slow movements and reactions.

His shoulders slowly hiked up as he drew in a breath. Patton perked up, and Logan‘s grip on Patton tightened.

“....Get out.”

His voice was cold as ice. A palette knife was summoned into his hand and his knuckles paled quickly from his tight grip.

Oh, dear. The Child hissed something behind the two adult Sides, but neither paid him any mind. They were acutely focused on the Artist.

“It’s an honest question,” Logan said, “I’m sorry if I offended, but—”

“I don’t have to answer it. Get out.”

Patton big his lip, eyes darting to Logan before he continued. “Roman, please—”

“I just want to create without you all getting in my fucking way all the time!” the Artist exploded. “And none of it’s good enough anyway, if it were good, I’d finish it, but nothing’s fucking good enough for you yet!”

He ground his teeth together, body stiff, hands curled at his sides.

It was bad enough he couldn’t finish a piece at all. The art block was bad enough. The fact that parts of him wanted to kill other parts of him and wanted to kill him him was bad enough.

He just wanted to create and wanted it to be good enough for their astronomically high standards.

Maybe the Thief was right. Wanting only made it hurt more.

“Roman—” Patton started again, only to be immediately cut off again by his shout.

“OUT!”

The Artist’s yell was loud enough to shake the house. Or perhaps that was because he wanted them to perceive it that way.

Either way, it was clear that the atmosphere wanted them to leave, whether they got an elaboration or not. The Child grabbed Patton’s arm and, with more force than Patton knew children to have, yanked him out. “We’re leaving, Dad,” he hissed, tugging Patton along.

Where had that outburst come from? And those tears? The Artist — he looked so upset, face twisting into picturesque disappointment and anger, lip curling and nostrils flared.

Patton couldn’t just leave him, no, he had to talk to the Artist, something. Anything.

The Artist jerked forward, shouting “OUT!” once more as he lifted the palette knife to point at them.

The Child threw open the front door and pushed Patton out. There was a time and a place, and this was neither.

He motioned for Logan to follow. “Don’t make me grab you, Logic,” he snapped, half scared, half frustrated.

Logan, blinking away his confusion, followed.

They left the Artist alone with one hand gripping a palette knife and the other his own shirt, over his heart.