#man I got possessed and this appeared on my canvas at the end of the day

[princess-self-shipping]

Because, it never happened to me, did it? IT HAPPENED TO YOU!

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.

- Dame Edith Sitwell DBE, poet, critic, eccentric.

Sitwell’s writing life began around 1912, when she was 25. Poetry slipped into the space previously occupied by music, though another spur seems to have been other people. The extent of Sitwell's acquaintance is astonishing: her address book, if ever she was in possession of such a bourgeois item, would read now like a roll call of early 20th-century artistic life. Sickert, Walton, Yeats, Joyce, Eliot, Woolf: she knew them all. With her Saturday-night salons, and her editorship of the journal Wheels, Sitwell established herself as an enemy of the old (specifically of the Georgian poets) and a cheerleader of the new; her own work, especially Facade, first performed in 1923, reinforced this impression. It wasn't long before her peers were swooning at her feet. 

She was known for being a larger than life fashion horse with flamboyant eccentric taste as much as her poetry and literary critques. Contemporary critics accused her of overambition; might she not, they wondered, be better off limiting herself to a smaller canvas? Sitwell, though, was convinced that modesty was death for the woman poet. "There was no one to point the way," she told Stephen Spender in 1946, at the peak of her success. "I had to learn everything – learn, amongst other things, not to be timid." Her clothes, then, were a weapon in the war against timidity – and in this sense are as much a part of Sitwell's brand of modernism as her fondness for reciting poetry through an upturned traffic cone.

Then again, Sitwell was in need of armour long before she knew she wanted to be a writer. A neglected child and, by modern standards, an abused one, her parents, Sir George and Lady Ida (George was the fourth baronet Sitwell), were distant and, in the case of Ida, feckless (in 1915, when Edith was in her 20s, Lady Ida stood trial for fraud and, having been convicted, served a short prison sentence). Their daughter was a mystery to them and, possibly, a shock, being curved of spine and crooked of nose (Ida was famously beautiful). Their cruelty began with their refusal formally to educate their daughter (Sir George read Tennyson's "The Princess" and promptly decided that university made girls "unwomanly"), and ended with their decision to straighten both her spine and nose with the aid of metal braces ("my Bastille", Edith called her back brace).

Later, during her coming out, Edith asked a man at dinner whether he preferred Brahms or Mozart, and was hastily withdrawn from the circuit. When she left home – she lived for many years with her old governess, Helen Rootham, though they were not lovers – George paid her rent, but meagrely. He seemed not to mind that while he languished in fine houses in Yorkshire (Renishaw is near Sheffield) and Italy, his daughter inhabited shabby rooms in grubby parts of London and Paris. No wonder Sitwell was so close to her writer brothers, Sacheverell and, in particular, the repulsively selfish Osbert.

Sitwell had angular features resembling Queen Elizabeth I and she stood six feet tall. She often dressed in an unusual manner with gowns of brocade or velvet, with gold turbans and many rings; her jewellery is now in the jewellery galleries of the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.

Her unusual appearance provoked critics almost as much as her verse, and she was the subject of virulent personal attacks from Geoffrey Grigson, F. R. Leavis, and others. She gave as good as she got, describing much feared and highly influential Cambridge literature professor, F.R. Leavis, as "a tiresome, whining, pettyfogging little pipsqueak".

Sitwell treated her enemies with aristocratic scorn. Noël Coward wrote a skit on her and her two brothers as "the Swiss Family Whittlebot" for his 1923 revue London Calling!, and she refused to speak to him until they were reconciled after her 70th birthday party at London's Royal Festival Hall.

In a correspondence featured in the Times Literary Supplement in 1963, she participated in an ongoing debate on the value of the work of William S. Burroughs and the nature of literary criticism, initiated by critic John Willard. Sitwell stated that she was delighted by Willard's wholly negative review of Burroughs' work, despite claiming not to know who Burroughs was. In the same letter, she described Lady Chatterley's Lover as an "insignificant, dirty little book", and rounded out her letter with the statement that she preferred Chanel Number 5 to having her nose "nailed to other people's lavatories".

Sitwell died in 1964, a paranoid alcoholic and her poetry forgotten. Her fans blame its neglect on her class (the upper-class woman as dilettante), her gender (the misogyny of critics such as Geoffrey Grigson), and the austerity of a new generation of poets (Larkin, Kingsley Amis) allergic both to symbolism and complexity.

Sitwell is important: a modernist pioneer; a glorious example of the outsider life well led; a passionate champion of other writers (she was Wilfred Owen's first editor). Above all, a chastening example of the way literary fame can vanish almost overnight.

[bitch-its-me-alv]

He is mine, bitches

Male Marinette! Male Damian! 

(Next You can’t touch what’s mine, bitch)

Damian did not have a type, he was a ex assassin, trained to eliminate useless impulses such as attraction, or romanticism of his person.

He didn't have a type, he didn't have ... he didn't ... he…

Oh my god, did that guy just threw a motorcycle? Damian had to get his number, his name, something!

Maybe not like robin, that would be clearly irresponsible and unprofessional. 

Judging by his outfit, he was at gotham college, the same one his civilian alter ego was in. That was convenient, he could approach like Damian wayne. 

Was Damian better than Robin? Who would attract him the most? Would he even like Damian or Robin to put his tongue down his throat?

Wait, he was talking to him! 

“I need you to take me to the hospital, I just threw my motorcycle at those thugs, could you?“ Omg, he was even more gorgeous up close, big, slanted eyes of blue, like the cosmos or something magical. Before Robin could answer him Red Hood intervened.

“Don't worry man, our Robin here will be happy to take you after your statement.” Red hood slapped his back.

The boy was even taller than Jason, Damian wasn't sure if he would survive the trip to the hospital on his motorcycle.

Robin momentarily emerged from his stupor, after red hood left, maybe hood thought it was bothering him, Robin was not comfortable with civilians after the fight, he was more fighting, hitting and then leaving the disaster for the police.

“If you're hurt, we could go first to the hospital” Robin said.

“Oh no actually, my friend Chloe was rushed to the hospital after the gas of fear paralyzed her. I am worried that when she recovers she would sue the entire floor.”The bluenette smiled

Robin just nodded, praying that none of his brothers would notice the blush under the mask, or worse, Batman might noticed.

On the way to the hospital, Robin felt the physical difference between him and Marin. It almost felt like he was being hugged by Marin.

They arrived in record time, Robin had a slight disappointment in his chest, but he crushed her, reminding himself that he would meet him later as Damian.

Marin got off the bike in front of the hospital. “Thanks for the trip robin, maybe you should go in too, that blow seems serious.” Marin touched the wound that went through his mask.

Robin didn’t blush, no one can prove it.” Things like these happen all the time, don't worry.”

“Well, I would say I hope to see you soon, but I don't think that's very good. So try not to hurt your gorgeous face.”

Leaving Robin flushed, he turned around to enter the hospital. Chloe would go crazy when he told her he flirted with a vigilante.

➞ ➞ ➞ ➞ ➞ ➞ ➞

If someone asked Marin why he had moved to Gotham city, he would tell the easy lie. After so long as a traveler with his nonna he had decided that he would finish his education in a normal and established way. And since his uncle Jagged and his aunt Penny owned a condo in the city, it was nothing suspicious.

Yeah, it is not as if the rest of his family is not completely legal and they are also conveniently around Gotham.

And if he had to hide some welcome gifts that his godparents and godmothers gave him like, a personalized flamethrower, a carnivorous plant as a pet, or exploding mallets. No one else would know, because he was not very interested in taking people home anyway.

After many close calls like Adrianna Agreste, or Lian Rossi, he did not want to rush into relationships.

But Damian was so cute, maybe he could do an exception for him. I mean, when he practically hit his chest with that stoic expression it was nice, but when Marin made him blush it was even better.

Marin was very good at flirting but not very good at getting compliments. So after seven weeks hanging out as friends, Damian discovered that he could hit him back with compliments.

Damian was in the ninth cloud, Marin was more than he had anticipated, and he couldn't love it more. He was so perfect, and that's why he had tried twice as hard to hide it from his family, he didn't want them to scare Marin away. But his plan was threatened by his very annoying and best friend, Jon.

“I seriously can’t believe it Damian, you got yourself a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me, i’m so upset.”

“Don't be dramatic kent, he is not my boyfriend ... yet. And if I did not tell you it was so that there were no rumors that would reach my family.”

“Damian, it doesn't matter, you got yourself a boyfriend and besides he is hellaMari12, I can never forgive you, meet that bonbon and save it for yourself, very bad Damian.” 

“What nonsense are you babbling kent? hellaMari12? Bonbon? Do you want my katana on your face?”

Jon showed him his cell phone, in a very famous instagram account, where in all the photos marin appeared, in a very specific one, with canvas pants, and a sweatshirt that showed his abs.

Damian couldn't control the blood that ran up his face, omg that photo was so hot. But a big part of himself was not distracted, this photo was public and had three million likes. His possessiveness made him frown, he was still not her boyfriend, he did not have to be angry, and even if he were, he had no right to claim him.

Damn, why did Marin have to be so attractive and kind? Now he not only had competition in Gotham, but also throughout the internet, excluding all the places he had been and assuming he had no suitor abroad.

Damian would have to hurry, because if he got distracted he could lose, and Damian Al-Ghul Wayne never lost.

➞ ➞ ➞ ➞ ➞ ➞ ➞

Marin was nearing the end of his patience. If damian was still so nice to him and didn't kiss him, Marin could hit something or kiss him until his soul was taken out.

With his attractive face in a constant frown, his jade eyes always fulminant, his olive skin so shiny and smooth. His always so neat black hair and his expensive cologne… Damn Damian why don't you just kiss Marin already?

That night Damian and Marin had arranged to do a marathon on how to train your dragon, because the green-eyed man had never seen such a work of art.

If Damian hadn't kissed him before the end of the first movie, Marin would. He had already arranged everything, hid the suspicious gifts, threw the dirty clothes into a closet that he had never opened before, shook the sofa. He put flavoring ... everything so that the atmosphere was perfect.

While they sat on the couch eating sour treats, with damian criticizing the characters' unrealistic choices. Damian let the sugar spread across his lips, unaware of himself as he concentrated on the movie.

Hiccup was about to feed the dragon when Marin couldn't resist any longer.

“Hey Damian, I'm about to kiss you. You can walk away if you don't want it”

Damian had recorded the question, had heard and understood it. But I couldn't believe it, so I just nodded hoping it wasn't a hallucination. 

It wasn't, the hallucinations weren't that perfect.

They were completely lost in their kisses, their environment disappeared as more and more time passed kissing, tousling the hair of the other, writhing to be closer together although that was impossible.

Someone's phone started ringing and suddenly the world was more than just the two of them. Damian was on Marin's lap, his arms under his shirt, and his legs wrapped in a possessive grip on his hips. Marin had one hand buried in Damian's midnight hair, and another dangerously low on his back.

They admired each other for five long seconds, until their phone rang in unison. They did not separate, they had been waiting for this for a shameful time, they could not lose it now that they had started it.

From Damian's phone were notifications from his brothers, asking about his absence hours before the patrol. He reply quickly informing them not to expect him and not to try to track him down. With a couple of threats in the family chat to let them know it was him, he turn off the phone and throw him away from where he was sitting.

On Marin's phone there were a couple of messages from chloe letting him know that if Damian made his boyfriend he would have to pass the blonde test, or she wouldn't approve it. While in the chat of their rouge godparents and godmothers, they would message each other about an assault they would do together soon. 

Marin answered chloe briefly, and ignored his uncles, there were things that he had to turn a blind eye to.

“So ... do you want to stay here at night?”Marin gently rubbed the spot where his left hand was, giving Damian nice chills.

“Had you anticipated this Dupain-cheng? Did you feel lucky?” Damian didn't take his eyes off his lips, making Marin blush slightly.

“I was confident, don't think I hadn't noticed how suddenly all our dates involved sweating and taking off my shirt.” 

Damian shut him up with a kiss, not because he was his boyfriend he was going to allow herself to lose to him.

The night passed with many kisses, hickies on the neck and under the clavicles. His words were lost somewhere between four and five in the morning. Falling exhausted on the sofa one on the other, with the warm sensation in their bodies of knowing that their love was reciprocated.

When the sun raised Damian was ecstatic, he could already hit all those with romantic intentions towards Marin. He could kiss him without being rejected, but… He didn't really know much about romantic relationships, but He’d find out along the way.

Marin was also full of excited and happy energy, fluttering around his kitchen and taking photos of everything as souvenirs for his future anniversaries.

After many signs on the sofa with Damian, and of him just being art lying on the sofa. Damian decided that everyone on the internet should know that Marin was not single.

With a simple photo published in Marin's account, with both disheveled and illuminated by the rising sun. The eyes of both seemed clearer than they were.

In the description Damian did not try very hard, with a simple he is mine, bitches settled, and let his followers burn while Marin danced in the kitchen and Damian tried not to get weaker for that boy.

[jiikyu]

Taste of Marigolds In Bloom

Herb of the Sun — Or Marigold was often used during the Middle Ages as a love charm. Carrying one of these brightly colored flowers was thought to bring love. Though be warned for they are also poisonous. Chapter IV. Sitting in the back of a police car was not how you anticipated your night ending — And certainly not with Mirios arms wrapped around you all the while. You’re not sure how you got here. ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ All characters are 18+ Yandere!Mirio x Fem!Reader(AΩβ) Y/N = Your Name F/N = Your Full Name E/C = Eye Color H/C = Hair Color

Warnings: Yandere / Unhealthy Behavior / Delusions / Angst / Possessiveness / Violence and uh Fluff? First Chapter Here❦ Previous Chapter Here❦ Next Chapter Here ❦

∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ “Oh hey!” Mirios leans his arm against the doors frame. “Isn’t this a lovely surprise.” “Hey, do you wanna come to Nabezos with me?” Your question takes him by surprise and he feels his arm slipping. It’s raining. “Sure, let me grab my jacket.” ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ The little droplets from above mean the sidewalks are clear of people, it’s not often you practically get the city all to yourself. When Mirio agreed to come with you to the popular restaurant off campus grounds, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t like you to swing by unexpectedly, at least not without some form of prior acknowledgement. Like a text. What’s even stranger was that you wanted to go to Nabezos, in the rain. Maybe it’s nothing to be get riled up over... The conversation flows in it’s usual lighthearted manor with you both throwing in the occasional jab. It’s normal. But if that’s truly the case then — Why won’t his heart stop hammering violently against his ribs? Somethings not right. He just knows it. Mirios pace starts to slow to a crawl, and little by little it all together stops. And you had been so close to making it to Nabezos, maybe two blocks down the sidewalk? Suddenly his appetite is gone. When there’s no respond to your corny joke do you turn to see the blond fallen behind. Everything about it feels so very wrong. Standing like motionless his yellow umbrella rests loosely in his grasp, shoulders slouching forward. But — You catch sight of something that freezes the blood in your veins. Tears threaten to spill from those blue pools. How had this happened? Only a few seconds ago were you chatting like normal. This proves all of your fears and suspicions, that there is something deep troubling Mirio. That’s why you were doing this right? You were going to do your best to gently coax out whatever was bothering him. Had you already messed up? The gap made between you wasn’t large by any means but by gods do you close it fast. Abandoning your umbrella to ground below as shoes splash against the wet pavement, now your standing before him in the rain. “Wait Mirio what’s happening? Why are you crying?” “Y/N...” His voice has been reduced to a rasp whisper, the usual optimism drained and you can see the bottom of the well. “Are you leaving?” Huh? The question confuses you even further. That cannot be the root of the problem, a small idle conversation between you and your friend could not have been the cause of this. “What? Of course not!” As much as you want to stay in Musutafu — Your words are not quite the full truth, are they? “Well I... I don’t actually know yet.” Do not make promises you cannot keep. The way he kneads his lip with his teeth, suffocating any sound from escaping, it does nothing but further shatter your heart into tiny fragments. If this continues you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to put the pieces back together. You’re about to speak again when the blond does the unexpected. Taking a deep breath he exhales, then the corners of his mouth upturn. It is nowhere near as radiant as his signature smile, and you know it’s not real. But now it’s his turn to close the gap. Taking the step forward Mirio dips the yellow umbrella so it no longer hangs over his head but yours. The thrumming of his heart drums against his ears, he’s sure you hear it too. “Y/N, what if I told you I don’t want you to go?” Oh. Wait? Does that mean? Oh. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “I —“ The soft pitter-patter of raindrops against the umbrellas canvas matches your own heartbeat. Fast and light, like suddenly you’re floating. You watch the collar of his gray gym shirt start to darken with moisture and droplets catching in that sunshine soaked hair. You swallow down your shame because — You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. “I would say, I feel the same.” You’ve never seen someone visibly light up the way Mirio does when those words leave your lips. The very words he oh so desperately needed to hear. Was that all it really took? No, he must be dreaming. “Really?” The single word is laced with so much hope it’s palpable, it’s followed by a sniffle as he brings his thumb to wipe away a stray tear. “Of course idiot!” Your own eyes start to blur and you blink them away before it’s too late. “Now stop it, you’re gonna make me cry!” Your fingers grab a hold of the umbrellas metal handle, just above Mirios hand. You push it towards him, so it’s no longer covering only you. “There, now we can both stand under it.” Sure, both of you have a shoulder that’s going to get absolutely drenched, but do you care? No. Mirios eyes go big when you do this and you swear you see literal stars dancing in those pools of blue. You’re so blissfully unaware that everything you’re doing only furthers you both down this spiral. He’s staring at you like you’re his entire world. And he wouldn’t change a single thing about you, for anything. “Aw you’re such a softy Y/N.” “Wha — You were crying first! You started it.” It’s not fair. He really does have the most contagious smile you’ve ever seen. Hand in hand you and Mirio continue to make your way to Nabezos, your own umbrella is left forgotten to the rain. ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ Dinner had gone so well that you’re left giddy and boy, does it show, your smile never once falters. Not even when the scent of cigarettes and alcohol starts to overflow your senses. Currently you’re leaning against the outside of Nabezos, the buildings bricks now having imprinted into your back. Awning overhang keeps you dry from the rain while your eyes stay trained to the bright screen of your phone. Sun having started its descent the color slowly begins to fade from the sky. But you’re not worried, campus is only a few blocks away.

And you have Mirio.

Now you’re just wait on him, who, being the forgetful man he is forgot his wallet at the table you had eaten at. Never in a million years would you believe someone as breathtaking as Mirio would return your feelings. 

Your happiness leaves you blind to the world.

“Hey are you d-deaf or do you just think it’s cute to ignore someone talking to you?”

Huh? Only when you look up from your phone do you realize there’s a man, who you don’t recognize, staring directly at you. Your mouth is suddenly dry. The stench of booze and smoke is so strong your nose is set ablaze. You can’t help but take shallow breaths. When had he gotten so close? Were you really that oblivious to your surroundings? Your pulse is racing but you don’t move, maybe if you continue to ignore him he’ll leave you be. What a stupid idea. Suddenly your wrist is grabbed, phone slipping from your grasp and it falls to the pavement. And now you’re trying desperately to yank yourself from of his grasp. But his fingers have an iron clad grasp around your limb. “What sort of game are you trying to play?” He’s shouting at you and you have no idea what he’s going on about, you just want to get as far away from him as possible. Your eyes barely catch the flash of yellow that appears over the drunks shoulder and before you know it he’s no longer holding onto your wrist — Or rather he was flung off you by an impact to the gut. The stranger lets out a cry as his back slams against the hard concrete below. You listen to him cough and sputter for air, but you don’t look — Your eyes stay glued to your savior. Mirio. Besides the loud grunting coming from the man who just got his guts rearranged, it’s eerily silent. You cannot see the blonds face, so you can only guess what expression he wears... But something feels off and that scares you. You finally tear your eyes away from Mirio when you hear the other stand. The stranger regained his footing but why isn’t he running away? Isn’t it enough? Mirio hasn’t moved an inch since landing the first strike, standing between you and the man. A shield. Neither move for a while, just staring each other down and you can see the sweat beading down the strangers face. You never would have expected Mirio to be the one to break the stalemate. Basically just straight up breaking into full sprint towards the stranger before banking a quick left. “Oh shit —“ Is all the man manages while raising his right arm, taking shaky aim at the blond, some sort of liquid ejects from his fingertips? Mirio makes it look so incredibly easy to dodge, the inky black substance lands somewhere in the shadows. Forgotten. The man does not get a second shot. An earth shattering blow lands under his chin and you swear you hear an echoing crack of bone against bone. And just like that it’s over — Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. Anyone would be knocked unconscious by the sheer force. But Mirio doesn’t stop. What if I told you I don’t want you to go? Those are the words that come to mind as your E/C eyes follow Mirios fist. Over and over again it connects with the strangers face. Time slows like some form of torture, you watch the man take each crushing blow. As you watch the blonds knuckles begin to turn a dark crimson. And you do nothing but stand frozen, a bystander, a participant. Even the ability to speak is lost to you. Only when the terrible sound of blood starts to bubble up from the man’s throat does Mirio finally release his white-knuckled grip from the shirts collar. Without the Alphas hold the unconscious body rag-dolls to the pavement below. God, does the sickening thud make you shudder in disgust. Now it’s just you — And the man who has only ever showered you with warmth and overbearing kindness. Towering over the bloody pulp of a man he stands with his back towards you, chest heaving as he attempts to recapture his breathing. Your mind is so vary far away right now but somehow, somewhere in your anxiety riddled state are you able to produce a single cohesive repeating thought. It’s something that comes so naturally it almost terrifies you, you might even loath yourself later for it... You cannot help but be frightened, not for the beaten man lying against the cold pavement, no your fears are for Mirios safety. For his sake. When he turns to face you you’re met with the burning blue of the ocean. And within seconds you swear you see the raging sea already starting to simmer. Your feet stay planted as your hero takes the first step towards you. Even if your life depended on it you’re not sure you’d be able to move an inch — Though it’s too late for that now, isn’t it? By the time you notice he’s practically all over you, but there is an invisible wall of tension that keeps him from touching. With the back of your shoulders pressed against the brick wall there is no escape from the cage of muscle surrounding you, thick forearms having rooted themselves on either side of your head. Every instinct screams at you, to run, to submit, to hide, to do anything useful. Maybe you’re broken. Instead, you find yourself entranced, E/C eyes trace along the scars of those very forearms keeping you trapped. The healed skin darkened where deep gashes once bled. Following the perfect blemishes to the meat of his shoulders you accidentally meet deep iris pools, completely and utterly awestruck. The expression Mirio wears is one you’ve never seen before. You want to tell yourself that it’s the shadows casted down by the looming cities walls — Or that’s it’s just the dark clouds raining down on you. But... You’re having a difficult time convincing yourself. “Are you hurt?” A low breathless whisper pulls you from muddy waters, dredged up from the murky depths of your mind. Was that Mirios voice? He’s close, so close, his ragged breathes ghost across the bare skin of your neck. Your eyes fall to the filthy lot concrete, where you’re barely able to make out the motionless mans shape. Why is it so hard to see? You hadn’t even noticed your eyes gloss over, fat tears already rolling down your cheeks. “M-Mirio you —“ The pain in your voice has his chest twisting in agony. Sharp thorns digging into the delicate flesh. Seeing you like this hurts worse than the searing ache in his knuckles. But it’s okay. Because you’re safe. The thin threads holding him back finally fray and snap. Mirios arms abandon the wall behind you, pulling you flush against his broad chest, muscled arms wrapped around your frame. “It’s okay. I’m here now.” His head rests atop your own, you feel his lips move against your locks as he continues to reassure you. “I’ll always be here — I promise.” You won’t ever have to be worry again. Being held only makes the flood tears worse, when your body melts against his so does the last bit pf willpower holding the dam together. Slowly you begin to hiccup into his shirt, your arms shakily wrapping around his neck, falling further into the embrace you feel his arms tighten. And now your balling in a empty public restaurant parking lot with a bloody unconscious body only a few yards away. The dying rain isn’t strong enough to wash away the scent of copper. ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ Blinding red and blue lights flash across the cities walls. When you speak with the police — Well actually, it’s not so much you speaking with them as it is you listening to Mirio tell them the details of what happened and offering a weak nod when they wanted your input. You haven’t spoken much since exhausting your lungs and draining a lakes worth of tears onto Mirios shirt. His eyes keep darting to meet yours between every couple of words. You watch on as the blond speaks clearly and calmly with the officers, you envy his ability to do so. He’s even able to smile as if nothing happened — You finally tear your eyes away, choosing to look at a lone anthill, inches from your foot. The weight of his jacket keeps you semi-warm as you stand under the overhang of Nabezos, the smell of ocean and sun clings to the leather, you pull the fabric tighter around your shoulders. You had watched as three first responders wheeled the stretcher to the waiting ambulance. As soon as its doors slammed shut the siren blared to life and the vehicle sped away. It was a good sign you tell yourself. A sign that the man was alive. The invisible weight on your shoulder lifts, if only by a hair. “Do you need a ride home?” The question snaps you from staring at the pavement. A male officer, possibly a Beta? It’s hard to tell in the rain, he has kind eyes. There’s no time for you to search for an answer before a firm hand finds itself planted the deputies shoulder. Mirio now stands behind the rather startled man, all smiles of course. Though something about the curve of his lips doesn’t sit well with you.  “That would be great actually, can you give the both of us a ride?” It takes you a second to realize he’s answering for you. “We’re both headed the same direction.” “Of c-course.” The officer shakes away his initial fright by the time he finishes speaking. And you still have yet to process what’s happening. ∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ Sitting in the back of a police car was not how you anticipated your night ending — And certainly not with Mirios arms wrapped around you all the while. You’re not sure how you got here. But what you are sure of is that there isn’t an inch of you that doesn’t smell like the Alpha. He’s been scenting you ever since entering the vehicle, practically pulling you into his lap. It’s not so uncommon amongst friends — Although, you’re no longer just friends, are you? His hand could wrap around your wrist two times over. The blond has a delicate touch as he traces the pad of his thumb over your skin, he holds you as though you’re porcelain. The entire time your eyes are glued to the red busted skin of his knuckles. An uncomfortable clearing of a throat breaks the moment. You had almost forgotten about the police officer who so politely offered the ride home. You blame it on overactive instincts, that this is probably the norm, it’s a lousy excuse and you know it. And a part of you, one that you’re desperately trying to drown under the surface until there is no oxygen left, knows instincts are not the only thing at play here.

∘◦ ✿ ◦∘ When Mirio told you he’d be staying the night at your place you thought it had been an offer. Not a fact. You remind yourself that you know Mirio. Know that he would never hurt you, that he’s only looking out for you. That’s why you agreed. 

So what if your every attempt to convince him you’d be fine staying alone was disregarded. Right? 

You stare into the mirror, letting the sink fill with water. Paying no attention to the temperature you soak a hand towel into the ice cold liquid. Bringing the damp fabric under your eyes you wipe away the last remnants of tears marks. The soft knock on the door startles you from your haze, looking over you notice the shadow of what can only be a pair of feet peeking under the thin frame of wood. “Are you okay?” Mirios voice may be muffled behind the wood but it’s impossible to ignore the worry bled into every syllable. “Yeah.” Your own voice is still raspy from your crying, it reminds you how weak you truly are. “Just give me a few minutes... Okay?” “I’m here.” What you can’t see is the large hand pressed into the creases of door. “When you’re ready.” The outside noise seems to die down with that and you listen to the static of the running water as you strip out of your soaked clothing, peeling the wet material from your skin. The jacket that had kept you warm now hangs off the tubs edge. ... Mirio stands guarding the entrance of the restroom. Like a good boyfriend. Foot tapping nervously against the carpeted floor. This is all so new, usually the hero is in full control of his actions. But now — Every passing second is another nail plunged into his coffin, he might have really screwed up big time... And just when the two of you had finally become official. He doesn’t know what took over. But he does. When saw you cornered by some low life — He only remembers the feel of white hot burning rage coursing his veins and the look of terror in your eyes. He really dropped the ball hadn’t he? He doesn’t regret it. Not even for a second, he’d do it again, for you. His only regret is scaring you. Suddenly his foot stops its anxious drumming. It becomes apparent to him that — With you in the bathroom he has full range of your dorm, unsupervised. Not that he would do anything fishy, of course not! It’s just the first time he’ll get to appreciate your little temporary home. 

A glimpse at the future you’ll share.

Waiting by the door for another minute he takes the first experimental step away from his post, waiting with bated breath. Nothing. The only sound is the continuous running of a faucet. It’s the only sign he needs to continue onwards, down the hallway. By all means it’s not a long journey, in only a few of feet does the blond find himself in front of a cracked door, a dim light streams through the gap. With a featherlight touch he pushes it open to reveal what he’d hoped for. Your bedroom. He’s not disappointed, the room is so very you. It smells like you. Even when Mirio’s absolutely drained he can’t help but admire every little detail, even down to the lone sock lying forgotten in the center of the floor. A tired smile makes its way to his lips as he goes to pick it up, tossing it in the hamper sitting only a few feet away, a smile resting pretty on his features all the while. How forgetful you were. He doesn’t mind this, in fact quite the opposite — He can’t help think it’s quite domestic. Who knew he’d windup such a hopeless romantic? Before the blond knows it he starts to wonder what living together would be like. It really can’t be helped.

Mirio can almost envision you seated at his table waiting while he cooks your favorite meal, it might take him a couple of tries to nail but he’s anything if not persistent — Or perhaps, waking up to morning kisses with your legs tangled in knots. Maybe one day a couple of children that share both your and his qualities pop into the picture. He understands how silly it is all is, that he can’t help but feel as though he’s already been living this life with you. Too bad it doesn’t last. The sweetest of daydreams are cut to shreds when blue eyes catch the unmistakable flash orange and white of a bottle. On your nightstand are your suppressants, sitting carelessly for all to see. After staring for what is probably considered far longer than normal a not so innocent thought just sort of floats its way into his system and... Suddenly Mirio’s being crushed under the weight of something tremendous and hideous. Guilt. He could never. Everything’s falling into place, just the way it’s meant to. But — Some stranger had basically gone and flipped his world upside down in the matter of seconds. That drunk bastard leaning in close you, probably whispering dirty words to you... His fist clenches into a tight ball, knuckles still burn from the impact of skin against skin. God only knows what that creep was gonna do? That filth had tried to take you from him, there is no mistaking. Was it some sort of cruel joke, turning the best day of his life into one of the worst? A bead of sweat breaks along his brow as blue eyes continue to stare down the bottle of white pills. Fear has got Mirio in a chokehold and right now it’s a losing battle. You are someone he wants — No, needs to protect, that’s why he can’t stop but think... What would he do without you? He doesn’t notice his fingers have started moving on their own volition. Mirio cannot picture a world without you.

[otonymous]

One Stormy Night (MLQC Gavin x Shaw drabble - NSFW)

This is for all the folks that requested a Shaw/Ling Xiao x Gavin drabble.  Here it is.  PWP.  Way longer than I intended and possibly the dirtiest thing I’ve ever written.  And I am going straight to Hell for it. 🔥🔥🔥

Character(s): Gavin x Shaw (Ling Xiao) x Female MC Rating: Explicit WARNINGS: threesome, anal play & intercourse, sex toys, double penetration, oral sex, face sitting, first times (anal, double penetration), profanity, slight competition & possessiveness, spoilers (for Shaw’s identity)

“God, you’re good at this,” his head falls back, lavender strands fanning out over handsome features that bore a striking resemblance to the face you were sitting on, each hum of Gavin’s mouth between your thighs making your lips tighten around Shaw’s cock even as your hips dipped to fuck yourself deeper on that talented tongue.

“Wish I met you first; you could’ve practiced on me.” Electricity sparks in amber eyes as mischievous laughter erupts from deep within that broad chest, and the muscles tensing beneath you signals you to shift — fast — in a desperate attempt to prevent yet another brawl from breaking out in your bedroom.

The curtains by your window were already billowing, stirred by a sudden wind.

Gavin surfaces, cheeks and chin shiny with spit and arousal, eyes shooting daggers at the younger man who continued to lounge on your bed like he hadn’t a care in the world, lips pulled up in an easy smirk that challenged as much as it disarmed.

“He’s just kidding, Gavin.  Doesn’t mean anything by it.”  You run your hands over the officer’s firm pecs, caress placating as it hardens the nipples beneath your touch, goosebumps blooming over scarred skin in swathes.

“Relax, man.  You’re putting her on edge.”  

Muscular arms wrap around you from behind, the heat emanating from Shaw’s palms soothing as they mould to the swell of your breasts.  And at the sound of your moan — drawn out by the dexterous fingers teasing at your nipples — his pink tongue sweeps over upturned lips, goading on the man who watched with fire in narrowed eyes.

It spurs Gavin on, this competition — the burning insistence that he not be outdone in the arena he knew best: the dips and curves of your body and every little response that could be teased out of it.  So Gavin approaches with confidence, rough hands gentle as they frame your face to take what is rightfully his: you, your lips…blooming as his tongue teased at their corners just so it could slip past teeth and slide slow against your tongue, tasting every inch of your mouth.

And in doing so, irritating the younger man as only he could; by ignoring him completely.

“Hmph.”  Shaw’s snort of derision is hot on the back of your neck before he plants a kiss at the nape, soft lips pulling to the side to whisper in your ear, “You should be ready for me by now, right, baby?”

Index tracing down the line of your back to send shivers up your spine, Shaw drops to his knees, smiling to see your bottom jut out in an exaggerated curve that showed you were just as eager as he was to explore new territory.  

“Cheeky,” he laughs, biting down onto the smooth mound of your ass — the light sting of his teeth making you gasp into Gavin’s mouth.  The officer settles firm hands onto your hips in response, pulling you closer against his body in a soothing embrace.

You feel Shaw spreading your cheeks and unconsciously widen your stance, blushing at the thought of him staring so intently at such a private place, never before explored.

Virgin.  Until now.  

And when you involuntarily clench around the silicone plug held snug in your ass - preparing you for something much larger — you wonder if Shaw caught the twitch.

“Well, what do you know.  Purple is your colour after all.  As is mine.”

Shaw’s chuckle is dark, husky with lust as his thumb circles the amethyst-hued gem adorning the base of the plug, admiring the light reflecting off it in lavender beams.  The movement sends another flood of moisture to your aching pussy, throbbing as it tightens around empty space, futile in its search for satisfaction.  Knees starting to shake, you grip onto Gavin’s broad shoulders for support.

“Do you always give a running commentary during sex?  It’s annoying,” Gavin spits, brows furrowed as he breaks the kiss to glare at his brother.

“If you’re getting impatient to fuck, just say so, man.  Maybe you’ve got something up your ass as well.  From what I hear though, it’s supposed to be an enjoyable experience, so I really don’t know what your problem is—”

“Boys!  Please!  Could we maybe stop fighting and focus on the task at hand?!” 

So turned on you couldn’t even think straight, your patience was at an all-time low for anything that didn’t involve these two men sandwiching you between their genetically blessed bodies.

“Whatever you say, baby.  You call the shots here,” Shaw rises to his feet, giving you a quick peck on the cheek as he flashes you the smile that makes your stomach flutter and flip.

“I’m sorry,” Gavin ducks his head, swallows hard.  “You’re sure about this?”  His voice is low, full of concern, and it fills you with warmth as you reach up to cup his cheek in the palm of your hand.

Your nod is resolute, free of hesitation.  “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.  I know this is new, for all of us…but I can’t imagine doing it with anyone else.”

“We’ll be gentle, go as slow as you want.  Won’t we, bro?”  Shaw peppers your shoulders with kisses, erection pressing hot and hard against your backside until your head falls back against his chest, breasts heaving with desire that could no longer be contained.

Two sets of amber eyes meet, twin expressions mirroring each other as the brothers nod almost imperceptibly at one another; an unspoken agreement to put aside their differences for one night, solely for the sake of pleasuring the woman they were both madly in love with.

The initial slide onto Gavin’s hard cock has you gasping in shock from the sensation of fullness alone, and it takes an entire minute of focused breathing for the spasms between your legs to subside, even with the officer stroking your thighs in an attempt to soothe.

But it isn’t until Shaw’s hands are running through your hair that you realize the toy was still buried in you; that something much bigger, much longer, had yet to be introduced.  The thought has you wide-eyed — exhilarated and aroused to the point where Gavin has difficulty keeping his hips still with the way you clenched around him, arousal dripping slow onto his groin even before he had begun to thrust.

“You alright, baby?  Ready to let me in?”  Shaw’s voice is soft in your ear, and you respond by pressing a kiss to his lips before folding forward into Gavin’s open arms, lifting your bottom higher into the air.

There is a sudden flurry of activity behind you; bed dipping as Shaw reaches for the lube on your bedside table, careful to liberally coat the length of his cock to ease his entry.  And when you feel the rhythm of his breath on your ass accompanying the gradual pull of the plug from your backside, you remind yourself to relax, allowing your body to adjust to the curvature of the toy as it finally slides out to leave you feeling somewhat empty.

The sensation doesn’t last long however, not with Shaw quickly aligning himself at the entrance — “You’re so beautiful” leaving his lips as he pushes slowly, carefully, against the resistance.

“Kiss me,” Gavin commands from beneath you, lips sucking your tongue into his mouth in a desperate bid to contain the groans that mixed with your moans to feel Shaw finally sheath himself in you.  The younger man mutters a string of expletives under his breath, gripping onto the flesh of your hips and breathing deep as he tried to focus on something other than how good this felt, for fear that it would all end too soon.

Because it was good, the best thing anyone in this licentious collective had ever experienced.  And as the men began to move according to the dictates of desire — reading every movement of your body as it writhed between theirs to drive you further up the precipice of pleasure — you realized just how greedy you had become.  It didn’t matter that their lips painted the canvas of your skin with innumerable kisses, or that hands, fingers, teeth and tongue left no stone unturned in their delivery of ecstasy, you wanted more and more.  

Enough to fill you even more to bursting than you already were, with a cock buried in your pussy and another deep in your ass.

Body arching and hands indiscriminately grabbing at fistfuls of hair in a futile attempt to anchor yourself, you were nonetheless swept away — senses lost in the intensity of the stimulation between your legs.  So much so that the blinding flash of lightning just outside your window barely registered in your brain, hazy with lust.  Nor did you notice the gale force wind that suddenly appeared to sweep all your potted plants to the balcony floor, shattering loud in a messy pile of soil and terracotta shards.

No, all you noticed was the way Gavin tensed beneath you and Shaw above, practically simultaneous when they climaxed in you just as your body convulsed helplessly between the hard vice of theirs, riding out the waves of your own delirious release as if you had just survived the roughest storm of your life.

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

The Love Cruise - by GleefullyCaptainSwan

Read on AO3: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Or on FF

Tagging:   @teamhook @kmomof4 @stahlop @lfh1226-linda

Chapter 5: A Kiss is Just a Kiss

Emma stood on her balcony with her eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the ocean, the faint cry of the birds flying overhead, the rush of the wind in her ears. She felt truly at peace for the first time in a long time. She wished Henry could have been there to experience this with her. She had done everything with Henry for almost 7 years now, perhaps she didn’t know who she was without him around.

“Why aren’t you in your suit.” Ruby appeared behind her with her towel in her hand. “I thought we were going to the pool to sunbathe.”

“I was actually thinking that I want to go to this art auction I saw on the patter for today.”

Ruby’s face scrunched in disgust. “Eww, an art auction sounds horribly boring and stuffy. I didn’t even think you liked art.”

“I just wanted to check it out. It’s not like we would ever have the chance to go to an art auction back home?”

“Well, you enjoy that. When you get bored, you know where to find me.” She crinkled her nose and turned to leave.

Emma laughed. “I’ll probably see you in thirty minutes.”

Emma strolled through the hallways to try and find the location of the auction. August was right when he said it was easy to get lost on the ship. She was never sure if she was on the right floor or even on the right end of the ship. If you took all the floors end to end, it would be bigger than the town she lived in.

She noticed a group of people that were dressed nicer than most of the passengers on the ship heading into one of the lounges at the end of the hallway she was in. She looked down at her sun dress and started to worry that she might be underdressed to rub elbows with people who attended art auctions.

She peered into the room, easels set up with paintings on them and perched on each of the walls. Tentatively she wandered into the room, trying to make herself blend in with the rest of the passengers who were lazily walking through the art, nodding their heads, and whispering to each other. She leaned over to read a few of the inscriptions, many of the paintings were ocean themed.

“We meet again.”

Emma yelped and grabbed her chest, turning to face the man behind her.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. Emma, right?”

Emma nodded, “Yes.”

“Where’s your…” He looked around the room. “Boyfriend? If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Emma swallowed, sickened by the look on his face the way he said the word mine. So possessive as if she were an object. “Walsh was it?” she deflected.

“I made enough of an impression that at least you remembered my name.” Emma smiled politely and continued walking down the rows of art, hoping he would take the hint and leave her to her thoughts. “Which piece do you plan to bid on?”

Emma walked toward her favorite painting on the back wall, it was a ship sailing into the sunset. She looked at the price tag on the painting, choking softly when she read the price. There was no way she could afford to bid on any of the paintings, and this one was at least 3 months’ salary.

“Ah good taste, that’s a beautiful painting. I actually met the artist when I was in Paris last summer.”

Emma nodded, trying to act like this was a normal conversation she would be having back home with her friends. “Which one are you interested in?”

“Ah, I’m here for the piece de resistance, the Homer.”

Emma had no idea what he was talking about, but he led her to a painting in a gold frame at the front of the room. She glanced at the price tag and paled. “Oh, um yeah it’s…why would anyone pay this much for a canvas with some paint on it?”

He chuckled beside her, “I collect art, to hang in the halls of my businesses. This one will hang in the western hall of my bank in Switzerland.”

“Wow, that’s…” Boring, elitist, not of any interest to her! “very exciting.”

“Looks like they are about to begin, I should take my seat.”

She watched him walk to the front of the room and she immediately looked for a spot near the back of to observe the process without getting in the middle of the action.

~*~

Killian stood in the shadows watching Emma as she quietly walked through the rows of paintings in the gallery room. As Captain he tried to show up to at least a few events a day that were happening aboard his ship. He did not expect to find her at this one but was pleasantly surprised when her golden hair appeared on the other side of one of the paintings he had been admiring earlier.

He observed her for a few minutes, intending to make his presence known when the man from the bar approached her. He melted into the background of the room, watching as she politely conversed with Walsh. He could tell she wasn’t interested in the man. Killian knew his type, always thinking they were the most important person in the room, looking down on those that didn’t have the means to present themselves in the same manner as they did. He hated men like Walsh. The man didn’t deserve someone the likes of Emma. He supposed it was because he was one of those people that Walsh would look down his nose at.

Killian wasn’t really interested in the art event. Many of the pieces they were auctioning off were going for thousands of dollars, if not more. A waste of hard-earned money if you asked him. The man led Emma toward the main piece at the front of the room and Killian figured that would be the one a man like Walsh was here for. It was worth millions, the perfect item to throw around his elitist status when trying to impress a woman.

His was drawn out of his thoughts as the gavel hit the podium, signaling the start of the auction. Emma wandered to the back of the room as the auction began, sitting alone in the last row. He pushed away from the wall and strolled toward her, quietly taking the seat next to her.

~*~

Emma was very confused by the auction process, wands going up and down in front of her as each piece was brought forward. The artwork she liked the most was brought to the front and she tried to listen to the fast-talking auctioneer to see how much it would sell for. A wand in the front row shot up to open the bidding at $5,000. Another wand appeared and thus it went back and forth until the wand in the front won the piece for $7,500. That was the price she paid for her yellow bug back home, a car that got her to and from work every day.

She felt someone sit next to her and she stiffened. There were so many other seats available, why did they need to interrupt her isolation?

“I didn’t take you as an art connoisseur, Swan? Are you thinking of purchasing something?”

Emma relaxed as she looked up and saw her favorite Captain (did she know any other Captains?) sitting next to her, looking extremely good looking in his uniform. “Sure, I figure if I rent out my house and move back in with my brother and don’t eat for the next few months, I can afford at least one piece.”

He chuckled softly beside her. “Perhaps your rich suitor could purchase it for you.”

She watched as he stared straight ahead, and she smiled to herself. “Jealous, Captain?”

He nodded, “Perhaps.”

Her heart was racing, she was being completely ridiculous and irresponsible right now. “This is boring.” She leaned closer to him and whispered.

“Perhaps a personal tour of my ship would be more enticing for you?”

Does it include your bedroom?  Emma mentally slapped herself for the thought. Snap out of it, Emma.

“A personal tour from the Captain, how could I say no.”

Their eyes met and she swore she saw a glint of something else hidden beneath those electric blue eyes, he stood quickly and slipped out the back door, Emma following closely behind.

She watched him intensely as he spoke reverently about every piece of the ship like it was something personal to him.

“You talk about the ship like it’s a person.”

“Aye, in a way she is. A Captain’s ship is always his mistress and she should be treated with respect.”

Emma tried to memorize the reverence on his face as he spoke, he had never heard anyone talk so eloquently about some boards and planks. She found herself wondering how he treated a woman with flesh and bones, needs, and desires.

Focus Emma.

They continued their tour, walking through the dining room she ate in twice a day toward a room with a table in the back that she had not noticed before.

“You have your own dining table?”

“It’s actually called the Captain’s table, not very original, but yes. It is used to invite VIP guests to join me at dinner a few times during the cruise, its customary and quite formal.”

“I bet you get all the best food.”

“I suppose a Captain does eat well.” He laughed, the timber of his voice playing in her ears as it was slowly becoming her favorite melody. She needed to stop staring at him like she was a 13-year-old girl with her first crush. But she quickly found that the alternative of gazing at him like he was a plate full of food and she hadn’t eaten in months was a more dangerous scenario.

They climbed the stairs which opened into a huge room, wall to floor windows, equipment littered at each station that was either blinking or moving in lines across the screen. It was overwhelming. “Wow, do you have to know how to use all of this equipment?”

“I don’t personally use it all, but I do have the capability and understanding of each station, yes.” He nodded to a portly man at the end of the bridge. “Afternoon, Officer. Emma, this is First Officer Smee, he is currently on watch.”

“Afternoon Ma’am.”

“Are you sailing the ship on your own right now?” Emma exclaimed looking around and not seeing many other people on the bridge.

Killian laughed, “Don’t share our secrets here, Emma, but most of the time the ship sails herself. I’m barely needed to sail her. It’s all in the computers now.”

“He’s being modest.” Smee interrupted. “The Captain does more than sail her, he’s in charge of everyone on board, keeps the ship running smoothly, and ensures we don’t crash her into each port.”

“Thank you, Smee. Happy to see I’ve at least impressed someone.” He turned toward Emma. “Shall I show you the controls?” Smee excused himself to allow them to wander the bridge in private.

“I have no idea how you know what all these buttons and knobs. I think this would give me anxiety being responsible for all of this.”

“Extensive training, love. They don’t let just anyone take on such precious cargo.” Her heart sped up as his eyes bore into hers. God he was gorgeous. She backed up into one of the control panels, her hand coming to rest on the counter.

“Careful love, if you push that button, you’ll take us off course.” She jumped, pulling her hand off the console and grabbing at her chest which elicited a gruff laugh from him, his eyes slipping down to her lips.

“Thank you again for the tour, I really appreciate you showing me around.” She said, her voice barely above a whisper as he continued to step closer to her.

“Aye, your gratitude is much appreciated.” His hands rested on either side of her, the heat from his body radiating against her hips. She stared at his mouth longer than she should before dragging her eyes upward to meet his. They were darker than she remembered them earlier, his pupils larger. They were locked in a moment where neither spoke and Emma wasn’t sure what she wanted to happen next, just that she didn’t want it to stop.

Before she had time to anxiously weigh her options he leaned in and captured her lips with his own. His lips were soft and warm, and she could barely contain the beating of her own heart or the way she could feel it pounding in her ears, tiny explosions of light projecting on the backs of her eyelids as she pressed forward against him. Her hands came up to rest on his chest, the crisp fabric of his uniform sliding against her palms.

Suddenly he pulled away from her, looking between them toward the floor and shaking his head. “Apologies, Miss Swan, that was inappropriate.” He stepped back and wandered toward the window, looking down at the deck below them.

She took a deep breath and approached him, admiring his profile, his jaw clenched, his eyes focused on the unaware passengers who were going about their day. “It must be a lot of pressure being responsible for so many people.”

“Aye.”

“Then we are very lucky that you’re our Captain.” She added, trying to lighten the mood which had suddenly become tense. She tried to quiet her own disappointment from his change of mood, wondering if he regretted what had just happened because of his status and the public display or because it was her.

~*~

Killian cursed himself for kissing Emma. He was the Captain of the ship and he just kissed a passenger on the bloody bridge while in uniform. He had no idea what had come over him to behave so reprehensively.

Besides that, Emma had already told him that she wasn’t here to meet a guy and then he went and kissed the woman. Of course, there was also the matter that he wasn’t interested in a relationship either, he hadn’t been with a woman since Milah had died. But suddenly standing on the bridge with Emma, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her and then he bloody well went and did it.

Idiot.

He glanced to his left to see the woman staring out at the ocean asking him about the pressure he was under in his position. God she was beautiful. He glanced away, hoping it would stop him from the irrational thought of pulling her into his arms and claiming her lips again. “I’m sure you have a vacation to get back to, I don’t want to monopolize all of your time.”

She looked up at him, their eyes meeting for mere moments but enough to cause the hairs on his arm to stand on end. He needed to get his shit together. Instead of agreeing, she brushed her hand against his sleeve, running her fingers along his stripes, something she seemed mesmerized by on their previous occasion. “I’m supposed to meet Ruby at the pool for some sunbathing.”

Images of her in a bikini laying in the sun came to mind and he coughed into his hand. “I would hate to keep you from such an important activity.”

She stepped toward him, a playful smile forming on her lips. “Deck 12, if you’re into watching…to ensure my safety.” Her tongue darted out across her bottom lip.

Was she hitting on him?

He watched her slip away down the stairs, his frozen incompetent brain never catching up with his mouth to allow for a single word in response to her.

~*~

Emma had no idea what had gotten into her. She came on this ship not wanting to hook up but damn it if she didn’t need more of Captain Killian Jones. She didn’t know exactly why he apologized for kissing her, but she was going to make sure he understood that she didn’t regret him doing it. It’s not like she was going to see him again after she got off the ship. Wasn’t she supposed to be here to have a little fun?

She knew he was interested in her or he wouldn’t have kissed her. She may not have been with a man for seven years, but she knew what desire was and what she witnessed in his eyes before he kissed her was pure need.

Emma found Ruby lying by the pool and she sat down in the chair beside her. “Where have you been? I almost gave up waiting for you.”

“Sorry, I got distracted.” She said with a smirk on her face.

Her friend pushed her sunglasses up on her head. “Distracted by who?”

“Why do you assume it’s a who? There’s a lot of things on this ship to get distracted by.”

“Because I know you. You’re flushed and you keep biting your lip. Was it Graham?”

“I’ve barely talked to him.” She shrugged.

“You don’t have to talk to him to get horny, Em.”

She put her sunglasses on and lay back. “I’m bored talking about this.”

“You’re really no fun.” She pouted.

~*~

Killian knew he should stay the hell away from deck 12, he was too worked up to watch her sunning her half naked body. He should go to his room, take a cold shower, and enjoy a nap. Instead, he found himself on deck 13, staring down into the pool below, scanning the passengers for the woman who was driving him mad.

A kiss is just a kiss, right?

When he caught sight of her, he shifted against the balcony, his body reacting immediately to seeing her laid out below him. He hadn’t even looked at another woman in three years, not since Milah. But he wanted this woman, he needed to have her, to devour her, to feel her underneath him. And now that he had tasted her, he craved more.

“See something you like?” Killian jumped, turning toward Robin’s voice.

“Must you sneak up on me?” He stood beside him, staring down below them.

“Nice view.” He smirked.

“I’m just checking in on the passengers to ensure all is well.”

“Ah, just doing your duty then?”

Killian figured the best way to answer him was to ignore the question completely. “How did it go with Regina after I left you at the bar? I’m guessing from your presence here that she didn’t injure you.”

He laughed, “Well after you ran out on us, she wasn’t too pleased to be left alone with me. But she didn’t leave either.”

“Such blazing progress.” He teased. “You’ll be married before we reach the next port, should I brush up on my officiating duties?”

~*~

“There you are.” Emma wrapped her arms around August’s waist and hugged him tightly. “I haven’t seen you all day, where have you been?”

“Oh, um, I’ve been giving the ankle a rest.”

“Visiting the med bay, again? Maybe requiring your own personal nurse?” She questioned, noticing the new bandages wrapped around his foot.

“Just how do you know Captain Jones?” He diverted with a grin.

“Well played, sir.” She turned toward their friends, “Shall we?”

They took their seats at the table, Emma noticing that they had another guest at the table tonight. Graham was sitting on the other side of Ruby, embroiled in deep conversation.

“Tell me, is it true that William once drank an entire bottle of whiskey before the end of his shift?” Belle asked her as she sat down

“I didn’t say the whole bottle.” Will interrupted Belle.

“Most likely true, he enjoys clearing me out of my good whiskey.” August laughed.

“Not all in one day, that would make me a thief.” Will’s affronted reply coming quickly.

“You are a thief.” Ruby teased.

“You stole my heart.” Belle cooed and Will stared at her. His face crumpled, conflict littering his features. She knew he liked the girl, but she was also sure that if he did have feelings toward her, he would confuse them with his pining for Ana.

She simply smiled at him at the table and waited until they returned to their rooms to approach him. Since Ruby was getting a nightcap with Graham, she used the opportunity to invite Will to escort her back to her room.

“Delivered safe and sound.” He announced as she opened her door.

“So, Belle’s nice.” She said casually.

“Oi, this was a setup, wasn’t it? You didn’t need me to walk you to your room at all.”

“Nope, I just wanted to check up on you. You’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”

“She’s nice, I like chatting with her.”

“But…” Emma pulled him into her room.

“But I feel like I’m cheating on Ana.” He whined and Emma sat down on her bed and patted the spot beside her. He grumbled but took the seat, reaching over to take his hand.

“I’m going to say something to you, and I need you to listen to me, ok?” He shook his head. “And you can’t get mad at me because what I’m about to say is said in love.”

“Get it over with.” He exhaled, rolling his eyes.

“Ana was a bitch.” She held up her hand to stop him from interrupting. “She used you for whatever she could take and then she left. She’s gone and she’s not coming back. And I think you know that, and you use it, so you don’t have to put yourself back out there, so you don’t get hurt like that again.”

His shoulders sagged. “I can’t go through that again.” He whispered. “She damn near ruined me.”

“I know.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, remembering the night Ana left. He had called her after midnight, barely about to understand a word on the phone. By the time she arrived at his apartment he was a blubbering mess, crying on her shoulder, both of them drinking through the night until they fell asleep on the sofa. He had gone through phases of anger and depression, but never acceptance. “I was there, remember? There was a lot of whiskey involved.” He chuckled, a tear spilling from his eye. “But honey, you deserve to be happy, you’re a great guy.”

“Are you trying to have sex with me right now, because I’ve never considered it, but you could convince me.”

She smacked him on the back of the head. “Don’t ruin this moment, William.”

“Ow, ya bloody brat.”

“I love you; you’ve been my best friend through everything, and I want you to be happy. But to do that you have to put yourself out there.”

“Is this lecture for me or you?”

“Hey, we’re talking about you here.”

He laughed and then reached over and pulled her against his chest, falling back onto the bed together. “I love you too.” He nuzzled into her neck, “You could still convince me, this is a really good moment.” She pulled back and shoved him away from her. “I mean, this is a great start, maybe I’d enjoy it rough coming from you.”

“Will!”

“Ok, ok, I know, you can’t handle all of this.” He stood up from the bed and turned to leave. “What’s that?” He gestured to their desk in the corner of the room and the object sitting on it. Emma paled. Sitting on the desk was the painting she had been admiring during the auction. The one that sold for $7,500 earlier today. “Who’s Walsh?” he passed her the note attached to the paining.

A painting of great beauty deserves to be owned by an equally beautiful woman.

Yours, Walsh

[shoujolover-666]

Apple Kisses

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27032116

Ship: Yandere!Neige LeBlanche x Vil Schoenheit

Warnings: Possessive Behaviour, Obsessive Behaviour, Yandere

Vil stared into the mirror, a blank look was on his face as he let the man with ebony black locks caress his own golden tresses. A pair of soft lips ghosted over the nape of his neck, which caused him to shiver slightly. He could hear a soft chuckle from behind him before he felt the sting of a bite.

The man who played with him, almost as if he was a doll, was Neige LeBlanche, the man who was known for his gentle beauty that almost toppled kingdoms and his kindness.

It made him want to laugh, but he wasn’t able to. If it was because of his unique magic he used on him or the pure ridiculousness of the situation, he didn’t know.

“I am so happy to have you with me like this, Vil-Senpai.”

Neige almost purred as he wrapped his arms around the older man’s shoulder, placing his chin on the shoulder of the person who sat on the expensive looking chair. Chocolate brown eyes were gleaming, they were oh so different from the now dull violet looking eyes. Still, to the Royal Swords Academy student, they looked like the most beautiful pair of purple diamonds. A rarity that only few people in the world could actually afford.

Fingers were exploring each and every inch he could reach as he indulged himself in the luxury of being able to be this close to his idol, the man he had always looked up to for such a long time now.

Oh, he could clearly remember the hushed whispers of some students when he was in middle-school. Words were spread about a person with the name of Vil Schoenheit and how he took over the world of fashion and celebrities by storm with his beautiful and alluring appeal while working so hard, even when he didn’t need to.

A man who also had all kinds of rumors cling to him.

How he offered favours to get to the place where he was now. Back then, he didn’t care too much about the gossip, because the world of social media never had been something that he did belong in. With time, he got to see him more and more though. On television, on flyers and even on big screens that showed advertisements.

Each and every time he saw him, his heart started to beat a bit faster and he was able to feel how his cheeks warmed up, his face ending up flushed. At first he thought it was simple admiration of how beautiful a person could be, but with time, he noticed that he never elt like this with anyone else, no matter how beautiful they were as well.

No, only the blonde man was able to make his blood boil with passion like this. It almost felt like the call of a siren, each time he saw him, he couldn’t help but get drawn to him more and more. At one point, he couldn’t stop himself anymore from trying to get closer to him.

He wanted to be able to work with him, to talk to him, to be closer to him than anyone else was. Neige wanted to be on his mind, to be his everything, just as Vil was everything to him.

That was the reason why he threw himself into the world of glitz and glamour without hesitation. If it meant that his wish would come true like that, he would even give up his position as a prince.

The stares he got at first were almost unbearable. He knew that people tended to think that he was good looking, but most of the people he interacted with were polite enough to pretend that they did not stare. Now, it was different. As a person who got more and more famous, it was only common to be looked at, to have the attention of other people.

It was uncomfortable to him, but he persisted. Thinking about how this was only a small sacrifice if it meant that he got the chance to glance at Vil without the screen separating them helped him go through this.

When the time arrived in which he finally stood directly in front of the fair beauty, he had to try his hardest to prevent himself from shaking and squeaking like the excited fan he was. Instead of giving in to the urge to react how he usually would, he simply reached his hand out to him with a smile as a greeting.

A gasp almost escaped his lips the moment he felt the soft and warm sensation of the taller man’s hand on his. Vil’s smile was refined and refined, and it only made him want to faint on the spot.

It was almost as if a queen stood in front of him, regal and prim. Oh how he wished Vil would agree to become his, to become the one who would rule and stay just right by his side.

How he would love to shower the other model with love and all the luxuries the world had to offer.

None of Neige’s inner thoughts were betrayed as he simply kept his innocent smile on his lips.

Since then, they met each other more and more often because of collaborations. The black haired noticed how his own fame started to rise more and more with each job he took, just so he would be able to get closer to Vil.

And then he was suddenly the one who was known as the fairest of them all. Something that he did not anticipate.

In the beginning, it was awful. The eyes that looked at him with a calm neutrality at first turned more and more hostile.

He wanted to beg him, asking him to forgive him… when a certain thought came across his mind.

Didn’t it mean… that Vil would be focused solely on him? Neige’s mood improved immediately and he started to work even harder to keep his new found status.

Like this, he got more and more chances to work with him. He couldn’t be happier, it almost felt like a dream come true. Until it didn’t.

The routine of feeling the hate filled gaze locked on him when he wasn’t looking at Vil was something he was used to by now. If he had to be honest, he almost anticipated it. That was why it was so strange to him when he did not feel the burning look on him.

Why?

Why? Why? Why?

Who was the blonde man who stood next to him so carelessly? Why was Vil not bothered by him in the least and paid more attention to him than to Neige? What did he have that the black haired man didn’t?

For the first time in his life, he felt angry towards someone. Wrath started to consume him, but he hid it behind the sweet smile he was known for.

“Ah, isn’t it Roi de Pomme?”

The man with the hat looked at him and bowed before he introduced himself. Not that he really cared about who he was. “My name is Rook Hunt, I hope you are going to have a successful shooting, oui?”

Neige noticed how Vil rolled his eyes. To most, it was a gesture of annoyance, but to him, it was something different. It told him how close they were to each other that the beauty would do something like this. He could feel the burning feeling of jealousy in his chest, it almost robbed him of his breath, but he kept himself in check. No, it would not do him any good if people were to find out that ugly side of him.

Ah, it was time to speed up his plans. The prince wanted to take his time and coerce him into being his slowly with time, show him what he could offer him, but there was no time for that.

He had to act now, before someone who was not worthy of Vil would snatch him away from him.

~ 🍎 ~

Vils eyes were focused on Neige for a moment before he looked away again. Right now, the black haired menace was not his priority.

There was a reason why he took Rook, his Vice, with him. Lately, there have been strange occurrences. Things that belonged to the third year student of Night Raven College started to disappear. At first, it was nothing special. Sometimes it was something as simple as a can he left standing, sometimes it was some food that he didn’t want to eat anymore.

Nothing special.

Then, other things started to go missing. Lipsticks that he used, handkerchiefs that he put down for later, even some pieces of clothes vanished without him knowing who the culprit behind these actions was.

He hoped that Rook would be able to find out who was responsible for these actions.

Maybe that was why he could care less about Neige this time. Finding the person who stole his things had a higher priority this time.

A hand grabbed his all of a sudden, pulling him out of the world of his own thoughts. “We should go, Vil-Senpai. The shooting is going to start soon.”

And with that, he was dragged along by the man who was shorter than him.

They let the make-up artists apply some make-up on their faces before they were shooed to the canvas that were prepared for them. It was time to get to work.

All the while, Rook watched his surroundings with a smile. To anyone else, it seemed as if he was solely focused on the two celebrities, but that was not the case. As a hunter, he noticed everything that happened around him. There was nothing strange happening though. Not a single person was out of place, each of them doing their own work and fulfilling their purpose.

How strange. He knew that his queen was vigilant, but not to the point of being paranoid, so he trusted the other’s judgement.

Was the person who made his dorm leader worry like that suspicious of him? What a pity. He would have loved to hunt that person down for the beautiful man he served.

~ 🍎 ~

It was time for a break. Neige was on edge when he saw how the man from before approached them, but an honest smile appeared on his lips when he heard that he had to go because of some kind of business.

Good.

He waited for Rook to leave them alone completely before he turned to Vil again, who was touching up on his make-up himself. Neige felt the urge to tell him that the blonde haired man didn’t need to do that to make people fall for him, but he swallowed the words.

“Vil-Senpai?”

The other man popped his lips after he reapplied the purple lipstick he wore before turning to him, one elegant and thin eyebrow was raised.

“What?”

That single word was cutting, sharp, but he did not care. No, he would not let anyone else stop him from what he was doing.

With his goal set, he approached him. Vil didn’t even have the time to react when Neige grabbed his arm and pulled him down, pressing his pink coloured lips against the poisonous looking ones. His lips tasted bitter but were soft. The prince wished to simply get lost in the sensation, but he didn’t have the luxury.

“True Love’s Kiss.”

Purple eyes started to get glassy and lost their focus the moment Neiges lips touched him like that.

True Love’s Kiss. It was a skill that was inherited in each generation of his family. If they kiss a person while using their magic, the person would fall under a charming spell that made them obey the caster.

The prince never intended on using his Unique Magic on Vil like that, but he saw no way to get around it. Too many threats were around his beautiful queen, and he did not want to risk losing him.  

A hand wandered to the entranced man’s cheek and caressed it. If he were in his usual state of mind, his hand would have been slapped away already. Now, that he got a taste of his kiss, he was calm, docile.

Excitement made a shiver run down his smile, and he couldn’t help but laugh to himself slightly. It sounded so innocent and sweet.

Neige would tell the people that the shooting had to be stopped, for Vil was not in condition to continue. Of course, as a good colleague, he would take care of him.

No one questioned him because of how they all believed that he was simply a sweet boy who dearly cared for his older co-worker.

Which wasn’t too far from the truth.

With no one stopping him now, he took Vil home with him, his hand tightly grasping the others’.

A soft melody was hummed by him.

Finally.

It was time for the future he always looked forward to. Of course he had to take care of the details later, like pulling Vil away from the eyes of the public and paying the headmaster of Night Raven College to throw the blonde student out of the school but the effort was worth it, for he now had his own princess, who was going to be his queen in the future.

It was his own Happily Ever After.

[succulentsunrise]

Where the Fire Lilies Grow

Content: SFW, contains mentions of nightmare and chronic illness.

Hey, it’s my series on Tani and Mereleona, inspired by @thoughtfullyrainynightmare‘s Embers of Sun and Flame! It will tell the tale of Tani meeting and falling in love with Mereleona...but we’ll see if she feels the same 😉

Next >

Chapter 1: Tani, the Verdant Knight

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.” James Baldwin

The morning had begun rather peacefully. There had been no reason to get up early, but Tani was used to waking up before the sun rose. Back at Kikka - her hometown - she had worked hard since the dawn. Now, as a Magic Knight of the Azure Deer, not having to wake up and go at it for the whole day made her feel almost like she was slacking. She had prepared for the day without much of a plan. Still, her planless plans had been ruined by her teammate and friend, Icree. Tani had been calmly treating her small garden of plants, when the red-haired Knight had popped out of nowhere and pushed a new recruit to her shoulders. There they stood now, staring at each other in an uncomfortable silence. The recruit looked young and extremely frail, as if a wind could knock her over. It was a rather direct opposite to Tani’s muscled bearing. The girl’s purple hair was tied into a long ponytail, which could almost reach the end of her long, dark dress. Her eyes were soft and heavy, lending her a youthful and sorrowful appearance.

“I’m Kliodna--Kliodna Sheeban,” the girl said with a hoarse voice. “Pleased to meet you.”

It sounded as if she had smoked all her life, if not more. The smile that she offered was weak at best. Tani nodded uncertainly, recognizing that she belonged to a noble house by her family name.

“My name is Tani Chartreuse,” she answered. “Is your--are you alright?”

“Yes, please, do not worry,” Kliodna quickly rasped. “I was very sick recently, which has left my voice damaged. I will be better soon.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t talk as much, then.”

“I have a lot of questions.”

Tani narrowed her eyes at the innocent smile the girl flashed at her. Straining one’s voice like that would lead to no good. She brushed parts of her short, brown hair behind her ears.

“I will take care of my garden first,” she commented, turning back to her collection of plants. “Then we’ll get you a quill and some paper.”

“This is yours?”

“Yes. Not everything here, but some of these. That,” Tani pointed at a larger, hanging fern a little further away. “And these here.”

The plants she pointed out last were small, potted succulent plants - her favourites. She took care of them with gentle passion, always making sure they had what they needed.

“You have plant magic, correct?” Kliodna asked, clearing her throat a little.

Tani gave her a surprised glance, stopping for a brief moment to evaluate where she got her knowledge.

“Yes. Did Icree tell you that?”

“Icree?”

“The red-head that dropped you here.”

“Ah! Yes. She said your plant magic was impressive,” the girl answered happily.

Tani eased into a small smile.

“It is still far from what I’d like it to be,” she commented, starting to look for her watering can. “The attack on the capital showed there is still much to do.”

Though it had been a couple of weeks since the terrorist organization Eye of the Midnight Sun had flooded the streets with undead, Tani had not been able to think much else since. She possessed great powers in healing and reinforcing magic, as great as any self-trained commoner could have, but no skill in offensive magic. No matter how she tried, she could not learn a spell to harm. To mend this flaw, she had taught herself how to use a sword. Even now it hung around her waist in its scabbard, attached to her belt. The undead, however, had not cared about a few meager stabs to their already dead flesh. Though Tani had not admitted it to anyone, she still saw occasional nightmares about that flaming street, surrounded by zombies and with no friends nearby to help. The dead citizens laid at her feet - those that she had been unable to defend. It had been sheer luck that Icree and Luka had found her in time back then. With Icree weakening the strange magic’s hold on the bodies and Luka’s sculpted jackals tearing them apart, the remaining citizens - and herself - had been saved. Still, the outcome of the overall attack had not been good. There were hundreds of victims, and a captain of another Magic Knight squad, Fuegoleon Vermillion of the Crimson Lion Kings, had fallen into a deep coma due to his injuries.

Tani looked at the moving lips of Kliodna and realized that she had fallen too deep into her own thoughts. She had not listened properly to the girl’s raspy speech nor had she found her watering can. She concentrated in time to at least hear the question.

“--unable to move. You were present then, protecting the capital?”

“Yes. It’s our duty as Magic Knights. Your duty too, now,” she answered, hoping that Kliodna had not realized that she had not listened.

“I hope to make our squad proud,” the girl said cheerfully.

If Tani had not been caught in distressing thoughts, she might have joined the cheerfulness of the girl. Another member of Azure Deer, Fragil, had told her not to dwell too long in memories of the past. She and Fragil were not very close, but it seemed like the other had sensed her unease. Still, she found it hard to forget how helpless she had felt that day.

“I should introduce you to the other members,” Tani stated a little flatly, the thought of Fragil sparking the idea. “Why did Icree leave you here in the first place?”

“She said she was quite busy - don’t get me wrong, she was very sweet to me! - but that you could show me around.”

Kliodna seemed to have sensed that something was a little off. Her gravelly voice was laced with a little bit more forced cheerfulness. Tani gathered herself mentally. She would have to do better than this.

“That is likely true to an extent,” she commented, pushing a smile on her face. “We are all a bit shaken by the attack. Icree spends her days and nights hunched over books, trying to figure out how to cancel the kind of magic we saw on the battlefield.”

“You--we expect them to return still, then?” Kliodna asked, the forced cheerfulness turning into wariness.

“We don’t know. We need to be prepared,” Tani answered. “However, do not dwell on it now. You have used your voice more than is good for it, so let me use mine. I will show you the place and introduce you to the others.”

The young girl nodded, this time obediently saving her voice. She waited kindly as Tani took care of her plants, and then they left together. The tour was short, but sweet. It took Tani’s mind off of the previous topic of conversation. Though many members of the squad were on missions, she was able to introduce Kliodna to a few of them. The first one they met was a dark-haired and lithe woman in the dining hall, Fragil Tormenta. Tani met her dark blue gaze with slight apprehension, remembering how sharp she was with reading others’ emotions. At least she did not comment anything, but instead welcomed Kliodna warmly to the squad. Fragil was a gentle and caring person by nature, though a little introverted. She and Kliodna got along well, especially after they found out that they were of the same age. Tani made a mental note of being right about Kliodna being young - she was 20 years old, making her six years younger than Tani. Two other members passed them by as they were talking with Fragil, only briefly introducing themselves to the newcomer. Tani had never talked to them much. Francis was a tall, black-haired man with a rather cold air to him. Cesc, instead, was a boyish red-head with a bit of a cocky attitude. They were nice people, but not someone you easily got to know better. The last two members they were able to find that particular day were Tani’s friends: Icree Papillo and Luka Diffidus. Icree they found in her room. What once had been a spacious and clean area was now littered with books and notes, and one tired red-head. Still, her greeting of them was as bubbly as always. Icree was a people’s person. She was a short woman in her 20s, with bright red hair crowning her head. Parts of it she had dyed white for fun. There was always a distinct scent of flowers and fun around her - the latter part being a little exhausting for Tani, who enjoyed calm time spent alone much more than fun time. Nonetheless, Icree was a reliable friend, who adjusted her attitude according to the people she was hanging out with. Later, they found Luka in his small studio. It had once been a normal room, but ever since the green-haired noble had come there, it had turned into his studio. Finished sculptures and designs were neatly put into their respective places, and the floor covered with protective canvas. Luka himself was a rather quiet and shy person, who rarely interacted with others. He was handsomely melancholic, as if a sculpture himself - though the illusion was easily broken if he got embarrassed. He could most often be found right here, in his studio, working tirelessly on details of the most beautiful stone or wood sculptures. He and Kliodna only spoke very briefly. The most that Kliodna could get out of him was Luka explaining what he was working on. He spoke of it with quite the passion - but receded back to his silent self as soon as he realized it.

The tour of the place ended at Kliodna’s new room: a simple, spacious place for resting and her hobbies. Her unopened bag was neatly placed on the floor. Tani concluded that Icree must have snatched her right as she had arrived.

“May I ask something?” Tani asked carefully.

It was something that had bothered her for a while: it was not time for the entrance exam. Yet the girl was noble, so perhaps she was allowed to join a little later. Or perhaps she had been scouted beforehand.

“Of course,” Kliodna said cheerfully, though her gaze was inside her room.

It was likely she was tired from meeting all the new people and seeing all the new things - or at least, Tani would be.

“Why are you joining only now? The entrance exam was a long time ago.”

“Oh. I have been sick for a very long time,” Kliodna answered with a bit of hesitation, her raspy voice breaking a little. “I qualified this year to join, but unfortunately it set me back a little. I’m fine now.”

Tani nodded, uneasily looking to the room as well. Either she had hit an uncomfortable subject, or she was causing the girl to strain her already unstable voice even more. Neither was a good thing.

“Well,” she started cheerfully, searching for comforting words. “We are here for you now. If you feel unwell, come to any of us, and we’ll help you in any way we can.”

Kliodna smiled, and with one hand on her throat, nodded.

“I’ll need to rest now, but thank you for everything,” she said silently. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Do you need anything warm for your throat? I could bring you a cup of tea.”

Tani only got a nod as a reply. She smiled at the young girl and left for the kitchen. She understood perhaps a little now why Icree had brought Kliodna to her. Icree was a person that wanted others to talk, so she could listen to them. With this girl, Icree probably had to worry a lot about where the line between talking and asking questions was. With a small sigh, Tani navigated the corridors to the common kitchen. It was not as if she had done any better job. They’d have to come up with some easier way to communicate. Writing on paper would take a significant time and be a slight waste of resources. It wasn’t the same as talking. Yet Kliodna should not be made feel unwelcome either. Icree would have to be pulled into this. Tani set decidedly three mugs in front of her: one for Kliodna, one for Icree, and one for herself. Icree had worked the whole day, probably. A small pause and a little bit of gossip would do her good. A warm cup of tea would be just the thing. Tani prepared the three mugs of tea and placed them on a wooden serving tray. After a brief consideration, she added the teapot on the tray as well, and made her way back to Kliodna. The new recruit received her tea and the filled teapot with gratitude, having clearly started unpacking her things. Tani did not speak with her long, but instead headed back to Icree’s room. Supporting the serving tray with her left arm and leaning it against her waist, Tani knocked on the door.

Icree’s voice was faint through the door, and clearly tired.

“Come in.”

Tani pushed the door open dexterously. Icree smiled upon seeing her.

“Drinks? Anything hard?” the red-head asked with no small amount of hope in her voice.

“Just tea this time,” Tani laughed. “We’ll get better stuff at the festival.”

“I don’t think there will be a festival, Tani,” Icree responded, beginning to make space on her messy desk for the tray.

“Not true. They are holding it.”

“Really?” Icree sounded very surprised. She gave a slightly distrusting glance to her brunette friend.

“I heard the Captain talk about it earlier,” Tani revealed. “The Star Festival will be held despite the concerns. We’ll get to play festival games and eat well. We are in dire need of it, aren’t we?”

Icree smiled tiredly at her.

“We’ll get to watch the scoreboard tell a sorry tale of the prowess of Azure Deer. I talked recently with my friends in the other squads. The Green Mantis’ have sixty-nine stars for all their efforts. The only one we have hope catching up on are the Purple Orcas, and they have fifty-one. Do you have a way of conjuring two more stars out of nowhere?”

Tani put down the tray onto Icree’s desk. The most popular part of the festival was indeed the ranking of the squads. While their squad, Azure Deer, had never had any hope of catching up with the royal squads, they had managed somewhat to stay in the lower middle of the list. Now it seemed like they’d be second last, if Icree’s information was correct.

“Well, at least we can trust the Black Bulls to be last, right?” she said reassuringly, but it didn’t seem to have the wanted effect.

“Black Bulls have one hundred and one stars,” Icree answered bluntly. “I talked with Vanessa yesterday.”

Tani stared at Icree for a moment in surprise. The Black Bulls were a group of misfits, who completed their missions by the means of destruction. As far as she could remember, they had been near negative amounts in stars. However, Icree’s source was reliable. Vanessa Enoteca was a member of the Black Bulls, and not one to boast without something to back it up.

“So we are likely last?” she asked with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Hooray for us,” Icree confirmed, rising her tea mug in a sarcastic celebratory manner.

“Have you told the Captain?”

“Would he care?”

The question hung quietly in the air. They both knew that Rill, their Captain, would likely care, but most often he was rather carefree about running the squad. He was the youngest of the Captains - and younger than both Icree and Tani - and it showed in the way he led. His talent was easy to respect, but his personality was all over the place. Well, that was Tani’s opinion. She would trust him with her life on a battlefield, but on a day-to-day basis of running the squad and making sure everyone had missions? No.

“You know he does,” Tani answered quietly, taking her mug of tea and sitting down on the bed near the desk. “If you don’t tell him, he is going to freak out.”

“He’ll freak out in any case. Better let him enjoy the festival first,” Icree shrugged. “Either way, want to help me with something?”

Tani nodded, having a pretty good guess on what it would entail. Icree always wanted to test out her new theories after a long day of reading and theorizing.

“A new thing you want to try out?” she questioned.

“Yeah. Can you make one of those plants - it can be anything - and just--don’t resist,” Icree requested with a slightly cheered up tone.

It was rather clear she was excited to test out her new theory. Tani closed her fist and concentrated, pushing from between her fingers a pink flower with small petals, large leaves and a long stem: a kalanchoe.

「Molting Larvae」, Icree spoke, creating a striped caterpillar on the plant. Tani had witnessed Icree’s magic many times before: it created butterflies that could hinder and harm enemies. She had never seen her teammate create a caterpillar before. In the most determined manner that she had ever seen a caterpillar eat, this one set out to eat her magical flower. No, it attempted to eat her magic itself. It was a rather slow process, but both Icree and Tani looked at it with wonder.

“I don’t sense you receiving the magic you are taking,” Tani noted after a while.

“As far as I’ve understood my own spell - the caterpillar gets it,” Icree answered, slightly flustered.

“It’s not complete yet. Something is missing. It’s terribly slow and not something I could use in a battle very easily, unless I was able to hide the caterpillar somewhere on the person. Plus, the more magic it eats, the more noticeable it becomes.”

“I could try to reinforce your mana flow?” Tani suggested with uncertainty.

She wasn’t quite sure this was a problem that could be solved with better control of mana, though it was Tani’s specialty. She could help others withstand harder hits and move quicker by reinforcing them and speeding them up, as well as help them regulate the flow of their magic.

“No, it’s not about that,” Icree confirmed her suspicions. “I might just have to keep working with the spell.”

“Well, while the caterpillar feasts - you’ll come with me to the festival? Even if we might be last, we can still enjoy the thing.”

“Of course. I think we’ll all be there, except for Luka. We should drag him out as well.”

“Maybe he’ll find inspiration from the festival,” Tani teased, though neither of them believed in it.

“Maybe he’ll find a muse!” Icree joked a little, her worries melting away for a little while.

They stayed chatting together for a while, leaving behind the worries of attacks and achievements. It was more relaxing to get excited about the Star Festival like everyone else and ponder what to do about Kliodna’s condition.

[jaceyneedsabetterusername]

Doyenne ~ Part 7 (Final Chapter)

Warnings: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy needs help from one of Birmingham’s most powerful underground gangs, the Hemlock Angels. Little does he know, he’s not the king of Birmingham after all.

Warnings: Murder, Illegal stuff (Is this even a warning for this show? Everything’s illegal) 

Word Count: 5867

A/N: Ahh! The last chapter!!! As I go back and re-read the last few chapters, I’m nervous Tommy has been a little OOC (I hadn’t watched the show in a few weeks). But oh well! Thank you for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy the finale! 

A/N 2: Also, all the monetary references have been adjusted for inflation. I think I forgot to mention it before. But, yeah. So 400 pounds was worth much more than 400 pounds now. 

___________________________________

Fuck Thomas Shelby. 

Fuck him and the way he treated everyone around him as if they were beneath him. Fuck him and the way he acted like people were expendable. Fuck him and the way he viewed everyone as pawns in his own overlord game of chess. Fuck him and the way he just blatantly called you out. Fuck him and the way he made you crave him.

Your encounter with him had been fulfilling in ways you hadn’t expected but it had also infuriated you, bringing back memories you’d struggled to suppress for the last two years. Memories brought out emotion and emotion was vulnerability and you had no room for that. But since Tommy had planted the seeds of memory in your mind, all you could do was feel the hidden rage and heartache you’d been concealing since Mason had screwed you over. 

Mason had been your lover years ago as the Hemlock Angels grew. He was a poor boy desperate for money and you were a poor entrepreneur desperate for people willing to do illegal work. A romance very quickly blossomed and he was the first and only man you could say you ever truly loved. You’re whole heart and soul was invested in him. 

He was tall and handsome with auburn hair that was slicked back on top but shook loose when he’d get into something he was doing - whether it was working hard loading crates, beating someone up who tried to cross you guys, or making love to you. He had a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that gave his otherwise chiseled and angular face a soft touch. Toned muscles rippled across his perfect body and- 

Even today, after all this time, after all he’d done, you still felt love for him and you hated yourself for it. Once the Hemlock Angels took off as a whiskey exporter (though still a young and admittedly sloppy version of your current business in retrospect), he’d been caught at the docks with the cargo. He and the crates were seized by police and, with the promise of a very handsome monetary reward and legal immunity, he’d given the police the address of your distillery. Thankfully, you weren’t there when it had been raided but you lost everything you’d worked for because of him. ₤400 was worth your love and life’s work apparently. He took the money and ran off to Switzerland to avoid being drafted and lived off his money, leaving you to rebuild your empire. 

The betrayal had destroyed you, left you a complete shell of a person, incapable of trusting others, especially men. But it had allowed you to grow the Hemlock Angels. To avoid the pain, you threw yourself into rebuilding the distillery and developing more foolproof protocols for business operation. Never again would you make the mistake of allowing someone to double-cross you. It was why you conducted your business quietly, even quieter than, say, Alfie Solomons, who was also fairly underground as these sorts of businesses were concerned. 

Thomas Shelby made you feel things that Mason had made you feel and it terrified you to no end. The impending doom of repeated history loomed over you heavily, suffocating you and ripping your ability to breathe away. But it was a mistake that you kept feeling yourself drawn to making. 

Friday night had come around quickly and you found yourself awaiting Tommy in your main office yet again. The last thing that you wanted was to see him in this room, the ghost of his touch coming to haunt your skin. But no. This needed to happen here because meeting him on his turf gave him the upper hand. And now that Jameson and Brandon, the only thing you’d asked for in return for your work, had been killed, this was feeling more and more like a free favor. You refused to stake anything more than you already had on a free favor. 

“Y/N, Thomas Shelby is here for you.” Rita announced, peeking her head through the crack in the office door. You stiffened up, trying to play it off as just sitting up straighter but your prodege must have seen straight through you because she gave you a knowing glare. 

“See him in. Thank you.” Straight-forward, professional, and impersonal. That was going to be your new tactic. No more of the games you’d attempted to play with him, the same games that you were usually able to play successfully with everyone else. No more hot and cold, nice then firm. Tommy was able to worm his way through the small cracks of your professional wall to see the parts of even yourself that you tried to hide and that vulnerability stopped here. 

“Mr. Shelby,” You nodded in acknowledgement when he entered your office and you gestured to the chair across from you. Tommy’s eyes flashed with a hint of confusion. The entire energy of this interaction felt off already but nonetheless, he followed your gesture and sat down. 

You reached down and grabbed a leather bag from beneath your desk, dropping it on the table. Reaching up, you clicked the little locks on top open and pulled the material appart, revealing thousands of American bills, “Here is the final installment of the money. All the same as the first.” 

Tommy peeked into the bag, just to ensure that the money was in fact there. He lifted out a stack and flipped through them. They all appeared to be identical both to each other and to the last bag and if he hadn't known any better, he would think they were all legitimate notes. 

You leaned back and watched as he inspected the money, sure that he’d be satisfied with the work, before continuing, “There is a shipment going out to America tomorrow night. I need to know what it is that you’re shipping so I can be sure to leave enough room onboard.” 

The man shook his head, “I can’t tell you what it is that we’re shipping.”

“Then I can’t help you anymore.” You stated matter-of-factly, crossing your arms, “I need to know what I’m sticking my neck out for.” 

“Like I stuck my neck out for you?” 

“Yes.” Your eyes locked with his, refusing to back down or allow him to guilt trip you. 

Tommy sighed, “It’s snow.” 

Your eyebrow raised in surprise, “Didn’t have you pegged for a drug lord.” You actually were almost impressed. The man had range. 

“Just dabbling as you would put it,” he responded vaguely. 

So cocaine… It wasn’t the worst of the possibilities that you’d imagined. Ideas of dismembered body disposal or massive amounts of firearms or a million other worse things had occurred to you as possibilities. Of course, it depended on how much as well. “What’re the dimensions of the shipment?” 

“Half a cubic meter.” 

“Half a cubic fucking meter?!” You exclaimed, nearly choking on air, “How the hell did you come into that much blow?” 

Tommy put his hand up, “Now that I can’t tell you.” 

You nodded, “Alright, alright. I can respect that. A half cubic meter is an easy accommodation. Now, for the game plan…” 

Shipment days were anxiety producing enough as it was when you weren’t shipping thousands of pounds worth of cocaine along with it but tonight, your heart felt like it was in your throat. “Billy said the crates are all loaded at the distillery.” Rita announced to you, holding one ear to the receiving end of the phone and covering the mouthpiece with her hand. You finished loading your gun at the kitchen table inside of your shared house, slipping each bullet one by one into their slots with experienced skill.

“Good. Tell him we’ll meet him at the factory in forty-five minutes.” With a final spin of the chamber - a ritual you’d developed after telling yourself (with no real evidence) that it was good luck years ago - you clicked the metal pieces together and slid it into the holster at your side. 

“Forty five minutes? It’s only twenty minutes outside of town.” Rita questioned once she’d hung up the phone after relaying the information. 

You loaded Rita’s gun for her while you spoke and slid it across the table to her, “We are picking up Thomas and his brother Arthur to take them to the factory to load up their cargo.” 

She caught the gun and looked at you with wide cautious eyes, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Taking the Shelbys to the factory?” 

You sighed a knowing breath, “Yeah, I know. But he insisted that he remain in possession of the goods for as long as possible.” 

Rita’s face scrunched, “He knows he’s gonna have to relinquish possession at some point, right? What is he even shipping?” She slipped the gun into the pocket of her skirt. 

“Snow.” You confided with an impressed chuckle. 

She nearly snorted, “Really? Didn’t have him pegged for a drug lord.” 

A shocked laugh left your lips, “That’s what I said!”

Ten minutes later, you pulled up to the shipping yard that Tommy had said he’d be at with the cocaine and sure enough, there he was standing beside Arthur, both with cigarettes between their lips as they waited. In the shine of your headlights, you saw them both look over at you and move to pick up a wooden crate that was on the ground alongside an old military canvas bag. “Good evening, Y/N.” Tommy greeted politely once your tires came to a halt on the crunching gravel. 

“Good evening. This is it?” You confirmed once you got out of the car, pointing at the crate and bag full of money on the ground. 

He nodded, “Yes, this is it.” 

“Alright, we’ll just load those in the back seat for now,” You pointed back over your shoulder towards the black automobile behind you, “You must be Arthur. It’s nice to officially meet you. This is my right hand lady, Rita.” You introduced, first shaking his hand and then moving so Rita could as well. 

“Pleasure.” Arthur nodded to you both. 

“Well, should we get going?” 

Right on time, you arrived at the old factory you were meeting Billy, the man in charge of transport at the distillery, at. The factory was inconveniently located, even in its prime, set twenty minutes out of town, and had been abandoned since at least the 1880’s following a massive fire that had totally destroyed the structure and killed dozens of working men. The ghost stories surrounding it had kept it from ever being rebuilt and it had been abandoned for nearly half a century since, which now made it the perfect place for you to conduct business. 

“What the hell are we doin’ all the way out here?” Arthur asked when the car pulled up to the building. There had been nothing for miles and even now there was just your car and a large truck. 

After turning off the engine, you got out, the other three people in the car following, “I know it doesn’t look like… well… anything really. But trust me, this has worked well for us over the years.” 

“There’s no ports, no railroad stop. We had to take a dirt road to get here. How do you even move goods from this point?” Arthur questioned, skeptically. You could almost feel him reaching for his gun, convinced they were being ambushed or something and maybe, if you hadn’t been so eager to get this deal over with so you could stop whatever the hell was going on with Tommy, you would have dragged this out and messed with them a little bit. 

You pointed to the opposite side of the large factory - or what was left of it at least, “You can’t see it from here at night but there’s an old railroad track just on the other side of that wall. The train only comes through once every two weeks or so but thankfully it’s usually the same conductor. A few pounds buys us an unscheduled stop on his trips down to Gloucester where they load everything up onto a cargo ship and haul it off to America.” 

You were proud of your little system you’d developed. It had allowed you to grow into an international exporter and was the main source of your success. Tommy had seemed impressed last night when you developed the plan and explained everything to him then and now Arthur seemed to match his affections. 

The loud closing of a door drew all of your attention to the large truck. Billy, a stout, acne scarred man in his late forties, walked towards your group from the driver’s side of the truck. “Y/N! Will said the train is runnin’ a little late but should be ‘ere by 10:30.” He informed you in his thick Irish accent once he made it to you guys. A few other of your men jumped out of the passenger side but hung around the truck instead of approaching. 

Rita flipped out her pocket watch and checked the time, “We got about fifteen minutes then.” 

The next fifteen minutes were passed with pleasantries and conversation. Arthur never quite let his guard down and seemed on edge but had relaxed significantly. Honestly, you had as well. Something about tonight felt different than usual. There wasn’t the constant paranoia that the Shelbys were out to double cross you tonight you. Perhaps it was a mistake but, for once, you felt almost comfortable in his presence. 

The train came by right at 10:30, it’s crawling pace coming to a screeching halt with a loud hiss of steam. Billy went up to one of the old metal train cars and undid the locks. The door was slid open to reveal an empty space. “Alrighty, we’ll just move the boxes from the truck to here and then we’ll be on our way.” 

The other men who chose to stay by the truck had already lifted the canvas cover off the top and were carrying huge crates one by one, full with copious bottles of your illegal whiskey, to fill the train car. You stood off to the side with Rita, Thomas, and Arthur while your men worked, waiting patiently as they unloaded the truck. 

“Alright, Mr. Shelby. We have the space for your cargo now.” Billy invited, hands outstretched to take what Tommy had to ship. You noticed a nervous glance from the crate to Billy’s hands from Arthur. 

Tommy at least pretended that he trusted Billy, “Y/N told me that you travel with the shipment all the way to America,” He took out a picture from his pocket, “This is the man that will be awaiting your arrival there. Pass the goods off to him and only him, understand?” 

Billy nodded, inspecting the picture of the man before folding it into his coat, “Yes, sir.” 

Finally, Arthur relinquished possession of the cocaine to your man and he set it carefully on one of your boxes. After packing the duffel bag full of money, Billy hopped inside and the door was slid shut. 

The other men took the truck back to the distillery and you turned to Tommy, “I’ll call you when I get the call that it’s arrived in America. It usually takes between seven to ten days, depending on the weather.” 

 “Thank you. Perhaps, we could get a drink to celebrate.” He suggested as if you hadn’t had sex out of spite the other night. 

“What is there to celebrate?” You avoided the invitation. 

He gestured around, “A successful business transaction?”

You cocked an eyebrow at him, “I feel like you’d use anything as an excuse to drink. I have a hunch whiskey flows through your veins in place of blood.” 

He shrugged, “Nobody needs an excuse to drink.” 

“Fair point.” Internally, you smacked yourself but you ended up nodding a reluctant agreement, “Alright, one drink.” 

Tommy gave you a satisfied look that could have almost resembled a smile, “But this time I want to show you one of my establishments.” 

Thankfully, Tommy had agreed to your suggestion of Arthur and Rita joining the pair of you as well, using them as a buffer to ensure no other mistakes were made with the man who seemed to be your kryptonite. You’d taken everyone to the Garrison, a pub that you’d known to be under the control of the Peaky Blinders for the last several years, right after all the work at the factory had been finished. 

Tommy held the door for you as you passed through, Arthur taking over to hold it for Rita. Wordlessly, Tommy held up four fingers before ushering you away to a small booth in the back, along with his brother and Rita. All four of you slid along the cushion seats, making small talk yet again. Thankfully, now, after having been around each other for the last few hours, it was much less awkward and everyone was open to more conversation than initially. 

Arthur excused himself after a moment and when a poker game opened up between some of the other Blinders, Rita, an secret card shark, disappeared to swindle some poor, unsuspecting men of a few pounds. You and Tommy found yourselves alone, exactly what you’d hoped to avoid. 

“Sure she should be playing?” Tommy pointed over to Rita was his mostly empty glass of whiskey. You followed his gaze to see her with a disappointed look, one of the guys sliding his hand to take what you assumed were her chips. 

You snorted, “Oh, I’m sure. It’s your boys that should be looked after. Give ‘em a few more rounds. She’ll be leaving with most of their money.” 

Tommy almost smiled and nodded, “Aye,” He paused before beginning again, “Y’know, I can’t help but feel a little guilty. You helped us out with a lot and you didn’t exactly get your end of the bargain.” 

You inhaled deeply and looked away from him, bringing back up that professional front that you’d felt slowly slipping away throughout the night, “It happens sometimes I suppose. I thought about asking for more but a deal’s a deal and unlike some others, I don’t like to change my conditions once they’ve been agreed upon.” 

“And what is it that you would have asked for had you been one to change deals?” He leaned forward, listening intently to your next words. 

“Is Thomas Shelby feeling guilty for taking more than he gave?” You asked in shock, “I wouldn’t even do that.” Your tone quickly became jestful. “No, I’m only joking. You did end up coming to the rescue the other day which is more than others would have done.” 

Instead of seeming satisfied with your answer, though, he only raised his eyebrows and repeated the question, “What would you ask for?” 

Something told you that he was offering you new circumstances, an extra favor. Who did that? In this line of work, who knew what kind of horrible request would be made? 

What did you want? It was a good question. But did you have to answer honestly? Because an honest answer might jeopardize your life’s work and maybe even your life itself with some people. Tommy hadn’t double crossed you thus far though… 

After a long pause, you licked your lips, “A deal.” 

“Another deal?” He questioned curiously. 

You nodded, a small smirk on your face, “Yes. A deal between the Peaky Blinders and the Hemlock Angels. Business partners and an agreement to aid each other when needed. Neither of us offer the same services or sell the same goods, with the exception of the Garrison and my little establishment, so there’s no need to worry about losing business.” 

Tommy cocked an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t trust me. A double crosser, I believe you called me when we first met?”

“I said that’s what other people had called you.” You defended, remembering your first interaction well. “But I must be honest, I had a hunch they were correct.” 

“Then why trust me now?” 

“I don’t,” You answered short and honest, “But I want to despite everything telling me not to. I figure this way, I can keep an eye on you.” You threatened in a joking tone, although you really weren’t joking all that much. As the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Or, more fittingly for your scenario, keep your friends close and your acquaintance/ occasional hook up/ business partner who might backstab you closer. 

It took only a few moments for Tommy to weigh out the decision before nodding, “Alright, a deal then.” 

You raised your glass to him and he mirrored the action, a slight ting as your glasses tapped against each other in a celebration of a new alliance. The next twenty minutes or so was full of small talk, something that Tommy never found himself doing with anyone, so why was it so easy with you? Every now and then, there’s be grumbles of anger from the table playing poker as new opponents who insisted they could beat Rita lost a larger and larger fortune with each round. 

A quiet ding as the door opened made you twist your neck, curiously checking to see who came in. Then your heart stopped. “Fuck-” Your heart was caught in your throat and you wanted to vomit. 

Mason. 

He looked almost identical to how he did two years ago, just with a few more age lines. Time had been less kind to him than it had to you. He entered the room with a large casual air, surely unknowing of your presence. 

Tommy noticed your sudden panic when you uncharacteristically sunk into the the booth, hiding your face from the red-headed man who had entered the pub, “So that’s the man, eh?” 

You covered your face which had turned a shade somewhere between pink with embarrassment and red from rage. But nevertheless, you nodded, still side eyeing Mason from between your fingers as he ordered a glass of gin. 

“Gin?” Tommy noticed judgmentally, “Drinks like a woman.” 

Normally, under any other circumstances, you would have made some snarky comment about using your gender as an insult but you appreciated the effort to insult this man he’d never met, simply because he’d wronged you. “So what happened?” He inquired. 

You sighed, finally sitting up straight, just keeping your eyes on the table, “My ex. We were practically on the verge of marriage. He helped me start up the Hemlock Angles before he sold us out to the cops for a few hundred pounds. Ruined us for months.” 

Tommy listened to the story intently, watching the man out of the corner of his eye and quickly noticing that he seemed to have noticed your presence. At first, he glanced over nervously towards you before deciding to approach, a decision that Tommy had a hunch was the wrong one. 

“Four o’clock.” Tommy mumbled over the rim of his glass. Your eyes immediately shot to four o’clock to see Mason walking over, all too confident for your liking, a confidence you had every intention of destroying. 

“Y/-” He began, only getting half way through your name before you interrupted. 

“You have a lot of fucking nerve showing your face ‘round here.” You hissed, venom dripping from every word.

Mason put his hands up in defense. Those same hands that used to be calloused from work and you’d seen covered in blood looked as if they hadn’t so much as lifted a piece of wood in months. “I didn’t come looking for a fight. Just wanted to see how you were doing.” 

“You’re lucky I don’t shoot you dead where you stand right now you pathetic sack of shit.” Tommy sat back and watched as you destroyed this man with your words and he could only imagine the other stories about him you had. Your viper tongue had him on edge in the best possible ways. 

“I-” 

“No. You’re nothing.” You interrupted. 

He sighed, “I wanted to say I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for what I did! I miss us. I miss you.” He reached down, trying to take your hand, but you snatched it away. He looked down and eyed Tommy for half a second, trying to determine whether your relationship was romantic or platonic. 

You laughed a sadistic laugh, “You’re not sorry and you don’t miss me. You ran out of money didn’t you? Well I hate to tell you but you disappearing was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. I run Birmingham now and it’s all thanks to you. Now get the fuck out of my city.” 

Then for a second, there was a brief flash of danger in his eyes, that same danger that you’d fallen in love with. But this time, that anger was directed at you. His fist slammed down hard on the table in front of you, just barely missing your face, but you didn’t even flinch, “Listen here,-” 

“She said fuck off, mate.” Tommy interjected finally. Both of you looked over at him and you could’ve sworn you almost forgot he was here. 

Mason snorted, “‘N who the hell are you?” 

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that you respect her wishes and kindly fuck off.” Tommy’s voice was calm, much calmer than yours, but still holding a very sincere threat. 

Mason looked between the two of you and chuckled as if he’d been the one who was wronged in all of this before turning away, like he was trying to laugh it off nonchalantly. All of a sudden, he drew his arm back and began to swing his down onto Tommy. Before the blow could connect, you had your pistol out in a second and pulled the trigger. 

The loud bang drew several startled yells from around the bar and everything got quiet as they looked at your booth to see Mason’s body crumble face first on top of the table, lifeless. When the realization of what you’d done hit you, your mouth fell open in shock. “Holy shit…” You whispered to yourself. 

Tommy had jumped when the gunshot went off but now looked just as surprised as you did to see Mason lying dead across the table between you, “I really didn’t think you had it in you.” He really didn’t. Sure, he’d seen you shoot Sabini’s men but the way you looked at and talked about Mason, he assumed it was one of those loves you’d never be able to harm no matter the damage they’d caused to you. But, boy, was he blissfully surprised. 

All the Blinders in the building, including two of the Shelby brothers, Finn and Arthur, jumped up, guns pointed and ready to take down the attacker. Tommy held up his hand, “It’s alright, boys! Hold your fire!” 

You stood up to avoid the blood that was now dripping off the table and onto where you sat, “‘m sorry.” You apologized for the mess but Tommy shook his head. 

“Don’t be. He looked like he had it comin’.” With a wave of his hand, a few Blinders that you didn’t know the names of stood up from their seats around the poker table and walked up, lifting the body off the table. You weren’t quite sure what to do or say. You’d actually shot him. You killed Mason. He wasn’t the first person you’d killed but that didn’t mean that you enjoyed doing it. Unless it was in a moment of grave danger, watching the life drain from someone’s eyes as they crumpled into a bloody heap never ceased to make you momentarily sick, thoughts of the family you may have ripped apart destroying you. 

But you knew Mason didn’t have any family. The only person you’d hurt was him. You’d freed yourself. 

You looked up at him as he now stood beside you and saw that he was gazing down at the body and then glanced over to you, nothing but pure impressed admiration on his face.  

Tommy liked that you were able to take care of yourself and that you spoke honestly. It made him feel like perhaps this deal that you two had struck up would prove to be beneficial and trust based and that, just maybe, if things went well, perhaps the two of you could build your own empire together. 

Tommy had always been rather daft (or perhaps was that he just didn’t care) when it came to other people’s emotions and he was well aware of this flaw. But now, it was like he could see every inch of confliction on your face. “You alright?” He asked when he’d noticed your eyes hadn’t left the body, even when the men’s forms had covered it. 

His voice shook you out of your daze and you blinked yourself into clarity, “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” You turned away from the table to face the open room of the bar. Rita stood at the table, her chair tipped over on the ground behind her. She looked from you to Mason’s body that was being carried out back and back to you with a look of shock plastered on her face. The only other person who knew as much as you did about that situation was her. 

You walked up to the bar and threw a few coins on the bar, “I don’t care what it is, just make it strong.” 

“You don’t have to pay.” Tommy insisted but you ignored him, leaving the coins on the bar and taking the mystery drink that had been poured. Walking out the front door, Tommy trailed close behind.  

Finally, you parked yourself against the outer wall of the Garrison and downed the whole glass in one go, the fiery liquid burning a trail down your throat. Whatever the drink was, you had no idea. You set the glass down on the ground and lit a cigarette to replace the glass rim. 

Nobody spoke for a moment, until a small group of cops came running by. You tried your hardest to look innocent as they stopped and eye Tommy knowingly. “Tommy-” One of them started in a thick cockney accent. 

Tommy shook his head and pointed down the road, “Wasn’t us this time. Came from down the street.” 

It was clear from the looks on all three of the cops' faces that none of them believed a word that came out of his mouth but they weren’t about to cross Thomas Shelby. “There was a bit of a commotion from up there earlier before the shot.” You tried to reinforce the lie as smoothly and believably as possible. 

The cop looked a little more convinced when you agreed with Tommy and nodded before the trio ran off down the road looking for another gunman. This exact situation was why you didn’t get involved with the cops because they’re not going to believe you when you need to lie about something like this. 

As time passed, you became more calm, “I really am sorry about this, Tommy.” 

“I’ve never had a woman shoot someone ‘cause I was ‘bout to be punched. It was quite attractive, I can’t lie.” Tommy lit a cigarette as well, standing beside you, almost blocking the activity of the street in what seemed like an attempt to protect you.

A smile cracked on your face when you chuckled a little, the constant matter-of-factness of his tone making almost everything he said sound like business, even when he was complimenting you, “Well, like you said, it had been a long time coming.” 

You felt like you were being dramatic. Wasn’t killing just part of this gig afterall? “Y’know, I swear I can usually shoot someone without breaking down.” You tried to defend yourself with a weak laugh. 

Tommy shook his head, “It’s not always easy, I know. My hands get the shakes at night. Just because it’s part of the deal doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “You know, I haven’t felt the way I feel around you in a long time.” 

His confession was simple and, while a small part of you wanted to smack him for his terrible timing, a larger part of you felt the same way. “Neither have I. I’m used to being airtight but you make me weak… and I hate it.” You looked away from him, avoiding his deep, knowing eyes. 

“Whoever said that this had to be weakness?” He inquired, a hand running along your arm. 

A scoff left your lips as you rolled your eyes, “And you don’t believe that romance is weakness?” It wasn’t until the words left your mouth that you remembered he’d lost Grace and a pang of guilt struck your chest for bringing up the memory. But you also weren’t about to revoke the question. It just further illustrated your fear.

Tommy looked at the ground a for moment, remembering what it was like to hold the love of his life in his arms as she died, knowing it was fault, and thinking about how it felt to relive that pain every time he looked at a portrait of her or his own son. 

Finally, he nodded, “We’ve both lost people we loved but we also still have people we care about, whether they’re family or friends. A lesson that’s been very difficult for me to learn over the last decade or so is that it is impossible to completely rid yourself of all weaknesses.” 

Again, an almost humorous comment coming from Thomas Shelby, who everyone had known to be as secure and weakness-free as you were. You thought about his words, though, and tried to convince yourself that this was a bad idea - that an alliance and romance with Thomas Shelby was only sure to blow up eventually. 

“So?” He urged, his voice low and gravelly, after a few moments of silence. 

Silently, you found yourself trailing your eyes from his chest that was straight ahead up to his lips and then to his eyes. You took just a step closer, closing the already thin gap between the two of you and placed your hand around his neck, slowly coming to lean up on your toes. The movement was slow, giving him more than enough time to protest or pull away from you but he didn’t. 

Tommy’s hand lightly landed itself on your hip and he leaned down, meeting your lips in the middle. Unlike the last time your lips had met, this was soft and gentle, a side of Tommy that you had no idea even existed anymore. 

The two of you stayed like that for a while before finally parting your lips. Your faces still rested just beside each other’s, bodies close enough to feel the other’s warmth through the cool night. Your eyes slid open finally to see Tommy already looking down at you, waiting to see if this was a kiss of new beginnings or of closure. 

“Don’t make me regret risking everything for you.”

_________

Taglist: 

@kiaoizz 

@sweatydragoncloudknight

@hinagiku0

@stressedandbandobessed7771

[ellenripleysbelieveitornot]

AcuteAngleAziraphale Fics

Finally got around to making a directory of my Good Omens fics, with links to AO3 and Tumblr (including a fic by fic breakdown of the Chicken Soup for the Ineffable Soul drabble collection.)  A few at the top, everything else under the cut, since there’s like, 50+ fics here. (sorted by most hits on AO3)

Your Lips Are Poison; Your Taste Is Divine (Explicit)

He was beautiful, but in a ‘don’t touch’ sort of way, like the apple he was famous for- freedom and banishment all wrapped into one tantalizing fruit. Unfortunately, Aziraphale had never been particularly good at resisting temptation. So, of course, it started with a touch.

AO3 only

Chicken Soup for the Ineffable Soul (Collection)

Threadbare Heart (Gen)

For the last ten or so years, Crowley has felt an odd sort of affinity with Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

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Wanting (Gen)

Crowley was used to wanting. Answers from a god. A place to call home. For his love to be returned.

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Lucky (Gen)

“Angel,” Crowley said, draping his entire body across the desk where Aziraphale was reading. “Angel, let’s go somewhere.”

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Three Words (Gen)

Three words. Three simple, little words. That was all it took for Crowley's world to fall apart. "I'm in love," Azirphale had said, a soft smile gracing his lips.

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Free Fall (Gen)

Aziraphale fell in love slowly. That was probably for the best, since once he started, he just couldn't seem to stop.

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Anytime with You (Gen)

Aziraphale loved spending mornings with Crowley. He loved those early hours that he got to spend reading in bed with the demon curled up, asleep, by his side.

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Prayer (Gen)

Crowley is a prayer waiting to be answered, and Aziraphale is finally ready to let the hymns spill from his lips.

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To Love the Sky (Gen)

There once was an angel who loved the sky more than anything.

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Grace (Gen)

Crowley liked churches, and Aziraphale pretended that he didn’t know.

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Hymns (Gen)

Crowley sang hymns long forgotten to the choirs of heaven.

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I Choose You (Gen)

Some people believe in soul mates. Crowley was not one of those people.

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Unsaid (Gen)

Aziraphale could fill entire books with words he’s left unsaid. If he transcribed every utterance he’d bitten back on his tongue, he’d find that he had covered enough pages that he could line every bookshelf he owned. 

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Giggly (Gen)

Aziraphale had a problem, and that problem wore skinny jeans and strutted around like he was more limb than substance.

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Flicker (Teen+)

“Crowley,” Aziraphale mumbled into the demon’s lips as they kissed. “You’re doing it again.”

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Bigger Than These Bones (Teenish)

Crowley was most definitely not human. That fact must be made abundantly clear.

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Get Your Ducks in a Row (Gen)

The angel paid him no mind as he stopped in the middle of the path and turned around, forcing Crowley to stop, too. “Crowley, please, would you mind explaining the ducklings?!”

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A Sort of Wickedness (Teenish)

There’s a sort of wickedness to his smile, Crowley notices, and he wonders how he didn’t see it from the start. But that’s why they go together so well, isn’t it? Just as Crowley has a little of the light running through his veins, Aziraphale has just a lick of the dark, there below the surface.

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Not Made To Love (Gen)

Demons are not made to love. That is the only explanation Crowley can come up with for the way he feels ready to come apart at the seams. 

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Where Legends Are Born (Gen)

Crowley walked the streets of legend and saw the world unfold before him.

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Constellations (Gen)

Aziraphale had stars covering his skin.

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Paint the Sky (Teen)

Crowley used to paint. His brush was the cosmos and his canvas was the universe, infinite and vast. With just one stroke, he could bring the sky to life.

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I Love You (Gen)

It was unexpected, almost. Aziraphale wouldn't have thought it (though, that was more because he had never allowed himself to dwell on such things) but, despite all of Crowley's rough edges and walls he had built to protect himself from getting hurt, he loved incredibly freely and easily.

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Made To Love (Gen)

Crowley was made to love Aziraphale, he was sure of it.

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The Truth (Gen)

Fic request: Crowley gushing to The Them about Aziraphale

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Harmony (Gen)

Crowley’s love was a hurricane; wild and all-consuming, it surged within him until there was room for little else.

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Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before (Gen)

Crowley relaxed even further into his lover’s lap and closed his eyes. “Can you tell me a story?”

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Eden (Gen)

They met for the first time in the garden, but not atop the outer wall, on the day of the first rain.

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Me-ow! (Gen)

“Oh, good lord- I’m jealous of a cat.”

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*bang*bang* Tartan Love! Whoa! (Gen)

It’s ridiculous, really, the things Crowley will do for love. Walk across consecrated ground. Run inside a burning building. Change the upholstery in his Bentley to bloody tartan.

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First Kisses (Gen)

The first time Aziraphale had leaned forward and closed the six thousand year long distance between them to kiss Crowley, he had made a strangled sound much like a giraffe choking on a twig and promptly fallen to the floor.

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Call Me Angel (Gen)

Aziraphale still remembered the first time Crowley had called him ‘angel.’

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Warmth (Gen)

The lump of tartan blankets on the couch in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop appeared with the first snowfall after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t.

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Your Hand in Mine (Gen)

They held hands on the wall.

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Titus Anacondicus (Gen)

...and maybe Aziraphale had just confessed to six thousand years worth of longing to a snake that was not actually Crowley at all.

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An Absolute Angel (Gen)

In retrospect, Aziraphale probably could have avoided making an utter fool of himself if he had simply asked Crowley if they could meet up to compare disguises before making their way to the Dowling residence. As it was, he was lucky he didn’t blow the whole con by turning into a blushing mess during his job interview the moment Crowley stepped into kitchen as Nanny Ashtoreth.

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Companion (Gen)

Though he never talked about it, Aziraphale was ancient. One of the first angels.

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Sunrise (Gen)

[Aziraphale] had already filled this sky with his favorite colors (every shade of blue and the lightest yellows imaginable) but now the sunrise had him a bit stumped.

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He Loves You, Idiot (Gen)

If Crowley hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Aziraphale was in love with him.

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Treasure Beneath Gold (Gen)

Crowley, in the guise of Aziraphale, fidgeted nervously on the bench as he awaited the angel’s return from hell.

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Accidental Miracles (Gen)

It was too much. Aziraphale was in love and it was too much.

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Forgiveness (Gen)

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale whispers as he presses his lips to tear tracked cheeks.

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He Knows (Gen)

‘I love you,’ Crowley says, not with words, but with his actions...

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All This Time (Gen)

Aziraphale has a husband. This is news to Crowley.

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Nothing Rhymes With Aziraphale (Gen)

Crowley took to writing when the moments without Aziraphale seemed to stretch into infinity. There was something about the repetitive scratch of the quill against the parchment that seemed to calm him; maybe it was just the way it seemed to drown out the part of him that had (unforgivably) learned to miss someone.

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By Any Other Name (Gen)

Crowley wasn’t sure what exactly went wrong, but somehow, his lunch date with Aziraphale had ended with the angel acting like a complete nervous mess. OR the one where Crowley tries out various pet names.

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The Other Side of the Coin (Collection) (Role-Swap AU)

The Beginning (Gen)

An angel and a demon meet outside of Eden.

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Azra and the Antichrist (Gen)

Azra rides a bicycle and misplaces a baby. Raphael makes Gabriel drink coffee.

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On Being a Bastard (Teen)

The first time Raphael had called him ‘bastard’ Azra was, understandably, a little bit insulted.

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The Bentley (Gen)

"I still don't understand," Raphael said, as he maneuvered his Bentley at breakneck speed through the busy streets of London.

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From an Outside Perspective (Collection)

A Little Secret (Gen)

Brother Francis, during the course of his employment for the Dowlings, always seemed to be on the very cusp of being fired.

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Local Idiots Terrorize Ducks at St. James Park (Gen)

There was a small group of ducks at St. James park that were far more intelligent than any ducks had any right to be. This tended to happen when certain celestial beings were involved.

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Ducks! They’re what you practice proposals on. (Gen)

It wasn’t everyday you walked into St. James’ park to find a man down on one knee, ring box in hand, declaring his undying love to a duck, but it seemed today was a day of absurdities, because that was exactly what was happening.

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Snark (Snake Park)

As a spy, Agent [redacted] of the British Bureau of [redacted] had seen some, for lack of a more elegant word, shit. Which is why when the sunglasses wearing redhead in St. James’ Park turned into a massive snake in broad daylight, he didn’t bat an eye.

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Because I Love You (Gen)

This is too much. They barely survived the apocalypse, barely survived getting offed by their head officers, and now Crowley asks him for this?

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Mr. Fell and Mr. Fell (Gen)

Crowley once again changes his name.

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Allow Me (Teen for blood)

Heaven orders Aziraphale to kill a human. Crowley is there to pick up the pieces.

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Third Time’s the Charm (Gen)

For the prompt “please marry me.”

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Routine (Gen)

For the prompt “why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

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Sentimentality (Gen)

Aziraphale keeps his most treasured possession in a cigar box that finds its home nestled in the tea cupboard next to the angel’s favorite brand of earl grey.

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It’s Always Been You (Gen)

A love story told in reverse.  

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God Only Knows (what I'd be without you) (Teen) (4/8 chapters)

Crowley and Aziraphale through the ages, but each time they meet it is for the first time.

AO3 Only

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Exorcism (Gen)

Aziraphale and Crowley fake some exorcisms.

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An Unfortunate Lack of 'Wahoo's (Gen)

“–And then I finished my presentation, Angel, my really good presentation, I might add, you would have been proud, I used notecards and everything. Notecards, Angel!”

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On the Stars (Gen)

I hung the stars for you.

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I See You (Gen)

Crowley sees Aziraphale in the sunrise. He sees him in the light as it graces the sky with color and warmth.

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One, Two, Three (Four) (Gen)

Each time they meet, it's like a dance.

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Big Spooky Fan, Me (Collection)

Trick or Treat! (Gen)

Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis take Warlock Trick or Treating.

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A Dark and Spooky Night (Gen)

Aziraphale and Crowley tell scary stories.

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traditions, old and new ( winter fic collection)

Traditions (Gen)

And suddenly, it’s about traditions made together.

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[ruinousrealms]

Flayer

It was half past nightfall when we crossed the Rio Nuevo into Las Verdantes. Our outfit was fifteen men strong, pushing half a thousand cattle for Erlen Baymer, one of the state's lesser cattlemen. In truth he was a hard boss, a hard man who had captained a company of border raiders during the war and never tired of bragging about his service. 

A favorite story of his was the time he and his men came across a family of free black farmers in southern Kansas. Baymer had approached on horseback, riding through the fields with the self-confident swagger of a plantation overlord surveying his property. He asked the father whose plantation he had run away from, and for response the black said he had been born free. 

Now, Erlen Baymer was a devout Christian, and he knew the black race were descendants of Ham, son of Noah, and that for his transgression against God, he and his descendants were evermore cursed to servitude, to hew wood and draw water and be servants unto servants. He did of course explain this position to the black, as he ordered his men to strip him naked to find the truth of his claims. No man is born into slavery but he feels the whip, and so if he were born free, his back should be free from blemish. 

Indeed, the man's back was smooth, free from the lumpy scars of the lash. A novelty, many of his company had come up to gawk and ask questions. How did the negro know what to plant and when without any white man to tell him? How did he work the fields without a lash to urge his lazy, indolent soul? 

At length Captain Baymer ended this game and pronounced the sentence. The man was to be hung for his crimes against the Confederate States of America, those crimes being largely related to the color of his skin and the manner of his livelihood. It was understood that, if he were truly a born freeman, then surely his father and mother were somebody’s escaped property. Thus his very existence constituted the crime of theft. The children were brought back to Tennessee and dispersed among the slave markets.

The freeman’s remarkable back, Erlen Baymer had a leathersmith tan it and stitch it into a saddle. He rode that very saddle, decked out in silver dollar conchos and a rebel flag tied round the post, when we crossed the river that night in 1868.

Now, the facts of that night - I’m going to relate them to you here, plain and simple and just as they happened, like I’m some fancy New York journalist-reporter type. I grant you some of what I’m about to say may seem unbelievable. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t got any proof, any evidence beyond what I saw that night with my own two eyes. The way Erlen Baymer died, and the things that happened to us in his trail crew before and after… I tell you boy, it’s a curse, the things I seen with these eyes. It’s what drives a man to whiskey.

The country there was flat as flapjacks, and the only place we could find to camp out of the wind was in a dried up riverbank. There we laid out our beds, cocooning ourselves in canvas sheets and wool blankets and shivering in the chill night air. The southwestern desert is hotter than a griddle all day long, but come nightfall and it’s as cold as the north pole.

Well, it was cold that night, like I said, and the wind was howling and kicking up a whole storm of dust. Me and some of the boys, those being Joe Merwin and Caul Bretton and Micah Sanchez, we took turns digging a hole in the side of the riverbank. It wasn’t like a cave, just a dirt overhang a few feet deep, with the excavated dirt piled up to protect our side from the wind.

I wouldn’t say it was the hole we dug that saved us. It sure didn’t save poor Caul, and from what I hear Micah’s still out of his mind up at one of those New England asylums. I’d say it kept us from getting noticed long enough to save our lives, for whatever that's worth.

Now we’d been seeing the makings of a dust storm in the distance for most of the afternoon. They’re common enough out here and we didn’t make much of it beyond what we’d have to do to keep the cattle from scattering. A herd of dumb heifers can scatter to the four winds during a dust-up if you’re not careful with where you lay them down.

The cows stretched out for more than a mile down the riverbed, but they wouldn’t bed down quietly. Whips of dust kept kicking up and no sooner had they sat down than they were on their hooves again, bellowing out loud.

Erlen Baymer kept riding up and down the line cursing to high heaven, kicking the sentries when he came upon them and telling them to get off their lazy god damned bean-eating asses and put the god damned cows to god damned sleep. The only effect that had was making it impossible for any of us to get sleep - But that probably saved us.

It was so dusty at that point that when dark fell there wasn’t a moon nor a star to be seen. A man could just see the dots of cattle guards’ lanterns like the windows of distant farmsteads. Weren’t no use keeping your eyes open, the wind kept kicking the stinging dust up and there weren’t anything to see anyways. I pulled my bandana up over my nose and pushed the brim of my hat down over my eyes and tried to get some shuteye.

I might even have caught a wink of sleep. The cattle down at the far end of the line were getting riled up, bellowing and braying into the night, and that got the whole herd nervous. A nervous longhorner is a dangerous longhorner, and a whole herd of nervous longhorners is a stampede waiting to happen. Joe Merwin went out to see what was the matter and lend a hand if need be. That left just the three of us.

The screaming started soon after. I think it was Tadd Murfree, but from the sound it was hard to tell whose voice it was. There are sounds and intonations particular to men and sounds and intonations particular to animals, and only in the extremity of fear, agony or ecstasy can one make the sounds of another. I don’t think poor Tadd was in ecstasy that night.

More screams started up, and the horses neighing, and the braying and bellowing filled the night air with a mad cacophony. I wager nobody’s ever heard a sound like that before, that of half a thousand screaming and panicking cattle. The hoofbeats were like thunder, like cannonfire, like a thousand drummers pounding madly out of time.

The three of us huddled at the back of our shallow hole in the edge of the riverbank, wishing we’d dug in even deeper and almost thankful Joe Merwin wasn’t here, because he was a big man and there wouldn’t have been room to hide.

I had a small trail lantern whose flickering light we used to play cards. It took five tries to get a match lit, my hands were shaking so much. It lit up our little hole just fine; I saw Micah had his revolver out, and his knuckles were white around the oakwood grip.

“Put that thing away, Micah, do you mean to shoot something?”

“I intend to be ready,” He said, which was reasonable enough.

I crawled to the entrance of the hole. As we were digging we piled the dirt up at the entrance to serve as a wind-break while we slept. I crawled up to it like a trench’s parapet and peered over with my little lamp. It didn’t illuminate much, but in its glow I could see a rush of cattle, a torrent of bovinity running full-tilt down the length of the riverbed. A lot of the animals had raw bloody wounds, some so flayed they appeared to be covered in red patches like a hellishly perverse Holstein.

These animals were panicking for a reason, fleeing some unknown predator, but what on God’s earth it could be I had no idea. Suddenly a cow fell headlong into the side of the embankment near us, sending a shower of dirt down from the roof of our little dugout. It kept trying to get up, but couldn’t; And when it rolled over I could see one whole side of its hip had been laid open and the bloody pink bone was visible. Well, I put the poor bellowing beast out of its misery and hurled my dinner over the side of the dirt heap.

And you see, that’s when Erlen Baymer rode past us. God, if the sight don’t haunt me. I once seen a drawing of the Third Horseman, Famine, a rotting man riding atop a rotting stallion. That’s what I saw. That’s the scene I’ve got to describe to you, to make you understand why I can’t sleep at night no more.

The horse looked like it had been dead and rotting for a week. It had hardly a hair of fur left on its body, and the skin… It looked like somebody had taken a cheese grater to the poor beast. Through flapping bits of flesh I saw muscles moving like an accursed anatomical flipbook. The horse’s jaw was hanging on by a thread of tendon and it was screaming, just screaming with that stump of a tongue hanging out.

The poor girl had been beautiful, just absolutely beautiful, with a black coat that shone like oil in the sunlight. Thinking back on it now I wish I’d have drawn my pistol and put an end to the poor thing, but at the time I was too shocked to do anything but watch as it thundered past, carrying its shrieking, flailing load.

Erlen Baymer was naked as Adam in Eden, and it was plain whatever was happening to the horse was occurring to him as well. He was flailing like a man possessed, slapping at himself as if desperately beating out flames; There were no flames, just raw red meat that spurted every time he touched it. He raised his arm and I caught a glimpse of the frayed ends of muscles poking through a bicep.

Something fell with a wet thud near our little hollow, and leaning over just slightly with the lantern, I saw a withered human leg severed at the knee, as if the joint had been so weakened it simply fell off. It seemed to be writhing as if covered by a hundred thousand ravenous little insects, methodically stripping it down to the bone before my very eyes. It was wearing one of Erlen Baymer’s fancy gatorskin ropers. Once the flesh was gone, the carnivorous beasties went to work eating the leather of the boot, anything fleshy enough to be consumed, till all that remained were bones and a silver spur.

I crawled back in the hole, barely able to process what I had just seen. “Alright, boys, what in the hell do we do?” I asked, and Micah Sanchez said what we three all were thinking - Make a run for the horses.

Well, you didn’t have to tell us twice. We three all crawled up to the opening, and Micah and Caul took off at a full tilt. I stayed behind a second - I’d just glanced at the body of the cow beside our dugout. It had been picked to the bone.

Just as I scrambled to my feet, Caul fell and started screaming.

“No! God, no!” Caul frantically started beating at the lower hem of his pant-legs. We didn’t know what in the hell was happening; Micah rushed over with the lamp and pulled up his trouser leg. Micah screamed and dropped the lantern, bringing the infernal night down around us once more. Caul let out a kind of a long drawn-out moan, with notes of fear, sadness and resignation. At the time what it reminded me of, more than anything, was a deer that’s gotten itself trapped in some crevasse it can’t get out, and the more it struggles the more stuck it gets, till it’s exhausted itself and all it can do is bray and wait to die.

A gunshot lit up the darkness for a moment, and the afterimage stayed in my eyes for a long time, like looking too long into a fire. Caul’s body slumped down almost casually, but the upper part of his head sprayed across the sand. I heard Micah’s running footsteps and his heavy gasping breath, and he thudded down next to me and skittered like a rat into our little safe haven.

“Flies!” Micah’s fingertips dug into my shoulders like blades, his dirty breath blowing in my face, “It’s flies! Must be millions of them! They were eating him right up! Cleaned his ankles down to the bone, I’m telling you!”

I told him to shut up.

“That’s why he fell, there weren’t nothing holding his foot bones to his leg!”

Maybe the reader will judge me for what I did next. I hope you’ll take into account the things I’d seen, and the stress I was under at the time. Micah was raving mad, clenching me for dear life like a survivor of a shipwreck clinging to a broken mast. I’d just seen him blow a man’s brains out - Though thinking back to it, he may have been right. It would have been cruel to leave him to be eaten alive, and if Micah had tried dragging him back, he’d have brought the carnivorous flies with him. He put him out of his misery as you would an old cow. But at that time I was still in shock, and the only thought that came to mind was of Caul Bretten, whom I hardly knew, but with whom I’d shared campfires and kettles of coffee, and whose brains were steaming in the cool desert night.

Thinking only of justice, I reached for my lantern and brought it down on Micah’s head, extinguishing the light and silencing his ramblings. I didn’t know whether or not I’d killed him. He was quiet. We lay there together a long time. I must have nodded off and woken several times. At one point, I woke to see Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address in the corner of our cave. Again I woke, this time to see a skinless and eyeless cow wandering blind in the dim pre-dawn light. It walked past absolutely silently.

When morning came, the desert was still and not a thing moved. The sun was well up in the sky before I dared move. I was caked in dust from head to toe, cracking and falling as I stirred.

Micah’s face was red and my first thought, as the events of the night came rushing back to me, was that he too was being consumed alive by those unstoppably ravenous insects. But no; My lantern blow had split his scalp and dry blood painted his face red as an Apache warrior. He was still breathing softly, so I left him there and took a gander outside.

The dry riverbed at first seemed to be decorated with a vast elaborate network of ice sculptures, gleaming a blinding white in the sun. These were the bones of cattle and cattlemen, five hundred dead heifers stripped of skin and meat and life. A lot of them had broken and ran, and their bones shone white in the distant desert sand. Clambering up the slope, the impression one got was of an overflowing river turned to ice in the blink of an eye, as if by magic.

Here and there the bones of the sentries. I recognized Eustace Bagge from his cigarette case. The leather had been eaten away, but the copper badge bearing the name of the regiment he served in the war was still perfect.

Two or three miles down, laying near some scrub was the skeleton of a horse surrounded by silver dollar conchos. I picked one up, turned it over; It could only be Erlen Baymer’s horse and saddle. The saddle, however, was gone but for the metal pegs that held it together. The freedman’s dark skin, that nightmarish piece of leatherwork, had been completely eaten away by the swarm.

The man himself had crawled away from his dead horse and left a trail of bones. He lost a lot more than the one leg; Toe and finger bones poked from the sand like pebbles, and the larger ones, a femur, most of a hand and the arm up to the elbow. I found gold teeth, and his revolver with the tacks that had held together the holster.

A bit further on I found Erlen Baymer. I turned and went back down the riverbank.

Micah had woken up and I found him wandering dazed and confused amongst the skeletons. I spoke to him but he didn’t reply; He never said a word to me again, and from what I’ve heard those New England brain-doctors haven’t gotten him talking. There was something wrong with his eyes. I couldn’t tell you what. He just kept staring past me.

He followed me without resistance. We followed the riverbed. We must have walked ten miles the first day and ten miles the next. The whole time we were stepping around skeletons. A herd can go surprisingly far in panic; The only reason they hadn’t gotten farther was, well, they were being eaten alive at the time.

The sun was our enemy. We had our canteens; I kept pouring little slips down Micah’s mouth, worried he’d choke but even more worried he’d die of thirst. At some point the brim started falling off my hat and letting sunlight hit my forehead, searing the skin red and raw.

Round noon of the third day, we came to an old covered bridge where we took shelter from the sun for a while, then started out along the road. After two and a half days walking, we were near dead. I had to pull Micah along, but he’d only move at a snail’s pace. I was terrified that he’d eventually fall down and just refuse to get back up; It’d be the end for him, and my own couldn’t be far away.

And then, as if by magic, a carriage appeared. One moment we were walking and then, the sound and smell of horses and a voice crying out in Spanish, “Quitate de en medio, idiotas!”

Well, I spoke a peck of Spanish, just enough for him to understand that we were in trouble, and the kind old man stepped down and helped me load Micah into the back, building a little bed for him out of bags of corn, and setting up a tarp to keep him out of the sun.

We rode to a hacienda named Soledad El Aquelarre, and the women bathed us and fed us and fussed over poor Micah. There was a nunnery not far away and the old man sent for the holy sisters to tend his needs, but beyond keeping him fed and cleaning up after him, there was little they could do.

I never told him a word of what happened. My lack of Spanish helped in that respect; Whenever he asked, I could pretend not to understand. He was kind, too kind for the likes of us, and I do feel guilty about lying to him, but I didn’t think he could comprehend what we’d been through, let alone understand. I barely could, and as I lay there day after day I got to wondering if the whole thing hadn’t been some sort of insane dream. I could see the workers in the fields through my window and beyond them the bone white desert stretched out gleaming, a thousand miles of dust to the gulf of Mexico.

One night, however, I was visited in my room by one of the sisters. She spoke good English and introduced herself as Sister Clarita. She was one of the sisters tending to Micah. She didn’t ask me what had happened, because she already knew. There were stories in this region going back centuries, of caravans going missing in the desert night, and by light of day all that are found are the polished white bones. The monastery library held many such reports going back to the days of the conquistadors. Sister Clarita thought it must have been going on a lot longer; The native tribes shunned this entire area, considering it an unclean place to visit and avoiding the entire hundred-mile stretch of desert as we Americans avoid the cesspit or the slums.

There were other books, too. Books on biology and entomology, and the evolution and adaptation of species. Sister Clarita suggested that a species of small insect, like the tiny mites and fleas that live among grains of sand and are so small as to be almost indistinguishable, may have become adapted, over many centuries, to the consumption of flesh. That such a diet would cause changes in the bodies of the insects making them more adept at catching their prey; Perhaps their mandibles had developed a razor’s edge for slicing off bits of flesh. Or maybe they coated their victims in digestive acid and slurped up the liquified flesh. Sister Clarita knew of several insects that consumed their prey in just such a manner, though none that she knew had ever gone after so large a prey as a man or a cow.

“But Sister, if these really are man-eating insects, why do they stay out here in the desert? Every animal migrates toward its food source; These things could strip a town clean of flesh overnight! Why aren’t they swarming through the cities, just… Everywhere?”

“Perhaps they just like the weather here,” Sister Clarita said and kissed her rosary.

After a week of recovery, I felt well enough to travel. I collected Micah from the sisters, who protested, but I thought if anyone could help him it would be at one of those new asylums up in New England. The old man took us as far as the train station in Las Friolero del Resol, and there he bade us goodbye.

Two days later we were back in Texas. First thing I went to the barber to shave off the wild beard I’d grown. Then I walked into the nearest sheriff’s office to report the fate of the Erlen Baymer Cattle Drive.

Well, they didn’t believe a word of what I told them and locked me and Micah up for murder. To hear them tell it, the two of us got up one night and slit everybody’s throats. Didn’t matter to them what I said, nor the state Micah was in; They left us to rot six weeks before the circuit judge came ‘round to pronounce the sentence.

He had expected an open-and-shut murder case; When we were brought to stand before him, he saw my sleepless eyes and the empty shell of a man that was Micah. He listened to my story silently, nodding occasionally for me to continue, and when it was done he pronounced the sentence.

“I, Judge Howard Lorbbock of the Great State of Texas, do hereby declare these two men to be mentally insane. No doubt they were driven mad by the ordeal they suffered, of crossing the desert after their cattle drive was destroyed by Apaches.”

There weren’t any damn Apaches in that part of Mexico, but I kept my mouth shut. The sheriff was making enough noise as it was, imploring the judge that “What the people of this town need to see is a good old fashioned hanging!”

Well, we were sent to Houston for treatment. Micah was considered such a specialty case that he was sent up north to New England, to the asylum in some town called Arkham. 

I stayed behind at the Houston madhouse. The medicine they gave me made me sleep, but nothing can stop the dreams. When I close my eyes, all I can see are Erlen Baymer’s lidless eyeballs rolling round and round in his red skull-face.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Melt VII

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst Characters: Alan Tracy, Scott Tracy, Gordon Tracy, John Tracy, Virgil Tracy, Kayo Kyrano, Grandma Tracy

Seventh and final of my entry for @gumnut-logic‘s SensorySunday: Smell. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Well we’re at the end and I have no more control over the end than I did the rest of it.  Regardless, I hope you’ve enjoyed this little foray into fire and ice, and see you next week with the next sense!

Alan didn’t remember when his mother died.  He didn’t remember her at all, past vague impressions and grainy old holo-footage.  He didn’t remember having his own bedroom, little bigger than a cupboard; by the time he had his earliest memories, he shared a room with two teenagers determined to parent him in the place of their actual parents.  He remembered nothing before the avalanche that stole her away.

He did remember the aftermath of the Zero-X, four older brothers in varying stages of Not Okay all trying to hold it together for the baby of the family.  He remembered what came after, but the before was muddying more and more by the day.  What colour had Dad’s eyes been, again?  Old photos and holo-footage only marginally less grainy than those with Mom didn’t retain their colour.  He didn’t dare ask anyone, unwilling to admit he was forgetting.  Or maybe he didn’t want to face the fear that their memories were failing, too.  Day by day, he remembered less and less of what had happened before the aircraft explosion that had stolen Dad away.

Scott had survived the explosion.  Scott had survived the avalanche.

Memories and Not-Memories bubbled up too close to the surface.  His family, grieving.  Scott, always there.  He’d never seen Scott grieve, for all that he knew he must have.  He’d noticed John’s absence, shut up away from Earth and pain in Thunderbird Five with his hologram getting gaunter by the day.  He’d seen Virgil throw dark, melancholy paints at a drab canvas, and flinch away from a too-silent piano.  He’d heard Gordon screaming with bloodied knuckles in the gym, only to throw himself into the pool with a single-mindedness that scared him.

He didn’t know what Scott had done.  He just knew that whenever he’d been needed, he was there.  Storming Thunderbird Five with a Thunderbird Three that no longer had a designated pilot to force John to eat, breathing life into a piano until Virgil could be coaxed back to the ivory keys, towels to wrap Gordon in when he finally left the water.

Warm arms and a chest for Alan to burrow into like the scared child he’d been.

Whenever he’d needed him, Scott had been there.

Except now.

Scott was half the world away, and Alan needed his biggest brother here.  Here, like Gordon, whose attempts at being normal by loudly chewing on what Alan thought might be some sort of gum were betrayed by a rarely-seen steel in the depths of his amber eyes as he watched the holoprojector.

Someone had tried to kill two of his brothers, and only one was safe.

He’d been right behind John when the truth had come out.  The whole mission had been a trap, the climbers they’d faced their demons to save had tried to kill his brothers, and when they’d failed, they’d tried again.

Alan had watched Kayo’s bodycam feed as she stormed the hospital with all the fury of an avenging angel, swooping down on someone whose head shimmered with the tell-tale signs of a cloaking device.

There’d been three of them in the room.  Kayo’s own brand of badassery, while always impressive, had paled in comparison to the other woman present.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Grandma had her own steel.  Kind, if a little old fashioned and definitely a nemesis of the kitchen, she was all soft hugs and comforting words.  Alan had never thought to fear her before, but Kayo while might have been the avenging angel, Grandma was a fury from the very depths of hell.

Unarmed and the lone defence of her unconscious grandson, the woman that had travelled the world and made it her oyster before deigning to grace the world with one Jefferson Tracy, and then helped raise five strong-willed grandsons after him, came to the fore.

By the time Kayo had swooped in, there was only one left standing.  Vaguely, Alan recalled hearing that Grandma was an actual Doctor once upon a time, before five grandsons needed her more.  In a room she knew the ins and outs of explicitly, three fools who tried to take her on had no chance.  Alan had only seen the results of the carnage when Kayo’s bodycam picked them up, but it was enough to give him a whole new fear of the innocent-looking equipment that sat quietly in every hospital room.

In the middle of the hurricane, Scott had been untouched.  Undisturbed, even, sleeping through it all without a care in the world.

Alan really wanted his big brother.  Not the one obnoxiously blowing bright green gum bubbles by his ear and chewing disgustingly loudly, or the one that had taken to scrubbing the inside of Module Two like a man possessed every spare moment he had.  Not even the one sat at the desk, slumped awkwardly in the grip of gravity but unwilling to leave just yet.  He wanted Scott, the one that was always there when something went wrong.

“If you’re that fidgety you can go make me a sandwich,” Gordon said with a loud smack of gum. “With extra pickles on the side.”

“Get it yourself,” he grumbled, only to be prodded with the end of a crutch.  “Hey!”

“Guys,” John sighed. He sounded tired, but Alan didn’t blame him.  They all knew John had been working non-stop with EOS, Kayo and Lady Penelope to get to the bottom of the attack.

For some reason, all three of the attackers, firmly entrenched in GDF holding cells, were refusing to say a word.  There was the underlying fear that they hadn’t been working alone.  Virgil had unearthed (unsnowed?) the weapon used to destroy the HeliPod and Parker was diligently hitting up h’old friends to trace it, but so far there had been little luck.

That was why Thunderbird Two was out on a mission to the hospital.  They had hospital grade equipment, Grandma and Virgil.  Every single member of the family, even MAX and EOS, had first aid training (slightly different for the non-humans, but training nonetheless).  The hospital was displeased, insisting that Scott needed to be kept there for months. Months.  Kayo and Grandma had overridden all of their protests.

Scott was coming home.

He wasn’t fit for transport, the hospital had protested.  They didn’t even know if he was done with surgeries or if he needed still more before the burns could heal properly.

They’d lost Mom in an avalanche, and Dad to an aircraft explosion.  Scott had survived both, and none of them were going to lose him to assassins, of all things.  He’d be safer at home, and Grandma was confident that transporting him would not unduly stress his injuries.

In the end, it had taken a sizeable financial bribe to get the hospital to discharge him, not that the hospital would admit as such.  A generous donation to their burns unit and their protests about a too-early discharge had melted away.

Not a single member of the family bothered to hide their disgust that a hospital of all places accepted bribes, even if it had made things simpler.  If there was one time the Tracys would throw money around, it was a situation like this, although it was true that there was also a silent agreement between them that Scott wasn’t going to find out about this particular little bribe.  He’d throw money everywhere for his brothers, but got sour when the situation was reversed.

“Seriously, Alan.  Go make me a sandwich,” Gordon whined.  Alan didn’t want to tear his eyes away from the hologram; Scott’s reluctance to behave himself whenever he was injured had prompted Virgil and Grandma to sedate him for the journey, to ensure he didn’t cause additional damage to himself with his usual escaping escapades, but that hadn’t stopped the three brothers still on the island from streaming Thunderbird Two’s internal camera into the middle of the den.

John had watched his uniform melt, while Gordon had tried and failed to pull him free.  Alan had been kept in the dark for too long.  None of them would be taking their eyes off of him until he was safe and sound at home.

No matter how much Gordon tried to throw him out of the room on the pretence of requiring a sandwich, even though he was still chewing that gum.

John didn’t intervene again, and Alan suspected he was afraid that if the staged normality was broken they’d all fall back into an oppressive silence.

Alan didn’t get Gordon a sandwich.  He snatched the crutch away as it prodded him again, setting it out of reach and listening to Gordon whine about that instead until the more welcome whine of Thunderbird Two’s engines reached their ears.

All three brothers looked at each other, before moving.  Alan looped under one of Gordon’s arms, John abandoning the desk to come to his other side – collecting the confiscated crutch in the process – and as one the trio made for the hangar.  Slowed by Gordon as they were, although leaving him behind was unthinkable, the green Thunderbird was settled back in her place and raised clear of the module by the time they arrived.

Grandma was first out, but only just as Virgil nudged the stretcher to follow her closely.  An unruly mop of dark brown hair appearing was the last straw for Alan.  He left Gordon to John – one of them muttered something, but he wasn’t listening – and ran the distance, clinging to the side of the stretcher and ignoring scoldings about running in the hangar.

“Scott?” he asked, unable to touch him.  His eyes were still closed, and it was impossible to miss the dressings covering both his hands and what was visible of his right side.  His infallible big brother looked fragile, like one of those porcelain dolls that sat in clear view whenever Kayo left her bedroom door open (Alan always found them creepy, and she smirked whenever he mentioned it). Alan didn’t like it.

Virgil put a hand on his shoulder and he looked up at him.

“He shouldn’t be sleeping much longer,” his older brother assured him, before frowning.  Alan followed his gaze and saw Gordon hobbling towards them, still supported by John.  “You should have waited in the medical bay, you idiot.”

“Have you met Gordon?” a voice Alan had been waiting to hear ever since the nightmare had started asked, amused.

“I can live in hope,” Virgil grumbled, shaking his head as the final two brothers joined the gathering in the middle of the hangar.  “I see you didn’t stay asleep a moment longer than you had to.”

Alan looked back down at the stretcher to see blue eyes looking back at him.

“Why would I want to sleep through this?” Scott asked, but it wasn’t Virgil he was looking at.  “You okay, Alan?”  Alan saw an aborted attempt at moving his arms, and gingerly wrapped his own around his biggest brother, stretcher and all.

Virgil and Grandma both made noises of disapproval, but Alan ignored them.

Mom had died in an avalanche.  Dad had died in an aircraft explosion.  Scott had survived both and now he was home.

“Yeah,” he mumbled into a hospital-gown covered shoulder.  “I am now.”

[pluto-fics]

Inspiration is Motivation － Prologue

Fanfiction | Artist!Taehyung x SingleMom!Reader

Genres: Fluff, Romance, Humor, Smut

Rating: G (for this chapter)

Word Count: 2.385 words

Chapter Warnings: none

Your brows furrow at the earlier statement of your best friend, Hanna.

"Believe me, it'll help you to relax for a few hours and I'll take good care of Ty."

You have no doubt about the latter. Hanna might be that stereotype single woman who likes to go out for a couple drinks every so often, but she is a reliable caretaker and one ridiculously good cook. Based on this, she was an absolute blessing the last two times she watched over your son. However, you still feel a little uneasy about her suggestion.

"I don't know... Tyler is kind of stubborn and moody lately, how could I leave you both alone for nearly four full hours? Not to mention that I can paint at home if I want to, I don't need to go to some weird art course..." you try to defy yourself. The idea of entrusting Hanna with your five year old son for so long worries you. Just the thought of it causes a bad feeling to spread throughout your body. Hanna just rolls her eyes, however. "Listen. I already signed you up for that course this Saturday. It's supposed to start at eleven, won't go past three in the afternoon and you can calmly come back home to Tyler and me having a great time without setting your apartment on fire."

You can't fight down the amused giggle at her statement before you sigh. "Hanna, I really don't-..." you begin, only to be interrupted mid-sentence. "Yes, you do want to try it. I'll be here at 10 this Saturday and you can either go to that course or stay here with us and bathe in my judgment."

And here you are, two days later and sat on a chair in front of an empty canvas and an A3 sized sketchpad, surrounded by strangers who, just like you, are waiting for the course to begin.

You take this time to inspect the equipment provided to you. Brushes and pencils of rather good quality, however accompanied by a cheap, fizzy eraser. The watercolor paint seems decent enough. But the big bottles of acrylics and oils on the desk in the middle of the room, accessible for everyone in it, clearly are not top-notch quality. That of course does not mean it is bad per se, you just might have expected something fancier in the art department of the local Community College.

Your train of thoughts comes to an abrupt stop when you hear someone opening the big wooden door and entering the room, a deep but smooth voice wishing you and your fellow course participants a good morning. The slender figure who just stepped into the room makes your eyes grow wide the second you lay your eyes on him. He is tall, with model like features, facial as well as bodywise. His fashion sense clearly is a little extravagant, for he wears a way too oversized dress shirt with a pair of what almost seemed to be pajama pants of some sort, and a matching beige colored beret topping his head. The big round glasses topping his nose make you curious. Does he need them to see? Or were they simply added to this retro outfit because they fit the vibe?

"I'm glad you all made it here on time, unlike myself" he then speaks while rummaging in the bag he has just placed on top of the desk in the front of the room. You hear quiet giggles erupting from two slightly older women in the back. His lips curve into a handsome smile, not even needing to show the whites of his teeth to make you doubt the existence of a man with such impressive visuals. Yet, you feel kind of stupid for the way you swoon over his looks like a teenager, despite being a grown woman with a child waiting for her to return home.

The young man claps his hands together as if to catch everyone's attention, even though he already possesses the full concentration of everyone in this room. "Now, I'd like to start by introducing myself, if that's alright by you."

He swiftly turns to the chalkboard behind himself and writes down what you assume to be his name.

"My name is Kim Taehyung and I teach traditional art at the local University. But as you can tell, I'm also hosting art courses like this one once a week, while also working as a hobby freelance artist. So I guess you could say that art is my passion."

There it is again. That charming smile of his as he tends to the attentive group of people in front of him. "But enough of me, I think we're all here to improve our skills, so how about we start with some easy warm ups to get creative first?" You notice everyone responding by nodding or already flipping over the cover of the massive sketchpad in front of them to reveal a blank page. Imitating your 'classmates', you flip open your sketchpad and face Mr. Kim again.

He begins by instructing everyone to warm up their wrists by drawing circular shapes of several sizes and shading them to your heart's content to make yourself familiar with the medium you're using. Another hint of his is to try the different art materials provided to each one of the participants and see which one you'd preferably work with today.

A couple minutes later, you can tell Mr. Kim valued his participants' individuality. Only giving a rough theme for the artwork you are supposed to create, he left everything else to you. "Warm Autumn" was the theme he came up with and your mind immediately drifts off into what you would like to call your ‘creative mode’. Images of brown leaves, soft breezes of air and fluffy fabrics of knitwear come to your mind. Thus, you begin by settling on a color palette in warm brown, red and yellow tones and soon start by sketching an idea.

Mr. Kim does no longer talk to the whole course. Instead, he begins to slowly walk around the classroom and take a look at everyone's approaches on the topic. Usually, you'd get so engulfed in your works that you would blend out most of your surroundings. However, Mr. Kim's presence makes it hard for you to fully concentrate on the sketch before you like you usually would. You don't even need to look up to know where Mr. Kim currently stood at, while he gradually comes closer to where you are seated at.

The sound of his steps approaching you slowly sends shivers down your spine, just like the feeling of him standing right beside you, wordlessly examining your sketch. You can't keep from glancing up at his face as his gaze remains locked on the paper before you, an approving look surfacing on his face. He then glances at your face, his eyes meeting yours immediately as he leans down a bit to speak to you with a quieter, low voice. "Nice choice of motives. Do you have an idea for the final composition already?"

You feel your cheeks heating up as you mumble out a shy "Um, kind of", unsure of how to feel about the genuine interest Mr. Kim shows. It's been a while since someone other than your son Tyler had commented on one of your works. The young artist next to you smiles. "You're a fast one, huh? I like that. But let me know if you need anything, alright?" His voice is just as unique as his appearance. And the more you get to hear of it, the more you come to like the sound of it. Nodding your head with a smile, you thank him before he smiles back and moves on to the next participant of his course.

By the end of the course, you have created a piece you are rather proud of - the motives assembled in a harmonic way, adding to the calm and welcoming atmosphere of your painting. Throughout the creation process of it, Mr. Kim came around every once in a while to praise you for your ideas or help you improve parts of your piece in ways you wouldn't have been able to think of yourself. You have actually truly enjoyed today. At the end of the course, Mr. Kim gives his final speech in which he thanks everyone for participating and gives some last advice before sending everyone home with their final artworks. You had just put the materials you had used back to where you got them from, ready to pack your things to leave, when Mr. Kim approaches you with a gentle smile. "(Y/N), am I right?" He addresses you, your heart seemingly skipping a beat at the way your name sounds when spoken with his smooth voice. "Yes, that would be me" you say, turning to him with faked confidence. In reality, something about this Kim Taehyung makes you feel like a shy teenager again. He smiles apologetically as he asks "Do you perhaps have a minute or two to talk? If you're not in a hurry to be somewhere, that is."

To be honest, you want to apologize and leave right now. Tyler is waiting for you at home, after all. And so is Hanna. But your head nods on it’s own accord before your mind could stop it from doing so. What are a few minutes anyway, right?

"Great! Actually, I was curious to see how your piece turned out. To be honest, I didn't really get to look at it yet," he then says as he regards your artwork which is still on the easel at your seat. Examining it interestedly, he chuckles. "You're really talented, you know? This can't have been the first time you’ve painted something like this."

Your lips curve upwards in a bashful smile. "Ah, well actually... It's kind of my hobby. It's just that I haven't had much time to pursue it recently..." you answer. A soft humming noise resonates in his throat before he faces you again. "Are you interested in modern art too?" He suddenly asks, catching you a little off guard. "Modern art?" You repeat, to which he nods. "There's an art exhibition at the City Hall next friday. The main focus of it lays on contemporary artists and most works shown there are paintings and sculptures, rather than installations or anything like that. But I have a feeling that you might like it." You aren't sure where he was aiming at with this information, but you appreciate it. Mirroring his friendly smile, you say "It does sound interesting, yes. But I'm really busy lately, I'm not sure if I'll be able to go."

Mr. Kim seems understanding as he nods. "Well, if you do make it, maybe we'll meet there." He responds, making you nod slowly as you mumble a barely audible "That'd be nice." You want to ask him if there'd also be works of his exhibited there, remembering that he introduced himself as a freelance artist earlier, but the sound of your phone vibrating in your pocket interrupts you. "Ah, sorry" you then say, quickly looking at your phone to see messages of Hanna coming in. It’s nothing serious, just questions about whether Tyler still takes naps after lunch or not, since he apparently got a little energy boost after having eaten well. But it is urgent enough for you to decide that it is time to go home now. "I better get going now. Today was really nice, thank you. And thank you for telling me about the art exhibition, too. As you said, maybe we'll meet there." You speak as you collect your belongings and art piece, Mr. Kim nodding calmly and smiling as he wishes you a nice day before you leave.

On your way home, you keep thinking about today's events. About the fun you have had while painting for the first time in months and the useful help Mr. Kim had offered. The giddy feeling you got whenever he would lean in to talk to you quietly with that soothing deep voice of his. You have really had a great day, even if you still feel a little awkward for being so affected by the male's looks and kind words. But who could blame you, if said artist looks like a piece of art himself?

Arriving at home, the first thing you notice right after opening the front door is the welcoming scent of warm pancakes coming from your kitchen. Peeking past the doorframe, you smile at the sight of your best friend and son pouring dough into a frying pan together, your little son giggling in excitement.

"Hello you two" you greet the diligently working duo and laugh when your son immediately comes running to you to hug your legs and welcome you back excitedly. Crouching down to meet his eyes, you then give him a kiss on his cheek and smile at him. "Did you have a nice time with Hanna?" You ask, your smile widening when Tyler nods eagerly. "Yes! Hanna knows so many fun games for two! We played hide and seek too!” You give Hanna a glance, relieved to see her smiling just as happily as your little son. For some reason you’re always worried that he might be a little too challenging for her sometimes, but seeing her reaction to his happy storytelling, you have no doubt that she adores your son almost as much as you do.

Getting up to greet your friend properly with a short hug, you then look at the pile of pancakes on the kitchen counter. "Someone seems to be hungry, huh" you comment, Hanna rolling her eyes as she speaks, avoiding the topic. "How was the art course?"

You can feel Tyler leaning against your legs, silently requesting your attention. Picking him up to hold him close, you then begin to tell Hanna about the building, the people there, the fun you had when painting something from start to finish for the first time in ages, and in the end you thank her for having made this possible. Yet, a very specific detail you keep to yourself for now － Kim Taehyung.

Thank you for reading the Prologue to my new series “Inspiration is Motivation”!

If you can’t wait to read the next chapter, check out my Series Masterlist and follow @pluto-fics to be notified of new updates.

Stay safe and see you soon! 💜

- Pluto 🌑

[xiolaperry]

The Piano

Notes: My Camp NaNoWriMo Project for April 2020.  A Rumbelling of the 1993 movie 'The Piano'. Has 15 chapters, all are written. I’ll post one every few days. Some dialogue is taken directly from the film and from 'Once Upon a Time'. No copyright infringement intended - I'm just having fun. The film is gorgeous, if you haven't seen it, I highly recommend that you watch it.

Summary:  Belle French and her daughter arrive in New Zealand to an arranged marriage with Gaston LeGume.  Gaston shows little interest in her or her piano and books. However, Mr. Gold is fascinated... 

Rating: E (for future chapters) Also available on AO3.

Prologue

The voice you hear is not my speaking voice, but my mind's.

I have not spoken since I was six years old. No one knows why, not even me. My father says it is a dark talent and the day I take it into my head to stop breathing will be my last.

Today he has married me to a man I've not met. Soon my daughter and I shall join him in his own country. My husband has written that my muteness does not bother him.

I hope he has patience, for silence affects everyone in the end.

The strange thing is I don't think of myself as silent, because of my piano. I shall miss it, and my books, on the journey.

Chapter 1

Belle looked down at the sand between her feet. It rushed away from her and back again in the cold seawater. Poor Tilly hunched over, ill from their turbulent journey in the small boat from the ship to the beach.

The rough sailors unloading their cargo dwarfed diminutive Belle. She watched them, concerned for her books and piano. She was less interested in the other boxes and valises that held her trousseau and other household goods. 

The men complained bitterly about the heavy trunks and the awkward crate. Their language was shocking. Perhaps they thought her deaf too? It wouldn't be the first time. Belle struggled to keep a smile on her face.

She could relax now that her three most precious things were ashore: her daughter, her books, and her piano. Full of curiosity at her unfamiliar surroundings, she did not know where to look first. She had read about New Zealand before they left. The descriptions of the flora and fauna, and the Maori people, fascinated her. She gazed about the desolate beach and the rocky cliffs in the distance, topped with verdant green foliage. The wind tugged at her hair. This was her grand adventure. She would be brave for herself and her daughter. Maurice, her father, hadn't given her much choice in the matter, but it was an adventure nonetheless. There weren't many opportunities for women back home. Perhaps it would be different here.

During the long days of their journey, she had spun endless tales with her hands. Of heroes and beasts, of princesses meeting princes and epic quests. Would a prince be waiting for them? She didn't know. But Tilly loved stories and would embellish them with details of her own, a habit she also indulged in as Belle's interpreter.

A few of the men were hesitant to leave tiny Belle French and her nine-year-old daughter alone on the beach. Their group was not yet there to meet them. She wanted them and their rough words gone. She signed to Tilly, who told them, “She says, 'Thank you for bringing our belongings. We will be fine here. Please leave us. We insist.'”

With that, the seamen left, pushing their boats across the sand and back onto the waves. Belle and Tilly were alone on the vast expanse of shoreline. They arranged their possessions around the piano and trunks of books. She sat down on one of them with Tilly's head on her lap. A plank of the large crate that held her piano had split. She pulled at it and reached her hand inside to stroke the smooth keys. She played a tune one-handed, bringing them both comfort.

After Tilly rested, Belle got her favorite book from her satchel. She had kept ‘Her Handsome Hero’ with her for the journey. The rest of her books waited, wrapped in their waterproof canvas inside her trunks. Tilly read their favorite chapter aloud.

Belle felt the first gnawing of concern for their safety alone on the beach when the sun sank golden on the horizon. But she made it into a game for Tilly, finding dry wood to start a fire and fashioning a makeshift tent from her crinoline cage and petticoats. Inside the little cocoon, Tilly interrupted Belle's story of a beautiful princess and a dark sorcerer. Grabbing her hands, she said, “Mama, I've been thinking. I bet he's not a prince. He's not even here. I'm NOT going to call him Papa. I'm not going to call him anything.”

Belle stroked her daughter's face, refusing to be drawn into a disagreement. Tilly quieted and soon sleep claimed them.

 -

In the forest's dampness traveled eight Maori men, an old woman, and two European men. Gaston Legume walked stiffly, his manner one of disdain for the surrounding vegetation. He had been living in New Zealand for several years. He had made himself some money right away, logging his property of valuable large trees used to build masts for ships, but now it was a constant fight to keep the land clear. Unlike the Maori who walked with grace through the underbrush, Gaston had an axe to beat it away. Nature, like some people, needed a firm hand and confidence.

He knew he was handsome, with his height and ebony hair, and took pride in his appearance. This morning he had taken pains with his dress and was resentful of the humidity that was ruining his look. He wanted to be at his best to greet his new wife. He stopped to comb his hair and took a moment to study the photo he had of her. Belle French was beautiful. She looked calm and sounded reasonable in her letter. She would be a worthy companion. After all the waiting, he would meet her soon.

Mr. Gold was the other European man of the party. None of them knew his first name, which was how he wanted it. Names were important. They had power. The Maori respected him for it. The settlers saw it as more proof of his misanthropic nature. 

Gaston had asked for his help with the Maori, needing assistance to carry his new bride's possessions. But Gaston did not speak their language and did not deign to learn it. Gold was fluent (another strike against him in the settler’s minds). So he went along to fetch the woman and her daughter. And Gaston now owed him a favor.

With the aid of a walking stick, he was more graceful than the lumbering Gaston. Gold was slight where Gaston was broad, quiet and observant where Gaston was brash and stubborn. Gaston was well-liked. At least, he appeared to be. Gold was not. Except by the Maori and Granny. Granny had left the settlement and joined the Maori people, learning their language and customs, after her husband died and no one else did anything to help her. He didn’t care about the rest of the settlers, there wasn’t a genuine one in the bunch. They came to this new land and expected it to bend to their will, to change into the same society they had left. Gold had no patience for them. They resented him because of the property he owned, the money he had and the influence he wielded over the locals.

The group continued on through the vegetation and reached the sand below. In the distance, they could see a collection of boxes, a crate, and trunks. A tiny figure appeared to be dancing about. As soon as she noticed they had company, she ran to a woman sitting next to the largest crate.

Belle watched the odd group come toward them. There was a tall, well dressed man and natives attired in all manner of eccentric clothes adorned with feathers and beads. One even wore a top hat. A slight man and an old woman with a crossbow brought up the rear. She stood up. This was it.

Gaston approached his bride. She was small, tiny actually. Barely larger than the child she had with her.

“Miss French. I am Gaston Legume,” he said with a bow.

Belle smiled politely and curtsied. He was too tall. He towered over her. But it wasn't fair to hold that against him. He did have the face of the prince Tilly hoped for.

“I have men here to carry your things,” he continued. He knew she didn't speak, but he expected her to show some excitement. “CAN – YOU – HEAR – ME?” His tone brought to mind that of a man speaking to a dim-witted child.

Belle nodded, keeping her smile firmly fixed on her face and smothering her irritation. This was not the most auspicious of beginnings.

Gold watched these first interactions from a short distance away. Of course she could hear. Anyone with a brain could see she was listening to everything that was going on. Her blue eyes sparkled with intelligence. How long would it take this girl to figure out she was married to a conceited fool?

---

End Notes: A huge thank you to the Rumbelle Writers' Realm at Camp Nano- I couldn't have done it without your encouragement: @emospritelet @peacehopeandrats @eirian-houpe @blueboxesanddeerstalkers @kelyon @worryinglyinnocent @jackabelle73 @avatoh @reolf @mrs-stiltskin. Special thanks to @jackabelle73 and @blueboxesanddeerstalkers for beta reading!

[howdywrites]

Apollo

A drabble for my WIP They Called Her Delilah

[ Intro post ]

After a late night drive, I managed to break free from the severe writer’s block I was experiencing and sat down to write this. I’m still trying to get a grasp on Thomas’ character, so this is the first time I’ve centered a drabble on him. Hope you enjoy!

Length: 1,046

Warnings: One singular curse word

Comment or message me if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

        Wet acrylic filled Thomas’ senses. His hand flicked, adding purposeful strokes of cool tan to brighten the shadows of his partially finished portrait. The room was quiet save for the soft smearing of brushes on canvas. He paused, dragging his gaze away from his work to look up at the model.

        A man near his age, though no older than thirty he suspected. Dark chocolate curls that shagged around his ears and neck. A strong jaw darkened with stubble and a distinct nose that he filled several pages with in his sketchbook trying to get it just right. ‘Dan’ they called him, a law student who volunteered to pose for them after unending badgering on their instructor’s part. He stood proudly on the small raised platform, white fabric bunched and draped over his body to give him a Grecian aesthetic.

        Thomas silently cursed their instructor for posing him the way she did. Facing him directly so every time he studied him - or rather stole a bashful glance - their eyes would meet. He could see every emotion reflected in those olive green eyes. Power. Certainty. Humor, though he couldn’t be sure why.

        The same humor they possessed right in that moment as they stared each other down. The corner of his full lips pulled upwards, smirking and dimpling the space between his mouth and cheek. Yet another small detail he missed during his quick glances. Dan rolled his shoulders back some, his collarbone peeking out from the draped fabric. How often did he work out? Thomas trailed his eyes over his chest and arms, how they tensed with his small movements. The Apollo Belvedere alive and breathing. 

        Dan dipped his head a bit. Towards him, he realized in horror. Something wet and cold plopped on top of his foot, making him jump out of his stool. Through the leather straps of his sandals, cool tan smudged over his pale foot. Heat bloomed in his cheeks and he cleared his throat. Every eye bore into him, even the ones not directly looking at him. Trying to be cool about it, he simply wiped the mess on the back of his calf. The cold paint smeared. A problem for future Thomas to deal with when he didn’t have captivating olive eyes staring him down.

        Clenching his jaw, he poured himself into his work. Commanding his hand to refrain from trembling as he worked on the details of Dan’s face. That angular jaw. He imagined trailing his fingers over the rough, unshaven state of it. Cheekbones that could cut through his paper thin heart if he wasn’t careful. 

        No shade of green Thomas mixed captured the essence of this man. The first two were too cold, another too warm. He needed a green that could seep into his soul and settle there like soft spring moss. Again and again he mixed and scraped his palette until he settled on something that could pass.

        Like a skittish rabbit, Thomas alternated between his work and Dan. Each time their eyes met those soft lips would curl again and send his brush twitching between his aching fingers. After today’s session, he would no longer be tortured by the sight of him. Both a blessing and a curse.

        “That’s all the time we have today.” The instructor’s bored voice piped up. The room still and the group took a collective breath and broke out into soft chatter. But not Thomas. He stood frozen in front of his easel and realized he no longer had a portrait of Apollo as the assignment dictated.

         He painted Dan the law student. Dimple and all.

         Shit.

        “Here.” A deep voice offered, a figure appearing out of the corner of his eye. Dan stood so close Thomas’ breath hitched in his throat. His head spun as if he were near a god himself. He offered him a blue and white bandana he plucked from his pocket from under his makeshift toga.

        “Thanks-” Thomas’ voice grew weak, his mouth dry. He set his brushes down and stooped down to brush the dried paint off of his tan sandal. He began to spill his guts without thinking. “I’m sorry I got your eye color wrong. I tried about six different shades and it didn’t quite work, and I-”

        “You got my dimple.” Dan chuckled. Thomas snapped his head up at the man, his heart drumming behind his ribs. Those soft lips smirked again. Amusement danced behind those eyes he had battled the entire three hour block. “Got a good eye for detail. Will you be in the figure drawing class next week?”

        “Oh… yeah I think it’s on my schedule.” Thomas didn’t know how he was speaking properly. His tongue always got twisted when an attractive man offered even the smallest interest in him. Dan’s eyes sparkled as he stood up, winking and taking a moment to give him a once-over.

        “See you then.”

        Stunned, Thomas stood there like a deer in headlights. His fingers clutched at the paint smeared bandana that Dan left behind and he watched as he picked his things up by the door and slipped out without another word. His body floated in a void, putting his portrait up to dry and washing his brushes to take back to the apartment. If the portrait class nearly turned him into a puddle, the figure class would surely end him.

-

        Velma looked up from her 4th bowl of cornflakes as the front door to their apartment unlatched and swung open. Thomas stood in the doorway like a ghoul, his face a mix of awe and horror. “You okay, dude?” she asked between bites. She raised a brow at the stained blue bandana tied around his neck in a stylish ascot.

        “I think I need to lie down. Velma, do you think a smile can kill a man?” He asked, shutting the door with his foot and tossing his bags on the ground. She hopped off his couch and sat on the arm. Thomas flopped down, his face buried in the ugly green throw pillows they stole from the dumpster behind a local furniture mart. 

        “No. Why?” Velma spooned the last of her cereal into her mouth.

        “Because I think I met Apollo himself. And I think he might be at my figure class next week.”

        Velma snorted. “That’s rough, buddy.”

--

They Called Her Delilah taglist: @celestialbunnistories @sybil-writes @draculinawrites @sapphcon-ic  @thoughtbloom @phantom-stargazer @mshelleys @ditzysworld  @writingpostmidnight @writerwaage @redwritesreads @aslanwrites @donovyn--nox

[sidereal-fantasies]

Sincerely, Not You

[Choi San]

03: Transparency

WARNING(S): None (just one curse word)

College AU in which Choi San and many others receive letters that threaten to break their already fragile hearts

“Patience and pride have never worked together nor will they ever give you the answer you are searching for.”

A few days has passed since the rather coincidental meet up between you and San. With the new revelation that you had also received a mysterious letter, the aspiring writer has made it his mission to meet you again to inquire about this predicament. However, for as thoughtful as San can be, his plan only consisted of patiently waiting until you hunted him down yourself if the letter was deemed to be so significant to your being. A hopeless yearning to satisfy childish meddlesomeness, one would have told him. A death wish if that letter seemed important, another would have warned. Yet, San stayed determined to pull himself out of the ambiguity that he was left with in this situation even if your lack of reaction from the first morning class you two shared appeared a little discouraging.

“Maybe it wasn’t that important then,” Yeosang concluded as San and him strolled the streets in search of a quick bite between classes.

San hummed. “Maybe you’re right, but I say otherwise,” he retorted, causing the brunette to raise an eyebrow.

For as long as Yeosang knew San, any doubt that crossed San’s mind only meant that a reckless plan was brewing inside the depths of his ever-so-busy mind. Any effort to steer him towards a path with less collisions in the near future would be useless at this point. He was silently stubborn, as Yeosang had learned over the years. Too stubborn to move away from the daydreams that sometimes distracted him from reality. Too stubborn to step away from the harsh truth he presents himself with in a quiet manner. Disaster only waited for San if he continued on with this skewed perception.

“By the way, Mingi said something about [Name] the other day,” Yeosang stated.

“Mingi knows [Name] as well?” San began, “I didn’t know they were that popular.”

“It’s not really that they’re popular, but Mingi said [Name] and him actually used to attend the same school, which is odd if you ask me,” Yeosang explained.

It was indeed a little peculiar for San remembered that Mingi hailed from a well known dance academy. Though every school still had its general subjects, he knew that many who chose to attend any performing arts school were specifically set on committing to an unknown future filled with obstacles that would challenge faith, devotion, and work ethic for the field always remained unpredictable in a plethora of ways. Performing arts school was a place where many were able to unleash their creativity freely with no worries about the future however, and yet here was [Name], a computer science major who expressed no fantasy or daydream and who continued on with a plain lifestyle, contempt in the box they built around themselves. In the mind of San, [Name] was someone who struggled to grasp the concept that art is another world of its own that is meant to be explored with passion and fervor. A blank canvas ready to be splattered with unpredictability. [Name] couldn’t have come from any performing arts school.

“If they came from the same school, then how come one ended up as one of the top dance majors and the other didn’t pursue anything similar?” San inquired.

Yeosang shrugged his shoulders. “I’d ask the same thing. I left it at that, though, because I wasn’t entirely invested in the idea that Mingi and [Name] had attended the same school before.”

San let a soft sigh pass his lips. Every unanswered question will eventually seek out its response. It just takes a little patience, which San was all too familiar with not possessing as much as his friend beside him.

“Another story to be unraveled, then—“

“Choi San!”

San immediately scrunched his nose in displeasure at the sudden echo of his full name.

“Seems that I need to take my leave now,” Yeosang teased. San rolled his eyes at the brunette before he stopped and turned to face your approaching form.

Your face remained impassive as you immediately extended your hand out to the ravenette. “I know you have my letter, so can I have it back?” You asked. A tiny simper pulled at the corners of San’s lips.

“You mean this?”

San held the envelope addressed with your name in front of you. “Quite an interesting thing to receive. Admirer?”

“No,” you answered bluntly, causing San to chuckle slightly. Your eyes quickly scanned over the envelope before you began reaching out to retrieve it only to have San hold it out of your reach. “What are you trying to do this time, San?”

It was a risky thought, for sure, but San craved to satisfy the ever increasing curiosity that plagued his mind. So, San held your letter in front of you with one hand before he began to rummage around his backpack with his other hand. He then pulled out a similar envelope with his own name scribbled in the middle of it.

“Seems like I got the same thing. How about we open it together?” San suggested.

You pressed your lips together, contemplating the offer as your fingers slowly wrap around your own envelope. Neither of you knew what the contents were inside, leaving endless possibilities of what it could be. Yet, it surely could be just that; admirers that felt the need to go the old fashion route to reveal a loveless confession. There was nothing wrong with writing a letter for it was a completely normal gesture of those who idolized the idea of cheesy romance built upon the everlasting influence of rom-cons, drama shows, and coming-of-age films. A waste of paper, you would have scoffed. But, perhaps it could turn into an inside joke, or another step into a steady friendship, granted you and San had a similar response to romantic gestures like love letters.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

“Okay,” you responded, “we’ll open it and if we want to, we can talk about it.”

San beamed as he immediately ran a finger under the flap, ripping it open to reveal a similar off-white piece of paper folded inside. You carefully tore your’s open, pulling the flap gently before slipping the letter out of the confinement with a great amount of care.

“If it is just… admirers, what are you going to do?” you inquired. Out of your watchful gaze, you saw San’s broad shoulders shrug in response.

“Who knows,” he spoke as he quickly unfolded his letter. “Will you let me read your’s if it’s just that?”

“Who knows,” you mimed as you unfolded your letter as well.

An uncomfortable silence ensues within the first few lines of each letter, leaving you and San struggling to formulate any sentences as your gazes continuously scan over the letters. Visible gulps, shaky hands, and plastered frowns were the only things that your bodies could do to communicate that these letters were certainly not love letters. With just a few words, it seemed that the invisible pride you both held on for so long crumbled into dust.

“Did… did you write this?” You questioned in a low tone. San vigorously shook his head as he bit down on his lower lip. “Of course not. Did you?”

A shallow laugh escapes you as you crumple the letter into a ball suddenly. “That’s a lame question considering you’re the one who called me out for my lack of ability to even type an essay.”

Former romantic sounds just like you, though, San wanted to voice, pressing his lips into a thin line. For the ebony-haired student, it wasn’t hard to guess what kind of view you had on things that you would possibly deem as trivial and not worth the time to ponder over. As complicated as you presented yourself as, San knew for a fact that the mere idea of fidelity stirred a deeply rooted discomfort within you. Yet, you were so narrow minded when it came to a simple essay the other day. Doubt suddenly crossed his mind as his grip tightened. It makes perfect sense, he thought. The restrained view, the subtle dislike towards anything that could be understood as pushing the boundaries as friends; it had to be you.

“Will you still let me read that letter?” He carefully asked.

You peered down at the crumpled ball of paper in your hand before handing it over to San. “Do what you want with it. I have to leave now.”

“[Name]!”

You immediately turned back on your heel the moment San’s hand grips your wrist.

“Do you know who Song Mingi is?”

Well, shit. Your eyes shift elsewhere for a quick second before meeting San’s stern gaze once more. “He’s one of the dance team captains along with Jeong Yunho and Jung Wooyoung—“

“That’s not the answer I wanted,” San interrupted, gaze never faltering for even a second. “Let me try again. Do you know who Song Mingi is?”

A lump started to form within your constricting throat. “We attended the same high school, more or less. Why?” you asked as your free hand rested on the back of your burning neck.

“Do you want to tag along with me this weekend and meet up with him?”

You hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not you wanted to rip your wrist out of San’s iron grip. Your conscious was dancing on thin ice by now, carefully testing which idea would keep you from falling into the freezing water. It’s been a little over a year since you’ve last seen Mingi. It was unpredictable knowing how the dancer would react to seeing you on the same campus as him for you took so much caution to avoid the fiery haired man as much as possible. Fate, as it seems, had a way with making your future unclear.

“I’ll… I’ll give you my number then,” you finally answered.

San’s hand slipped away from your wrist just as the two of you breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m sure he’s been wanting to catch up with you for the longest time,” he assured you as he held his phone out to you. You could only force a polite smile though as your fingers reluctantly wrapped around San’s phone. Your patience was already thinned out as it is and your pride was shot, yet the universe remained unsatisfied with your pitiful state of mind. Hopelessly, you found yourself tumbling down a path full of misfortune and misery with San being the cataclysm of it all.

“It’s easy to tell you’re upset,” San noted as he took his phone back from you. You arch your eyebrows in response before motioning for the genius writer to continue.

“Stop worrying about it if it’s the letter. I’ll burn it if it makes you happy,” San chuckled softly.

“I… Look, I’ll just get going to my next class. Text me the details later and then I’ll decide whether or not I want to go,” you exhaled.

San remained wordless as he watched you scurry off with a frown etched into your features. He didn’t dare to say anything afterwards, knowing that it was probably best to leave the bitterly frustrating conversation unfinished. It was for the best, he noted. For both you and himself as he looked down to the creased paper known as your letter. Boundaries were tested and San had to face the fact that he may have pushed them too much for comfort. Nevertheless, he could say that he had, at least, tried. However, his curiosity remained and thrived, buzzing like a swarm of bees within his inner thoughts and consciousness.

The mysterious ink that stained your crumpled letter and caused your internal conflict was eventually shoved into the front pocket of his bag without another thought being dedicated towards it. His own letter followed suit with an exhausted breath escaping his lips. Perplexing, he would have remarked. Perplexing for a person who’s feelings are as transparent as glass.

“Let it be a mystery, then, [Name]. For both you and me to solve.”