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[oneskyclothing]

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[space-cowgirllll]

boy mom abby save me. save me boy mom abby.

Lemme yearn for a sec. I went apple picking and to the pumpkin patch this weekend and it inspired this.

"Abby, hold him still!"

Your wife braces herself against the wall as the two year old in her arms starts failing around even harder, almost slipping out of her grasp. "What do you think I'm doing?"

The two of you giggle as you try to get the tiny jeans up his legs with little success. The toddler using his feet to kick them off as soon as you get his leg in. One particularly hard kick has you moving out of the way just a second before his foot can connect with your stomach. The quick movement making you wince when you feel a sharp pain in your lower back. Abby quickly sets him down, crouching down rub at the sore spot. The sound of his footprints loud as he wobbles away barefoot and pantsless. 

"I'm fine." You grab at the blonde's hands on your bump. "Just moved too fast is all."

She nods, giving the top of your head a quick peck before following the sound of a toy blaring from the other room. With newfound determination, she quietly sneaks up on the toddler, scooping him up and gently dropping him on the couch. His dinosaur like screech pierces your ears. You watch her struggle for a second as she maneuvers him into the pair of overalls while explaining why kicking at mama was bad. 

"Ha!" 

She holds out your son, now fully dressed in a long sleeve and jean overalls. His blonde hair is disheveled and the little knit cardigan you'd tossed at her last minute was unbuttoned, but he was making no move to pull it off so you'd take it. The smug grin is wiped off her face when she sees you sheepishly holding up the little boots and olive green jacket that he'd finally grown into. He breaks loose again, clearly not a fan of the added layer. She rolls her eyes, playfully snatching them out of your hands as she takes off after him down the hall.

"Leave it to you to pick out an outfit with nothing but buttons." 

"What are all those muscles for if not to wrangle toddlers?" You quip.

---

"Oh my god, no! Don't put that in your mouth!"

Warm pastry in hand, you watch Abby chase your son around from where you rest on one of the benches outside the small shop on the farm. Whoever decided a corn pit was good entertainment had clearly never dealt with small children. You smile into your cup as your wife grabs the toddler's small fist away from his mouth and prying it open, letting the small pile of corn fall to the ground, only for him to take two steps away from her and pick more up.  

Your pumpkins had already been picked and loaded in your trunk. Abby took her sweet time of course, wanting to choose the perfect ones for your front porch. You recall the conversation you'd had as she carried a medium sized pumpkin to the nearby wheelbarrow.

"This is kinda heavy." 

You hum unimpressed, gesturing with your free hand to the large swell of your seven month pregnant belly. "Try having that strapped to your stomach and pushing on your bladder twenty-four seven."

The blonde winces. "You're absolutely amazing." 

She acted like she didn't hear your mostly empty threats of saran wrapping one to her as she picked up the pace, pretending to have found 'the one' just a few rows down.

You rub at your lower back, too pregnant to be doing this much. Your eyes flutter shut at the temporary relief. After a full day filled with apple picking, a petting zoo, and trying to keep up with an energetic toddler and dog during various activities, you were wiped. 

"You okay?"

Abby stands in front of you, holding a sleepy toddler in her arms. Your family dog, Alice, following closely at her side. His head is tucked in her neck, fist rubbing at his eyes that are struggling to stay open. The sight of their matching flushed cheeks and pouty lips makes you smile. She can't help but feel guilty for dragging you out here. You look exhausted.

"Yeah. Just resting my feet." 

"The last tractor ride of the day is about to start, but I think we've all had enough for the day." She helps you up, grabbing the basket of apples you'd picked and holding it out of reach when you try to grab it.  "I got it baby. Just grab on to my arm, and focus on not slipping."

Stubborn as ever, you pull the leash from her hand. Grabbing her by the collar of her jacket, you reach up to press your cold lips to hers. "Love you."

Sometime later as she slowly drives down the windy mountain roads, Abby looks over at you. Your head is resting on the window, one hand in hers and the other resting atop your bump. The even up and down of your chest lets her know you're asleep. In the rearview mirror she's met with the sweet sight of her son's hand resting on Alice's head. He'd most likely fallen asleep whilst petting her. The dog content enough with the contact to not move when Abby looks at her.

To think this time next year, there'll be another car seat back there. Another little boy to love. She looks back your sleeping face, bringing your joined hands up, pressing kisses to the back of your hand as she continues down the road home. The diamond of your ring rough against her lips. 

You'd given her everything she's ever dreamed of. As she pulls into the driveway she can't help but think life truly couldn't get better than this.

[cdragons]

Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You - Part 3

Previous Part

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton. But goddamn, Oliver Quick was a fucking close runner-up.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, slight mention of blood, sexual harassment, Felix is delulu and kind of a pig, Reader just wants some fucking peace, Michael is Michael and the best, Oliver is Oliver (the worst)

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who commented and reblogged! I didn't expect this story to gain so many readers, and this was a challenging chapter to write - but only because there were some scenes I couldn't add because it would have gotten too long otherwise.

If there was a God out there, you prayed for the coming term to be as wonderful as this holiday had been for you.

You really wanted to kick yourself in the pants for making such a fucking cheesy wish at night watching the stars with Michael.

Right now, you were leaning to rest your head against a bookshelf in a slant position. You had a splitting migraine that began from the moment you woke up and worsened with nausea from your tutorial. And you couldn’t even go back to your dorm for the rest of the day because your lab course for your gen-ed didn’t allow for absences.

“What’d she do now?” came a voice on your right.

You looked to the right and were blinded by a white and blue-striped button-down shirt with short sleeves tucked into a pair of tan khaki pants.

Your knight-in-silver-framed glasses, Michael Gavey, everyone.

All the guy was missing was a pocket protector with pens and tape wrapped around the bridge, and he would have matched every bullied kid in every high school movie set in the 80s.

You turned around to lean your back against the bookshelves and slowly lowered yourself until your butt was parallel to your feet. Blowing the stray hairs out of your face, you remembered to take deep breaths to prevent you from blowing up at your only friend.

“No,” you sighed, “well – yes, but nothing I can’t handle.”

Do you love your classes? Yes. Was Daria Martin still your art teacher, and did she still like you? Yes. Are the rest of your teachers mostly assholes that think all Americans are Appalachian hill-billies? Also, yes. But were you still not excelling and scoring in the top ten after every exam? Naturally, no doubt about it.

But were you as invisible and unnoticed as you were before the break came? No. Did anyone with a pulse give you side-eyed glances after your stunt with the 24/7 shit-faced He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named? Pretty much, yes. Did most of your problems come from one mythic bitch in a 5’3” flesh suit that had the ‘Juicy’ logo plastered on her ass? Namely, one in particular, Annabel – who was your assigned student partner in your tutorial.

Was your new name among the student body now “Psycho Bitch”? …Unfortunately, yes.

…Okay, so this term has not been going as well as you had hoped during the break.

Annabel hated you – like hated-HATED you. And you had no idea why.

You were pretty sure you were less than blank air to her last term, but now she was determined to make your life a living hell. Last term, she skipped every other session to do whatever Annabel did. But now, it felt like she came to every tutorial for the opportunity to tear apart your work.

You’re pretty confident she was the one who started your new “name” about a few weeks ago when the weather began to warm up.

It’s not as if you were a stranger to being picked and prodded by the people born with silver spoons on their tongues and blessed with golden-tipped wings. You were a public-school kid from grades K-12 who went to Townsend Harris for those last four years. Townsend Harris High School was a public school, but make no mistake – it was just as full of the same bullshit hierarchy that made up every private school in Manhattan.

"Open the doors to all. Let the children of the rich and the poor take their seats together and know of no distinction save that of industry, good conduct, and intellect."

What crock. You only survived those years because every kid knew that your dad was an NYU professor who knew the Dean of Admissions of Columbia. You couldn’t recall how often you wished you had joined your friends at Flushing High or even Bayside.

However, regardless of the snide snarks and bullshit snickers pointed at you, you were left alone for the most part.

Sure – it sucked; that goes without saying. It was naïve of you to assume that people would grow out of the need for drama once they walked through the ivory doors and marble floors of higher education. It was stupid of you to think that everyone would forget about your outburst at Bodleian while they were getting drunk on the New Year.

And while Annabel was one migraine-inducing problem, she wasn’t the worst part of returning. No, that title belonged to her boyfriend, a whole other can of monkeys.

The worst part – the worst part of EVERYTHING – was how Felix fucking Catton was incapable of just leaving you the hell alone. It was like he had a little antenna sticking out of his head specifically for you whenever the two of you were within a ten-foot radius of him. Everywhere you went, it was as if you had a giant blinking arrow above you screaming, “Felix Catton’s New Toy”!

No, you were less than a toy – you were a joke, a gimmick.

God, you should have just stuck to your original plan and applied to any SUNY school that would have accepted you without even looking at your application.

But no, your good-Samaritan-obsessed college counselor called your parents and complained that you weren’t “putting yourself out there” enough. And now you were over thirty-four hundred miles away from home, stuck with the worst people ever. It was like a thousand tiny prickles were running on your skin as your mind filled with static.

Whenever Felix called out to you, it was to invite you to a party or get wasted. One time, he walked up to you insanely plastered and invited you for a quickie in the men’s bathroom. You were in an empty lecture hall since your usual spot in the library was taken, and Michael was still in class, so you didn’t see the point in trying to find an open spot.

Somehow – without you noticing – the guy plopped himself next to you and asked if there were any rooms in the building where he could smoke a joint in.

“Pretty sure you could open the window in the bathroom to smoke in there,” you replied absentmindedly.

And then he put his hand ON YOUR THIGH, leaned to your ear to whisper, “Wanna get out of here to join me? We don’t have only to get high.”

You grabbed all your shit and booked it – out of the building and all the way to your dorm to take a shower that lasted for around twenty minutes. You wanted to get rid of the smell of nicotine and overpriced aftershave. The scent of him on your skin made you wish you could tear it off.

And in your panic, you left your bike at the building’s entrance.

When you returned to retrieve it, it was after dark, and you recruited Michael as your tall and bony human shield.

“Do not ever walk home alone at night,” your mom told you every morning you left for school.

You tried not to think about the haunted look in her eyes each time she told you.

“Wanna skip the dining hall tonight? We can walk to Crowley Street and order take-out at that Pakistani place you like so much.”

Oh, that perked you right up. Jannahs Express was a broke college student’s paradise. The food was cheap, and the owners took pity on the international students. It was slightly more expensive in the UK, but it was the closest you could find with food on par to Kababish on Broadway in Queens. You stifled a laugh remembering the sight of Michael drinking the entire pitcher of water after you dared him to try a dish at ‘regular.’

“Seriously? Do you think you could take more than ‘English-mild’?” you asked as you stood up. “How did you survive your mom’s cooking for so long? She made us Indian food on our last night.”

“Mum grew up in London, and she had neighbors teach her how to make it the traditional way. You’re the only person who could take that level. Lilypad and I got Dad’s taste buds.”

Choking on your spit from laughing at the image of Gregory Gavey’s face turning firetruck red, you felt the migraine slowly disappear.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. God, I can’t imagine the look on his face when –”

A familiar voice that left a bitter taste in your mouth after hearing interrupted your conversation.

“Hey, (Y/N). Can we talk?”

You and Michael turned your heads to find Oliver Quick – Michael’s former friend, your former acquaintance – and the sight of him soured the mood instantaneously. You narrowed your eyes to dangerous slits to show your displeasure seeing him as one corner of your lip curled to show a sneer. You never liked the guy. There was just something about how he acted and presented himself. He had a profound desperation to impress everyone around him.

So much so that he immediately dropped Michael after becoming Felix Catton’s new pet. As evidenced by the oversized gray zip-up hoodie blanketing him. Felix’s, no doubt.

Fuck, you hated him.

“Ugh, what do you want?” you snapped, taking a bit of pleasure in seeing how your voice made him flinch.

“Look, can we –” his eyes hastily darted to Michael, then you, then behind him to make sure no one was watching him “– can we talk in private?”

Seriously? That’s how he wants to play this?

In the corner of your eye, you saw how tightly Michael clenched his fists. He was obviously still hurt from the time his ex-friend treated him like shit.

Oh, this will not do.

“Oliver,” you snarled as you crossed your arms over your chest, “whatever the hell you have to say to me, you can say in front of Michael.”

“Can you please not do this now?” he begged with pathetic eyes. How very in-character of him.

“Tick tock, Quick. Are you going to talk, or do I have to throw a drink in your face again? But this time, I’ll smash the glass on your face, too.”

Seeing the look on his face gave you almost a perverse sense of joy. Maybe this is why bullies exist.

“Do you think you’ll be at the pub sometime this week?”

What the fuck? Was he serious? His question caught you completely off-guard. You expected him to ask for notes or even help with homework, as his grades have slipped since becoming an official Felix Catton fanboy.

“At the pub – Oliver, when have I drunk alcohol in the entire time we’ve known each other?”

“You’ll turn nineteen this year, right? It’s only illegal if you’re under 18,” he tried to put out convincingly.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. But you’re forgetting the part where I’m still an American citizen. Just because it’s legal for me to vote doesn’t mean it’s okay for me to drink yet.”

“No one cares about that here!” he almost shouted. “Just come with me to the pub at King’s Arms for the next few nights.”

“No fucking way,” you scoffed. “My parents would kill me if they found out I drank on a school night. Also, in case you forgot, we still have our test tomorrow in History. And I, for one, don’t need to get sloshed every night to feel important.”

Michael tugged on your sleeve and nodded at the small crowd forming around you three. You sighed in silence, agreeing that it wasn’t worth it. You both tried to walk away, but you were grabbed and stumbled back, which caused you to drop your books.

“Ow! Are you kidding–” but a wince broke your complaint as Oliver’s hold on your arm tightened to a painful grip. Your eyes traveled to his face, and you were shocked to see the anger shining in his eyes.

“Why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?” he grit out. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

The way his nails dug into your skin made you curse under your breath. Seeing you in pain broke Michael out of his shock at how someone as meek as Oliver Quick could show so much aggression. He rushed to get him off you.

“Are you fucking mental?” he hissed at Oliver once he managed to separate to two of you.

But Oliver’s nail left red scratch marks down to your wrist, even breaking the skin enough to cause little beads of blood to escape. This enraged Michael like you have never seen. Staring at the evidence of his former friend’s clawing, he walked forward and pushed him to the bookshelf before grabbing his shirt with both hands.

“What’s wrong with you?” Michael yelled. “She already said no!”

You wiped the blood off your arm with an old travel tissue pack you stole from the plane you took from JFK to London last summer. God, everyone was staring at you guys now. You needed to find a way to contain the situation. If any staff catches you, all three of you may risk trouble. Trouble that would jeopardize your scholarships. You grabbed Michael’s hands to get him to loosen his grip.

“Look, I’ll hear you out–” you looked around and cringed at everyone’s stares, “–just not here.”

This calmed Oliver’s rage enough to get Michael to let go.

“Okay,” he whispered, “okay – yeah. Let’s go outside.”

The three of you grabbed your shit and quickly exited the library. You went to the same area behind the building with no windows – ergo, no bystanders to gawk at you.

“Okay, we’re outside. Look, I’m sorry about your arm. But can you please just –”

You lifted your hand to stop him.

“Okay, look. I only said I would hear you out to make you and Michael stop fighting,” you stated matter-of-factly. “None of us could afford to get in trouble with the faculty and staff, and it was getting too out-of-hand. Oliver, I am not going to King Arm’s tonight or any night you ask me. I have my own life, so don’t drag me into yours.”

Oliver gaped like a fish for a few seconds before speaking.

“But you have to! Please! If you do, then maybe he’ll –”

“WHO?” you interrupted, shouting. “Who will be there? Who is so important that you act so fucking psycho for five minutes ago?”

This was too much for you to deal with everything on your plate already.

“Cut the vague bullshit already! Why are you desperate for me to be there? It’s so –” You froze as an epiphany struck down you.

Oh, hell fucking no…

“Are you hoping that Felix will be there?” you asked through clenched teeth.

You felt like a volcano ready to blow with his slight nod. And like a volcano – you blew.

“You mean to tell me that you risked all our asses, attacked, and humiliated me for fucking FELIX CATTON?!”

You couldn’t believe it – you couldn’t fucking believe it. Felix Catton took up so much of your life already; once again, he felt it necessary to take more of it for himself.

How much more could one man take? How much more did he want until it was enough?

He had taken so much – more than any person other than yourself had any right to own. Your education, your peace, and what was next? Your body? Your life? Did he intend to bleed you dry of everything like a parasitic vampire he and his kind pretended not to be?

You were going crazy, insane, and running yourself tired all at once. The absurdity of it all made you laugh. You laughed and laughed and laughed until you were gasping for air. You laughed so hard that tears spilled from your eyes as you doubled over.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, “oh my god! That’s it. Of course, it is. What else could it be?”

Standing straight, you kept laughing, but you were staring at Oliver with an answer clear in your eyes.

“He got bored of you,” you accused him, “didn’t he? So quickly?”

God, how you relished how red his face turned. If you were smart, you would have stopped taunting there – but you were too tired of everything to care.

“It’s been what? A month? Maybe two?” you further pressed. “He really just loves to go through all his toys, huh?”

“(Y/N),” Michael whispered in your ear, “let’s just go.”

He looked at Oliver with disdainful eyes before softening them to look back at you.

“He isn’t worth it. Come on, let’s get your cut cleaned up before we leave.”

You let Michael gently drag you away from the hurricane mess that was Oliver Quick, leaving him to stew in anger and wallow in self-pity on the chilly spring night.

A few days later, you and Michael were walking back to his dorm after watching one of the most notable movie franchises starring one of Hollywood’s best actors.

“How could you not love Pirates of the Caribbean?” you cried. “Johnny Depp is beyond brilliant!”

“Oh, so acting drunk in front of an expensive camera is now considered brilliant?” he quipped back. “Shit, I should have just gone into acting instead.”

“I’m sorry, do you not remember his jar of dirt? That scene was completely improvised, by the way – including his fall.”

“Oh – not the stupid jar of dirt! Lil’ kept buggering me all summer doing that scene after I took her to see it!”

“Oh, I meant to ask. What did Lily think of the books I got for her birthday? Were they weird?”

“Are you kidding? She loved them. She keeps going on about how she wants to be Annabeth for Halloween. Oh, by the way, she’s making me dress up as Luke and wants you to go as Thalia.”

Your jaw dropped in shock. “Seriously?! Yes, let’s do it. I am so in.”

“She is aware that Luke’s the villain, right?”

“Don’t worry about it so much. She wants to share these memories with you. And you are such a good brother, Mikey.”

“I am never going to escape that name with you,” he groaned, “am I?”

“Nope!” you happily confirmed. “Never! When I write my speech at your wedding, I will mention it at least fifteen times.”

“I’ll allow six.”

“Twelve.”

“Ten, take it or leave it.”

“Ten it is. Pinky-swear.”

You held out your pinky to show sincerity. And like someone raised correctly, Michael respected the sanctity of the swear by reciprocating.

“Perfect! Now that that’s settled, is it okay if I crash at your place for the night? It’s so late, and we don’t have classes tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied. “Just make sure you – Annabel.”

Wait, what? You stopped walking and turned to look at your friend in confusion.

“Annabel?”

He pointed it out in front of him with a slight nod.

“Annabel,” he confirmed.

Indeed, it was Annabel. But she was sitting slumped against the hallway’s walls with vomit all over her blue dress.

Felix had been going mad for the past few months since his and Farleigh’s return to Oxford. It was already almost May, and he hadn’t come any closer to getting (Y/N)’s attention.

What could he possibly be doing that was so wrong?

He invites you to parties or a drink with you every time he sees you. He had hoped that being friends with Ollie would have given him an “in” with you, but there was no such luck. Did you really have no idea how he felt about you? How much more obvious could he be?

He remembered how happy he was when he realized that Oliver knew you. It was that night at the pub at Kings’ Arms. He recalled it so vividly.

Felix was silent throughout the entire transaction. The sight of you coming over entirely transfixed him. Your hair had two small braids on the side that were attached with small yellow butterfly clips. You were wearing black denim overalls with vintage-looking patches sewn onto the fabric. Your shirt was a light blue-dyed shirt-sleeved t-shirt with splotches of navy blue. It must have been something you made when you were little. The fabric looked soft and worn down. But the size was small enough to hug the curves of your upper torso perfectly. The way the fabric stretched across your tits made him salivate.

After he introduced himself to you, you only responded with a grimace and a slight nod of acknowledgment. He invited you to join him and his friends for a drink, but you only ignored him. His words were meaningless breezes to you – white noise in the background that added to the clang and chatter in the room. He wasn’t even paying attention to Oliver until you threw that drink at him.

“Fucking cunt-rag!” you called Ollie after throwing Farleigh’s drink in his face. You shoved a middle finger for added effect. “Don’t ever show your face in front of me again.”

Grabbing your coat, you stomped away from the table.

Absentmindedly handing his friend some tissues, Felix had to know what your deal was with Oliver. Were you two dating or just friends? He didn’t know how he felt about his new friend being romantically involved with his angel.

“Wait, do you two know each other?” he asked.

“What?” asked Oliver – not understanding his idol’s question before his mind finally registered it. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, she’s a friend of a friend.”

“Were you two ever, like ‘together’?” Felix had to know.

Oliver’s eyes widened a bit before shaking his head and panickedly answering.

“No, no, no. We have a few classes together – that’s it.”

Felix couldn’t believe his luck. Ollie must really be his hero.

“Do you think you could introduce us?” he asked excitedly – his molten chocolate eyes were shining ablaze with hope.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Oliver quickly agreed – anything to keep his attention on him.

Felix felt like leaping to the sky. He could run a marathon with how much energy was flooding throughout him. He clapped his hands before grabbing Ollie’s face with both hands and smacking a wet kiss on both cheeks.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Felix went up to get him another pint. “You’re my hero, Ollie. You really are.”

As he lay on his bed, he tried to remember every interaction with you. His last one with you was something he could admit went horribly wrong.

He wandered on the grounds when he stumbled on a building with your bike on the rack. Figuring that you were just in a lecture, Felix figured he could try to catch up with you when it was done. It wasn’t like he had anything important later. He would stay near the entrance and try to catch your attention when you walked out.

Simple.

And because he was God’s favorite, he found you sitting in the middle of an empty classroom. You were taking notes while reading a massive textbook while lightly bobbing your head to whatever was blasting through your earbuds.

Sliding to the seat next to you, he smoothly asked you if there was any room where he could smoke. You didn’t even bother to look at him while answering him – too fixated with your studies to pay attention to him.

Knowing that he had to get you to look at him through more direct actions, Felix impulsively put his hand on your thigh before asking you if you wanted to join him. He even joked, saying that you didn’t only have to get high.

But seeing the terror in your eyes threw him off. He quickly wanted to tell you that he was only joking. If you knew that he wasn’t being serious, maybe you would ease up around him. But before he could apologize, you frantically stood from your seat to gather your books in your bag before running out of the room.

Felix groaned into his hands as he recalled how fast you ran out of the room and away from him.

“Felix, you’re a fucking idiot,” he softly insulted himself.

God, what the hell was wrong with him? Why did he think that someone as studious as you would ever consider getting high with some bloke in the bathroom of an academic building?

Every step he tried to take forward with you felt like he was going ten steps back. He needed to find a way to get on your good side.

Maybe Ollie could – no, that was a dead end. Fuck, he needed a drink.

Lying on his bed, Oliver stared at the ceiling of his room. Annabel had just left with the bottle of vodka they had been drinking out of for the past half hour. He wanted to cry.

Why was everything going wrong?

But he knew the reason. It was you.

He was so naïve to think you wouldn’t be an obstacle. You had practically ruined everything from the beginning. It wasn’t just when you refused to help him the other day but also that night at the pub at Kings’ Arms.

While Felix was ordering him a drink, Oliver sat bewildered at the sequence of events that had transpired in the past five minutes. First, Felix invited him over to sit with him and his friends. And when things had been so well, you interrupted his excellent time by asking where Michael was. When you realize he has left your friend alone, you ask for Farleigh Start’s drink before throwing it in his face. You then called him a “cunt-rag” before storming off like a goddamn child.

Luckily, Felix hadn’t listened to you speak. But that was only because he stared at you – stared at you like he was born to worship you. Even worse, Felix asked him if he could introduce the two of you at some point. The way Felix’s eyes widened in glee when Oliver agreed enraged him – even more than when you insulted and almost humiliated him in front of Felix.

Staring at his back, Oliver figured Felix’s attention on you wasn’t something to worry about. He was only interested in you because you were pretty. As much as you infuriated him, Oliver admitted that you had a rare and genuine beauty to you. He didn’t know whether it was your indifference for Oxford’s gods and kings or your dedication to keeping in touch with your American roots – but it was enough to enrapture Felix Catton temporarily.

No, Oliver Quick had no reason to worry. He would be enough for Felix. And then you would be an afterthought, and he’d be Felix Catton’s everything.

Oliver had to find a way to ensure you wouldn't be a problem anymore. You'd comply - there would come a time when you won't have a choice.

Let me know if you want me to write the full scene of Reader throwing the drink at Oliver!

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @arcielee, @valeskafics, @asa-do-your-thing, @aphroditesmoon, @axelsagewrites, @the1999kid, @poolnoodlerescuer, @aemondsbabe, @winterblu2, @abaker74, @whereismymindnow, @agustdeeyaa, @iamavailablesstuff, @bonnieblue0606, @st-eve-barnes, @nyxthoughtss, @immyowndefender, @ilovemydinoboi, @ahristata, @cxp1d, @jinsoulorbitzen12, @temptation-waits, @bollzinurmouth, @jcngw0ns, @seababehh, @destinydestnation, @lankyboi4, @mindless-rock, @cassavacakes

Please comment and/or reblog your thoughts and if you want to be added to the taglist!

[fashionsfromhistory]

Dress

1893

Conventional in style for its time, with a close fitting boned bodice, defined yoke, tight sleeves with epaulettes and full puffed top sections, this two piece dress nevertheless shows the influence of artistic dress on the materials from which it has been made. Originating from the attempts to reform ugly aspects of women’s clothing, artistic dress favoured muted colours and softly textured fabrics, and by the 1890s some of these preferences had found their way into more mainstream fashion worn by middle class women with cultural interests. The fine silk twill of the dress’s body, the velvet and soft wool of its sleeves, collar and hem, and the ‘antique’ lace of its yoke were all favoured components of artistic dress, as were its simple grey shell buttons that celebrated the unpretentious beauty of natural materials. Sludgy shades of green such as olive and sage were a reaction against the brashness of synthetic dyes, and both greens have been used in the silk’s printed design of ‘faded’ pink and yellow honeysuckle with light sage foliage on a dark olive ground. This design, albeit on a different scale, evokes some of the textiles and wallpapers produced by the firm of Morris & Co, set up by William Morris to provide items of interior design that accorded with his artistic and socialist principles. One such example is the block printed cotton ‘Honeysuckle’ of 1876, depicting pale flowers and foliage on a dark ground.

John Bright Collection

[autumn2may]

i got this ad on FB and was thinking "what is this company smoking"

then @aughtpunk said something important:

"okay but the fan art of that combo would be INSANE"

DO IT TUMBLR YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO

. . .

I put this in the alt text, but i'm dying so i'm posting it here so no one misses it.

[ID: Image shows a FB ad from SHEIN. Copy reads: Free shipping, Casual + Unique Styles, Your Personal Wardrobe.

There are two images. The first is a long-sleeve olive green sweater with cute knit patches of different height mushrooms. The mushrooms have white stems and a red caps with white dots. There is one above were each breast would be and then one on each sleeve near the cuff. I think there are more on the other side of the cuff.

BUT the sweater only goes down to the top of wear the breasts would sit. The rest of the sweater is missing ON PURPOSE.

The piece is labeled: Mushroom Pattern Bell Sleeve Crop Sweater.

The second image is an pale, acid-washed pair of jeans. But it's not a full pair of jeans. It's literally a thong.

The piece is labeled: Low Rise Booty Denim Shorts.

At the bottom of the image is the FB bar of Like, Comment, Share, all of which are unchecked.]

[bluelancess]

Untouchable | Elriel fic part 1/3

Summary: The inner circle is having one of their usual dinner parties, during which Azriel can't help but shoot death glares to Lucien across the table, Elain is the only one who manages to calm him down.

Tags: secret meetings, forbidden love, secret relationship

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Read on AO3.

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Chapter 1: This is falling in love in the cruelest way

The Townhouse was exceptionally quiet today, the only sound filling its empty walls came from Elain’s soft humming in the kitchen. It was a melody she had heard a couple of days back while strolling along Velaris’ farmer’s market. She thought it was sweet, sounded almost a little magical to her ears, she had stopped on her tracks to give her full attention to the street performers, marveling at the way their expert fingers played the instruments, and at how they could attract a large crowd after  only playing a single enchanting note. She was most definitely not doing the song justice, but humming helped her keep her mind away from dangerous black holes that always threatened to swallow her whole, the same way baking and gardening did. 

She was adamant on never letting her mind take her away again. 

Ever.

Elain put the final touches to the delicious meal she was cooking for dinner, and cleaned the palms of her hands on the front part of her light-blue apron. Roasted rosemary potatoes, grilled chicken with lemon zest, honey and mustard, various vegetables she had seasoned earlier; broccoli, peas, a tomato salad with basil and olive oil. 

Cooking kept her busy and occupied most of the time. And it filled her with joy to be able to be helpful in any way she could. Besides, today was one of the Inner Circle’s weekly dinner meeting. Rhysand made it almost mandatory, and considering everyone was busy doing their own thing nowadays, having an afternoon where they could catch up on everything else other than work-related subjects, was a refreshing change. 

Elain had dessert finishing baking in the oven, a blueberry crust pie she was going to ��serve alongside some vanilla ice-cream and whipped cream, when Nuala and Cerridwen entered the kitchen, both walked as silently as a ghost would. It used to perturbe Elain at the beginning, them being so silent, but with time she had gotten used to their presence, their company. 

“The table is set,” Nuala said. “We can finish up here.” 

“Thank you,” Elain smiled at her, and slowly removed her apron. Cerridwen extended her hand towards her, so Elain could hand her the clothing item covered in flower. “Is Feyre still asleep?” 

Nuala nodded softly. “She and the babe, both.” 

Elain chewed on her lower lip, concealing the smile that had formed after picturing the image in her head. Feyre lying on her bed, Nyx resting on top on her chest, the tiny wings tucked in, his little chubby hands holding onto Feyre’s gown like he used to do when he slept in that position as if scared Feyre might put him in his crib as soon as he fell asleep. 

“I’ll go change,” Elain told them both, “then I can check up on them.” 

“We’ll clean up here.”

“Thank you.” 

With that, Elain exited the kitchen, and took slow, soft steps towards the stairs. She had already chosen the gown she would wear for dinner. A lavender satiny dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, with hug shoulders, long slit sleeves and a cirde skirt that reached a little under her ankles that flowed when she walked, making her her feel like a real-life fairytale princess. It was her favorite dress as of late. She hadn’t worn it for other people yet, she was waiting for an special occasion. 

This seemed like the right time. 

Considering Az would be here any minute. 

Just thinking about the Shadowsinger brought a wave of unbearable heat cursing through her, warming up her cheeks, her neck, her ears. She needed to learn to control herself, if she wanted whatever was going on between them to remain private. 

Any time she stopped to remember they way Az had looked that one night he came knocking on her window at three in the morning, her whole body shivered, the memory carefully stored in a special place in her heart. It had been the night everything shifted, everything changed, for her. For Azriel. 

No one knew about it. 

No one could. 

Elain had been awake twisting and turning on the sheets, as per usual since their moment at the Winter Solstice, that cursed night that some days, the bad days, she wanted to desperately forget. Forget the way he had touched her and made her light up with so much want, so much need… She had never felt so alive before. Only to end with him pushing her away, such a regretful look in his eyes, telling her that it had been a mistake. But then… there were the good days, those days were she thought about him and hoped, prayed to whatever had interest in hearing her pleas, to have a second chance. To ask him all the questions roaming her head. All the doubts eating at her. 

She never imagined he was feeling the same way. 

But then, as if he were almost as desperate as her, he’d come in the middle of the night, looking like he’d also had been tossing and turning, so many sleepless night catching up to him. She opened the window with her heart on her throat, and he whispered to her to come with him. Only for a moment. He begged with his eyes, a desperation that was so painfully palpable, Elain’s whole chest squeezed at the sight of it. 

Breathless, she took his hand that night. 

It was the first time he took her flying, just for the fun of it. They had made it a habit now. He would knock on her window, she would open it, and he would scoop her in his arms, kiss her brow and marvel at her laughs when he would take off, holding her close to him, showing her the sky. It was those moments, that made Elain feel like she was actually free. 

Elain opened the door to her bedroom, and froze at the threshold, her brown eyes going wide, her traitorous heart beating so fast it reverberated in her ears. 

Azriel brought his index fingers to his lips and it was pure luck she didn't scream when she saw him; sprawled on her bed, boots still on, his wings so big they barely fit the mattress. She licked her lower lip, feet glued to the floor. He looked at her like he wanted to eat her alive, and Elain’s cheeks warmed up. He chuckled, darkly, softly and motioned for her to come forward with his hand, she shook her head like she couldn't believe what he was doing. 

After taking a deep breath, Elain quickly looked over her shoulder before closing the door behind her. She didn’t have time to give a single step, before Azriel got to his feet, and closed the space between them in two exact and calculated steps. 

“You’re insane,” she breathed, lifting her head to look at him in the eyes, he was so tall, it never stoped amazing her, so tall, and so beautiful. Azriel hands went to her cheeks, holding her so gently as if he were scared to hurt her. 

“I missed you,” he simply replied, lifting a shoulder, one of his thumbs caressing her lower lip, his face getting nearer to hers, she could almost taste him. After a couple of weeks meeting in secret, delighting herself with his company, Elain had realized that Azriel liked to tease her. So much. He liked to take things so painfully slow, until she was barely breathing and begging him to touch her, to kiss her, to give her everything. “Just thinking about the fact that I have to sit on that dinner table, unable to touch you for hours, was driving me crazy.” 

Azriel left a phantom kiss on her right cheekbone, then moved to the bridge of her nose. Elain closed her eyes at the contact, savoring the feel of him. Her hands roaming him from his shoulders, down to the muscles of his chest. She loved the way his Illyrian leathers felt under her fingertips. She dreamed of the day she finally would have the opportunity to peel them off of him.

But she couldn’t. They couldn’t. 

Not yet. 

It was too risky, everyone would to know they had been together, their scents would mix, there would be no denying it. And although Azriel was usually cocky and confident when it came to the fact the he most definitely would win a blood duel against Lucien, she couldn't even fathom the idea of Az risking his life in that matter for her. Az kept distributing tiny kisses along her face, like he wanted to pain it all with his lips. It was certainly torture having to wait until they were finally free to fall into the lust consuming their bodies, their souls. But she was completely sure it’d be worth the wait. 

“So you decided to cheat and get a little taste before dinner?” She asked, and he hummed, as he kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the right corner of her mouth. So soft, so gentle. 

“Hmm,” he muttered, “I was actually hoping you wanted to skip dinner altogether.” 

“Because that wouldn’t be suspicious.” He kissed the left corner of her mouth now, and a groan left Elain’s throat, Azriel ignored it and moved down to her jaw. “How long have you been here anyway?” 

“About half an hour,” he replied, voice low, no more than a rumble, but she heard it perfectly, felt it everywhere. He kissed right under her earlobe and Elain bit her lower lip hard, tying to conceal the moan escaping her. “You smell so good.” 

She melted against him the the words, reality crashing into her like a hard wave. Remembering where they were, who that house belonged to. 

“Rhys could get home any minute,” she breathed, he groaned at the name of another male leaving her mouth when he was licking up the column of her neck, her hands grasping his uniform as if she needed it to remain standing. Cauldron, he was killing her. 

“I don’t care,” Azriel replied, sucking gently at the sensitive, pale skin, his hands angling her head, exposing her neck just the way he wanted, the way he needed. “Maybe I should just leave a mark right here,” he whispered, and gently kissed right under her jaw. “Everyone can come to their own conclusions.”

“You wouldn’t.” She teased him, somehow, for some reason, the idea sparked something in her, something feral. She wanted him to claim her, to show everyone that she was his and he was hers. 

That they had chosen one another. 

Damn the consequences. 

 “Someday I will.” He told her, making it sound like a threat. He couldn’t hide the smile of surprise when she let out a breathy moan, as if she could just picture the idea in her head and loved it. 

Elain was about to just grab his beautiful face, get on her tippy toes, and steal a long kiss from his lips, when Azriel stepped away from her, so fast she almost lost her balance. A knock on the door had her spine straightening, her heart jumping. 

“El, are you there?” Feyre. It was her sister’s voice, still sleepy from the nap she had been taking with Nyx. 

She turned around, the door was behind her, she had been pressed against the wood by Azriel's solid body. She swallowed hard, running her fingers through her hair, her face, her neck, she could still feel Azriel lips on her skin, the wet strokes of his tongue, the little painless bites. She was definitely flushed. 

She looked over her shoulder, Azriel was nowhere to be seen, but in the corner of the room, right under the door that connected to her dressing room, a little shadow was peaking, sharp like a knife, as if getting ready to attack if she needed it to. 

“Elain?” Feyre knocked again, and Elain forced herself to take one, two long breaths before turning the knob and opening the door. 

“Sorry,” she told her sister. “I was about to change my clothes. They’re covered in food... you know, from cooking and all that.” 

Feyre yawned, her eyes were glassy and her cheeks rosy from sleep, Elain tried to block the view of the inside of her rooms, just to be sure. But Feyre ignored it, putting one of her hands on her sister’s shoulders and going inside, to lay face first on the bed. 

“Dinner smells so good,” Feyre murmured. “I’m so hungry the smell woke me up. Also, Nyx started to cry. He was hungry too.” 

“You had a good nap?” Elain asked, her voice sounded strange even to herself, but Feyre didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. 

“Yes, I needed it.” After a beat, Feyre sat on the bed and looked at Elain, the relaxed look on her face from the last couple of seconds going away in a blink. “Actually, I came to talk to you about something.” 

Elain took a couple steps towards her sister, sitting beside her on the side of the bed. “What happened?”

“I just spoke with Rhys, mainly to asked him what time he was coming home for dinner, and he mentioned to me Lucien is in the city. He came because he has some reports he need to give Rhys, and …” Feyre grimaced, she looked worried, almost guilty. “I know it makes you uncomfortable, so I told him to not even think about bringing him tonight before asking you.” 

Elain couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t breathe. 

She hated this. Hated that cursed mating bond so much. 

All she wanted was to be free of that male, but it was like he didn’t know when to give up. No matter how many hints she sent his way, or the fact that she made it her mission to stay as far away from him as possible. He wouldn’t budge. 

She couldn’t understand how he could continue to pursue her, knowing that it wouldn’t get him anywhere. Lucien couldn’t be so naive to believe she’d change her mind with a couple of expensive gifts and awkward dinner parties where he didn’t even make the effort to see her, understand her. 

But, even if she wanted to say no, this wasn’t her house. Not really. 

It was her sister’s, and her mate’s. She was living there because they were kind enough to let her. Because they cared about her, yes, but that didn’t mean that sometimes, she wished she could have something that was entirely hers. 

Just hers. 

“Lucien is your friend, I don’t want you to not invite him because of me,” the words tasted wrong on the mouth, and the shadows slowly started gathering in the corners of the room, like steam from a boiling pot. 

“Are you sure?” Feyre’s face changed, glowing, “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, I don’t want to ruin your night.” 

“You won’t. It’s fine.” She tried to give her sister a smile. The truth was, at this point, after everything Feyre had done for her and their family, Elain was willing to do, to endure, absolutely anything for her sister. It was the least she could do. 

No sacrifice seemed great enough. Not after everything Feyre had lost, suffered through for them. For her. 

She could be an adult and enjoy one evening with Lucien. Put on a smile, pretend everything was perfect and delicious, and she was happy. Because she was happy. More than ever. She just had to remind herself that once the dinner party was over, and the guests went home, she could return to her little room, and maybe, just maybe, Azriel would be waiting for her. 

And if he was, she’d ask him to take her flying. 

Feyre threw her arms around her sister and kissed her temple. 

“Everyone is getting here in fifteen minutes.” Feyre stood up from the bed and walked towards the door. “I’ll see you downstairs.” 

Elain closed the door as soon as her sister left, and rested her forehead on the cool wood. She felt the spymaster presence at her back, his eyes piercing, his shadows surrounding the four walls of her rooms like he wanted to keep her there, all to himself.

“Did you know he was on the city?” She asked softly, turning around to see him standing right outside her dressing room. 

Azriel shook his head. 

“Rhys ordered me to take care of other business today,” he replied, his voice lethal, scarred hands curling into tight balls, shoulders tense. She approached him, and softly put the pads on her fingers in his hands, willing them to relax, to open up for her and let her in, hold her. 

“It’ll be okay.” 

“I can’t stand it,” he groaned. “I can’t stand the way he looks at you. The smell—“ Azriel took her hands into his, closing his fingers around hers tight, the muscle on his jaw flexing. 

“It’s not easy for me either.” 

“Then let’s not go,” he looked at her like he wanted to whisk her away, show her everything, run and run until no one knew who they were. "Let's go somewhere else, just you and me."

“Az…” His name sounded so charged coming from her lips, like a prayer, a promise, the sweetest of secrets, something she only said when it was the two of them, alone. “We can’t.” 

He let out a long sigh, and rested his chin on top of her head. 

“Don’t ask me to be nice, then,” he said.

“I wasn’t going to.” 

“Good.” 

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this is going to be a 3 part little one shot so enjoy <3

[dantesdickferno]

amaretto

Miguel/Reader | Explicit | Chapter 1/?

a/n: I brought this blog back from the dead to post this so I hope y’all enjoy. Gonna be a few chapters but not sure how many yet. Femdom reader, Bartender Miguel basically. Horny and angsty modern NYC AU, no powers. Bit of a slow burn (ish). Enjoy lol

***

The Basilica is, for all intents and purposes, a mediocre bar.

There’s a pothole steps away from the bar’s entrance that customers have to maneuver past in kitten heels and designer sneakers, and the embossed metal sign at the front of the door is almost completely covered in rust. It’s clearly an establishment that’s too pretentious to be a dive bar, but not exactly up to code enough to be an upscale cocktail bar either.

Recent attempts to rebrand the place as a hole-in-the-wall speakeasy have been successful, meaning that it’s now the common haunt for every art history graduate student, Bauhaus enthusiast, and unattainably gorgeous bisexual poet in lower Manhattan who’s willing to spend 17 dollars on a drink.

You stumble across the small chipped navy blue door after a brutal day at work. The patrons at the luxury handbag store you have the distinct displeasure of interacting with were particularly snippy today, and your pair of not-yet-broken-in oxfords feel more like a prison than a fashion statement at the moment. You need a drink to help forget the past ten hours ever happened just so you can do it all over again tomorrow. You’ve never heard of this place, but you don’t feel like getting on the subway just yet and looking for a bar that’s closer to home. This vaguely sketchy place will have to do.

The cozy interior of The Basicilia smells of cigar smoke and melting wax. Lit partially by candlelight, the brick walls and small antique cherrywood tables feel distant, yet homey. There are large gothic-style lanterns hanging from the low ceiling, and servers expertly move through the crowd carrying stainless steel trays full of thick-cut fries and bowls of green olives.

Despite the bar being relatively full, only one other person is sitting at the actual bar when you approach it—everyone else appears to be relegated to the various tables and benches strewn about the space, or hugging the walls holding glasses of craft beer.

With all of the fuss that sitting down on a stool, pulling off your winter coat, and hanging your things on a hook underneath the bar causes, it takes you a moment for you to see him.

But you do.

There’s a blur of movement in the corner of your vision as a tall man in a black button-down with rolled-up sleeves vaults over the bar wall and stalks over to the other end of the restaurant before knocking on a solid black door with the sole of his boot.

“Hey! You awake in there? They need help running food!” The man shouts, not waiting for a response before rushing back across the room and climbing back into the bar.

The sound draws a few eyes, but no one appears to be shocked—it seems to be a common occurrence here, judging by the way the person who appears to be the manager steps out of the previously kicked door looking bleary-eyed and sheepish, a pair of noise-canceling headphones around his neck and a set of keys jangling at his belt.

But your attention has been drawn elsewhere.

The man is tall enough to reach for a bottle of Belvedere vodka on the top shelf to hand to a nearby barback without straining. You notice his hands first—broad, veiny, with nails cut down to the bone. There’s a bandage wrapped around the middle finger on his left hand. A smattering of hair on his triceps, which are all muscle and sinew. And two tattoos—-a fang on his right bicep, and a bundle of marigolds on his left forearm. He leans onto the bar table to address you, his button-down snug around his chest.

Jesus fucking christ. If you had a drink you would certainly spill it.

“What are you getting,” he says—his voice raw from shouting, you assume—and his voice trends downward at the end of the sentence, as if he doesn’t want to ask you, as if it isn’t a question. You can’t even pretend to be offended—working in the service industry is a thankless task, and you know that well enough. But even you can admit that the level of tension in his jaw and the shuttered look in his eyes is disconcerting in a way that has to do with more than the fact that he presumably hates his job.

“A mojito, please,” you say, with less confidence than you’d normally have. You’re used to sitting at bars alone and making conversation with the bartenders, but tonight doesn’t seem to be going in that direction.

“A mojito?” The man repeats, and you know it’s the wrong choice somehow. Other than an almost imperceptible eye roll, he nods, turning his back to you to grab the right ingredients.

Still. It makes you curious.

“What’s wrong with a mojito?” you ask, watching the way his shoulders stiffen. It’s like his entire being is on constant guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop–you can see it in the way he turns back to look at you, his jaw set as he sets down a collins glass and starts picking damp mint sprigs out of a chilled metal container.

“First time here?” he says, and again, it isn’t a question. He places the mint leaves on a paper towel to dry before rubbing them on the rim of the collins glass and putting them in a separate pint glass.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with a mojito?” Normally you’d take your cue from the bartender and quit trying to make conversation, but something about him makes you want to poke and meddle, like touching a live wire with the tip of your finger.

“Nothing.”

“I won’t get offended. Is this one of those ‘what your drink of choice says about you’ things?” you probe, leaning onto the bar top. The other conversations seem to fade to a lull in the background of your mind, your sights set on tormented brown eyes and tense, broad shoulders.

“No.”

“Because that kind of seems like what this is—”

“No.”

“Then what is it? If you don’t mind me asking. I hope I’m not committing a major bar crime, or something.” He clearly minds, and the sigh he lets out is nothing short of torturous sounding, but he seems to indulge you anyway. You briefly register his hands reaching for various cups and bottles at an even tempo, his movements intentional as he makes your cocktail. He crushes mint and lime and sugar together with a blunt tool before opening a carafe of ice. A shiver runs through you, completely against your will, as you watch him work. You’ve always had a soft spot for competence.

“It’s more of a practical thing,” he explains, and you settle onto your stool, sensing a tangent incoming. “Mojitos aren’t complicated to make, but they take time. They have a lot of moving parts. And then once one person orders it, I get ten more people who saw me making it asking for it too, and I have to start the process over again. And then more people order it, and next thing you know I’m making mojitos for the rest of the night.”

“So when I ask for mojitos at other bars and they say they’re out of mint, are they lying?” you tease. He places your drink in front of you then, topping it off with a mint spring and a lime wedge at the rim of the glass.

“...Every bartender hates you,” he says in response, leaning in, and you give him a soft smile, sipping from the glass. It’s one of the best drinks you’ve ever had.

There isn’t an ounce of enjoyment to be seen in his eyes, or in the shadows of his face. But you swear you see a flicker of something there, like something that has long since lain dormant coming back to life—if only for a second–before it dissipates.

“What’s your name?” you ask, pushing your luck. Any spark that had once been lit is extinguished. He backs away, the lanterns from overhead casting shadows across his features that make him look like a stranger again. You silently curse yourself.

“I don’t do that,” he shakes his head, before venturing to the other end of the bar to help a seemingly new bartender whip up a martini. You wait patiently, watching the way his mouth moves and his hands gesture as he corrects the bartender on their…technique, or something. You have no idea. From afar, he looks equally as intimidating, if not more so. The lines of his body don’t indicate any kind of softness, and his shoulders are slightly hunched as if he’s ashamed of himself. You wonder if he does bicep curls in a concrete room for hours until he sweats out all of the vulnerability. Or maybe he runs from it, in the early morning, breath labored and lungs aching until his sneakers are worn out.

“You don’t do names?” you ask him as soon as he returns, and his time he doesn’t even pretend to hide his exasperation, rolling his eyes again before resting his elbows on the bar so that his face is inches away from yours. Your heart lurches. A quick glance around rewards you with a few of the patrons regarding you with a vague amount of interest—and concern.

“Listen. I’m not a therapy session bartender,” he says with enough disdain to cause your eyebrows to raise in surprise. “I like the theory of it. The drink making. That’s it. Talk to that guy,” he continues, gesturing to a fellow bartender with a man bun and gauges who’s currently chatting up the only other person sitting on the other end of the bar. “He’s chatty.”

This close-up, you can see the dark circles around his eyes, his slightly chapped lips. You get a brief urge to trace the wrinkles across his forehead with the pads of your fingertips, but you hold off, of course. The man seems like he’s too old for anyone. He’s lived a million lifetimes.

“I don’t want to talk to that guy,” you say, feeling emboldened. I want to talk to you. “No offense.”

Something in his expression flickers back to life once more, like a butterfly trying to fly without one of its wings.

“Miguel,” he says after a while, sounding pained. You tell him your name, and he gives no indication that he’s registered it.

“Do you wanna open a tab, or close it?” Miguel asks then, and his voice sounds weightier.

“...Keep it open.”

***

The bar is sweltering, but the cold, sour tang of the mojito keeps you cool as you watch Miguel make his way across the bar to help mix drinks for other patrons. You feel pinned to your stool somehow, like a bug under a microscope, even though Miguel doesn’t spare another glance in your direction. The music in here is alright, but not noteworthy. You wish you had someone to dance with.

The bartender with the man bun makes you another mojito before you can say otherwise, but it tastes different somehow. Too much mint maybe. Not enough bitterness. Miguel’s theory seems to be wrong; you scan the bar for other tall glasses with sprigs of bright green mint and find none. After brief consideration, you decide not to bother him any further by informing him of this fact.

The bar gets increasingly more crowded as the night goes on, and it becomes abundantly clear that Miguel isn’t going to check on you again. You want to believe it’s because he’s too busy, but you wonder if you made the wrong impression somehow. You wonder why you care. You hate that you do.

You settle your tab and gather your things before buttoning your coat and setting off into the night. Your two drinks have muddled your senses just so, but not enough to be completely disorienting. On the precipice of happy, maybe.

As you zip your coat up to your chin and walk down the sidewalk, you think about going home to your studio apartment and cuddling with your cat Cinnamon. You think about hopefully getting a few hours of sleep before the workday comes back around in the morning to swallow you whole once again. You think about the harsh line of Miguel’s jaw, about the fact that he’ll likely forget about you come morning.

“Every bartender hates me,” you repeat to yourself—a truly harrowing fact—before shaking your head and walking down the steps into the subway.

a/n: lmk if you enjoyed/if you wanna see more—mwah x

[apompkwrites]

the "good" fairies || malleus draconia

masterlist characters: malleus (platonic), wren + marigold + veneta (ocs) genre: angst contains: abuse (of power), kinda rushed(?), servitude summary: the three advisors, otherwise known as the three good fairies, are responsible for (name)'s final test to become a royal servant. notes: hoo okay there's more ocs. pretty obvious who they're based on :) gonna try and ramp up on angst next chapter probably, so get ready for that whenever it's done :)) parts: [og post] | [previous] | [next]

you dreaded this side of the palace. it housed the more "royal" members of the staff, of course, not royal enough to surpass the queen or prince. just royal enough to be considered part of the higher court.

many royal advisors stayed on this side of the palace, often deliberating amongst each other to decide the best course of action for whatever issue was placed on their plates.

you knew that high-ranking members of the royal guard stayed here on occasion as well, both to protect royal advisors and to rest from battle or training. you caught glimpses of the familiar general that took over after the death of the prince's father.

but the group you dreaded the most in this side of the palace were the three "good" fairies, as they were lovingly named by the residents of the palace. of course, officially they were known as the three royal advisors, the top three that were in charge of directing the rest of the advisors in the castle.

wren, marigold, and veneta. the advisor trio that was respectable enough to interact with the queen of briar valley. and the only advisors that have some sort of influence over her decisions.

such as the idea of banishing you from briar valley entirely.

you had only heard it once when you happened to eavesdrop on them at a young age. on the other side of the door, you remembered hearing wren bring up the topic, marigold present the "positives" that came with it, and veneta urging the queen to at least consider it.

you were glad she had some semblance of mercy for you in her heart.

"where is that brat?!" ah, seems veneta's in one of her moods again. fortunately, you had heard stories of how the third advisor was in one of these moods. unfortunately, this would be the first time you would experience it yourself.

"patience, dear veneta," and there was the familiar honey-laced tone of wren, no doubt sitting up in a chair as if she were of royal blood herself.

"the little nightshade is taking their sweet time," marigold would point out, her sickeningly sweet voice sending chills down your spine.

to her you were taking your sweet time. but in reality, you had been standing outside of this door for a few minutes, gathering your exposure the way that miss leah taught you. you straightened your back, took deep breaths in and out, and swallowed the anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

three light knocks. just the way she taught you.

"finally!" you heard veneta groan on the other side. marigold and wren quickly shushed her before the latter opened the door.

wren stood at the forefront, her hands neatly folded in front of her reddish-pink dress, a far cry from the usual dark tones the castle utilized. that was a usual trend for the three advisors, donning colors too bright for the entirety of briar valley that it seemed they chose to be garish on purpose.

pink feathers lined the cuffs of her sleeves as well as the long slight down the middle of her dress, decorating her garb as if she had been a winged beastman. her curly brown hair was tied up in a bun, both neat and unkempt at the same time.

marigold stood to her right, her long blonde hair almost blinding and contrasting her olive green dress. little flowers decorated the slit down the middle rather than feathers like wren. although she had the "kindest" eyes out of the trio, it did not make her any less critical.

veneta stood to the left of wren, her full figure covered by the poofy blue dress that accentuated her curves. her hair was a bit more curly than wren's was but it was cut short into a bob rather than long. her face seemed to be permanently frozen into an angry pout.

"miss wren, miss marigold, miss veneta," you greeted the trio with a bow, your hands clutching onto each other desperately for some sort of comfort. "i will serve you to the best of my ability."

"better get you started then, huh?" veneta scowled down at you, mischief sparkling in her eyes.

you weren't sure you would live to the end of this trial run.

you expected veneta to be the bane of your existence, but no. surprisingly, wren and marigold posed more of a threat to your sanity than veneta did.

veneta was very vocal about her disdain towards you, often tripping you up when you went to serve them tea or muttering spells under her breath to mess with your appearance. she seemed to focus more on physical torment.

wren and marigold focused more on psychological torment. wren opted to order impossible tasks of you, such as lighting up all of the lanterns in the halls in a little under two minutes ("for it is proper for a servant to complete their tasks in a timely manner,"), while marigold delegated the more risky tasks to you, such as handling the creatures of the forest that disturbed the surrounding flora.

you were lucky you got any amount of sleep considering it wasn't uncommon for them to pass off their paperwork to you.

this is all temporary, you would tell yourself in the middle of the night, your handwriting getting sloppier with each minute that passed. this is all to prove them wrong.

just a few days more and you would be free from them.

"today is your last day as our servant," wren lamented, her picturesque smile seeming more threatening as time went on. "do try to fulfill your duties to the end. it'd be a shame for you to... tarnish your reputation before you officially become a royal servant."

"yes, ma'am," you hummed, bowing to the brunette.

"ooh, wren, what'll be their next task?" veneta asked excitedly, already jumping in her place. "will you send them there?"

"what do you take me for, veneta?" wren scoffed, waving her hand. "i have the perfect task for our little pest. one that will push them to their very limits."

there were times where you were unsure whether wren or marigold was worse in terms of impossible tasks.

"(name), fetch us proof of a slain beast laying deep in the woods, near the borders of the valley."

was it wren, who sent you to do impossibly long tasks in such a short amount of time, or marigold, who gave you impossible tasks of protection?

"the beast in question has no name, but is known for its gnashing teeth and serpent-length tails."

on that final day, you had realized just who was worst between the two.

"complete this task by the end of the day and you shall pass your final test." wren stared down at you as if you were nothing but a bug. her fingers formed a bridge that held up her chin, her smile twisting into a scowl.

with no doubt in your mind... it was her.

taglist: @brokenncrown @help-meplz @destinationdesignation @rainys-personal-garden @kalims @sxftiebee @luxaryllis @auld-a @the-dumber-scaramouche @ayra2452008 @tinywho-man @spadecentral @justeclem44 @bajifairyy @mulandi @sadimon @stormyovent0aster @sn00zl4x @f1fty-f1fty @bloomed-night-flower @madusas-girlfriend @b0nkers-papaya @arandomeroacher @randonamedcl @potabletable @meerpea @luvcalico @chlousp @prettyinblack231 @dindarasuum @mizucika @lunavixia @gasoline-eater @thesirenwashere @rainingdandelion @mariesakamari @potatohuman04 @illnesscomm

[conkreetmonkey]

Bug was sent to your door for trick or treating

For the second day in a row, a figure was standing before the old submarine-style bulkhead, and once again it announced itself with a knock, what would have been a loud, hollow clang muffled by a thick pair of dark brown gloves, resulting in a dull metallic clunk.

"Trick or treat!" a rough yet polite voice called out in an enthusiastic yet contained half-shout, as if trying to make up for the weak knock but not wanting to full-on yell.

This visitor, unlike the last person to knock on that door, was not looking around confused, nor was it unsure of how it got there. It had come to the old door willingly, its trick or treating intentional rather than being commited in some sort of hazy fugue state. Indeed, this person was much unlike the last, not only in behaviour but in appearance as well, not looking at all out of place in the dimly-lit concrete hallway clad in crumbling institutional tiles, foul green slime accumulating under leaking iron pipes that snaked up and down the walls like metal ivy.

In other words, the creature standing there looked like a freaky-ass mad scientist.

It stood with its heavy-gloved hands behind its back, legs straight and chest forward with a polite grin that would have been charming if its teeth didn't look like it routinely gargled with pesto. Its broad, stout frame was clad in some sort of boxy lab jacket which hung down to its knees, made from a thick material coloured in a dull, unpleasant off-yellow reminiscent of creamed corn or rotten old wallpaper glue. Splatters of snot green something-or-other clung to its scuffed surface, long since having dried into rubbery, crusted-on stains. The jackets black buttons were fastened up to the top, a large circular collar snugly obscuring the wearers entire neck. Its sleeves were tucked into the gloves, and baggy canvas pants of army green were tucked into a heavy pair of brown leather work boots. No skin was showing below the chin, and the thick, loose-fitting nature of the entire outfit made it hard to discern much about the body underneath, aside from it being of a short and stocky sort. Its stature communicated confidence, intelligence and poise.

The thing inhabiting the outfit, of course, was a complete fucking freak.

Olive green skin clashed against ginger hair, sitting dry and frizzy against the back of the neck in a shoulder-length side part and growing on the face in thick yet uneven patches. Acne pocked the orcish humanoid's face, red pimples clashing against the earthy green and copper. The eyes were obscured behind opaque black welding goggles that rested atop a large nose and were fastened with a grey strap. With a broad rounded jaw, short forehead and prominent canines, the being simultaneously looked like a mutant created in a lab and like he created mutants in a lab, and would have looked just as natural being the monster strapped to a metal platform as it would being the mad doctor who flipped the switch, bringing the monster to life.

This goblin-like creature, reeking of formaldehyde and burning rubber, stood patiently just outside the metal door, its eyes lighting up with excitement as the valve in the center began to turn. With a series of mechanical squeaks and the creak of metal hinges, the door slowly slid open, revealing a familiar freak with wild pink hair and skin the colour of a spent fuel pool. Fitting, since he was munching on a stick of enriched uranium like it was a cucumber, glowing crumbs of neon yellow clinging to his lips as his face lit up with the joy of seeing a friend.

"Eh, Bugbug! Happy Halloween!" the blue thing said, wiping dangerously radioactive flecks of pure cancer onto his shirt with his hands, it lifting to reveal a definitionless belly with a slight nuclear glow shining through it from the inside, murky shadows of anomalous organs briefly visible before a curtain of thick green fabric obscured it once more. "It's not often you come to my door looking for a tasty treat!" he joked with a slight chuckle, the entire inside of his mouth stained flourescent highlighter yellow. Bug was less than amused, but it held its tongue. It and he both knew that it just couldn't stay mad at the little scamp, no matter how often he broke into its lab to slurp radioactive waste from sealed nuclear barrels, chug unattended beakers of biohazardous ooze, or munch on Bug's secret stash of yellowcake briquettes. The guy had a good heart, it knew, and as often as Bug grabbed him by his shirt collar to scream obscenities in his face and threw test tubes at him, it knew he was just a silly little guy, a lovable goober particularly prone to the toxic munchies, and its furious reactions were all in good fun, a slapstick game of cat and mouse that they both enjoyed.

Or at least that's what the blue thing believed. It was possible that Bug felt different, but he wouldn't know. He'd just assumed Bug hadn't really meant any of it, and fully anticipated his little snack seshies.

Pinching its nose, Bug took a deep breath and regained its happy expression. It was trick or treating, and it was out here to have fun; no use thinking about all the locks it still had to replace. "Happy Halloween, Conky!" it said, its cheery grin truly genuine. "Ah, hold on, I've got just the thing for you!" Conky said, holding up one finger as he reached behind the door, set his fuel rod down on something, and grabbed something else, plopping it down in Bug's hand with an excited grin.

It was a single breakfast sausage, cooked but cold, with little bits of dirt stuck to it.

"Happy Halloween!" Conky said, before pulling his door shut and turning the valve from the inside, leaving Bug alone in the gloomy little concrete box that Conky called his front doorstep.

After staring at its small greasy "prize" for a few moments, Bug started back up the stairs.

[paninicupcakke]

Pumpkin Smash 🎃🦇

(Blunt trauma fic series)

Scout - Freddie

Medic - Conrad

(CW: grief, angst)

Luckily for the mourning doctor, a rookie Medic from another server was able to switch shifts with him after his recent incident. A Medic is no good if they waste company time continually sending themselves to respawn. A well deserved break was granted to him. Conrad still had some tedious paperwork to do but no messy lab work for today. Once done with said paperwork, he sat alone in his office. The annual BLU Halloween party would soon begin in just a few minutes. He silently sat there with a blank expression, dressed in one of the many costumes Rose had sewed for him. Conrad’s fingers slowly grazed the stitches running up his bell sleeves. His eyes shifted over to a trinket on his desk. A small porcelain figurine she had had gifted to him. Replicating one of his many pet doves. Unfortunately, he had to give many of them away during this time. He kept one of course but the care they all needed was too much to handle. Conrad slowly reached up to hold the tiny porcelain dove in his hand. Staring longingly at it before his eyes began to blind himself with tears. They flooded down his cheeks. His tear droplets had trickled onto his hand and onto the porcelain dove. Beginning to loudly weep with his head hunched over his desk. She was everywhere all the the time. It was difficult to not be reminded of her daily. His work desk was full of constant reminders. A framed photo of them both, the porcelain dove, the garments he was wearing that day. His beloved black brimmed fedora that he wore everyday. Rose had gifted it to him one day on the bus.

‘Every man needs a good hat.’

Her voice rung through his mind. Trying so desperately to mimic her exact voice and tone. Left alone with only reflections of the memory. Conrad quickly grabbed a fistful of tissues beside him and began blowing his nose and cleaning himself up. He opened one of the drawers to his desk and pulled out a compact mirror. Yet another reminder. Conrad took off his sunglasses and began cleaning up with more tissues. Placing his sunglasses back on, hoping to cover his puffy and drained eyes.

Freddie had been stood behind the doctor’s office door this whole time. Quietly listening to his colleague cry while he hung his head low in empathetic sorrow. He stood there with a warm bucket of chicken in his hands. The young man took several deep breaths before entering the doctor’s office. Pushing open the door with a wide, confident smirk.

“Party time! You hungry? Engineer just picked up all the grub for the party.” Freddie announced while eagerly walking up to the doctor’s desk. Conrad flinched slightly at his office door opening. He set the dove and compact mirror back down onto his desk, collecting himself and quickly putting back on his top hat. The Scout’s chipper demeanor and cute hat brought a small grin to the doctor’s cheeks.

“Perhaps later. I don’t want to get mein costume dirty quite yet.” Conrad replied while adjusting his sunglasses.

“C’mon doc, you can’t just live on olives and protein shakes. You gotta eat somethin’.” Freddie insisted while setting the bucket of chicken down onto a free spot on his desk. Conrad let out a small sigh, he disliked hearing the truth. Lately, eating and cooking became a chore he loathed entirely. Only eating foods that required little to no preparation.

“Fine. Only if you split a piece with me. I can’t eat all that.” Conrad replied. Freddie lit up and instantly grabbed a drumstick from the striped bucket. Eagerly taking a big bite from the deliciously fried and crispy chicken leg. Conrad snickered watching the man dressed as a chicken happily eating away at a fried drumstick.

“I’m assuming you’re a chicken?” Conrad asked raising an eyebrow. Freddie finished chewing and swallowed the tender piece in his mouth.

“Not just any chicken. I’m a cannibal chicken.” Freddie bluntly stated. Conrad let out a small chuckle. He stood up from his desk, adjusting his top hat and shirt collar.

“Nice get up. I always dig the vampire look.” Freddie complimented, eyeing the doctor up and down.

“Danke.” Conrad bashfully replied. Freddie handed the doctor the half eaten piece of chicken in his hand. Conrad quickly took off his gloves, shoving them into his back pocket before taking the greasy drumstick. He took a few small bites while walking over to the door of his office. Freddie grabbed the bucket of chicken and followed after him. Both men walked out of the doctor’s office and down the hallway. The Halloween party was held outside this year, on the back porch area of the BLU base. Conrad suddenly paused his steps once at the Scout’s bedroom door. Freddie stopped also, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“You should grab a coat, it’s cold outside.” Conrad suggested. Holding his hands out to take the bucket of chicken from him while he goes to grab one. Freddie let out a sigh, handing him the bucket and quickly going into his bedroom. Grabbing the first button up coat he could find. Once lazily shoving his arms through the coat, both men continued down the hallway. All of the other BLU mercenaries were outside happily mingling. Conrad set down the bucket of chicken onto the kitchen counter nearby. Freddie went over to reach for the door handle to the back porch. Conrad had swiftly grabbed the Scout by the back of his shirt collar, stopping him in his tracks.

“Not so fast.” Conrad sternly said.

“Aw c’mon, what’s up?” Freddie asked impatiently. Conrad swiftly spun the young man to face him directly.

“You need to button this up. I don’t want you catching a cold again.” Conrad firmly said. Beginning to button up the young man’s coat closed. Freddie stood there, bashfully gazing up at the doctor’s face. Once finished, Conrad patted the Scout’s shoulder.

“There, now let’s go have some fun. Shall we?” Conrad said with a wide grin.

“Y-yeah.” Freddie shyly stuttered. Admiring the doctor’s eager expression. Fully aware that it might not last long. Appreciating it while he could. The Scout then frantically opened the backdoor and both men eagerly stepped outside. Gazing at the Halloween decor scattered all around the back porch. Hearing the soft oldies music come from their outside radio. A few of the other mercenaries glanced up at the doctor as soon as he exited the door. As if they had been waiting for him to come out. Especially Pyro and Engineer from their eager expressions. The last few Halloween’s, Conrad would have confidently walked out with his accordion in both hands. This was vastly different. He quietly gazed around at his colleague’s worried but eager expressions. He wanted nothing more then to march back inside and hide. Hit with a flush of embarrassment and shame. Conrad kept his composure and quickly walked over to one of the many tables and chairs set out. He sat down, frantically grabbing a piece of candy and unwrapping it. Desperately trying his hardest to keep a happy facade. This was it. Everyone of his colleague’s were fully aware that something was up with him. He would soon be found out in no time. Conrad anxiously chewed and finished the delicious piece of chocolate. Freddie had followed behind him along with Pyro. Both sat on each side of him. Engineer had walked over to their table as well, patting the doctor’s shoulder lightly.

“You look great doc. Here, you wanna be the designated pumpkin smasher?” Engineer asked with a kind grin. Handing the man a festive stick in orange and purple tape. It was a BLU Halloween tradition for one mercenary to smash a large pumpkin with the Red logo carved into it. Conrad was caught off guard by that question.

“I-I shouldn’t.” Conrad replied nervously. Afraid of losing his temper yet again.

“Please doc, we all took a vote and thought you might like to have a wack at it.” Engineer stated. Conrad took a deep breath, carefully taking the stick from his colleague. All three mercenaries walked alongside Conrad to the large pumpkin set up. A few other mercenaries also perked up and walked over to see the fun, mess ensue.

“C’MON DOC! BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF THAT PUMPKIN ALREADY!” Soldier loudly encouraged. Conrad chuckled slightly. Taking a step closer, slowly raising the stick up. The other mercenaries began to chime in and cheer him on. Conrad inhaled deeply before swinging the stick down and violently smashing the pumpkin open. Repeatedly beating it until it was a mushy pulp. Most of the mercenaries were cheering and hyping him up. Spy on the other hand was silent, carefully watching the doctor’s expression and movements. This was one way of getting to see the built up tension leave the suffering doctor’s being for just a moment. The Frenchman was determined to find out what was wrong with his fellow teammate. He never intended to be devious and spy on his colleague’s but he desperately felt concerned. He flicked his finished cigarette and cloaked behind the crowd of his loud teammates. The mercenaries were all preoccupied with praising the doctor. Spy had quickly vanished before everyone else had noticed. Or so he thought…

🎃

(The end! For this part…here’s some more loadouts of Freddie & Conrad :3)

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Kassandra x Fem!Reader - Bulletproof .001

Summary: A series of bureaucratic catastrophes left you, the daughter of two oligarchs, a prime target for attack. With the threat of assassination imminent, the need for a strong security detail was critical. And the woman hired to oversee your personal safety was – well, easy on the eyes, to start, but nothing short of a lethal enigma.

Without her, you’d be six feet under. [mature]

Warnings: gun-violence

Word count: 3712

AO3 link here.

Return to Bulletproof masterlist here.

Minors, men and ageless blogs DNI. You will be blocked immediately upon interaction.

Quite honestly, if anybody other than the chief of police had introduced Kassandra to you as your new head bodyguard, you would have laughed. She had no air of sternness about her. Nothing about her screamed ‘I will give life and limb to protect you’; she greeted you with a lopsided smile, leaning against a doorframe, unfolding her arms to wave at you with two fingers.

Physically, however, you had no difficulty believing that she was a security hire. The Greek was exceedingly tall, her sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, corded forearms, leaving little to the imagination about the rest of her build, especially with her suspenders straining against the broadness of her shoulders. With her flawless olive skin, you might have believed she was a model for an athletics wear company who stumbled into the wrong job, if it wasn’t for the revolver holstered to her belt.

Sceptical, you offered her a smile and your gratitude for her service, knowing full well that there was a sizeable target on your back. She simply shook her head and laughed, “No need to thank me. The pay is a-ma-zing.”

From that encounter alone, you knew immediately that Kassandra was going to be nothing like anyone previously employed within your security detail. Initially, you had mixed emotions about such a realisation. While her casualness made her breathable to be around – which was welcomed, given how much time you’d be spending in close proximity to her – you couldn’t help but fret over how well she’d perform if someone was to make an attempt on your life.

Hopefully, of course, that would never happen.

After a few days under her protection, your queries about her professionalism were swiftly resolved. Kassandra was anything but lackadaisical, despite her laid-back manner of conversation with you. She didn’t see the merit in formality, reasoning that it would only make things uncomfortable with the amount of time you spend together. You warmed to her very quickly, for two reasons: her amicability, and her lack of concrete rules to your protection. Listen to her when she tells you there’s a threat, and don’t look inside her briefcase.

Naturally, the latter request warranted some curiosity from you. But she justified it with the fact that she kept an automatic firearm stowed inside at the very top, and she wouldn’t want you handling it to get to the files underneath. Reasonable enough, you thought, although her words sparked an interest in the contents of those files.

When she wasn’t contacting security organisations between your public appearances and meetings, she spent her time chatting to you as though you were a close friend, or working out, using the heaviest objects she could source in your temporary accommodations as weights, and fuck, if that wasn’t a sight. Oh, and offering you flirtatious remarks. Luckily for her, you couldn’t hope to resist that kind of attention from a woman matching her description. For your comfort, though, she never escalated things to a level that placed any pressure on you.

Asides from a couple of impromptu relocations, for three months, Kassandra never had to take an active role in your protection. That is, if one was to exclude the nights where she mysteriously excused herself from your company, never elaborating as to why beyond “it’s a security matter.” After the first few instances, this became the norm. You stopped giving your role as her principal much thought, except for that burning curiosity pertaining to the files in her briefcase.

Said curiosity was somewhat satiated one night. A sleep-disturbed night, for a reason you couldn’t quite place, holed-up in a safehouse. Kassandra had left on one of her security matters an hour before you retired to bed. But when you groggily trudged to the kitchenette to pour a glass of water, you noticed a folder spread out on the counter.

Quizzically, you inched towards the compilation of documents, observing a red sharpie left uncapped on top of the paper. A series of greyscale photographs of faces were messily stuck to the two-page spread on display, all of which had a name scrawled underneath them in biro, some accompanied by arrows and notes hastily scribbled in Greek.

Most interestingly, each portrait was annotated with a mark in bold red ink. Some had a large cross over them – you recognised a few as oligarchs whose deaths had been somewhat recently announced via the news – whereas others were marked with ‘INCARCERATED’. Two had a question mark by the corner. One had a series of numbers, separated by periods. “An IP address…?” you mused under your breath.

Frowning, you flicked through the folder, finding pages upon pages of the same contents but with different faces. The dreadful notion that all these people had it out for you made a lump form in your throat, one that was exceptionally difficult to swallow.

You flinched away from the folder when you heard the titanium door to the safehouse click open, followed by a resounding beep, signifying an authorised entrance. Eight smaller beeps sounded as the relocking code was punched in, followed by a sigh you recognised as Kassandra’s.

Rolling her shoulders, your bodyguard strolled into the kitchenette, pausing in her tracks when she saw you standing there. “Maláka,” she cursed softly.

Fumbling over your words, you rushed to form an apology. “I’m sorry, Kass. I know it’s none of my business—”

She simply smiled at you. In an instant, that guilt melted away.

“Of course it’s your business,” she shook her head. “You have a right to know about my sources, and the people who want you, well…”

“Dead,” you finished, having to steady yourself at the admission.

“Yeah,” she grimaced, rubbing the back of her neck. Taking a careful breath, Kassandra continued, “I only kept this from you because of how many people there are. I didn’t want you panicking.”

You forced a small laugh. “Probably easier to keep me in one piece if I’m calm, right?”

She gave you a sympathetic glance. “You,” she pointed at you, “are perfectly safe, okay?”

Nodding, you picked up your glass and twisted the faucet, focusing on the trickling of cold water to try to quell the newfound nausea you were feeling. “I trust you,” you said instinctively, just loud enough for Kassandra to hear over the tap.

Turning the faucet off, you spun on your heel to face your protector, taking a small sip. “Have a good night, Kass,” you bade, headed off to bed, despite being almost certain that you wouldn’t get a wink of sleep with this new knowledge of just how many people wanted you killed.

Thankfully for her, in your sleep-deprived state, you failed to notice the splatter of crimson decorating the sleeve of her shirt. Nor did you distinguish the sound of the sharpie being dragged in two lines across the portrait annotated with the IP address.

The two of you had a silent, mutual agreement to try to reinstate normalcy after that incident. The banter resumed full-swing, which served as a pleasant distraction from the paranoia clouding your judgement. Kassandra received the all-clear to escort you out of the safehouse after a few excruciating days, just in time to transport you cross-country to an important meeting.

Part of you found the usual extravagance of being welcomed into a fancy hotel ahead of your meetings exhausting. Another part found the high-society ordeal rather enjoyable.

At the present, though, with so many metaphorical rangefinders aimed at your forehead, extravagance was out of the question. You were covertly ushered into a room in a dingy single-story motel that Kassandra checked out, urged to keep your silhouette hidden from view as she swept the place and drew the curtains shut.

Ignoring the automatic rifle your protector left on the vanity for ease of retrieval, nothing seemed extraordinary within the cramped motel room. Two cup noodle pots sat empty on one night stand, your small suitcase unzipped and open on the other. Kassandra sat, resting her elbows on her knees, thoughtfully on the vanity chair, staring at the conundrum before her.

In each hand, you held a dress, having just posed the question of what to wear to your business meeting tomorrow.

“Well?”

“This is hardly my area of expertise.”

“You don’t need to be Anna Wintour to help me here,” you smiled, rolling your eyes light-heartedly. “Does the red one come across as a bit…much?” A car’s headlight illuminated the room from behind the curtains; with rehearsed ease, you stepped into the shadows of the room.

“A bit much as in ‘ooh-la-la’, or…actually, I don’t know what else you could mean,” she shrugged, leaning back into the chair, glancing at the window, eyes lingering until the lights shut off.

Eyes widening, you gave the garment a tenth once-over. “So your first thought was ‘ooh-la-la’?” Pouting, your gaze zeroed in on the bust. “I didn’t think the cleavage was dramatic.”

“The cleavage? I was talking about the skirt.”

“Oh, god, really? Is it that distracting?”

Kassandra grinned slyly. “I would be very distracted.”

Fighting off the warmth settling into your cheeks, you giggled at her implication. “Okay, the yellow it is, then.” Alas, your smile faltered as soon as a realisation dawned upon you. “Shit, wait, this was a gift from a rival brand. I can’t wear this.”

She feigned a dramatic gasp. “Scandalous,” she tutted, making you snort. “What a shame. I guess you have no choice but to wear that lovely red—”

A shriek pierced the night air from down the corridor.

Ice flooded your veins. You froze, mouth running dry. “Kassandra—”

Kassandra stood up immediately, her face void of any prior trace of amusement. Her expression hardened, her posture straightened. Without hesitation, she moved to the side of the bed, bending down and hooking her fingers under the frame. “Put your vest on and stay low,” she ordered. Authoritative. Methodical.

Unable to even blink, you remained deathly still.

Sternly, she repeated herself, eyes dark with lethal focus, “Vest. Now.”

A tremor set into your hands as the gravity of the situation began to dawn. Nodding, you shakily reached for the bulletproof vest in your suitcase, fumbling as you pulled it over your head while lowering yourself to the floor. Grunting, Kassandra quickly repositioned the bed, tugging the frame until it occupied the diagonal between the door and the window.

Sets of footsteps thudded through the hall. The violent rapping of fists against doors grew louder as the aggressors neared the room you resided in.

She dropped to her knees, reaching for the rifle on the dresser. “Is it on?”

Your fingers struggled to secure the velcro straps in your anxiety, the borderline arrhythmic hammering of your heart against your ribcage all but deafening. The fabric slipped from your fingertips every time you pinched it between them.

Steeled with concentration, she pulled you behind the bed. Momentarily, she let go of her gun, forcing your heart into your stomach. Deftly, she worked at the last couple of straps on the vest, unflinching when the car headlights filled the room with bright light once again. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered. Hearing the weakness in your voice only heightened your fear.

The Kassandra you were acquainted with would have offered you a few words of reassurance at the meagre apology.

This wasn’t her.

“Keep your back to the mattress and tuck your head into your body,” she instructed, resecuring her grip on her rifle. You wordlessly followed her order, making yourself as small as possible. “Don’t move until I tell you to. Don’t make a sound.”

A gunshot echoed from the room next door. You cried out in fear, quickly muffled by her hand. She didn’t move to shush you, nor did she remark about the teardrop colliding with the side of her palm.

When she removed her palm, she withdrew her phone from her pocket, punching in a few numbers, keeping her tawny eyes glued to the door. She dropped it the second she hit ‘dial’, army-crawling with the gun until she reached the vanity table, firmly out of your sight.

The world felt cold. Eerily cold. Cold, quiet, cold, cold—

Glass shattered as a tumultuous round of bullets soared through the window, effortlessly penetrating the mattress in an ear-splitting sweep. Lead speared itself into the wall in front of you, either side of your trembling, curled form. You clutched your head, forcing it further into your body as some of the bullets thumped against the Kevlar of your vest, dull pain bursting at across your back at the points of impact. You sobbed, obscured by the sound of open fire, too paralysed by fear to flinch.

Bile had reached the hollow of your throat by the time the bullets stopped. You didn’t know if Kassandra was hurt. You couldn’t tell if you were hurt. Teeth clamped down on your tongue until it bled to fight off the instinct to scream for her.

Petrified, you remained perfectly still.

The door swung open.

Two men’s voices muttered something unintelligible. You heard footsteps cross the boundary into the room.

Shattering the silence, a second round of lead ripped through the air, this time fired from within the motel. A shorter round. More precise. The moment it ceased, you could hear the sound of corpses crumpling to the floor.

You couldn’t, shit, you couldn’t fucking breathe. Not with a man’s silhouette peeking through the holes in the curtains, the murky shadow projecting itself partially onto the wall in front of you.

One-Mississippi.

Two-Mississippi.

Three-Mississippi.

Four-Mississippi.

Five-Mississi-

A short burst fired through the destroyed window from inside the room, the thunderous sound ricocheting from the vanity.

Kassandra.

The disjointed shade on the wall dissolved into blanket light.

You couldn’t have counted the next few seconds if your life depended on it. Time slowed, then rapidly sped up, then froze altogether when you heard the quiet call of your name through the nauseating fog in your brain.

“Are you hurt?” came the soft voice of your bodyguard.

You cried when your mouth wouldn’t open out of terror.

There was a panicked edge to her tone when she repeated the question.

Please, please, fucking talk.

Finally, some sound escaped the tightness of your throat. “I-I don’t know,” you stuttered weakly, mouse-quiet. But that was enough for Kassandra, even if she didn’t vocally acknowledge it.

Sand poured endlessly from the world’s hourglass, forming a dune large enough to host a desert before the sound of a helicopter sliced through the night. The chopping of the blades drew closer and closer to the motel. From a distance above, a loudspeaker boomed, “All clear.”

Faintly, over the roaring blades, you heard Kassandra shuffle out from under the vanity. Her shadow loomed over the mattress as she made her way to your side.

Leaning down, she wrapped an arm around your shoulders, her other hand still maintaining a vice-like grip on her rifle. “Stand up for me, angel,” she whispered, a familiar warmth now present in the syllables.

At first, you couldn’t shift from your position, the petrification having yet to wear off. But after a few murmurs of “you’re okay” spilling from her lips in a mantra, you uncurled yourself and found your footing.

Kassandra shepherded you over to the window frame, helping you through the jagged pane, ensuring you didn’t slice yourself on the broken glass. Following suit, she eased you onto the lower rungs of the airborne ladder, shielding you with her body from the air whipping at you. She held on with one hand herself, sweeping her sights for any lingering traces of your assailants as the ladder gradually ascended.

Two pairs of old hands helped pull you into the body of the helicopter. You blinked up, vaguely registering the face of the police chief through your shock. He ushered your trembling self towards a bench while his uniformed associate placed headphones on your ears, drowning out the blades with a painful ringing as Kassandra joined you inside.

Slowly, your hearing returned to you, albeit substantially muffled and coupled with a shrill tinnitus. The helicopter’s hatch closed, and after a short while, the headphones were lifted from your ears.

A paramedic approached you with a first aid kit, moving to kneel by your side, only to wind up face-to-face with the barrel of a rifle.

“Kassandra, what the fuck are you doing?” hissed the chief.

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” she spat, unrelenting. You had never heard her with utter anything with such venom before.

“Stand down.”

She forcibly positioned herself between your body and the chief’s. “No. Someone fucking tipped us off. I’m not trusting anyone, and that includes you.” Heart still pounding erratically, you hugged your knees, wincing at the sting in your back as you closed in on yourself.

“Christ, Kass, be reasonable here.”

She laughed bitterly, “Oh, I’m being unreasonable, am I?” The chief reached forward, and the direction of her aim shifted towards him. “One task force knew where she would be staying and what vehicle would transport her. You have a fucking mole, Jameson!” she snapped, thrusting the weapon forward until the barrel was flush against his chest.

The chief – Jameson – retained his composure. Hell, you were more disturbed by her performance than the person with a firearm digging into his ribcage. “And you have enemies. Lots of them, in case you forgot that you’re a hitwoman.” Your heart stopped. What? Before you were able to process the statement, he continued, “You may have been the target, not—”

“Bullshit, those were Verduci’s thugs. I recognised the watches. Family sigils on the straps, same blue-dyed Italian leather. I’ve been tracking that cunt for weeks. Trust me, she wants her dead.”

He sighed irritably, but nodded nonetheless. In the brief silence that followed, you mulled over the sinister elephant in the room.

Hitwoman?

In your post-traumatic state, the idea seemed initially implausible. Kassandra was a bodyguard. She was a kind woman, who diligently worked to secure your safety. As alarming as this…this violent side of her was, she operated on the defence, not the offence. She fired reactively, not proactively. At least, from what you saw of her.

Out of your sight, though, there may have been a different story. As your pulse settled into a rhythm once again, the puzzle pieces began to weave themselves together. The disappearances into the night. The folder; the name she gave, the one beginning with ‘V’ – that was familiar to you, having popped up a few times underneath various photographs. The red crosses. The IP addresses.

Kassandra was disposing of your assassins before they even had a chance to load their guns.

That terrified little part of your brain screamed for you to cower from her, but you were fortunately able to rationalise it into disappearing. Whatever her job description entailed had just saved your life, and she showed no signs of betraying that commitment.

Jameson’s was the first voice to cut through the uncomfortable quiet. He took a step back from you, flattening his palms in the air. The rifle remained poised in his direction. “I’ll contact central intel when we get to the hospital about your suspicions,” he breathed out. Pensively, he rubbed his chin, before turning to you. “She won’t let the medics near you, so I’ll ask now, are you in need of immediate medical attention?”

“I think I’m just bruised up,” you declined, forcing a small smile.

He nodded. His head tilted towards Kassandra, no longer fazed by the gun. “She’s in deeper shit than we thought.”

“I can take her off-grid,” Kassandra suggested, exhaling through her nose. Finally, she handed over the rifle. “Get me clearance to relocate her overseas. I can’t trust anyone in special forces with the location.”

Your tongue darted out to moisten your lips as you glance up at her. “Why would you need additional clearance?” you asked shakily.

She softened slightly, morphing back into the Kassandra you were better acquainted with. “I won’t be taking you anywhere traceable,” she explained. “And your parents can’t know about where you’re hiding. Nobody can. Without clearance, this would be an abduction. Especially since I’m outsourcing the pilot.”

“You’re what, sorry?” Jameson blinked.

Anxiously, you scratched at your wrist. Kassandra leaned against the curved shell of the helicopter. “You have a mole. I can count my contacts on one hand, and I trust Barnabas explicitly.” She challenged him, sighing, “Look, you can get me clearance, or it’s going down as an abduction. Her safety is paramount – I couldn’t give a shit about what the bureaucrats think.”

“Alright, alright. Do what you need to do. Just keep her in one piece,” he relented, throwing his hands up in defeat, making for the cockpit with his associate. The paramedic had long since left your side, leaving the two of you as alone as you could get.

Kassandra took a seat next to you on the bench, gingerly rubbing your upper back. “How are you feeling?”

Shrugging, you relaxed into the warmth of her palm. “Disoriented, I guess. Still processing what happen–ow—” you winced as she accidentally put pressure on a tender part of your spine. She swore, immediately retracting her hand, apologising. Smiling, you waved it off. “I’ll be fine, though. You seem to have a plan in mind.”

“My plans aren’t exactly orthodox,” she admitted, pulling a face. “But this is the safest option for you. We’ll get you somewhere off the map – somewhere warm. See it as a hopefully uneventful vacation.” Her hand found purchase on your shoulder.

“And if it becomes eventful?” you frowned.

Kassandra squeezed you reassuringly. “Then all you’ll need to do is what I tell you to, just like you did tonight. I won’t leave your side. You’ll be sick of me by the end of the week.” A laugh escaped you, slightly hoarse, but genuine all the same. “You will be. I’m insufferable,” she grinned.

Without realising, you leaned into her half-embrace, comforted by the weight of her hand and the notion of her remaining firmly at your side. Truly at ease, with the whistling of bullets miles in the past, you spoke in earnest.

“I find that very hard to believe.”

[keepingeahalive]

The Swan Queens

The former Swan Princess and her Mother-in-Law. Duchess Swan’s mother and paternal grandmother.

[ID: Two traditional drawings of Duchess Swan’s mother and grandmother.

The first is a full hand-drawing of Duchess’s grandmother. She is a tall, elderly Japanese woman with pale olive skin; long gray hair pulled back sokugami style and held with a silver hair comb; and sharp brown eyes.

She is wearing a black and white kimono with a long purple haneri (underdress) with white feathers patterned on the sleeves. She is holding a large Whooper swan that is wearing a silver crown. She looks at the “viewer” sternly; the swan closes its eyes and bows it’s head.

The second is a full hand-drawing of the Swan Queen in her human form.

She is a young Japanese woman with beige-olive skin and black hair ties back into a neat bun. She is wearing a white, sleeveless tutu dress with feathers on the breast, a light lavender sash, and a feathered skirt; a white headpiece resembling two white feathers with a silver crown on top; and white ballet shoes. She appears mid-dance with her left arm above her head and her right arm out to her side, her right leg off the ground as she stand en pointe. Her eyes are closed with a serene expression on her face.

END ID]

[green-planets]

StEx Appreciation Month Day 18: Volta!

❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊

Face Claim: Zoe Hershaw, Eli Hayashi, Voyd, or Lyndi Oliver

Favourite Song/Scenes: AC/DC and the races! (the full on shrieking after being uncoupled from Hashimoto! She so angry 😭)

Favourite Costumes: I said the same thing last year, but when hasn't her costume slayed? Shout out to the asymmetrical sleeves (and whip!) from the early London costumes. I love her chaps and pillbox hat! I do prefer the blue lipstick over the red lipstick in most cases.

Favourite Ships/Friendships: Components x Electra, Volta x Joule, Volta x Joule x Wrench, Volta x Coco. She's friends with Electra and the other components! She'd also be such good friends with Coco (they both seem to have it out for Pearl lol)

Headcanons: Not only is she Electra's stylist, but she's also his personal confidante. She knows things about him nobody else does (her hair is big because it's full of secrets)

Unpopular Opinion: Volta should be a gender blind role. I know they have women covering him in Bochum, but the character is still male. Bring back the fan wig for some of the covers!

❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊

Bonus Round: Zero!

Face Claim: Jayred Lempriere

Favourite Song/Scenes: Same as above, AC/DC and the races! He has some fun background moments

Favourite Costumes: Bochum >>> Wembley (sorry not sorry)

Favourite Ships/Friendships: Zero x Flat Top, Zero x Killerwatt, Zero x Elektra, Zero x Espresso (but as a one-sided crush). Zero is friends with the other components and Elektra! Coco is his bitch/gossip buddy

Headcanons: Zero secretly hooks up with Flat Top sometimes. He would die if anyone ever found out

Unpopular Opinion: The solid black hair is sooooo boring compared to what female Volta had going on. Give him some blue streaks or something already!

❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊❄️🧊

[the-type-a]

Duncney Week 2023

(9•12) Day 3: Dress Up

AO3 | FanFic | TikTok | Twt

Punk Princess & Prince Charming

(Read under break)

“I am not wearing that,” Courtney said as she held up a very questionable piece of clothing.

The perfectionist did not agree with her boyfriend much, but it was a miracle when she did. Halloween was only a few weeks away, and Duncan insisted the two figure out their costumes for the year. This was something Courtney was more than willing to get on board with. After scrolling through hundreds, if not thousands, of ideas, the couple decided to do something original. They would go as each other.

It was a classic costume idea. The issue stemmed from Duncan being in charge of Courtney’s outfit and vice versa. Now, Courtney stood in their bedroom with multiple outfits that were either two sizes too small or barely outfits at all. She tossed the lace garment onto the bed as she rummaged through the pile of clothes. All the shorts were ridiculously short, and she was sure if she bent over for anything, her ass would be on full display. The tops were an automatic no as they were quite literally bras with no support and flimsy straps. Something told her Duncan had not cared if it matched his style, just as long as it got her in less clothing.

“Duncan, this is ridiculous!”

Her voice was starting to get higher from the pure irritation. Before she could ramble on, Duncan held up a separate bag. He held it out to her as she huffed down her little blowup, a sly smirk on his face, “Before you get your panties in a twist, Princess.”

Dark brown eyes glared at him as she pulled out a plaid green and black skirt and a cropped version of his favorite shirt. Still, it was better than the first couple of options.

“Fine.” She mumbled as she stuffed the items back into the bag.

Duncan held up a finger, “One more thing.”

She watched him pull out a spiked collar, just like the one he used to wear back on the island. Not just that, but also some fake piercings, silver chains to hook around her skirt, and fishnet stockings. To finish the outfit, Duncan held up a pair of red high-tops.

Courtney held the bag out as Duncan stuffed everything into it. Now, her outfit was complete.

“Your turn.” Courtney sang as Duncan groaned in annoyance.

Just like him, Courtney pulled out two large shopping bags. She had two options: a sweater vest or a long-sleeved sweater. The white button-up and olive pants were non-negotiable. Duncan grabbed the long-sleeved sweater. He refused to be seen in a stupid sweater vest, regardless of whether it was Halloween.

“Can I at least wear some normal shoes?” He asked his girlfriend.

Courtney shrugged, “As long as you take your piercings out and slick your hair back.”

—

The two tested their little outfits to ensure they were perfect. It was an awkward feeling, dressing entirely out of their comfort zone, but that was the point of Halloween. Wasn’t it?

Duncan was pulling at the buttoned collar as Courtney stepped out fully dressed. He froze. Her tanned skin popped against the green, hugging her waist. His eyes scanned her up and down as she rolled her own.

If they were dressed as each other, they also needed to act like one another. Courtney leaned on her leg and smirked as Duncan’s eyes finally met hers.

“Sup, Prince Charming.”

Duncan held back his laugh as he fixed his posture and sent her a dangerous glare. His voice pitched, “Courtney, that is not my name! You are just so immature but so sexy. How will I ever contain myself?”

“I don’t sound like that!” Courtney scoffed as Duncan hunched over from laughing so hard. She reached over and shoved him onto the bed but toppled over as his hands snatched around her waist.

She pushed herself up on her hands before slamming down entirely on him.

“You are so–”

“Immature!”

They both couldn’t help but laugh; she did sound like that. “Halloween is going to be fun.”

Duncan reached up and pulled her head down so their lips could meet. They shared a kiss that soon turned into greedy hands moving along each other's bodies. Duncan gripped the fishnet stockings as Courtney’s fingers almost popped the buttons off his collared shirt. She heard a slight tear and pulled herself into a sitting position.

The couple stared at each other as they tried to catch their breaths. Courtney’s skirt was riding up a little too high, and Duncan’s perfectly pressed sweater was wrinkled.

“We’ll ruin our outfits if we don’t stop.”

“Good point,” Duncan smirked as he let his fingers slip under one of the many thin lines of fabric along Courtney’s legs, “but it won’t stop me once Halloween rolls around.”

[l1ft-l1ft1ng-l1ft3d]

What I l1ft3d 5/1/2023 - 5/31/2023

B@rn3s & N0bl3:

- 6 books (5/1/2023)

- PaperSource Mountain tote bag

- 5 books (5/6/2023)

- B&N canvas tote bag (teal)

- ShedRain Windjammer umbrella

- 6 books (5/11/2023)

- 3 books (5/16/2023)

- 8 books (5/18/2023)

- Out of Print Eric Carle Hungry Caterpillar tote bag

- 4 books (5/19/2023)

- Moomin tote bag

- Keep Calm and Read On bookmark

- 3 books (5/22/2023)

- Fjallraven backpack

- 8 books (5/26/2023)

- B&N canvas tote (gray)

- 4 books (5/30/2023)

¢V$:

- CeraVe Renewing SA Cleanser

- Billie Whipped Shave Cream

- Kitsch The Satin Pillowcase (Ivory)

- CeraVe Acne Foaming Cream Cleanser

- Cottonelle Flushable Wipes

D1ck'$ $p0rt1ng G00d$:

- Nike sportswear crewneck pullover sweatshirt (yellow)

- Nike Sportswear embroidered logo t-shirt (black)

- Nike Sportswear athletic shorts w/large elastic band (chartreuse)

- Nike Sportswear athletic shorts (blue)

- 2 Nike Sportswear embroidered logo t-shirt (guava, gray)

- Nike Sportswear athletic shorts (burnt orange)

- Nike Sportswear cotton shorts (gray)

- Hydroflask 24 oz. bottle w/sip lid (pastel aqua)

- Nike Sportswear crewneck pullover sweatshirt (black)

- Nike athletic shorts w/large elastic band (gray)

- 49 brand Giants pullover hoodie sweatshirt (dark gray)

- Nike Sportswear crewneck pullover sweatshirt (gray)

- Nike athletic shorts (mauve)

- Nike Sportswear graphic logo oversized t-shirt (olive)

- Adidas crewneck pullover sweatshirt w/elastic bottom hem detail (charcoal)

- Calia polo neck pullover sweatshirt (blue)

- Calia short sleeve t-shirt (gray)

- Calia sleeveless t-shirt (white) 71

- 2 pairs Calia athletic shorts (tomato bisque, goldenrod)

- Nike Sportswear crewneck graphic logo pullover sweatshirt (ivory + aqua)

- Nike DriFit athletic shorts (black)

- Calia polo neck pullover sweatshirt (olive)

- Stanley 40 oz The Flowstate Quencher H2.0 Tumbler (Tigerlily)

- 47 Giants long sleeve baseball shirt

- Calia polo neck pullover sweatshirt (florescent yellow)

- Calia straight leg crop sweatpants (gray)

- Stanley 30 oz Ice Flow Tumbler with Flip Straw (lime + forest green)

- Nike Sportswear crewneck sweatshirt (yellow)

- Nike bike shorts (black)

H0bby L0bby:

- 2 X-Acto knives (regular + small)

H0m3 G00ds:

- Yeti Rambler Colster Can Insulator

J.C. P3nn3y:

- Levi's Shaping Capri jeans

- Wrangler graphic logo t-shirt (light blue)

- Adidas Cloudfoam tennis shoes (rainbow)

- Levi's 501 Cut-Off Short (dark denim)

- Levi's crewneck embroidered logo pullover sweatshirt (pastel pink)

- ANA sleeveless sundress (olive + white tropical flowers)

- ANA button-down polo neck sundress (olive)

- ANA spaghetti strap dress (olive floral)

- ANA shift dress (black)

- Levi's denim button down shirt (med. blue)

- Levi's 501 cut off shorts

- 2 Levi's graphic t-shirts (black, white)

M@cy's:

- Kipling mini crossbody bag (cherry red)

- Kipling backpack (med., gray)

- Kipling mini backpack (black w/raindrops)

- Calvin Klein Performance full zip hoodie (electric green)

- Kipling medium over the shoulder purse (gray)

- Kipling minimalist wallet (army green pattern)

- Levi's 501 shorts (med. length/med. blue denim)

- Calvin Klein Performance full-zip hoodie sweatshirt (stone gray)

- Kipling backpack (cherry red)

- 2 Guess wallets (black - large + small)

- Levi's 501 cut off shorts (black)

- And Now This ruched peasant blouse (black)

- Levi's Shaping Skinny Jeans

- Levi's denim overall dress

- Levi's cropped peasant blouse (blue + green plaid)

- Calvin Klein Performance full-zip sweatshirt (black)

- 2 Calvin Klein Performance cropped straight leg sweat pants (black, heather gray)

- 2 And Now This tank tops (white, cocoa)

Levi's button down denim shirt (light, distressed)

- Levi's spaghetti strap sundress (checkers)

- Ralph Lauren short pajama set (white w/floral)

- Calvin Klein Performance full-zip hoodie (ivory)

- Wacoal convertible bra (black)

- Calvin Klein Performance full zip hoodie (dark heather gray)

- Calvin Klein Performance full-zip hoodie (sky blue)

- Levi's graphic logo t-shirt (black)

- Levi's button-down short sleeve shirt (green + white stripes)

- Levi's High-Waisted Mom Jeans (med. denim)

- Calvin Klein Performance logo hoodie (heather gray)

- And Now This short sleeve bodysuit (pastel blue)

M@r1n@ M@rk3tpl@ce:

- Burt's Bees Aloe & Coconut Oil After Sun Soother

0ff1c3 D3p0t:

- Pilot Dr. Grip Frosted Ball Point Pen

- Pilot Dr. Grip Ball Point Pen Refills (2-ct)

$pr0ut$:

- Badger Organic Cuticle Care

- Pacifica Silver Moon Parfum

- Hello Antiplaque + Whitening Toothpaste Tablets

- 3 Pacifica Parfums (Island Vanilla, Tuscan Blood Orange, Persian Rose)

- Zum Mist Aromatherapy Room + Body Spray (Frankincense & Myrrh)

- Olika refillable spray moisturizing hand sanitizer

- Olika hand sanitizer refill

- Pacifica perfume (French Lilac)

- Zum Mist Aromatherapy Room + Body Spray (Patchouli)

- Humble Natural Deodorant (Palo Santo & Frankincense)

$t@rbuck$:

- Sign language art Starbucks mug

- Yosemite Pin Drop Collection Starbucks Mug

T@rg3t:

- Vornado Whole Room Air Circulator (w/interchangeable base plate discs)

- Vornado Whole Room Air Circulator

- Owala Free Sip water bottle (24 oz - tangerine)

- Reusable silicone menstrual disc

- Fine'ry Sun-Phoria body mist

- Olive & June The Poppy mani tool

- Owala Free Sip water bottle (24 oz - plum)

- Fine'ry I'm A Musk Eau de Parfum

- Fine'ry Magnetic Candy body mist

- Differin Dark Spot Correcting Serum

- 2 Casaluna sateen standard pillowcases

- EOS tropical summer lip balm (set of 4)

- Being Frenshe Awaken & Uplift Citrus Amber Glow On Perfume Oil

- American Tourister hard side checkered carry-on rolling suitcase

Ült@:

- The Body Shop Moringa Body Butter (6.75 oz)

- Lanolips 101 Ointment Multipurpose Superbalm

- Drunk Elephant Virgin Marula Luxury Facial Oil

- Byoma Brightening Serum

- Briogeo B. Well Organic + Australian 100% Tea Tree Oil

- Dr. PawPaw Lip Scrub & Lip Balm Duo

- Essie On a Roll Apricot Cuticle Oil

- O.P.I. Nail Lacquer (Yank My Doodle)

- L'Occitane En Provence Ultra Rich Body Cream

- Drunk Elephant Protini Polypeptide Cream

- Origins Ginzing Refreshing Eye Cream (Original)

- Hero Force Shield Superfuel Serum Stick

- Lanolips Lip Water (Watermelon)

- Lanolips 101 Ointment Fruities Trio

- Drunk Elephant C-Tango Multivitamin Eye Cream

- Cosrx Advanced Snail 96 Mucin Power Essence

- Briogeo Farewell Frizz Rosarco Milk Leave-In Conditioning Spray

- Briogeo Farewell Frizz Smoothing Conditioner

- Kenra Platinum Blow Dry Spray (6 fl. oz.)

- Bumble and Bumble BB Hairdresser's Invisible Oil

- Mario Badescu Skin Care Drying Lotion

- Soap & Glory Hand Food Intensive Hand Balm (Original Pink)

W@lm@rt:

- 2 Prep Solutions Silicone Grease Keeper & Strainer

- Cottonelle Flushable Wipes (2-pk)

Total: 197 items

[pharaohbean]

the eighth nightland ring trial

original upload: november 23rd 2024 on ao3

summary: "'The moon stared at him out of the corner of his eye, then turned back around and offered Akito his hand. Akito stared at it for a moment, then looked back at the moon's visage. "Enter a pact and you will live." Akito took a deep breath.'

after half a decade of bloodshed, shinonome akito is ready to return home. in his way stands the moon and his eighth and final trial."

tags: Aoyagi Touya/Shinonome Akito | Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Illusions, Knight Shinonome Akito, Mentions of Blood (a little more than what can be considered briefly), Shinonome Akito has Heterochromia, God Aoyagi Touya, Pre-Relationship

warnings: blood, illusions

author's note: "inspired by this prompt by @deepwaterwritingprompts on tumblr"

Akito wiped off the blood smeared on the side of his face that had splattered onto him in the previous fight. His sword had long been permanently stained blood ruby red from countless battles fought over his half a decade stuck in this place. He'd become feared across all lands as the Blood Swordsman, rumored to use the blood of his enemies against them and defeat entire armies.

Of course, Akito had no such magic at his fingertips nor to his name. In fact, Akito had no magic whatsoever to speak of - he was an Outlander, not someone of this fantasy land full of magic and dragons. But to not have magic was to be cursed and called an abomination, so Akito let the rumors circle.

He had to survive to return home. Sacrificing a few things and a few thousand people was simply a means to an end for him now.

With a ragged breath, Akito raised his dual-colored eyes - one olive-green, the other amber-orange - to the divine being that had been watching him passively through the last seven trials. Silver eyes stared down at him, reflecting the shimmer of the invisible moon that he bore, and yet no words were exchanged between the two of them.

"One more door." Akito demanded, staring at the eighth and final impossible door. A full moon was inscribed into its upper half, similar yet different to the other moon phases carved into the other seven doors.

"You will not survive." The being replied without a missed beat. He switched his crossed legs, the black leggings he wore tight to his skin moving fluidly with his legs. His moon-white top reached down his back like a trenchcoat, and black sleeves covered where the white top was lacking. The small silver crown on top of his head - barely anything of a crown - demanded power from whoever found themselves before the being.

"I want to go home." Akito raised his sword and pointed it at the being. "You cannot stop me."

"I could kill you right here." A raised eyebrow.

"You wouldn't." Akito had been the only one to make it past the third door since the Nightland Ring Trials had first appeared thousands of years ago. Why would the being slaughter a perfectly good challenger?

The being glanced away for a moment, a flash of worry on his face. "...You should not go through the full moon door."

Akito mirrored the being's prior movement, taunting him for an explanation. With a sigh--- "You will not survive mentally. "

"Is it possible to survive?"

"Not on your own."

"Then who do I need to find? Who do I need to kill, who do I need to bury---"

Akito couldn't speak anymore. The being - no, the moon himself - his glimmer was too bright for Akito to continue to defy and harass the overseer of the Nightland Ring Trials. He could only stare in terrified awe as the moon floated down from his high pedestal and stepped to stand in front of his sword. With a single hand, the sword came out of his frozen grip and into the moon's hands. The moon held the sword behind his back as he approached closer and closer to Akito until his eyes were the only thing Akito could make out.

"You need to live. Enter a pact with me and I will help you through the final trial. In return, you will be connected to me and we will return to... your home."

"You paused there for a moment." Akito's voice spoke before he could even process the moon's words. The moon narrowed his eyes, then sighed. He turned on his heel away from Akito, letting the swordsman out of his divine grasp.

The moon stared at him out of the corner of his eye, then turned back around and offered Akito his hand. Akito stared at it for a moment, then looked back at the moon's visage.

"Enter a pact and you will live."

Akito took a deep breath.

One beat, two beats, three beats, four beats.

The moon was unwavering in his offer.

Akito took a deep breath and took the offer.

The moon's shimmer flowed through Akito, and for a moment he could feel all living things that were under the careful watch of the moon before it faded into a dull hum in the background. The moon let go of his hand and Akito checked to see if anything had changed.

"Your eyes are a little brighter, and the orange one has a moon symbol in it." The moon said, as if reading his mind. For a moment, Akito frantically wondered if he could read his mind--- "I can't, it's just written all over your face."

"Oh."

The moon faced the eighth door and presented his palm to it; the door glowed and disappeared into the silver abyss of the final ring of the Nightlands. The moon turned to Akito and nodded to the door. Akito nodded back, but then paused for a moment.

"It's not very fair that you know my name and I don't know yours. We're partners now, right?"

The moon looked at him, shock written all over his face. "...Partners?"

"Yeah?" Akito stared back at him, reflecting confusion.

"...I see." The moon turned back to the portal. "Aoyagi Toya."

Akito blinked, then took his sword from Toya's hand. "Shinonome Akito. Let's go."

"Okay."

The two of them walked through the silver portal; Akito raised his arm to avoid the blinding light he knew would follow, but upon lowering his arm he was befuddled at the sight before him.

"...This is my house." He looked around - the pitch black street was just as he remembered when he ran away from home that fateful night, the night he fell into the fantasy hellscape he'd been trapped in for the last five years. Until now.

"Is it as you remember it?" Toya asked, a curious expression on his face (actually, now that Akito was seeing it, he seemed more... free, for lack of a better word. Did their pact do something, he wondered idly). 

"Perfectly."

"Then look closer." Toya pointed at the lamppost that stood in front of his house; Akito dimly remembered always complaining about the bright light shining into his window as a kid until his parents finally gave him some curtains.

(Were his parents still alive, and his sister too? Had time passed over the five years Akito had been missing, or was it distorted in some way? Would they even remember him? Was everything still the same as Akito remembered it five years ago? Had nothing changed, or had everything changed?)

Akito approached the lamppost and stared at it. The black metal stared back with no eyes to be seen. Akito turned back to his new partner and pointed at the lamppost.

"It's a lamppost."

Toya gave him a look that could only be described as "I'm aware of that, you motherfucker." "Look closer."

Akito squinted at Toya, then squinted at the lamppost. All he saw was metal, perfect smooth black metal---

He recoiled, watching the lamppost shimmer with a rainbow crystalline shimmer that was entirely foreign for a lamppost. "What the f---?!"

"Everything in this ring is an illusion. Everything you see... and everyone you meet." Toya's face had shifted into something very grave. "The people you meet will only try to keep you within this illusion. Succeeding on a mere mortal would've been very easy... but the partner of a god?"

"This isn't going to be easy." The horror and weight of the situation dawned on the swordsman as he looked around at the fake world around him.

"We need to find the way out. The only problem is... I have no idea where the way out is. Our pact only strengthens your mental defenses, and, well." Toya gestured to the lamppost. Akito looked back to see the luminary device had lost its crystalline shimmer, returning to an ordinary lamppost. But looking too hard at it brought the illusion's true form back.

"No wonder you said the doors were impossible."

"The first seven are perfectly possible. But this one... it's disgusting, even for my standards."

Akito turned back to his partner with a determined fire in his eyes and a hand on his sword hilt. "We need to find the exit."

"The way out can be found where one's mirror self can be found... or so it's said. Any idea where to start?" Toya raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms.

Akito thought for a moment, then began speed-walking.

"We need to get as much done now before people start waking up. Come on, we're going to Vivid Street."