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yinses · 4 years ago

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B R A N D E D

| he would make sure that everyone knew who you belonged to |

tattoo artist! sukuna ryomen

rating: t

a/n: this is going to be a three part series. it got too long because i couldn’t shut up. thank you to @teoran for beta reading !!

you should have never informed yuuji that you were thinking about getting a tattoo, because of course his first response would be hey, sukuna owns a shop. why don’t you stop there. as if you didn’t already known that. your other friend, unfortunately had not known how to be subtle about it.

its when you go to hand off your card that they gasp audibly, drawing the attention of both yourself and the woman behind the counter.

“you’re not going to ask for a discount? i mean you know the owner, right?”

she jumps back quick enough to dodge the errant elbow you throw her way.

you knew you would regret telling her.

the woman is undeterred as she take your card, looking bored with the news. “so you know sukuna, huh?” the way she said it implied that it wasn’t the first time it had been made known to her.

you had known the man long enough to know where her thoughts were going with that assumption. sukuna wasn’t only popular for his art. a shudder rolled through your body at the idea of being categorized as one of his flings.

it wasn’t as though you were intentionally shaming the women. but it was sukuna. the same guy who locked you and his younger brother out on the patio whenever he was meant to keep an eye on you. and then blamed you for hiding from him when the responsible adults got home.

in hindsight, maybe you should have chosen another location. but now your card has been charged.

you scribbled your signature on the receipt, “uh yeah, awhile now. im not requesting him or anything.”

“his appointment book is full anyway. he doesn’t take walk ins.” its not said snidely, just matter of fact. as if she was seasoned with dealing with these kind of customers.

the man of topic strides in then, carrying a few bags of take-out that he drops carelessly onto the counter. he doesn’t m look unlike any other day, a loose white sleeveless shirt with a low hanging v-neck that just invited attention to his skin. the swirls of black ink made permanent by his hand only. though that was the advantage of this field and owning your own business on top of it.

sukuna was prepared to ignore the clientele planted at front desk, until he did a double take. those vermilion eyes took you in, morphing from speculation, to shock, a pinch of awe, then back to postulation.

“what are you doing here?”

a small frown mars you face. you didn’t actually consider that perhaps sukuna wouldn’t want you here. it was one thing to know the guy, but whether you wanted to accept it or not, you weren’t just another customer. so you unsurely respond with, “getting a tattoo?”

the snort he gives isn't one of annoyance. in fact its almost comforting to see the minuscule curl of his lips until they start to part, “yeah, missing something aren’t you?”

you realize with a frown that he’s referring to his brother.

“i have other friends.”

that slow smile wides as he gives your friend a brief look of appreciation. suddenly all those years of witnessing him cart his flings around rise to the forefront of your mind. really nothing rarely changed. “ i can see that.”

his gaze cuts back to you, “what are you getting? your boyfriends name?”

you cant tell if he’s teasing, fishing or a combination of them both.

he turns to lean over the counter, arms flexing at the action and pinches the fresh design still hot from the printer. you resist the urge to shuffle in place as he inspects the image with more interest than there were lines. it was hardly all that complex, just as you intended.

sukuna finally voices his opinion, to no surprise of your own. “yeah? kind of small isn’t it?”

“its my first sukuna,” you drawl.

you realize too late that the wording isnt best around him.

“no kidding.”

he tugs a styrofoam box free from the plastic bag before gesturing to you with a tilt of his head.

“alright, lets knock it out.”

you look to the woman expecting her to complain about his pending appointments but she only returns it with a pointed look. when it came down to it, what the boss wanted goes.

right then.

turning, you address your friend who seemed more invested in watching sukuna’s departure. “are you coming?”

her gaze snaps to you and she doesn’t even bother to pretend. she shrugs, “you may not be squeamish about needles but i am.” her hand waves vaguely towards the lounge area near the coffee station and stack of assorted snacks. “i’ll come running if you scream though,” she teases as you turn down the hall.

sukuna’s voice carries from the right in guidance where you find him setting his food off to the side. the room is neat. though you don’t know what you were expecting given the health expectations lining his work. then again, you’d spent the better part of the decade watching him cart week old pizza boxes out of his room so it was hardly a baseless assumption.

aside from the desk of tools and variety of inks the only other defining feature was the wall at the back. there was no rhyme or direction to the madness. the once white wall was littered with varying penmanships and messages. almost like an autograph book. some derogatory, others genuinely thankful for his work - you think you see a few numbers too.

the cushion of the seat protests under his weight as he rolls to the center of the room. he has the stencil of your chosen art held up in expectation.

“where is this pretty little thing going?”

“oh my rib- here on the right.” you think nothing of bringing up the hem of your shirt to expose the skin just under the curve of your breast.

he almost looks impressed, though there is some doubt. he wheels closer and gives no warning as his hand palpates the area. “over the bone? that’s daring for your first tattoo, princess.”

the name was nothing new, an accompaniment to yuuji’s ‘brat’.

part of you actually grateful that its sukuna. the entire shop had good reviews but it was best known for his talent. besides, the charge was already sitting on your card.

“i can handle it.”

he’s still squinting at your side, fingers tickling at your skin.

“yeah?” he answers absently. nimble digits you didn't think had any taste for delicacy carefully peel the plastic from the stencil. he doesn’t second guess himself in the slightest before pressing it to your skin.

when he pulls away, the chair follows him as he collects a hand mirror from his desk to reflect the design back to you.

“double sure?” he’s still rallying your resolve, but there is a hint of warning to his voice as professionalism seeps in.

with a firm nod you seal the deal,” yeah.”

“aright, pin up your shirt out of the way. tuck it into your bra if you want.”

you were expecting this already, given the location you’d decided on. with sukuna that action comes effortlessly without thought. it was no different than the times he’d seen you in your bathing suit, your brain reasoned. at least you still had your pants this time.

sukuna rests back into a lean against his small desk. absently you note that his eyes haven't left you once since you’d entered the room.

“eager little thing aren't you?”

but its sukuna.

you shrug.“ i guess. kind of been saving up for this one.”

the noise he makes is non-committal as he nods to the angled chair.

without your shirt there was no barrier between yourself and the leather. you expected the cold chill but the lack of stickiness kind of surprised you. once again you were reminded of the indisputable list of reviews at your fingertips.

sukuna goes about collecting the materials to disinfect your skin, angling the bottle and cotton over the trash can to catch the excess drops. satisfied with the saturation, he slides back.

you try to absorb the brief shock you feel when he applies the alcohol to your skin. it was hardly a substitute for actual bracing to come but it was good practice. when you look up, you catch his gaze again.

he’d been more observant in these last few minutes than you could ever recall sukuna caring before. maybe it was the job. though the thought of him excelling at customer service has you fighting a snort.

“cold,” you supply and he gives another grunt.

he chucks the cotton ball into the trash with all the efficiency of a man who has made a sport out of it and probably keeps score.

deciding on a solid color eliminated the need for him to break away to change shades, eliminating any surplus time keeping you in this chair.

a gloved hand braces your side, pinching the skin, while the other holding the gun rests against your sternum. when the motor starts you take a careful breath in. sukuna’s eyes raise at the sound.

“not nervous?”

you blink, expecting him to just get to it.

“uh, not really? i’ve never really been afraid of needles.”

he pauses. just when you part your lips to ask what wrong the buzzing starts.

its impossible not to tense at the first bite of the needle. but you fight the urge to jerk. it stings. the vibration of the motor is uncomfortable against your ribcage but it's not unbearable. you certainly wouldn't cry.

sukuna seems to notice it as well.

“not going to lie thought you’d be more of a cry baby? weren't you the one sobbing after you stubbed your toe.”

you latch onto the idle chatter even if it's a jibe.

“i was eleven and i sprained that toe.”

he gives you a quick glance. “sure, princess. completely called for the waterworks.”

you snort. “yeah well it made me stronger. im barely affected today.”

your words are followed by a shift of his hand as it turns to follow a line, the movement pressing firmly against the underside of your breast. you're too attentive to the needle pinching at your skin to take notice.

but sukuna does, eyes narrowing without your awareness.

“yeah, i can see that.”

rather than closing your eyes to block out the pain, you find a more comforting distraction in tracing the lines of his tattoos with your gaze. you can hardly make out the first tattoo he’d gotten at the age of seventeen after forging his parents signature.

the abstract design had now branched out, interlocking with new styles to map out the formation of a sleeve. it was almost like his own branded language. a dialect of bold shapes and bands. you’d never thought to actually ask what his tattoos meant. nor did you expect an honest answer.

sukuna works rather quickly and efficiently while your mind wandered. even if he hadn’t squeezed you in during his lunch break this felt like the usual pace for him. he looked so in the zone as he followed the pre-made lines to perfection.

you weren’t the model customer, still having your brief moments of weakness but he rolled with the interruptions better than you expected. sukuna was brash growing up and didn’t tolerate nonsensical people. you’d had your fair share of opportunities to be chewed out by him.

and earned a reasonable amount of them, though your returning attitude said otherwise.

but this sukuna was softer, if you could put it like that. he knew the right time to give you breaks but didn’t let your nerves settle too much. when he wasn’t adding a layer to permanency to your skin, an errant finger would smooth over the swelling flesh.

more than once you heard him throw out a quiet good girl. that you knew was meant to be encouraging but it came with additional implications that tickled your skin.

he tells you that you should be grateful that the artwork doesn’t need any shading. that it was never a good fit for beginners.

your chest expands the furthest it had in the last half hour when he finally rolls back.

“alright, princess, go ahead and take a look.”

you take the offered mirror again and angle it to take in the fresh piece. the reflection you get back is- amazing. you’d been so concentrated?? on micromanaging the pain that you failed to take in the little details he’d added along with the original design.

as if reading your thoughts, he snorts. “it's not my art if i don't leave my mark. you can tell me it looks good you know.”

if you didn't know any better, you’d say he was authentic in his attempt to bait your approval.

and you had no reason not to provide.

your legs are a little shaky but you manage to balance yourself before brining the eldest itadori into a hug. sukuna goes stiff for a moment before returning the embrace and doesn’t resist when you press your face into his shoulder. there’s an awkward pat before they release each other from the hold.

sukuna .. before he’s shrugging you off.

“god, what a noob. at least let me cover it up. you’re going to irritate the skin.”

when he turns back to rummage through his desk you note the hint of a flush creeping up his nape. you know better than to mention it, instead just smiling at his back.

there is a scowl on his face as he applies the cotton square to your skin and tapes it in place.

“please do not itch this shit. i don’t care if you feel like your skin is going to fall off.”

he presses a small tube of antibiotic into your hand.

“and apply this daily. you don't need it drying out. “

you’re grateful for the little slip of printed instructions that follow. you were able to remember the sensible directions but it couldn't hurt to have additional guidance when you started to question the progress.

“oh and no sex.”

that was definitely not on the list.

sukuna raises a brow in all seriousness. “what? if you get your blood pumping too much.”

you call him on his bullshit,” this small? hardly. “

he raises his hands in mock surrender. “alright, try it yourself if you want. i charge for touch ups though.”

the two of you size each other up. just like old times.

with a sigh you relent, “fine, no sex.”

“good, see me in two weeks.”

his words stop you short. it wasn’t as if you needed anything added and he wasn’t a physician checking on your progress. if anything, you would only revisit your artist if there was a problem.

“what for?”

the dawning grin would follow you for the next fourteen days.

“to make sure you didn’t have sex.”

#sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna blessings #sukuna ryomen

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rumblelibrary · 3 years ago

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The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and a minor depiction of a fight. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: I am a nerd for a good Victorian novel and a sexy Alienist.I have always been charmed by Laszlo’s mind and inner conflicts. So I took the chance and tried to have a run into that rollercoaster. The story is placed between season 1 and season 2.

Diary belonging to Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. This is a professional book of annotations over medical treatments of an alienist toward his patients. Do not disclose and send it back to the address if found: Kreizler’s Institute, xxxxxx, New York City (NY) L.K.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Illustrated Natural History of the Animal Kingdom (c1859). Contributed for digitization by University Library, University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.

Schiller in his “Die Weltweisen” wrote: So long as philosophy keeps together the structure of the Universe so long does it maintain the world’s machinery by hunger and love. From the philosopher point of view sexual life takes a subordinate position in human’s life, from recent studies pushed by European philosophers, everything is about sexuality and its development. I like to think of the experience of being an alienist as the process of Queen Penelope that, while waiting for her husband Ulysses return, undoes her craftwork every night. I undo the fabulous constructs of people’s beliefs to go back to the rough sketch that stands at the beginning of their loss, their complex, their pain. Maybe that’s why working with children is so motivating and fascinating. They can be saved and yet, I am well aware, some of those sketches already traced in their young lives equal to scars that not even the most advanced theories could cure. But I can sooth them. I can prevent them the torment, the anguish, the recollection at night of those monsters. I feel like a poet would be a better alienist than a philosopher, but I have got no poetry nor philosophy in my veins, but the cold experience of the razor blade judgment of Life itself.

Today I observed a fight among the children at the Institute. Age range between 10 and 12. Boys. The fight was over the possession of a side of the playground, the territory of a pack of youngsters formed under the name of Steven. Peculiar lad, coming from a military background finds comfort in replicating the schemes he lived in his family. He takes the role of the Father/Captain of the team and subjects children that come from a similar background story, but do not posses his same attitude to the command. All quiet on the front, until the space he declared is own spot got affected by the presence of others. Intruders. I knowingly let the events unfold to see how Steven would react to his challenged authority. His reaction was, at first, worded, a sketch, a stage-play of an action he witnessed over and over, and he knew the part so well that some of the contending kids lowered their stance against him. Among considering to mildly intervene into this pyramid scheme of authority, another boy, Jan, calls himself on the role of the educator and hero of the masses and proceeds to unfold a wild and well assessed punch on the newly declared dictator face. Balance is established again. No need for me to arbitrate, once more the laws of nature seem to apply to children as in a state of nature.

Meet John Moore over lunch. His job at the newspaper is picking up, he is charmed by the spirits and the wits that he finds in his shared office with all the other writers. He mentions many, goes on and on over qualities and troubles, gossips and tendencies, and even little scandals here and there. To be aware of all those details gives me no interest, but to see a dear friend so invested clearly gives me something to pick up. To consider also the amount of details and the way he describes this or that member of the journal, I can do a small exercise of analysis. It is almost too easy because John is painfully genuine, even some of the kids at the institute would beat him hands down in a battle of lies. The more he likes somebody, the more he goes on about all the details and the characteristics, often letting aside the physical appearance. When he doesn’t like somebody he has a couple of adjectives for the wits and around four or five for the physical aspects that usually indulge on some repulsive idiosyncrasies. John is a man that painfully fits in the storyline of The Picture of Dorian Gray: to him physical beauty is spiritual beauty and, of course, the other way around. This part of him surely intrigues me, makes me want to tease more from him. But, as a friend, it concerns me as John is way too prone to purposelessly decide that somebody with good eyes is also a good human being, which is a very romantic and admirably naive way of judging matters. I noticed some names that keep repeating in his narration. I dread that it is synonymous of a soon encounter from my side with the objects of his admiration. Fetiches, I dare to say, that I will have to annihilate before they sediment into his mind, perpetuating a narration that soon sees John being mislead by others.

Reserved: Tickets for the Eroica, Symphony n. 3 by Ludwig van Beethoven. Thursday evening.

Note on the show: the first movement lacked the pathos needed to begin with, I am not sure that the guest orchestra really managed to portray the wider emotional ground needed to withstand the whole representation. As the evening progressed there were some outstanding performances by the cellists. Still not approving the choice of reprising the early quick finale movement against the lengthy set of variations and fugue that we are used to in presence of the Eroica. Underwhelming the performance of the horn and oboe, vital in the comprehension of the genius of Beethoven.

Niki is a new addition of the Institute, quite old for the standards. He is already 16, he will leave when summer ends to some expensive college his family meant him to stay. His parents expect me to make him “normal” in the time we are allowed together. He is Austrian and I let him act it out like I don’t understand German for the first week of hist stay until today. I believe I hit his pride, which is good, in the moment I answered back to one of his sneaky comments. Now he knows. He is not safe from me, he doesn’t like it. The young man has a tendency to danger, risky tasks and edgy situations. In his mother’s own words “Niki is not afraid of anything”. The phrase didn’t raise any excitement in the father, rather some sort of painful acceptance that is role as the alpha male of the house is probably not only being challenged, but already diminished, if not abolished. I have taken in consideration that Niki will break himself a bone or two in the process of the therapy, probably out of the spite of boredom or rebellion. It took him less than few days to turn himself into an outcast among the outcasts, which only drives me closer to analyse the complexity of his narcissistic wall of self defence. I gave him a physical challenge to lift a certain weight, he is a pretty skinny one, he didn’t like the challenge, but I am sure he will take it. He is a brainy guy, he hates to be questioned on unfamiliar ground. He won’t sleep at night thinking about it. A challenge, in this first phase, can only bring me closer to the ease of his pains. To continue the observation.

It is a sad privilege of medicine, in particular the one I practice, to be able to witness the weaknesses of the human nature and the reverse side of life. Nevertheless, I oblige this same privilege of the study as life moves into shades of darkness. To be aware of it gives more solace to my soul than to be victim of patiently waiting for the inevitable unfolding of the events. To be able to understand more about psychology would bring more comfort and elevation to any human being, the times might not be there yet, but eventually something will move into the direction of a more wholesome approach.

Dinner meeting with Sara Howard, at the restaurant Jardin Des Cygnes, 7 pm sharp. Do not expect to reach the dessert. Do not know if John will be participating due to undeniable tension among the two and the fatal despise of John over French cuisine.

The case that Sara unfolded tonight to my ears feels more and more like pulled out from some gothic book or from the mind of a Roman historian that needed to justify the godly origins of an Emperor. One killing, apparently random, a very constructed iconography over the body. Signs and insults, shapes and drawings. Is this a work of art? Does the killer wants his victim to be his Mona Lisa? His David? I am charmed and destabilised. If this was a murder like any other, then why to spend so much time into it? Based on the description the act of killing itself was quick: a sharp cut over the throat, almost like not wanting to ruin too much the surface to use as base for, what? I keep rerunning those symbols over and over as Sara described them to me, my mind is flooded with the designs of greek philosophers that needed to explain themselves why the sky is above our head and never collapses on us. Hilarious how, no matter the science advancement, in the mind of many the sky stands inevitably overt their shoulders, suffocates them, brings them to a death of the soul and not of the body. Is all this graphic charade indeed only a form to scream for attention? To stress the eyes of an unaware viewer? It seems ridiculously elaborate, a scream for attention would be quick, it would be like guided by instinct, not reasoning, craftwork. Any man with a knife can paint in blood red the walls of a room and that’s asking for attention. That is the primal howl: look at me! I am here! But this one. I don’t know yet.

Spent the early morning reading anew my copy of The Metamorphosis by Ovid. Didn’t touch it in a long time and I got bedazzled by the world of terrible sensuality, anger and selfishness of those gods and mortals. I think back at all the deviances and weaknesses of human kind and I try to relate it to all of those humanoid figures. Niki would be a minotaur, the lonesome son left in the labyrinth and his strive for success is his bull’s head. Or maybe a centaur, because of his wits and strategic thinking. I might keep up the process, maybe this is the way to understand my patients better, to understand the killer better. Must remember not to romanticise it. Greek gods were probably the first form of self indulging of a society that needed gods to be forgiving and allowing favours and punishments, but only in exchange of sacrifices. But the sacrifice never comes from the God’s will, but from the will of the man that perpetuates the act of killing. To sacrifice someone or something is the sadistic response to a lack of love deeply inherited in human mind that becomes neurotic. Is the killer giving the God of his own neurosis a body to feast upon?

I talked with Jan this morning. The young boy is about 10, but he acts like a full grown adult. I could easily asses that’s the reason why he could challenge Steven in that fight. Two children mimicking adults situations they know too well. Jan is son of an industrial man, but he is also son of the dialectics of the industrial revolution. He sounds like he swallowed some of those books about working class rights and communism, probably pushed by a resentful surrounding (mother?uncle? the midwife?) over the social role of his father. As much as incredibly smart and lectured, Jan lost most of his early occasions in life by spending a considerable amount of time using his fists. The anger ever present in the young boy always surprises me, he seems to be holding a power, a strength of a full grown man in those tiny arms. Nevertheless, he is already the tallest of the group. He is surely an idealist, which makes him also tragically fragile. His strength mixed with his heart of gold can make him the best of the heroes or the worst of the villains. He apologised for the fight, he specified how he didn’t like the sound of Steven’s voice, more than the sound, the level of pitch. I can’t stand somebody shouting orders, I just don’t listen anymore. He is so mature even about his own feelings, almost a gentleman in his chivalry toward the weaker children, honest with his open heart and resentful against any form of injustice. I am not spared by his ways, he would come at me whenever he feels like I was being partial over some of the kids, his sense of justice blinds him and transform a perfectly balanced boy into a ranging animal.

Ordered book, to be delivered around tomorrow evening: Introduction à la méthode de Léonard de Vinci by Paul Valéry. Suddenly feeling myself as a gross ignorant in art themes. I always regarded myself aware of the artistic personalities and tendencies of present and past, but this new amount of perceptions over the human figure and the human body leads me to document myself more. I could ask John for advice, but he wouldn’t take things at matter that seriously. I can almost hear him say how I can make gruesome a pleasant topic such as art. I should probably wait to see the body to push any further aesthetic study, but I find myself not being able to stop. I reckon, I can allow myself a vice or two.

Today I saw the body of the killed man, courtesy of the Isaacson's. To be fair, I had underestimated it. In Sara’s descriptions, probably due to her more analytic mind, all the charm of the representation got lost in favour of a less cryptic and reasonable understanding of the act. Sara got what some alienists will call a masculine mind, which I don’t perfectly agree on. If I apply that same approach John would be a very feminine mind, all wrapped up in romanticising even the ugliest. I guess that dividing the world in “fragile and gentle” and “strong and powerful” is just easier to explain the fluctuation of something that doesn’t need a real name or a category like human inclinations on thoughts. I got a feverish sense of patience by looking at the body. Each symbol traced with sapient slowness, dense of the time that the killer spent with the body. That is a work of hours, he had time and meaning. He had resources and was able to spend not less than the time he needed to reach, a vision? An ideal? A message? Is it the message meant to be understood? Am I supposed to unravel it or it is maybe just the way the killer communicates within himself? And if I do decifrate the code, will that bring me closer to him? Or to his next victim?

Reminder: ask John to replicate all the symbols on the bodies in the correct measure and order. It might be needed some hard convincing. Addition: scheduled meeting, his house, 3 pm.

It wasn’t a day like any other when I met you. Or maybe it was, and that’s why I got so struck by it and now I am here playing it over and over through what my memory clung on so desperately. In my own experience, life was often similar to swimming in a lake. Those rich, dense lakes in the north of (illegible cancelled word) were my father used to bring us during summer. I still feel the pull, the draw down toward the abyss. It ashamed me, in a way, the fear that such a simple feeling aroused in my young mind, unaware nevertheless, that such a feeling would follow me through all my existence. It was a prophecy and, like most of the prophecies, was a riddle. I cradle in my heart the charm of those days, the mindless happiness. The foolish feeling of freedom. Little I knew that freedom would be taken away from me that soon, that the body that used to navigate me over the dense waters, helping me to fight the haul toward the unknown, would become my own cage. That day. Today. The day where I met you, the day I was afloat. The child gasping for air felt the wrench become a gentle push and now he is floating on his back over the scary waters of reality and malice. It gave me relief and it gave me terror, because since that very moment I knew that I would never be able to move on from the sight of you. From the feeling of your eyes lingering on me. From the smile you so easily shone upon me. From the whiff of imported perfume that hit me when you turned on side exploding that swan like neck. And nothing, not even my stern look, could dim that wave of hope that your sole presence washed over me. The abyss roars, calls me to a home of damnation and terror and curses my name and yet you repeated that hell-bound name of mine after me and I felt safe.

John told me so much about you, it feels like I have always known you.

The rope is gone from my neck, the guillotine won’t fall on me, I am spared, I am free.

I have read your latest article, I am thrilled to help with the case.

I am in disbelief.

Your voice.

Dr. Kreizler

How dare you? How dare you to come into my life, to appear, like a vision, mystical, in a way I despised at University when all those theology students talked about the divine. In this very moment I can’t recollect much of what you said, something about the case, about going with John at the obituary. It feels confusing, I feel overstimulated, my memory fails me, I am not sure anymore. I write these few lines and it is passed the hour of the witches and I wish, I demand, to never see you again, because life should never grant hope to a condemned man.

#dr laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler headcanons #laszlo kreizler x reader #the alienist fanfic #victorian age #v writes #the diary of doctor laszlo kreizler

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justfrozenthings · 3 years ago

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Tidings of a New Year

Pairing: Kristoff/Anna

Rating: G

Words: 764

Notes: While there may not have been a Kristanna Week for 2021, I wanted to end the year with one last fic! Forgive me, as this writing is kind of shit because I wrote it in one night. I also, wanted to pay a small homage to Betty White as she has unfortunately passed away today. She will be dearly missed by many.

Summary: Kristoff and Anna welcome in another new year together.

Read it here on Ao3

It was almost the new year, and for Kristoff, that meant another year of loving Anna.

They had been high school sweethearts and had gotten married not too long after they graduated college. They had waited at first, to get their lives situated and figured out, the both of them wanting to have a somewhat decent-paying job before embarking on the next journey of their life together. And after finding a cozy little apartment close to both of their families and settling into their new lifestyle - and not having the patience to wait any longer - they agreed to get married in the middle of spring. The wedding was small and the guest list only consisted of close friends and family members, but neither Kristoff nor Anna had cared. Besides, they have never really been ones for extravagant things.

Kristoff walked out of their room and immediately made his way over to the kitchen to where Anna had been currently whipping up a New Year’s Eve meal for them. He rested his muscular arms against the granite of the countertop, propping his chin in one of his large palms, and gazed as Anna fretted about the kitchen, tenderizing the meat and shoving things into the oven. He loved watching her in her element.

Anna had always been a whiz in the kitchen ever since Kristoff had known her and after she had gotten her degree in culinary, he had encouraged her to fulfill her dreams of becoming a professional chef.

Kristoff took a deep breath, sighing in contentment as the delectable aroma of seasoned steak, baked potatoes, and carrot cake danced in the air. Then, leaving the counter, he crossed over to Anna as she finished decorating their plates with her edible delicacies and wrapped his arms around her pushing her fiery red hair aside and planting a kiss to the back of her neck. “That smells amazing Anna,” Kristoff grinned, burying his nose in her hair.

Anna hummed, enjoying the warmth of his strong embrace. “Thank you, my love.” She turned in his arms to place a gentle peck on his lips, the tips of their noses barely brushing. “Why don’t you take your plate and make yourself comfortable as I finish frosting the cake? Oh! And start the movie too if you could?”

It had been a tradition for them every year to eat their dinner as they watched a Betty White movie before watching the ball drop in Times Square to welcome in the new year.

He left with a kiss on her cheek, taking his plate and setting himself down on the couch as he began to scroll through a list of movies.

Before long, Anna had joined him; snuggling into his side as she balanced her plate on her lap.

Kristoff still hadn’t picked something yet, so after a few more minutes of scrolling, the pair decided on The Lost Valentine. As the movie rolled on they shared little kisses and “I love yous,” which quickly ended in a heated make-out session.

Anna - who was now straddling his lap - pulled away from their kiss breathless, turning her head to see that the credits appear on screen. “Kris,” she moaned as he suckled the base of her neck. “Baby, the movie ended and it’s almost 12:00. What do you say we eat some cake and find a channel that’s recording the ball drop?”

A whimpered groan escaped him as Anna climbed off her place from his lap. “Fine,” he exaggerated playfully. “But, we’re continuing this later.”

“Of course dear,” Anna giggled, coming back with two plates of carrot cake, giving him a quick kiss before handing him his plate and returning to her spot next to him on the couch. She grabbed the remote, flipping through the channels until she landed on her target.

There were only a few more minutes until the countdown began, so to waste time they finished off their cake and whimsically chatted away about yet another blissful year they had shared with one another. And when the countdown had at last started, they repeated the numbers that appeared on screen; claiming one another’s mouths when the clock had, at last, struck twelve welcoming in the new year.

“Happy New Year baby,” Kristoff whispered across her swollen lips.

“Happy New Year Kris,” Anna breathed, before going back to kissing him.

Kristoff then picked her up by her thighs and Anna wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to their room, closing the door behind them to welcome the new year their own way.

#kristanna #kristanna fanfiction #my fanfiction

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roboticonography · 4 years ago

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Fic Preview: Except Perhaps in Spring

Dear @formerlyir,

I’m your Secret Santa! I’ve so enjoyed getting to know you in 2020, and I look forward to many more chats and Snippets Mondays. I guess now you know why I was so cagey with you about what I was working on for the exchange! ;)

It’s been a lot of fun working on a story just for you, but December has been an eventful month for me, and in the end it got away from me a little. So here’s a taste of your story, “Except Perhaps in Spring.” I hope you have as much fun reading it as I’ve had writing it.

Happy New Year!

=======

As she would maintain for many years afterwards, Peggy hadn’t wanted to go to the pub in the first place.

It wasn’t that she disapproved of such amusements. She liked a stiff drink as much as the next field agent (though not, perhaps, as much as Colonel Phillips, who kept a bottle of bourbon at the back of his middle desk drawer for “medicinal purposes”).

And she appreciated that the boys from the 107th invited her along on their madcap outings—not out of a misguided sense of chivalry, or some crack-brained scheme to charm her out of her knickers, but because they genuinely enjoyed her company.

Along with their fearless leader, the three biggest troublemakers of the group were in London for one night to accept an award on behalf of the 107th. Dugan, Barnes, and Morita had been invited to accompany Steve to the award ceremony, but not to any of the PR opportunities that followed. While Steve spent his afternoon posing for pictures with various elected officials, his boys would spend theirs loitering around the SSR’s London headquarters, trying to convince Peggy to come out on the town with them that night.

Peggy was in no mood.

It had been raining in sheets all day, and her umbrella had already given out on the walk in. The cavernous underground war room was freezing: everyone was wearing scarves and gloves at their stations.

Peggy’s office—little more than an alcove with a door, really—had sprung a leak during the night, which meant she’d arrived that morning to find a stack of finished paperwork completely drenched. Aside from shoving her desk against the wall and putting a rubbish bin under the steady drip, there wasn’t much to be done.

Thanks to some especially severe belt-tightening, there was no comfort to be had even in a hot drink: the coffee was dismal sludge, the tea in the communal bucket had been stewed to within an inch of its life, and there was, naturally, no milk or sugar to be found anywhere on the premises.

Peggy had spent most of her day hunched over her typewriter, re-typing a twelve-page report that Colonel Phillips would undoubtedly skim for two seconds before it would disappear into the SSR’s vast storehouse of files, never to be seen again.

So when the invitations started, Peggy’s polite-but-firm no, thank you was already locked and loaded, and her aim was true.

She hadn’t counted on the boys being either bored or bold enough to try their luck again as a trio, wedging themselves into her office three abreast, with Dugan as the filling in the sandwich.

“I said no, gentlemen.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard this song before,” said Dugan, grinning.

“Me too,” chimed in Barnes. “‘Her lips said no, but her eyes said—’”

“On your bike,” said Peggy curtly.

“She’ll change her tune when we tell her who’s coming,” said Dugan. “Won’t she, boys?”

His companions gave solemn nods.

“Yep,” said Morita, drawing the word out. “She’ll come around pretty quick when she hears that we convinced him.”

Peggy glared at each of them in turn.

“All right,” she said at last. “Who is it?”

“Me, of course,” said Howard, shoving his way in between Morita and Dugan. “See? I told you she’d be excited.”

“Thrilled,” Peggy deadpanned.

“I think she thought we meant someone else,” said Barnes.

“Someone taller,” Dugan agreed.

Howard feigned indignance. “Taller, maybe, but I can guarantee I’m a better dancer. Did you know there’s a leak in your ceiling?” he added helpfully.

“Right. All of you, out.”

The unholy barbershop quartet reluctantly took its leave.

It wasn’t the first time they’d implied that there was something between her and Steve. She didn’t appreciate them doing it in earshot of her office colleagues, though she was certain there must be talk already: Steve’s last visit to HQ had ended in a legendary bust-up between them, after she’d interrupted him with Private Lorraine, mid-embrace.

She wasn’t only angry that he’d kissed someone else. She was angry that he’d kissed a woman he barely knew, after he’d made himself out to be a different sort of man. She’d felt foolish for believing him, for liking him, when he’d told her he was waiting for the right partner.

She was angry that he’d had the nerve, afterwards, to try and brush it aside, pretending it hadn’t meant anything. If a kiss like that didn’t mean anything, how many others had there been? And how many more would there be while they were apart?

(And, though she’d never admit it, she was angry that Steve appeared to be a decent kisser.)

Then, to add insult to injury, he’d brought up Howard’s one-sided flirting—as though she had any control over the invitations and innuendo men chose to pitch at her day after day, as casually and aimlessly as they dropped their litter in the street.

If that was all it took to drive Steve into the arms of another woman, then perhaps it was best that they remained separated by the English Channel for the time being.

Peggy applied herself to her work, ignoring any further overtures. As much as she appreciated the inclusion, she didn’t want to spend her evening sitting in a smoky pub, drinking cheap beer and bellowing herself hoarse. She wanted a warm bath and a warm bed. There was only one person she was interested in inviting to join her in either, and even if she hadn’t still been a bit cross with him, the chance of her seeing him at all on this brief visit grew more remote with every hour that passed. His itinerary included supper with Senator Brandt at his hotel, and was liable to be a late night—the senator’s aide had also arranged for a room for Steve at the hotel, presumably to avoid cutting their evening short.

She was grateful Steve would have a chance to get a decent meal and a good night’s sleep while he was in London, even if it meant she wouldn’t get to see his preposterously good-looking face in person. She knew from the dispatches that he was doing gruelling work, and that he often passed up opportunities for respite so that other men could take leave.

By six, it seemed as though the boys from the 107th had all cleared off at last, along with the rest of the office. Peggy slipped into the women’s locker room to change clothes. Transit to and from home in uniform for women was allowed, but not precisely encouraged—and the uniform had a way of making a person more approachable, which was the very last thing Peggy wanted just now.

She quickly tidied her hair, and reapplied her lipstick and a small dab of eau de toilette, before donning her trusty navy shirtwaist dress. It was slightly threadbare at the cuffs and collar, but still serviceable, and a decent fit, even if it wasn’t as stylish as one might wish for. Peggy knew that plain outfits were a small sacrifice for such a worthy cause—but she still longed for the day when she could have a new dress every season, with features and embellishments, in colours so rich her mouth watered at the thought.

Daydreams of pleated skirts and pockets carried her all the way back to her desk, where she collected her hat and gloves, and tried to revive her sad umbrella. If her office ceiling was any indication, it was still pouring outside, but she knew better than to risk bad luck opening the thing indoors.

Just as she’d started to don her Mackintosh, she heard Barnes’s customary “shave-and-a-haircut” knock on the open door behind her.

She didn’t bother turning around. “For the last time, sod off!” She didn’t often use that kind of language in a professional setting, but if they weren’t going to accept a polite refusal, then—

“Yes, ma’am,” said a familiar voice.

She spun on her heel.

Steve was leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets. His dress uniform jacket was tucked under his arm, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His tie had come loose, his collar unbuttoned, and his hair was mussed, tumbling boyishly over his brow.

He looked, in short, half-undone and entirely ravishing.

All of the sensible reasons she had for keeping her distance suddenly seemed small and remote in comparison.

“Steve,” she said, unnecessarily. “Hello.”

“Hi.” The warm smile he gave her suggested that he hadn’t taken her dismissal personally, at least.

Peggy had imagined this exact scenario an embarrassing number of times: the two of them, in the office after hours, all alone. The fantasies ranged from fairly chaste (teasing, light flirting, an innocent kiss or two) to positively filthy (Steve’s hands roaming her body, his mouth open and demanding against hers).

Looking at him now, her preference was decidedly for the latter option.

Oblivious to the turn her thoughts had taken, Steve asked, “Rough day?”

“Not really, not—” Not anymore, she wanted to say, but clamped her mouth shut just in time. “I didn’t know you were coming in.”

“I’m not here—not officially. I was just gonna leave this on your desk.”

He jiggled a small brown paper packet at her. It took her a moment to recognize it as the portion of sugar from a ration box.

“How on earth did you manage to hang onto that?”

“We’re still getting it in the K-rats. And I like to save mine for a rainy day.”

“It certainly is that,” she conceded, glancing up at the ceiling. “Are you sure you won’t miss it?”

A different sort of man, a smooth operator, would have taken the opportunity to feed her a line: not as much as I’ll miss you, or, how about you just owe me something sweet? But Steve just shrugged, and tucked the packet gently under the corner of her desk blotter.

Peggy was both touched and exasperated.

She knew that in combat, even with no experience, he could be confident, creative, and quick-thinking. He was almost certainly capable of applying that approach in other situations too. But he hadn’t—at least, not with her.

She wanted one romantic overture from him. Just one. A single, unmistakable gesture, something that couldn’t possibly be attributed to kindness or friendship or sheer accident.

She felt she deserved at least that.

Still, he’d come halfway across town, to bring her less than an ounce of sugar that he’d probably gone hungry to save. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but it counted for something.

And so she smiled, and thanked him, adding, “I’m glad I was here to accept it in person.”

“Me too.”

“I thought you had supper with the senator and his cronies.”

“I told him I had an early start tomorrow. I think he got enough of my time.” His tone made it plain that he would rather have spent his day getting shot at by HYDRA. “I told the guys they ought to ask you to come out with us tonight. I’m sorry they bothered you.”

“No, it’s fine—I mean, yes, they did, but—” Being half-in and half-out of her coat meant that instead of breezily waving his apology aside, she wound up flapping her sleeve at him, ineffectually.

Obligingly, Steve stepped closer, and held her coat up by the collar.

“Oh,” said Peggy, letting him slip the coat over her shoulders. “Thank you.”

It was a simple gesture, one any kind person would make, and Steve was nothing if not kind. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to be racing, she told herself sternly.

His hand still held her collar; she turned, drawing the circle of his arm around her shoulders, as though they were about to dance.

Up close, she could see the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, the speck of a mole on his cheek. Details that the artists who depicted Captain America always seemed to miss, slight imperfections that belonged only to Steve Rogers. She was strangely tempted to brush her fingertips over them, to prove that they were real, that he was real.

His eyes were wide, his gaze clear blue and bottomless, and she suddenly felt in danger of drowning.

A hard pellet of water hit her cheek, making her jump.

“Don’t tell me it’s raining in here, too,” said Steve, glancing up at the ceiling with his hand outstretched.

“It’s London in March,” she observed, stepping out of the line of fire. “It’s raining everywhere.” She emphasized the point by buttoning her coat and hooking her umbrella over her arm.

“Can I walk you to the train?” His look was hopeful.

“Actually,�� she said, against her better judgement, “I think I will come for a drink, after all.”

Steve beamed. “Swell.”

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

#steggysecretsanta #steggy #robofic #formerlyir

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hockeyismyboyfriend · 4 years ago

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My hands through your hair...again

Hey guys!! Sorry if this is super weird haha, but I had originally written and posted my story about Brady, and have just been feeling like i wanted to update it and make it Matty instead. So if you’ve already read this, i’m so sorry!

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk/Reader

Relationship: F/M

Rating: M for smut/Dirty Talk

Length:1731

Summary:

You were childhood best friends with Matthew Tkachuk, and despite how close you had been, you’d never really allowed yourself to feel anything more than friendly for him.

Until now.

```````````````

It’s Saturday night in July, which means you’re with Matthew.

The two of you had met in the 2nd grade and had been inseparable ever since. You’d survived high school, bad relationships, teenage mood swings, and even Matthew being drafted by the Calgary Flames and moving cross country. It didn’t matter how far apart you were, the second Off season hit and he came back home you were attached at the hip once again.

Generally, one or both of you had a significant other or casual fling on the go, but this year for the first time in forever you both found yourself single at the same time. If you were being honest, you were happy to just hang out together and not have to continuously defend your close friendship to anyone.

Not that you’d ever admit it to Matthew, but more than a few of the fights you’d had with your previous boyfriend had been about that very topic. You and Matthew had never hooked up, not even as teenagers, but no one seemed to believe you.

It’s not that you had never thought about it, because you’d be lying to yourself if you’d said you never had. You were aware of the fact that lots of women thought Matthew was attractive, but for you it went so much deeper than just his looks. He was your best friend, the person you wanted to share everything with, happy or sad. Personality and professional athlete body aside, the way Matthew would genuinely smile at you, his entire face lighting up, was more than capable of melting your insides and setting your nerve endings on fire.

There had even been about a month in the 11th grade where you’d had the biggest crush on Matthew. Where your heart would just explode at even the thought of him. You may have lingered a bit longer than normal that month when giving hugs or touching him in passing, but Matthew never called you out. You’d even allowed yourself, just once, to think of him late at night in the dark privacy of your bedroom, fingers rubbing tentatively at your aching core, as you imagined that every touch was him. When your orgasm hit, his name escaped your lips.

But he had shortly after started dating someone else and you had pushed your feelings aside and vowed to be the best friend that he deserved. You’ve kept that promise ever since and never looked back.

Though tonight, like every night that either of you could spare in the off season, you found yourself pressed against Matthew once again as you mindlessly rewatched Parks & Rec for the hundredth time; and suddenly your iron clad will began to waiver.

Which is how, while seated on a big comfortable couch, running your fingers through his soft curly hair, you heard the words leave your mouth without your consent.

You felt Matthew freeze beneath your fingers; his big muscular body flinching almost imperceptibly as your words sat heavy in the air.

“Um...” He choked out, words getting caught in his throat.

He slowly extracted himself from the spot on your lap where he had been resting his head;, and sat up, turning to face you. You could almost swear you detected a hint of pink to his cheeks.

He looked at you expectantly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, hesitant to speak.

The words replayed in your head as you attempted to form sounds yourself.

‘You should fuck me’

It must have been the reminiscing that caused this, or maybe it had been the seven months that had passed since your last boyfriend. After the breakup you had completely thrown yourself into your work and hadn’t made time for dates or hook ups. You had managed fine on your own, very familiar with your own body and what worked for you; but as you sat here with Matthew, tension thick in the air, and close enough to feel the heat of his body, you realized just how much you missed the touch of someone else.

You hadn’t realized how long you allowed yourself to sit lost in Matthew’s eyes until he reached out towards you and gently touched your shoulder. The feeling of warm fingers against your bare skin lit something deep within your stomach; for the first time in an extremely long time, you allowed yourself to feel. You welcomed the wave of desire that had been shoved down so long ago, your body yearned for it and you refused be ashamed.

You realized that It wasn’t just the touch of someone else you craved, but Matthew’s touch; now that the idea had been set free, it expanded and grew.

“You should fuck me”. You stated as boldly as you could muster, and if your voice shook Matthew didn’t point it out.

Time felt as though it was standing still as he contemplated his next move, your body tingled in anticipation. His normally bright blue eyes seemed to darken at your words, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips as his gaze lowered to your mouth.

“Just...why?” He asked as the fingers pressed against your shoulder flexed, gently squeezing. If his resolve were a brick wall, you could see it start to crumble before your eyes.

You hesitated before speaking, wanting to really portray to him exactly how you felt, how you’ve always felt but never allowed yourself to acknowledge. You realized that what you would say, and how the rest of the night turned out would alter your friendship forever. Despite the unexpected turn the night had already taken, it was still salvageable, but beyond here there would be no turning back. At least not for you.

You took a deep breath and spoke.

“I want you.” His mouth opened to speak but one look at the intensity in your eyes and he closed it back up.

“I’ve always wanted you.” Your hand reached out towards him, yearning to feel, your fingers made contact with the scruffy skin of his cheek. As you ran the pads of your fingers over the tickle of hair threatening to grow along his jaw, his eyes closed.

“I tried not to think this way about you Matty...” Your fingers dropped below his jawline, tracing the lines of his throat, pulse quick and demanding beneath your fingers.

“But if you’ll let me, there’s so much I want to do.” His Adam’s apple bobbed at your words, your fingers traced along the collar of his shirt, aching to remove it and touch every inch of his glorious chest.

“Tell me.” He pleaded, voice low and thick with need. You had never heard him sound that way for you, and your body responded to the plea.

You felt emboldened by his words, and the sight of him in front of you, eyes squeezed shut, skin receptive to every exploring stroke just encouraged you further.

“I want to feel every inch of your skin, trace every muscle, learning where and how you like to be touched.”

Once you gave flight to your words they flowed out of you like second nature, every dirty thought you had ever allowed yourself to feel for him rushed out. You didn’t typically speak this way around him, often more shy and reserved when it came to sex, but all of that melted away with every touch.

“I want to get on my knees for you and take you deep into my mouth. I want to taste you so bad, and feel you thick and heavy on my tongue as you fuck my mouth, fingers tangled in my hair.“

Matthew’s breathing got shallower with every word you spoke, lust darkened eyes now open watching you intently; it only spurred you on further.

You grabbed his large hand, which made you feel so small, and placed the tip of his middle finger between your lips. Your tongue darted out and tickled the pad as you took it deep into your mouth, giving him a preview of what you would do to his thick cock given the chance.

“And I’d beg you to come down my throat so I could really taste you...would you do that for me Matty?”

Pulling his hand away, he reached out for you, but you stopped him with a strong hand on his muscular chest, heart thumping beneath your palm. You weren’t finished; it made you feel surpisingly powerful making him wait.

“Then,” You continued, smirk on your mischievous lips.

“I want to watch you crawl between my legs, head buried deep in my core, licking me until I come on your tongue with your fingers deep inside of me.”

“Make me drip for you Matty.” You grabbed his hand and press it to the outside of your centre, he bit his lip at the warmth, fingers aching to touch you without your clothes.

You reached your hands to thread through his hair again, and pulled him towards you. A bolt of desire shot through you at the ease in which he follows, he would go anywhere you led him and the thought is irresistible. You closed the gap between you, stopping when your lips just barely brush together, both of your breaths coming out in little puffs of air.

“I want to kiss the taste of my orgasm out of your mouth.” You whispered against his lips, pressing down briefly in a chaste kiss, before pulling back once again. His body tried to follow you, wanting more, but you stop him again. Your ego stroked at the small sound of protest that escapes his gorgeous mouth.

“And I want you to touch me.” His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging deliciously into your skin.

“Fuck Matty, I’ve dreamt of those hands on my body, hungry for me” His body practically shaking with desire, but he waits for your instruction.

“And I want you to fuck me, and I don’t want you to hold back.” You gaze intently into his eyes for emphasis, hoping that he understands how much you want this, how badly you need him.

If the insistent tent pushing proudly against his sweatpants is any indication, he needs you just as badly.

“I want to be taken, I want you to make me feel it, I want to remember you for days.“

“So tell me Matty...will you do that for me?”

#edited story #from Brady to matty #matthew tkachuk #calgary flames #Fanfiction #ficlet #im sorry #matthew tkachuk and reader

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mintaka14 · 4 years ago

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with credit to @lineith for this stunning artwork https://lineith.tumblr.com/post/641420491909988352/smooching-the-best-friend-as-one-does-a-sketch which is what I was visualising for Marinette’s pink wrap (and how cute are those two!!)

And with thanks to the LBSC crowd.

Coryphée

A Miraculous Ladybug fanfiction

By Mintaka14

Chapter Two – Pas de Caractére

Marinette edged the door of the studio open on Monday morning for the company class, trying not to drop the bags and parcel she was juggling. She let out a startled squeak when a whirlwind of escaping curls and intense purpose enveloped her in an exuberant hug.

“Alya,” she protested. “Can you at least wait until I’ve put everything down?”

“Way to go, girl! You got the part!” Alya gave her a squeeze, and Marinette bobbled everything in her hands. One of the bags slid free and hit the floor. She handed the parcel to a dark-haired girl near the door before she could drop that too, and Mireille ripped it open with a cry of gratitude as a pair of ballet slippers spilled out.

“Marinette, you’re a lifesaver! It always comes apart when I try to sew anything”

“Well, they should hold now. I reinforced the ribbons, and your slippers will wear out before the binding does.”

“Never mind that. You got the Florine solo and Bluebird pas de deux with Adrien!” Alya continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted, following Marinette to the low benches at the side of the huge studio. “And you’re- ooh, is that a new one you made?” she asked, noticing Marinette’s soft pink wrap and the blossoms embroidered down the sleeves. “That’s pretty.”

Behind her, an unwelcome voice chimed in, “It’s such a cute colour.” Marinette turned to face Lila Rossi, and the Italian girl reached out to touch Marinette’s sleeve before she could react. “And those little flowers are just too adorable. You can hardly tell that it’s handmade from a distance. I would have loved something like that when I was ten, and it’s a shame I’m too old for it now, or I would have asked you to make me one too,” Lila said in honeyed tones, flicking her auburn hair back over her shoulder.

“Adrien!” Alya swept on, ignoring the tension. Marinette wasn’t even sure she’d noticed it. “You’re partnering with Adrien.”

“Yes, congratulations,” Lila said, the sugar in her smile cut with acid. “I do hope it’s not going to be awkward for you, working with Adrien like that. Still, maybe he’s forgotten all about it by now.”

The room was filling up with chatter and the thwack of someone beating their pointe shoes into shape.

“It must be so hard, being partnered with the guy you have a crush on who turned you down like that,” Lila sympathised, and Marinette gritted her teeth.

“I’m over it.”

“Of course you are.” Lila patted her hand. “It’s just, there’s no shame in it if you feel like it’s too much. I know we’d all understand if you decided to step aside this season.”

Marinette took a deep, calming breath, and said, “Thank you, Lila, but I’ll be fine.”

“Of course she’ll be fine,” Alya struck in. “She’ll be better than fine. This is your chance to get Adrien to notice you,” she told Marinette in an excited stage whisper.

Marinette sighed, and slipped free to take a place at the barre. Above them, the enormous ring of lights threw shadows across the massive steel ribs of the dome that curved overhead, and the mirrors reflected dancers stretching, and stripping off thick socks and warm leggings, and pinning wayward hair back into place.

“He turned me down, remember?”

“But that was three years ago. You’ve barely dated anyone since then, and I know for a fact that none of those guys lasted beyond the third date. So if you’re not still hung up on Adrien, then what is it?”

And Marinette froze. The only thing she could think of worse than Alya thinking that she was still pining after Adrien was Alya finding out about Luka and how she felt about him. The schemes. The plots. The helping.

“I knew it!” Alya said triumphantly as Marinette remained silent. “You’re still into Adrien. So now’s your chance, girl! He’s had plenty of time to work out what he’s missing out on, and all that time rehearsing together, the rush of performing together, his hands all over you…” the other girl wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously, and Marinette groaned.

“Alya, I don’t-“

“Mlle Dupain-Cheng, Mlle Cesaire,” their instructor’s voice snapped from the door of the studio. “When you are quite finished gossiping, we are waiting on you to begin.”

“Yes, Madame,” Marinette whispered, and Alya suppressed a giggle, taking her place at the barre behind Marinette.

Fortunately, with Madame’s eyes on them and class to focus on, Alya wasn’t able to say anything more. Marinette had been friends with Alya since they’d both joined the Opera Ballet School, and Alya had been there through her searing crush on Adrien, helping her to come up with ways to get his attention. The possibility of a season and her first serious role fraught with romantic plans and schemes and plots filled Marinette with a sinking sense of dread.

As class finished, there was a general scramble for water bottles, and the occasional groan of someone peeling satin and nylon off the blisters on their feet. The floor was littered with dancers sprawled in ungainly positions of collapse as they took advantage of the brief break.

“Principals, solos,” the ballet mistress said in a commanding voice that carried over the bustle of a roomful of dancers all grabbing a quick snack and chattering like a tree full of birds. “Fifteen minutes, and then I need you in the studios downstairs. Ladies and gentlemen of the corps, I expect you back here promptly at twelve to begin choreography. We have a lot of work to do.”

Marinette got slowly to her feet, and Alya caught Marinette’s hand as she passed, giving her an unsubtle wink and a tilt of the head towards where Adrien was talking to Puss in Boots and one of the princes. He lifted his head just then, and met her eyes for a discomfited moment before he looked away quickly. Marinette just sighed and scooped up her bag, heading for the door.

As the soloists made their way into the smaller studio downstairs, Madame Viret turned a stern look on them.

“We have a lot of hard work ahead of us. Make sure you check your rehearsal schedule every morning, because it will change with little notice and I will not accept that as an excuse to not be here when we need you. Aurora, Prince Florimund, you’ll be next door today with the director,” she said, turning to the principals. “If you’re one of the soloists for the christening scene, join Master Novgorodsky. Everyone else, if you’re involved in the wedding in Act Three I want you here. Now, we begin.”

Madame gestured sharply to the fairies to take their place in the centre of the floor as she began to outline the choreography of the pas de quatre to them. Adrien made his way around the edge of the studio until he was standing next to Marinette. There was something a little hesitant about the smile he gave her.

“Hey, Marinette,” he said in a hushed voice. “It’s been a while since we … talked.”

It had been three years of awkwardly avoiding each other in an environment where you really had to go to some effort to not talk to someone.

“It’s been a while,” Marinette agreed quietly. Adrien shuffled his feet.

“I wanted to… I hope… it’s not going to be a problem, dancing with me… I mean…”

Marinette turned to face him. “It’s fine, Adrien. It was a long time ago, and all forgotten now, if you can forgive me for putting you on the spot like that.” She gave an involuntary giggle. “And look! I can actually string two sentences together now. I think that’s a sign that I’ve moved on.”

Adrien chuckled, and the tension drained out of him. “Yeah, I didn’t have any clue that you even liked me until you asked me out.” He stiffened again, as if realising that he might have put his foot in it, but Marinette just gave him a tiny smile.

“I’m looking forward to partnering with you,” she said, and then Madame turned to glare at them so they subsided into silence until she called for the Bluebird and Princess Florine.

Marinette didn’t have time for any of her doubts, or for worrying about Adrien, over the next half an hour as Madame Viret walked them through an outline of the choreography that she wanted from them.

It was exhausting, but it went easier than Marinette had expected. When Madame directed her into a passé, she found Adrien exactly where she needed him to be for the pirouette en dehors that followed, anchoring her turn, and Marinette felt some of the last remaining tension fade away. Maybe this partnership could work. He certainly seemed to be good at reading what she was going to do, and his technique was solid, she knew. They could be professional.

“Let me see the bluebird lift,” Madame commanded, and Marinette waited just long enough to make sure that Adrien was ready before she threw herself fearlessly into the lift and felt him sweep her up. Her hips landed across his shoulder, exactly where they were meant to be, and her back arched as her arms fluttered upwards with elegant precision.

She was vaguely aware of Madame’s rare and sharp “Good!” and the satisfaction of a difficult move achieved, then she felt the minute shift of Adrien’s posture, and she rolled gracefully with the movement as his hands guided her down and set her on the floor again.

“Lovely, Marinette,” Madame conceded. “An excellent beginning. Adrien, make sure you rotate and lock your arm more.”

She moved on, and Marinette gave her new partner a brilliant smile. This could really work.

Adrien was staring back at her with wide green eyes and a slightly dazed look on his face, and then he beamed back with that perfect smile that had started her crush in the first place.

“Wow, Marinette,” he said. “I knew you were good, but that was amazing! I’ve never had a partner who mastered a lift like that first time before. We make a great team.”

~~~~~

“So, how did the first day go? Didn’t get dropped on your head?” Luka asked as the stage doors closed behind Marinette. He’d been leaning against the wall next to his violin case, a hoodie tied around his waist and his black painted nails drumming against his torn denim jeans in time to some tune in his head, but he looked up as she came towards him and smiled, and Marinette’s heart gave a familiar stutter. Luka scooped up his violin and they fell into step together, heading towards the metro.

Marinette shook her head, and grinned up at him. “Adrien was actually a pretty good partner. It was exhausting, but so far so good. On the other hand, I think Lila’s been trying to spread rumours that I must have slept with someone to get this part.”

“What?”

She laughed. “It’d be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous. Have you met any of the people involved in the casting decisions?”

She looked up, and Luka was frowning a little, lost in some thought that didn’t seem to appeal to him. As soon as he noticed her watching him he gave a wry half-smile.

“She sounds like a real piece of work,” he said, and Marinette gave a snort of laughter.

“Is she any good?” Luka asked. “I’ve never seen her perform.”

“Ye-s,” she admitted slowly. “She wouldn’t be in the Opera Ballet Company if she wasn’t, but– “ Marinette scrunched up her nose, trying to work out how to put it into words. “There are things you need if you’re going to make it in ballet, especially if you want to become an étoile one day. You need the body for it, you need to have the heart to work at it and give your all to it, and you need to be tough enough to push on, no matter how many Lilas try to stop you.”

There was a soft snort of laughter from beside her.

“And Lila has all those things,” Marinette went on. “But something I read once said that a dancer’s mind is the thing that make the difference, and that’s why Lila’s never going to quite make it. She doesn’t have nice thoughts. There’s a hardness in her dancing that’s going to get in her way and stop her from reaching the top, no matter how much she schemes,” she summed up with an incisive sniff.

Luka was giving her that warm smile that she loved so much.

“Then you must have the most beautiful thoughts in the world,” he told her. “I always love watching you dance. There’s an absolute grace in you that can’t help but inspire the music in me. You make me think of warm blue skies and perfect mornings, and I can see that in everything you do, not just your dancing. I can see that creativity and passion and grace that you bring to everything you care about.”

Marinette suddenly felt as if he’d stolen the air from her lungs.

“Luka!” she protested faintly, and his smile grew wider.

She was almost relieved that they’d reached the bakery as the fire in her cheeks threatened to overwhelm her. At the door of the bakery, Marinette asked, “Are you coming in for dinner?” but Luka shook his head.

“I need to get home, but I’ll swing by to pick you up in the morning if you want the company. What time do you have to be at the Garnier?”

“I’ve got class at ten, but I thought you didn’t have to be there til after lunch?”

Luka just gave a shrug and leaned down to drop a friendly kiss on her forehead.

“I’ll be here at quarter past nine,” he told her, and lifted his hand in a wave as he strode away.

The next morning, Marinette was still up on her balcony with the remains of her breakfast on the little table behind her when she heard a musical whistle drift up from the street below. She broke off the stretch that she had started, and leaned out between the pots of geraniums along the balcony railing as Luka waved up at her. He slung his violin case over his shoulder and gave her a warm smile.

“Ready to escape from your tower, Princess Florine?”

“Should I try and fly down?” she called back to him, and his smile grew wider.

“I’ll catch you if you want to try.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’ll be down in a minute.” She hurried down through her bedroom, snatching up her bag and the lunch that her mother had left for her on the way. The cafeteria food was alright in a pinch, but it couldn’t beat her mother’s cooking.

Luka was waiting for her on the street, and they fell into step on the way to the station. For once, the commute to the Palais Garnier felt too short, and Marinette let out a faint sigh as the building loomed into view. They’d just reached the stage doors, and Luka was holding one open for her when a voice hailed her from the other side of the courtyard.

“Marinette!” Adrien called, loping towards them eagerly. He was every girl’s dream, with his charming smile and dancer’s lean body, and there was a time when Marinette would have been reduced to a babbling mess by his attention. Luka shot the blond boy an enigmatic look, but didn’t say anything.

“I was hoping to catch up with you.” He finally seemed to notice Luka. “Oh, hi. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s all good,” Luka said imperturbably, waiting until Adrien had joined them inside before he let the door swing closed. “It’s Adrien, isn’t it? Marinette’s talked about you. She said you were partnering her this season.”

Adrien’s smile was warm. “Yeah, I’m very lucky,” he said sincerely. “She’s an incredible dancer.”

Luka’s smile was a little harder to read. “She is. She also plays a mean game of Ultimate Mecha Strike.”

Adrien blinked at him in confusion. They reached the staircase leading up to the studios, and Luka stopped, tilting his head towards the corridor that ran underneath it.

“I’m heading this way. Nice to meet you, Adrien.” His gaze settled on Marinette for a moment. “See you later, Marinette.”

Before Marinette could protest, he’d already turned and was striding away, his head bent and lost in some thought or strain of music.

Adrien was watching Luka with a tiny frown that looked odd on his normally sunny features.

“Was that your boyfriend?”

There had never been much chance of that. Once upon a time, when she was barely fourteen and he was a romantic, sensitive sixteen year old, he’d sort-of confessed to her … you’re as clear as a music note, as sincere as a melody, you’re the song in my head… She’d been overwhelmed, and she’d panicked, but once she’d been ready to face Luka again he’d never said anything since to suggest that it had been anything more than a fleeting moment of poetry. He’d dated other people over the years, and she’d had her brief relationships, and he’d never changed the way he treated her. Marinette suspected that Luka had completely forgotten he’d ever said those beautiful things to her, although that was when he’d started calling her melody.

“No,” Marinette said, suppressing a small sigh. “Luka and I have been friends since we were little, Luka’s sister too. I was at school with Juleka before I got into the Opera Ballet School. Luka’s at the Conservatory, and he plays with the Company orchestra from time to time.”

Adrien’s eyebrow lifted at that. “Impressive. Maybe that’s where I know him from.”

They climbed another floor in silence, but Marinette was aware of Adrien shooting glances at her. He seemd to be almost jittering with a nervous energy now that was making her nervous in turn.

“A friend of mine is having a party on Saturday. You should come,” he said abruptly, and Marinette stumbled on the steps, catching herself on the stair rail. What was going on here? He gave her that charming, hopeful smile of his. “It’d be fun, and it’d be nice to get to spend a bit of time together away from the studio. Get to know each other, seeing we’re going to be working together.”

“I… have plans…” she said uncertainly.

“It’s at Le Grand Paris,” he coaxed, and that smile grew brighter. “Just come for a little while. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

They were at the door of the studio, and suddenly it seemed like everyone was looking at her.

“Saturday,” he repeated, as she tried to find her voice under the weight of all those stares. She made a strangled noise, her shoulders curling in embarrassment. She could see Lila glaring daggers at her, and Alya’s cheshire grin.

“I can’t,” she sputtered at his back as he walked away.

She wasn’t wasting a precious Saturday night on a party full of strangers at the Grand Paris hotel, no matter how bright Adrien’s smile was, and Saturday found her curled up on Juleka’s bed while Juleka frowned and carefully painted pink spots onto Marinette’s nails and Luka ran through a quick set of scales on his violin in the background. Marinette watched as Luka shook out his hand and resettled the chin rest.

“Soooo… Adrien, huh?” Juleka drawled.

“Hmm?” Marinette said absently.

“Adrien,” Juleka repeated, shooting a look at her brother. Luka must have told her about meeting Adrien at the Garnier, and Juleka didn’t sound thrilled about it, but then she’d endured enough gushing paeans all those years ago in praise of Adrien’s smile, his hair, his kindness, his smile, his perfect arabesque, his smile… Marinette buried her face in her hands and groaned.

“Careful!” Juleka yanked her still wet hand down. “I don’t want to have to do that all over again.”

“That was years ago,” Marinette whined. “And he turned me down.”

“Are you going to try and change his mind, now that you’re partners?” Juleka pushed.

“No!” Marinette flashed a quick glance at Luka as he frowned and adjusted one of the tuning pegs, and she glared at Juleka, holding her friend’s gaze in a silent message. “And you know why.”

Juleka rolled her eyes, but mercifully didn’t say anything further.

Marinette didn’t think that Luka had been paying attention to them, but later when Juleka left the room to answer Rose’s call he paused in the middle of the adagio he’d been playing and said quietly, “You know she’d come round if you got together with Adrien, don’t you?”

“There’s nothing to come around to,” Marinette grumbled. Luka was watching her with those too knowing blue eyes, and she wondered what he was seeing in her face. When she shifted uncomfortably, he dropped his gaze to the violin in his hands.

But he didn’t say anything further about Adrien when he walked her home much later, and he was there at the bakery door on Monday morning when she left for the Garnier, with a smile for her and a proffered earbud as they walked.

Class was gruelling that day, and Marinette didn’t have much time or energy left to worry about what Luka had seen. As soon as class finished, she stretched her aching muscles out on the wooden floor with a groan, and closed her eyes. Out in the hallway, Marinette could hear the noise of approaching voices and laughter, but she didn’t open her eyes until a familiar deep voice said just above her, “Hey there, Princess Florine. They’re working you hard, I see.”

Her eyes flew open to look up into Luka’s amused gaze and warm smile, and she sat up in a hurry, scrambling to her feet. His hands steadied her as she threw her arms around him.

“Luka! What are you doing here?”

“There’s a welcome.” He wasn’t the only musician who had found their way into the studio, and a few of the ballet dancers who were dating members of the company orchestra were busy with very public displays of affection.

“I might think you’re not happy to see me,” Luka teased.

Marinette pulled back to stick her tongue out at him, and found Alya at her elbow, eyeing Luka with interest.

“I didn’t know you knew one of the musicians. Marinette, why didn’t you tell me about your gorgeous friend here?”

Marinette closed her eyes, willing herself anywhere but there. When she opened them again, Alya was watching her with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile. And that was exactly the reason that Marinette had never really talked about her friendships outside the company. On the other side of the studio, Lila’s attention was fixed on them in a way that made Marinette uneasy. Alya held out a hand to Luka.

“I’m Alya, and you’re cute. Tell me everything.”

When Marinette dared to sneak a glance at Luka, he was looking rather startled and amused.

“There’s not a lot to tell,” he said slowly. “But I’m guessing you’re Alya.”

“Interesting. Marinette’s told you about me, but I haven’t heard a thing about you.” Alya’s expression turned speculative. “Now, why would that be?”

“Because I wanted to save him from getting grilled by you,” Marinette muttered.

“Because I know all Marinette’s secrets,” Luka said, and Marinette gasped.

“Traitor! You wouldn’t!”

His amusement became a grin as he looked down at her. “For half a dozen raspberry macarons, my lips are sealed.”

“Fine,” Marinette pouted. “You do know that Maman would have given you as many as you wanted, don’t you?”

“Sure, but blackmail macarons taste so much better.”

Alya’s gaze shifted rapidly between them, taking it all in. “So I take it you’ve known each other a while?” she inquired brightly.

“It’s been a while,” Luka admitted. He deflected the questions Alya kept firing at him with calm good nature. Her interrogation was drawing attention from some of the company, and Marinette felt her stomach sink as Lila sauntered towards them. The Italian girl hooked a hand through Marinette’s arm and her eyes ran over Luka, taking in the teal blue hair, the piercings, and the ink.

“That’s a lot of tattoos,” she said with a barely suppressed sneer at odds with her honeyed tone, and Luka’s eyebrow rose, but he stayed silent. She dismissed him to focus on Marinette. “I didn’t know you were into the bad boy type, Marinette.”

Marinette prised herself free of Lila’s grip. “What’s that supposed to mean, Lila? Are you saying that Luka’s a troublemaker because he happens to have some body art?”

“And I’ve been trying so hard to be good,” Luka sighed.

“Honey, you’re better than good,” Alya teased, eyeing him up and down. “I don’t know about Marinette, but I love a guy with tatts.”

“Oh, no! Of course, I didn’t mean anything of the sort!” Lila gasped, grabbing at Marinette’s arm again. “I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you.”

“I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo. Does it hurt?” Alya asked Luka. Her attention was on Luka’s arms. “Why an anchor? It seems a bit out of character for a musician.”

Luka glanced down at the tattoo on his left forearm of an anchor surrounded by tulips and roses. “Well, Ma’s a pirate, so it seemed appropriate,” he said composedly, but Alya had already moved on.

“Nice snake,” Alya said, poking at the teal snake coiling down around his right bicep from under the sleeve of his tshirt to his forearm. It seemed to have a glint of amused sagacity in its eye rather than menace, and her own eyes lit up with a leer that made Marinette nervous. “Is it proportional?”

“Alya,” Marinette groaned in dismay, but Luka seemed entertained rather than put out by Alya’s blatant suggestiveness, and Alya’s attention shifted to the tattoo just under the snake’s nose, where it seemed to be reaching out to touch a tiny ladybug sitting on a branch of cherry blossoms that was almost hidden by the wide leather cuff that Luka wore around his right wrist.

“The ladybug’s a bit of an odd one out,” Alya commented.

He’d got that ink at the same time that Marinette had had her birthday tattoo done.

“That one’s just for a bit of luck,” he said casually, and Lila’s eyes narrowed at the quick smile he gave Marinette.

“You two make such a cute couple,” she said, hugging Marinette’s arm tighter. “Why didn’t you tell us you were seeing someone in the orchestra?”

Luka said nothing, but his gaze slid sideways to Marinette as she said stiffly, “Because we’re not a couple.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know. I do hope I haven’t put my foot in it.” Lila pulled her hand away from Marinette’s arm in a show of hurried embarrassment, her eyes wide with distress. “You seem very close, but I’m sure he’s just a friend, if you say so.”

Luka’s eyebrows climbed at that, but Marinette didn’t grasp the significance of the vindictive little smile that Lila shot at her as she walked away until Adrien came up beside her, his brow creased as he glanced around the group and settled on Luka.

“How’s it going, Marinette?” he asked softly, and gave Luka a stiff nod. “Luka. What brings you here? Not that it’s not good to meet you again,” he trailed off awkwardly. It was not uncommon for the orchestra to socialise with the ballet, and Marinette didn’t understand why Adrien seemed to be discomfited by Luka’s appearance in the studio.

“Just checking in on my favourite dancer,” Luka said with an unreadable smile.

Alya found a new target, swivelling to fix Adrien with a stare. “You know Luka?”

“We’ve met,” Adrien said tersely. His glance fell on Lila on the other side of the studio, then it shifted from Luka to Marinette and back again, and Marinette frowned.

“Now, this is interesting,” Alya said.

“Alya,” Marinette growled, and her friend threw up her hands.

“Fine, fine, I won’t ask.”

“Director’s coming,” someone called near the door, and the musicians started to scatter. “Couffaine, you coming?”

Luka quirked a smile at Marinette.

“Looks like they’re kicking the riffraff out. See you after rehearsal?” he asked her, and Marinette nodded. He tipped his head to Alya and Adrien. “Alya, it’s been a pleasure. Adrien.”

“For a musician, he’s got some nice muscles on him,” Alya said approvingly, and Marinette cringed at Luka’s choke of laughter as he headed out of the studio. She was limply grateful that Luka was out of earshot and that Adrien had moved away before Alya added, “Girl, is that the reason you’ve been so chill around Adrien lately?”

“What? No!” Marinette stuttered, and the words I wish cut through her like a knife. She took a deep breath, and tried to smile at Alya. “We’re just friends.”

Alya’s eyebrows lifted.

“Seriously, I’m more like a younger sister to Luka,” Marinette insisted.

“If you say so,” her friend said sceptically.

When Madame Viret called her and Adrien away for their pas de deux rehearsal it didn’t go nearly as smoothly as things had gone on the first day. Adrien seemed distracted, and several times he missed Marinette’s cues until Madame called a halt.

“Adrien,” the ballet mistress snapped, “your head needs to be here with us, or one of you is going to end up injured.”

The blond muttered an apology, but he was still frowning as Marinette took his hand and rested her other hand on his shoulder for the attitude promenade.

“Is everything alright?” she whispered to him.

“You didn’t come to the party on Saturday.”

“I’d told you I wouldn’t be there,” Marinette muttered back as she executed a balance. “I had plans.”

“What about this Saturday?” Adrien asked a little too loudly, and subsided as Madame turned an icy glare on them. As soon as Madame waved a hand for a break, he dropped down beside Marinette as she collapsed and reached for her water bottle.

“Maybe we could get coffee sometime. Or dinner. I’d love to take you out to dinner, if you’re free.”

Marinette took a deep drink, playing for time, and choked a little.

“This Saturday? Or Sunday? I know a great little place not far from here that I just know you’d love.”

“Adrien, that’s sweet,” she said uneasily, “but I don’t think I can.”

His head tilted towards her as if he was trying to translate what she was saying.

“I mean, it’s probably not a good idea to date someone else from the company, is it?” she tried again. “It always just seems to cause trouble.”

“But it doesn’t have to,” Adrien said hopefully. “Just give us a try. Saturday.”

“Adrien, I can’t!”

“Is there someone else?” he asked her. “Is it that musician friend of yours, the one with the blue hair?”

Oh, how she wished she could say yes. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing ocean deep eyes that could see right through her and a slow, sweet smile, and opened them again to hopeful green eyes and a sun-bright grin.

“No,” she said reluctantly, and repeated yet again, “we’re just friends.”

Adrien’s smile grew wider in relief. “Look, just think about it. You don’t have to give me an answer now. Just… give it a chance.”

He got to his feet as Madame called for them, and held out his hand to her. Marinette took it, and put aside overthinking her complicated emotional state to let her training and the movement take over. It was a relief to let it all go for a little while.

She was half-braced for Adrien to ask her again the next morning when she arrived at the Garnier, but there was no sign of the blond dancer. She had finished pilates and had started warm up stretches for class before Adrien finally arrived, breathing a little hard as if he’d been rushing to get there. Alya was telling her something about something she’d overheard that morning.

“Cutting it close, Agreste!” someone called out, and Adrien gave a sheepish grin.

“I got held up this morning because I came in with my father. He wanted to deliver the costume designs in person.”

Marinette’s head whipped around, cutting off what Alya had been saying to her.

“The designs are here?” she asked abruptly.

“My father’s meeting with Madame Marchand right now to hand them over,” he confirmed.

Master Novgorodsky rapped on the piano for their attention, and by sheer force of will Marinette focused on the choreography. It could not have been said that she was at her best that morning, and several times, Master Novgorodsky called her wandering thoughts back to the placement of her feet and arms. The minute that class broke, she took off for the corridors that led up to the wardrobe ateliers.

Through the long windows of the millinery department rows and rows of blank heads stared down from the shelves, and sat on the work benches surrounded by tools and tufts of hair. Next to it, the decoration atelier twinkled and sparkled like Aladdin’s cave with tubs and jars of sequins and glass jewels, and streaks of paint everywhere. Another mannequin head supported the beginnings of a glittering headpiece, and a huge rat’s head wearing a crown from a past production of The Nutcracker stared down from the top of a cabinet.

A few craftspeople glanced up from their work as Marinette hurried past their ateliers and smiled at her, and Marinette waved, but didn’t stop to chat. Costume storage was just beyond, and at the door Marinette drew a deep breath as she always did, letting it out slowly. The racks of costumes and rolls of fabric, and the tutus carefully layered in snowy drifts, never failed to calm her. The head seamstress frowning over a gown spread out on the benchtop looked up to smile at Marinette as she came in.

“Marinette! What brings you up here?” the woman asked.

“I heard that the Sleeping Beauty designs from Gabriel had arrived,” Marinette said hopefully, and the seamstress laughed.

“I should have known you’d be showing up the moment you got wind of that. No one’s supposed to see them before first fittings.” But she was already heading into the back recesses of the costume storage, and Marinette followed.

She took the book that the head seamstress handed her with great reverence, and settled herself into a chair. It wasn’t long before she’d lost herself completely in the exquisite designs and the notes that Gabriel Agreste had included for them. The seamstress laughed, and left her to it.

When her feet eventually started to prickle with pins and needles, she realised with a start that she’d been sitting there, poring over the design book for far too long and that afternoon rehearsals would be starting soon. Hastily she closed the book and handed it back to the head seamstress, babbling her thanks as she hurried out the door. She made it into the studio just ahead of Madame Viret, and Adrien gave her a curious look.

“Where were you? You disappeared before I could ask you if you wanted to have lunch with me,” he whispered.

“Oh, Adrien, your father’s work is incredible,” Marinette enthused, and Adrien’s eyebrow rose.

“So that’s where you’ve been? Up in wardrobe? I thought we weren’t allowed up there without an invitation from the costume director.”

Marinette grimaced guiltily. “They don’t mind, and I really wanted to have a look.”

“Oh, you’re so into costumes and sewing, aren’t you Marinette, with all your little projects,” Lila interrupted, and gave a tinkling little laugh. “It’s so lucky your partner is the son of Gabriel Agreste. You might get to meet him, and all his contacts in the industry.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Lila?” Marinette asked angrily, and right on cue, there went the hand flutter and the wide eyes.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I never meant to imply that you were only interested in Adrien because his father is Gabriel Agreste.”

“You’re a fan of my father’s?” Adrien asked with a puckered brow, and Marinette saw Lila’s flash of triumph.

“I admire his work,” she admitted evenly. Adrien’s face lit up in a beaming smile.

“Then you should come to the Gabriel gala on Saturday,” he invited her. Marinette was distracted from what he was saying by the look of livid fury that swept over Lila’s face.

“It’d be a lot more fun than going on my own,” he was saying, “and I’d love you to meet my father. I’ve told him a lot about my brilliant pas de deux partner.” He noticed her reluctant expression, and said, “Just as friends. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

“I’ll… think about it. Just as friends.”

She and Luka were halfway home that night, and Luka was smiling softly at her raptures about the costume designs, before she worked up the courage to mention Adrien’s invitation.

“Adrien asked me to the Gabriel fashion gala next week,” Marinette told the footpath in front of her, and there was a long silence from Luka beside her.

Then he said nonchalantly, “Are you going to go? Adrien seems like a nice guy, and you’d probably have fun.”

It shouldn’t have hurt that he was so casual about the idea of her going out with another guy.

“You really think I should say yes?” she asked him in a small voice.

“It might be fun, seeing all Gabriel’s latest designs and getting to hang out around the fashion houses. And there was a time when you would have flipped for a chance to spend time with Adrien,” he teased gently.

Why did it feel like she was paying for that now?

“Maybe,” she said, feeling her spirits sinking even lower.

When Adrien asked her again the next day, she said yes, and had to admit afterwards that she’d enjoyed herself. The new season’s couture was dazzling, and Adrien was good company, getting her laughing over his awful puns and startlingly accurate impersonations of some of the celebrities there. And if Gabriel Agreste had been seven kinds of cold and austere when Adrien had introduced her to his father, he had defrosted enough to offer a trifling compliment on the dress she’d made herself. Marinette had found it hard to martial a coherent sentence in response, and Adrien had teased her about it afterwards.

She was still a little startled, though, in company class the next morning when Adrien presented her with a rose and a flourish. What had happened to ‘just friends’?

“Adrien…” She took the rose reluctantly, very aware of the curious eyes on them, and Lila’s dagger-sharp attention.

“I just wanted to say thank you for the best time I’ve ever had at a fashion gala, milady,” Adrien said. His smile brightened like the sun. “You made the whole evening worthwhile.”

“So you two are a couple now?” Lila asked, and Marinette could hear the ominous note in her voice. Adrien obviously didn’t. He threw his arm around Marinette.

“Not yet, but I’m wearing her down,” he said, and Lila’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“How sweet.”

Marinette slipped out from under Adrien’s arm, backing away.

“I have to- I have, a thing. I’ll see you later.” She whirled around and almost ran from the studio, the rose still in her hand. Once she’d reached the outer courtyard she let out a muffled scream that drew a few startled glances.

“Very clever,” Lila’s voice said behind her, and Marinette whipped around. “You may think you’ve won, but Adrien is so out of your league it isn’t funny, and he’s going to realise that before long.”

“I’m not interested in Adrien!” Marinette cried, frustrated, and Lila gave her a pitying stare.

“Oh, sweetie, you’re not fooling anyone. We all know just how desperate you were to get Adrien all those years ago. Throwing yourself at him didn’t work, so you’re trying playing hard to get now, and it might have got you an invitation to the gala but it’s just sad. And I’m going to make sure that Adrien sees just how sad and desperate you are.”

Lila made a move towards her, and Marinette jerked back out of reach before Lila could touch her arm. Somehow, the rose that Adrien had given her ended up on the ground, and Lila crushed it under her foot with one quick step.

“Oopsie,” the Italian girl said with false regret and bright eyes, and Marinette watched her turn and strut away.

Marinette still cringed at some of the things that she’d done to try and get Adrien’s attention when she was seventeen and deep in the throes of her infatuation. Egged on by Alya she’d even committed a few minor felonies, and now she was paying the price for it. Everyone seemed to be taking it for granted that she was in love with Adrien Agreste, and the more she protested against it, the less convincing she sounded.

“For all the stupid things I did when I had that crush,” she told the sky, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay?”

#Lukanette #ml ballet au #Lukanette endgame #they're idiots your honor

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charlettebffxiv · 3 years ago

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Prompt #8 Adroit

Charlette had not been down in the tunnels beneath the library in a long time. She had almost forgotten how cold the long, stone-tiled hallways of the Archives could be. Despite it being late into the summer season, she already felt the desire to pull her shawl tighter around her shoulders. It was strange to be down here and out of uniform, like she was sneaking into a place forbidden to her. But by now she knew these hallways almost as well as she did the roads and alleys of Willow’s Heart itself. Besides she had permission, how else was she going to deliver the reports Harriette had ordered her to cover? The stack of papers sat neatly in a leather folder held under one arm, the smooth surface feeling a little at odds with the rough-hewn walls and floors of stone that surrounded her. The thick heels of her sandals clacked against them with each step, announcing someone’s approach to anyone sitting yalms away, likely studying or researching the things they had found on their missions. Door after door passed her by, each one containing untold aetherical wonders. There is where the lines were drawn for her. She could enter Harriette, Emille and Aemerics offices when given an appointment, and nowhere else. It was a little ridiculous, since she had already been inside most of the rooms, hells she had helped fill some of them too. But, then again, she was supposed to be marked as ‘potentially untrustworthy’. So it stood to reason.

Harriette’s office stood at the furthest end of the first hallway you stepped into when entering the underground level. A large, dark oak door that had a bouquet of flowers carved into it, and the words ‘Head Librarian’ cut just above them. She always wondered if Harriette had that door designed herself, or if it was always like this. It was oddly fitting, considering how much she loved the Botanical aberrations they brought back or reported on. But that was a question for another sun, Charlette rapped her knuckles against the thick wood, and a muffled voice answered.

“Come in! It’s open! Ah, Charlette!” Harriette stood up from the piece of writing she had been scribbling through to walk around her wide, messy desk and right up to Charlette. Of the three current leaders of the Archive and its Order, Harriette was the one least concerned with decorum and proprietary as dictated by hierarchy. The portly woman placed her hands on Charlette’s upper arms, gave them a welcoming squeeze, then pulled her into a hug. “Ah! It’s so good to have you down here again! Goodness me, I could tell it was you minutes before you arrived. No one has quite such a wide gait that lands with such consistent volume. No thumps and thuds with you, just tips and taps. Come along, sit down, I’ve just made some lemon tea, help yourself to a biscuit if you like as well.” Harriette hurried Charlette over to a chair, all but pushing her down into it. A steaming cup of citrus-smelling tea was sat in front of her before she could refuse, and a tin of biscuits was opened and held out. Charlette was not going to say no to one of Mrs. Nilsen’s shortbread. “Thank you Head Librarian. It’s nice to be back, in a way. I quite enjoy the coolness of the Archives, compared to how sweltering it can be up there.” Harriette was already back behind her desk, only a short distance between the two of them. Whatever she had been working on was hastily stacked and set aside on a precarious looking pile of paperwork. But she paid Charlette full attention as she went, ever the multi-tasker despite how scattered she always looked. Red cheeked with salt-and-pepper flecked hair that was curled, big, and messy. The shock of green though in her eyes let anyone know the infinitely curious woman was focused on them. “I know! I feel like a burrowing badger sometimes, all I want to do is stay down here and remain cool and quiet within my den. But then I do miss the rain when it comes, and I love that smell.” Charlette nodded along, the two seeing eye-to-eye on a fair few things really. Though Charlette would never have been caught dead with an office as chaotic as Harriette’s. If she had ever had one herself. “But it can’t all be bad up there, hmm? You’ve been under Bobocufu’s care, you must be learning a wonderful amount of new and interesting things! And you get far more time inside her Greenhouse too. I wish I had more time for it, she’s planted such interesting and beautiful specimens there. I’ve had the blooming of the corpse flowers on my calendar for almost three twelvemoons now! Excited to find out if they really do smell like carrion? I’ve no reason to doubt Bobocufu, but smelling it yourself is the best and only way to confirm something so fantastically strange.” Harriette took a quick sip of her tea, fingers tip-tapping on her cup. “Yes, the corpse flowers are due to bloom this twelvemoon aren’t they? Should be just as summer is ending, so any sun now. Not sure if I’m excited for the stench, but I am curious to experience it. They are some of the largest blooms we have in the Greenhouse. But, if I’m honest, I think I prefer the saplings most. They feel like an investment, especially when we go out and plant those that are ready for the orchid.” Harriette was watching Charlette, like she was the student having a meeting with her inspiring teacher. The woman really did need to make more time for herself. “We’re going to do another planting next moon. You should come along, I think you would enjoy it.” A chubby hand pressed thick, short fingers against Harriette’s cheek. “Oh, you are sweet Charlette. Tell you what, I’ll mark it on the calendar and do my best. It sounds like a good way to spend a sun, and maybe we can name a few of them too? Perhaps a nice, straight, grumpy looking one we can call Emille the Second?” She tittered into her hand, pulled out a long quill made from a gauche, colourful feather, and scribbled down a note that she stuck to the calendar hanging on the wall behind her. “Something to look forward to! But, onto why you’re actually here. Can’t always just be tea and fun ideas, hmm? How did the reports go?” Charlette pulled the folder out from under her arm, opening it out on the table and spreading the separate papers she had completed for Harriette. Each section was stacked in neat piles, titles and stamps making it clear which was which. Pride welled in Charlette, how can anyone accuse her of something bad, when being a stickler for the rules created such perfect little pieces of parchment? Harriette pulled her glasses up by the string that hung them around her neck, sliding them down her small, pointed nose. It magnified her eyes by triple, her pupils going from black-beetles to button sized. “Mhm! I missed your sense of order and neatness Charlette dear. Not even Aemeric is this careful with his formats, and as you can see I’ve no time to care at all! Hah!” she waved a hand at her office, almost knocking over one of the stacks of papers. It made a little well of anxiety start to stir in Charlette’s belly. “Thank you. But there’s no need to feel bad about your office. I’ve heard it said chaos is sometimes the kiss of the adroit, wherever they decide to be intelligent.” Another titter, the sound of it reminded Charlette of gossiping girls, it made her feel like one for just a moment. “That’s very nice of you to say. But I don’t feel bad at all! Why should I? It’s my office, and I know what is where. I have a system, you see. It’s called ‘remembering where I last put it’.” That titter became a cackle! Charlette braved a smile of her own “Keep laughing like that, Head Librarian, and we might suspect we’ve a Shroud witch in our midst.” Harriette shook her head, and waved a hand with a limp wrist at Charlette. “Please, don’t let Emille hear you say that. He would never let me hear the end of it. ‘I told you! You’re creating a less than professional image for the blah, blah, blah.’ I would have to convince him the town was under attack to get him to focus on something else.” And with a shake of her head, she picked up the first of Charlette’s reports, gave it a flick so they stood straight in her grip, and started to read. Assignment #4762: The Retrieval Section 1: The Ul’dah Situation As Reported by Order Guardian(Currently Suspended) Charlette Bellamy This was going to be a long, long evening. So Charlette poured herself another cup, took another piece of shortbread, and settled in. She was ready to make her case as soon as Harriet spoke “So, tell me about this Q’talhdi woman.”

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv #ffxiv roleplay #ffxiv rp #duskwight #elezen #ffxiv writing

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onlyhenrys · 5 years ago

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Requested by @ly--canthrope , I really hope this is what you had in mind 🙈

You let out a quiet sigh as you looked at your reflection in the mirror. You let your hands roam over your body, feeling the material of the tight dress, the heavy corset who made it so hard to breath and the blonde wig that covered your own hair. All necessary to get into the role of Aylena Queens. A human girl in a world full of witchers, witches, dwarfs, elves, werewolves, vampires and other monsters. 2 months ago you got a call from your manager asking if you would be interested in a guest role for the second season of the witcher, you being a huge fan of the show, agreed immediately and here you were.

This was your third week on the witcher set, that time on and off set mostly spent with Henry Cavill. Henry was one of your first celebrity crushes and you couldn't help but laugh at the memory of your first meeting with him. He was in his full Geralt costume and scared the shit out of you while using the bathroom. Your first conversation with him included a lot of blushing and stuttering from your side and a lot of charming smiles and reassuring words from his side. Luckily you were able to put your crush aside while working with him and the two of you had a lot of fun together in between takes. You found yourself liking him more and more, the better you got to know him. He turned out to be very down to earth and friendly teddy bear, who loved to hug and had a great sense of humor.

You got ripped from your thoughts by a quick knock on the door. You took one last look at yourself in the mirror and turned to open the door, revealing a patiently waiting Henry/Geralt.

''Hey, you're quick, it usually takes at least 2 hours, it's only been an hour.'' You said over your shoulder, while letting Henry into your trailer.

Henry made himself comfortable on your couch, following you with his yellow eyes while you roam around the trailer, picking up fallen clothes.

''Yeah, I asked them to hurry up a little so we can get to our scene as soon as possible.'' His voice got a little softer as he continued. ''I just want to get over it, I don't like the scene.''

You turned around in surprise when you heard his words. Henry wasn't one to complain, especially not about the script. You couldn't say you blame him. Today's scene was pretty intense and you had some sleepless nights about it.

''I can't blame you, I'm not sure if I'm okay with the scene to be honest. It's very dark.''

You turned back around to grab your phone from the dresser, missing the worried look that Henry sent you. You took a deep breath and turned to face Henry. ''Are you ready to go?''

Henry let out a low chuckle while getting up from the couch, sending shivers down your back. ''No, but do we really have a choice?''

Henry opened the door of the trailer but didn't walk outside, confusing you. You playfully shoved his shoulder. ''Move big guy, or we're going to be late.'' You let out a laugh and sidestepped him to walk outside. You could feel his presence behind you, getting closer. You closed your eyes for a second, breathing the fresh morning air in. A strong arm wrapped itself around your shoulder, pressing you against an even stronger body. You could feel the heat radiating from Henry's body as you wrapped your own arm around his waist, getting closer to him before resuming both your paths to the set.

''Damn y/n, you look dashing today!'' You unwrapped yourself from Henry to walk to the person who called out to you, your friend Joey. You quickly wrapped your arms around him, giving him a tight squeeze.

''Jo! What are you doing here?'' You were curious. ''You aren't filming today.''

Joey chuckled and let you go to lean in and hug Henry. ''No, but I read the script and wanted to see the two of you act out this scene because....'' He gestured between Henry and you. ''The chemistry between the two of you is amazing.''

Henry slapped Joey on the back. ''Thanks for the support mate, we're going to need it, it's a tough one.'' You left the two of them to talk and decided to walk up to Freya and Lauren who looked up as you approached.

''Ah great you're here. We're starting a little earlier today, so we have enough time to get this scene done.'' Lauren took a closer look at you, frowning a little. ''Are you okay y/n?''

You just nodded and took a deep breath, trying to get into character. From the corner of your eye, you could see how Henry was doing the same thing, taking a deep breath before taking place on his mark in front of you. You showed a strained smile and tried to shake your shoulders a little loose.

''Okay, Henry, ready?'' Henry softly nodded, not taking his eyes of you. ''Great, y/n, ready?'' you felt like crying, but nodded anyway. ''3...2...1... and .....action!''

''I don't know what to say to you Aylena. I'm a witcher, I don't feel the way you do. I thought you knew that. I told you from the beginning that I wouldn't stay forever, that I was going to hurt you.'' Geralt took a step towards Aylena.

Aylena took a deep breath and shook her head. ''I thought I was changing your mind. I thought you were falling for me, the way I'm falling for you.'' her voice started to fade. ''I love you Geralt.''

You felt yourself tear up, felt your throat getting tight. This was your biggest fear, not being able to separate fiction from reality. You knew this scene would be hard to shoot. Getting to hear Henry/Geralt say those lines gave you flashbacks to another time, to another you. A you that got hurt so bad that you had to move and start over. You could feel your hands starting to shake, felt how your heartbeat was picking up speed.

''I wish I could Aylena, but the truth is, I can't. I can't and I won't love you. Not now, not ever.....

You couldn't take it anymore. You let out an heartbreaking sob and ran. You could hear your name being yelled, but didn't look back. Tears were streaming down your face, making your make up run down your eyes. You quickly let yourself into your trailer before sliding down the wall. You pulled your knees up and wrapped your arms around them. You were so ashamedof what happened. You were a professional for god's sake, a professional that was going to be fired after what you just pulled.

Another sob raked through your body, as you dropped your head on your knees. You stayed curled up like that for a while, almost missing the soft knock on your door.

''y/n? Are you in there?'' You would recognize that voice everywhere. ''Can I come in please?''

You let out a muffled ''Yes'' and shifted a little away from the door, still hiding your face. Heavy footsteps stepped into your trailer, pausing as the person took you in, before letting out a sigh, lowering himself down next to you.

"Can I touch you?" His quiet voice filled the room. The question took you by surprise and you slowly lifted your head to look at his face. The raw emotion on his face startled you, but you still nodded, trusting him completely. He shifted closer to you and wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you tightly against him. You closed your eyes and leaned your head against his chest, a sob building it's way up your throat.

"I'm sorry Henry, I'm so sorry." You tears were now streaming down your face, wetting Henry's costume.

"Shhhh, it's okay y/n, you have nothing to be sorry about, it's okay." He held on a little tighter, giving you a feeling of coming home. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You shook your head, pressing yourself a little closer in his chest. "No, I don't think I can, at least not now. Are they angry at me? Am I fired?"

You could feel Henry's chest vibrating as he let out a chuckle. "No, not mad. Slightly worried tho, you ran off pretty quick. But definitely not fired."

You took your head off his chest to look at him. "Why did you follow me? Why are you here Henry."

Henry gave you a long look before answering. "Because I wanted to make sure you were alright. Because I care a great deal about you and it scared me to see you run off like that."

You looked at his arms, still wrapped around you and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, taking his breath away. "Thank you Henry, for caring while no one else did. And coming to find me." You laid your head back on his chest and inhaled his scent, being content by just sitting next to the man you loved.

#one shot #oneshot #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #mental breakdown #the witcher #geralt of rivia #superman #clark kent #cuddling & snuggling #love #mi6 #the man from uncle #the tudors #napoleon solo #night hunter

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keelywolfe · 4 years ago

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FIC: The Rose and the Thorn (standalone)

Summary: Everyone in the city has a story of their own but there's one in particular that Rus is very curious about.

Notes: Oh, man, there was a thread on twitter about Mafiatale Edge and Underswap Papyrus, and I needed at least a taste!

Tags: Spicyhoney, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

If there was one thing Rus learned working in his brother’s shop, aside from how to make a lovely bouquet, it was that everyone in the city had a story. From the fresh-faced kid scraping together enough change to buy a lonely carnation to the grim-faced man handing over his black Amex credit card for the enormous floral arrangement all tied up in a bow. Everyone had their own story and Rus only caught a glimpse of it, from the moment they walked through his door until the time it swung shut again behind him.

He never got to see the end, whether it was a happily ever after or not, but eh, that was the price of doing business. Usually it didn’t bother him, except for one of their regulars and there was no one tale that Rus wondered about more.

A skeleton Monster, like he was, but that was where the similarities ended. To begin with, he towered over Rus and that was not something that happened often. His skull was formed into sharp, angular lines, his teeth as jagged as a sawblade and a crack ran through one of his sockets, bisecting it around a burning crimson eye light.

He probably gave the Humans a bit of a start when they first caught sight of him, but that wasn’t what caught Rus’s curiosity, not at all. Monsters came in all flavors, after all, didn’t bother him any.

No, this guy’s story flowed deeper than that; it was in his clothes, the fine suit he wore that probably cost more money than their little shop made in a day even during prom season. It was the glimpse of a gun holster Rus saw once inside his jacket when their regular patron reached out to take his purchase.

And it was the purchase itself. A single crimson rose to match those eye lights, the cold stem snapped off by the base so he could tuck it into his buttonhole. He paid cash every day and was gone as quick as that, the bell jangling over the door as he walked back out.

There was a story there and Rus wished fiercely he could know what it was. Some days he daydreamed a profession for his mysterious patron. Magician was a popular one or on his more morbid days, funeral director. Secret service would explain the gun, of course, but so could simply living in the city. Guy wearing a suit like that might need a little extra protection.

Wasn't like Rus could ask, he'd already tried that route once. A few weeks ago, he'd gone with the bold approach and asked him out for dinner, then had the chance to regret it when his patron very politely refused. Stupid to even try, what guy in Italian silk wanted to get burgers with a florist shop clerk?

Honestly, Rus figured that was the end of it right there. He'd made their professional relationship a little too personal and Rus figured Mister Nice Suit wouldn't be back.

He'd been pretty surprised to be proven wrong when he came back in the very next day and gotten his usual, a single red rose.

Still, after that Rus stuck with the daydreams and if a couple of them got a little racy, eh, the shop was boring in the afternoons, all right? Not like anyone could read his mind and he kept to the strictly professional whenever their regular came in.

Like now. The bell over the door was one Blue found, an old brass shop bell that he decided offered a much better atmosphere than an electronic chime, a rich jangle that anyone could hear all the way to the refrigerated coolers in the back.

“good morning!” Rus sang out as he always did. He set his broom aside and walked behind the counter where a single rose was already waiting in the front cooler. Yeah, yeah, so what, he went and chose one every morning when he first got in. Blue was always telling him about the importance of customer service.

“Good morning,” their patron replied, and Rus did not allow it to show anywhere above the counter-top at his waist that his knees went to jell-o at the sound of that rich, deep voice. Maybe voice-over actor deserved a spotlight in his daydreams, nothing so crass as a movie trailer ‘in a world!’ guy but reading poetry, letting that buttery voice soak into the pages like on a hot biscuit.

He realized he was standing there staring up at the guy like a moron when their patron politely cleared his throat and hell, even that sounded sexy.

“sorry, um, woolgathering there,” Rus laughed awkwardly. “just the usual, right?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mister Nice Suit reached into the inner pocket of his namesake’s jacket to pull out his wallet

Rus got into the cooler and couldn’t resist taking a quick sniff of the lovely, furled petals. A rose by any other name might smell as sweet, but no roses smelled as lovely as the ones his brother grew.

He turned back to the counter and held it out by the stem, and when his patron took it, his gloved fingers brushed against Rus’s.

“Thank you,” he said again, with gravity that didn’t belong to a simple exchange of goods for cash, but that sent a wave of butterflies through Rus’s soul. His daydreams today were going to be filled with that voice and he was just reaching for the bill when the other skeleton jerked, his head whipping towards the window.

Before Rus could so much as blink, Mister Nice Suit was hopping the counter and pushing Rus down to the floor with him. The tiles were hard on his hands and knees and Rus grunted, and his ‘what the hell’ never made it past a thought as all hell suddenly broke loose.

A deafening explosion of broken glass came from overhead, showering down as pebbles over them and carrying with it the rich smell of loam and potting soil. Dimly, Rus knew he cried out, but he couldn’t hear anything, nothing but the little bangs popping around them. It made him think of firecrackers two days after the fourth of July, shocking in its unexpectedness.

Instinctively, he clung to the sturdy body next to him, burying his face into the broad chest. A strong arm was suddenly around his shoulders, holding him in close as the other skeleton moved and those little popping explosions were suddenly closer, too close. Rus cringed and clung harder, his bony fingers digging into fine linen and silk as he gripped like one of the ivy vines that ran around the wooden beams in the ceiling.

As quickly as it happened, it was over, the sudden silence broken only by the tinny warble of the local radio station that played from Blue’s old radio. The staticky crackled wavered in and out, finally dying out and there was nothing but the echo still ringing through Rus’s skull.

“Are you all right?” The words didn’t quite register through the clamor in his head. What Rus did know was that warm, safe body was trying to pull away from him. He whimpered, clinging tighter and it stopped, settling back down. A large gloved hand settled on the back of his skull even as a low, soothing murmur started up, easing him back until Rus could look up into the face above him.

“Are you all right?” The other skeleton repeated patiently.

“i…yes? i think…maybe…” Rus stammered. The steadying hand on the back of his skull petted soothingly, gloved fingers gentle against bone.

“Give it a moment,” he suggested, “Take a deep breath.” The other skeleton followed his own instruction, taking a breath like a demonstration and any other time it might’ve been humiliating for a gorgeous person to be trying to teach him how to breathe. Today, Rus only obeyed, taking a long, slow breath, distantly noting that Mister Nice Suit wore equally nice cologne. Rus choked as he let that breath back out, abruptly taking in the sight of his brother’s store.

“oh, fuck,” Rus whispered. It looked like a war took a quick tromp through their shop. All the glass cases were busted out, shards littering the floor along with heaps of potting soil and broken pottery from the planters and knickknacks Blue kept around the shop. The bruised perfume of damaged flowers filled the air and even their front door was broken, hanging drunkenly on the hinges, the little brass bell fallen forlornly to the floor with the rest of the wreckage.

Everything his brother worked so hard for, gone, and why? For what, what had even happened?

He turned back to the other skeleton and it was only then that Rus realized that he was holding that gun in his other hand. Gunfire, those explosions were gunfire, his mind supplied him helpfully, someone tried to kill his not-a-magician, not-a-mortician, still-maybe-secret-service rose buyer.

This hadn’t made an appearance in any of his daydreams.

“Who are you?” Rus asked. His voice sounded too small to be his own.

“You can call me Edge,” he replied, which so did not answer the question. “This was my fault, I’m sorry.”

“your fault that people tried to kill you?” That didn’t seem right. Did it?

“No, but it is my fault that it affected your shop. I was too complacent, followed the same routine for too long to see you.” He smiled a little and Rus stared at it, mesmerized. It made him look even better, wow, and he almost missed hearing the other skeleton say, “You don’t wear a name tag, I was hoping if I kept coming in, I’d overhear your name.”

“…what?” Rus blurted, “but you turned me down!”

“I did. To keep something like this from happening.” Sirens were starting to blare in the distance, coming closer as Mister—no, his name was Edge, moved away, tucking that gun away back into its holster. “I’m sorry, I need to go. I’ll handle the damages.”

“wait, but…i don’t understand!” Rus swallowed hard, croaking out, “my name is—”

“Don’t.” A gloved finger settled across his mouth, silencing him. “It would only make it harder to leave. Take care, flower shop boy.” Edge hesitated, then leaned in to brush a kiss across Rus’s mouth.

Then with a swirl of his fine jacket, he was gone.

“what just happened?” Rus asked the empty shop. All that came back was the tinkle of a piece of glass falling and the ever louder sirens. His mouth tingled as if that light kiss had a magic of its own, infusing him with heady warmth.

Rus looked around the shop again and lying amidst spilled potting soil and pottery shards was a long stem rose. His fingers were trembling as he picked it up, the crimson petals bruised and sparkling with a diamond dusting of glass, beauty and danger all in one.

He leaned against the counter weakly, rose in hand, and waited for the police, wondering what the hell he was going to tell Blue.

tbc

Go to chapter 2

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #underfell #underswap #mafia au

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