#sobs over my sketchbook and pencil that will not move on its own

[slaughtergutz]

Bjsgfishd when looking up a blog Tumblr recommended a 10yo OP oc confessions blog to me and MAAAAANNN I forgot how whiny and drama filled people used to be lmao

Especially people getting pissy over people drawing over bases and tracing. I used to use bases. I used to make them. Because I was 13 and the only art program I had available was MS Paint (then again, if I showed you what kind of digital camera I had at that age you'd fuckin laugh. I didn't get a proper smart phone until I was like....19? 20? Not even bc they weren't around I was just poor lol)

Even now I'm like, tracing is actually a valid way to practice drawing. But that wasn't the purpose of bases, and tracing over Oda's or other official work was and is no way the same as tracing over an independent artist's work. I promise you man, tracing a picture of Nami does not hurt Oda in any way. He does not give a shit.

Another common complaint was "people only like the art done in one piece style!" Which is a valid complaint I suppose, but also shows how much people have kind of evolved since then bc I definitely don't draw in Oda's style. Some things I've modified to be similar to his style but mostly just bc I like trying out different things, and seeing how other artists draw and ink their work is like my favorite thing-- I still don't think it looks that similar, but I get consistent enough notes to think that people are enjoying my art which is cool.

One Piece is so big these days it's hard to see if there even *is* an "oc fandom" anymore, like I couldn't tell you who a popular oc is or what. I have caught the Arlong fans in my net that's all that matters lmao

I used to be an obnoxious deviantart user so it's just kind of funny how much....15 years changes things.

Absolutely horrifying it's been that long btw. I don't like that.

[eclecticmiasma]

Human Art (Yandere!Rohan x Reader)

🖤 For the eternally lovely @vani-ya​ 💚

When strange things start happening around your apartment, your kind friend Rohan offers you a place to stay. 

NSFW

[Warnings: somnophilia, rape, mind control, abuse, dead dove: do not eat] 

It started out innocuous enough. Doors ajar that you could have sworn you closed. Missing laundry. Strange bruises. The fact that Morioh had a serial killer running around wasn’t exactly a secret, so you just felt like you were being overly paranoid when little things around your apartment began to go awry. You weren’t always the most mindful person, and a few little incidents did not a serial killer make.

That is, until the open doors had broken locks. Until you found strange stains on your underwear. Until the bruises that marred your hips and thighs began to look like fingerprints.

“Maybe it’s a ghost!” Okuyasu jested, waggling his eyebrows. Rohan shot him a look of deep disgust. Okuyasu’s face fell as he remembered the existence of Reimi, “Sorry…”  

“Well, you’re more than welcome to crash at my place,” Josuke interjected, “Mom’s probably dying to have another woman around-” At this, Rohan let out a snort of laughter.

“Stay at your place? And sleep where exactly?” Josuke chewed the inside of his lip.

“I…I mean I could sleep on the couch…” The mangaka rolled his eyes and set down his coffee with a frustrated clink.

“Am I always the only one with any real solutions?” He turned to you and looked you sternly in the eyes, “[Y/n], I’m sure you’ve noticed that my house is massive. As long as you don’t interrupt my work, the best thing to do is to stay with me for a while,” The gang blinked at Rohan, shocked at his uncharacteristic generosity. Okuyasu got ready to grill him on the fact that he refused to let him and his father stay at his mansion despite the fact that they continued to live in an abandoned shack, but Josuke elbowed him before he could start.

You were hesitant to accept. While it was a generous offer, you never really spoke to Rohan beyond gathering cursory information about the town’s other stand users. He sensed your unease and softened his gaze.

“It’ll be…an adventure. Maybe you could even help me model certain character poses? There is a severe lack of women in my work.”

In the end, you agreed. All of your things were moved to Rohan’s with the help of your friends, and you found yourself much more at ease with someone else in the house. Even if your rooms were fairly far apart, you felt much less likely to be murdered while not living alone. Whether or not that was misguided, you began to enjoy your temporary home.

But, slowly, incidents began to occur at Rohan’s home too. Much like before, they started out small. Bits of hair in your bed that weren’t yours. More marks on your body, covering the ones that had faded. One morning, you woke up with something dry and flaky across your chest and neck. You started to think that Okuyasu was right, maybe you did have some kind of ghost following you around.

When you voiced your concerns to Rohan, he waved them away. The two of you did laundry at the same time, so of course it was probably his hair caught in your blankets. Your aloof nature meant that you constantly bumped into things, he saw it himself. As for the mystery substance on your chest, maybe you needed to buy some new body lotion that wouldn’t clump up in your sleep. He recommended a local brand. Everything you came at him with, he had an answer for. Rohan’s level-headed nature put you at ease, and you were thankful for him.

But then everything fell apart. You don’t know what possessed you, perhaps it was a familiarity with the mangaka’s drawing room after having modeled for his various projects several times, but you found yourself perusing his massive catalogue of books. He had a novel on nearly every subject. As he told you many times, he found it of utmost importance to take inspiration from the real world.

When none of his library piqued your interest, you walked away from his bookshelf and padded over to his desk. Though you were never allowed to look at his unfinished work, curiosity got the better of you. Rohan was much too controlling when it came to his work, you felt. A little peak wouldn’t do anyone any harm.

You picked up a sketchbook and rifled through it, amazed at how detailed his drawings were. Birds, insects around the home, coffee plates, sandwiches, human hands, anything and everything he saw was sketched out to the most minute details. He was absurdly talented. You felt a bit of pride in being his friend.

At the back of the sketchbook were nude drawings. You blushed as your eyes raked over the lewd poses. Some genitalia was drawn, both male and female. The model’s body was contorted in all different poses, many sexual in nature. As you flipped the page, you were shocked to see actual sexual acts being performed. You had never heard of models that were willing to do this kind of thing. Although, Rohan had a lot of money and none of the sketches showed their faces. Except for one.

The sketchbook tumbled to the floor.

The face was yours.

Not once had he asked you to pose nude for him, but there you were. Your full body was on display. Leaned back over the edge of a sofa so that your hair dragged along the floor. One of your hands grasped your breast seductively while the other delved into your core. It was unmistakably you, down to the birthmark on your abdomen. You knew Rohan only drew from what was directly in front of him, so how in the world-

Rohan cleared his throat behind you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. A devious look danced behind his eyes. He set down his satchel unceremoniously and closed the study door.

“I suppose this was bound to happen at some point,” Your heart raced as the lock clicked in place. Rohan slid off his gloves and threw them on the leather chair next to his satchel. Not once did he take his emerald eyes off of your now trembling form.

“I don’t understand,” You managed to say, though your voice was weak and nearly unintelligible.

“You wouldn’t,” Rohan chuckled darkly, “You’re much too stupid to put two and two together. Now, kneel.”

To your shock, your knees immediately hit the wooden floor.

“Heaven’s Door,” Rohan muttered, taking your face in his palms. Your whole body tensed and something like a book opened in your left cheek, “You know, this charade has been quite fun. I probably could have been happy to keep you as my perfect little pet forever. But, seeing you like this, seeing the genuine fear in your eyes, I’m starting to realize that your inability to remember our time together has honestly been quite boring,” He whipped out a pencil from his pocket and erased something from your pages.

All at once, everything came flooding back. The nights in your apartment where something, someone held you down while you sobbed, marking your body as their own. The way they flaunted your stolen underwear as they huffed it while fucking your breasts. Broken locks strewn to the floor as you screamed.

And at Rohan’s house, memories of him choking you until you complied with his demands, his thick cock stretching your throat. The unhinged glee in his eyes as he came all over your neck and chest. Images of your naked, trembling body on display as he drew you any way he wanted, even while being used by him.

Paralyzed by Rohan’s stand, all you could do was remember and weep.

“There we go,” He said, closing your pages and stepping back, admiring his work, “I even took out the clause that says you have to obey any orders I give,” A dark grin danced across his features, “Now, look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

You couldn’t. Not after the visions that played in your mind. Everything you had feared for months stood directly in front of you, taunting you. Pain erupted on the side of your head as Rohan twisted your hair around his fist and pulled you way from the side of the desk. He used that momentum to throw you to the floor and, immediately, he was on you, tearing off your clothes with practiced precision. Though you kicked and screamed, Rohan was deceptively strong. You cried out as he wrenched your arm painfully behind your back.

“Keep fighting me, and I’ll pop your arm out of its socket,” Despite his warning you continued to struggle, wriggling underneath him for any kind of opportunity to get the upper hand. He let out an exasperated sigh and tugged hard. You cried out as burning agony shot down your arm and the limb fell to your side with a thud, “You really think one would learn after the first twenty or so times. How did you even survive on your own for this long?”

With the rest of your clothing off, he moved his weight from you and ordered you to get back on your knees. Trembling, you acceded, forcing yourself up with your working arm to face him. You watched as he retrieved his sketchbook from the floor. He flipped through the pages with annoyance.

“Not many left. Ah, here’s a spot. Now…what do I need from you…” Rohan’s brow furrowed as he tapped his chin with a fountain pen and looked at your sobbing face. His lip curled in disgust, “Let’s put that mouth to use. Open up,” Your eyes met his and you silently pleaded for mercy. Images of him forcing his way past your lips flashed before you, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to comply.

“I shouldn’t have to repeat myself,” Fury bubbled beneath Rohan’s calculated stare. After you continued to hesitate, he cupped his hand and put it to his ear, “What’s that? You’re begging me to paralyze you with my stand?” You shook your head furiously and opened your mouth for him, ashamed, “Good girl.”

Rohan walked over to you and unzipped his baggy trousers. With pen in hand, he fished out his half-hard member and let it hit your tongue. Fresh tears streamed down your cheeks. His thumb grazed your cheek, and for a moment you thought he might even take pity on you. He only smirked.

“Mess up my drawing, and I’ll throat-fuck you until you have to use a feeding tube,” Fear coursed through you as he started to draw, lightly thrusting his length along your tongue to allow it to fully harden. You barely breathed.

Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Rohan sketched the way his cock sat between your lips as if he were sketching a detailed flower. Nothing in his facial expressions betrayed the act in which he was participating. But he was certainly aroused. You fought back the urge to gag when salty pre-cum hit your tongue.

When he slapped the sketchbook closed, you jumped. The sick sense of security you felt while he was drawing melted, and terrified anticipation took its place.

“Get on all fours,” Reluctantly, you did as he said. He came up behind you and slid his hands along your inner thighs, “Spread your legs…Further,” Your face heated up with shame and rage as you felt him grasp the soft flesh of your behind. He toyed with it, massaging it and spreading it apart to examine your innermost parts.

“Wait!” You cried out as something prodded at your entrance. You lurched forward to escape him, but tumbled onto your dislocated shoulder. Rohan quickly caught your hips and dragged you back across the floor. A sharp slap resounded in the room as he reared back and spanked you as hard as he could, “Please, Rohan-”

“Please, Rohan,” He mocked, smacking you again, “Do you know how long I’ve kept myself from burying my cock inside of you?” Burning pain filled you as he thrust himself forward, plunging inside of you with his thick length. Your nails dug into the floor as you sobbed, begging him to stop.

His pace was instantly vicious, dizzying. It was painful, so incredibly painful, but your cries fell on deaf ears. He even chuckled as you writhed beneath him, trying desperately to get away. With a swift motion he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you to him so that your back stuck to his chest. His clammy hands enthusiastically grasped at your bouncing breasts.

“Don’t you wonder why…” He growled in your ear, rolling his hips against you, “…after all the ways I’ve taken you, why not here?” His hand moved from your chest to rub painful circles into your clit. His other hand slid up to your neck and gripped it so tightly that you could barely respond, “I don’t mean to sound sentimental, but I wanted you to remember it. A whore like you should be so lucky to be fucked by Rohan Kishibe.”

Finally, his thrusts slowed and he shifted the angle of your body. Though it was still painful, the new position allowed his dick to plant a cloying feeling deep within your core. Every time he penetrated you, it gave you pause. Combined with the more deliberate ministrations of his fingers on your clit, the realization dawned on you that you were dangerously close to orgasm. Your heart raced at the thought. You wanted to scream, but Rohan’s grip on your neck kept you near silent.

“Cum for me you little slut. I know exactly where your buttons are, so don’t try to fight it,” The world around you spun as lack of oxygen finally took its toll, and everything you had been fighting so hard to stop fell by the wayside. Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, little pinpricks of light dancing in your vision as your body trembled. Rohan cackled psychotically and let you drop to the floor.

While you came down from your high, Rohan fucked you harder. Your knees rubbed the floor painfully as he took you, slamming his cock deep within you again and again and again. You had no energy to hold yourself up, especially with just one arm, and you let him have his way with you as you silently cried.

His own orgasm wasn’t far behind. To your absolute shock he pulled out of you, digging the nails of his left hand into your thigh as his right milked out semen all over the skin of your back.

As soon as he released every drop of cum, there was shuffling behind you. You dared to glance down to see that he immediately went to grab his sketchpad to draw your freshly marked body and abused hole. You didn’t even need to be told to stay still.

When he was finished, he flipped you over. You yelped in shock as he grabbed your foot and held it up to where he could see the bottom of it. Pain shot through you as he took his fountain pen and sliced into the sole of your foot, cutting a thin line.

“There,” he panted, dropping your leg, “You didn’t really think that was our first time, did you?” He cast a smug smile your direction as your face dropped, “That’s it, that’s the face! Hold still,” He picked up the book beside him and quickly outlined your pained expression. He grinned as his pen flew across the paper, absolutely unhinged. “Anyway, of course you believed me. The only person more gullible than you is that buffoon Josuke.”

“But…I saw everything…” Rohan let out a genuine cackle.

“You remember what I let you remember, you stupid bitch. Why would I pass up the chance to break you anew every single day? To let you think that I still had one more line left to cross? The raw emotion…that’s truly art,” You thought you had run your tears dry, but more just kept coming. A choked sob left your lips as you dared to look at the bottom of your foot. It was covered in scars, some fresher than others. There must have been hundreds. Little tick marks that denoted how Rohan had used you time and time and time again.

Before you could process everything that happened, before you could curl up into yourself and howl at the indignity, Heaven’s Door had you between its grubby little hands. Rohan himself sauntered over and scribbled something on your cheek.

“Now, why don’t you go wash your filthy little hole and go to bed?” Your mind went blank as the world around you fell away. Rohan called out to you as you mindlessly lifted yourself up to walk to the bathroom as he bid you.

“Sweet dreams, [Y/n].” *all original work is my intellectual property. do not edit or re-upload.

[itsmeevie01]

Bio!Dad Bruce Wayne Day 4 -Habits

I just wanted to put a trigger warning up at the top. It's not very well discribed, because this was edited at 3 am, BUT. Marinette... Disassociates(?) Toward the end of this. I know that it's a little different than what people usually discribe for her, but I kind of based off my experiences I've had and experiences my best friend has had.

The sun started to peak its way through the windows as Dick Grayson made his way into the kitchen at the manor. It wasn’t often that he was able to come back for long stretches of time, but when he was, he enjoyed beating his family down. As he walked in, he blinked in shock. There sitting at the counter, was Marinette. His younger sister (who he was still mad at Bruce for hiding from him) was siting there happily chatting with Alfred as she sipped on a mug of coffee. She was already dressed and seemed too chipper for 5:30 in the morning.

 At the sound of him slinging himself into a chair, Marinette threw him a smile that made Dick squint in return. He huffed in response and latched onto the mug that was passed his way. There was a reason he made sure to be up before the others, after all.

Tim was settled with his laptop when Marinette maneuvered into the sitting room. In one arm, she had her sketchbook, a bag of pencils, and a cup of water. In the other arm, she had her computer, phone, and a tray that was holding four cups of coffee. When she set one down in front of Tim, he hummed in appreciation. She sent a smirk his way and added “a gift to the lord of the room” his responding

“Hey! Get back here Little Bit!” was met with laughter. She threw him a smile and arranged herself onto the opposing couch. He smiled at her and returned to his homework. This was his quiet time, and she knew that. Recently she had been making a point to spend time working in the same space with him when they both were busy. Both times she had come to visit since Thanksgiving, he had found himself working with the girl. Somehow, she always knew when he needed a break, and the thirteen-year-old girl made sure to pull his attention away for an appropriately short amount of time. He had often found over the last few weeks that he was sleeping better because of it too. Now, as he reached over to grab the coffee, she had brought him, he smiled. Maybe he could convince her to make a habit of this.

Every week his sister had been at the manor over the course of her winter break, Dick had been beaten to the kitchen. As he stumbled through the kitchen once again at an ungodly hour of the morning, he realized that he could hear Alfred and his sister talking quietly in the smaller dining room. As he made his way into the room, he could make out the tail end of their conversation, “-do know that they would be more than willing to let you talk about this, Miss Marinette. You do not have to carry this burden on your own.” The sound of a disbelieving snort followed.

“I know you keep saying that, Alfred, but I just…they all have such busy lives and there’s so much going on in Gotham and- “

“and you are still part of the family, Miss Marinette. Master Bruce is starting to worry about you, and Master Dick is starting to notice that you are avoiding the topic. Do not shut them out, when they can help you. This situation may need an outside touch.” When Alfred finished speaking, Dick decided that he had overheard more than he should have.

“Alfred? Are you in here?” When he called out for the older man, Dick watched with a cringe as little Marinette jumped at his voice. “Hey Net! I’m not sure if I should be jealous that5 you keep beating me down in the mornings!” as he teased her, he watched her eyes light up.

“Well, Dick, you try being the child of two bakers- “as the girl started her comeback, a groggy voice cut through the air.

“what the hell are you all doing up?” the three turned to see Tim standing in the recently vacated doorway, clutching his water bottle and looking around with bloodshot eyes. “it’s like, 2 am.” At Tim’s declaration, Marinette giggled.

“Tim? Its almost 6?” the look of shock that flashed over the boy’s face made Dick frown. Tim’s all-nighters were becoming more and more frequent. The way the teen stumbled out of exhaustion was worrying.

“Hey Timmy? Let’s get you to bed.”

In the week prior to Christmas, Bruce made it a point to try and come home earlier so that he could spend more time with both Marinette and Tim, who were both supposed to be enjoying their winter breaks. He knew, of course, that Tim had wheedled his way into doing extra course work over the holiday to cut down on time spent in school. That didn’t mean that he expected the boy to focus solely on the work. Imagine his surprise when he had come home to both of his teens settled in the sitting room working. Marinette was sketching furiously, while Tim was typing away on his laptop with a ferocity that would scare many of the villains that populated Gotham. Bruce blinked in shock before turning to find Alfred standing off to the side smiling.

“They have adjusted their habits so that they can bond even though this season is busy for the both of them, Master Bruce.” He turned back to his children and smiled at the two of them as they continued working, unaware of anything outside of the sitting room.

The next morning, when Dick came down, expecting to see his sister and Alfred, he was instead met with the sight of macaroons cooling on the counters. On the island, there were croissants, and on the stove, there were pans full of freshly baked sugar cookies. He blinked in concern and turned around the room searching. On the other side of the kitchen was his sister, standing over the sink, hands unmoving, as she gazed out at the slowly rising sun. Her eyes were unfocused, and as Dick made his way over, his eyes focused on the slight tremor that was running through her hands. “Net?” When he received no answer, he moved closer, “Marinette? Hey- “the girl moved, and Dick’s hand shot out and caught the bowl that she had been holding and set it down. Gently, he guided his sister out of the kitchen and led her into the sitting room, where they passed Alfred as he made his way down for the morning.

Once Dick had Marinette settled, he sat next to her and held out one of his hands, leaving the offer for comfort open as the girl blinked and started to look around in confusion.

One moment, Marinette had been starting on the dishes, the next, she was sitting on the love seat in the siting room next to her brother. The sharp poke in her side that had brought her out of her mind was one that she could only attribute to Tikki. As she sat there, adjusting to the change in location, Marinette took a deep breath to ground herself. She wasn’t expecting her brother to speak.

“Do you want to talk about it, Net?” The girl studied the Man sitting next to her for a moment. When she decided that she couldn’t find any hint of insincerity, Marinette nodded hesitantly and trained her eyes on her hands. They were twisting in her lap, working as a distraction and an outlet for the nervous energy that had been building up since August.

“I- “Dick waited patiently for the girl to collect her thoughts, “I love Paris, I really do. I mean- it’s the place I grew up! But. Well, recently.” She hesitated again. She looked up at him, with tears in her eyes. “everything is wrong!” The phrase tore out of her, and she clamped her mouth shut afterwards as her mind flew through damage control ideas. “I mean. Well. Everything is do tense. Too perfect. No one can feel anything!” When had she started crying? Marinette could have sworn that she had a better handle on her emotions after spending the last five months held emotionally hostage. As she started to devolve into true sobs, Dick pulled the girl into a hug, and she clung to him. For the first time in almost five months the girl was able to truly process what was going on in her home city.

When Alfred came to check on them 20 minutes later, he found the duo sitting curled on the couch. In the other doorway stood a shocked Bruce. Alfred smiled at the look of shock on the fathers face before the man strode over to join his oldest and his youngest. As Alfred turned to go back into the kitchen and finish making sense of all of Marinette’s baking, the man shook his head. Who knew that the habits that Marinette influenced would be the ones that would bring the Paris situation to light?

so, i plan on picking up in the same place for tomorrow’s prompt (overprotection) so i didnt resolve anything. i think i have the rest of the month plotted out as well! as soon as i have a day where im not stuck at work all day, im going to go through and put all of these in a master post, along with my other fic *ideas*. 

just so that i can also clear up any potential confusion, no. Damian is not yet present in this. yes. he will eventually. at this point, Marinette is 13, Tim is 15, Jason (who is going to be in the background for a bit still) is 19(ish) and Dick is either 24 or 25, i haven’t decided. I do plan on including more of the Batclan as i go...

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ THE DRAWING ❜

with Neron ‘Creeper’ Vargas.

Request: Hi lovely! No idea if this'll make it in for the first 10, but please can I request one with Creeper where you're a bar tender for the club but you draw in your free time. Creep has a crush on you and one day one of the guys tease you because they realise you're drawing Creeper and he defends you because he thinks its super sweet and then asks you out on a date? 💖

BY @mycupoffanfiction

Warnings: none.

Word count: about 1.5k

Aurora says: this writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: to my wonderful @sonsofeorl, who is making me such beautiful gifs ✨

Masterlist.

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“LOOK AT THAT!”

You were peacefully drawing before starting your turn at the clubhouse, sitting on a couch on the porch. In front of your pencil, Creeper was fixing something in the engine of his bike. Until Angel takes off your sketchbook from your hands, laughing and with the clear intention of teasing you, calling everyone attention. Jumping off from the couch, you try to grab it, but when he decides to raise his arm over his head, you know that you're fucked up. You have been badly in love with Creeper since you met him. He used to be extremely kind with you, always taking care of you of whatever you need, without having to ask for it, or without complaining about it.

“Angel, give it to me”. You have one hand on his left shoulder, jumping and trying to reach the sketchbook with the other. But he's so tall, that you can't grab it.

“WERE YOU DRAWING CREEPER?” He starts to laugh louder, feeling your cheeks burning and stopping every move of your body, to punch his chest.

You can't turn at Neron, really ashamed, running inside the clubhouse to hide yourself. Bishop and Taza look at you from the pool table a little confused, until they hear the conversation outside.

“Damn… It's really good”. EZ says, touring with his eyes every minimal detail.

“Let me see”. Gilly holds it after cleaning his hands, nodding in agreement. “She fucking drawn his tattoos, damn”.

“Hey, yo', shitheads!” Creeper takes the sketchbook of his huge fingers, closing it without looking at it. “Yo' fucking assholes, leave the kid in peace”.

“Carnal, you should see it”.

“If she doesn't show me, I'm not allowed to see it. Neither of you all”.

Knowing that you were drawing him really melts his heart, starting to think that maybe you too feel something about him. Walking towards the bar, the president moves his head pointing at the hallway to the dorms, making him nod just one time. But actually, he just has to follow your sobs and the curses in spanish to the closed bathroom.

You're sitting on the floor, against the wall, with both legs curled and surrounded by your arms. The only thought that crosses your head is that, if you could have any chance with him, Angel burned it down. You shouldn't draw him, at least, not without asking. And probably he must be thinking that you're crazy or that it's weird. Or both. You don't even know if you're going to look him at the face again.

The knocks on the door pushes you out of your thoughts, raising your crying eyes terrified. Breathing deep, you get up from the floor, walking slow to it. Slightly opening the door, a tattooed hand appears holding your sketchbook.

“Did you…?” You whisper with a low tone of voice, taking it.

“No, and I'm sorry about what Angel did”.

Finally, letting him see you, he clicks his tongue a little upset.

“I'm sorry too for… drawing you. I hope they don't annoy you for much long”. You have your gaze on your feet, unable to lift it up.

“Can you show it to me?”

Frowning confused, and narrowing your eyes, you look for the sketch with trembling fingers. Turning it under them, Creeper leans forward taking some seconds to admire it. He likes it. Actually, he likes it too much. You have drawn him perfectly, not knowing about your skills with a pencil. He's really fascinated, holding the sketchbook to look at it closer. As he heard Gilly, focusing somewhat better his orbs, he can see the tattoos on his neck perfectly placed over the paper. Even the badge of his Harley is on it.

“Didn't know you… can do things like that”.

“Tell me you're talking about the draw and not about being… creepy”. You mutter rubbing your nose, slowly raising your gaze towards his. The gesture on his face races your heart, with parted lips

He suddenly breaks into hoarse laughs, shaking his head, and you can swear that it's the best thing you have ever heard. Fleeting smiling you tear off the drawing to offer it to him.

“Keep it, if you like”.

“Really?” He asks slightly frowning, moving your hand close to him, insisting. “Yo! Mama… thanks. It's pretty cool. I mean… You draw in an amazing way”.

He holds it between both hands, smirking at you like a child who is receiving the best Christmas gift of his life.

“I was thinking that maybe you would like to share some beers, after finishing your turn”. You can notice how he's trying to hide the nerves in his voice, surprising you for both facts. For the invitation, and for his feelings.

“Ah… Yes… Yes, 'course!” Quickly answering, you nod taking a step to get out of the bathroom.

“'key. So you can tell me about this hobby”.

“Yeah, sure”.

“Cool, ah... I have to go back. See you later”. He says, leaning at you to kiss your cheek.

You can watch him walking away through the hallway, happily focused again on your draw. And you're not sure how to feel, but you're about to have a heart attack.

While working in the bar, serving beers and shots with EZ, you have caught Creeper some times looking at you from his seat, spending more time inside the clubhouse than outside, like it's not normal for him. But what makes you tickle in your stomach is the way he has to push away every Vicki's girl who tries to sit on his lap, or to sit too close to him. And maybe that means something.

“Hey, kid. Table”. Tranq appears through the glass door.

Checking the hour on the screen of your phone, you get somewhat nervous when you notice that your turn is already done. Palming EZ's back, you step out from the bar after cleaning your hands, leading your steps to the inside of the Templo. The olders are there, counting money and dividing it into four rows. One is yours.

“Sorry about Angel, querida”. Bishop says when you're close to him. You just shrug.

Putting inside an envelope your salary of the last two weeks, he offers it to you.

“Yeah, he's a little stupid sometimes”. Taza chuckles, surrounding your waist with an arm and resting his head on your other side.

“Nah, it's okay”. You reply, putting an arm on vice's shoulders.

“You okay with Creep'?”

“Yes, yes. Don't worry. We are gonna share some beers now”.

“Uh, I'm feeling jealous”. Che says laughing loud.

“Nah, you are my fav”.

“That shit hurts, kid”. Tranq adds with feigned annoyance.

“Go get your boy, kid. And enjoy”. Bishop says, before letting you go to have your own party.

The other Mayan is already waiting for you with two cold beers in his hand and a cig in the other, sitting on a sofa next to his brothers. You can feel the same nerves on him that inside you, when you finally meet again. He gets up showing you a huge smile, placing one of his tattooed arms around your back, ignoring a ‘you are welcome’ from Angel. He's actually very proud of what he did unconsciously, looking at you two stepping out from the clubhouse to the sofas on the porch. Falling down on it, you curl your legs over it and against your chest, grabbing one of the drinks to have a sip.

“Why did you start to write?” He finally asks, seeming so interested in it that your insecurities come up.

“My… parents used to fight every day when I was little. I was stressed, so I… started to scratch a paper with a pencil until it was totally black”.

Maybe it's not what he was expecting, but now he looks more focused in every word your vocal chords pronounce.

“But it started to be insufficient. And I found out that concentrating all my senses in drawing, it was like I was alone in the world. So, now it helps me to disconnect, whenever I feel low”.

“You weren't feeling okay this evening?” Creeper asks, sounding worried.

“Yeah, no… I was feeling okay, I mean… I was just stalling and you looked good fixing your bike”.

“Yeah, I saw that”. He can't help but laugh nodding, drinking from his beer after having the last smoke.

“Did they… tease you too much?”

“Nah, I don't care. At least, I earned some kind of date with you”. Crashing softly the two bottles, he makes a toast. “For the first of many more”.

“Okay, next time, I wanna talk about your tattoos”.

“That's gonna be a long one, mama”.

✨ Tag list:

@starrynite7114 ​ @chibsytelford ​ @dazzledamazon ​ @mara-mpou ​ @sammskellington ​ @gemini0410 ​ @1-800-imagines ​ @briana-mishell24 ​@sassymox @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @tita127 @ifoundmyhappythought @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @angelxshiba @destynelseclipsa @sheeshgivemeabreak @abbiesthings @knowles-morgan @lady-pswrld @minnicelli @marquelapage @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @jadesamhart @mycupoffanfiction @claytoncardenasbabymama @thesandbeneathmytoes @phoenixhalliwell @thewarriorprincessxo @sugary-x-sweet @multiyfandomgirl40 @imanerdychubbyqueen @iambabyharry @firebenderwolf @itsanofrommesir @noz4a2 @peaches007 @edonaspanca @irenne-stans @skyofficialxx @that-chick212

[taramikealson]

Just a random Drabble from WattPad. Klaroline edition (When is it not?).

The sun was just peaking over the horizon, shadows of the New Orleans skyscrapers tall buildings blocking the warm rays. Although, on the other side of the Big Easy in a particular house in the Quarter, sunlight cascades into the silent room, a lone antenna wire from a neighboring building leaving a shadow into the room that stretched across the old, yet well kept wooden floor. The shadow made its way up the far corner of the bed, over dark expensive covers and bulges where feet were.

The warm rays of orange heat made one of the bodies in the king sized bed stir. A long inhale and her lungs took in the sweet New Orleans air as her lips twisted into a smile. Shifting, the body under her murmured sleepily before settling back into the silence of sleep.

She moved her head to rest her chin against his solid chest, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the bright rays of sunlight the streamed in through the French doors of his room. Unable to help herself, her eyes wander the handsome face before her.

The sunlight had managed to barely reach his face, cutting his face diagonally up, one side in the shade of the dark room and the other lit up from the natural rays of the sun. His lips were relaxed in an almost ghost of a smile, forehead wrinkle-less, and eyelids closed, a once in a while motion under his eyelids would indicate of some sort of dream he was currently having. A sharp jawline was only intensified by the exceptional lighting, as well as all of his other overly handsome features; high cheekbones, strong chin, perfect neck, muscled shoulders, creamy skin, and all.

Normally, he'd be the one to wake up first. In some cases, he'd even be already out of bed. Most times it would be for business matters. 'The expectations of ruling over a city,' he would call his responsibilities. But in those other than often instances, he'd sit himself in the chair on the other side of the room and sketch. During those special mornings, she'd wake up to see him clad in the black boxer briefs that he seemed to favor as he peeked up at her every once in a while, most likely sketching her. She'd call him a 'stalker', he'd reply with an explanation along the lines of how it was the perfect lighting. Now, she understood the meaning to his words because, right now, he looked like he was glowing in the bright sunlight. He looked absolutely gorgeous, even though he already did, but she'd never admit that to him. He already had a big enough ego, no need to add onto it.

"What is it?"

His voice slightly startled her but she ended up smiling. She shouldn't have been surprised, he always knew when she was looking at him. Hell, he absolutely knew her. Knew when she was upset, disappointed, mad, sad, happy. She enjoyed his special ability to read her emotions even if it was a pain in the ass when she was mad at him and was choosing to try, and unfortunately fail, at punishing him.

She shook her head. "Nothing."

It was a lie. She could tell that she wasn't telling the truth by the small hesitation before she spoke. And if she could tell he could definitely tell.

His lips quirked up into a smirk, eyes still closed. She knew that smirk. In fact, he had all different kinds of smirks and she knew most of them. Like his 'I'm-Going-To-Kill-Someone' smirk, 'I'm-Going-To-Seduce-You-And-Then-Rock-Your-World smirk, 'I'm-Going-To-Do-Something-You-Don't-Like smirk, 'You're-Going-To-Die-Slowly-And-Painfully' smirk and his 'l-Know-Exactly-What-You're-Thinking' smirk. Right now, he was wear his 'I-Know-Exactly-What-You're-Thinking' smirk. God, did he look hot with that sly smirk.

"Liar." His accent drawls the word perfectly.

Caroline smiles. "Maybe I'm a little surprised that you're still here." She says. It's true. She was surprised to see him still in bed with her considering him and Marcel were still in the middle of a tug-of-war battle with the human faction and their leaders. In fact, he had been out every morning this whole week and had came back late some nights. Even Elijah saw how long Klaus was out and offered his services even though the two brothers were at odds for the moment.

As much as Caroline enjoyed having him here, in their room, in bed, she was suspicious.

Klaus opens his eyes and turns his head towards her, eyebrow raised. "I do live here, do I not?"

Caroline gives him a knowing look. Apparently, he was playing his favorite game of 'Let's-Be-Deflective'. God knows he's the best deflector in the world but, fortunately, she knows how to get through his mind games.

"You know what I meant."

He smiles and sets his head back on the pillow, hand creeping down her side.

"Can't I enjoy a morning with my beautiful blonde vampire?" His eyes hold a knowing gleam in them as his hand pauses on her upper thigh, thumb caressing her in light circles.

He was up to something, she knew it. She didn't know what it was, but she had to guess it would be at least a little dodgy considering it is him after all. "I'd believe that, except for the part where you're in the middle of a Whole-Owns-New-Orleans' fight with the mayor and the humans, in which is why I've been waking up alone every morning this week."

She satisfied when he sighs and swipes his tongue over his lips. Yup, she cornered him. It took the whole ten years that they've been together to learn how to, but the results make up for it. Of course, she needs to fine tune a few things to get the exact answer she wants out of him.

Giving in, he mutters an, "as you wish."

He begins to turn himself towards the side of the bed but looks back skeptically at her as if he was making sure she wasn't going to move from her place. Then, he reaches over to his wooden nightstand, one in which he always held his sketchbook and a few extra pencils for when he decided to wake early and sketch her, and pulled the drawer open.

Caroline watched as he grabbed something small from it then closed the drawer and settled back into his spot next to her. He pulled himself up a little and she did the same, making sure to hold the covers close to her body -not because she was embarrassed to be naked in front of Klaus (hell, she had come accustomed to his 'I-Like-You-Better-With-Nothing-On' attitude) but because of the slight cool morning breeze that came from the open French door in their room graced by what the Louisiana winter gave.

She thought it vaguely unusual when she saw the black velvet material of the small jewelry box in his hands. It was hardly rare of him to purchase her gifts every now and then or after a fight when he felt bad when his pride wouldn't allow him to properly apologize. Although, the difference between those instances and now is that he'd always leave them somewhere. Her vanity, her pillow, her nightstand. He never made a show to give her a present, so what was so different about this one that garnered the special occasion?

He cupped the top of the box and opened it so she could see what was inside.

Her eyes went wide and a hand went over her mouth in shock.

Sat in the pocket of the jewelry box was a ring. Not any kind of ring, but a vivid pink diamond ring with a an engraved silver band. It was the most beautiful rings she had ever seen in her life.

"Oh my, God."

Her eyes parted with the ring and connected to Klaus' blue orbs. His eyes danced around her face, picking up on how she was reacting, but they stayed on her eyes. When he spoke, his voice was soft and had a tinge of nervousness to it. She had never known him to be nervous.

"I'd planned to do this over a romantic dinner in an even more romantic city with a little more flair, but I felt lamentable and couldn't continue omitting to you." Klaus admits with a slight wavering look in his eye like he was contemplating on doing something.

His Adams-apple bobbed in his throat after a hard, nervous swallow. He pulled himself up a little farther making the expensive sheet slide down his torso and crumpled up at his waist leaving his toned chest on display unintentionally.

"Caroline Elizabeth Forbes," he begins to say. Caroline is just in pure shock with her eyes wide as his lips continued to move. "Marry me."

Her heart skipped a few beats or maybe a dozen. It was a statement. Of course, it was a statement. Klaus always had a finite way of saying things and 'asking' for things. In fact, he hardly ever asked for anything, because that was how he was. He didn't ask for permission, he took it and did with it what he wanted. Although, this time was difficult. Caroline knew it and Klaus knew it. This was a symptom, if you will, of who he was and how he spoke. He wasn't traditional. He was anything but. That's why Caroline loved him.

He sat there for a moment, barely breathing in anticipation as she looked wider eyed at him. Then, she snapped out of her shock and let out a joyful noise that was close to a laugh. "Yes! Oh my, God! Yes!"

Klaus hardly had time to move the small box from his hand and to his lap before Caroline was in him. Lips smashed against his and he gladly and happily reciprocated. He let out a delighted hum as his hand dove into her messy, sex-rumpled, blonde locks.

A wetness on his cheek had him pulling away to see happy tears leaving an even happier Caroline's eyes. Her smile was bright as overjoyed, short, laughs escaped her lips. Klaus' eyes softened and his lips turned into a wide smile as his heart leaped in his chest.

"I love you."

"And I, you."

A joyful half-sob half-laugh tumbles from her lips.

Klaus breaks the strong connection that is their gaze and looks down to the small velvet box in his lap. He picks it up and displays it to her again. "Shall I?" He asks with a smirk and she excitedly nods with a few tears flowing down her cheeks.

The Original plucks the ring from its pocket and discards the empty box to his nightstand a little carelessly. He then pulls Caroline's left hand up and slide the silver band over her ring finger. Klaus allows her to pull her hand away to inspect the beautiful piece of jewelry. Her eyes take in the deliberate and precise cuts of the pink jewel until they land on the small, delicate engraving that was so subtle it would hardly be noticed.

"Your Last." She whispers, finger tracing over the italicized letters. Caroline almost chokes up at the sentiment, remembering the exact words -no, promise, that he had murmured at her graduation.

Klaus' hand settles on her thigh under the covers, fingers tracing delicate, imaginary lines that only seemed to soothe her. "The diamond, Liz Mundi, was about to be swiped off the auction floor in November before I pull a few uncongenial strings." He then nods to the ring and takes her hand in his to feather his thumb over the silver of the ring. "The band, however, I had made. I won't fault you for not recognizing it being that the last time you held the ring it had nearly been half decade ago."

Her eyes widen. It was January and he has had this ring since November. He'd had it for nearly two months. Normally, it wouldn't be that long for a normal man who was going to propose to his girlfriend. Granted, they were no conventional couple. In fact, he refused to be called her 'boyfriend' and call her his 'girlfriend'. Instead, he would refer to her as 'his' and she'd finally caved and called him 'hers'. As well as that, she knew he hated lying to her, he had only done it a couple of times, and he could be extremely inpatient and impulsive. It wasn't quite like him to keep something under wraps for a week from her, no less a couple months. That is how she knew it had been extremely important to him to make sure that he proposed at the right time. Also, he had used his thousand-plus year old daylight ring. He had the lapis lazuli torn out of it and resized just for her. She knew how much the ring meant to him and she could barely understand how he could do that for her.

"You had this in your nightstand for two months?"

"Well...," he begins with a self-satisfied grin. "At first I had kept it on my person but I thought twice of it."

Then, Caroline goes quiet. Her eyes wandering to the material of his pillow behind him, her mind clearly focused on something else. Klaus tilts his head about to ask her if there was something wrong but she opens her mouth hesitantly.

"Why?"

"Well, as of keeping it on me, you do have a tendency of having wandering hands and-," he's cut off when she shakes her head.

Her eyes return to his. "No, what I mean is, why ask me to marry you?"

The Original blinks. "I was under the impression that this is what couples in love do, is it not? Do you question my solicitude for you?"

Again, Caroline shakes her head, putting her hand on top of forearm. "No, I don't have any doubt that you love me. It's just whenever I brought up marriage or regular human relationship stuff, you'd dismiss it and call it 'trivial human traditions'. It makes me wonder if you know the weight of what you are doing. I mean, this is it. Once you do this, you can't exactly go back."

It's true. She had an inkling of a fear that this was one of Klaus' acts of impulsivity and that after a year or so, he'd find out that he no longer felt the same way. He wouldn't really be that trapped by marriage because she doubts that he'd officiate it through the government considering they are immortal. But, there could be a possibility that he'd be hesitant to call things off with her or that he'd be miserable because of the weight of being a married couple.

"Caroline." He calls, bringing her out of her thoughts, a small sighs exiting his lips.

"When I spoke those words, nearly four years ago, I had no vision of what truly being with you meant. It was different going from country to country than residing here, in New Orleans -our home, with you by my side, in our room, our bed, the large amount of time that we have granted together, in which gave ample moments to fight over trivial things like my unscrupulous tendency to leave you in the middle of the night or your habit of over analyzing every bloody thing." She arches her brow at the last part of his small speech and he lets out a short chuckle before raising his arm, pulling a stray curl behind her ear. "You worry that I haven't thought this through quite enough, perhaps your right. But, I am not mistaken when I tell you that I will not bore of you. Never."

He lets a smile creep into the curve of his lips. "We may fight and have a myriad of hinderances, but I intend to stay by your side."

Caroline's eyes search his as he sits up a little and cups her face with one hand and the other rests on top of her delicate hand. "Caroline, love, my decision is anything but rash. I want your voice to be the first I wake to, your moral compass the guidance I go to, your smile when you discover new and intuitive things. I crave you. I want all of you, always." He pauses as his gaze softens. "My love, I want you when you challenge me to be a better man, when we first wake, when we are at the most beautiful of places in the world, when you throw your fierceness and criticism my way, and when you try to impress me by putting on your best lingerie and seduce me even though you're already more bloody seductive than the God of Seduction herself." He chuckles the last part out as Caroline lets out a huff of a laugh, a tear escaping her eye.

The pad of his thumb brushes away the stray tear with a smile. Caroline's heart jumped in her rib cage. It wasn't rare for Klaus to express his affection physically but, it was indeed very rare for him to admit it vocally, as well as actually tell her that he loved her. But, it didn't ever, really, bother her, she understood that he wasn't completely comfortable with saying the words. As good as he was articulating a threat, he was lost when it came to affection, in which she doesn't blame him. So, to say it touched her to hear him say those things is a total understatement.

"Me too."

The smile grows on his lips.

"Well, then. Do you have a specific place in mind for the reception, Mrs. Mikealson?"

Caroline laughs before lightly nudging his chest making him fall back on his pillows in compliance. She hums and straddles his waist, hands gliding up his solid chest. "I was thinking... Paris. Do you have any disagreements, Mr. Mikealson?"

Klaus growls when she pulls her lip in between her teeth. He then takes hold of her waist and flips them over causing her to make an excited and shocked noise fall from her lips. "That sounds so sexy falling from your beautiful lips." His low voice whispers into The collarbone that he chooses to lay delicate kisses on.

As he continues with his journey along her shoulders, her hands roam the expanse of his muscled back, nails lightly scraping the skin on his shoulder blades.

"Does that mean I have authority to call you Niklaus?"

His body lets out a subtle shutter as his hand tightens around her hip.

"Bloody hell, woman."

"Is that a 'yes' to Paris?"

He pauses his assault on her shoulders and instead places his forehead there, most likely trying to think of his available options.

"Niklaus."

She feels his eyes close at his full name coming from her mouth and she giggles. That was the hook and sinker.

"Yes."

She gasps and he looks up. He expects to see her wide-eyes and content expression but instead his eyes close when she presses her lips to his. Her fingers tangle in his shirt curls, turning his head to gain more of him. Klaus groans as their tongues meet, his skillfully battling hers in an endless war that neither will win.

Unfortunately, she pulls away right when he was about to take it a step further. Caroline places her hands on his chest to keep him from kissing her again.

"I have to call my mom."

Klaus furrows his brows. "You can tell her later."

"Yeah, no. I'm calling her now. She'll probably already be pissed because you proposed without her here."

He cocks his head to the side. "I'm not sure she'd be quite fond of seeing her daughter fornicating with her future son-in-law."

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever." Caroline then crawls out from underneath him and stands up from the bed. Klaus falls back first onto the bed with a sigh as he watched Caroline pick up his discarded Henley and reach into her jeans for her pants. He can't help the smile from forming on his lips. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't content. For centuries he had thought his life was going to be full of trying to gain power, battling his enemies, continuing his bachelor lifestyle. He is now so bloody thankful that he met Caroline Forbes -correction, Mikealson.

Caroline Mikealson.

Caroline Mikealson.

He was in love. Happy, content -as he will ever get to be with some enemies still out there, but content nonetheless.

May God have mercy on him. He'll need it, but, by God, he will take the life with Caroline with a smile.

[bri-anne-not-neville]

dancing under red skies - one

the wolf that waited at the edge

"I want everything back, the way it was. but there is no point to it, this wanting"

Margaret Atwood

--

In life there are these moments. These crystal clear moments where you knew without a doubt that nothing would ever be the same again. And all of that happiness you had once felt so intensely would be eclipsed by this tight darkness that wove itself around you, that pushed against you until you thought you might suffocate from the pressure. And there it would stay, a perpetual reminder of what you may never have again.

This was one of these moments.

When you stand solemnly, head bowed, maybe in prayer, as a body is lowered into the ground. And you only vaguely register the hysterical sobbing of the people that loved him. That loved him the same way you did, maybe even more.

And you'll grip your mother's hand tightly, perhaps, to reassure her because between the screaming and the tears she's definitely not breathing right, but maybe it's to make sure you can still feel things. Just to make sure that you're still rooted so irrevocably to this Earth nothing can steal you away. Not even this grief.

I hate crying in front of people, but today, I cry, and I cry, and I cry. I let the tears slide down my cheeks and I don't care who sees it. Because I will never see my dad again.

While my tears are silent, save for the sporadic breathy hiccups that force its way out of my throat, my mother's is the opposite. Nothing about her suffering is silent. She clutches at her throat like she can't breathe. She bends over lower with each wail like she can't believe the coffin is being lowered into the ground without her.

My mother wraps her arms around herself and grips the bare flesh of her forearms so tightly the little half moon crescent's left behind bleed. My aunt Emily's hands hover precariously above her shoulders.

And as I watch my mother come undone I know I will never forget this moment.

--

By the time my mother composes herself everyone is gone, save for my aunt, and her fiance. Emily clasps my mother's hands in her own, and Sam stands protectively behind her. Not for the first time I wonder how they ended up together, he's so much larger than her, and his face seemed forever stretched into a scowl.

I could only hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

"Come home… Eva, you know you aren't safe anymore…" Emily's usually pleasant voice came out in a harsh whisper. Her large doll-like eyes glistened with unshed tears. She was still so beautiful despite the large crooked scar that traveled from temple to chin.

Sam's voice came out in a low grumble, too quiet for me to hear, at any rate. My mother's head bobbed along to whatever they were saying lethargically. I knew what they were talking about had to be important, and that I should want to know more about it but I couldn't bring myself to care.

Instead I circled the freshly churned dirt.

Golden leaves crunched beneath my feet noisily. Parts of the soil were moist and while I was walking primarily on solid ground I couldn't fight the feeling that I was sinking.

The wind picked up and sent a swirl of red brown leaves spiraling. In the distance the horizon was an unbroken line of trees that twisted and reached unanimously for the sky. Save for a large dark mass of fur.

At first I thought it was a bear, and my heart dropped in the pit of my stomach. But on further examination it wasn't a bear at all.

It was a wolf.

However, It did very little to calm the incessant beating of my heart. My instinct was to run at first, to gather up my broken mother and finally go home, but the wolf wasn't moving. He sat there patiently, like maybe he was waiting for something.

I inched closer until I didn't have to squint to make out the details, the fur on his chest was a light brown that traveled down his back into a brown so dark it could have been black. His eyes were a burnt orange, unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Its large head tilted to the side, akin to that of a dog. His ears twitched and large rounded eyes met mine.

Come closer, they begged. Come see what I'm hiding.

Without thinking I took a step, and then another. Forever inching closer to the edge. You're going the wrong way, my brain pleaded, turn around, turn around, turn around.

"Maggie!"

Like that the spell was broken, I whipped around so quickly it hurt my neck. Sam was glaring in my direction, at me or behind me, I didn't know. Emily watched cautiously; her face unreadable. Tears still fell freely down my mother's cheeks, but she was using her stern, I-am-your-mother voice.

"Don't go wandering off, you know better than that." Her words startled me, or maybe not her words but the annoyed undertone that punctuated the silence.

"I-I'm sorry… but…" the words were slow and apologetic, I pointed half-heartedly to the expanse of trees that stretched across the skyline in front of me. There's a wolf. I want to say, and I don't know why but I think he wants me to get closer. My mother's brows furrow together in confusion, and Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow as if to challenge my sanity.

When I look again the wolf is gone, trees spill across the horizon in uninterrupted waves of mossy green. Maybe grief was making me crazy.

--

When we get home that night nobody does much talking. Save for Emily's occasional idle chatter, Sam grunts out a response, but my mother is too heart sick to do even that, instead she picks at her food and stares blankly ahead.

"I think I'm going to head up to bed." My voice is a little hoarse from misuse, and I have to clear my throat to make the words come out clearly. Normally, I wouldn't be allowed to excuse myself, and I wait for my mother to say something, to call me back to the table. But she doesn't even flinch. I carried my uneaten plate of food to the kitchen, it was a shame I wasn't hungrier, Emily really was an amazing cook.

"Oh, sleep good Maggie." Emily gave me a sympathetic smile as I rounded the corner back into the dining room, my mother nodded numbly along with her. I couldn't blame her. I had never seen two people more in love than my mother and father. I lost a dad, but she lost something so much more.

My room was a mess, usually I keep it very clean, but the past few weeks had been a frenzy of crying and screaming and breaking things. As a result, my favorite belongings lay strewn across the floorboards. My latest sketchbook lay motionless face down underneath a few of my old stuffed animals and t-shirts.

I shrug off the black dress I'd been wearing previously and change into pajamas, I don't bother picking it up. I leave it on the floor and I let it rot. Hot tears prick at the back of my eyes but I force them down. I don't look at that dress, the dress that meant my dad was gone for good now.

I curl up on my bed and wrap the covers around myself, and for the first time since I heard the news I pick up my sketchbook and I draw. I've been drawing for what feels like forever. Since I could hold a pencil I was doodling. My father always doodled along with me. My fondest memories are of us painting together.. He bought me every single sketchbook I've ever owned.

"Don't know where you get that talent from girlie," He'd say, but he'd pick up his brush and he'd try anyways. His colors would be muddy and he liked to flick paint on me but every time without fail he'd set his canvas up to mine and asked what we were painting. "I sure as hell can't draw, and don't ever tell her I said this but neither can your mother. We're the same in that way."

"And how are we the same, Daddy?" I would ask, and even then I wanted so desperately to have something in common with him.

"Well, Maggie," He'd humm softly and glob a disgusting brown on his pure white canvas, he'd scratch his cheek and his lips would quirk up. His eyes crinkled at the edge and he'd make his voice soft for me, "we're cave dwellers you and I."

I didn't realize I was crying until the tear stained paper ripped. I pressed the eraser into the paper hard. And for a moment I have an insane urge to rip every single piece of paper out of my sketchbook. But this is the last thing my dad ever gave me; did I really want to destroy it?

Yes, a part of me screamed. A part of me wanted to split the book in two, I wanted to feel the resistance of something held together by more than glue break beneath my fingertips.

Instead I snap the book shut and toss it to the floor, out of sight, out of mind, right? I don't want to do something I'm going to regret.

I flick the bedroom light off and I put on my headphones, I press play and I turn it up to full volume. I let the music scream at me, at first it hurts my ears but slowly I become desensitized to it. The vibrations travel down my spine in ripples of magnetic shock waves. I let myself get lost in the music, in the loud screaming, in the rasp of the lead singer's voice. And for a moment I can almost pretend everything's okay.

I'm at the cemetery again, it takes a long time to register that maybe I shouldn't be. It's dark out now and the tombstones are bathed in shadow and moonlight, birds dance across the stone. A devastating tango.

I search for my father's grave; the stones stretch upwards for miles. A sense of urgency abruptly fills my bones, away, get away, my brain screams. I take a step forward, the mud gripping my shoes makes it hard for me to move. It's like wadding through water, but I force myself to take the next step. And then another.

I don't know how many steps I take until I finally crest the hill, but I make it to the top, sobbing and breathing and muddy but at the top all the same. And there at the end of all things was the dense wood. Shrouded in darkness, the watery moon shone directly on a dark mass of fur. A spotlight made of bone and blood.

The wolf took a tentative step forward, my heart hammered dangerously in my chest. I could feel every angry beat. The wolf took another step, and then another. Gradually his soft padding turned into a break-neck run.

I tried to take a step backwards, but the mud was working and winding itself up my exposed legs pulling my down. Angry music screamed in the background.

This is chaos.

Still the wolf angrily charges forward, not deterred by the music or the sinking even though the mud tries to take him too. He's so close now I can see every little detail I'd missed earlier.

Finally, he stops in front of me. Nose to nose we stand. He's so much bigger than I thought he'd be, and even if I wasn't sinking, he'd still tower over me. His wet nose presses against my cheek.

And it's enough. It calms the thump, thump, thump of my heart.

I bolt upright, the headphones are slightly askew and my head hurts from crying. I push them down until they rest around my neck and I press a firm hand to my chest. Be still, I pleaded. Each inhale is sharp, and it takes a long time for me to calm down.

My free hand twitches at my side, asks, no begs for me to draw the wolf. To try and capture him, even if it's only a small part of him. It doesn't have to be whole, nothing's ever whole at first.

My hand twitches again, and again until it's almost painful. I don't bother turning on the light, I rummage hap hazardously for my sketchbook, but for some reason I can't find a pen. I have more pens than I know what to do with.

I rummage through drawer after drawer slamming each one closed when I can't find what I'm so desperately looking for. I slam my fist against my desk in unfiltered anger and let out a cry.

Slowly, so slowly, a single pen rolls across the flat mahogany surface of my desk and I cry even harder in relief.

I snatch the pen up, and I clutch it to my chest tightly. My fingers tips turn white from the pressure, but I have to know it's still here, that it won't disappear at any moment. I plop on my bed and I get to sketching, they're scratchy outlines at first. But that's what every drawing starts off as. A line.

I chisel away at the details, I get it wrong multiple times. The leg is a little too large, the head's too small. I keep chipping away though, I think of my father's unfailing determination. Slowly it becomes the wolf that had waited patiently at the edge. For what, I would probably never know.

[eternaljouska]

The Face of the Moon - Kwon Soonyoung

Pairing: Soonyoung x Reader

Genre: Hurt-Comfort, Highschool!AU (barely-there-background-info only)

Word Count: 1,678

The land breeze that sways your hair sneaks around and embraces you in its cold, prompting a shiver down from the back of your neck to your bare feet. It is foolish, you admit, going out to the beach like this: two hours past midnight, thin sweater over your basic tees and shorts, and your shoes neglected on your side. You hadn’t wandered to the beach after you’re roused from your slumber by some nightmares. You had come with a purpose, your calling on nights when sleep doesn’t come easy.

You’re sitting down on the sand with your knees held close to your chest, supporting the small sketchbook atop of it. There’s a set of watercolor paints on your right and a bottle of water standing beside your shoes. The first stroke of your brush paints dark blue on your blank paper. You don’t bring any pencil to outline the picture in your head. You only bring a pen for your finishing, for the words over the painting. But that’s fine, you don’t need an outline. The image that you have is just a poor modification of the sea and the sky in front of you. It’s fine.

But Soonyoung knows that you’re not. Every time you take out your sketchbook, he’s always anxious. It has become such a strange instinct for him. The way your eyes dim but are raging with fire at the same time, it’s unsettling. In the class, you sit in the back corner, your eyes always watching. Even last night, at the buffet signaling the start of the fancy trip the school has, you’re sitting alone, the three chairs around your table have been long since dragged away by people who have too many on their groups. Soonyoung noticed that, but he stayed in his own corner, figuring out ways to finally see you. That’s why when he caught sight of you from his balcony, leaving the hotel at two in the morning with your sketchbook and paint set in one hand and a water bottle in the other, he’d been quick to grab his jacket and followed you out.

You’re less than twenty steps away from him, but now you’re already stopping, and Soonyoung stops also. He watches how you lay everything beside you, even your shoes. You throw your gaze to the sea at the same time as the breeze skims through his uncovered skin. It’s a few moments later that he realizes you have started on your painting, the dance that your hair does with the wind evidently distracting for him.

Soonyoung takes steps upon careful steps until he’s standing right behind you. He waits silently until he can see the idea of a clear sky and just as clear sea, except for four things: the yellow moon in the middle of the sky, a silhouette of a person in the middle of the sea and both of their reflections on the water. You’ve begun writing at that time, and he remembers that it means your painting is finished. That’s what he sees you usually do, scribbling something that’s too long to only be a signature before finally closing your sketchbook.

She’s almost done.

He lowers his body and moves his head to the side to peek around you, trying on his subtlety as best as he can to read your writing, which is not easy considering his poor eyesight.

The girl swims to the open ocean, one hand raising up once in a while, bidding several hellos to the mourning sky. Her face is the light of the moon itself, magnified.

Soonyoung stares at the figure on your painting once again and understands. The reflection of the moon that he thought falls onto the surface of the water in front of the girl, lands on that girl’s face instead.

Her face is the mirror of the moon as much as the sea is of the sky. As the waves guide her closer to the stomach of the ocean, the moon grows bigger and fills her dark pupils, and then she raises both of her hands—

His reading’s interrupted by your abrupt action of snapping shut the sketchbook. Soonyoung audibly curses, a millisecond too late to realize that you’ve known all about his presence behind you. You gather your stuff in a hurry, and without sparing him any word or even a glance you walk away from Soonyoung.

“Y/n, wait! You’re not finished yet!” Soonyoung calls out, utterly baffled seeing the turn of the events. He rushes to you and was about to grab your hand when he has a second thought after seeing your expression. “Hey, where are you going? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your personal space or anything. I know it’s none of my business, but I was just curious. I saw you walking out of the hotel and followed you. Y/n, please, stop for a second. I just wanna know what happens next, on your writing.”

You halt and turn around all in a split of a second, taking Soonyoung completely by surprise. “Stop that. Because like what you said, it’s none of your business. And stop following me.” You spin around and start to walk away once again, but Soonyoung gets to you first.

“We stay in the same hotel. I know your room. I know your house. We’re in the same class. You know how consistent I can be. Just- let me know what will happen, and I’ll leave you alone.” Soonyoung knows how creepy he sounds, and he can see that on the way you furrow your eyebrows, but he’s desperate. He knows it in his heart that the girl in your painting is you, and that somehow, if he knows what you have for that girl, ultimately, he’ll be able to see you.

“Why are you so stupid and annoying, huh? She’ll drown! If that’s not clear enough for you.”

Soonyoung drops his hand and takes an involuntary step back. “What?” he gasps out, his brain cannot accept the answer you gave him. “Wait, that- that doesn’t— Hey! Wait! Tell me one more thing, please? Y/n, please? Y/n!”

Your steps falter at his pleas, and you turn around. “What?” you ask curtly.

“Why… Why is she swimming that far?”

“It’s the moon. She wants to embrace the moon.”

And again, your answer confuses him. “That- that doesn’t make any sense.”

Soonyoung voice is faint and grave, but his eyes on you are unyielding. The moonlight catches on his dark orbs, and you can see that what he has is beyond just simple curiosity. After all, you know Soonyoung. He’s a vibrant presence in your dull class. Everybody would notice when he’s absent. You’ve watched him, the way you watch everyone else. And more often than not, you’d catch him looking. But he always stays in the comfort of his corner in the front of the class, surrounded by his friends. Everyone seeks him out, and sometimes you fall into the habit of wondering what it feels like to be sought out like that. You don’t need everyone, obviously, since it’s difficult enough to get one. For that reason, when you noticed a shadow of another head on your sketchbook, you’d been frightened rather than surprised. You snapped your sketchbook closed and rushed to gather your belongings before jumping up to your feet and walked hastily back to the direction of the hotel.

For a second, when you heard his voice calling out for you, you’re confused. You hadn’t expected anyone to actually seek you out, not at that moment, and not by him. Although, his explanation told you enough that everything that’s happening was entirely by chance, which somehow transformed your confusion into a rage. But then, looking at him staring at you like that, your stomach clenches at the familiarity of his gaze. He’s always looking at you with that same gaze, only this time, despair is clearly written on his eyes. You understand what he’s doing—what he’s been doing all this time. And your eyes suddenly burn. “It does. It makes sense.” You give him one last look before you trudge away from him, eyes already wet with newly formed tears.

“It doesn’t. How— Why? I can’t- I can’t understand why she would—“

“What is so hard to understand, Soonyoung?!” you snap at him, one hot tear finally escaping your eyes. “Why is it so hard for you to see that she’ll drown, huh? The moon won’t get any closer no matter how far she’ll swim, and the ocean gets deeper the farther she goes, and nobody—nobody—on the shore cares enough to notice she’s gone. There’s nobody- there’s nobody on the shore, Soonyoung.”

“How would she know that?” Soonyoung asks softly as he takes several long strides towards you. “How would she know whether someone’s on the shore or not? She’s too focused on the moon above her, how would she know?”

You stare up at him despite your glassy eyes and recognize the truth on his words. You catch your lower lip under your teeth, a frail attempt to prevent your sobs from forcing out of your throat. It takes you too long to realize what’s happening, too transfixed on his gaze that the fact that you’re not holding it anymore fazes you. You gasp as you feel Soonyoung’s hands snake around your body, replacing the cold of the land breeze and holding you close to his warmth. A shiver runs down from the back of your neck to your bare feet once again, now because of an absolutely different reason.

“Don’t drown, please,” he whispers, and you feel your sobs heighten at those three words. You wrap your arms around him and cry all of your unshed tears. When you’re done and your puffy eyes start to hurt, Soonyoung loosens his hold on you, trying to meet your eyes as he says with his infamous smile, “I’m here. I’ll be on your shore. I’ll rent a speedboat out to save you, okay?”

1. Happy birthday jungkookie (lol I know this is not even a bts fic, but still) I’m sorry I kinda give up on birthday fic

2. Kyeomie is so precious, please protect

3. I scrolled down kristian-do’s blog so much I might swerve bias to Jeonghan (no, duh, who are we talking about here, but man, he’s beautiful)

3. Hoon in horangi’s shirt (GET WELL SOON BBY)

that’s all. goodbye. (this is an inside joke only i understand. lame.)

alright, hope you like this one~ i’m sorry i blabbered

[verai-marcel]

Before This Dance Is Through (RDR2 Fanfic, Chapter 3 of 3, Arthur x Fem!Reader, 18+ ONLY)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

AO3 link is right here.

----------------------

Chapter 3 - Dance Into My Heart

He gave you his address and told you where the guest parking was at his apartment complex. When you got there, he was waiting for you, walking you up the stairs and letting you into his small studio apartment. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but you didn’t expect the photos of people on the walls, the rustic furniture, the vase of flowers on his table.

Walking up to one of the photos, you recognized Javier and Charles, standing with Arthur in front of some motorbikes. They all looked young, probably somewhere in their late teens. A man with a mustache and slicked back hair stood behind them with his arms crossed, like some kind of gang leader. Like a modern day Fagin and his pickpocketing orphans.

“Wow. Looks like you guys were a biker gang,” you said jokingly, glancing at him over your shoulder.

Arthur just shrugged, but didn’t comment. You made a mental note to ask him more later. Turning to face him, you smiled and stuck out your hip with your arms akimbo. “So, was there a reason you brought me here?” You winked.

“Did I need one?” He moseyed closer to you, his steps deliberate, heavy with purpose. He knew what he wanted, and he was coming to get it. Standing before you, he cupped your face in his warm hands and leaned in, his eyes watching you to see if you would back away.

You closed your eyes and parted your lips in an open invitation. He accepted, starting with a soft touch, gently coaxing a moan from you as the kiss grew like a wildfire, the passion burning between you two growing ever hotter. Hands wandering, you started to unbutton his vest.

“You sure, darlin’?”

“Yes, more than anything.”

Arthur hummed and helped you take off his vest, then his shirt. You let out a sound of utter need as you ran your hands over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his warm skin. He reached behind you and unzipped your dress, watching raptly as it slid down your body, revealing your sexy black bra and lace panties that you had worn just in case. You were glad you had, because he let out a shaky breath before he bent over to kiss your breasts, kneading them in his hands before he unhooked your bra and slid it off of you so he could lick your nipples, one after the other. 

Then you felt his hands on your waistband, sliding your panties down your hips, letting it fall down your legs, before he gently caressed your sex. You parted your legs for him, and he dipped a finger inside of you.

“Wet for me, sweetheart?”

You could only moan as he stroked you, pleasuring you with his hands as he kissed you. He slowly walked you backwards until you fell onto his bed with a surprised gasp and a shy giggle. Bending over to help you sit up, Arthur caressed your cheek as he stood up straight and slowly started to take off his belt. 

Watching him sexily strip his belt off, you smiled at the fact that you were at eye level with the top of his pants. You looked up at him and licked your lips as you undid his fly and tugged his jeans and his boxers down his hips.

His cock almost slapped you in the face as it bounced free, and you eagerly grabbed it and stroked it lovingly. God, he was so thick. And long. You felt your core pulsing with need as you opened your mouth and took him in, keeping your gaze locked onto his as you did so.

“Fuck,” was all he could utter as you sucked on him, swirling your tongue all around his sensitive skin and making sure that he felt as much pleasure as possible. You felt his hand fisting your hair but not forcing you to take more than you could. However, his hips bucked forward, making you pull back and cough softly. 

“Sorry darlin’,” he said, pulling out of your mouth. “Felt too good. Better we do somethin’ else before I completely lose control.”

He shed all of his clothes and maneuvered you further up the bed before climbing on top of you, rubbing his cock along your wet entrance. Then he backed away and you whimpered. He reached past you, searching his night stand.

“I need a condom.”

You stared at him, wanting him raw, but you didn’t really know his history. “Are… you… um…”

“I’m clean. But I don't want to risk you gettin' pregnant.”

You let out a breath. “It's okay, I'm clean too, and I'm on the pill.” You put a hand on his cheek, felt the stubble and watched him lean into your touch like a cat. "Take me raw."

"You sure?" 

"Yes. Do you not want to?" 

He kissed you as his answer as he started to push himself inside of you, taking you slowly so you could stretch around his thick length. You moaned, feeling so filled when he finally bottomed out.

Arthur buried his face in your neck and inhaled. “You feel so damn good. I never want to leave.” He started to roll his hips, starting slow and steady as he made love to you. Never rushing, almost languid in his movements until you wrapped your arms and legs around him and begged.

“Please, please Arthur, harder, faster! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Arthur immediately ramped up his thrusts, giving you exactly what you needed. He was a strong man, and he pounded you into the mattress, growling in your ear like an animal in heat that you had unleashed with your desire. 

“Yes, yes, use me!” you pleaded.

His hand wrapped around your throat and his other hand grabbed your hair. Feeling the pressure of his hands, the tug on your scalp, you almost came from it, crying out with joy as you kept begging for more.

Arthur sat back on his haunches and flipped you over onto your stomach. “Want it rough, darlin’?”

“Yes, please!”

He impaled you from behind, putting one hand on the small of your back to hold you down as he grabbed a fistful of your hair and fucked you into submission.

“Didn’t know you were like this,” he rumbled. “I like it.” He fell upon you, wrapping a beefy arm around your shoulders as he kept pulling your hair. “My girl, ain’t that right?”

“Oh, yes, Arthur, I’m yours, all yours!”

He moaned and rolled over, taking you with him as he fucked you from below. He was now able to stroke your clit as he pumped in and out of you, driving you to the edge. 

“Want my cum, sweetheart?”

“Yes, fuck yes!”

“Deep inside?”

“Yes, please!”

“Then be a good girl and come for me," he growled into your ear before laying open mouth kisses on your neck. 

You gasped as his strokes became more insistent, your pleasure reaching a peak and unleashing an avalanche within you, pure ecstasy radiating from your core out to the rest of your body. You writhed in his arms, sobbing from the euphoria coursing through your veins. 

Arthur couldn’t even form words as he gripped your hips so tightly that it bordered on pain. He pistoned into you, exploding inside of you with deep moans, his thick cock pumping every last drop into you.

As the two of you took a few moments to catch your breath, you lay on top of him on your back, barely able to keep your eyes open.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re a sex god.”

He chuckled softly. “That makes you a goddess.” He kissed your cheek before turning onto his side, taking you with him as he pulled you into his arms and spooned you.

“G’night, my darlin’.”

***

You woke up with Arthur’s arm still around your waist, your back against his chest. You didn’t want to leave, but you had to relieve yourself. Carefully extracting yourself from his arm, you went to use the bathroom.

Coming back to bed, you saw the sketchbook sitting on his table. Checking to make sure Arthur was asleep, your curiosity got the better of you. Tip-toeing to the table, you carefully flipped through the sketchbook, seeing some of the tattoo designs that you recognized from the finished versions on Instagram. You knew you should’ve stopped flipping through the pages, but each design was ethereal in its sketch form, each pencil stroke like the feather of a bird, having its place amongst the picture as a whole.

Then you flipped past a bunch of blank pages, thinking you had reached the end, until you turned to a page and stopped, your breath caught.

It was undoubtedly a sketch of you. Your hair was in its usual state after a long day at work, and the pose was clearly of you bending down to play with a cat, a pixie smile of your face. You were holding a feather above a cat’s head, as it reached up to bat at you; even with the few lines he used, you could tell it was Gaspar, the Russian blue cat that had been adopted months earlier.

Which meant… this sketch was from around the time when he had first met you. 

You flipped to the next few pages, and it was more of you, in different poses around the coffee shop, usually in motion, looking much more beautiful than you actually felt. The last sketch was of you dancing that morning, your body arcing and your arms flung out to the world, his pencil making sensual lines that almost looked like they were moving on their own.

“Whatchu lookin’ at?”

You whirled around. Arthur was on his elbow in bed, looking at you with an inquisitive gaze. The bedsheet was wrapped around his hip, keeping him decent, but barely. Your eyes roamed the line of his legs, his torso, his arms, up to his face. Feeling guilty, you looked down, but looked up again as you decided to just own your indiscretion.

“Sorry, I was too curious about your sketchbook.”

Arthur just nodded his head and got up, the sheet sliding from his body, revealing everything. Your mouth went dry as he padded towards you in all of his naked glory. Standing in front of you, not touching you though you so desperately wanted him to, he reached around to pick up his sketchbook and looked at which page you had left off.

“So I guess you figured out that I been watchin’ you fer a long time now.”

You nodded.

“That weird you out?”

You shook your head. “Your sketches make me look way more graceful than I am.”

He immediately set down the book and cupped your cheeks in both hands. “Darlin’, I draw what I see. And I see a graceful, beautiful woman that I want to get to know better.” He kissed your forehead. “That alright with you?”

“More than alright.” You smiled warmly at him. 

He returned a warm smile of his own. It felt like home.

------------------

End Notes: Title lovingly ripped off from a Beatles song…. “Before this dance is through, I think I’ll love you too…” So I left little bits of info, and in my head, there’s a backstory for everything: the vase is just something he picked up at a thrift store, because sometimes a customer will send him flowers as a thanks for the tattoo, which is the only thing he’ll personally post on his own Instagram (because Javi posts everything else), with a thank you note to the customer. By the way, he always has flowers in his apartment.

[breg21]

Marichat Month: No Powers

Decided to do a late Marichat Month fic. I’m not sure if I’ll post the rest of the chapters on here, or just keep to Ao3 and Fanfiction, I have the first 11 chapters on there so far. We’ll see. Anyways, here it is!

Ao3 FFN

Let me know what you guys think!

When the nights were warm, and Marinette found herself bored, a trip to her secret garden was always a way to go to clear her mind. With schoolwork, friends, trying to talk to Adrien, and Ladybug duties, it could boggle her mind from time to time.

Which was why it was nice to just take a breather every once and a while. To simply look at the Eiffel tower from where she sat on the steps, and every now and then, glace that twinkled with dim light against the street lamps below.

It usually helped, coming out here, clearing her mind, usually, inspiration struck right away and her hands would be flying across the paper as she figured out a new design, especially at night when there was hardly anyone around.

But not this night, and as Tikki slept soundly in her pouch— there had been a rather hard akuma that day, so it was best that she got her rest— Marinette couldn't help but fiddle with her pen as she begged her brain for the smallest something.

"Looks like someones has a lot on their mind."

Marinette yelped, falling from her seat, and dropping into the one step below— thankfully they weren't steep or many steps— and crashed face first into the cement.

"Oh, shoot! I'm so sorry, Marinette. I didn't mean to startle you like that."

She couldn't see his face, but she recognized Chat's voice almost right away. With the guilt that she knew was now brewing on that same face.

Sighing against the ground, she lifted her head up, to see Chat standing there awkwardly, eyes wide with worry. "It's fine, Chat." She moved to get up, and her partner was by her side in a second to assist. "I promise, I'm okay. I've taken worse falls." Once again upright on her feet, Marinette started to brush away the dirt that had gathered on her clothes.

But Chat didn't look convinced by her words whatsoever. He kept glancing up and down, looking at every inch of her to make sure all was intact. "I should've made my presence known. You were so lost in your head, it shouldn't have been hard to figure out that you weren't really aware of your surroundings."

Marinette shook her head before going back to sit where she had been originally, and watched as Chat took a seat next to her. "You're fine, Chat. Promise." She assured him gently. "Just took me off guard." She picked up her sketchbook, flipping through the book until she found the empty page she had been on.

She saw out of the corner of her eye as he watched her scribble a couple ideas out, then quickly erase them. Over and over again. "You having some trouble?"

She turned her head upside ways to glance at him before she shrugged, "Yeah. Nothing's been coming to me tonight and no matter how hard I try to think of something, it's just," Marinette pressed her hands together and quickly dispersed them making a small poof noise as to further her point. "Usually coming here helps, but still— nothing." She sighed and dropped her pencil.

Chat brought a claw to his chin, eyes going past her as he lost himself in thought. Minutes later, and his eyes lit up as something obviously came up with an idea. He jumped to his feet with a little spin for flare— because why wouldn't he do something like that? — and held out a paw to her.

Her eyes grew weary as she lifted her hand and let it hover above his palm. "What're you up to exactly?"

His eyes somehow outshone the stars that contrasted behind him. "Nothing bad. Just gotta trust me, ok?"

Still very confused as to what that sneaky kitty could be up to, she allowed her hand to drop into his and for him to pull her to her feet.

What he did next completely caught her off guard, without much fanfare, he bent at the waits, placing one arm under her leg, and the other around her back for balance, he scooped her up into a bridal style carry.

She yelped at the sudden movement before her arms went to straight to wrap around his neck and shooting him a dirty glare as he didn't contain his laughter. "Could've given me a warning."

A lopsided smirk slipped its way onto his lips, unashamed, and filled to the brim with pride. That was definitely her kitty to a T. "Where's the fun in that?" His pride was gonna get him into trouble one day. Specifically with her yo-yo, and him being hung upside down from the tower. "Now, hold on tight and close your eyes."

Without so much as a word, he took off, causing them to bound over building after building as she dug her nails tightly into his suit, clutching at the impenetrable fabric. She could feel the wind fighting against their set destination, giving short punches to her face that almost stole her air, but still allowed just enough. The wind whistled through her ears as they leaped.

Soon enough, they arrived at an unknown location with her eyes still squeezed tightly together, as Chat had directed her to do. Once her partner righted her on her feet, Marinette allowed herself to regain her balance, making sure that she was fully righted before he let his arms fall away from her.

Marinette took that moment, as her mind aligned and she turned to look out onto the city below.

And that was just something with what she saw hundreds of feet below her. The fifteen year old knew she had seen this view a million and one times with Chat. They have done a million patrols and would oftentimes, take breaks to just relax with each other and talk as much as they could on this very beam.

But this. This was somehow different. The view took her breath away in a way that it never had before when she was suited up. As Ladybug, it was just something she knew she could do. She could jump from building to building, sit on a high beam without fearing a fall. It was just a natural feeling with magic surrounding her.

As Marinette, though? As Marinette, it took any breath that she had left. She was naked, bare, vulnerable, whatever one wanted to call it. She couldn't count on her enhanced ability, being so opened, she had to rely on Chat and Chat alone, and just enjoy what her eyes could grasp.

That was somehow more. The view that she had seen a million and one times was more this time.

Even with the rush that burned through her entire body and prickled on the surface of her skin, it didn't hinder, nor subdue the lingering feeling of being secured and comfortable with the person who stood beside her. Being hundreds of feet from the ground and she felt safer and fearless with Chat than alone as just Ladybug.

Because, no matter what. No matter the confidence she had gained over the months from being a superhero— as Ladybug, or Marinette— she would always need him. Chat, her partner— her friend, was a part of what helped her build and become who she was just as her super self had.

So the magic suit could stay away for a little while, along with the yo-yo and all the superhero enhancements that came with it. This was Marinette. The girl that Ladybug came from. That was okay, for the magic part of her to be put on the backburner for the night and to enjoy it as this. No suit, but still all Ladybug. Which she was more than happy to share with Chat in this small second.

Even if Chat didn't quite know that.

Speaking of Chat, she took that moment to turn to look at him, only to find him watching her with a careful, almost precise and hard gaze. As if he was waiting for her to fully react to all that surrounded her.

"This is... amazing." Was all her mouth could truly offer. Because it was, but probably for a different reason than he had thought. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, running a thumb along a lonely beam. "You're lucky you get to experience this all the time." She tacked on. Just to be safe.

He chuckled and came to stand directly beside her. "I know. I'm...happy to be able to do this. Being Chat has given me a little chance to see things I never thought I'd be able to." His tone was thoughtful, almost distant, miles away with wherever his thoughts had run off to before swiftly dropped to his usual playfulness. "And ya know. Fighting villains, having super strength and all that is an added bonus too. But just a word to the wise— I wouldn't try to suggest climbing towers all on your own. "

Marinette snorted. "I'll make sure to have you by my side before I try to do anything so reckless like leaping through the air on a baton." She moved to ease herself down carefully on the metal, letting her legs hang over the edge.

He nodded, playing along with a sneaky smirk and lowered himself down next to her, hands braced behind him to hold his balance as he settled himself. "And no fighting villains while you're at it."

She bowed her head in fake disappointment, making sure he could see the smile still on her face. "Shoot. And here I thought I'd able to measure up to the great Ladybug of Paris. I was totally gonna ask you for a miraculous." She said it in jest, and truly with no bad intentions behind it, but Chat's reaction caught her completely off guard.

He threw his head back and laughed. Hard. With his stomach shaking and arms gripping onto the beam as his hoots and hollers echoed through the night air. To the point where she could see the tears rolling down his cheek.

And okay. That kinda hurt. Why would he laugh like that?

"You-you th-" His words were broken up between sobs of laughter. "You think you need a miraculous to measure up to Ladybug?"

Truthfully, no she didn't. Though jumping from buildings to buildings was something that she wouldn't really do as Marinette. It really didn't sound too appealing falling to the concrete without a suit.

Her face must've told him she was contemplating what he was trying to say because he sobered up pretty quickly. "Marinette." He wiped away a tear and then went to place a hand on her shoulder. "Marinette." Chat said more firmly. "You don't need a miraculous to measure up to Ladybug. You don't need a suit or to even fly through the air to prove how amazing you are. You do that daily as yourself. No powers required."

She blinked slowly, all immediate thought wiped clean from her mind as her brain tried to process it. Because that was something else. Something… different. Unexpected? But… it was… good in a way. Nice. It was nice— to have someone outside of her friend group think of her like that. It was somehow refreshing in a way.

Because, sure, she and Chat had fought evillustrator together that one time, and she had confessed her love to him-she still felt bad about lying to him about that- and have talked a time, maybe two— but for him to think of her so highly, as highly as Ladybug. His partner — someone she knew he loved— well, it brought a comfort to her chest that she hadn't known could be.

She was so lost in a stupor that she hadn't even noticed her staring so intently at the hero beside her, mouth just slightly agape before Chat stifled some laughter and brought his index finger up to her chin to snap it shut.

The gleam in his eyes was the same of a cat catching the canary. But behind the sneaky teasing was that of kindness that spoke volumes. The seriousness that was steadfast in his gaze gave way to the truth of his words— almost like his way of declaring his love for Ladybug; true and strong in what he knew.

"What's wrong, Marinette?" And there was that Chat smirk once more spreading across his lips that she had grown so used to over the time that they had been partners. She wondered if she could flick it off. He'd probably find delight in that. Silly cat. "Cat got your tongue?"

She smiled, playfully moving her elbow to jab him in the side, making it a point not to answer his ridiculous question. Even though she knew it could give him a bigger ego— this was Chat after all— she wanted him to know small gratitude she felt from his words. "Thanks, Chat. That was actually sincere for once," her tone dropping into a jesting octave, "well, before you ruined it. Didn't know you had it in you."

He matched her mood, following in suit as he always did with a cheeky smile. "I'm full of surprises. Besides, what are furiends for after all? Anything you need, I'm there."

Marinette beamed, choosing to ignore the pun for now in favor of shifting her gaze out onto her home before her once more. Inspiration was slowly seeping back in and she began to kick her legs back and forth, bracing her upper body with her hands on the cold metal beneath her. A comfortable silence formed around them as they watched the evening.

She took the moment, just to enjoy the feel of this. No worries, no responsibilities. Nothing she had to think about— while, yes, she did have to keep Ladybug from Chat, Marinette could just be a tad bit more open. Just a little. But she would be happy with what she could give.

An idea finally clicked, almost like a gear locking into the right place, and Marinette swiveled around, trying to find her belongings so she could start sketching out her ideas. but, for some reason, she couldn't find.

That was when she realized that she just possibly might've forgotten them back on the steps. Lifting her hands to her face, she buried her face in her hands, and groaned. Out of all the luck, and she had forgotten her things on the steps.

She felt, rather than seen at first, something in front of her. Pulling her hands away from her face, something immediately saw her backpack dangling from the claw of Chat's left pinkie, hardly holding on by the strap, but sure enough in her partner's capable claws that Marinette knew it wouldn't fall.

Marinette almost expected his triumph look— his mouth just ready and set to get her with an almost unavoidable punchline of how he was her knight in shining leather, ready to save the damsel in distress, or some other over thought pun— or maybe a small flirt, though he didn't often flirt with Marinette— something to show off though. She knew that for sure.

"Don't even."

His eyebrow arched. "But princes-"

She was quick to cut him off. "No." No nicknames. Especially that one.

But he had already won. She could tell he knew that by the glint in his cat like eyes. This boy was so smug. Even when he huffed and slumped sideways, onto her shoulders in mock defeat. "You're no fun, Marinette.

She rolled her eyes, but contributed nothing more to the conversation. If that cat wanted to be overly dramatic, she'd let him. It was no weight off her back.

She wouldn't admit how the edges of her lips curled just slightly as she opened her sketchbook, letting her pen meet the empty page, and finally allowing the ideas to flow freely from her mind and onto the paper on ger lap.

He sat back up, straighter, but didn't quite move away from her, didn't put in any distance between them— thighs still touching, and his torso still turned in inch inwards towards her— as if he didn't like the idea of putting any space between them.

And knowing Chat, he wanted to be in range in the case that she needed him to catch her— not that he didn't trust her— but because that was just so Chat. He cared. Deeply. He may be a teasing, flirty aloof of a partner, but beneath it all, she knew he'd put in his all to make sure everyone else was safe. He wouldn't stand for any less. The fact that she was even sitting up there was a testament to that. In all the time she had been Ladybug, this had been their spot alone. Something that the people below couldn't touch. Not that she would stop them from trying but for lack of a better term this was all theirs. The fact that he would take her as Marinette. Well, it meant something and added to the true splendor of the moment.

When he spoke, it was almost a whisper, like he was afraid to break the soft content peace that had wove its way into the air. But Chat still needed to say what he needed to, she could tell that much. He shifted, nudging her once more with his shoulder. "Marinette?"

"Hm?" She hummed without looking up from her project in her lap.

"I'm glad we're friends."

She heard, rather than saw the smile in his words, but it made her look up nonetheless. Meeting his eyes, she mirrored his smile, pen coming to a complete halt as she offered a slow, happy nod.

"Me too, Chat. Me too."

Friends. She definitely loved being Chat's friend. Because a life without Chat Noir's friendships was something she just couldn't envision not having anymore.

Powers or not.

[nootscamoonder]

Something’s Missing // Newt Scamander x Reader

Word Count: 1498

Warnings?: angst, i think that’s it?? gee i hope that’s it

A/N: First Newt angst!! yay? I’m sure there are lots of mistakes in this but it’s been sitting in my drafts for forever and i just don’t have the energy to proofread. If there’s any mistakes feel free to point them out, and let me know what you think of the fic in general! I’d love to hear feedback :D ALso!! If anyone has any Newt prompts you’d want me to write then please send them to me, i need inspiration :’]

The pencil scratched against the paper as your hand flew across it, sketching the scene before you. The lady’s delicate jacket, that man’s funny hat and the intricate pattern of the building across the road. The paper rustled as you flipped to the next page, your eyes darting up to find a new detail to focus on when you felt a small presence to your left. Looking down, you were met with a tiny green stick-like creature that was on the bench beside you, apparently attempting to climb the sleeve of your blue coat. You let it do its thing and kept your left arm completely still whilst your right hand began darting across the page again as you tried to decipher the anatomy of the critter. This is was, you decided, much better than the usual things you drew. Although, as it climbed, trying to draw it accurately was nearly impossible and when it reached your shoulder it was completely unachievable. The little creature clinged to your collar and the leaves on its head rustled when it leaned over to peer at your sketchbook. Seeing itself on the page must have pleased it because you heard what sounded like a happy squeal from its direction.

“Hello” you whispered at it, lifting your hand for it to climb onto to, and it did just that although it seemed slightly hesitant. You let it make itself comfortable in your hand before talking again.

“What are you doing here, little guy?” You asked the creature. It drooped and mewled sadly in response. Trying to be comforting, you used your finger to gently pet one of the leaves on its head. When you thought about it, the creature did seem out of place in the middle of London, the green colour and shape of it made it seem more like it belonged in nature, amongst trees. Not in the midst of a bustling city.

“You’re lost, aren’t you, buddy?”

A small nod in reply.

“Oh dear, that isn’t good.”

A squeal of agreement.

You knew, of course. that this wasn’t a normal creature. It wasn’t the first one you’d seen. Well, the first one of this specific species but you’ve seen others. It’s an advantage of drawing out in the open like this, you observe things others don't. You know about magic and wizards, although your knowledge is fairly limited, being a 'muggle' yourself. When you were younger you witnessed your own parents die at the hands of magic, it was an accident. They were just in the wrong place in the wrong time. You could never bring yourself to be angry, sure you mourned their deaths but the magic you saw inspired you, it's what motivated you to draw.

An activity you often did when you were bored was watching the passers-by and guessing if they were witches or wizards. Looking up now, you looked for any potential wizards, the tiny creature in your hands was lost and it definitely had not travelled into the city by itself, so naturally it must have accompanied someone. Your eyes landed on a tall man with a blue coat, similar to yours. His messy red-brown curls draped over his forehead and he was clutching a worn brown case. The way he was frantically checking around made his coat flare out, revealing a wand tucked away on his waistband. You lifted your hands and guided the creature back on your shoulder then subtly pointed at the man.

"Think he's looking for you?" you said in a whisper. The creature perked up and started squeaking, making you chuckle. Quickly gathering your sketchbook, you slipped it into your pocket and stood, starting to make your way towards the distraught man.

You tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. He swung round to face you and your heart skipped a beat. He was gorgeous. His sea green eyes hid behind his hair and his cheeks were dusted with delicate freckles. His eyes snapped to your shoulder, noticing the green critter that was clutching to it. You blinked a few times and regained your composure before speaking,

"I trust this little guy is yours?"

The man nodded, "thank you for finding him."

He then reached his hand out for the creature to hop on, but instead it scuttled down the sleeve of your coat and into the pocket. A second later your sketchbook was poking out the top so you grabbed it before it could fall. Lifting it up, you found the creature clinging to the bottom of it.

“It was more like he found me, really” You laughed. The man smiled as he detached his tiny friend.

“He really brightened up my sketchbook,” you continued, seemingly catching on to what the creature was trying to do. “Drawing city folk is fun but it does make things quite dull, your friend was a welcome change.” You opened to the page that featured the creature and held it up for the man to see. His smile grew somewhat, and you glowed inside.

“These are amazing!” He said eagerly, “you’re really talented, Miss...?”

“Oh! L/N. Y/N L/N.”

“Y/N, my name is Newt Scamander and this bowtruckle here is Pickett” he gestured to the pocket where Pickett was dwelling.

“It’s nice to meet you”

“You too”

 -

You wrapped your arms around Newt’s shoulder and let your head rest on top of his.

“What’s the matter, love?” you murmured into his curls, getting a sigh in response. Upon hearing it you straightened up and sat on a seat beside him, taking his calloused hands into yours. “Talk to me, please.”

Newt didn’t respond, he just stared at the table in front of him. You were about to say something else but decided against it. Pressuring him wasn’t the way to do it. Instead, you focused on his hand in yours, stroking your thumb across his knuckles, and waited. It took a while, but you eventually heard Newt speak. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been crying,

“it’s dangerous.”

You blinked and waited for him to continue, when he didn’t you spoke out. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Newt. What’s dangerous?”

“Everything. Things came to light in New York and,” he paused. “It’s not safe.”

Fear gripped your heart. Hearing Newt admit something wasn’t safe was a rare occasion, he was always so willing to anything with no regard for his own well being. Newt had only been home for a week and you realised he hadn’t exactly been acting like his happy self. You didn’t bring up the topic of what might have happened abroad out of respect for Newt’s privacy and he hadn’t addressed it either, until now. Questions flooded your mind, but you pushed them aside, not wanting to pry too much, instead you tried to give him a smile.

“Well then, I suppose you’ll just have to be careful for once, Newt.” You said. Trying to add a hint of light humour to your voice, but it fell on deaf ears. Newt finally heaved his head up and his eyes met yours, they were dull, devoid of their usual glimmer and you had to suppress tears that threatened to spill. He looked broken.

“I’m not worried about myself, Y/N.” He urged. “I’m worried about you. I can’t risk you getting hurt, please understand that, love. Please understand that it hurts me so much to do this.”

His voice trembled and your tears spilled in confusion.

“To do what, Newt?”

Moving slowly. Too slowly. He lifted his wand from where it lay on the table and a sob racked your body. Newt had never used magic on you, ever. Not even the most harmless of charms, and its one of the reasons you loved him so much, but now all that trust was being cruelly thrown out of the window.

“I promise you, love, you won’t feel a thing” he whispered, “you won’t even remember it.”

You tried to move, to run and hide but you couldn’t make your body move. Instead you just sat there, shaking with tears flooding your eyes. You opened your mouth, you wanted to say something, anything, but your voice was replaced with another sob. Newt met your eyes one last time.

“Obliviate.”

-

Weeks later he returned to that street. You were sitting on the same bench you resided on almost every day. A sketchbook was open on your knees, and you held a pencil in a tight grip. Even from a distance he could see your frustration and upon further inspection, he noticed your bewilderment. Your head swivelled as you surveyed the area, Newt’s breath caught in his throat as he attempted to keep his emotions at bay. You had a far-away look in your eyes. Like you were forgetting something. Like you were missing something.

Pickett whimpered from his pocket. He knew the bowtruckle was observing you too. With a shaky sigh, Newt clutched his suitcase tighter and walked away.

[a-sirius-problem]

Memories of You (Stucky)

(Another sad one fellas,,,)

The room was dark; the only source of illumination was the orange glow of the street lights  outside, shining dimly through the window that hung above the dripping kitchen sink. Steve Rogers sat at one of the two seats at a worn, wooden dining table, shoulders hunched and shaking. He held a piece of paper in his trembling hands and felt the weight of the words written across it in neat, bold print. The thin sheet slipped through his fingers as a breathy sob broke past his lips and he buried his face in his hands.

Steve's sorrow was muffled in his attempt to remain as quiet as possible. He tried to fight back the tears but his chest was uncomfortably tight and the salty droplets left his eyes against his will and rolled down his face like a waterfall. It’s almost as if his life flashed before him, memory after memory playing in his mind.

September 10th, 1930.

Children were scattered around the playground, the sun bright and showering them in its warmth. Young Steve Rogers occupied one of the swings, pushing himself back and forth with difficulty; his feet hardly scraped the gravel below.

He expected to spend this time by himself- as he usually did- until tall shadows loomed over him. Steve lifted his head to find three familiar faces. He sighed.

“Hey, Rogers!” A pudgy boy from his class stepped closer, causing him to shrink away. “Have any lunch money to share with us today?"

"No…" Steve lied.

The bullies were probably three times his size and his palms began to sweat as he increasingly became more nervous.

"Awe, Stevie, don't you know it's bad to lie? I left my money at home but I'm quite hungry," The one who appeared to be the leader smirked devilishly and turned to speak to the other two. "Aren't you, boys?"

They nodded, the same dark look etched into their features. As they closed in on Steve, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the impact of a punch.

"Hey! Pick on someone your own size!" A foreign voice shouted from nearby.

Steve opened a tentative eye.

Another boy around their age had run up to them. He was lanky and looked to be skin and bones; but he was just as tall as Steve's assaulters- if not taller.

"What did you just say?"

"I said," the boy stood his ground boldly and intimidatingly. "Pick on someone your own size." He paused between the words and put emphasis on them.

Steve observed the scene helplessly with wide eyes as punches were thrown. The bullies eventually retreated, glaring at them as they went and his savior stuck a hand out towards him, wearing a kind smile. “Hi, I’m James Barnes. But most people just call me Bucky!"

He accepted the outstretched hand and gave it a shy shake. "Steve Rogers.”

~

October 25th, 1936.

The duo- now much older- climbed up the last set of rickety stairs that led to Steve's beat up apartment.

"How was it?" Bucky asked. A clock chimed in the distance.

"It's okay," Steve replied. He didn’t dare look at his best friend, afraid that he would break down if he did. "She's next to dad."

“I was gonna ask-”

Steve fumbled around in search of his key. “I know what you’re going to say, Buck. It’s just…”

Bucky watched him with a patient and steady gaze. “We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It’ll be fun! All you’ve gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash,” he nudged a brick on the ground to the side with his foot, revealing the misplaced key and handed it out to Steve. “Come on…”

“Thank you, Buck. But I can get by on my own.”

“The thing is… you don’t have to,” Bucky shook his head and gripped Steve’s shoulder in what he hoped served as a comforting gesture. “I’m with you 'til the end of the line, pal.”

Steve knew there was no way out of what Bucky was offering. The corners of his mouth quirked up nonetheless. “Okay, okay fine.”

The brunette pulled him into a tight hug, a grin plastered across his face.

~

January 9th, 1937.

The weather in Brooklyn was freezing. Not a single snowflake had fallen and yet the winter was still cruel and a harsh wind blew through the air- so harsh that Steve thought their small, shared apartment would get swept away. He was curled up in Bucky's bed, sniffling every so often and burying his cold nose deeper into the depths of the thin blanket. That's how Bucky found him when he arrived home from work.

"Steve?"

The blond lifted his head to peer across the room at his friend; he didn't look much better than he did that morning, his skin a pearly white except for his cheeks, which were stained a rosy pink. "Hey, Buck," his voice was raspy and the words spoken came out slurred. "How was work?"

Bucky sighed as he took a seat on the bed next to Steve. "It was work. Have you eaten today?" He felt Steve's forehead with the back of his hand.

The frail man nodded slowly, recalling the soup he had managed to cook up earlier that day when he had a small burst of energy.

"Scoot." Bucky prodded at him gently and slid under the covers. Steve moved closer and accepted Bucky's warm embrace when he opened his arms. He was like a furnace, his chest radiating heat despite the chilly air and Steve's shivering settled down to nothing.

~

April 28th, 1938.

"Sometimes I think you like getting punched." Bucky exclaimed. Steve sat atop their kitchen counter as the cut on his lip was being tended to with a wet rag.

"I had him on the ropes." Steve winced.

Bucky huffed out a laugh. “I know you did.”

A nasty purple bruise was already forming around Steve’s right eye, evidence of the fight that the older man had to pull him from not even an hour prior. “Christ, Steve,” Bucky whistled as he wiped away more blood before ringing the dirtied rag out into the sink, the running water washing it down the drain. “This needs to stop happening.”

Steve began to protest, but stopped as soon as he saw the look on Bucky’s face- concern. Their eyes met and his chest fluttered. Steve didn’t know how Bucky tolerated him on the daily, always caring for him and making him feel like he wasn’t just some sick kid in Brooklyn who wouldn’t get anywhere. Bucky was the one who had convinced him to take art school, informing Steve that he could go a long way with the talent he had. Of course it wasn’t easy; while the school wasn’t expensive, money was hard to come by those days.

The blond gave a curt nod. Bucky’s steel blue eyes were still piercing into Steve’s ocean blue and his shoulders became less tense as Steve agreed, grateful that an argument didn’t ensue instead. He pushed a strand of Steve’s hair back and found himself running his fingers through his soft locks, watching his friend’s eyes close involuntarily at the feeling. However, the brunette was quick to move his hand away, knowing that if he didn’t, he would go too far. He took a step back and put on a happy face for Steve. “There you go, pal. Good as new.”

~

June 17th, 1939.

It was a Saturday. Bucky had the day off of work and was taking the opportunity to sleep in while he could. But Steve had woken up early and sat on their bedroom windowsill, sketchbook and pencil held in his grasp.

Only the scratching coming from the graphite on paper was heard, and maybe a few snores from Bucky. With a view of him lying in their bed, resting peacefully, Steve thought that Bucky looked beautiful. He laid on his stomach, face planted into his pillow and t-shirt riding up slightly. Steve looked from the paper in front of him to Bucky, back to the paper, back to Bucky, sketching messily and adding in the finer details later on.

As an hour or two passed, Bucky began to stir, his slumber coming to an end. Steve tucked the sketchbook away hastily, not wanting him to see- not wanting him to ask questions that Steve was too nervous to answer. He exited the room before Bucky had fully woken up and when the other man came out to the kitchen to greet him with a tired “good morning,” Steve offered to make him some breakfast with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

~

December 16th, 1941.

“I… I got rejected,” Steve hung his head low as he confessed. “They told me I’m ineligible because of my health.”

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know how much this meant to you.” He said in apologies.

The two men stood in their living room. Steve had just returned from town with a failed attempt at joining the military and he worried his bottom lip, willing himself to look at the other. “Did you get your orders?”

Bucky hesitated but took a deep breath and said, “107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow,” he didn’t get a response from Steve. “Will you be alright?” They’d hardly been apart from each other for longer than a couple of days since Steve decided to move in.

The blond’s voice cracked when he finally spoke. “I don’t want you to go.” It was barely audible but Bucky heard the words loud and clear and strode across the room to Steve, enveloping him into a tight embrace. Steve was shaking in his arms and clung to him for dear life, rambling and crying into his shoulder. “I don’t want you to go, Buck. I don’t want to lose you-”

“Hey, hey, hey, who says you’re gonna lose me?” Bucky stopped him mid-rant. He pulled away only a little so that he could meet his eyes, determined to help Steve feel better. “You won’t lose me.” Bucky’s hands were holding Steve’s face, calloused fingers against soft skin; they were inches apart.

Steve leaned into the other’s touch and felt himself getting lost in those steely eyes. “You’re all I have left.”

He watched Bucky’s gaze travel down to his lips and felt his heartbeat grow faster. They were standing so, so close to one another- closer than friends would. The moment felt intimate and the world around them slowed down and faded out until the only thing Steve could focus on was Bucky- his Bucky, who was staring at him like he was the most valuable thing in the world and who was running his thumb across his bottom lip.

“Steve-”

“Shush.” The blond’s eyes were glazed over, pupils dilated. His forehead rested against Bucky’s and their noses brushed. The only thought running through Steve’s head was ‘It’s now or never,’ as he closed the gap between them. The kiss was gentle, almost tentative, but it effectively stole the air out of Bucky’s lungs. He almost forgot how to function until everything came crashing down and he smiled against Steve’s lips, pulling the smaller man closer.

Steve’s arms came up to wrap around his neck, hands running through his hair and tugging gently.

Bucky was the first to break the kiss but he stayed close. He felt like he was flying, his mind comfortably hazy. “Christ,” he breathed out. “You have no idea how hard it has been sleeping next to you for the past five years.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Steve countered.

Bucky didn’t reply, only pulled Steve in again, tilting his head to the side to kiss the blond deeper and dragging a quiet whine out of him; this only encouraged Bucky to continue and he kissed him fervently. Steve felt like he was on top of the world, he was in such a state of euphoria. This was nothing like anything they had ever experienced before and they both held onto it like their lives depended on it.

Teeth nibbled at Steve’s lip, across his jaw and down his neck and he gasped. His breathing was ragged. “Bucky…” The older man hummed against his neck, continuing to place delicate kisses wherever he could reach. Steve smiled contentedly, drunk on the man in front of him. “I love you.”

He felt Bucky pause before he saw it, and he tensed up, trying not to expect the worst. Until Bucky brought his head up to level with Steve, a dopey smile on his face. “Really?”

“Yes,” he nodded curtly. “Yes, of course. Always.”

Bucky kissed Steve once more, tenderly. “I love you too.”

Steve observed Bucky’s mouth as he said it, his heart swelling.

“Take me to bed?” The blond saw a flash of lust flicker in the man’s eyes and not long after, he was being pushed down onto their bed, Bucky kissing him with toe curling ferocity.

They laid together later that night in a tangle of limbs, holding each other close under their thin comforter. Despite their earlier activities, it was still December. No words were spoken between them. The sun was setting, bathing everything it touched in gold and Bucky ran his nails up and down Steve’s back, causing the blond to croon next to him.

~

December 17th, 1941.

At the train station the next morning, Steve could hardly hold himself together as Bucky stood tall, dressed in his military uniform. He looked stunning and Steve attempted to memorize every single detail before the man departed.

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.” Bucky told him. He wore a small frown, his chest aching.

“How can I?” Steve smirked. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

A chuckle fell past Bucky’s lips and he pulled his lover into a tight hug. “You’re a punk.”

“Jerk,” his voice wavered and he pulled away from Bucky, afraid that he would never let go. “Be careful.”

With a salute, the man boarded the train and was out of sight.

-

‘Mr. Steven Rogers,

We deeply regret to inform you that Sergeant James Barnes is officially reported as killed in action May ninth 1942.

My deepest condolences,

Colonel Chester Phillips.’

[porkchop-ao3]

Reciprocity

Here is something I wrote for Tailor Rick and Hairstylist Rick. After Rick Prime put the idea in his head, Tailor wants to try topping someone, but he wants someone he really trusts... Hairstylist is more than willing. This is mostly smut, but there are some feels involved, Tailor opens up a little, and there’s mention of panic attacks. I find it very hard to keep things purely emotion/angst free when writing about Tailor, especially when Hairstylist is involved. I love this pairing so much... 

Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy it :)

-

“Can I ask you something?” Tailor suddenly looked up from his sketchbook to look at Stylist, he was lounging on the sofa nearby, reading one of Tailor's vintage fashion magazines. He looked up, his eyes wide and curious.

“You can ask, I don't know if I'll have an answer,” he replied. Usually when he'd hang out at Tailor's studio, it'd be silence for most of the day. He liked that, it was a comfortable silence, they appreciated each other's company but didn't feel the need to converse with one another. The question had surprised him.

“There's a guy who I… I slept with once,” Tailor started, putting his pencil down and giving Stylist his full attention. “And now he wants to- to get together again but this time, switch roles.”

“He wants you to top him?” Stylist questioned, snorting without meaning to. He tried to cover it up, but Tailor didn't seem offended.

“I know, bizarre, right?” Tailor scoffed with a roll of his eyes.

“Alright, so what're you asking, if you should do it?”

“No. I'm not going to do it, I know that. He wasn't that fun the first time round, he's not worth the hassle,” Tailor shrugged.

“Charming.”

“However, I asked myself why I've never been interested in doing that. I mean, I've done it a few times but never with a man, it had always been with my…” Tailor trailed off, letting the sentence drop dead, but Stylist knew who he was talking about. “Hm, I suppose that's a reason in itself,” he muttered.

“Different strokes for different folks. I can go either way,” Stylist shrugged.

“You like bottoming?” Tailor asked, he seemed surprised by this.

“Sure, sometimes.”

“Hmmm.”

“Why?”

“I feel as though I might like to try it. Though, certainly not with that guy. It's been a long time since I topped anyone, I mean years, so I'm not sure if I'll be… well, I'm out of practice,” Tailor admitted, looking back down at his sketch.

“You're worried you won't be any good?” Stylist smirked in amusement, he wasn't used to Tailor admitting any kind of incapability. Tailor narrowed his eyes at him but let it slide.

“I never liked the idea of giving anal. My wife would ask me and I'd… I'd oblige. But it's rather an unpleasant concept, don't you think?”

“Nope,” Stylist laughed.

“Really? You don't see at all why it might be unpleasant?” Tailor cocked a brow and watched as Stylist sat up, placing the magazine down next to him.

“Of course, I know exactly what you're getting at. But that's not a problem when your partner knows what he's doing, is it?” Stylist smiled, looking Tailor up and down suggestively.

“I suppose. Do you know what you're doing?” Tailor asked with an edge to his tone.

“I've never had any complaints,” He grinned. Tailor rolled his eyes and looked away. “So what, you wanna give this a go?” Stylist moved suddenly, twisting around and kneeling on the sofa, bending over and pointing his ass towards Tailor, he gave it a firm smack.

“Please,” Tailor drawled in irritation, not even looking up. “Have some dignity.”

“You didn't answer me.”

“Yes,” Tailor hissed.

“You know, I don't know how to feel about you asking me, of all people,” Stylist got up and approached Tailor, slowly making his way around the table.

“Why's that?” Tailor eyed him with suspicion, looking him up and down.

“Well it's for either one of two reasons. A; you don't really care for my opinion of you, so you picked me to test out your topping skills cause you don't mind giving me bad sex,” he started, sitting up on Tailor's desk, mighty close to him. “Or B; you just trust me that much, you aren't scared to make a fool of yourself in front of me and you wouldn't let aaanyone else see you when you're not at the top of your game,” he ended with a cheeky little smile. Tailor's face remained deadpan throughout his speech, trying desperately hard not to react.

Stylist scooted across the table, pushing Tailor's things out of the way and bringing his leg over, so he was sitting directly in front of him with his legs hanging down either side of his chair.

“I'm gonna go with B,” he finished, licking his lips and hunching forwards, taking Tailor's face in his hands so he could kiss him. As unimpressed as he was, Tailor kissed back; he never could resist. His hands made their way to Stylist's thighs, sliding up as far as he dared. Breaking the kiss, Stylist whispered; “what if I come over tonight?”

“Tonight?” Tailor repeated, sighing softly as his heart rate increased.

“Plans?”

“No… I can do tonight. But come to the house in France, Beth has friends over for dinner tonight,” Tailor said after a pause, realising how ridiculous that sentence would be if he was speaking to anyone else; anyone without a portal gun.

“Mm, I like that house. Let's do it in the conservatory.”

“You mean that big, see-through, glass room?” Tailor chuckled.

“Well, it's not as if you're overlooked by neighbours,” Stylist shrugged.

“Good point.”

And that was that.

-

Tailor had set up the room for them, he'd pulled out the futon that lived in the conservatory and made their bed with lots of cushions and blankets. It wasn't as though the room was cold, the early evening sun was shining through the glass roof and had a sort of greenhouse effect, so it was warmer than the rest of the house. But the futon was a little lumpy, so he piled the blankets up to make it a little more comfortable for them. The conservatory was complete floor to ceiling glass and looked out onto the patio, and then the garden. The house had a lot of land, and nothing could be seen from all directions, so he wasn't nervous about being seen.

He pulled off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a nearby armchair, then removed his tie and opened up the top few buttons of his shirt; he was feeling warm. He'd poured himself a glass of whisky and was nursing that as he waited for Stylist to show up. Tailor didn't want to admit that he felt nervous, but he did. He sighed and swept a hand over his hair, sitting down in the armchair and looking out over his garden. The gardeners hadn't been doing a very good job, he noted, some of the bushes out there looked a little overgrown. He'd have to have some words before he headed back to London.

“Look at you, surveying your land with a glass of whisky on the arm of your chair. Where's your pipe and slippers?” Tailor hadn't heard the portal open, perhaps it'd been in another room, but Stylist surprised him a little and his heart was back to thumping. He finished off his whiskey with one gulp and placed the glass on the floor by his feet so it wouldn't get knocked off, then rose to his feet.

Getting a look at Stylist nearly killed him. He looked hot, seriously hot. He was dressed down in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of acid wash cropped jeans, some hot pink flip-flops. His hair wasn't styled like it normally was. It was brushed messily over to one side and looked damp, like he'd just got out of the shower. Tailor was tempted to call the whole thing off and have him bend him over the arm of this chair and pound his ass until he couldn't remember his own name.

“You okay?” Stylist asked when he didn't get a greeting, just a long stare. Tailor approached him, unbuttoning his shirt further down until it was totally open; Stylist feasted his eyes on the exposed flesh and quirked a brow with interest.

Tailor reached him, hooking his fingers in the front of the waistband of Stylist's jeans; he tugged him forwards by his hips and kissed him roughly. The other man groaned in surprise, reaching and holding onto the open edges of Tailor's shirt as his mouth was utterly assaulted. He hadn't been kissed by Tailor with this much fire since the first time they hooked up, and it was off the back of a heated argument. His cock immediately jumped to life in his pants.

Stylist was pulled towards the bed, and when Tailor broke the kiss to sit down, he immediately climbed on top of him, straddling him. He pulled his own shirt off and dragged a hand through his unruly hair to get it out of his face, he clearly didn't realise how incredible he looked when he did that, but Tailor practically sobbed. Tailor's shirt was completely discarded next, and Stylist ran his hands all over his chest, playing with his nipples and feeling every flex of mildly defined muscle under his skin. Tailor's chest was rising and falling quickly, and his cock was firm where it pressed against Stylist's own bulge.

“So you wanna fuck me tonight then, hmm?” Stylist whispered, pushing Tailor down onto his back and sliding forwards so his ass was against his cock. He rubbed up against him, getting him used to the idea. He moaned quietly, holding onto Stylist's thighs.

“Y-y-yeah,” He breathed, kicking himself for his stutter. He usually had a decent grip on it.

Stylist moaned, leaning back with his hands on Tailor's knees, grinding his ass down on his cock, feeling its presence more and more as he worked him up.

“How'd you like to do it?” He asked, looking him straight in the eye. “You want me on top, like this?”

Tailor shook his head. “No, I want to be on top.”

Stylist smirked and turned around, straddling him the opposite way so he could bend over and present his ass to him. “What about doggy style? That way you can push my face in the sheets if I get too loud,” he said playfully, swaying his ass from side to side.

Tailor sat up, stroking his hands over his ass exploratively. He pulled at the jeans, trying to get them down. Stylist chuckled and helped him out, stripping down to his briefs – real tight, small ones that Tailor'd never seen him in – and settling back down in his lap, looking over his shoulder at him.

“I-I don't know, I...” Tailor shook his head, bringing his hands around to Stylist's front, touching his bulge and stroking it. He knew what he was doing with that, he wasn't going to embarrass himself. That underwear was far too small to properly contain his erection, and they were tented away from his body, making it easy for Tailor to slip his hand inside. Stylist sighed and leaned back against him, Tailor could feel the dampness of his hair against his shoulder and looked down his body to watch his hand pleasure him.

“Fuck,” Stylist sighed, his hips swaying forward and back into his hand. Tailor noted his position, him kneeling over his lap, leaning back into his shoulder, it was almost like he was getting a lap dance from him.

Tailor jerked his cock for a while, but he was stalling and he knew it. He had to stop being a little bitch sooner or later, so eventually he let go of Stylist's cock and took his hips in his hands, rolling him off of him and onto his back beside him on the bed. He climbed into the middle of the futon, positioning himself kneeling between Stylist's legs, who was looking up at him with his legs spread wide and his cock poking out from the top of his briefs. Tailor licked his lips and reached for the waistband; Stylist lifted his legs vertical so that Tailor could pull the briefs all the way down, discarding them behind him.

Spreading his legs wide again, Stylist gave him a cheeky smirk, revealing what was between his legs. Tailor finally saw it, the base of a butt plug peeking out from behind his balls and striking fear into his heart in a way he hadn't been expecting. In his head he'd expected to be able to ease himself into it, use his fingers on him like he had done a couple of times in the past during blow jobs, he knew what he liked with that. He'd had some practice. But now, he presumed that Stylist had done this with good intentions of making Tailor's life easier, he'd taken care of preparing himself completely, so they could move right into having sex without having to worry about it. If he thought about it long enough, Tailor might even have felt touched, but in the moment he just felt annoyed.

Tailor didn't like surprises. He liked to plan things out and execute them in the way he'd practiced in his head. When anything was changed beyond his control, it threw him off. For some bizarre reason, Tailor felt the creeping, clawing sensation of an oncoming panic attack. What on earth? This was no time for one of those, and what was the point of it? He was having sex! Sure, it was a little different to their usual sex but he knew Stylist, he was comfortable with him every other time they'd been in the bedroom together. What was this?

He cleared his throat for some reason, a distraction of some kind; he wasn't sure if he was trying to distract himself or Stylist. He took a moment, sitting back on his heels and staring down at the space between them on the futon, breathing as steadily as he could through his nose as he began to feel shaky and out of it, like he did when he hadn't eaten in a while.

“Tailor?” Stylist's voice was soft with concern and he felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

“Y-you don't mess around, hm? All ready for me,” Tailor said, his voice was quiet and monotonous and he forced himself to look him in the eye.

“Should I not have done this?” Stylist questioned, sensing that something was amiss. He knew that Tailor had certain quirks, his mind seemed to work a little differently than he expected sometimes. Every now and then he'd say or do something that seemed to bother him, and Stylist felt like he didn't always know him enough to understand why.

“It's fine,” Tailor shook his head, sliding his hand down the inside of Stylist's thigh towards the toy, his fingertips brushing over it before he fondled his balls.

“Are you alright?”

“I just need–” Tailor closed his eyes, not seeming to know what to say. Something bad was going on in his head and Stylist didn't have a clue what it was. He sat up, placing his hands on Tailor's thighs and waiting. “I feel anxious.”

Stylist's brows shot up. He was not expecting him to admit to something like that.

“Why?” he asked, knowing it was a dumb question.

“I don't know! If I knew, I could stop it.”

“We don't have to do this, baby, don't force yourself.”

“Or maybe I do know. I know why but it's so silly!” Tailor's brow came down in annoyance and he looked over to the side, out the window.

“It's not silly, whatever it is.”

“It is. It's because the last time I fucked someone like this, I was still married and I thought everything was hunky bloody dory. That's pathetic,” his face was red, and Stylist's pulse quickened at the mention of his wife. Tailor had never gone into detail about how his marriage had ended, but Stylist knew that she had hurt him very deeply with her unfaithfulness.

“What are you scared of, history repeating itself? What happened with your wife happening again just 'cause you do this?” Stylist wasn't a therapist, he was kind of winging it, but he wanted to help.

“No… that wouldn't make sense. Logically I know that's stupid. Logically, I want to do this,” Tailor turned his head back, not looking Stylist in the eye but looking at him.

“Doesn't have to be logical to make you feel like shit.”

They were quiet for a while. Not that it mattered, but Stylist had lost his erection and so had Tailor.

“Maybe I'm… I don't know. Maybe that was the last good thing about my marriage and if I do this, it won't be unique anymore,” Tailor finally said.

“And why's that a bad thing?”

“Is it? I don't know. I guess it's not,” Tailor looked up at him, his eyes a little wider than normal.

“So this is okay, right? You can do this and nothing bad is gonna happen.”

“Yeah but…”

“Go on.”

“If I can fuck someone like this, and that's not just something I did with her… then what else about that relationship isn't unique? The way I can let someone completely fucking take over my life, my mind?”

“You mean like… Fall in love?” Stylist's lips curled up a little at the edges.

“I mean like give them the potential to fucking destroy me, rip out my soul,” Tailor was speaking through clenched teeth now.

“Yeah, love.”

“I don't– yeah.” Tailor shook his head, his eyes distant as they stared at the mattress.

“Richard,” Stylist whispered, making Tailor's mouth twitch. “I want you to forget about her for tonight, just think about me. Put all of your attention on me, every bit.”

“Self centred.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “I’m more important than her now.”

“That's not difficult to achieve,” Tailor muttered.

“So don't let her screw up our night,” Stylist wrapped his hand around the back of Tailor's neck, pulling him in gently to kiss him.

He laid back against the mattress, bringing Tailor with him, he reached for his trousers, unbuttoning them and reaching his hand inside, finding his cock and stroking him back to hardness. It took a little while, his mind was still obviously elsewhere, but soon he was moaning softly and pressing his hips forward. Hearing him and feeling him in his hand was enough to make Stylist's own cock grow again, and he let go of Tailor to push his trousers further down, they were discarded completely with some help. He held onto his ass and pulled him flush to him, Tailor naturally began to grind when their cocks touched, rubbing them together.

“I want you to fuck me,” Stylist broke the kiss and whispered in Tailor's ear, hearing him groan in response. “I don't care if it doesn't work out or it ends up not being your thing, I wanna try.”

“Fuck,” Tailor sighed. Moving and sitting up, kneeling between Stylist's legs again. His face was flushed and his perfectly styled pompadour was loosening up, pieces of hair falling forwards into his face.

Tailor plucked the bottle of lube he'd left on the arm of the futon sofa and dropped it beside him as he looked back down between Stylist's legs. He didn't give himself enough time to work himself up, he reached for the butt plug and gently rocked it back and forth for a moment, watching Stylist's cock twitch and hearing his shaky breath pick up. He then gently eased it out, watching his tight hole stretch around the widest point. Stylist moaned, seeming to subconsciously grip the toy, like he didn't want it removing. Tailor opened his mouth to tell him; don't worry, you won't be empty for long, or something equally as embarrassing. Luckily he caught his tongue in time.

The toy glistened with lube where he placed it down on the bed, and Tailor licked his lips as he covered his cock in a generous helping, jerking himself a little more than he needed to to distribute it.

“Are you ready?” He asked.

Stylist smiled up at him. “I am. Are you?”

Tailor paused, then nodded, scooting forwards so their hips were close, he held himself up with his hands either side of Stylist's shoulders. He looked down at him for a moment, seeing the patient warmth in his green eyes, and quickly averted his gaze. He took his cock in his hand, watching as he guided it to Stylist's opening; he moaned even at the sensation of the head of it pressing against him, and he hadn't even penetrated. It was a little tricky – he was tight! – but eventually he managed to get the head in and he gasped, his toes curling at the almost too hot, tight, glorious sensation.

Stylist bit his lip, humming quietly in satisfaction at his ass being stretched; he let Tailor have his moment but he was itching for more of it, deeper, he wanted to be filled up completely.

It'd been so long since Tailor had fucked someone he'd forgotten what it felt like. He remembered that it felt good, sometimes he found himself missing the way pussy felt, despite barely remembering it. Though, it wasn't worth the hassle, going out and getting some just to remind himself. But never mind that, all Tailor knew was that Stylist's ass felt incredible and he pushed himself deeper, indulging in the way his cock was squeezed and surrounded by delicious, slippery warmth.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, closing his eyes as he buried himself as deep as he could go. Stylist let out a little laugh that wasn't quite girly enough to be a giggle, but it was pretty close.

Tailor knew right from the start that he was in trouble. It felt too good, too intense, he was going to cum quickly, he just knew it. His cock was used to being stroked by a hand or sucked by a mouth, it didn't get an awful lot of intense stimulation, his ass was where the real action always happened. This was a huge step up from anything his body had grown accustomed to, he told himself there was no shame in it and rather than struggle with this information, he opened his eyes and looked directly at Stylist. He didn't like admitting to things, but since he'd been doing that more often lately, he couldn't deny how much easier it had made things for him.

“I'm afraid I don't think I'm going to last long,” he started, and Stylist only grinned. “Don't worry, there's a blow job in it for you.”

“Cum whenever you want, baby, don't hold back on my account. We can do this as many times as you like, you'll have plenty of pr-practice,” he replied in a low, suggestive tone. He didn't sound in the least bit disappointed, or like he was mocking him.

Tailor immediately felt more confident and pulled his hips back slowly. He tested the water with some slower pushes, getting used to the motion of it. He felt like a bloody virgin again, but he soon fell into a rhythm, it was like riding a bike. He moved his hands to the top of Stylist's thighs, holding onto him so he could drive himself deeper, quicker. Stylist sat up on his elbows, his breaths coming loud and fast as Tailor's cock struck his prostate.

This might have been a big deal for Tailor, but it was also a big deal for Stylist. He wouldn't deny that he had a special place in his heart for Tailor, he knew that he was a difficult man to get close to and he didn't like to push his luck, but he felt as though he was getting somewhere. Every time Tailor surprised him with a suggestion, or admitted something to him, or let him get away with something that he knew damn well would get other Ricks a scornful response… Tailor took up a little more space in his chest. He didn't live in fantasy land, though, he knew it was very unlikely that they'd end up anything more than what they were now. But that was the thing, Stylist found that he didn't mind. He was content to be whatever Tailor wanted him to be, if it meant he was someone of importance in his life.

“Fuck, fuck…” Tailor grunted, pounding into him quickly now, his jaw was clenched tightly and his hands were too. Stylist loved it, dropping back down against the futon and crying out loudly, shamelessly, letting Tailor know just how good he felt. His cock was laying against his stomach, drooling precum as his prostate was milked relentlessly. He didn't touch it, not wanting to distract himself from how Tailor felt inside him. He could cum from this alone, anyway, given enough time and encouragement.

He knew that it wasn't going to happen tonight though, when Tailor's face shifted into that loose, carefree, open mouthed expression of pure pleasure that Stylist always saw when he was about to orgasm.

“Cum inside me, baby. I know you're close. Just do it for me,” Stylist crooned, sliding his hands over his own body, letting Tailor watch him as he dragged his fingers through the precum on his stomach, smearing it before he played with his own nipples.

“Oh God. It feels so fucking good, I don't wanna cum but I'm–” Tailor cut himself off, his eyes scrunching shut and his brow mashing down. He let out a groan that sounded different to his usual orgasms, it was longer, louder, like he had less control over it. His thrusts became rougher and messier, Stylist felt things become wetter and if he hadn't guessed already, he knew for sure Tailor was cumming. Stylist moaned, gratified at the sight and sound of him, knowing he was the one being filled with cum for a change. He almost felt high.

Tailor made a sound that was almost like a sob and abruptly pulled out, his cock becoming unbearably sensitive very quickly. He was still dripping cum as he did, his body still reeling from waves of pleasure, it was the most intense orgasm he'd had in a long time. His breathing was extremely laboured and he needed more than just a minute to come back down to earth. Stylist was whispering to him, he couldn't hear what he was saying and he didn't ask him to repeat it, but he let him sit up and pepper his chest in kisses. His body was buzzing, the sensation of a tongue against his nipple had his spent cock jumping, pulling a jerky gasp from him.

“Bend over,” Tailor heard him that time, and grunted in confusion in response. “Bend over for me,” Stylist repeated, withdrawing his legs from either side of him and moving.

Tailor, still feeling malleable in the afterglow, moved onto all fours as he twisted around to present his ass to Stylist, who was sliding the butt plug back into himself. Tailor cursed under his breath, letting his head hang down between his shoulders, staring at the wet spot they'd left on the blanket. He felt something wet and hot nestling between his ass cheeks and he didn't need much imagination to know what it was. Stylist rutted against him, he wasn't fucking him, but sliding his cock between the cleft of his backside quickly and purposefully. Tailor guessed he wouldn't need to give him that blow job. That was nice, he leaned his chest down against the bed and let Stylist do what he needed to do, listening to his heavy breaths.

It surprised him how quickly it was all over, he felt like he'd only been fucking him for a minute or two before his own orgasm, he was expecting it to take awhile for Stylist to reach his own peak. He must've lasted longer than he thought, because Stylist only took about thirty seconds to finish messily over his ass. Any other time, Tailor would've been pissed about being used in such a way, and being ejaculated onto like an old sock or something. This time, though, he kind of liked it. Especially when Stylist muttered something complimentary about his ass, then bent down to lap away the cum that had dribbled between his cheeks.

“Fuck, yes,” Tailor sighed, his body going rigid as Stylist tongued his asshole, sending shock waves and tingles all the way down his cock. He'd have to be there for a while to get him hard again, but that wasn't the goal.

Tailor saw the butt plug being dropped onto the bed next to him again, this time it was streaked with cum – his cum – from being inside Stylist. He certainly wasn't as eager as him to use his tongue, however. He felt the blanket being used to wipe away the rest of the cum on his ass, then he moved, helping Stylist to pull the top, cum-stained blanket off of the bed and toss it on the floor along with the butt plug. He wasn't thrilled with the idea of leaving it there to fester, but he tried to push it out of his mind. He was knackered.

“I hope to God you liked that so we can do it again,” Stylist sighed as he laid down on his front, bending his knee and hiking his leg up so his upper body was turned a little. He peered back at Tailor where he was sitting cross-legged on the other end of the bed. Tailor glanced at him, letting his eyes trail down to the curve of his ass and where he could see his balls peeking out.

Tailor laid down next to him, on his back and staring through the glass roof. It was almost totally dark outside now.

“Did it look like I liked it?” He asked.

Stylist took a breath. He wanted to reach out and touch him, rest his head on his chest or something, but he didn't. “Yeah, it did.”

“So you needn't worry,” Tailor shrugged, something close to a smile on the edge of his mouth.

“Okay. Fuck me again tonight?”

It caught Tailor off guard and he snorted. How unflattering. “Again?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't know, let me rest.”

“Alright,” he said, scooting closer to Tailor and kissing his shoulder. Tailor looked at him from the corner of his eye. He felt like he should say something else, or Stylist should. He didn't know what, but it felt like there was something hanging in the air other than the smell of sex. Stylist felt it too.

“Richard, I think I lo-”

“Not that.” Tailor interrupted Stylist, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

“Huh?”

“If you're going to speak, say something else.”

Stylist sighed, kissing his shoulder again. So, not yet. He'd gone in too soon. That was okay.

“Richard?” Stylist started, Tailor hummed in acknowledgement, though there was a warning to the sound. “Do you mind me calling you Richard?”

After a pause, Tailor shook his head. “You can call me that. When we're alone.”

Stylist smiled and brushed his hand up and down Tailor's arm affectionately.

“Is there anything you'd like to be called?” Tailor asked, he'd never given it much thought. He never really used his name, but he wouldn't mind some sort of distinction from other Ricks.

“Daddy,” He said without a pause, and Tailor nearly picked up a pillow to smother him with. He rolled over onto his side, showing his back to him. Stylist laughed and scooted up behind him, using the opportunity to spoon him.

“Get off,” Tailor grumbled.

“You can call me what you want, I'm not picky,”

“‘Annoying Hairdresser’ is too much of a mouthful.”

“Last time I checked, you didn't mind having a mouthful of me,” Stylist said cheekily, sliding his hand down Tailor's front, playing with his groomed pubic hair. “Just keep calling me Rick, if you want any chance of me responding. Though, sweetie could work too. Or darling. I like the way you say that.”

Tailor grunted in response.

“I'm going to the bathroom, want me to get you a drink or something while I'm up?” Stylist pushed away from Tailor, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I'm okay, thank you,” Tailor murmured, feeling the mattress shift as he got up and left. Tailor immediately felt cold now that the sun had gone down and he didn't have Stylist's body heat.

He pretended that was why he wanted him to come back quickly.

[doodlelolly0910]

Close Encounters of the Spiritual Kind

Summary: Emma Nolan spent a lot of time alone, and that was fine by her. Because one is never truly alone. She should know. She can talk to dead people. What she didn’t expect was one of these spiritual encounters to hang around, taking her down a rabbit hole of missing women, revenge, and, least expected, love. Can she save the day and Killian Jones? Is there even another choice?

Read it from the beginning on AO3 and FFN!

A/N:  Okay y'all so this chapter is a big one. Big reveal! I'm a pickle! No wait, that's something else :P But there really is some big stuff happening here. A new character introduction, more Emma and Killian bonding, lots and lots of revelations that will even carry over to next chapter. I won't say too much. I hope you guys like it! And thank you so much for all your kind words and lovely reviews. They really mean more to me than you know, even if I don't always have the time to respond to each of them as I would like. Thank you guys, so so much. And thanks also to @kmomof4 who has already had her brain exploded by this chapter (lol sorry?) and to @courtorderedcake who made the beautiful art that goes with this story and I will never be over how amazing it is. Here we go with chapter 17! Almost at the end!!! EEP!!!

Chapter 17

Emma woke up feeling refreshed for the first time in a long time. Refreshed and warm. She snuggled into the firm pillow underneath her and sighed, content. The sound of rustling paper made her wrinkle her nose and grunt. It was just annoying enough to keep her from slipping into peaceful slumber again. A chuckle sounded from beneath her head and something tightened around her back and waist, causing her eyes to snap open, her head popping up from where it had been apparently resting on Hook's t-shirt clad chest.

“Good morning, darling,” his low rumble emanated from his torso and seeped into her middle where they were pressed together, his left arm sweeping soothingly over her back. “Sleep better?” The question was light but his eyes studied her face for any signs of nightmare induced stress. Emma cleared her throat, nodding and gently disentangling herself to a sitting position beside him on the mattress. His arm slipped from its place around her and back under the blankets, the only part of him to be covered by it.

Killian Jones in the morning was far more a gorgeous sight than any human being had any right to be. His dark hair was mussed, sticking up in directions that would look odd on someone else, but on him it only left Emma wondering what it would be like to run her fingers through it. His eyes were bright and playful, his dark lashes fluttering over rosy cheeks when he blinked. He seemed… softer somehow.

“You are positively radiant in the morning, Swan,” he murmured and Emma blinked twice, not having noticed during her perusal of his face that he had been observing her as well. She played it off on a scoff, scooping her sleep tangled hair off her neck and securing it in a messy bun on top of her head.

“I’m a mess,” she objected, stretching her arms languidly over her head and wiggling her hips to work out the kinks in her back. Her face felt swollen and puffy from her sobbing during the night.

“Radiant. Like the sun.” Hook's voice pulled her attention back and she looked at him curiously. He was staring at her so intently it made her squirm involuntarily, her gaze darting away from his. That's when she saw it.

In his lap sat her leatherbound sketchbook, page open to a portrait she'd done some time ago of her grandmother. He followed her gaze and reached up to scratch behind his ear. Emma's eyes shot back up to his, her face blanched as her mind raced through everything he may have seen.

“You looked through my sketches?” she whispered. Hook sat a little straighter, letting one of his legs fall off the side of the bed and his foot rest on the floor. His cheeks had pinkened a bit and the hand that had been scratching behind his ear had now moved to rub over the scruff on his jaw.

“I rolled over onto it this morning. I didn't know what it was,” he replied, and his hand came down to rest on top of the book, keeping it there with him when all Emma wanted to do was snatch it back and run away. “You're very talented.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Emma said, reaching for the book, but Hook's hand curled over the top of it, keeping it in place on his lap.

“I have a favorite,” he murmured and Emma swallowed thickly, frozen in place. He dipped his gaze down to the book and flipped through a few pages, stopping and meeting her gaze again. Emma looked down, her heartbeat thundering through her ears.

A landscape was on the page, the docks at sunset, one of her favorite places to sit and think. She had played with new pencils that day, the colors on the page vibrant and blended together in a riot of golds and pinks and purples. It was her favorite, too. But absolutely not what she expected. She looked down at the page in confusion and looked back up to Hook’s face.

“There’s a lot of emotion here,” he explained. “A real definition of character. I like it very much.” Emma blew air out through her pursed lips, flustered at the compliment and searching for words that weren’t what she was actually thinking. She had paused just long enough for him to continue on. “I suppose you were expecting me to show you this one.” While she had searched for words, Hook, had apparently thumbed the corner of the book to the exact page she had been dreading, apparently memorized in its place in her book by its subject.

Killian Jones himself stared out from the page, his monotone features punctated by those blue, searching eyes. It wasn’t until now that Emma realized just how accurate her sketch actually was, right down to the scar on his right cheek just under his eye. His hair was tousled almost exactly as it lay now on the real life version. When she looked back up to meet Hook’s stare, the same shade of blue on the page met her as well.

“When did you do this?” he asked softly, holding her gaze. Emma felt a heat creep up over her collarbones and onto her face.

“Almost a month ago,” she replied honestly on a whisper. Killian’s eyes turned wondrous, as if he were fully understanding for the first time that she truly had been sent to him by his loved ones in the beyond. The tension in the air weighed heavier on her skin, but it had changed. Instead of a fearful sliver that wove its way into it, it was warm now, and all she wanted to do was move closer to Killian. His own gaze dropped to her lips and Emma was sure he was going to kiss her again. Until he abruptly stood, pulling his left arm behind his back and extending her book back to her, still open to the page.

“I have somewhere I think we should go today. Get dressed.” His words were short, but not unkind. Emma was confused at the sudden change in him. As much as she thought she was prepared for Killian Jones, he still found ways to keep her on her toes. Keeping his arm tucked just out of her viewpoint, Hook moved to grab some clothing of his own, along with his prosthesis, and disappeared into the bathroom, Emma assumed to change. She felt a twinge in her heart that she may have made him slightly uncomfortable with the picture, and that he felt the need to hide his arm from her. Her thoughts were soon overrun by his words though, and she wondered briefly where he might be taking her.

Emma did as he bade, dressing quickly while Killian remained in the bathroom. He finally emerged, fully dressed, hooked hand in place, just as Emma was sweeping her hair up into a ponytail. He gave her a warm smile and a fond look, which she happily returned. She was glad to see he wasn’t upset with her. She stood and made her way to her duffel, retrieving her cell and shooting off a text to Jefferson to check in for the day. She had just received a confirmation from him when she looked up to see Killian making the bed.

“Old habits die hard, huh?” she teased, gesturing to the bed. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, completing the task with a smirk. “Navy must have made a real impact.” He chuckled.

“I should have known you’d know that. Fine policemanship, Swan,” he replied, smoothing out the blanket with his hand and hook.

“It wasn’t hard once Milah gave me your name. And Liam told me later on. And if none of that happened, those corners would have been a dead giveaway,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smile. He laughed out loud at that, moving from the bed to the door and sweeping it open.

“After you, darling.”

Hook drove this time. Emma was slightly nervous at first when he had rested his false hand on the steering wheel, but she relaxed as time went on. As with everything he did, Killian was in complete control behind the wheel, and his taste in music wasn’t half bad either. She hummed along to Bad Company, and found out he had a nice singing voice as well when he belted out Living On a Prayer. She did not blush when he complimented her own on Barracuda with a waggle of his ridiculous eyebrows. Before she knew it, she saw a sign that read “Now Leaving Boston City Limits” and she looked over to him curiously.

“Trust me, Swan,” he said, not taking his eyes from the road, but offering her a kind smile. “You should tell that Chapelle fellow that you’ve left the city.” Emma hadn’t even thought of that, though she was sure Jefferson was tracking her phone, and she was touched that he thought of a way to make her feel comfortable. He seemed to be doing that more and more, perhaps his way of making up for the fact that he hadn’t trusted her in the beginning, and earning hers in return. She didn’t make a move to get her phone out, and instead, set her bag on the floor beneath her feet, a small gesture of her own trust in him. He smiled broadly at that and they continued on their way.

They soon turned down a country road, a dirt stretch that ran past the horizon, and Emma was even more puzzled than ever, especially when Hook parked by some trees on the side of the road near virtually nothing. He looked at her sheepishly and something twisted in Emma’s belly telling her she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

“I need you to leave your cell here, love. I can’t have anyone tracking us to where we’re going. I’m leaving mine as well,” he rushed to assure her but she was already shaking her head.

“That doesn’t sound like something I’m game for,” she said, gathering her bag into her lap. He sighed heavily.

“The person we are going to see, I’ve worked very hard to make sure she stays safe. And the only way to make sure she stays that way is if I’m the only one who knows where she is.” Killian ran a hand through his hair.

“But you’re taking me to see her,” she shot back, grip on her bag tightening.

“Aye. You, I trust.”

Emma eyed him, allowing his words to sink in. Going against every cynical bone in her body, she opened up her bag and fished out her phone, only hesitating slightly before handing it over to Hook. He captured her hand along with it, turning them over so he could kiss the back of hers firmly, keeping hold of her gaze as he did so. Something inside of Emma calmed again, and Hook joined her cell with his, opening the door and going to the tree nearest to them. He pulled out a lock box and unlocked it with a key from his belt, placing the phones inside and locking them again. He got back into the car and started it again, sighing in relief. Emma sighed for a different reason altogether as they made their journey another few miles down the road.

Emma’s anxiety and impatience grew until they had reached what appeared to be their destination, turning down a few side trails until they reached a short gravel road that her bug would have never made it through. A little farm house that looked somewhat like a fairytale cottage sat isolated at the end of the road, looking quite out of pace with it’s manicured green lawn, small rose garden, and white picket fence. Killian parked next to an older truck and gave Emma a nervous glance before darting out of the car. Emma took a few calming breaths, composing herself, and she didn’t even notice Killian had come around to her side of the car to open her door for her. She accepted his hand and they made their way to the house, him holding onto her as they walked in a way that made her feel more at ease and entirely unsettled at the same time.

As they walked up the path, the door opened and a wide eyed woman poked her head out the door. She looked at Emma fearfully, her throat working as she swallowed, but she relaxed immediately when she set her eyes on Killian. She opened the door fully, her light brown hair swinging down over her shoulders, and walked outside and towards them, wrapping Killian up in a warm hug. Killian returned the embrace one armed, his hand still wrapped firmly around Emma’s.

“Killian Jones. It’s been too long since you’ve come to see me,” the woman said in an accent that she couldn’t quite place. Nearly English, but not quite.

“Aye, I know, I’ve been a little busy. I’m sorry for that,” he said with a small smile as he pulled away. “I do have someone that I want you to meet, though. This is Emma Swan. Emma, Belle French.”

Emma wasn’t sure if his introduction with her alias was intentional or not, but she was grateful for it all the same. She reached out to shake Belle’s hand with a smile of her own.

“A pleasure to meet you, Emma,” the brunette returned and Emma replied in kind. “Come in and sit down. Tea for anyone?”

“That sounds wonderful, love, thank you,” Killian confirmed and they went inside the little house together. Belle heated the kettle on a little wood stove as she and Killian settled in the small living room, each in a plush armchair. Belle set up a tea tray and placed cups in front of each of them, pouring the water over tea bags and settling into her own place on the couch, her skirt flowing gracefully as she moved.

“So what brings you this way?” Belle asked, stirring her tea and adding a cube of sugar. Killian leaned forward and set his forearms on his knees, his fingers fiddling with his hook.

“I wish I could just say it was for a visit, love, but I’m afraid it’s business.” His tone was serious and every drop of color left Belle’s face. Emma sat more rigid at her change in expression, setting her own teacup back down on the coffee table.

“Weaver?” she asked on a shaky whisper and Emma was suddenly on very high alert. Killian reached forward and touched Belle’s hands where they had begun shaking around her teacup, removing the china from her grasp and setting it next to Emma’s.

“He hasn’t found you, love, nothing to worry about,” Hook told her firmly, grasping her hand once more. Belle let out a shaky breath, offering them both a tight, embarrassed smile and a brief chuckle. She nodded and rearranged herself on the couch, clearly trying to shake off some of her lingering nerves. Hook turned his attention to Emma, who had been watching the whole exchange with rapt attention. “Swan, do you remember the night we met, you were trying to take something from me, aye?” Emma felt her face heat again in embarrassment and fury. Her eyes darted to Belle, who didn’t look surprised at all and Emma didn’t know whether to be grateful for her lack of reaction or offended. She looked back to Killian and nodded. “And you had absolutely no idea what it was?”

“Not a single clue,” she replied, unwilling to divulge that she was associated with Gold once in any way in the presence of this woman who was clearly in hiding from him.

“It was a GPS device. It tracked a chip that used to reside with the lovely Miss French here,” Hook explained and Emma's head snapped back in the brunette’s direction. She was absentmindedly rubbing at a pink scar at the base of her wrist, and Emma assumed that was where the chip was.

“Why?” Emma asked, her heart breaking for the frightened woman. Her gaze turned back to Killian's again. “Why is he so desperate to find her again?”

“Belle was his wife,” Hook ground out the last word as if it tasted bad in his mouth. Emma's eyes widened in shock and Belle cleared her throat. Killian ducked his head, allowing her the opportunity to tell her own story.

“‘Wife’ is a bit of a strong word. My father owed him a debt. He took me as payment,” she said softly, picking at the blue cotton of her skirt as she made her admission. Emma felt rage on her behalf. How many women had he done this to?

“Belle,” Emma sat forward and spoke carefully, but her tone was serious enough to have Belle's eyes finally come up to meet hers again. “Has he taken any other wives before, since, or during your time with him? There are a lot of girls missing right now that are tied to him. I'm trying to help them.” Belle shook her head adamantly.

“It was just me. And Milah, before me,” she looked to Killian sympathetically. “Just us two. The girls he trades do usually owe him some kind of debt, though.”

Emma's breath completely evaporated from her lungs.

“The girls he trades?” she squeaked out and even Killian was sitting on the edge of his seat, eyes darkened in interest. It was clear this was all news to him as well.

“Well, yeah, the trafficking ring. Didn't you know?” Belle looked between the two of them, confused. Emma could only gape at her.

“No, lass, I'm afraid we didn't,” Hook murmured, his voice dark and dangerous. Belle’s cheeks colored and she began fiddling with her skirt again.

“If you want to save those girls, you're running out of time,” Belle said quietly with a sorrowful resignation.

“Belle, please,” Emma moved from her armchair to the couch and the other woman looked up at her, tears brimming in her eyes, “please, if you know anything, I really need your help. They really need your help, all these women that have been taken from their homes and families. Help me help them.”

Emma reached out and touched her arm gently, her eyes still shining with urgency. After a moment or two, Belle exhaled a shaky breath and nodded, giving Emma a soft half smile.

“Alright.”

The single word of assent was the biggest breakthrough Emma had gotten thus far, and none of it would have been remotely possible without Killian Jones. Whatever had set the two of them on their collision course towards one another, she would be eternally grateful.

The scent of jasmine crept up around her for the first time that day and Emma inhaled deeply, a smile spreading over her lips and she knew in that moment that justice was within her grasp. For Belle. For Milah. For all of them.

[gabzep]

Betrayal (5)

Thanks @amazinglovers747 for reminding this was still here.  I wasn't sure how to work the reunion so I kinda ignored it for a bit. Hope you guys like it.

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face by Roberta Flack

Part 4

He wanted to head out for the lake early this morning but his mom told him he had to at least work the morning shift, especially if he was planning on being gone for a few days.  He should be able to make it there by noon.  His mom was also on board for him to get Katniss back but that’s probably because the Bakery’s profits had gone down since they stopped selling the meat pies.  Plus he thinks his parents feel guilt for forcing him to marry Delly.

He’s not sure if disturbing her at the lake is a good idea.  Should he just wait for her to return, talk to her then? What if she doesn’t want him anymore, regardless of what he has to say?  He shakes himself out of his negative thoughts.  No he’s doing this.  He needs to stop being a coward, stop letting fear control him.  He’s going out there and fight for her, for them and their future.

He goes through he’s backpack one last time.  Making sure he didn’t forget anything and placing the last items inside.  Which happen to be Katniss’s favorite foods, a bag of cheese buns, a thermos of hot chocolate and two cans of Lamb Stew which he had traded Purnia this morning for several loaves of fresh bread.  Remembering his sketch book and pencils he leaves his bag on the counter and hurries upstairs.  When he gets back he finds Rye putting something inside.

“What are you doing?” He asks Rye

“Nothing, just throwing in a note for Katniss from Madge” he says with a smirk on him face.  He doesn’t have time to question him any further.  He grabs is backpack, shoves his sketchbook and pencils in, zips it up, swings over he’s shoulder and heads on out the doors.  He hears Rye wishing him luck.  Good, he’s going to need it.

------------------------------------

When he crawls under the fence he is reminded of the first time Katniss had taken him into the woods.  It was on his 17th birthday and he was feeling a little hurt.  His family never did anything for their birthdays but this time they didn’t acknowledge it at all, not even his dad.

After his morning shift Katniss is waiting for him at the back door, she greets him with a ‘happy birthday’ and a soft smile, he pauses to study her pretty face.  She has huge beautiful gray eyes, long black lashes, tiny delicate nose, full pink lips and all his.  He still has to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming.  She gives him a quick kiss and they headed out to the wood. 

The moment he was on the other side of the fence, it was like a whole different world.  Instead of all the black coal dust, there’s green all around him with a familiar smell of pine and damp earth.  He was so in awe that she practically had to drag him to the nearby stream where she had set up a birthday picnic. 

They ate grilled fish, biscuits, strawberries and blackberries.  Once they had their fill she took him for a hike and showed him all her favorite spots which included a meadow full of blooming wildflowers, yellow, white, red, blue and lavender, he sees so much color, it’s blinding.  As she climbed a tree to pick some apples, he wandered around and found a berry bush.  He had collected about a handful when he heard Katniss shout ‘Peeta! No!’ and hit him in the back with an apple, effectively startling him into dropping the berries.  She rushed them back to the stream.  Made him wash his hands over and over making sure he didn’t get any berry juice on them.  She goes on about how they were ‘poisonous nightlock berries, dead in a minute, you scared me half to death’.

“It’s alright Katniss, no one really needs me” he said before he could stop himself.  He knows he shouldn’t feel sorry for himself, especially since he’s had a wonderful birthday with Katniss.  But he’s family forgetting his birthday really got to him.

“I do, I need you” she tells him.  She takes him by the hand, leads him to the picnic blanket, pushes him down and proceeds to shows him, just how much he means to her.  

When they walk back to the bakery, he had the biggest grin on his face; they had never gone that far before.  He’s feeling happy and loved by the girl walking next to him.  Pushing open the bakery door there are shouts of ‘Surprise’ and ‘Happy Birthday, Peeta’.   Even Katniss’s mom and sister were there plus a few of their friends.  He was shocked.  Looking down at Katniss, she reaches up gently kisses his lips and whispers ‘you’ll always be needed Peeta’.  He’s hoping that’s still true. 

-----------------------------

As he gets closer to the lake he hears her singing and like everything else around him he stops to listen.  Her sultry smooth voice is absolutely beautiful and it helps to soothe his battered heart.

And the first time ever I kissed your mouth I felt the earth move in my hand Like the trembling heart of a captive bird That was there at my command my love That was there at my command my love And the first time ever I lay with you I felt your heart so close to mine And I knew our joy would fill the earth And last till the end of time my love And it would last till the end of time my love The first time ever I saw your face Your face, your face, your face

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there; the haunting melody had completely captivated his mind. He shook his head to clear away the haze, forcing himself to focus and continue walking.  She was singing a different song now and it was just as enchanting.  As he approaches the thicket ahead that leads to the cabin she stops singing.  She must hear him coming.  She did like to remind him of how loud he was, asking him if he was stomping his feet on purpose.

His legs shake with ever step; his hearts beating faster making its way from his chest to his throat. He walks through the thicket and she’s there.  Oh god, he hadn’t seen her in so long, she takes his breath away.  They stand there taking each other in, neither one wanting to break the spell that has taken a hold of them.  He recognizes the sadness and longing in her eyes.

It’s too much; all these months of trying to keep himself together have finally taken a toll on him.  He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything and its taking all his strength to keep him from falling to his knees. He tries to make himself say something before her walls come up.  If he could just get passed the lump that has closed off his throat but he only manages to choke out “Katniss”.

She hears him whisper her name and sees the pleading in his eyes.  She takes slow tentative steps towards him and with a shaky hand stretches out and tenderly touches his face.  The feel of her touch is his undoing.  His hands reach her; pulling her close to him and takes her down with him as he crumbles to the ground on his knees, burying his face in her neck and burst into tears. 

She feels her own tears falling down her face as she hugs him.  He’s babbling as he sobs into her neck.  She can make out a few words ‘drugged him’ ‘Thom’s baby’ ‘never touched her’.  She’ll get the full story later.  She coos and hums as she rocks him, like she does for Prim after a nightmare.

When his sobs turn to sniffles she begins to loosen her hold, causing him to tighten his grip on her. Because holder her felt so impossibly good he didn’t want to let go.  Then her hand caresses his back as she whispers reassuring words into his ear.  He has always been her weakness and right at this very moment with him in her arms again she doesn’t care.

Hesitant to let her go he clings to her, as he makes it back to his feet.  As he pulls away he looks down at her, giving her a sheepish smile, feeling embarrassed that he had fallen apart like that.  She returns it with slightly amused smile of her own.  They walk to the lake to wash up and he splashes the cool water on his face.  This was not how he had imagined it would go but he’s all too happy that he didn’t end up with an arrow in his eye.  They know that they need to talk but they sit at the edge of the lake in companionable silence enjoy being in each other company.

“Have you had lunch yet” he asks.  She shakes her head.  He retrieves his backpack where he had dropped it and they go into the cabin where he heats up the lamb stew.  She moans when she takes the first bite of the cheese bun, she hasn’t had them since before the reaping and she almost finishes all the hot chocolate by herself.  When they finished up, she grabs a blanket and they headed out to enjoy the rest of the late afternoon sun.  He had stalled as long as he could so he starts to talk.

“I’m not sure how much you where able to understand earlier” he rubs the back of his neck; face turning beat red, remembering his break down “but um…the baby isn’t mine, he uh…is Thom’s son.”

“So she had the baby already?” doing a mental calculation she knows the timing is off.

“Yeah, that’s the thing she was already pregnant before the reaping.  I still don’t completely understand what motivated Delly to try and pass him off as mine, he was born with all seam features and later told us he was Thom’s.  I think not wanting to move into the seam was one of the reasons.”  He waits for a bit to let it sink in.  Hopefully she’ll be able to believe what he’s going to say next.  Taking a deep breath he pushes forward.

“Katniss” he reaches out taking her hand. “She also said that we didn’t do anything that night” her lips begin to quiver at the memory, tears pooling in her gray eyes.  As his voice begins to shake he has to stop swallow a few times before he continues “Delly told me she put something in my drinks; by the 3rd one I blacked out, all she really needed was for it to look like we had slept together knowing I wouldn’t remember.”

He continues telling her about being forced to marry, refusing to toast, rejecting the assigned housing, sleeping in a cot in the shoe shop among the shoes instead of in her room.

She’s actually surprised that Delly didn’t abort the baby like every other merchant girl that finds herself pregnant by a boy from the seam or seam girl by a merchant.  But how is drugging someone, making him believe he’s the father, forcing him to marry her knowing it’s all a lie and then not giving the real father the opportunity to get to know his baby, make Delly any better.  Thom is a good person and he’d want to be there for his baby.

She gets to her feet, pacing back and forth along the shore.  She feels a smoldering, all consuming rage boiling within her.  All these months of pain, struggling to drag her way out of the fog of sadness that losing Peeta had caused.  The never ending sleepless nights she’d spent felling miserable and alone.  Having to fight the constant desire to go looking for Peeta knowing he belonged to another.  And Peeta want about him?  They were childhood friends.  How can she possibly justify taking advantage of his friendship and trusting nature?  Oh she can wait to get her hands on her. This is not going to end well for Delly.

He watches her pace, seeing the storm of emotions playing out on her face and it terrifies him. Maybe she doesn’t believe him, will this be the last day he’ll spend with her. He needs to keep trying, he’ll beg if has to. 

“Please Katniss, I didn’t cheat, I swear it.” The plea she hears in his voice forces her to calm the fire that was raging in her blood and turns to look at him; she can see the look of concern across his face.  Delly took what was most precious and turned Peeta into a piece in her own personal selfish game.  She’ll deal with her when they get home.  Right now she needs to take care of Peeta.

She goes to him and he takes her hands, drawing strength from them. “Even after I was forced to marry, I promise, I never touched her. Please, believe me.” He chokes out.

She sees the pain in Peeta’s beautiful blue eyes and knows he isn’t lying.  “Okay” she nods. “I believe, you” she reassure him.  His eyes go wide and his face brightens with hope.

“Oh god, Katniss thank you.” He’s beaming with happiness; he grabs her and pulls her onto his lap. “There’s no life for me without you, I’ve been so unhappy.” He burrows his face into her neck and his lips graze it lovingly, just the way he knows she likes it.  It sends a shiver down she spine causing her to stifle a moan.  If he keeps this up she’ll probably agree to anything.  “I love you, Katniss, you’re my whole life.  Do you think…” he swallows hard trying to get the rest out. Hoping he’s not pushing his luck “you can give us another chance?” he asks “I put in for an annulment already.” he adds quickly. “We can take it as slow as you want.” he finishes, silently waiting for her answer please say yes.

She knew the answer the minute he crossed the thicket but she’s going to make him sweat a little, especially since he’s playing dirty.  She wiggles slowly on his lap, letting her hip slightly rub up against him.  She hears his breath hitch; it takes all she has to keep a straight face.

“I don’t know Peeta, I’ve embraced the single life” she muses “It’ll take a lot to convince me to tie myself down again.” She moves her hips one more time and she can feel a hardness that wasn’t there a moment ago.  He tightens his grip on her hips to prevent her from moving again.  She has to hold back a giggle.

“What can I do to persuade you to give us another shot?” his voice comes out rough and husky making her want to squirm some more but he has a firm grip.  He bends his head down and begins to nibble on her earlobe knowing this is another one of her weak points and he can feel her shudder.  She whimpers as he pulls away.  “Is that a yes, Katniss” and he takes her earlobe in his mouth again and sucks on it. 

She lets out a breathy “yes”.  With a move acquired from his years of wrestling, he has her on her back his hips flushed against hers and he rolls into her.  “Tell me, Katniss” he rolls his hips again “tell me you’ll take me back” he whispers in her ear.

“Yes, Peeta” she moans out, feeling him push up against her aching center once more “I’ll take you back” she grabs him by the neck and pull him down for a kiss.  This kiss was familiar yet new, filled with shared hunger and longing over these wasted months apart. 

When they finally come up for air he asks “You love me, real or not real.”

She tells him “real” and pulls him back down for another searing kiss.

[k-drabblebabbles]

Program Me To Love You (Pt. 1)

Program Me To Love You: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 (Coming soon!)

❥ Fandom: Seventeen

❥ Pairing: Joshua x Reader

❥ Genre: Heavy angst, slight fluff (Warnings: Death)

❥ Word Count: 1,644

❥ Synopsis: It’s been five years since the passing of your first love. Can the government’s newest technology and your advanced skills of computer science and engineering bring him back?

“Almost there… Almost there… Come on…” You stared at the loading screen with wide eyes of hope and fear. The green loading bar of your lab’s computer monitor inched closer to the end. The racing of your heart increased with each passing second, and if you held your breath any longer, you would’ve passed out.

If this attempt was a success, not only would it mean the newest achievement in global technology, but it would also bring back the light that left your life. You didn’t care about the money, awards, or recognition that would come from a successful project - you only cared about what you were about to create, and what that creation can revive.

“Come on…!” The loading bar reached full capacity. For a moment, you felt your heart stop. Could it be…?

- ERROR 404: FAILED INITIATION -

Your heart dropped with the umpteenth failure message you saw since you began this project. “Of course,” You let out with a disappointed sigh, then proceeded to shut down your computer.

With a quick glance at the clock, you decided that you reached your mental and physical limits for the day. You walked around your lab to do your routine disconnections, clean-ups, and inventory checks. In the middle of your lab, a long operation table stood with a large object covered by a gray cloth on top of it. That was always your last check of the day, only because it was your hardest.

You soon approached the table, always careful of the veiny wires that connected the object underneath the cloth to multiple CPUs and charging outlets in your lab. Once you stood right next to the table, you took a deep breath and unveiled the object.

At first sight, it would look like a beautiful, sleeping boy. At second sight, with attention to the unmoving chest, it would like a fresh corpse. But with the million sights you took, especially considering the hunk of metal and wires this body was originally, you knew it was only a half-completed android. You touched the cheek, partially with the hope of touching soft, tender flesh, but mainly to check if it’s internal CPU was overheating. When all you felt was the cold cushion of faux skin, you swiftly moved your hand back to the cloth to re-cover the imitation body.

With that, you coldly turned to the exit, shut off all the lights, and made your way out.

With your lab being your basement, you didn’t need to embrace the brisk, winter air outside and instead walked up a simple flight of steps to enter your home. However, you didn’t consider it as such - you preferred to call it your temporary living quarters.

Home was hundreds of miles away. Home was a small town where your classmates were your neighbors, every adult was a friendly aunt or uncle, and every occasion was like a grand holiday. Home was where you were just a young girl with dreams of moving to a big city to become an IT specialist. Home was where you fell in love with the boy-next-door, your best friend, the person you were meant to grow old with and make fond memories to pass on to future generations.

Now… Home was the only piece of decoration in your minimalistic bedroom: a small picture frame on your bedside table. As natural as it was to breathe, your hand automatically gripped the picture frame as your body collapsed on the bed.

The picture was of a young you with a young boy, one not too different from your slumbering project downstairs, smiling on top of a picnic blanket in the middle of a park. You held the camera phone to take the picture while the boy posed with the guitar on his lap. Both your smiles reached your eyes.

You stared at the picture with a blank expression, waiting for the tears to well up. Had you already numb yourself to the pain memories brought you? As usual, you followed through with the experiment…

It was a bright, beautiful, sunny afternoon in a luscious, green park. The air smelled of fresh picnic food and light sea water. The wind carried distant chatter, children’s laughter, and light guitar strumming of the boy seated across from you.

You leaned against the tree with your knees pulled up to your chest. Your nose was buried in your sketchbook, the tip of your pencil stroking the page with precision and gentleness. Your eyes darted between the boy strumming the guitar and the sketchbook, making it your mission to capture every little detail.

“I don’t think you’re doing your computer science homework anymore.” The strumming stopped. You curiously looked up to find the boy staring at you with a raised eyebrow, the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“I’m just taking a doodling break, that’s all,” You shrugged innocently, trying to subtly close your sketchbook.

“Uh-huh. You’ve been doodling for quite a while, let’s see what’cha got~” The boy put down his guitar and crawled closer to you, one hand reaching for your sketchbook.

“Ah!” You quickly got up and pulled your sketchbook away, then stepped back while hugging the book to your chest. “You’re going to have to catch me first, Jisoo!”

“Challenge accepted!” The boy, Jisoo, jumped onto his own two feet and proceeded to chase you as you made a run for it. You were able to maintain a good distance from him, especially as you zigzagged around different trees, but his long legs were soon able to catch up with you.

With two arms reached out, he was able to hold you in place around the waist and pick you up to spin you around. You giggled and playfully begged him to put you down. “Alright, cough it up, Picasso,” Jisoo stated in your ear, putting you down to instead rest his chin on your shoulder and hug you from behind.

“Hey~ I’ve been drawing faces properly since I was nine, you can’t hold that one ‘second-grade art contest’ nickname forever,” You complained with a light tone.

“Alright, alright… I’ll be the judge of keeping or losing that nickname,” He nuzzled your ear and hugged you tighter, then looked down at your sketchbook with hopeful and curious eyes.

“Fine… If you make fun of me, I’ll beat you up.” You jokingly threatened.

“Hmm~ I’m not scared.” You lightly bumped your shoulder with his chin, earning a soft chuckle as he firmly re-planted his chin.

You carefully opened your sketchbook as your pulse picked up its pace. You couldn’t help the nerves from streaming in as you flipped to the page you were working on.

It was a sketch of Jisoo playing his guitar, the shading alluded to the sun streaming over his angelic form. Although you were getting better at drawing realistic portraits, you didn’t really show Jisoo your recent work since you felt they weren’t good enough. When Jisoo fell silent as he observed each line and stroke, you felt like your heart was going to stop.

“You hate it, don’t you?” You mumbled, ready to close the sketchbook. Jisoo immediately stopped you.

“No, no, I love it! I just…” He looked at you with eyes filled with admiration. “I’m always surprised at how talented and amazing you are.”

“Eyy, you’re just saying that to butter me up,” You teased, your cheeks reddening.

“Maybe~ But only because I’d like to keep the drawing. With your autograph, of course,” Jisoo replied, letting go of your waist to face you properly.  

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“I’m serious! I want to frame it in my room and show it off to all my friends and family when they come over,” Jisoo declared.

“Oh my gosh, no!” The idea had your face flame up.

“Come on,” Jisoo held your shoulders and looked deeply into your eyes. “If this sketch is the way you look at me… Then I want everyone to know that I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“You really mean that?”

“Of course I do.” To further prove his sincerity, he leaned down to place a soft, affectionately sweet kiss on your lips. That was all you needed to later gently tear the page out of your sketchbook, scribble an exaggerated cursive of your name on the back, then hand it to Jisoo who proceeded to dramatically fanboy over it - all to get a laugh from you.

Little did you know as you two walked home, hand in hand, that a mandatory induction notice from the military waited on the doorstep of your beloved, guitar strumming boy-next-door…  

“Yup, there they are,” You touched your damp cheeks with a humorless chuckle. After placing the picture frame in its original position, you stood up and walked over to your dresser. Sliding open the very first drawer, you looked down at the only three contents of the drawer: a folded piece of old paper, an army tag, and a crumbled ball of another piece of paper.

You picked up the crumbled ball and army tag, briefly remembering how Jisoo’s sobbing mother hugged you as you screamed and grabbed the once pristine death notice. You angrily scrunched it up, refusing to believe anything she tried to tell you. Your shouts of disbelief were silenced only by a folded, slightly browned piece of paper that Jisoo’s father said was from your beloved’s bunk. Of course, it was your drawing - an inked version, as requested by Jisoo before he left to serve.

You now looked at the drawing, edges curled with dried tear stains. Your chest caved in with the gaping hole that felt like it only grew bigger - despite five years having passed. You returned the items inside the drawer and fell to your knees, proceeding to cry and gasp for air as painfully and brokenly as you did the day you heard Jisoo Hong was no longer in your life.

✯ CONTINUE TO NEXT PART ✯

[bixshits]

Lost Odyssey - A Thousand Years of Dreams - Story Thirteen Transcript

Portraitist of the Dead

She always has mourning clothes with her. That way, she can begin a portrait as soon as a request comes in.

And so it is today.

Having slipped into her mourning dress in the shed on the pier, she boards the downstream ferry. Her hands are full: one holds the case with her painting tools and the other the garment bag for her mourning dress.

She has heard that a rich man lies dying in a town twenty kilometers downstream.

Her name is Rosa.

"It's a race against time," she says with a grim smile. "I have to start as soon as possible, before the face changes."

"Changes how?" Kaim asks.

"It's hard to say."

There is a deepening strain to Rosa's smile.

"But I know it when I see it - when the person has gone from 'this side' to the 'other side'."

"Once they've gone over, I can't paint them - at least not in the way that will please the family. It just can't be done."

Rosa is a professional portraitist of the dead.

The custom of preserving death masks is now widely practiced in this area. Families too poor to hire an artist daub the face of the newly deceased with dye and preserve the loved one's deathbed expression on a cloth pressed against the dyed face. Some families make a death mask with plaster. Only the wealthiest families can afford to hire a professional like Rosa, so that lurking in the background of an individual's death there can be a variety of disputes.

"I have heard families quarreling over the inheritance behind my back even as I sit there sketching the dead person. One widow presented my portrait of her husband to the court to prove that he had been poisoned. Another time, some loan sharks waited until the moment the man died and charged right into the house. One husband tried to spit in his wife's face as soon as she gave up the ghost. Apparently, she had been unfaithful to him for years."

Rosa tells her stories with utter detachment. She reveals no emotion at all.

This, she says, is indispensible to be becoming an outstanding portraitist of the dead.

"You have to open your sketchbook and get your brushes going with the bereaved family members right there, overcome with grief. There's no way you can produce a good portrait if you become emotional or allow yourself to be swept up in emotions of the other people in the house."

Kaim responds with a silent nod.

His only connection with the woman is to have boarded the same boat and sat at the same table. Only a few minutes have passed since she started volunteering her stories, but that is all it has taken for Kaim to perceive the hint of nihilism lurking in her beautiful features.

"The more respectable artists despise painters like me."

"Why is that?"

"Well, half of them accuse us of making our living from people's deaths. The other half look down on us for not being moved by what we do. I see their point. I mean, the emotions are what give rise to all the arts, whether it's painting, sculpture, music, or literature. We don't have emotions like that: we're nothing but craftsmen."

Rosa speaks without a hint of either self-mockery or pride.

Her tone suggests that she is merely stating the obvious in an obvious way.

Kaim takes a sip of his rye whiskey, and Rosa drinks from her rose-petal tea.

The boat makes its leisurely way downstream.

The season is spring.

The river is high with snowmelt, and white water birds have settled on its surface.

"Strange," Rosa says with a giggle, "when I first saw you, I thought you and I must be members of the same profession. Which is why I took the initiative to speak to you..."

Kaim gives her a strained smile. He knows nothing about painting and he is fairly certain there is nothing about his appearance that would cause him to be mistaken for an artist.

It well could be, however, that in the profile of this man drinking whiskey alone in the afternoon Rosa has recognized the hue of nihilism like her own.

Or then again, she might have perceived the shadow of 'the other side' clinging fast to Kaim's back.

Until a few days ago, Kaim was on a battlefield.

There, he witnessed the killing of many enemies and many allies.

But he was unmoved by any of it.

Such youthfulness had long since vanished from him.

Though outwardly unchanged, Kaim has lived through several centuries.

Rosa says that she is in her mid-thirties and in her tenth year since becoming a portraitist of the dead, which apparently puts her near the beginning of her career.

"If you wouldn't mind," she adds, "I have a few more things I'd like to discuss with you."

When Kaim nods silently in compliance, Rosa thanks him and gives him her first heartfelt smile of the day.

Portraitists of the dead are never present while the subject is dying. The very fact that such a professional has been called means that the person's death is imminent. And so theirs is seen as a presence of ill omen and even defilement.

A family member or friend who has been at the bedside dares to broach the subject quietly in another room.

"Don't you think it may be time to call the painter?"

The answer—whether "Too soon for that" or "I think you may be right"—is delivered in guarded tones.

Introduced to the family by the church, the portraitist never enters the house by the front door. Rather, he or she goes around to the back and is shown to the room where the sun cannot penetrate. There, the painter changes into mourning clothes and waits for the announcement of the death.

Eventually, a quiet knock on the door is followed by a summons to appear, and the painter dressed in mourning sets to work.

Not all deaths occur at the end of long lifetimes, of course. All too often the painter must depict the face of one who has died young of illness or accident.

The face that emerges in the artist's sketchbook radiates the delicate vivacity of the one who has just crossed the border dividing life from death, one who has only moments before transitioning from 'this world' to the 'other world'.

The work presented to the family is an oil painting done from the sketch, but Rosa believes the sketch itself is a far more authentic portrait of the dead.

"There is nothing quite like the atmosphere in a room where someone has just died. How to put it? It's as though the flow of time has stopped, or time itself has melted into the very air... the sobbing and the wailing sound as if they might last forever, the only movement of time in all this being the way the face of the dead person emerges little by little onto the blank white page of the sketchbook."

She hands him her thick sketch pad.

"See," she says, showing him countless faces of the dead.

"This is two years' worth."

Many of the faces are peaceful, but others are full of agony, and all without exception possess a mysterious presence. They differ unmistakably from faces in sleep. Neither, however, do they look dead. They seem as if they might open their eyes at any moment or just as easily crumble to ash.

They hover, men and women alike, on the very brink of death.

"After the body has cooled, it's too late. It's also too late if the family has begun making its preparation for the funeral. The game is won or lost in those very few minutes follow the death itself. All we can do is start sketching - as efficiently and expeditiously as possible."

With a painful smile, Rosa adds, "In the eyes of the family, though, that makes me a cold-hearted woman."

Kaim turns the pages of her sketchbook, saying nothing.

He would like to tell her that it is the same on the battlefield. There, no one has time to mourn the death of a soldier. If you're busy shedding tears instead of doing the next thing you have to do, you end up being one of those forced to travel to the other world.

The final sketch in the book is unfinished:

The face of a young girl.

The general outlines of the hair and face are sketched in, nothing more.

Kaim looks questioningly at Rosa.

"My daughter," she says softly.

"But why...?"

"A portrait painter of the dead reaches full maturity in the position when she is able to paint a member of her own family. Which only makes sense, I mean, how self-serving is it if you can be coldly objective toward the death of a stranger but not toward a member of your own family?"

Her daughter died two years ago, the girl's three short years of life brought to a sudden end by a bad flu that was making the rounds.

"I was holding her hands almost until the moment she died," Rosa says, "I was in tears, calling her name and pleading with her to come back to me, not to die."

After the doctor looked at her with a shake of his drooping head, though, Rosa relaxed her daughter's hands and opened her sketch book. Wiping her tears she picked up her pencil and tried to sketch her daughter's face.

"But I couldn't do it. The tears came pouring out of me no matter how much I wiped them. I simply couldn't work."

Kaim turns his gaze on the unfinished sketch again.

Some areas of the white paper are wavy - perhaps where Rosa's tears had fallen.

"I guess I'm not qualified to be a portraitist of the dead," she says with a smile, glancing down at the river.

"But still... if I had to choose one work of art to leave behind, this would be it"

The boat gives a blast of its steam horn.

Frightened, the birds on the river leap into the air in a great mass.

Kaim closes the sketchbook and returns it to Rosa.

He considers complimenting her on the excellence of the drawing, but chooses silence instead. Such praise, he feels, could be a sign of disrespect for her work, for Rosa herself, and for her daughter.

"I didn't mean to bend your ear like this," she says, "I'm sorry."

She stands and peers at Kaim once again.

"Really, though, you look like a member of my profession."

Kaim gives her a strained smile and shakes his head.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that," she responds with a strained smile of her own.

"And you probably won't like my saying this, either, but please call me if you ever need a portraitist of the dead."

"I won't need one," Kaim says, "I have no family."

"No family? Well, then, when your own time comes..."

With a little chuckle, Rosa leaves. Her right hand grasps the case with her painting supplies; her left, the garment bag with mourning clothes.

Unfortunately, Kaim will never need her services. He will not—cannot—go to the 'other' world just yet.

On the long, long road of his life, how many deaths must he encounter?

The steam horn blasts again.

The boat gradually lowers its speed and edges toward the river bank.

The landing draws closer.

When he leaves the boat, his journey will begin again.

It will be a long journey.

The next battlefield lies far beyond the mountains that tower in the distance.