#still;; warm sepia photograph

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Little Sunshine - A John Shelby/Reader Short Story.

Something a little different to my usual offerings, besties. Enjoy :)

Words - 627

Warnings - Bittersweet story, suitable for all ages but without giving too much away, it's a sad read.

It’s the most heartwarming of sights. In fact, there isn’t much that warms those cockles like witnessing the sight of a father bonding with his newborn. You always knew he’d take to it well, despite him quietly admitting before she was born that he was terrified. Anyone viewing him now, though, they’d see he looks the furthest thing from it. 

“You don’t half look like your mom, you know,” he tells her tenderly, the late afternoon sun catching the spun gold of his eyelashes, John sitting upon the windowsill of your bedroom, cradling your daughter to his chest. “Thought you was gonna come out redheaded like your old man here, but nah. Got her hair, ain’t ya?”  

She gurgles, and he smiles. Smiles through the tired violet shadows creeping over his eyelids, smiles through the exhaustion, smiles through every ounce of weight he carries. Parenthood will do that to anyone, though. Luckily, there is plenty of help on hand. Looking up, he beams wearily at seeing Polly enter the room, holding a bottle in her grasp. 

“Here, just tested it, it’s fine,” she proffers it forth, her hand lovingly moving to your daughter’s head, stroking her peachy skin. “Hello, my little sunshine, hello.” The bond there is strong, Polly being the woman who brought her into the world, who placed her upon your chest, who tried her absolute best all the way through and still remains the pillar of inimitable strength. “Look at her eyes, our John. She’s a beaut.”  

He nods, feeling his chest swelling thickly, placing the teat to her lips, your baby latching and beginning to drink. “Ar, she ain’t half a beaut.” He shakes his head, crumbling a little with the emotion of it all, Polly quick to wrap her arm around him and kiss his head. “Dunno how any of this is real.”  

“It’s life, love,” she sighs, her maternal hands stroking his hair lovingly. “And she’ll be just fine.” 

“Will she?” 

She nods sagely. “Of course, she bloody will. She’s a Shelby girl. God made us tough for good reason.” Polly leaves, casting a last glace at the heartwarming scene, the tension in her shoulders still meaning she’s carrying herself a little stiff, looking somehwat out of place from her usual busy bustle.  

“Hear that, little’un? You’ll be just fine. If your great aunt Pol says it, then it’s gotta be true. We’re all fine ‘cos of her, and so will you be an’ all. You’ve got her, your uncles, your auntie, and most importantly, your daddy right here.” His eyes then flit across the room, finding you, a tear slipping down his cheek as he cradles your baby a little tighter. “Just wish you still had her, too.” 

The image of you he found was your wedding photograph. The sepia images dotted around in frames are all that remains of your visage, because you aren’t there anymore. You exist as ethereal mist, a love lost, but by no means felt any less profoundly by those whom you sadly had to leave behind. It was the greatest joy and the biggest loss, that on the fateful night when the cries of a new baby entered the homestead, a brand-new Shelby arriving, another had to leave.  

You’re still there with them all, but hidden, the veil of death swathing you in a blanket of invisible stars, watching from the other side, from a place one day all of them must go. You float through the ether, stroking his cheek, kissing your baby on the head. He pauses for a moment, looking around, and you know he felt you there, the very last glimmer of your essence. 

“Wish you were still here, sweetheart.” 

You smile, wishing he could see it. “I never left.” 

[infamous-light]

A Dance with Danger Ch. 1

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

AO3: A Dance with Danger

Summary: Sheriff Agatha, a determined and relentless law enforcer, has been obsessed with pursuing the notorious outlaw Rio Vidal for years.

As their cat-and-mouse game intensifies, Agatha finds herself torn between her duty to uphold the law and the thrill of the chase.

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: none but will contain smut in future chapters

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a deep amber glow over the dusty little town of Westview, painting the buildings and cracked sidewalks in hues of warm gold and burnt orange.

A lazy wind drifted through, stirring faint whirls of dust that danced playfully along the ground. Despite the gentle breeze, it did little to cut through the oppressive heat that settled over the town like an unwanted blanket, heavy and suffocating.

Inside the sheriff’s office, the air was thick, a dense mix of leather, gun oil, and stale ink that seemed to cling to every surface. Shelves along one wall were overloaded with case files, their edges frayed and yellowed, some tilted at precarious angles, held up more by sheer luck than organization. On the main desk, an old tin of fountain pens lay on its side, scattering a few loose pens and ink-splattered nibs across the visitor sign-in sheet.

Near the back of the room, Sheriff Agatha sat alone at her desk, shoulders hunched forward, the familiar creak of her wooden chair filling the silence as she leaned in. Her fingers brushed along the edges of a weathered, creased wanted poster that had been thumbed through countless times, almost reverent in its well-worn state. It was a face she knew all too well, one that lingered like a ghost around the edges of her mind.

The name stared back at her in bold, black letters: WANTED: RIO VIDAL

Beneath the name, the photograph of a woman’s face was captured in startling detail.

The sepia tones gave her skin a bronzed, sun-kissed hue, emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the narrow line of her jaw. Strands of dark hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, framing her face with an almost careless elegance. It looked as though she had just run a hand through it, leaving a few rebellious curls to fall forward, drawing attention to her lips. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth – a teasing, almost arrogant curve that hinted at some private amusement, a secret she only knew.

But what stood out to Agatha the most were her eyes. Even through the grainy photograph, they gleamed with a challenge beneath her dark lashes, the kind of look that dared anyone who met her gaze to try their luck.

Agatha clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could burn holes right through the aging poster. Her fingers tightened on the edges, and a crease ran down the center, splitting Rio’s infamous face in two as her knuckles turned bone white.

Agatha’s gaze continued to shift downward, landing on the words etched across the page: DEAD OR ALIVE, stamped in thick, unforgiving block letters.

It sent a fresh wave of heat through Agatha. She’d be damned if she allowed Rio to die – no, she didn’t deserve the luxury of death. Not after everything she had done, the way she’d humiliated Agatha at every turn. She wanted to see Rio alive and locked behind bars, stripped of her freedom, and forced to face the consequences of her actions.

She wanted Rio to feel the bitter sting of helplessness.

The image of Rio, shackled and powerless, ignited a fire deep within Agatha – a desperate need to reclaim the honor that Rio had so effortlessly taken from her but also to seek justice for all the wrongs that Rio had done.

The thought brought forth a memory, one still raw and sour, as if etched into her bones.

It was the day Agatha had come so painfully close to capturing Rio – an ambush that still haunted her dreams. The stagecoach had been rolling along a winding, desolate backroad, carrying precious cargo. Agatha had been tracking it for days, certain that Rio would target it. It was a simple enough plan: wait for Rio to strike, leap into action and take down the notorious outlaw, and finally end the relentless chase that had consumed her life for far too long.

But Rio, as always, had been one step ahead.

Agatha could still see it – the moment when everything went wrong. She and her deputies had been crouched low behind a cluster of twisted, gnarled bushes; their breaths held in anticipation. Then, without warning, the sharp, heart-stopping crack of gunfire shattered the air. Agatha’s fingers dug into the dirt as her heart skipped a beat. The sound had barely settled before she sensed a shift behind them.

Slowly, as if out of a nightmare, Rio emerged from the tree line, astride her imposing black horse.

In a heartbeat, chaos erupted.

A piercing yell cut through the air, and in an instant, Rio's group swarmed them from all directions.

Agatha fought with everything she had. Bullets cut through the air, each one a breath away from striking; her heart thundered as she fired back, every shot aimed with precision. Her eyes darted through the frenzied blur of figures and smoke, searching with a fierce urgency. Then, she caught a flash of dark hair – Rio. A wicked gleam danced in her eyes, amusement mixed with something darker, something tantalizingly dangerous. The sight of that sly grin made Agatha's pulse stumble.

But before Agatha could steady her aim, Rio was gone, dipping over the crest of a hill atop her horse.

Instinct ignited within Agatha as she swung herself up onto her own steed, her muscles coiling with tension as she gripped the reins tightly. With a fierce resolve, she spurred her horse forward, galloping hard to close the distance between them. The ground thudded beneath her as she urged her horse faster, the wind whipping through her hair and stinging her cheeks.

Before Agatha could grab her trusty rope, coiled neatly at her side, a stray bullet whizzed past, grazing one of her horse’s legs. It reared back in fear, its powerful legs kicking wildly. Agatha barely had time to react before she was thrown off her saddle, the world spinning erratically around her as she hit the ground hard. Pain lanced through her side, and she gritted her teeth, rolling quickly to the side as she braced herself against further injury, her muscles seizing from the impact.

Frustration surged through her veins, raw and boiling. The sting of failure bit deep as she lay there, watching Rio slip away with that familiar, insufferable smile tugging at her lips. It was the kind of smile that twisted like a knife in Agatha’s chest.

She would not – could not – let herself be humiliated like that again. The memory of that shame burned like an unhealed wound, refusing to fade away.

Agatha forced herself to refocus, her gaze shifting down the page, catching on to the reward sum printed boldly beneath Rio’s picture: $100,000

The number loomed like a challenge, larger than life, impossible to ignore. It hadn't always been this high. The bounty had doubled after Rio's latest stunt – robbing a U.S. governor’s train. It was an act so brazen, so recklessly daring, that it had turned the entire state of New Jersey on its head.

For a fleeting moment, Agatha’s hand trembled, though she clenched it to keep it still, forcing herself to remain calm even as the anger bubbled inside of her chest. It was infuriating to think that Rio would dare pull off such a move under her own nose – the very place where Agatha had worked tirelessly to maintain order.

It made her look bad, weak even.

Agatha gave a sharp shake of her head as she shifted in her chair, trying to focus on the current moment. Just as she decided to review another case file lying on her desk, the office door swung open with a hard creak, and Deputy Herb burst in, his face slick with sweat, chest heaving with each hurried breath.

“Sheriff!” He huffed; his hat clutched tightly in his hand. “Rio just hit the Westview Bank downtown!”

Agatha straightened, every muscle in her body tensing as her gaze sharpened. “What!?”

Deputy Herb leaned heavily against the doorframe, sweat dotting his forehead as he struggled to steady his breathing. “She robbed the bank not even fifteen minutes ago,” he panted, his voice ragged. “Cleaned it out – every coin, every bill. One witness claimed he saw her heading north.”

Agatha stood, her fingers brushing over the cold steel handle of the revolver holstered at her hip.

“She’s taunting us.” She muttered, almost to herself.

She knew what Rio was playing at. This latest bank heist was another provocation, a deliberate slap in the face to the law – and to her. It left Agatha simmering with a mixture of anger and anticipation.

She turned to Herb, her face setting into a hard mask. “Gather any available deputies. We’re going after her.”

Herb gave a quick nod and vanished into the streets. Agatha wasted no time as she grabbed her leather gloves and headed toward the door. But before she stepped outside, she paused, her gaze drawn back to Rio’s wanted poster lying on her desk. The image of Rio’s smirk seemed to mock her from the faded paper, and Agatha's lips curled into a snarl.

“Not this time, Vidal,” she spat, each word sharp as a blade. “This time, you’re mine.”

With a flick of her wrist, she pulled her hat low over her eyes, the brim casting her face into a shadow, and stepped out into the fiery light of dusk.

***

Agatha sat tall in her saddle, the leather creaking softly beneath her.

Her eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the sun, squinting as she scanned the horizon for any signs of movement. Dust swirled in the air, kicked up by the pounding hooves of her horse and the horses of her deputies, who rode closely behind her.

“Sheriff!” Called out one of her deputies, a young man named Norm, his voice strained as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Do you think she’s still in these parts?”

Agatha's grip tightened on her reins.

“She is.” Agatha replied firmly, her voice steady as she kept her gaze fixed ahead.

The fresh horseshoe imprints they followed wound through the dry desert, dotted with scraggly bushes and rugged rock formations. Each measured step deeper into the wilderness felt like a step closer to finally bringing her to justice.

As they continued north, the terrain grew increasingly treacherous, the ground shifting beneath their horses' hooves. The deputies exchanged wary glances with each other, the unease settling over them like a thick fog. The heat of the day began to wane, casting long shadows across the landscape. It was the perfect time for an ambush and Agatha could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with warning.

“Hold up,” Agatha signaled, raising a hand as they approached a narrow pass flanked by steep cliffs. This is where the horseshoe prints ended. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Agatha's heart thudded in her chest as she listened intently, straining her ears for any hint of movement or sound. It was quiet, too quiet, and that made her gut tingle with unease.

Suddenly, a distant echo of laughter reached them, light and melodic. Agatha’s pulse quickened as she recognized it – a sound that sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through her veins. It was unmistakably Rio.

Agatha silently motioned for her deputies to dismount, each one slipping from their horses.

“Everyone, fan out,” she commanded, her voice low and firm. “We’re close.”

Agatha crept forward; her senses heightened. Each step felt heavy with expectation, the weight of their pursuit pressing down on her shoulders.

As they rounded a bend, Agatha’s breath caught in her throat.

There, just a few yards ahead, stood a large wooden shack, abandoned and half-hidden by the jagged rocks.

“Stay sharp.” Agatha whispered to her deputies.

They nodded. Agatha could feel the tension radiating off them like heat rising from the desert floor. As they drew closer, the door suddenly swung open, and there she was.

Rio leaned casually against the doorframe, silhouetted by the warm glow inside. She was clad in an all-black ensemble that hugged her figure, the fitted leather jacket accentuating her curves. Beneath it, a dark, form-fitting shirt clung to her. The neckline dipped subtly, revealing a hint of delicate lace that peeked out from the collar. Her sleek black pants, tailored to perfection, hugged her legs with a high-waisted cut that added to her height. Perched atop her head was a black cowboy hat, from which her hair cascaded over her shoulders in wild waves.

A wicked smile graced her lips as she caught sight of Agatha.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Sheriff Agatha,” Rio drawled, her voice smooth and velvety. “I was wondering when you’d finally catch up.”

Agatha’s heart pounded in her chest as she withdrew her revolver out of her holster, the metal cold and familiar in her grip. She pointed it at the outlaw, her aim steady despite the tension crackling between them.

“It’s over, Rio! Hands up!”

Rio chuckled lightly. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”

Agatha's grip tightened on the revolver. “You think this is a game?” She snapped. “You’ve crossed the line one too many times.”

“Crossed the line?” Rio arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curling into a sly smile. “I prefer to think of it as… dancing on it.”

Rio took a deliberate step closer, hands raised in a mock gesture of innocence, fingers splayed as if inviting Agatha to join her in this twisted game. Agatha felt the heat rising on her cheeks, an unwelcome flush that betrayed her resolve, but she refused to let it get to her.

“Get back, Rio,” she commanded. “I won’t ask again.”

“Such a serious little sheriff.” Rio purred, her voice dripping with honeyed mockery.

Before Agatha could muster a retort, Rio flicked her wrist with a flourish, sending a knife spiraling toward her. Time slowed as Agatha's instincts surged to the forefront; she ducked quickly, narrowly avoiding the deadly projectile. It buried itself deep into the rough bark of the tree beside her with a solid thud, splintering the wood around the impact.

Regaining her footing, Agatha shot a seething glare at Rio who only gave her a devilish little smirk in return.

“Come on, Sheriff,” Rio said, her tone playful. “You don’t believe I’d let you take me in without a fight, do you?”

In a flash, Rio darted back inside the shack. Agatha immediately sprinted after her without hesitation, her deputies following closely behind.

“Agatha!” She heard Deputy Herb call out, but the words faded into the background as determination consumed her. She couldn't afford to lose Rio again.

“Rio!” Agatha shouted, her voice echoing in the open space. “Show yourself!”

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and Agatha turned just in time to see Rio slip behind a stack of crates.

“Do you think you can hide from me?” Agatha growled.

In quick, short strides, she moved toward the crates, feeling the weight of her deputies’ gaze at her back.

Just as she reached the back of the shack, a sudden rumble jolted the ground beneath her feet. Dust and debris fell from the roof in a choking cloud, swirling around her as a landslide above shook the very structure to its core. Agatha stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat, the air thickening with the gritty particles that filled her lungs. Rocks and dirt continued to pour down around her like torrential rain, blocking any chance of escape. She couldn’t see anything.

When the chaos finally settled, Agatha found herself pressed against the wall, the wood splintering beneath her palm. Her heart raced, a wild animal fighting for freedom as she fought to regain her composure; though, panic clawed at her throat, hot and suffocating, as thoughts of her deputies flashed through her mind. Were they safe?

“Hey!” Agatha shouted, her voice cracking with urgency as it echoed through the dust-laden air. “Can anyone hear me?”

Each second stretched into an eternity, amplifying the silence until, finally, she heard Deputy Herb's voice break through, gravelly yet reassuring. “We’re fine! Just a bit shaken!”

Relief flooded through Agatha, momentarily lifting the weight of her worries. But that fleeting comfort was quickly followed by an overwhelming sense of disbelief. She couldn't believe that Rio had rigged the entire place with dynamite!

Just when Agatha thought she had a handle on the situation, Rio had slipped away again.

[rabbitenn]

hello, i was wondering if i could request trigger and what soulmate au you think matches them? like red string of fate, injuries appearing on your soulmates body, countdown timer, etc. please remember to take care of yourself and no rush when it comes to this. i just really appreciate finding another fan of trigger :)

thank you and i hope you remember to eat, rest, and hydrate <33

U COMPLETE ME.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

ft. Yaotome Gaku, Kujo Tenn, Tsunashi Ryunosuke x gn! reader.

cw/genre: soulmate au, romance, fluff.

hi, lovely nonnie ! thank you so much for this request ! it is my first time ever writing soulmate au, so I hope it’s not too bad… you’re so sweet ! you take care as well, yeah? stay safe, well rested and hydrated 🩷 I’m glad to meet another TRIGGER fan too <3 I apologize this took so long :(( – it’s also the longest fic I’ve ever written hehe – I still hope you like it, mwah !

♡ YAOTOME GAKU

… and getting flowered tattoos wherever your soulmate receives a scar. The tattoos disappear once you and your soulmate meet.

It started around the time TRIGGER was formed.

Gaku doesn’t really know the meaning of the dark ink appearing on his skin sometimes.

It began with the swirling rose on his shoulder, an intricate pattern of decaying petals that seemed to drift away over the pallor of his back. The art was beautiful, but he can’t quite recall ever having it done. It seemed to be appealing enough for photoshoots, so his manager didn’t mind much.

However, that mysterious flower wasn’t the last of petals that would caress the idol’s skin.

Another flower appeared some time after, right below one of his knees. A dahlia this time, its petals with a subtle shade of warm pink filling them in.

And again, he is certain he has never stepped into a tattoo parlor…

This matter is beginning to take a turn for the bizarre, seeing how the rose on his shoulder is mostly faded, akin to a sepia colored photograph displayed in a sunny room, memories exchanged for light and time.

However, he was not the only one with a garden of ink flowering on their skin.

—

Lying down on your bed, you spread your fingers, hand raised before you. Your eyes follow the lines of the two blooms circling your pointer and ring finger: a dahlia and a rose, respectively.

Where did they even come from? You don’t have the habit of drawing on your own skin since you were a kindergartner, nor have you dared to get anything permanently inked on your body just yet… The flowers simply appeared one night, as if they were extensions of the starry heavens, forming a ring tailored to you.

You roll around in your bed, picking up one of the latest magazines you’ve acquired, your favorite idol group featuring on its cover.

The next thing you know, you’re bolting upright, the glossy book centimeters away from your face.

It’s not like the fact that TRIGGER appears on the cover is anything out of the ordinary, but rather, you’re solely focused on their leader.

Yaotome Gaku. Your bias since they debuted.

He’s wearing nothing but an open white shirt with black pants.

And there, on his right shoulder, you see it.

It’s partially covered by his clothes, but they’re see-through enough.

Dark lines converging into what’s unmistakably a rose, a few petals extending down his back and collarbone.

Your eyes flit from your hand to the picture and to your hand again.

There is no doubt. It’s the exact same design.

You have to make it to their next concert. You have to see him, and try to talk to him. Even if it just may be wishful thinking, you have to at least try.

Luckily for you, TRIGGER’s next live performance is around the corner.

—

And so, the fated day arrives, with you on the first row holding white light sticks tightly.

All your nerves seem to manifest in the throbbing sensation of the dark blooms you sport.

As usual, TRIGGER’s concert is an utter success, and you’d be elated to be witnessing such a spectacle were it not for the wild thumping of your heart at what you’ve decided to do afterwards.

As the music ends and your favorite idols say good night, you take one last deep breath.

You make a beeline for the back entrance and wait.

Muffled voices of fans come from the other side of the rundown door, but they’re all white noise to you.

Under the mixed light of stars and streetlamps, you examine your tattoos once more. They almost seem to flicker, as if glitter in shades of night had been melted over the inked lines.

Minutes pass, the crowd dissipating, their voices fading into the faraway stars, concealed behind the abundance of illumination.

And then, the door to your side opens.

A tall figure you’ve watched dance countless times strides out, and, for a second, your voice dies out in your throat.

Is this really a good idea? Will he just take you for another crazy fan?

No, you have to focus.

“E-excuse me…” You begin, voice slightly trembling.

Steely eyes meet yours, yet somehow, you don’t feel any of the coldness their color would suggest.

“I…” The idol’s head tilts to the side for an instant at your hesitation. “Okay so this might sound insane, and you’ll probably think I’m some crazy fan, which I am- A fan I mean, not crazy, hopefully…” You trail off, nervously fiddling with the hem of your shirt, as you look down. “But the thing is…” You shake your head. “I’ll show you.” You finally manage, exposing your ring finger to the night lights. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but… how did you get your tattoo? The one on your shoulder… I kind of… isn’t this one the exact same?” You ask, showing him your hand.

His winter sky eyes widen, and, when you follow his gaze, you find an eerie glow blazing in shades of white where your tattoos are.

And not only that. A gasp leaves your lips when matching brightness emanates from the man’s shoulder and knee, the shapes, the exact same on your fingers, glowing in your favorite color.

“What even-“ he begins. His sentence goes unfinished, the sudden burst of light fading, leaving nothing but untarnished skin behind, all traces of ink vanished.

Then you notice them.

Paler than the rest of his skin, two thin lines mar his ring and index finger, the exact same place where your tattooed flowers used to be.

And it dawns on you, that the garden of ink you’ve been sharing isn’t just a coincidence.

“How did you get these?” You question, fingers delicately threading through the idol’s. The rosy hue of summer dahlias rises to his cheeks at the contact. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…” You fumble, realizing you were holding his hand.

“No need to apologize.” He smiles. “I help out someone in the kitchen sometimes.” He doesn’t elaborate further.

Afterwards, one of his hands reaches for your shoulder, where the point of a jagged thin scar, mostly faded, peeks out. “May I?” He asks, as you nod, giving him the green light to pull your shirt slightly aside.

Momentarily, his gaze widens, a flash of puzzle pieces falling into place. Then, a soft smile tilts his lips upwards.

“So, may I know the name of my soulmate?” Are the words of Yaotome Gaku, as he extends a hand to you.

You take it, introducing yourself.

“Is it okay for us to be together here in the open, Yaotome-san?” You ask, glancing around for prying eyes.

“It’s alright.” He assures, tone soft. “And you can call me just Gaku.” A smile reaches his eyes, its shine not unlike the slivers of moon reflected in the puddles of late summer rain. “It’s nice to finally meet you, [Y/n]”.

“Likewise, just Gaku.” You grin, a little mischievous, as you take his hand.

♡ KUJO TENN

… and sharing the same talents. What one learns, the other can also do.

Unconsciously, you start humming the same melody again.

Like every morning as you walk through deserted streets, the sun yet to rise from behind an horizon that you felt was at the tip of your fingertips when you sang.

It’s a well known piece, of that you are certain. You’ve done your research as lyrics began flowing from your lips like a forgotten native language.

Somehow, one day you knew them by heart, when the previous one, a nostalgic melody was all you had to go by.

And the voice you hear, or imagine in your mind when you think about the song… you swear you’ve heard it somewhere before.

As a gust of wind causes you to tuck your coat tighter around you, a flapping sound momentarily interrupts your line of thought.

Clinging onto a street light, a dark piece of glossy paper catches your eye. Bright colors can be made out on the edges of it, white lettering covering the back of the flier.

No harm in taking a look, right? You think to yourself, as your gloved hand reaches for it.

Turning it around in your grasp, you notice it’s an advertisement.

Apparently TRIGGER is performing again soon at the FSC Hall.

A smile illuminated in the cold light of morning curls your lips upwards.

Finally, they’re getting a chance to perform at a large venue.

TRIGGER is the group that’s been with you through thick and thin since their formation, and oddly enough, somehow, you could always memorize their songs without even trying.

Well, not exactly memorize.

It’s more like, you already knew every one of their songs when you listened to them for the first time.

It certainly was uncommon, but then again, since you were a kid you somehow had always picked up dancing and singing uncanningly quickly, with no training at all. And while you did not choose to make it a profession, it certainly was a hobby you held very dear.

The tunes you sang, the swaying of your body on nights when all you knew were tears, had brought a little of light and color to otherwise tinted in drowning memories.

And it was TRIGGER’s songs you always danced to, akin to the first cherry blossoms carpeting an otherwise muddy ground.

Pocketing the pamphlet, you heave a sigh, adjusting your back and heading towards the train station.

You have to get tickets this time. Is the thought that accompanies you for the rest of the day, in moments when you’re not humming that song.

The center of your beloved idol group in question, by the way, happened to have a hidden talent of his own too.

—

Everyone who is a fan of Kujo Tenn knows of his enjoyment of sweeter tastes, and especially, his love for donuts.

However, what remains a secret to most is the fact that he can bake quite well.

The idol doesn’t know how or when exactly did he learn; his only memory is still being in middle school when his usual bakery had run out of his beloved treat, thus, he decided to try his hand at it himself.

To his surprise, both the flavor and texture came out perfectly, almost impossibly alike to the chocolatey desserts he usually got on his way home.

He hasn’t visited that bakery for a while, now that he thinks about it… Will it even still be there?

He doesn’t have much longer to dwell on the thought when his two groupmates (who also happen o be his roommates) get home.

“Something smells really good in here…” Tenn can make out Ryu's voice coming from somewhere in the corridor.

“Tenn, we’re home!” Gaku this time, and two sets of approaching footsteps.

“Hey, Tenn, what is it that smells so nice?”

Tenn in question has a few seconds to ‘tsk’ and turn around, frilly pink apron still on while he mixes the dough.

“You guys could have warned me that you’d be here so early.” He grumbles, blushing. Oh, he so knows the other two won’t drop the subject of him cooking in a cute apron.

“You baking?” Gaku, his head peeking over Ryunosuke’s shoulder.

Tenn pinches the bridge of his nose. For someone who was the center of a world famous idol group, he certainly didn’t enjoy being on the spotlight like this.

“So what if I am…” He glares at the leader of his group.

“Must you always be so charming?” Gaku shoots back, words coated in pure sarcasm.

“There, there… guys, please, there’s no need to fight…” Ryu intervenes. “I didn’t know you could bake, Tenn… when did you learn?”

Maroon eyes avert to the side.

“It’s complicated… I didn’t exactly learn… I just tried one day and somehow I knew how to.”

“Just like that?” His friend’s amber eyes narrow in thought. He gives Gaku a look, to which the latter shakes his head in confusion. “I’m not entirely sure that could be your case,” Ryu continues. “But, back in Okinawa, I heard people talk once, stories circulated too… I’m not certain how much truth is there in them but maybe… could it be you have a soulmate, Tenn?”

The modern angel’s brows furrow skeptically.

“A soulmate? Isn’t that a folktale?”

“We don’t know…” his older friend goes on. “Isn’t it just a little strange, however, you could bake perfectly on the first try? Unless you used some recipe…”

“I didn’t.” Tenn states, confidently. “It’s as if… I somehow had already memorized it, even though I cannot remember when, how or where.”

“Then it’s not impossible you got this talent from them… And whoever they are, they know a thing or two about making sweets. Seems fitting for you, huh?” Comes Ryunosuke’s friendly teasing.

As his friends go get changed, Tenn begins preparing the dough for shaping, the word ‘soulmate’ lingering on the back of his mind like an old childhood song.

—

Lately, Zero Arena had become a place of respite for you.

Early evenings dusked beautifully behind the building, pinks and golds glittering off of the expanse of rippling water surrounding it.

Despite the warm hues the world keeps dyeing in as the sun sets, the air is cold.

You regret not having brought a scarf.

Plus, the just baked donuts you made at work only do so much to warm your hands as you hold the box between them.

Closing your eyes against the dying sunlight, you lean back on the bench, taking a breath before starting to sing the lyrics the great idol Zero used to.

Dis one.

Curiously, that and TRIGGER’s songs were the ones you managed to always intone perfectly, especially the parts Kujo Tenn, their center, performed.

Except this once, yours is not the only singing voice.

You’d have to live under a rock to not recognize that voice, but then again, this couldn’t be, could it?

You wait until you and your duet companion chant the last note.

And then you turn around.

A few feet away from where you sit, a lean male stands. His hair falls perfectly over one side of his face, the color of starlight through clouds. He sports a dark coat, accentuating the overall angelic pallor of his complexion, the red scarf around his neck, almost matching the shade of his eyes, akin to little pools of a blazing horizon.

“How are you able to sing that song perfectly? Kujo Tenn inquires, without further preamble.

His tone… it’s… colder? than what you recall him to be on stage.

You bite your lip, then:

“I don’t know. I just do… I’ve known this song for a long time… I have no idea why I can sing it, how, when, or where I learned it.”

His expression remains guarded; then, he notices the box you’re holding over your lap.

Recognition flashes through his sanguine gaze.

“That box. What’s in it?” Tenn’s eyes don’t leave the logo stamped in pink over the white background.

He knows that design. He used to stop by every day back when he was still in middle school, after all.

“Oh, this?” You open the lid an inch. “Just something I made today at work after I ended my shift. Would you like to try one, Kujo-kun?” You offer, now opening the donut-filled box completely.

A tender smile paints the idol’s lips a more vibrant shade of rose the moment you recognize him, slender fingers reaching out for one of the chocolate covered donuts.

“I remember these, from years ago.” He trails off. “I didn’t know if the shop would still be there…”

“It is.” You smile, a little woeful. “My grandparents grew too old to keep working on the business, though, so I kind of manage it by myself now.”

A twilit breeze picks up, your free hand instinctively reaching up to pull your coat closer around your neck.

“Oh! Would you like to have these?” You manage, fumbling a little for words when it sinks in that, yes, you’re talking to one of the most famous idols of the moment.

“Only if you accept this first.” The man utters, already wrapping his maroon scarf snuggly around your neck.

You fluster, cheeks blazing like the sun that’s already halfway behind Zero Arena’s ground level.

Nodding, you hand him the box.

“I have another offer.” Tenn states, fingers brushing against yours when you pass him the package. “I can help you bake for your shop. Would you like to… meet up and practise my performances with me some time in exchange?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“No offense but, can you bake?”

“I don’t know why I can, how, when, or where I learned, but yes, I can bake.” The idol replies, with a warm, knowing smile.

“And what do you gain from this exchange?” You question further, a part of you fearing this is just some cruel joke despite how right everything, how right you feel around him.

“To get to know my soulmate.” Tenn utters, as notes of powdered sugar and fuchsia clouds surround you.

That’s more like the angel you admire.

Your soulmate.

“I’d like to get to know you, too, Tenn.” You return his smile, soft.

As you share conversation coated in colored sweetener, you begin making your way back home.

Home…

Perhaps you’ve already started becoming each other’s.

♡ TSUNASHI RYUNOSUKE

… and having a compass on your body leading you to where your soulmate is.

Lately, the needle has started twitching.

In golden ink, perfectly circular on the inner side of your wrist, the tattoo of an ornate compass lies.

Its point had always been stagnant, lines in silver glitter inked over your veins, its only movement your beating pulse.

However, as nights began to cover in bright lights and snow, your compass had started pointing towards somewhere.

Or rather, someone.

You knew wherever they were, whoever they were, you’d find them somewhere along the other end of the needle.

As you sip a warming latte, your gaze entranced by the slow flutter of snowflakes as they fall with the gelid breeze of night, you wonder.

What kind of person might your soulmate be? Are they still far away, since all the compass has done is flutter, not particularly pointing anywhere?

Does the movement mean you’re somehow getting closer to your soulmate?

Sighing, you pull your sleeve over the aureate circle permanently etched on you, before standing up, paying for your order and taking off into the cold evening.

—

The sudden activity on his compass can’t be just coincidence.

Tsunashi Ryunosuke knows he’s not hallucinating either, he knows the gilded lines tracing over his veins by heart.

After all, the compass never once moved when he used to accompany his father on fishing trips, tumultuous waters threatening to topple the small boat over.

However, since he’s gotten into this plane, the argent point has budged slightly, akin to a broken watch that went back and forth, forever ticking the exact same second.

Ryunosuke’s honey gaze glances out the window, his hometown in Okinawa little more than a dot of green and brown over the astronomical expanse of blue expanding on all sides.

Closing his eyes, the to-be idol leans against the headrest of his seat.

He wonders, what will this new life of his be like? And who is the person his tattoo is being pulled towards?

Landing is still hours away; he guesses he can rest his mind for a while for now.

—

The compass has moved again.

Fully moved this time, unmistakably pointing towards a concrete direction, no matter how much you turn around or change position.

A pull resonates throughout your whole body, urging you to follow the path it indicates. A lane of gilded cobblestones, at the end of which your other half supposedly awaits.

What if it’s all wrong, though? What if they’re someone scary? What if you just get kidnapped and all of this is just part of some malicious bigger scheme?

‘No. Focus, [Y/n]’. You try telling yourself, shaking your head.

A gust of liquid night pricks your skin in icy shards when you step outside, the moon’s smile glinting off of the aureate pattern on your forearm, a thread of starlight pulling you towards your fated soulmate.

Of course, the universe saw to it that you were not the only one chasing after this not yet tangible dream.

“Excuse me for a second now, guys.” Ryu announces, after him and his two future group mates have finished showing off their dancing moves.

Quickly grabbing his coat on the way out, his steps carry him through the stardust contained in the remnants of snow littering the streets.

And yet, despite the possibility of slipping, the idol’s gaze is solely focused on his wrist.

In the same way those of the person who accidentally bumps into him are.

A colliding force suddenly sends you stumbling backwards, the slippery asphalt already unforgivingly hard in your mind as you shut your eyes and brace for impact.

Except instead of the cold and hard sound of dirty concrete against bones, a gentle voice follows.

“I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

Then you open your eyes. Strong arms are keeping you upright, strangely comforting, even though this is the first time you’ve seen the owner of this warming voice.

Regaining your stance, you apologize:

“My bad, I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going…” You explain, laughing a bit nervously.

The man smiles, and you realize then how handsome he truly is.

For all you know, he could very well be a model, an actor even.

Soft brown hair sweeps over one side of his face, his tanned skin accentuating inviting golden irises. The curves of his face are sharp and sculpted, but somehow soft all at once; a gentle hearth, beckoning you to take a moment of respite.

“I suppose I wasn’t paying attention either.” Are the next words he speaks, waking you up from your momentary reverie.

Then, a flash of gold catches his eye, and you notice him glancing to your wrist.

“Ah yeah…” You smile, a bit flustered. “I was just looking for someone…” Your words trail off, observing how the needle now points in the direction the attractive stranger came from.

“That makes two of us, then.” He smiles, displaying the inner side of his forearm for you to see the exact same tattoo you have, pointing straight towards you.

Matching smiles meet your lips when it all clicks.

He’s the one you had been searching for amidst nights where falling snow erased the traces of everything; the footprints of fated love buried beneath layers of frigid moondust.

And you. The tethering anchor awaiting in the raging waves. A lighthouse, the promise of a home here too, despite being miles away from his own.

“Call me Ryu.” He tells you, extending a hand to you.

You sofly shake it, both of you a little awkward.

You chuckle in unison.

“I kinda have to get back somewhere now…” He explains, a shadow of guilt passing over those sunshine eyes. “But let’s meet soon? I’ll find you.” He promises, raising his arm, showing you the compass pointed at you.

“Sounds good.” You softly utter, to him, to the stars who wrote this fate.

With a last kind smile, he rushes towards the street he came from.

You stand there for a few minutes after his figure has vanished.

Ryu. You have the impression the glow of fame is coming his way.

You turn on your heel.

The stars glow a little warmer.

[bluegekk0]

the way you color stuff is AMAZING!!! I MEAN IT! mind explaining how you make colors look so good?? its ok if you dont want to :)

Hi, thank you so much!!! <3

Generally, I try to go for softer, more pastel like palettes, and that helps make the drawings seem more "consistent" and pleasing to the eye.

First tip: if you use Clip Studio Paint, definitely get this tool. It saves so much time on filling out lineart, and it's crazy accurate. If you're having trouble figuring out how it works, here's how I do it: I put the lineart layer in a group, add another layer below it (still in that group), and then use the tool on that new layer. Make sure the tool is set to refer to layers in a group though. Then I erase some areas that were "enclosed" by the lineart.

As for the actual coloring process. First of all, I use the mechanical pencil brush from Clip Studio Paint, the same one I use for the lineart, except this one has random color jitter per stroke. It adds slight variety to the base colors, which helps making them look less flat.

Here are the settings I use, but I recommend playing around with them if you want less subtle results.

For a comparison, here is one of my drawings with regular flat colors vs one colored with the brush I mentioned:

A pretty important part of the process isn't actually related to the coloring itself, but the layer effects I add to the finished drawing, as well as the paper texture (which you can see in the background; I add it twice, to the background and on top of all the layers).

Here are the layers I usually go with, I'll explain each of them below.

I'll start from the bottom. The paper texture is almost white with some very subtle warm tones, and it's set to linear burn, which works the best for this kind of texture. Like I mentioned, I use this overlay twice, but both use the same layer mode.

Next is the brown-ish linear light mode layer. This is to give the drawing more subtle contrast while also tinting it with a sepia-like tone. You can use any color for this, but I find this light brown color to work the best for my artstyle, since it makes the drawing look softer and gives it the old photograph kind of look which I tend to go for.

The multiply layer is mostly transparent aside from the edges. This is for the vignette effect, not much aside from that. It's definitely a personal preference thing.

Lastly, there is the pin light layer. This one is a bit weird, but I really like the effect. It's hard to explain it, but I use it to tint the dark tones of the drawing with a slight blue color. You'll see what I mean in the examples below. Occasionally, I'll add another layer with a darker base color, since pin light kind of works in reverse: if you use a light color, it will target the dark shades on your drawing, but if you use a dark color, it will instead only go for the light shades. Note that it's pretty strong in this drawing in particular, I usually make it a bit more subtle. If you look at my recent drawings you'll see it.

Here is the same drawing, with each of the layers applied in the order I listed (left to right order):

I'd also like to mention the lineart, which actually plays a big role in making my drawings look softer. I color the lines on the "inside" with a darker shade of the base color, though I often make it more saturated to really bring them out.

For example, here are the colors I use for FPK's lines. Not including his eye colors or the tips of his fingers/feet, since I don't color the lineart there. And a comparison of what he looks like with and without those lines colors, just to show how big of a difference it makes.

And to go back to the previous drawing, here is a similar comparison.

One thing to note is the additional white lines on the darker areas of Grimm's arms, the lines blend with the base color so I like to make them slightly lighter to help them pop out.

And lastly, I'll mention the light outlines you probably noticed by now. I add them as the final touch, they're the same color as the background though I sometimes lower the opacity if I feel like they're too much. They're meant to help with colors that blend together too much, and to highlight the silhouettes of the characters, as well as adding more dimension to the drawing. I think you'll see what I mean when I hide them in this final comparison:

Hope this is helpful! Sorry if you didn't expect that long of a post, I wanted to go through each step in my process so that I can explain it the best I can haha

[welegi]

Sepiatone Mario is a bit of an enigma. He's a character who's appeared in some form or another in a few different games, but never really had a starring role. He's got a bit of a cult following, but he's never been one of the most popular characters around. That said, he's still a beloved figure among many Nintendo fans.

Sepiatone Mario is one of the most unique and interesting characters in the Mario franchise. He first appeared in Super Mario Sunshine and has since become a fan-favorite. Sepiatone Mario is characterized by his sepia-toned color scheme and his signature move, the Sepia Spin. He is known for being a bit of a trickster and is often seen playing pranks on his friends and foes alike. He is also known for his love of food, especially pasta and pizza. While he may not be the strongest or most powerful character in the Mario series, Sepiatone Mario is definitely one of the most fun and lovable characters.

Some people love him, while others hate him. There are a few reasons why people hate Sepiatone Mario, and they're all wrong. The first reason is that people think Sepiatone Mario is ugly. They're wrong because Sepiatone Mario is actually quite handsome. He's just a little bit different than what people are used to seeing. The second reason is that people think Sepiatone Mario is a rip-off of Sepia Toad. This is also wrong because Sepiatone Mario is his own character. He's not a rip-off of anyone. The third reason is that people think Sepiatone Mario is lazy. They think he's just a lazy clone of Mario. This is wrong because Sepiatone Mario is actually quite hardworking. He's just a little bit slower than Mario because he's a bit overweight. Overall, there are a few reasons why people hate Sepiatone Mario. However, all of these reasons are wrong. Sepiatone Mario is a great character who deserves more love.

There's something about Sepiatone Mario that just hits different. The warm, golden hues of the sepia-toned world are just so darn cozy and inviting. And while Mario games are always fun and full of adventure, Sepiatone Mario just feels different. It feels like coming home. Maybe it's because the sepia tones remind us of old photographs and films. Maybe it's because it's a throwback to a simpler time. Whatever the reason, there's just something about Sepiatone Mario that resonates with us on a deep, nostalgic level. And it's not just us. The Internet is absolutely obsessed with Sepiatone Mario. Just do a quick search on Twitter or Tumblr and you'll find a treasure trove of fan art, GIFs, and memes all dedicated to our beloved Sepiatone Mario. So why is Sepiatone Mario so beloved? We think it's because he reminds us of a time when life was just a little bit simpler. A time when we didn't have to worry about bills or work or the stresses of everyday life. A time when we could just sit back and enjoy a good video game. And that's why we think Sepiatone Mario is so special. He's a reminder of a time when life was just a little bit simpler and a whole lot more fun.

There's no denying that Mario's got style. He's been rocking his signature red and blue ensemble for decades, and it's become one of the most iconic looks in gaming. But what if Mario decided to change things up a bit? What if he decided to go for a more retro look, inspired by the classic sepia tones of early photography?

That's exactly what happened in New Super Mario Bros. Wii 2: The Lost Levels, where Mario donned a special Sepiatone outfit that made him look like he'd stepped right out of a history book. And while some might write Sepiatone Mario off as simply a reskin of the classic plumber, there's actually a lot more to him than meets the eye. For starters, Sepiatone Mario has a unique visual style that sets him apart from his standard-color counterpart. His sepia-toned look gives him an antique feel that's perfect for the game's 8-bit inspired aesthetic. But beyond that, Sepiatone Mario also has a few unique abilities that make him a force to be reckoned with. For one, Sepiatone Mario can turn invisible for a short period of time. This allows him to sneak past enemies and reach places that would otherwise be inaccessible. He can also use this power to reach high platforms by becoming invisible and jumping on invisible blocks. In addition, Sepiatone Mario can shoot Sepiaballs, which are unique in that they leave behind a trail of smoke, which can be used to solve puzzles and reach new areas. So, while Sepiatone Mario might just look like a regular Mario with a new coat of paint, he's actually a pretty powerful character with some unique abilities. So next time you see him in a game, don't write him off as just a reskin. He's so much more than that.

While some may argue that Sepiatone Mario is just a lazy reskin of Mario, there are definitely some differences that set him apart. He may not be a huge departure from the original, but Sepiatone Mario is still his own character - and that's worth something.

It was a dark and stormy night. Mario was at home, relaxing in his chair and enjoying a peaceful evening. Suddenly, the power went out and Mario was plunged into darkness. He heard a noise coming from upstairs and went to investigate. Mario slowly climbed the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached the top of the stairs and saw a figure standing in the hallway. The figure was Sepiatone Mario, and he was holding a knife. Mario tried to run, but Sepiatone Mario was too fast. He caught up to Mario and stabbed him in the back. Mario died instantly. The next morning, the police arrived at Mario's house. They found Sepiatone Mario standing over Mario's body, still holding the bloody knife. When asked why he killed Mario, Sepiatone Mario simply said, 'It was time for him to go.'

Some Mario fans believe that Sepiatone Mario is a trickster because he is often seen carrying a bag of tricks with him. These fans believe that Sepiatone Mario uses his bag of tricks to deceive his opponents and to win races. While there is no concrete evidence to support this theory, it is a popular belief among some Mario fans.

Sepiatone Mario's favourite pizza is the classic Margherita pizza. His favourite pasta dish is spaghetti with meatballs. Sepiatone Mario is a fun-loving character who enjoys spending time with his friends. He is always up for a good time, and his infectious personality makes him a joy to be around. He is also quite the trickster, always ready to have a laugh. If you're looking for a fun-loving, food-loving character, Sepiatone Mario is the perfect choice. He is sure to make your next gaming session a blast!

If you're ever in the Mushroom Kingdom and you see Sepiatone Mario, be sure to say hello - and maybe offer him a slice of classic Margherita pizza. He'll be sure to thank you - with a big smile and a hearty appetite!

[rainbow-0bsidian]

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, every inch, I know.”

“I like the painting.” It’s by far the nicest thing in this entire junk store. Maybe the only nice thing. Andrew concedes that it’s possible his perception is skewed.

“That’s not a painting, that’s what happens when someone is force-fed six tubes of paint and then made to vomit all over a canvas.”

Neil isn’t wrong, but still. “Fuck you, Josten. I’ve seen the kind of shit you call art and try to hang in our house.”

Neil grins. “It was one time. I had to bring it inside. Matt painted it for us.”

“It was fucking awful.”

“Why do you think I hung it in the entry? I have zero ability to say no to Matt these days. I was depending on you to halt its progression any further into our home and relegate it to the garage.”

“I should have relegated it to a dumpster and set it on fire.”

“It’s lucky you didn’t; they’re visiting next month.”

“Oh,” Andrew deadpans. “I must have forgotten.”

“Speaking of fires…”

Neil trails off. Andrew follows his gaze and is assaulted by the sight of a pair of wrought-iron fire pokers, topped with the melded naked forms of a couple apparently in the throes of passion. Delighted, Neil closes the gap and inspects each piece separately.

“Straights are so gross,” Andrew mutters. “And they have no fucking taste.”

“I’ll buy them for Matt and Dan,” Neil says, with a glint in his eye. “Payback for the terrible painting.”

Andrew gazes around the dimly lit space, spends 2.5 seconds trying to make sense of the chaos and promptly gives up. This part of the country is dotted with rambling buildings on the verge of collapse, poor cousin junk stores to the more-affluent areas’ antiques. Big smiles, broad accents, country service, selling second hand wares to idiotic city folk intent on bringing some wholesome rural goodness back to their sleek monochrome homes in the suburbs.

For every item that is both identifiable in its purpose and still in good working order, there are dozens more that are not. Ancient farming manuals sit beside chipped tea cups nestled in moth-eaten fabric scraps tossed into crumbling hat boxes. Rusty bicycles lean against shitty cabinets, their shelves filled with sepia photographs of people long dead. Decades old clothes hang from downtrodden hangers, one bad day away from despair.

Andrew thinks they smell like poverty and old men, but Neil is obsessed. There was one rocking chair, once, obscured behind a stack of large timber frames, its white and orange paint blistered and peeling from too many hot summers outside. Andrew had put his foot down, they weren’t 21 anymore, but Neil pointed to a warm brown strip of timber exposed on one of the legs, and promised to restore it. The black walnut chair now sat in their living room and was Andrew’s favorite place to sit and read when winter sun streamed through the window.

This junk store, aptly named Randy’s Remains at least acknowledges its proximity to imminent disintegration. Andrew wonders if all the shit lining the walls is acting as some kind of scaffolding and considers expediting the inevitable, buying a massive piece of hideous furniture and watching the whole building crumble as they drive away.

“What about this?” Neil asks from a nook or cranny somewhere beyond Andrew’s line of sight. God knows what he’s found now.

Andrew wanders in the direction of Neil’s voice and nearly trips over a rotting timber box of unidentifiable farming tools, rusted nails protruding ominously through the would-be joins.

“If we get out of here without tetanus it will be a miracle,” he mutters. He navigates a narrow passage, made more so by the bookshelf lining one wall and a bunch of random buckets fixed to the other. Here, a pile of round dial telephones, there a shelf of tea pots without lids and lids without pots. Hundreds of LPs threaten to escape their silverfish laced cardboard cases and roll to the ground. He steps over some rolled up posters that have already taken the plunge.

Against his better judgment, Andrew stretches up on his toes to eye the inside of one bucket and finds a collection of corroded harmonicas.

This fucking place. Neil can keep poking around if he wants, but Andrew’s going back to the van. He enters the back room to tell Neil as much and lets out a breathy “huh” when he sees what’s caught Neil’s eye. Hundreds of miles from its inspiration, in a crumbling junk shop full of worthless shit, is a painting of the rainforest in Jocassee Gorges. Andrew would recognise that suspension bridge anywhere. Sunlight filters through the canopy to the cool, clear water below and Andrew is taken back to Harriet’s maiden voyage that hot summer so many years ago. He stares at it for a full minute before turning to look at Neil, who of course is already looking at him. He can tell by the look on Neil’s face that his own is betraying his stubbornly held neutral facade, and he surrenders to the small smile he knows is there.

“Hold my pokers while I climb over this shit to get it down,” Neil demands, thrusting the iron abominations at Andrew.

Andrew lets them clatter to the floor, earning an eye roll from Neil, then watches as he climbs over an old church pew and picks his way past metal milk cans and a caucus of worn out golf bags, clubs poking out like unruly eyebrows on crusty old men who used to push them around.

The painting he does accept, turning it around to inspect the frame as Neil scoops up the pokers off the dart floor. It’s heavy, simply textured, and reminds him of the trees in the rainforest.

They pay the ancient lady behind the counter and Andrew makes a beeline for Harriet. He needs a hot shower, or a cool mountain pool. He’ll settle for the aircon.

“I like this painting,” Neil says, nudging Andrew’s shoulder as they walk.

“I like you,” Andrew replies, linking his pinkie with Neil’s. “Let’s get on the road.”

for @annawrites

(read the series here)

[ghostoffuturespast]

Tag Game-Summer Goth Aesthetics

Thanks @therealnightcity for the tag! <3 This is a lovely list! Warms my ghost goth heart...

Rules: bold what applies to your character and their aesthetics; italicise those that somewhat apply; and strikethrough whatever doesn't apply

(I altered the formatting into lists, rather than paragraphs. I think it's easier to read? It's no longer a giant wall of words with a mish-mash of different formatting... idk, I tried. My eyeballs are still not happy.)

Valerie Hye-jin Li

𝘏𝘈𝘜𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘋 𝘉𝘖𝘈𝘙𝘋𝘞𝘈𝘓𝘒

rickety ferris wheels

carnival lights through fog

saltwater taffy and popcorn

tarot card readings

childhood best-friends

thunderstorms over the sea

tear-streaked face paint

chipping animatronics partially submerged in brackish water

ill-fated games of truth or dare

vintage circus posters boasting mermaids and wolf-men

underwater caves marked with a skull and crossbones

darts that are a little too sharp

twinkling lights in the dark

distant and ghostly laughter

blue and pink cotton candy

sunburnt shoulders

cherry flavored sno-cones

switchblades tucked into costumes

a bloody trail into an old tent

𝘚𝘖𝘓𝘐𝘛𝘈𝘙𝘠 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘒 𝘙𝘈𝘕𝘎𝘌𝘙

the yellow eye shine of an unseen animal

circling turkey vultures

unnatural fluctuations in the passage of time

daddy long legs in rotting logs

distorted backwards speech through a walkie-talkie

unexplainable antler shrines

coniferous mountain horizons

star-like bonfire sparks whirling in an indigo night

nests of infant barn owls

claw marks in tent fabric

soft and distant howls

unexplained lights darting through trees

clawed footprints in the dirt

bomber jackets and hiking boots

an old and well-used shotgun

thunderstorms that darken the sky

a rusted and reliable truck

the smell of petrichor

a voice calling your name from the trees 

𝘚𝘖𝘜𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘕 𝘊𝘌𝘔𝘌𝘛𝘈𝘙𝘠

magnolia blossoms

chipping white porch swings

spanish moss

suffocating humidity

faded photographs of lacy weddings

tire tracks in mud

mausoleum angels

family trees

the yellow-green eyes of alligators

repressed childhood memories bubbling to the surface

broken porcelain dolls

legs covered with mosquito bites

barbed wire

dark family secrets

stained white button downs

sweat drops down your spine

marshy swamp lands

weeping willow trees

rusted iron gates

cicadas in the summer

moss covered gravestones with fresh dirt

cursed family jewelry

old patina rosaries

fireflies at dusk

𝘙𝘖𝘈𝘋 𝘛𝘙𝘐𝘗 𝘉𝘜𝘙𝘕𝘖𝘜𝘛 

bloodshot eyes

flickering neon motel signs

aviator sunglasses

magic 8 balls

recurrent dreams of grey aliens

beaded curtains

dusty denim and incense smoke

sepia desert vistas

playlists of 1960s rock songs

coded messages in television static

comets in the night sky

fake ids

gas station snacks

jesus bobble heads

split lips

patchouli

paranoia between friends

ice cold diet coke

ripped jeans and converse

cigarette smoke drifting out of a car window

a 1960's white ford mustang

evergreen air fresheners

thousand yard stares

a gas station attendant who knows too many secrets

something dark following alongside your car

abandoned rest stops

rickety road signs that lead nowhere

No pressure tags, I know it's a long one: @shimmer-like-agirl @vox-monstera @fly-amanitaa @ladykatie512 @maimaiapologist

And anyone else who'd like to do it!

[serephinastardust]

You all name this poem

Pixar inspired this tonight

‐‐----

In the boundless tapestry of the human soul,

Emotions weave, each playing its role.

A symphony of feelings, in shadows and gleams,

Let me paint for you life's emotional dreams.

In dawn's soft hues, where the sun takes flight,

Joy emerges like a morning's first light.

A butterfly's dance, a songbird's trill,

In laughter's echo, hearts find their fill.

Yet, beneath the radiant sun's warm embrace,

Lurks sorrow, veiled in a somber grace.

A wilting rose, its petals kissed by rain,

In tears, we face life's inevitable pain.

Love, a mystic dance of souls entwined,

Like constellations in the night, divinely aligned.

A quivering leaf, touched by the gentlest breeze,

In love's sanctuary, hearts find their ease.

But anger brews in the stormy skies,

A tempest fierce, where lightning flies.

A dormant volcano, now awakened and loud,

In anger's fire, emotions are unbowed.

Fear, a shadow cast upon the moonlit ground,

A chilling wind where whispers abound.

The trembling leaf in autumn's cold embrace,

In fear, we confront the unknown space.

Surprise, a shooting star in the night's vast dome,

An unexpected guest, finding its home.

A sudden bloom in a desert so vast,

In surprise, life's mysteries are cast.

Anticipation, a seed in fertile soil sown,

A whispered secret, yet to be known.

A bud, still closed, in the morning's light,

In anticipation, dreams take flight.

Yet, disgust curls its lip in disdain,

A bitter herb in the field of grain.

A tarnished mirror reflecting flaws,

In disgust, judgment sharpens its claws.

Confidence, a sturdy oak in the tempest's wrath,

A lighthouse guiding ships on their path.

A mountain peak that touches the sky,

In confidence, we learn to soar and fly.

Loneliness, a solitary bird in flight,

A lone wolf beneath the pale moonlight.

A distant star in the vast night's sea,

In loneliness, we search to be free.

Contentment, a tranquil lake so deep,

A secret whispered, emotions asleep.

A sunflower basking in golden sunbeams,

In contentment, we find solace in dreams.

Emotions, like constellations in the vast expanse,

Each a story, a fleeting dance.

In this cosmic ballet, we find our part,

Humanity's emotions, a masterpiece of art.

Anxiety, a storm that rages within,

A relentless tide, where worries begin.

A heartbeating drum, out of tune with the day,

In anxious whispers, peace slips away.

Depression, a heavy cloak of endless night,

A labyrinth where hope takes flight.

A wilting flower beneath the weight of the dew,

In depression's shadow, the colors fade from view.

Embarrassment, a blush on the cheeks' soft hue,

A moment misspoken, a laugh askew.

A butterfly caught in a gust of wind,

In embarrassment's dance, confidence thinned.

Hope, a candle flickering in the darkest hour,

A beacon of light, a blooming flower.

A sunrise after the coldest night,

In hope, we find the strength to fight.

Pride, a soaring eagle in the endless sky,

A victory won, a battle cry.

A mountain peak, kissed by the morning sun,

In pride, life's adventures are begun.

Guilt, a heavy chain around the heart's soft core,

A haunting echo of actions gone sore.

A ghost that lingers, refusing to depart,

In guilt's cruel grasp, redemption may start.

Curiosity, a key that opens the mind's closed door,

A quest for knowledge, an ever-expanding shore.

A child's wide eyes, a scholar's yearn,

In curiosity's flame, the desire to learn.

Gratitude, a gentle rain on the arid soil,

A whispered thank you, a heart aboil.

A starlit night, a moonbeam's gleam,

In gratitude, life becomes a cherished dream.

Awe, a mountain range beneath the cosmic sky,

A universe unfolding, asking us why.

A newborn's first cry, an artist's masterpiece,

In awe, we find our wonder will never cease.

Nostalgia, a sepia-tinted photograph in hand,

A journey back to where life's roots stand.

A childhood song, a lover's sweet kiss,

In nostalgia's embrace, we reminisce.

Emotions, like threads in life's grand tapestry,

Each a note in a vast symphony.

In this mosaic of feelings, we play our part,

Humanity's emotions, the language of the heart.

[zoearthuruni]

Research:

According to this article "viewed in this light, sepia fulfills the dual purpose of evoking the flavor of its time and of leavening and retouching its less creditable aspects. Sepia was thus predestined to be the color of nostalgia, well before the subjects of photographs printed in sepia had become objects of nostalgia."

This article helped give me some insight into sepia and how it has been used in the past, and how it is still used today. It also helped me understand and find clarity with my ideas surrounding nostalgia and sepia.

I find that the idea of nostalgia will be best presented through sepia-toned images as sepia and warm tones such as this hold connotations with nostalgia and remind people of vintage photographs as they were often produced this way and sepia feels very of its time. This will work well regarding my manipulations as I plan to photograph old buildings and pairing the old buildings with a sepia-toned landscape could help with the idea of nostalgia. I also find there can be some feelings of isolation due to the connotation of vintage and old things as it feels quite far away and empty.

Some examples of Vintage sepia photography:

[ohmykazuha]

♡ better together

♡ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: zhongli, xiao, itto, diluc, scaramocuhe, childex gn!reader

♡ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff <3

♡ 𝐚/𝐧: pure fluff where they agree that they're better with you! inspired by the song 'better together' by jack johnson! <3 | like/rb if you liked this!

There's no combination of words I could put on the back of a postcard No song that I could sing, but I can try for your heart Our dreams, and they are made out of real things Like a shoe box of photographs With sepia-toned loving

Zhongli never expected that he would fall in love with you. You.. with your outgoing, loud personality, contrasting his too-mellow one? It seemed almost impossible... but you showed him that you wanted to make it work, so he was willing to. He loved your tenacity, your willingness to communicate, and your heart that showed him everything that love was supposed to be – kind, warm-hearted, forgiving, trusting, and giving selflessly. He loved every bit of you, you were beautiful and everything he had hoped for in a relationship. The two of you were truly a match made in heaven. You were better off with each other, weren’t you?

Love is the answer, at least for most of the questions in my heart Like why are we here? And where do we go? And how come it's so hard? It's not always easy and Sometimes life can be deceiving I'll tell you one thing, it's always better when we're together

Xiao loved your heart. He loved how you didn't care for his past, instead opting to look to the future. It comforted him to know that you wouldn't shun him away from... his past self. He saw how others had shunned you because of him, and Xiao had tried to tell you many times to leave. It would be better for you. But through all of that, you still stuck by him – that took a lot of courage to do so, and he admired you for that. It was amazing how you selflessly devoted your love to him – and now, he would do the same for you. It was time to pay you back for all the goodness you had brought unto him.

Mmm, it's always better when we're together Yeah, we'll look at the stars when we're together Well, it's always better when we're together Yeah, it's always better when we're together

Itto loved every bit of you. You were so special to him! The two of you were such a sweet couple; no one would have thought that the two of you would be together because of how much of a contrast you were. Surprisingly, the two of you fit like a well-oiled machine – your gentleness pulled him back down when he floated too high, and he taught you to act looser in return. You complemented each other well and the love between the two of you had a strong foundation too. People shied away from him because of his sheer personality, but you didn't. And that was something that was so, so special.

And all of these moments Just might find their way into my dreams tonight But I know that they'll be gone When the morning light sings Or brings new things

Diluc loved how you showed your love to him. You took care of him when he was sick, when he felt down, when his anxiety got too high. When you first met him, his walls were high and thick – but over time, something about you just made him want to vanish away his hard exterior. You made him crack, you helped him to let people in. He didn't expect to need you this much... but since you helped him for the better, why not, right? You were willing to stay as well, unlike... a few others. You showed him kindness no one else had shown him. Since the two of you were better together… yeah. Diluc loved having you around.

For tomorrow night you see That they'll be gone too Too many things I have to do But if all of these dreams might find their way Into my day to day scene

Scaramouche, the balladeer, the 6th harbinger. His name was feared greatly on the battlefield… but he didn’t scare you away. In fact, he drew you in, your curiosity piqued. Scaramouche had told you time and time again to leave, just leave, because it would have been better for you. He hated how his line of work had to interfere with the one person he truly loved, he truly let in. It was tiresome. However, you refused to leave his side. You refused to let him be cast away and alone again – that was the thing that truly shocked him; that someone loved him enough not to leave. But he agreed. The two of you were certainly better together, after all.

I'd be under the impression I was somewhere in between With only two Just me and you Not so many things we got to do Or places we got to be We'll sit beneath the mango tree now

Childe loved you so, so much. He loved how you didn’t care about his field of work, how he had to work his way for the Tsaritsa. He loved the way you cared for him even after he pushed you away, a gentle smile always on your face; but still genuine. Even after he had doubted the love he got from around him, you still took care of him lovingly. He admired you for that. You took care of him after each battle, you tended to his wounds as gently as possible, you even took care of Tonia and Teucer! Eventually, Childe let you in... deciding that he was going to pay you back for the kindness you had showed him. The two of you were certainly better together, don't you think?

yeeeek this took me days to write!!! ahh please rb and like if you liked this! it really helps my engagement >< and thank you for 900, yall are amazing <3

taglist: @bookuya, @mikachuchu, @starglitterz, @cherubbic, @noirkkat, @the-gayest-sky-kid, @ajaxeology, @icecappa, @almondoufu, @gnyuvile, @yeetmeoffjueyunkarst. @simplyxsinned, @heaven-dissolution, @xiaoyksa, @yua1106, @gnyuvrse, @mayple, @rim0na, @kamitoge, @abyssheart, @hushyouu, @thaliastea, @chichikoi

[schuylerpeck]

Hey, my hair smell like dried grass and I love you.

Friends asked for help with their harvest and the evening unfolded into the memory of a simplest time. Nails black with dirt, kneeling in the potato field, filling and emptying old paint buckets, the repetitive motion like a song or a prayer letting the mind drift through the clouds. Patient like an ember, the longing for a slower life consumes my patience more and more. I both fear and hope for the day it'll finally burst into flames.

One by one, as the occasions unfold, I lead my friends to a little end of the world. There's not much there –after all what else is there to expect at world's end ?– and the road nearby drowns it with a constant growl but it's lovely still.

Autumn rain still carries the rumbling of summer storms, the air still smells like warm asphalt and we find refuge in the closest library. Have you noticed how all libraries smell the same ? I never did until today, sat on the ground in the poetry aisle, browsing idly through an unfamiliar anthology. It smells like paper indeed, but also of the plastic they cover the books with and, faintly, of this strange vanilla~like aroma carried by ancient ink.

At night, I fight against sleep to stay in a strange in-between, lulled by thunder and the crackling of droplets on the blinds, knowing too well each storm may be the last of the season. Often I wonder if it'll turn into an white night (as we call all-nighters here), but it never does.

My gifts for you today, for no other reason than we're here in this world at the same time, are both the lullaby of raindrops against the windows, the scent of old books, and the hope that we can one day go together to a little end of the world, be it the one I already know or another.

I hope you sleep tight, when night reaches you. I don't know you but I love you.

Hey, the crickets’ song is picking up and I love you.

the more I write you, the less my day-to-day comes to mind in what I want to share. it’s always the deeper wonderings that poets want to wander in, isn’t it? I bought a desk and the seller told me it was his grandmother’s. my knees are pleading with me to take the mornings slower. today, the hairdresser and I swapped stories of when the sea almost stole us from the shore. I’ll always love how days frame themselves in verse, but here in the everyday, it feels like I’ve been toeing the edge; getting by on little bites, but eyeing the full meal.

my best friend and I took to the trees; the last trip of the season, though my heart sinks with this recognition. smoke from wildfires further south snaked across the sun and thickened the clouds, turning the sky an eerie yellow haze. I could look out in real-time, see my dog rolling blissfully in the dirt, the yarrow dry and gone to seed, even hold my hands close against my face, and almost still believe I was thumbing through old sepia photographs. we sat and read, wrote, and walked in silence at times, contented by the hush of the mountains and feeling no inclination to break it. out of the concrete, far from email’s reach, the best timekeeping (or rather, the lack of it) is left to the woods. we threw around guesses all afternoon until we watch the blood-red sun sink past the treeline. we must’ve eaten dinner by 8PM and crawled into our sleeping bags right after; too eager for sleep. the night erupted with crickets; trees relaxing their shoulders, swaying in the breeze. here, where I feel so alive in every moment, even as I giggle to myself, flitting between fear and reassurance and fear again under the stars—in the wild of the forest—I wonder my place in it all. a voyeur? a visitor? a child’s face pressed close to the glass?

I tucked sweet-smelling herbs into my pocket and want to know how to use them. an owl sang to the moon and at first, I mistook it for a coyote howl. I want to know its name. I know someday soon I’ll leave the city and not pass along my forwarding address. days like this, it couldn’t come soon enough. and if for no other reason than we are here at the same time, my gift to you, in between an adorably small pinecone and a poem written from the hammock, is the hope that we can come back and plan for a longer stay. no longer little sips of living or saving our best laughter for a Saturday. no little bites of wonder, but open fields and thickets of it. are you hungry to explore it too? I’ll grab my jacket and meet you.

I hope you sleep tight, when night reaches you, thoughts still tinkering with words. I don’t know you but I love you.

[auburniivenus-archive2]

━━━━━━━✾✾✾    “Ulquiorra.”    His    name    relinquishes    her    roseate    agape    margins,    reverberating    in    the    night.    A    quiver    journeys    through    her    benign    warm    epidermis.    Reminiscences    of    a    bygone    past    surge    like    feral    thunders    in    her    psyche.    Remembering    her    of    that    evening.    Yes,    she    can    hold    compassion    for    her    most    prominent    antagonist.    Inoue    wished    she    could    have    salvaged    him,    protected    him    from    his    own    vacuity,    from    his    own    liquidation.    Quarta    is    the    embodiment    of    emptiness,    but    she    is    the    epitome    of    light.    An    unpremeditated    encounter.    “Perhaps.    Demo,    at    the    core,    I’m    still    the    same    young    woman    that    pursued    to    save    you.”    Honesty    impregnated    her    sentences,    pungent    as    a    delicate    dagger.    “I    would    do    it    again.”    Palms    tighten    against    her    chest    as    she    senses    a    wave    of    relief.    “I’m    pleased    my    trying    wasn’t    in    vain.”    Caramel    hues    rise    to    gaze    at    his    emeralds,    without    apprehension,    without    reluctance.

The fallen angels I run with all know It's our fear That makes us all human after all Torn old sepia photographs show Our fragile little world Must reject it, respond to the Calling, screaming inside of my soul

@auburniivenus | sc.

What was to be said? Was anything even worth saying? The last he had seen, of that girl, she was reaching for him to ... what? Salvage what was left of a damaged soul? To console him in the most dire of times, the most inevitable fate that they'd all face? That moment, engraved in his mind, had ... awaked something. And that something rested heavy on his chest, a steady thumping he could not drown out.

Even now, as he'd see her, it's ... moving. A clawing ache that whisks the breath from his lungs, something he cannot place ; no more than that vague feeling of not wanting to be present. He was not ready to see her, let alone speak to her, once again.

But time waited for none, he surmised, and their meeting was yet another inevitable fate. Digits curl in the depth of his pocket, and sigh is expelled as evenly as he could force it to be.

❝ ... You've grown, girl. ❞

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

Can I request a Vivienne x MC, MC died giving birth to their baby😭🥺

Advance Thank you for all of your hard work🤗

Vivienne cradled the baby close to her heart, and was surprised to find how hollow the gesture felt. Or, rather, how robotic it was. She didn’t realize she had been holding him until she caught her reflection in the window, and it startled her out her thoughts.

She looked down at him in abrupt panic, checking if she had been supporting his head right, if his cheeks were still rosy, only allowing herself to breathe when she noticed he was alright.

He was still with her. He was still breathing.

The waterfall of feelings she had experienced cuts off, leaving her numb and tired once again, thoughts inevitably slipping back to MC’s bright smile. It seemed like such a distant memory, like a sepia photograph that would go up in flames as soon as Vivienne looked away. She couldn’t remember how her lips quirked up, how her laugh sounded, how her eyes crinkled under the bedroom lights with a spark that threatened to consume Vivienne whole.

Vivienne presses her lips together and leaves her child in his crib, contemplating his sleepy face for a few seconds before turning on her heel and reaching for her phone, resting on her vanity, with trembling fingers.

She must have replayed this video a thousand times already. It was a short one, barely twenty seconds, featuring a drunk Jett and MC trying to paint Elizabeth with a little party hat in each paw. Zoe had found it so ridiculous at the time that she had recorded it, the camera shaking with her laughter. Vivienne focused on MC for the entirety of it, straining to hear her warm voice, feeling her heart fill with nostalgic fire when MC yelled out a bad pun that had Jett roaring with laughter.

It hurts. It hurts. She misses her so much. It’s not fair.

Vivienne crawls at her sheets as if she were about to tear open heaven itself, muffling her sobs against the pillow to avoid waking her baby up.

She loves him. She loves him so much, but there are times where she wishes he hadn’t been born at all. MC would still be with her then, and Vivienne could curl up against her and breathe in her comforting scent, hear her silly songs when she was in the shower, feel her warm heartbeat under her hand when she rested it on MC’s chest.

But then...

Then, she wouldn’t have experienced the bubbly happiness of a tiny hand fisting her hair sloppily, of a baby’s sweet, pure laugh, of the sheer amazement he had upon seeing what the world offered to him.

She misses MC, but she loves him, and the fire inside her heart increases tenfold, eating hungrily at her conflicting feelings. And she lets it, eager for the numbness that comes after it.

[azureashes]

Mess Her Up

NSFW 18+ ONLY, Minors DNI Summary: Levi Ackerman is just an ordinary gang member who receives an order he knows well. To mess her up. Only things don't turn out as he expects.

Pairings: Levi x OC, (Levi x Reader if you squint) Word count: 6.9 K Trigger warnings: Noncon, Dubcon, Blood Play, Knife Play, Gang Activity, Beatings, Masochism (?), Torture (?)

A young woman traipsed through the abandoned, yellowed stone alleyways, the sun shining high illuminating their surfaces and leaving deep shadows under the overhangs and archways. The buildings here were built out of stone centuries ago, in what must once have been an applauded endeavor in stone masonry but had since been abandoned for nearly as long. The beige tint of the stones set the image of a sepia landscape and was interrupted only by the flash of green of a rare tree or shrub in the area. It was a place that would look beautiful in pictures but was eerie in its abandoned echoes in person.

Her long hair trailed behind her and she smoothed down her skirts, clutching her cross-body purse as she climbed in her black flats lightly over the large stone steps that were clearly built for humans more intimidating than herself in size.

Spying a handsome young man leaning against the wall of a darkened alleyway, she marched towards him with renewed determination. His black hair was parted to the side falling loosely into his aloof face that looked displeased with the world in general. His stormy grey eyes were intent on the knife in his hand that he polished to a shine, glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

As she approached, his gaze flicked onto her, like a jaguar whose prey had fallen into his line of sight when he wasn’t interested in the hunt. A warning to back off.

“Excuse me,” she called, her voice ringing sweetly off the abandoned stone walls. He frowned at the young woman, irritation sparking in his eyes that she had disregarded his unspoken warning. “I’m looking for someone,” she continued obliviously.

Rummaging through her purse, she withdrew a photograph of a smiling young man with hair the shade of her own. “This is my brother. He hasn’t come home for three days. An elderly gentleman told me he had seen him somewhere around here. Do you think you could help me?” Her pleading tone of voice and wide, innocent eyes were met with a hardened, unmoved expression.

When he spoke, she was equally as surprised by the soothing quality of his voice as she was by the harsh, irritated tone he chose to speak in.

“Get lost, brat.”

She was taken aback by the rude rebuttal but, biting her lip, refused to back down. “Please,” she voiced, reaching out for his arm to convey her urgency, her eyes turned up to him desperately. He flinched at her touch and turned a livid glare in her direction. “Please,” she repeated, “He’s my only brother. I’m so worried about him.”

“Get your hands off me,” he hissed, his hands stilling in their movements where they were polishing the knife. She was suddenly struck by the realization that the gleaming switchblade in his hands was only a whim away from embedding itself in her flesh. That surely, him cleaning his knife meant it had recently been in use? Hesitantly, she withdrew her hand. “Can’t you help me?” she entreated again breathlessly.

“Is there something wrong with your ears? I said fuck off.” The scathing retort, clearly meant to scare her away, only served to have her dig in her heels in response. He hadn’t claimed not to know the young man in the photograph.

“Hey, Levi,” came a raspy voice from the shadows, “Who’s the visitor?”

When she turned her gaze towards the darkened alleyway, she found a tall, rugged blond standing there, his countenance partly veiled by the shadows, despite the brilliant sunlight.

“Tch.”

For whatever reason, the man’s sudden appearance served to irritate the black-haired man and he shot the strange girl a disparaging glance. One that seemed to read, “You brought this on yourself.”

Casting a wary glance at the raven-haired man - Levi, apparently, was his name - she sidestepped him to approach the blond man towering over her in the alleyway. Up close, she could see a thin scar running from one temple, down across the bridge of his prominent nose. 

“Excuse me, sir,” she began, holding up the photograph, “Have you seen this man? He’s my brother and hasn’t been home in three days.”

Levi averted his gaze as the stupid woman made her stupid plea. Fools with no sense of danger could only blame themselves for whatever followed.

True to character, the blond took one look at the picture in her hand and laughed aloud, a deep, rumbling sound that grated against Levi’s ears and made the young woman hesitate uncertainly.

“Why, Levi,” the man chuckled, “it’s rude to leave a young woman standing outside like this. You should have shown her in.”

The long-haired woman looked from one man to the other nervously as she clung to the strap of her cross-body purse. Levi came up behind her with an irritated expression, as if she were severely wasting his time. Caught with the muscular man towering over her in front of her and Levi approaching from behind, all routes of escape were cut off. She swallowed nervously as Levi met her eye with a bored expression. “You heard the man,” he drawled, nodding towards the alleyway.

With apprehensive determination, she nodded and stepped into the darkness, bypassing the taller man who was still chuckling ominously to himself. Unable to see in front of her for the darkness, her footsteps slowed, and Levi, pressing a hand to her back, shoved her forwards. “Keep moving,” was the gruff command. His hand on her back felt warm – larger and stronger than she would have expected - and in the darkness, his low voice sounded as if he spoke directly into her ear, sending chills up her spine.

At length, he pushed open a door that was invisible to her in the darkness and she stepped into the light on the other side, blinking.

She had entered what appeared to be a large common room with mismatched sofas and tables in various states of disrepair scattered across the sprawling space. A generous refrigerator hummed loudly in a corner and a pool table with worn-out green felt stood off to the side. A single lightbulb flickered in a green lampshade that hung oddly, almost comically, to one side.

She noticed now, that the room was filled with people equally as intimidating as the man she had left behind, absorbed in drink, games, or tobacco and talk. Their muscular bodies implied that these were men who depended on their strength to survive, and the scars that decorated what she could see of their skin were evidence of the lengths they would go to, to do so. In comparison, she was small and insignificant, less than a morsel to the fearsome men in front of her. She clutched the photograph to her chest and stepped backwards, looking from one terrifying face to the other. When she bumped into a broad chest, she spun around in surprise, only to find Levi closing the door behind them, looking at her through unfeeling gray eyes down the bridge of his nose.

She backed away from him, intimidated, and found herself in the center of the room surrounded by the watchful eyes of men whose intentions she failed to read.

“Well, well, well...” voiced a gruff voice from the back of the room, With a gasp, she saw a tall, gangly man lying on a sofa hidden from view. His face was concealed by a cowboy hat but as he rose to his feet now, he replaced it on his head, covering his long, straggly gray hair. His low chuckle and his self-assured smirk confirmed what the silence in the room implied – this was the leader of the group.

“What do we have here?” The man marched right up to her and caught her chin in an unforgiving grip, as he lifted her eyes up to him. “Pretty little thing you brought in, Levi.”

Still, the raven-haired man behind her was silent and unmoving. The man with the cowboy hat suddenly caught sight of the photograph and with one fluid movement snatched it out of her hands. His eyes lit up in recognition and he lowered his head as a deep, sinister chuckle rumbled from his lips. “Well, isn’t this precious?” he barked with a laugh.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he waved the photograph in front of her face mockingly, “Who is this?”

“That’s-,” she took a deep breath for courage, “That’s my brother! If you know anything about his whereabouts, please tell me!” She lifted entreating eyes to the man, despite the sadistic amusement apparent on his features.

“Well...” he drawled, “We might know something.” He laughed, turning around and holding the picture up for the men gathered there to see, “Don’t we, boys?”

Raucous laughter erupted in the room at the girl’s poor fortune. “Listen here, girl,” he leaned in close until she could smell the unsavory mixture of tobacco, coffee, and alcohol on his breath, “Your brother has been our guest for the last couple of days. And he can’t leave here until we’ve shown him the full extent of our hospitality. That’s just good manners, isn’t it?”

“Is- is that so?” she stepped backwards, her eyes darting from one harsh, unforgiving face to another, “Well, then, I...”

“Oh, no you don’t,” the man had a lazy, laidback demeanor, but when his hand shot out to catch hold of her wrist, it was fast as the strike of a viper. He held her hand high, so that she had to stand on tiptoe to ease the pressure on her arm. “Now that you’re here, we can’t just let you leave. You’re our guest, too, aren’t you?”

He whirled her around and faced the men who had abandoned their card games and drinks to give their leader their full attention. “Who wants to show our princess here a good time? No one should be able to say that we treat our guests poorly, isn’t that right?”

A hum of agreement and low chuckles met his words as more men than she could count shouted back volunteering statements.

With one last burst of strength, she tore her hand free and made a mad dash for the exit only to come up against the chest of the raven-haired man once more. He stood with his back towards the door and lifted his eyebrows, unimpressed by her attempts to escape.

“Well, look at that,” the man in the cowboy hat jeered, “I think she likes you, Levi.”

Raucous laughter erupted in the room as Levi narrowed his eyes at the girl, irritated that she was causing this uproar and dragging him into this.

“Is this really necessary, Kenny?” he complained, turning narrowed eyes onto his boss.

“Oi. Go on, then. Show her a good time.” A shiver passed through her as she turned her eyes up to the raven-haired man who was pointedly ignoring her.

“It’s not her fault she has a piece of shit for a brother, and unlike you sleazy bastards, I don’t have a thing for brats,” his arguments fell on deaf ears, but his eyes dropped to the girl in front of him in surprise, when he saw that she had taken hold of the hem of his shirt between her thumb and forefinger, her head lowered, expression unreadable. Her action was invisible to the men behind her, but confused Levi, even as Kenny barked further orders.

“Birds of a feather, Levi.” He jerked a thumb at a door behind them, “Mess her up. That’s an order.”

“Tch,” irked beyond expression, he grabbed hold of her wrist and dragged her down through the living area to the jeers and catcalls of the men, pushing open one of the closed doors and pulling her through before pressing the door shut behind them, muffling the vulgar statements of the men beyond.

He eyed her calculatingly, his grey eyes walled off from her as his gaze wandered over her form from head to toe, his sharp mind mulling over a definition to the words, “mess her up.”

The resounding click that met her ears informed her that the door had been locked, and she was stuck with this enigmatic, terrifying man. He approached her slowly, annoyance still lingering in his eyes as he muttered, “I told you to get lost.”

Her eyes darted from one corner of the dimly lit room to another, shoulders trembling. An armchair and a tattered sofa stood haphazardly in the room, a beat-up old table with scratch marks stood tossed to the side. Light from a single, boarded up window strained to get inside. Telltale signs of struggle were visible in every corner of the room.

“You brought this on yourself,” his voice was deceptively soft and the skin at the nape of her neck prickled in response.

“I –“ she faltered, “Do you really want to do this to me?”

He drew closer as she retreated, backing up until her legs came up against the worn-out table. Her fingers traced its edge as she leaned backwards, trying to put every possible inch of distance between them. “Not my call,” he answered easily, towering over her now. She sucked in a breath, summoning mindless protests, but his closed fist slammed into her abdomen before she could utter a word, causing her to double over in pain.

“I’ll make this quick,” he offered, no touch of emotion lacing his voice. An unfeeling hand took hold of her long tresses and he tossed her carelessly backwards, the clattering sound of her falling against the table and the wooden legs skidding against the stone floor loud enough for the gathering outside to hear. She struggled back to her feet, and the next blow landed on the side of her face, leaving a large bloody bruise but carefully avoiding her nose. Women were vain about their noses.

She staggered towards him, disoriented, confused as to which direction was the one required to escape and falling unintentionally, straight into his arms. Using his grip on her, he kicked upwards into her stomach with his knee, causing her to cough up bile and fall to her knees. From there, she was at his mercy and he aimed one kick after another at her, his expression impassive and unchanging. A last kick to the face flung her to the side where she lay on the stone floor exhausted and beaten.

“Tch,” rolling his shoulders, he approached the young woman lying prone on the floor. Every move of his was calculated. He knew well enough which injuries would heal in a matter of days and which would leave lasting damage. The assignment was clear enough - “mess her up”. As long as she left here in a state that would make the group outside think she had duly suffered, it did not matter how much actual pain she had been in, or what he had done to her. It was all about appearances, after all.

He crouched down and, sliding a hand into her long, thick tresses, pulled her up from the ground, he turned her face this way and that and, seeing the blood leaking from her nose and the bruises blooming to life on her face, he determined she was injured enough to be allowed to leave without further hindrance.

“On your feet,” he muttered, rising and pulling her up with him. She stumbled to her feet and clung to the table for balance. He noted with satisfaction that her arms and legs were also bruised and battered, bruises large enough to satisfy the audience outside, but shallow enough that they should heal in a few days’ time.

He lifted a hand and indicated towards the door with a nod and a jerk of his thumb. “Get out of here, brat. Before I change my mind.”

She coughed and spat out the blood that had collected in her mouth. Levi blinked, veiling his surprise. The naïve, innocent, feminine impression she had carried into this room with her disappeared as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and narrowed her eyes at him.

“What?” she ground out, “Is that it?”

He only returned her glare with a blank stare of his own, nonplussed.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she continued, looking up at him defiantly, “And when they said ‘mess her up’ here I was, thinking you were actually going to do something to me.” She scoffed, and gave him a disappointed look, as if he wasn’t quite up to scratch.

What the actual fuck?

“Oi,” a dangerous spark flared in his otherwise cold grey eyes as he grabbed her by the collar and pulled her up to face him, “Take a look around you before you start talking shit. Are you asking me to break your legs right now? That what you want?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she taunted, “But is this what your boss meant when he said ‘mess her up’? It’s not, right?”

He glared at her, unable to believe his ears. She should have been cowering in gratitude that he was letting her go without touching her. She should have been scrambling for the exit.

“They wanted you to fuck me, right? Or was I the only one who understood it that way?” The sarcasm that laced her voice, so sweet and innocent when she had approached him outside, now low and almost sultry even in its indignant anger, confused him.

He released her as if burned. What was wrong with this woman?

“So, what happens if I tell them out there you couldn’t get it up?” She indicated towards the group outside with a jerk of her chin as she leaned back against the table. He narrowed his eyes at her. Of course, he knew precisely what would happen to her, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. Men get beaten, girls get defiled. Those are the rules of the game. The price for rubbing up against their group the wrong way. There was no such thing as mercy. Levi knew that better than anyone else. He had learned that the first time he had tried to allow a woman to escape unharmed. She had turned grateful eyes to him before trying to leave, only to be caught by one of his brothers and then passed around until she lost consciousness.

He had been made to watch. She had been made to thank him for his kindness, for sparing her – words that meant nothing as tears streamed down her face and the group stood in a circle around her. “It’s great that you’re so fucking nice, Levi,” someone had hissed into his ear. He couldn’t for the life of him now remember who had spoken. He had swallowed half a bottle of painkillers, but his body had recovered in no less than 48 hours, just to spite him.

He learned not to show any misplaced sympathy. He learned it was better to have a woman screaming and begging for mercy beneath him, than to have her be literally torn apart by the men outside. He learned how to tune out their cries. He learned how to have a heart that felt nothing. But it didn’t change the fact that he hated sex. He hated having to use it to break their wills. To punish them. He would much rather have just broken an arm or two. He hated the fact that he could not remember the last time he had had a willing woman beneath him.

With time, he had learned how to fake it. Learned where to leave bruises, where to tear clothes so that no one would stop and question them. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it. He was just fed up of it. Fed up of playing this ridiculous game. Fed up of using intimacy as a weapon. It wasn’t like he was into that kind of shit.

But this brat.

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she returned his gaze unabashed, shamelessly – demanding, almost.

“Are you asking to be raped right now?” he growled, stalking towards her. He was not going to let himself be intimidated by this slip of a thing.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” she shrugged.

“You tell them out there I didn’t touch you and you might not ever be able to have children. So, if you decide to open your mouth that’s on you,” his tone was devoid of intonation, but his narrowed eyes expressed his irritation with her.

“Are you gay?” she asked, blinking up at him inquisitively.

He only glared at her in return, he wasn’t about to play this game with her.

“Alright, sure they’ll have their way with me instead. But what about you? Does nothing happen to you if you don’t follow orders?” She seemed genuinely curious, and unbothered by the bruise swelling on her cheek or the blood seeping out of the wound above her right eyebrow as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Would nothing happen to him? He had been loyal to the group since he was barely more than a child. If it got out, however, that he had taken to sparing women again, it spelled trouble for whoever else they sent his way after this damned frustrating brat. If she wanted him to fuck her up so badly, then she had it coming.

“What do you want, brat?” he seethed.

“I don’t want you to harbor any illusions of having done me a kindness when I leave here,” she answered, her voice dark and unforgiving. “If you’re going to mess me up, do it right and let me curse your name for the rest of my days. Wallow in the guilt. Don’t deceive yourself into thinking you’re some kind of good guy.”

The irritation vanished from his face, only to be replaced by a deadened apathy, he placed one hand on the table on either side of her, leaning forward, inadvertently forcing her to lean back as her chest brushed against his. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke, his voice as soft as it was dark, “The things I’ve done? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She shuddered at the close proximity, at his warm breath against her ear, but those soft words were all that was gentle about him. She had asked for it, and he wasn’t kind to the point of being foolish. He could break a stupid woman as good as anyone. He pulled back, looking her coldly in the eye as he took hold of her collar and, without warning, tore her shirt open. She blinked, scarcely able to understand just what had happened as she stood there in the tattered remains of what was once her shirt.

She watched the buttons roll off into the corners of the room and was still wrapping her mind around this sudden change of behavior when his hand found purchase in her hair again and jerked her head mercilessly back, exposing the smooth column of her throat. His mouth instantly closed in on her pulse point, making quick work with his teeth, sucking on the sensitive skin there before biting down mercilessly. She gasped at the painful sensation that made one thing terribly clear, this encounter was not designed to provide her with any pleasure.

He tore off her cardigan, quickly followed by the torn shirt, leaving her in nothing but her skirt and the lacy black bra she wore. It did not occur to him that her choice of undergarments was alluring. He did not think to question whether that had been intentional on her part. Her eyes flew open when she felt cold metal between her breasts, before she could look down to see what it was, his knife had cut through the lacy fabric of her undergarments, inadvertently cutting her in the process. Knowing his skill, she could only assume that it had been intentional. Blood trickled down her chest over her abdomen, the stinging pain of the weeping wound rushed to her head. Exhilarating her.

She sucked in a cold breath of air, only moments before his hand closed around her throat, pinning her against the table. Her hands flew up in reflex, closing around his arm, gentle fingers pressing into the corded muscles of his forearm, she blinked up at him as her mouth opened helplessly for breath that would not come. She gaped at him, trying to word something with what little breath she had.

“What’s that?” he murmured calmly, his eyes cold and expressionless. “I can’t hear you.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as she arched her back, pressing her breasts up against his arm. Was this an involuntary reaction? Or... what the hell was she doing?

When he felt her convulsing from lack of oxygen, he released her with a grim expression. Something wasn’t right. Something about the balance of power between them. That unimpressed look in her eyes still irritated him. As if she had no sense of the actual danger she was in, even though she was in this state, literally bruised, battered, and bleeding. Now, coughing for breath. So, why did it feel like she was the one in control?

He let his knife fall to the floor as he unbuckled his belt, watching her eyes turn towards him, wide with something akin to terror - or was that anticipation? Had he become one of those lecherous swine who imagined they saw willingness in the eyes of a woman who wanted nothing more than to escape them? Had he really fallen to a point that he had begun to justify his actions?

He slid the belt out with one smooth action and, binding her wrists, turned her roughly on her stomach before he hung the buckle from a hook screwed into the wall. Her front was pressed roughly against the harsh surface of the wooden table and her arms were extended further than was comfortable, bound by the rough leather. From this angle, he could not see her face and that was certainly for the better.

“You asked for this, didn’t you, brat?” He placed one booted foot between her own black flats and pried her feet apart. His hands slipped under her skirt and found the curve of her bottom and kneaded roughly, his fingers greedy and bruising. The hair on the back of his neck rose in alarm when she moaned in response.

“Oi,” he responded, “What the hell?”

She bit her lip, not allowing another sound to escape her mouth, and he lifted a hand to flip up her skirt, tossing it carelessly over her back. She had, quite literally, asked for this. When he lifted a hand, the resounding slap echoed throughout the room. Her skin quickly flushed red, and knowing that he had not held back, would likely be bruised as well. She had asked him not to hold back. No illusions of mercy.

One resounding slap after another echoed throughout the room and could likely be heard in the common room as well. He wanted to punish her. For being so stupid. For coming here at all. For not just leaving when he had given her a chance to. By the tenth slap she could not take it anymore and a husky moan escaped her lips.

“Don’t tell me you’re enjoying this,” his voice was dripping in disbelieving sarcasm. “Is it just some kind of shitty coincidence that this kind of shit turns you on?” Indeed, there was no denying it now. Her moans were proof enough of that, not to mention the fact that her panties were positively soaking. Did this crazy bitch have some kind of abuse kink?

Hooking a finger into her waistband he pulled her lacy black underwear down to her knees. “Tch, look how wet you are.” It sounded like a complaint and her face burned in response. “You’d almost think you wanted this.” When his fingers stroked her slit, she bucked her hips in response, chasing his touch, instantly wanting more.

“Oi,” he blinked at her, “Calm the fuck down, will you?” With a flick of his wrist, he unhooked the belt from the wall and brought her to her knees with a single kick at the inside of her knee. He held on to the belt with one hand and angled her head backwards with a firm grip on her hair with the other. When she lifted her eyes to his, they were dark with lust and he swallowed, realizing the situation had curiously grown out of his control. He had never seen a bloodstained face like that looking up at him with such desire. Tugging on the belt, he brought her forward as he regarded her through apathetic grey eyes.

He unzipped his trousers and pulled out his engorged length to her wide-eyed surprise. “Well, go on then,” he muttered coldly, with a curious edge to his voice, “Since you’re so fucking eager.”

She wasted no time in closing her bound hands around his length and long-lashed eyes fluttered elegantly shut as she brought her lips to his tip. She began with a chaste kiss before dragging her tongue over his slit lapping up the precum gathering there. She closed her lips around him, using her tongue to heighten the friction as she took him in as deeply as her gag reflex allowed. She bobbed her head back and forth, wanting to drive him to the brink as he had done with her. He closed his eyes, despite himself, enjoying her mouth on him more than he thought he would allow himself to. He stifled a moan rumbling to life in his chest as her warm, wet mouth worked magic on his erect member.

Why not? She was his assignment. She was willing. She was undeniably attractive. If she truly wanted him to have his way with her, then why the fuck not? She would have only herself to blame at the end of all this. Gripping her hair more tightly, he thrust into her mouth, more deeply than she had been willing to take him at first, but helpless to resist him all the same as he fucked her face, his length thrusting into her throat and her muffled sounds indecipherable. Were they protest or pleasure? Damned if he knew.

At length, he released her. Having made up his mind to make the most out of this encounter, he was far from done with her. His eyes roamed over her nearly naked form now, as if seeing her for the first time. The full swell of her breasts, the dip of her thin waist, the curve of her hips. The short, pleated black skirt that pretended to cover her. Her almond eyes, darkened with lust and her long, silky hair. She was a sight to behold.

He tugged her to her feet and threw her onto her stomach on the table before thrusting without so much as a warning into her wet and aching cavern. She released a throaty moan, one that was undeniably of pleasure. He could not for the life of him explain why that sound made him feel more guilty than protests would have. All the same, he reached up to knead her breasts as he thrust in and out of her, quickening his pace, eager to reach his own release. His ears perked as her moans intensified, growing louder and more insistent.

“Oh, more... Just like that, don’t stop...”

Was she hearing herself?

“Harder, Levi... hurt me, please...”

This was far from the words she was supposed to be saying. She was supposed to be cursing his existence. Wishing him a slow and painful death.

“Oi,” he hissed, slamming into her with increased force, “Shut the fuck up, will you?”

Her answer was another desperate groan, and with a frustrated groan of his own, he reached up to fill her mouth with two fingers. It was the fastest and most effective way to gag her. His conscience could not take her pretending to enjoy this. But he was equally as ill-prepared for the way she began sucking off his fingers. He was nearing his climax but literally every thing she did was infuriating him.

In the span of one thrust, he pulled out of her, flipped her over and reentered her without missing a beat. But was that a mistake? Now that he could look into her lust-filled eyes with his own frenzied, grey irises, he was sure she was not pretending. She seemed to be genuinely enjoying this. No matter, she would have time enough to regret it when it was over. For now... for now, he just wanted to reach that climax that was fast approaching.

If she could just keep her mouth shut for two minutes, that was all he needed. “Oh, Levi...” she whined. Having a complete stranger call his name that way sent shivers down his spine. It was unnatural. He closed his fingers around her throat again. He just needed her to shut up. For just one goddamn minute. Her large, expressive eyes fluttered closed and her terrible sounds stilled as he squeezed her airways closed as he slammed into her, faster now, harder, chasing the sensation he knew was close.

She came first, first convulsing from oxygen deprivation, then trembling from the intensity of her orgasm, her back arching off the table as her walls clenched around him, providing him with the last push he needed to reach that height. He squeezed his eyes shut as the sensation tore through him, leaving him breathless. With a low growl, he pulled out of her to spill his seed literally anywhere else. The last thing he needed was to father a child with a nameless nobody. He hovered over her still. His hands resting on either side of her. Catching his breath, both their chests heaving as they came down from their mutual high.

What had they just done? Could that truly have been considered non-consensual? Well, perhaps that would be what she decided it was, given a day or two to think it over. They stayed that way for a minute, catching their breaths. A smirk crossed her face, unbeknownst to him as he pressed his eyes shut, calming his racing heart.

At length, he drew back, and she pulled herself up to a seated position. She held her hands up to him expectantly and he wordlessly unbound them, before looping his belt back into his trousers, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she scanned the room for her clothing, only to see her note with a distant smile, that most of it was unusable. Foregoing the torn shirt and slit bra, she reached for her cardigan, wrapping it tightly around herself, using the belt to wrap it tightly closed as a makeshift shirt. She ran a hand through her hair, brushing it away from her face and Levi could only stare at her with awe.

She had, at some point wiped the blood from her nose, her face was still undeniably battered. Her arms and legs were severely bruised and yet- and yet – why the fuck did she look so content?

“You didn’t kiss me,” she voiced, lifting her eyes to his. Was that a complaint?

After everything else he had done, a kiss was the least he could offer her, wasn’t it? He stepped forward, taking hold of the back of her head gently. Here was something he didn’t do often and when he did, he only ever did it the way he wanted.

So, that was what he did now, angling his head to claim her lips. Kissing her slowly, deeply, intently – as if he meant it. There was only one right way to kiss someone. When he drew back, she released a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul.

“Thanks, Levi Ackerman,” she breathed.

As he buckled his belt again, he lifted stormy grey eyes to her, taking in her dazed expression. “You should get that head of yours checked out,” he commented, “Something isn’t right with you.”

She giggled at that comment from her perch on the table, kicking her legs back and forth cheerfully as she waited for him to finish dressing.

“There’s nothing to be so fucking cheerful about,” he reprimanded, “Look at your face.”

“It hurts,” she agreed, but with a smile on her face that disturbed him. Shaking his head, he took hold of her elbow and led her out of the room. The men in the common area fell silent at her battered appearance.

One of them released a low whistle, “You’ve outdone yourself, eh, man?”

Levi froze in his tracks, pausing to deliver a deadly glare over his shoulder. “I’m not quite done yet, though. Should I just take your tongue out next?”

The man blinked up at him before quickly turning his gaze back to the card game in front of him. That Levi was not one to be trifled with was well known among them, with exception of their leader.

He led her to the exit and tore open the door, he hesitated only for a moment, regarding her for a second. She had been beautiful, before he had “messed her up”. She still was, if you asked him. But for the entire duration of her short stay in their hideout, every thing she had said and did had only served to confuse him. He did not even know what he should say to her, if anything at all. She nodded in parting and turned to leave, and he let her go.

He supposed he would think back to her, in dark, contemplative nights. Wondering if he should perhaps have done this differently. How it would have been if he had not had to hurt her. He watched her disappear into the darkness before shaking his head and closing the door behind her. Whether he had actually fulfilled his assignment was anyone’s guess.

He moved past the common room to a hallway behind it. He needed to see Kenny. To get some actual work done and take his mind off of the ridiculous encounter. He followed the sound of screaming and found their boss with relative ease. A brown-haired man tied to a chair was screaming profanities as one of their men carved intricate designs into his flesh with a knife.

Kenny sat nearby, his feet propped up on another chair as he dragged on a cigarette. Catching sight of Levi, he coughed, and rasped, “Back, are you? You sure took your sweet time.”

Levi said nothing to this, nodding at the man instead, clearly the young man from the girl’s photograph. “Still nothing?” he asked, turning grey eyes on to Kenny. “Not yet,” Kenny commented, but turned towards the screaming man.

“Hey, that reminds me. You won’t believe who was just here.”

The dragging of the knife stopped, and the man caught his breath before turning incredulous eyes towards them.

“What a coincidence that she would come all this way looking for you, eh?” Kenny barked a laugh, “But don’t worry, Levi took good care of her, didn’t you, Levi?”

Levi did not respond, letting his silence serve as his answer.

“The fuck are you on about?” the man hissed, breathing raggedly from the hours of unabating pain.

“Why, your sister, of course,” Kenny remarked, bringing his cigarette back to his lips. “She was here looking for you.”

The man blinked at them incredulously before releasing a weak laugh, “I don’t have a sister, you sick fuckers! You bastards raped an innocent girl!”

Levi felt the blood in his veins run cold as Kenny turned towards him with a raised brow.

His mind raced - the way she had approached him, clung to his shirt, insisted he not let her off easy, the way she had looked at him, the way she had left without so much as asking about her brother again, and most of all ... Thanks, Levi Ackerman.

Where had she learned his last name? No one had used it in the short time she had been there. Levi turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, down the hallway, back through the common room, tearing open the door before bursting back out onto the stone-laid roads beyond. No matter where he turned, she was nowhere to be found.

Turning back, he froze at what he saw, and realizing what it meant, a sickening feeling crept over him. He felt used, exposed, and somehow violated. He felt sick to his stomach. He had been sent to force himself on her but, recalling how forward she had been with him, how she had insisted he finish what he started, which of the two of them had truly been taken advantage of?

When Kenny came out after him, ducking under the archway, he turned to look at what had caught Levi’s eye. His boss and uncle released a low, amused chuckle.

“Looks like she had a thing for you.”

“Well, fuck.”

“You catch her name?”

“Of course not.”

He blinked at the wall, at the red graffiti emblazoned on it.

“Thanks for a good time, Levi Ackerman.” And beside that, a ridiculous red heart.

He should have known she was fucking crazy.

[xiabre]

we will be, and we were, we are living forever

Time has no equivalent exchange, It sends us raving, unraveled and like the worn sepia of a film photograph We ache, in those muggy moments as night stains the sky, to be taken back⁠— To take back⁠— Our hearts, little whirring tops, fight with such desperation, For control, for rose-laden nostalgia, for honeyed memories that we drink with Warm milk in the evenings when we lose our voice to⁠— Time.

We tremble, wanting to find reasons to save the world. Salt-logged tears taste no different now than they did as children, Innocuous to the world, but seeing more in it than we do now. When we gather to discuss the past, remembrance becomes piteous and Desirous and still, even still, you are grandiose with some goodliness And wonder how you could change things, were you given the chance.

Time is unbecoming for the human, who likes not to be at another’s mercy, But still we gaze upon it lovingly, wanting to take it into our arms, At our mercy, And… choke.

[spiltscribbles]

you did the mini fic way i loved you (which was amaaazing) but how about champagne problems where remus says no to sirius' proposal because he gets spooked by a couple of purebloods :(

~Notes: Nonny babe! I can’t believe you made me write such angst😩😩😩 This isn’t quite that but I hope you like it anyways🥺🥺 ILU!!!

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A Reblog Is Worth The Sexiest Bottle Of champagne!  |  The Way I Loved You FIC  |  Send Me A Prompt/Song??💜

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“I’m afraid of a lot of things, but mostly, most sincerely, I am afraid of being completely unraveled by you, and you finding nothing you want in here.”

—L.M. Dorsey 

.-

When Remus’s father leaves for the final time three weeks before his tenth birthday, his Mam spends only two days in bed before she drags out an old bottle of Dom Pérignon and pops it open,  pouring them each a glass with a smile the wrong side of worn as she beckons him forwards with an indulgent bend of the knuckle. “Come along, mon amour. Just this once, just to say farewell.”

As he thumbs the skinny tumbler bubbling with the amber liquid that’s been his mother’s favorite ever since growing up in her Northern French town on the outskirts of Paris, Remus wonders if he’ll ever forget the words his father spewed before leaving— the declaration that they must be cursed if their first child turned into a monster and their second came out stillborn. Wonders if he’ll ever forget the livid, borderline murderous expression that spilt over his mother’s delicate features before she screamed at him to leave for the final time. Wonders if he’ll ever not feel so weary— So destitute.

“’S all just champagne problems mon petit lapin,” she says in that airy way of her’s that somehow still radiates a knowledge beyond his reach.  “None of  it ever matters, not truly. Not ever.”

Remus eyes the dark circles smudged against her pale skin, and the way her caramel curls fall limply from her bun. She’s always been the most beautiful woman in the world  through his eyes but he now thinks she might be the strongest too. So strong that she’s sitting there, right in front of him in their small kitchen— and she’s pretending that her tiny son, her first and only born, hasn’t brought absolute ruin to her life that should’ve been buoyant and lovely for such a pretty, quick witted Muggle girl.

“Yes, I know Mam,” he says instead of the truth, because if he’s being at all honest he’s always been a bit of a coward and a bit too desperate for some semblance of normality.

.-

It becomes a mantra of sorts to Remus as he stumbles into adolescence. He calls every inconvenience in his life,  champagne problems, and drinks the hurt away in a secret nook off the astronomy tower that he purposefully left off the map he and his friends had created with a sheer pulse of brilliance and adventure and a need to leave their marks on this stupid sodding castle.  A castle that’ll inevitably kick them out on their arses from it’s relative safety with such cold indifference. A castle that will soon be brimming with a new generation of students sullying the same spaces, same corridors   they once spent their days laughing and jeering and frolicking about— creating mischief in it’s hallowed halls. The one and only time that Remus was able to hold his breath and wrap himself in warmth he never knew and will never know again, not ever in the same sort of youthful ignorance— One that he only feigns to hold when around his friends because he thinks he’s never been young, not the way they are. Remus reckons he  aged a century and a half after the bite and a century more after his father had left, and then a millennia when his mother was diagnosed with third stage breast cancer when he was a fresh fifteen.  A death sentence dressed up in bows of apology by the doctors and shiny wrapping-paper of potential hope if the aggressive treatments they employ  make a difference. And soon enough the ever green that was his juvenescence will turn brittle and gray and awash with memories of hopelessness, only adorned sparingly by  memories of Peter’s  quiet companionship and  James’s affable grins. Lily’s easy laughter and Sirius’s searing snogs. Instances of respite that were eventually drown out by the shitty Wizard champagne he’s able to finesse after sucking off the twenty something who works night shifts at the Hog’s Head.

But it doesn’t matter.

All of his issues are inconsequential at the end of the day; from a paper cut, to his worst transformations to the time his first boyfriend sneered at him with pure distain after he had snubbed his wanting to go further subsequent two months of furtive touches and inconspicuous dates. It’s all just a load of shit, a collection of champagne problems just like his Mam had said all those years ago.

 Even that incident the morning in fifth year when he found out that his best friend— the boy he would’ve done just about anything for, anything only  just to see him smile— had weaponized his most hated form. When Sirius nearly made him into a murderer, into a beast, when he nearly proved true the self fulfilling prophecy that every werewolf is as dark as creatures can become. The charms of veelas, combined with the insatiable cravings of vampires and the wily natures of goblins.  When Sirius had nearly turned Remus inside out, made him everything he hates.

But no. That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Because paper cuts heal, and the full moons set, and James hexes a legion of boils to sprout up all along Quintin’s face. And at the end of the day, he’ll always love Sirius first and last and the very most. He’ll always forgive him any indiscretion because when Sirius’s hand— soft palms and callus fingers— caresses his side, Remus feels close to whole, close to alive, close to something real. And God Remus loves him so much it aches in his chest and creeks in his bones.

So when he comes back to Hogwarts the night after his mother’s funeral— two months divorced of that incident, two months of painful quiet and empty arms and heart wrenching need— Remus lets Sirius collect him into his embrace, and lets them cry together under the canopy of night fall, and when Sirius begs him to come back to them, to forgive him, to let him inside the most protected nooks of his mind  once more, all Remus says is “yes,” and “All right,” and “I never stopped.” He doesn’t tell him that he doesn’t think he’s ever ben there’s in the first place, doesn’t think he’s ever been here or anywhere. He doesn’t tell him that sometimes it feels like he’s some faded sepia photograph come to life in the form of his too skinny body and too large eyes and too gangly limbs. He doesn’t tell Sirius that he doesn’t think he’s ever been anything meant to last on this plane of existence, but he does let Sirius kiss him and hold him and fuck him because it’s the first time since Sirius left Grimmauld back in December the he looks something close to at peace. And Remus knows that he never wants to be someone who makes him frown with that protruding vein on his temple. Someone like Sirius— Someone so beautiful, so vivid, so alive— deserves a life painted in technicolor. And Remus refuses to be the person to drain the vivacity from his every breath. To scuff out his lust for life.

.-

The first time Sirius asks Remus to stop gulping down the champagne and gin and Ogden’s finest by the fist fulls, it’s their final night of their final term and after Remus barbs a little too forcefully that their dingy little dormitory is the one place for him after Lily jokes that it’s a madhouse. 

“It’s gonna bloody kill you Remus, it’s already doing it for fucks sake. You can’t even walk straight most mornings damn it!” He shouts in the quiet of their room while James and Lily are ensconced in her own bed on the other end of the tower and Peter is off snogging his Hufflepuff girlfriend in some deserted third floor closet.

“All right,” Remus tells him after swallowing down the last of his champagne, words pouring out his mouth like warm molasses and arm slugging languidly when he tosses the empty bottle to the side before patting the empty end of his bed for Sirius to lie down besides him. He doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t have the energy for the shouts and accusations and hurt that they always fling at each other during these more heated moments. He supposes he doesn’t have much energy for anything at all anymore.

Sirius stilts from where he’s looming above him, tongue poised for another verbal lashing. But he must see something in Remus’s face, or probably just feels exhausted in similar ways, because he only breathes in— tension melting from his shoulders— and slinks off his jacket before shuffling into the comforter besides him.

And in the future Remus will wonder whether if he remembers it correctly that it felt like everything was standing on an axis as Sirius rode his cock— slow and steady and minutes that feel like decades. Or maybe he’s just recalling it differently because he realized for the first time that night that  for every inch of him that loves Sirius, the other boy feels that same sort of enthralling passion. Only difference is that Sirius’s always been the greedy sort, the once and future king of all or nothing. Remus is the contrary of that. He’s lived with nothing before and he’s perfectly fine with living that way again, had never really expected much from his life anyhow. But Sirius deserves to have everything and Remus knew then—  will always know, that he could never give him that.

.-

The year following their graduation is beautiful in that way that transitional periods always are. A turning of an age eclipsed by sunlight and laughter and kisses that makes Remus feel like they’re melding into one another, becoming indelible parts of each other’s very skin and bones.

But it’s also a time when Remus realizes just how helpless his condition has made him, how despite his top marks in no less than seven NEWTs, he’s always just a werewolf in the eyes of the Wizarding world. So while Lily studies in St Mungos and Peter takes up post at the ministry and Sirius joins James in the Auror’s academy, Remus works days at a quaint bookshop with a doting elderly woman who makes him soup when she thinks he’s looking peaky, and a gay night club with a handsy boss that leers at him with an intrusive air and asks regularly if he’s still with that boyfriend of his.

Remus feels like a fraud.

So when he gets that letter from Dumbledore sent to the flat that Sirius insists is their’s but Remus only ever calls his— he replies with a hasty scrawl on the back of some spare parchment, telling him  that of course he’ll do anything to help the Order. Tells him  that he understands the discretion that’s required of such a mission. He tells his past headmaster that he grew up collecting secrets like school children collected friends, so this won’t be an issue. He doesn’t tell him how it’s a practice so ingrained into him that sometimes even he doesn’t know who the fuck Remus John Lupin is most days, doesn’t know the seams that string him together like a pair of tattered trousers. He doesn’t tell him that he’s only afraid of one thing and it’s his boyfriend’s dedication,  because Sirius is the sort who loves unadulteratedly and without conditions. Sirius doesn’t yet understand that the boy who he’s let inside the most intimate parts of him, the boy who he shares a bed with night after night is the same monster a younger him— in a spur of passion—  had planned to deploy as a means of destruction.

Sirius doesn’t understand how foolish it is to intwine his life with Remus’s, even if he thinks it’s some sort of challenge, if he looks at it with the romantic lends that he could love the monster out of someone. And it’s positively idiotic to think as much, like Sirius’s tender hands and sweet whispers can be Remus’s cure. 

It’s so fucking stupid! And occasionally Remus wants to bash his head into a wall, but instead  kisses him with devouring intent before he could.

The owl nips at his finger for the last remnants of the stale biscuit Remus had offered it in thanks and he watches it soar away like he could never do.

.-

The first time Sirius tells Remus he loves him, it’s in the bathroom of the Longbottom’s small cottage— amidst panting breaths and thrusting hips and grappling hands as they try to get one another off as quick as possible before someone finds them in such a compromising state.

Remus has just spent three weeks in a werewolf camp in the south of Glasgow, and came here to find Sirius as soon as he can home. And while they get lost in one another in this cramped loo he forces himself not to think of how Sirius had been chatting up and chuckling with Emmeline Vance.

Emmeline Vance,  who is a beautiful blonde witch with vibrantly green eyes and a full smile that isn’t even slightly crooked like Remus’s own. Emmeline Vance who is the pure blooded daughter of the Swedish Minister of magic, and who came here to London because her country has never discriminated against half bloods or muggle borns— even if they brand their dark creatures with tattoos and lock them up in cages whenever they try to speak up against their lack of human rights.

Emmeline Vance who is the perfect complement to Sirius’s dark brooding and pale eyes and charisma that radiates off of him like the leading man in a novel written during the generation of disillusioned artists who had survived the first great war in the Muggle world. And Remus sometimes feels like Sirius’s gaze is trained on him like Gatsby towards  the green light he watched every night thinking of his beloved. And sure Lupin and Daisy might be a pair of flowers but one is poisonous and the other is bright with life and Sirius has always been the sort to pick the worst option because he’s a glutton for punishment, and sometimes Remus thinks that’s all he is. Sirius’s warped way of punishing himself for being born into such a fucked up  family— fettering himself to a poor, halfblooded, halfbreed, as some sort of declaration that he’s not the heir of the House of Black any longer, that he rebelled against them with every fiber of his being. That he’s the precise antithesis of their values even if he shares the same eyes and imperious air and steadfast beliefs on top of his  effortless genius— even if they are beliefs that juxtapose against his family’s blood supremacy.

And Remus hates these sorts of contemplations, hates how they make him feel like a trader to the love between them. But he forgets about it all when he remembers how Sirius glanced up and caught his gaze when he first stepped into the living room, amiable expression morphing to one of pure wanting the second he spotted him,   coldly disregarding an extremely glum looking Emmeline, as  he strutted towards  Remus and dragged him to the only empty spot and kissed the moonbeam scars that litters his skin and calls him beautiful despite it all— Maybe even because of it.

.-

The eleventh  time Sirius asks Remus to marry him, it’s the night of Regulus’s funeral, when his limp body was found slashed against the grounds of  the Hampshire woods after three weeks of being declared missing.

It’s spoken in a voice that’s so raw and primal and demanding that it makes Remus curl into himself when he hears it, getting lost in the sensations all around him— Sirius’s hot breath skirting the back of his neck, and Sirius’s large hand clenched around his dick, and Sirius’s length pounding into him with such force that their headboard smacks against the wall. And when they’re done, Sirius slides out of him amidst a round of peppering kisses along the ridges of his spine and expanse of the shoulders and on the hinge of his jaw. It feels like not an apology so much, but a plea. And Remus knows that the last year has been rough on them, on their relationship. Knows how difficult it is that Remus has been spending nearly as many nights spying on the wolves as he has in the flat. That Sirius wants to know where the fuck Dumbledore is sending his boyfriend, that he hates Remus only slightly because he’s so tight lipped about it all.

He’s argue that James tells Lily what he’s up to, and Remus would remind him that they’re married, and then Sirius would get a look on his face that’s so betrayed and so pained and so furious that Remus spends the night on the sofa instead— Well he would if Sirius didn’t have a habit to coax him back into his arms with mumbled apologies and gentle caresses and barely their kisses before the night ends.

So Remus lets him do the same now, and he ignores the questions about where he was all this time and shrugs off the way Sirius tries to reason that none of them know how long they have left living, how he wants to spend the rest of his days as Remus’s husband. And he watches Sirius flutter his eyes closed and waits for his breath to even out.

He never tells  Sirius that he wants to wed him  so badly that it’s cutting against his heart like a knife licked with flames,  even if he’s been in love with Sirius for practically half his sodding life.  Ever since he had jauntily invited him to sit in the cart with him and a  bespectacled lad, along  with another that was a bit plump and eager looking.

No. Through all the shouts and begging and sneers of tonight, Remus never dared tell him that. Remus knows Sirius, and if he had said as much,  then that would’ve been it for him. Sirius would have fought for Remus with every inch of his being. He would’ve made sure that Remus excepted his love, that he would have utilized the ferociousness and ferocity and indignation that breathes in his every vein and what makes up the marrow of his bones as the beautiful and brilliant and incandescent scion of the ancient and most noble House of Black— would’ve done so until Remus gave into his demands. 

Remus promised himself a long time ago that he’d never be the one to scuff out the light that shone in Sirius’s very soul. He’d never watch himself turn Sirius into  a  burnt shell of anything bright and fluttering and lively that ever existed in the spaces of his ribs and the valleys of his chest. Not like what he did to his Mam— eventually killing her. Not like how he drove his father away because the dread was too heavy of a burden to carry.  

Remus would rather Sirius hate him then watch him suffer through that.

Anything but that.

So Remus quietly packs his few belongings in the same trunk he’s had since first year with a flick and swish of his wand. And he pens Sirius a missive that he just doesn’t feel the way he had when they were in Hogwarts. And he tells him that his missions have him traveling all over the continent and it’s too much work to constantly be coming back home. Tells him that he knows about the brunette Muggle boy he had fucked back in August when he thought Remus was fibbing about his whereabouts and he lies  that it’s all right because he tells him that he’s been shagging a professor from Beauxbatons named Benjy for the past six months whenever he was sent to France under duress of Dumbledore. Even if the truth is that he refuted his every advance because his love for Sirius will always sing the loudest in his heart.

He sets the goodbye on the dresser that is only piled with Sirius’s things now, and doesn’t let himself sneak one last kiss while Sirius continues to doze. Tries to imprint the image of him— so gorgeous and so so human— in his mind’s eye, hopes he’ll recall the precise slope to the small of his back and the flyaway strands of his ink black hair and how he breathes in two beats longer with every third exhale. Knows that he’ll never memorize just how jutting his cheekbones really are, or how his lashes kiss the top of them with such grace that it’s close to angelic. And he’ll never again  feel the neediness Sirius could evoke with his fingers and tongue and cock, but maybe that’s all right. Maybe Remus got his time in the sun and now he has to repent for steeling that snatch of heaven for all these years.

Nothing could’ve kept the flame between them flickering for long, and that’s a truth Remus knows as inherently as his knowledge that Sirius was the great love of his life— But  Remus was always destined to either spare him or burn the golden tapestry that made up the picture of Sirius Black until it was nothing but ash.

So he leaves and he tells himself that it’s the right decision for both of them.

~My Wolfstar FIC Masterlist~