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palettepainter · 3 years

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**Might be obvious from the last drawing in this post but Winter is trans male in my NGAU. When I first saw Winters design I couldn't tell if they where a boy or girl, I eventually decided Winter was a guy, but I thought it'd be interested to write him as a trans male! This is my first time writing for a trans character, if anyone wants to offer tips so that I can write him more accurately in my AU please feel free to suggest tips! Also no hate please, if you've got hate for LGBTQ+ people you're not welcome on any of my social medias** Been in a big headcannon mood these last few days so I've just been spitting out headcannon ideas for the Zoophobia gang! Mostly headcannons for the actual Zoophobia characters, not my NG's, but we'll see if any new ideas for them come to mind Sum more stuff with the vampire sisters, this time with Pepper! And her boyfriend Winter -Pepper co runs a Species Appreciation Club alongside her sister Bambi, her older sister Fransesca and dear old dad are supporters (more info on that here). Pepper specializes in prompting the clubs message of all species acceptance and inter-species couples through the clubs social media. Very peppy and chipper to match with her rare color mutation, vampires are typical not so colorful. As well as working at the Species Acceptance center she also has a small part time job alongside her friend Summer at Camilla's dance studio, where she works on the weekends. -Pepper kinda never grew out of her obsessive boy phase, she's always been star struck at the idea of love. All vampires have a natural instinct to find a host for food, being blood, and thus most vampires often disguise themselves are regular creatures in order to get close to a selected victim. The instinct has since become less deadly and dangerous for Pepper and her sisters, but she still has a teenie obsession over boys. Peppers in the past has had a crush on Zill, Jackson, Tom and Taylor - all of which she wrote about dreamily in her diary, watched them from afar (not creepy at all Peppers) and may or may not have made teenie shrines for them each. Peppers think's she's very good at hiding her affections, but she's so obvious. Painfully obvious -Now onto Winter: Winter at birth was named North,born a feisty girl with determination bigger then most adults had. He was a lil snot. During her early teen years he was very withdrawn and unhappy and he never knew why, he became pretty boisterous, the confusion and unhappiness leading to him developing a snappy temper. With the support of close friends he'd made in sport class and his family he was able to come out as a trans male, and eventually had his top surgery. Winter knew Pepper back when he was still called North, he saw a lot of his sister Summer in Peppers so ended up becoming unconsciously closer to her. Peppers is chatty, and obnoxious and sometimes a bit of an airhead, but perhaps Winter didn't find her so annoying. When Winter came to the realization he was unhappy with his body and his gender, he ended up shyly opening up to Peppers - he still feared bringing up something so serious to his dad and siblings, and despite his tough hotshot character he put up, he really wanted to find a supportive friend in Peppers. He asks shyly if Peppers could refer to him by male pronouns, just to try it out. Peppers does so without further questions, her unquestioning support is a welcome wave of relief to Winter, who learns he can open up parts of himself to Pepper's he wouldn't show to his actual family. Eventually with Peppers support Winter opens up, and his family where very understanding. His dad was a little uncultured in the topic of trans gender, but read up on the topic and had many talks with Winter to make sure he understood everything. I love the idea of Pepper's being very eager to both help and learn from Winter's transitioning. Pride is non existent in traditional vampire clans, and Pepper's had always been interested in LQBTQ and all the stuff people would do to celebrate/support its members. She was the one who helped Winter pick out his new name It's during Winter's transitioning and after his top surgery do the two start to develop a crush on each other, Winter is still a hothead and so doesn't really know how to talk mushy stuff, thinking it's embarrassing. It didn't help that Pepper was so stupidly bad at hiding her crush on him, which made him just feel more awkward. Peppers in the end asked him out because he was too shy to make the first move, and after much stammering and flustered deer bleeting Winter agreed to go on a date. Peppers ended up treating him to a day out...at the spa. They had a face mask, massage, their hair done, got new clothes - Winter will never admit he felt very relaxed after the date, Peppers thought a day out at the spa would be a nice calm way to celebrate Winter's transitioning, knowing that Winter wasn't the biggest fan of parties she tried to keep it more chill These two give me Sandy and Danny vibes from Grease (Also it's not very clear in this but Peppers is a smidge bit taller then Winter) -During his transitioning Winter also received support from his close friend Orion, who he became competitive pals with back in ZP. Orion is so so proud of Winter, literally cried for Winter when he had his top surgery. Winter is endlessly embarrassed by his goof best friends fussing, but he appreciates the fact that Orion was happy for him. -Winter also works at the Species Acceptance Club, and is a fierce supporter for the acceptance of inter-species relationships and LGBTQ kids, Winter is actually very keen to educate confused kids about LGBTQ, since he knows personally what the feeling is like. He is fiercely supportive and protective of young kids that come to the center for advice, especially if the kids don't have anywhere to turn to. Winter may be brash but he can be calm when he needs to, he insists that those kids will always have a warm meal and support at the center (he will punch a person if they say something against LGBTQ if he is in ear shot, no hesitation-) DO NOT REPOST/EDIT/COPY/TRACE MY ART

#Zoophobia #Zoophobia NGAU #Headcannon #Winter #Pepper #Ships #My art #Palettes art

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kinetic-elaboration · 3 years

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100 Days of Writing: Day Sixty-Three

I decided to catch up on The 100 Days of Writing and then I... accidentally wrote a large number of words. In my defense, this is like 2 weeks’ worth of questions. Also I skipped the ones I didn’t have anything to say about so actually this could be worse.

(I’m not even kidding, this is really long. I talk about writing rituals, tools for plotting, my thoughts on opening with dialogue and why I don’t like it, my favorite topics, the weather, and what length of fic I like to write.)

I’m tagging, and apologizing to, @the-wip-project and fellow participants @she-who-the-river-could-not-hold, @thelittlefanpire, @hopskipaway, @easilydistractedbyfanfic, @dylanobrienisbatman, and @fontainebleau22.

Day 49: How do you get yourself in the mood to write? Do you have a ritual?

Every time I tell myself I’m going to get back into doing these questions, I see this one in my bookmarks and go nope! and turn around. It’s not a hard question; I’ve just been having trouble consistently getting into the mood to write, so I feel like any answer I try to give to it will be, in some sense, a lie. Like do I ever get “in the mood” to write? Really?? Also, I feel like I’m relying too much on ‘ritual,’ building up ‘the perfect writing situation’ in my head, which at the end of the day is less important than just saying ‘I’m going to do this now’ and then doing it.

I do have some things I always do when I sit down to a writing session. I write on my couch. Almost always (unless I’m on an event deadline where I just have to write in bits and pieces whenever possible), I write in sprints—I use write or die to keep me actually typing and not staring into space. I write in order, and I often write a whole scene at a time. So before I start I need to have at least a couple solid opening sentences in mind, plus some kind of idea about what happens/needs to happen in the scene. In order to get in the right headspace, I usually spend some time just thinking before I actually get to writing. I reread my outline or notes, and skim whatever I might have already written on the project. Sometimes I look at images that help me get in the right mood. Sometimes I just imagine or daydream for a bit. The difficulty, especially recently, is in making sure I do this just enough and not too much, because then I get too caught up in my head and I can no longer translate what I’m seeing into words.

In a broader sense, I also have a building up to writing ritual—again, I think this is part of my problem, that I don’t know how to balance this build up with actual writing. In the hours/days before writing something, I turn it over in my head a lot. I practice different versions of those critical opening sentences. I play it out like a fantasy just to see if there’s a possible flow, even if the final version is different. Basically, I try to turn it into something that just needs to be written, that just needs to get out. But again—this can lead to overthinking and frustration.

The best way I can describe writing for me is that, when it goes well, I find a rhythm, or enter into a zone, where I can describe the images in my head in a way that’s both accurate and pleasant to read. But entering that zone or finding that rhythm is like jumping into a game of jump rope. If you don’t do it right, you’re just going to trip over your feet and get tangled in the rope. But if you do it correctly, it’s fun and exhilarating and you can keep jumping for a long time. Sometimes it takes me some false starts to jump in. And recently I’ve been having days where I just can’t at all, where I tangle the rope up so much I can’t unknot it. Those are the days I just have the same sentences repeating over and over in my head, sounding wrong, and I can’t do anything about it. On the other hand, I write in much longer sprints than I did a couple years ago. I used to only write partial scenes, maybe a few hundred words. Now I can write whole scenes without stopping, and on a few occasions, I’ve written multiple scenes or even whole stories without stopping. So in other words, when it works, it really works. But it doesn’t always, and there’s not a lot of in between.

Day 50 What fic/story made you?

Um… honestly I’ve been writing, in general and fic specifically, for such a long time that I didn’t have a ‘maybe I can do this’ moment. I mean one problem I’ve never had is thinking I can’t do this. I had positive reinforcement for my school and academic writing, and for a long time my fictional stories were just for me, and I knew what I liked. Even just thinking about my fic writing… I’ve been posting fic online since 2006, and I’ve been in multiple fandoms. I don’t really have much connection to a lot of those early stories anymore. They feel like they were written by someone else, a little. I’ve also moved on from most of the fandoms I wrote for in my early fic days so I don’t feel like I can really judge them anymore.

That said… there is kinda an obvious answer for my Star Trek fic lol. I also have favorite stories, and stories that stick out even years after I wrote them, in all (or at least most) of the fandoms I’ve been in. But I’m not sure if that’s the same.

Also, I had two teachers who were really encouraging of me and who I still think about often. One was my seventh grade English teacher, who had us do a lot of writing exercises of various types, both large and small, including keeping writing journals we wrote in every day at the start of class. He once told my mom that I wrote well, not for a seventh grader, but in general, and to be honest I still think of that with some regularity and take a lot of pride and comfort in it. The other was my creative writing professor in college. I don’t think I did my best work for that class, but she was very encouraging and seemed to like what I did. At the end of the semester, as I was preparing my portfolio, she told me that if I didn’t want to do much editing, I didn’t have to, because my unedited work would stand on its own. Again, especially considering all the problems that I saw with my writing for that class even then, I really took that comment to heart. When I’m feeling very self-critical, I remind myself that even my raw scribblings have, perhaps, something to them, and it helps ease the excessive and unwarranted pressure I put on myself. These aren’t really stories about specific writing pieces that ‘made’ me but I do think they speak to that ‘maybe I can do this’ feeling.

Day 51: Do you use tools for plotting and what are they?

So, generally, no. Sometimes I’ll look at various writing/plotting/organizational tools as a method of distraction, but my actual process is very simple. I use plain old notebooks and pens, and word documents on my computer, to plan all my fics, from the one-shots to the multi-chapters. I start by writing down general thoughts and brainstorming, then I build a scene list and/or outline, and then, if necessary, I separate the scenes lists into chapters. Sometimes I break down the scenes even more, if I have additional ideas I don’t wan to forget or if I know I need to hit certain points in a specific scene. The process varies a little bit from project to project, but that’s basically all I do.

I did use Evernote to plan the (still unwritten….) Ark AU. I don’t know if that was the best program choice or if something else exists that would have more precisely met my needs. But that’s what I used and that’s how it is. It’s a little annoying that every time I open it, it’s been updated, and the interface looks totally different and I have to relearn where everything is. But the tagging system has worked decently to allow me to see the big picture of this complex, multi-strand, multi-character, multi-ship disaster epic of a story. I struggled to plot it for a long time because I didn’t know how to balance all of the different parts. In Evernote, I made one ‘note’ for each character, and one for each scene (in addition to miscellaneous notes about sub plots, relationships, questions, etc.). Then I tagged each of them, including tagging the scenes by chapter. So now I can look at a list of all the characters, or all the scenes, or all of the scenes in chapter 8, or whatever, but I can also look at just one particular note at a time, and not be distracted by anything else. That said, I do also have one note that is just a total scene list for the whole fic, which is pretty reminiscent of my usual outlining process.

So… somehow this helped me plot (tentatively) the whole thing, but as I’ve written almost none of it—I finished outlining this in February 2020 so in my defense… I think you can see why it stalled—I’m not yet sure if it was a successful experiment in a ‘plotting tool.’

Day 60: How do you start your chapters? Do you start with dialogue? Why or why not?

While I am definitely against prescriptive “writing rues” generally, as my own personal rule, I try not to start with dialogue unless I have a very good reason.

To be quite honest, I think it’s lazy. I do think that dialogue openings can be used well, if the writer acknowledges that they are intensely stylistic and, from a reader’s perspective, quite difficult. Even within fanfiction, where a line of dialogue (especially if accompanied by a dialogue tag or swiftly followed by a reference to the speaker) gives a lot more information to the reader than in original fiction, opening with dialogue still shoves the reader directly into the deep end of the scene, with very little to orient her. WHERE is the speaker? WHO is being addressed in the dialogue? WHAT is the context of the conversation? Who ELSE might be present in the scene?

There are reasons you might want to throw the reader in the aforementioned deep-end. Maybe it’s an in media res situation and you want to emphasize the overwhelming nature of the action—starting a scene with “Get down!” for example. Or maybe the overall mood is one of disorientation or floating or uncertainty, and you want to create the same effect in the reader.

But I think if you’re starting a scene with dialogue because that’s the first thing that comes to mind for you—the person who conveniently already has the setting, character list, and even future plot already in mind—and it’s just simplest and easiest to start that way, you’re doing a disservice to the reader.

For example, I actually am planning to start the next chapter of the Sleeping Beauty AU with dialogue. My POV character is in a room with multiple other characters, and she’s examining something meaningful to her and not fully listening to the conversation around her. So I want the dialogue to float around in the background, to feel unmoored, and to stand in contrast to the very precise, detailed thoughts and memories that she’s experiencing, which are grounded in physical sensations like touch.

I haven’t quite gotten it to work yet, though, in part because opening with dialogue and doing it well is, in my opinion, quite hard. The difficulty lies in alleviating the challenges the reader is experiencing and making the text fluid and easy to picture. You need to get all of that scene-setting information—the who, what, when, where, and why—in very quickly, but without being jarring. In this scene in particular, I have multiple characters, all in a comparatively unusual location, and I need to establish where they are, who exactly is there, how they’ve come to meet my POV character (which happens ‘off screen’ between the end of Ch5 and the beginning of Ch6), all on top of the character’s thoughts and feelings.

I know all of this very well. To picture the scene in my own head takes only a moment. I just think about it and I see all seven of the characters, where they’re sitting, how they’re positioned, what their facial expressions are, and I also know roughly what each of them is thinking and feeling. To describe all of this in words would take several sentences. Do I put all those sentences on the front end? Do I weave them in among other description and dialogue? Is all of it even necessary—maybe we don’t need to know who’s sitting in what order on the couch, for example.

I’ve gone over a couple of different ways to do this in my head, and I’m sure it is possible, but I’m struggling to get it all down in a coherent way. (Admittedly, I’ve only made one solid attempt. As I was describing above, I’m probably going to jump in with several false starts, and then it will suddenly click.)

My initial attempt to set up the scene relied heavily on dialogue, but when I read it over, what sounded snappy and interesting in my head just fell completely flat—because it lacked context and thus, any meaning. I think the gulf between how dialogue openings feel to the writer and how they feel to the reader is large. To the writer, they feel easy and natural. To the reader, they can feel forced and, contrary to the writer’s intention, serve as an additional reminder that this is a constructed narrative rather than an immersive experience—the opposite of natural. In other words, as I said, they’re a highly stylized form of writing.

To illustrate, this was my first try at the Chapter 6 intro:

"I still can't believe it," a lightly awed voice says from somewhere behind Clarke. "The Princess of Alpha Station really used to live in our quarters.”

She pictures Miller, sunk into the couch cushions, slowly shaking his head, the expression on his face equal parts satisfied and amused.

"Really? That's what you think is the oddest part of all this?"

"Yeah, Bry, I do. Would you prefer I gloat? About being right this whole time? Who says she's just a legend now?"

My current idea is to still start with dialogue, but to move back into a significant amount of description pretty immediately afterward, and only then add more dialogue. Even this is a little hazy, since I haven’t thought much about this fic in a while. But I do think it’s quite clear this won’t work.

As for how I DO start chapters/scenes/stories… I like to start with a strong image that sets the scene and mood of the story, and hopefully leaves the reader wanting to know more. Here are some examples of story openings I’ve written recently, which I like a lot:

When Bellamy is angered, deafening bouts of thunder shake the heavens.

The cawing of the crows—high, sharp, angry shots of sound. The buzzing of the telephone wires.

Marcus Kane's body shows up again in June, skeletal and rotting, six months after his disappearance at the turn of the year.

The sky has turned a bruised yellow, like the inside of a plum, by the time Bellamy starts seeing the robots in the fields.

At noon on the third-to-last day before Christmas, Murphy leaves the cafe, with a single peppermint mocha and a small paper bag, and heads right, walking parallel to the ocean.

The last one doesn’t seem as interesting but consider: you get the who, what, when, and where, the mystery of the paper bag and where he might be going, and also the immediate understanding that this is probably going to be a Fluffy Beach Christmas story—which is correct, that’s exactly what it is.

I’m not saying that I’m always creative or unique. I often start stories off with descriptions of the weather. And I have committed the ~~cardinal sin~~ of starting with a character waking up, heaven forbid. I don’t have any hard and fast rules for myself other than that I try to avoid dialogue, or at least, be careful about its use (another example: I use dialogue to start off Mad Women—but it reads like narration, until it’s rudely interrupted, a sort of in-joke/reference/twist). I try to match the mood of the story and, as I said, include something that will create a question for the reader, some version of why, that the rest of the story will answer.

Day 61: Do you describe the weather? Try changing a scene you wrote by adding weather effects.

After writing a book for the last question, here’s an easy one! Yes, I describe the weather. A lot. Often. In detail.

(Though if we’re talking about the Sleeping Beauty AU as my “current wip,” I actually don’t do much weather describing there, because 4 of the 6 chapters take place in a location with no weather.)

Day 62: What is your favorite thing to write about?

Honestly I like to write about people being dramatic about their emotions. That’s what I’ve discovered while writing my surprisingly self-indulgent Troped fic: I want to describe people acting as if Everything was the Most Ever. It’s fun. Part of this is getting into the usual romantic tropes—longing, pining, exaggerated touches and glances and the like—but why stop at romance when you also have stuff like The Weather and Random Feelings to contemplate?

I also like setting scenes that I find soothing, which is part of why I like Seasonal Stories.

Day 63: Are you more of a drabble/flash or a longfic/novel kind of writer?

I’m in the middle. I mostly write one-shots, and I’ve noticed that a lot of them fall in the 4-6k range. Long one-shots can get all the way to 10-12k but I feel like most of those are, semi-objectively speaking, too long, and would probably have been stronger if they were pruned down to 6k, or, better yet, never made it past 6k in the first place.

I have written some multi-chapters, or, uh, started multi-chapters, but I’m VERY bad at it. The only thing that makes me slightly less bad is being stubborn. Hence the existence of a WIP that I’ve had going for over 10 years now and refuse to call abandoned. Hence this year’s extended angst about the Sleeping Beauty AU, which is only 6 chapters but has taken me literally years to write. I don’t honestly know if I’ve ever finished a multi-chapter WIP, like, properly speaking. I’ve done some short multi-chapters that I wrote as if they were one-shots and then split up for ease of reading or, I dunno, just because. I wrote a Big Bang once, but it’s not very good. Nor very long, if I remember correctly. Generally speaking I probably shouldn’t be allowed to write novels lol—I have a lot of them in my ‘I should write this one day’ idea list—but as it so happens, no one can stop me, so here we are. I definitely have wild fantasies of writing multi-chapters with ease but I’m just a very slow writer and my ideas can’t keep up with my actual-writing. Thus one shots are much easier than multi-chaps, and one-shots on a deadline are much easier than ‘I’ll finish this whenever’ one-shots. One-shots written for events or exchanges also tend to be shorter (and, imo, better) because of the deadlines they’re written on, and are thus more likely to hit that sweet 4-6k spot than stories where I’m allowed to ramble at will.

All that said, I ALSO write a good number of drabbles/writing exercises. I used to write them more often than I do now, but still over the last five years I’ve produced 110,000+ words in free-standing scenes so like… that’s also a thing I guess.

#100 days of writing #my 100 days of writing #100daysofwriting

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floatingpetals · 4 years

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My Faire Lady || Ch. 1

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes (Renaissance Faire Au!)

Warnings: Nothin’

Word Count: 3300+

Summary: Going to a Renaissance Faire wasn’t what she had planned to do over the weekend, but a drunken promise between friends can’t be broken. Full of magic and festivities, she never thought she would enjoy the fair as much as she did. Nor did she ever dream she’d catch the eye of not one, but two gorgeous Knights of the Queen. Bestowed with their tokens of affection, she found herself swept into their arms for a weekend she’d never forget. She was under no illusion, there was no chance this could ever be more than a fantasy at the fair. They would move on, and so would she. It didn’t mean she wasn’t going to enjoy this while she could. (18+ Only Story)

A/N: The first part to I don’t know how many parts!!! I have this whole story planned, fortunately, but as you can tell from the very first chapters word count, it’s gonna be another long one lol. I’m super excited about this story! I hope you all enjoy, please please please reblog and comment! Thank you and enjoy!!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 *Coming Soon* | Series Masterlist

“Oh come on!”

Y/N rolled her eyes at the whine from her couch and ignored her friend. She leaned closer to her computer and tried to focus on the editing at hand. She needed to get these pictures finished so she could send them to the publisher for print. She didn’t have time for Coby’s whining.

“Pleaassseeeee?” Coby threw her head back against the pillows and let out her loudest and most obnoxious whine ever.

Y/N scoffed and shook her head.

“I told you no!”

“But you have to come!’ Coby whined again. She sat up and twisted around on the couch, hanging over the edge. “You promised!”

“I didn’t promise you anything!” Y/N argued, straightening her back to turn and glare at Coby. She wasn’t dumb enough to ever promise anything to her friend. No matter how much she might love her best friend of ten years, Coby fought dirty to get her way. Y/N learned from her mistakes and swore to never do it again.

However, when she turned to glare over her shoulder, she stopped short at the wicked grin on Coby’s face. Her blood drained from her cheeks, fear coursing through her veins. Oh no.

“Oh but you did, dear lady friend,” Coby replied with a diabolical sneer. She pulled out her phone and unlocked it, tapping away a few times before the sound of Y/N and her whispering filled the room. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Oh no. How did she forget about that night?

“Oh god,” The recording of Y/N groaned. There was a slight slur to her words from the drinks she’d gone through already. “It’s Tim. Please dear god don’t come over, don’t come over, don’t come over-Oh no he’s coming over.”

Coby laughed, then the sound of shuffling and Y/N’s voice groaned again.

“Coby, please. Do something!”

“What do you want me to do?” Coby stifled a laugh.

“I don’t know! Get rid of him!”

“And what do I get out of it?” Coby inquired. At the time, Y/N didn’t catch the underlying treachery in Coby’s voice, but now she heard it loud and clear. She was really hating past drunk her right now.

“I don’t- Jesus. I don’t care! Anything you ask-just please get rid of him!”

“Anything? You promise?” Coby drawled. Y/N on the recording grumbled in response.

“Yeah, yeah, I promise. Just get rid of him! I’m not spending another night listening to him gloat about his big his dick is again.”

“He doesn’t do that.”

“Bragging about your daddies company you did shit to earn when the man retired is the same god damn thing. Coby!” Y/N hissed the panic mounting. Coby laughed and she could hear her friend begin to stand.

“Alright, I’ll get rid of him. But you better be ready to keep that promise.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Coby!”

The audio shutoff and silence rang through the room. Coby smirked triumphantly and tucked her phone away in her pocket with an extra flourish. Y/N’s mouth fell open, mentally running through the number of ways she could get out this. Yet at every corner she took, she hit dead ends. Now she was backed against the wall and there was no knight in shining armor to come save her. Coby clapped her hands together, that wicked smile back as she pinned Y/N with a stare.

“You’re coming with me this weekend. And that’s final.”

Y/N gulped. She was never drinking again. True, she was not a fan Tim but she wasn’t that desperate to sign her life away to the devil’s incarnate. This was going to be another plane jump trip, wasn’t it? Coby saw the way Y/N blanched at the prospect she was going to be dragged someplace to do something dangerous once again and snickered.

“You can stop freaking out.” Coby snorted. “I don’t have plans to go shark diving until the summer. I got plenty of time to get you to come then.”

“The fuck you will!” Y/N’s eyes bulged in their sockets. Coby threw her head back and cackled at the horror in Y/N’s eyes.

“Oh stop, you know you’d have fun. But seriously. This isn’t like that.” Coby waved her hand. “I want you to come with me to the Renesaasnce festival this weekend.”

“Uh-huh….” Y/N squinted, her heart still racing at the threat of swimming with the sharks. This, however, wasn’t as scary as that venture but still not any less comforting. There had to be a catch. “That’s too easy for you.”

“Well, of course, it is,” Coby smirked. “I don’t always want to get my heart pumping every chance I get. I do enjoy the simple things.”

“You’re not simple.” Y/N interjected flatly. “You’re the furthest thing from a simple person.”

“Shush.” Coby waved her off. “Anyways. Like I was saying, I want you to come with me this weekend to the Renaissance Faire. Josie’s mom got sick and she needs to help take care of her, so I have one free ticket for the weekend with a meal plan and a free beer in the beer garden each night. I know you’ve been working nonstop with the magazine and even if it’s just a weekend, you need a break.”

Y/N blinked, actually amazed. For once Coby wasn’t using this as a means to see how far she can push Y/N out of her comfort zone, but instead wanted to help? What the heck happened to Coby and where did they take her friend?

“Don’t look at me like that.” Coby bristled at the alarmed expression on Y/N’s face. “You’re coming. That’s that.”

“Really?” Y/N raised a brow. “You aren’t going to make stand up against a wall and let people throw knives around me? Or shoot arrows at an apple on my head?”

“I never said that wasn’t a possibility. Is it so wrong to want to spend the weekend with my best friends?” Coby shot back. Y/N was taken aback at the hurt in Coby’s tone, but also could smell the catch quickly creeping up on her.

“You keep saying the weekend.” Y/N uttered slowly. “What do you mean by ‘weekend’ Coby?”

“Oh right, that. The tickets include access to the campground.” Coby smiled innocently. “And I already have our tents for us.”

“Wait. What?” Y/N asked in disbelief. “Coby I’m not sleeping in a tent for a weekend at the fair!”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. They have showers and bathrooms, so running waters no problem. And besides, the closest hotel is almost an hour away and I do not want to waste time sitting in traffic trying to get in place.”

“I’m not-.”

“Or if you want,” Coby examined her fingernails, picking at the cuticles. “You can say no and I use the promise for the sharks.”

Y/N’s mouth snapped shut at that. Coby knew she had her when she looked back up, that stupid smirk on her face.

“Best get packin’ sweetheart. Cause you and I both know this is the lesser of two evils.”

Y/N let out a hot breath of air, her shoulders sagging in defeat. Coby was once again playing dirty. She didn’t have to do the pros and cons list. Sucking it up and going on this weekend trip would be a thousand times more enjoyable than being forced to go in a cage in the middle of the ocean. And Coby knew it.

“Fine. What time do we leave?”

“Oh, this is gonna be so much fun!” Coby slammed the trunk shut and bent to grab her bags and her tent bag. Y/N grumbled next to her, holding her own bags, tent, and camera case. “Oh quit whining. This’ll be great.”

Y/N just rolled her eyes and followed her friend to the entrance. The fair wasn’t open for another hour, Coby insisted on leaving at the butt crack of dawn to get here. While the two-hour drive up was rather uneventful it wasn’t until they reached the turn for the road that led to the fair where Y/N understood why Coby was so adamant about the time the left. The cars were backed up all the way to interstate and they were forced to sit for what felt like hours just to get in the parking lot. She wouldn’t admit it to Coby, but the idea of staying on-site and avoiding that whole mind-numbing ordeal was sounding a lot more appealing than the alternative.

Even though this wasn’t exactly her plan for her weekend, Y/N was ready to make the most of it. Once she got some caffeine in her. Coby chatted about everything they had here, from the food to the archery lessons, to the different shows throughout the fair. Not to mentions the shops that Y/N was itching to get a look at. Most, if not all the buildings were built as if they were taken straight from a fairy tale book and had Y/N excited to snap a few photos of. Perhaps she could even get a few people to pose for photos in front of them.

“Why don’t we go set up our tents and put our stuff up, by then the gates should be open and hopefully the line will have died down some.” Coby interrupted, eyeing the mass of people stating at the entrance. Y/N hummed and nodded, following her friend as she led her to the other entrance.

Y/N couldn’t tear her eyes away from all the people dressed up. There were plenty of other sprinkled in there that wore regular everyday clothes, no doubt just wanting to enjoy the fair, but then there were those that wanted to fully immerse themselves. Men, women, and even their children were dressed head to toe in loosely accurate portrayals of medieval outfits. Men wore puffy shirts and leather vest tucked in their dark cotton pants with leather boots. Some women sported similar outfits while others wore dresses and corsets that did little to the imagination. Some were dressed as characters from Lord of the Rings, there were even pirates, fairies, and elves. At one point, she swore she spotted a few Tieflings from Dungeons and Dragons, their faces painted with horns to match. There was so much going on and she was finding it hard to focus on where she was going. The atmosphere was bubbling with excitement and Y/N felt a smile stretching across her face.

Coby had to reach around and tug Y/N’s arm to face her forward when the other woman started to drift, the corner of her mouth turned up into a smirk.

“I swear you’re like a child.” Coby joked. Y/N scoffed and stuck her tongue out.

“Oh shush. I can’t admire their confidence?”

“Mhm,” Coby smirked her wicked smirk and led them through the campground gate after flashing a ticket to the attendant there.

“Okay, so we’re in section V, plot 15 and 16.” Coby stopped at a map right at the entrance, showing the rows of campsites in the gated off area. There were already several dozen tents up with a few dozen more that were being pitched as the stood there. Y/N was surprised how large the field was, and how organized it seemed. She could see the markers in the rows with the letter down a middle path. “Ah, there we are, towards the back! Ohhh we’re next to the worker's sites too!”

“Is that bad?” Y/N frowned.

“Nope, it means we might get lucky and they’ll hook us up with some free food and beer if we’re nice.”

Y/N snorted and rolled her eyes at Coby.

“Come on,” Coby resituated her bag on her shoulder. “Let’s get this set up and then we can go in. I don't’ wanna deal with it later after we’ve been in the sun all day.”

Y/N followed Coby, still marveling at the number of people around her getting ready in their costumes, most adding the final touches. The closer they got their spot, the more she saw of the costume. It made sense, if the workers were right next to them then they see a lot of them. She was a little envious of their tents, tall pavilion, and marquee tents made of thicker material than her camping tent, some stripped or decorated with symbols like the ones she’d seen in movies. Clearly, they wanted the workers to look the part, even at night away from the crowds.

Coby eventually stopped at two empty spots and tossed her stuff on the ground a motioned to the plot next to her, clearly marked with the number 16.

“That’ll be yours. There should be instructions in the bag.” Coby started unpacking hers and paused to look up at Y/N. “ Need help with your tent? ”

“Nah,” Y/N shook her head. “I’ll figure it out.”

Coby snorted. “Alright, but don’t come crying to me when your tent becomes a kite cause you forgot to stake it to the ground.”

Y/N just rolled her eyes again and went to work. After twenty minutes of wondering what the heck the instructions meant by attaching J to H, Y/N set up her tent, a round top with plenty of space for at least three other people, and secured it to the ground.

“Remind me again why we can’t just share tents?” Y/N asked, standing outside both her and Coby’s tent with her hands on her hips. Coby shot her look that told her everything she needed to know. “Oh for the- why did you get me a plot further away from you? I don’t have to hear that!”

“I’m not saying it’ll happen!” Coby chuckled and ducked in her tent. “But I’m not passing on an opportunity if it arrives!”

“It’s one weekend! You can’t last one weekend without a booty call?” Y/N groaned. When Coby didn’t reply she crawled into the ten to see what her friend was doing. Coby was bend over her bag, the second one that Y/N thought was odd she brought and was pulling out a few folded pieces of fabric.

“What are those?” Y/N eyed the garments nervously. Coby paid her no mind and continued pulling things out. She set a dark leather corset aside along with matching lace-up boots. “Coby. What are those?”

Slowly, Coby turned to Y/N with her wicked smirk.

“Why our outfits, my dear friend.” She replied ominously.

“What? I’m not wearing that!” Y/N sat back on her heels.

“Yes, you are,” Coby replied with a no-nonsense tone. Y/N blinked.

“Um. No?”

Before she could argue further, Coby spun on her heels from her squat position and pinned Y/N with her stare.

“You promised.”

“Yeah but not this!”

“It’s apart of the promise! We’re here, we’re gonna enjoy this weekend and we’re gonna be part of the fun. That means dressing the part. Do you really want to spend all weekend complaining cause I’m making you wear this?”

“I’m not going to feel comfortable in a dress!” Y/N tried. Which wasn’t completely false, but she really didn’t want to get all dressed up in a tight corset that she’d be sweating in later. It was already warm as it was in the tent, just imagining the leather boots and leather-wrapped around her waist made her overheat. And the chaffing, she didn’t want to think about the chaffing. Coby raised a brow, see right through that feeble attempt at arguing, and sat back as well.

“Two words. Shark. Cage.”

Y/N opened her mouth, but the protest died before she could even start. Once again, Coby had her there. She let out a grumble and stuck out her hand, a sign of defeat. Coby nodded with a smug smirk and handed her the pile of clothes and a pair of brown lace-up boots from her bag. Y/N noticed there was just a brown belt instead of the corset Coby seemed to have.

“Now go change and I can make sure you put it on right.”

“Yes, mom.” Y/N grumbled and crawled out to go to her tent. When she zipped her tent up behind her and unfolded the clothes, she was rather surprised by the dress. It was a heavy cotton dyed robin egg blue with a fitted bodice that flowed out at the waist. It was relatively simple, it didn’t have an intricate pattern save for the embroidery on the collar. The front was laced up with brown leather string, and the sleeves appeared to be detachable from the dress, the same brown laces trying the fabric together. There was an off-white long sleeve slip made of a lighter material she figured would go underneath the dress to hide her skin exposed from the where it peaked out from the lace. The belt itself was just a simple brown leather belt with a ring loop. Surprisingly simple and something Y/N actually wouldn’t mind wearing. Of course, Coby would have thought this through. Now she felt bad arguing, Coby might enjoy terrorizing her from time to time, but she wasn’t heartless.

Letting out a heavy breath, Y/N began to undress and slipped the costume on. She was surprised how it fit her body, hugging her frame in a way that flattered her more than she could have expected. The dress did flow out, not too long that she was worried she’d step on it when she stepped and let enough air up the skirt to keep her cool. She did have to re-tie the lace on the front to the right adjustment for herself, but all in all, it didn’t feel horrible to wear. Coby knew her size, so this shouldn’t have come as a surprise. How long had this woman been planning this?

She was sitting on the ground tying up the laces to her boots when Coby unzipped the tent and stepped in. She had changed into her own dress, and Y/N felt infinitely better with the dress she was given. Coby the ever daring had a dark red skirt with a black puffy off the shoulder top. Her black corset was tied as tight as it could go, and her already full chest was practically spilling out the top. She had pulled her hair back into a pretty braid that fell over her shoulder and even had on a pair of hoop earrings. Now Y/N really understood the reason for the two tents and wondered if she could possibly find some earplugs somewhere.

“Oh good! It fits! I knew you’d want something simple and I guessed on the height, so I’m glad I got it right.” Coby beamed and set a brown leather bag beside Y/N. “Here, use this to carry your stuff in. We can’t have you walking around in the dress and then ruin it with your everyday purse.”

Y/N didn’t even argue this time, just took the bag, and tossed her stuff from her purse into the back. It was unassuming, just like her dress but fit the style and timeline she was trying to go for. It was also big enough she could slip her camera inside if she took the lens off.

“Alright. So the gates should be open, but I was talking with one of the workers and they said we can come in the employee gate since the lines so long.”

It never ceased to amaze Y/N how Coby could just do things like that. She could charm just about anyone into doing what she wanted with a smile. A part of Y/N was always a little envious of how Coby had little to no fear when it came to meeting new people. Y/N wasn’t shy exactly, but her anxiety and passed relationship troubles always reared their ugly heads and made it harder for her to open up. She just wasn’t as naturally charismatic as Coby and was perfectly fine admitting she never would be.

“I want to grab something to eat first since all we had was those breakfast burritos on the way up here. Then I wanna go-.” Coby climbed out of the tent and started listing off all the things she had planned, the woman going a mile a minute. Y/N was just here for the ride. Stepping out and zipping up her tent, Y/N followed her friend and smiled along with Coby, her friend's excitement contagious. Even though she was nervous about the dress and everything, Y/N was still excited for whatever the weekend had in store.

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idontknowwhatyoumean · 4 years

Text

lbotw countdown day 1

@lbotw-countdown-event

I’m very late but oh well. Thanks for organising this event!

22 August 2020

Prompt: Bromance

Summary: Alec and Lily in a Coffee Shop!AU

—

Quote that this prompt reminded me of:

“Sleep, Lily,” Alec said, gently. “I’ll watch the doors.”

—

It was early in the morning and already the coffee shop was filling with rather quickly with disgruntled businessmen and bleary-eyed college students all waiting in line for their daily shot of caffeine. It was Alec and Lily’s shift, as it was most early mornings and late evenings, and Lily manned the cash register as Alec brewed the drinks.

They were an efficient team, and morning rushes weren’t too much of a problem for them; Lily was a had been working at the cafe for a rather long time and Alec was particularly good with remembering the drinks and making them quickly and accurately. They had the same shifts for a while now, after they had managed to get past the initial awkwardness and frostiness that came with not understanding the other’s particular brand of humour and contrary personalities. Lily was playful and cheeky, but she could also be serious and earnest, and sometimes she was both; Alec hadn’t been able to figure out when she was what for the longest and that threw him for a loop. Alec, on the other hand, had amused Lily to no end with his socially awkward nature the first time they met and it was only after witnessing his blunt tendencies that she began to respect him as well.

And now, well, now they were pretty good friends. Really good friends, if Alec was being honest with himself.

“Hey, Alec!” She called out, and Alec could already hear the mischief in her voice. “One order of pure black with a dollop of annoying blond and on the side!”

Translation: Jace and Clary were here. And probably Izzy and Simon too. Alec suppressed a groan as he completed the last few of his orders and peeked round the counter to see the line. Unfortunately, the early morning horde had thinned out and there were only one or two regulars in the shop. He could spot his siblings crowding up the front of the counter, no one else behind them. Surprisingly, he couldn’t see Simon, his sister’s boyfriend.

After confirming his fears, he dipped back behind the row of large coffee machines, hurrying to escape his siblings. He loved them, truly, and was grateful for their presence in his life. Except during his work shifts. Somehow, his and Izzy’s constant presence and teasing of Jace during his work shifts at the art supply store next to Garroway Books during Alec’s Junior year of high school had backfired on him. Upon Jace’s quitting of his part time job at the art supplies store (thanks in part to him and Clary starting to date and the large number of new workers and customers Jace had managed to attract during his tenure as art supplies salesperson) and Alec’s employment at the coffee shop to pay his share of the bills, Alec and Izzy’s tradition had evolved into Jace and Izzy’s tradition of disrupting another sibling at his place of work.

The payback was not fun.

“Hey Alec!” Jace hooted at him from beyond the counter. “Oh, come on. Izzy, can you believe this guy?”

Alec tuned out his sister’s response as hands even moved quicker than normal to brew Clary’s favourite daily beverage. He could already feel the tips of his ears flushing red and cursed how the empty the coffee shop was at the moment. His siblings, no matter how cheeky and disruptive they could be, normally toned down their teasing and loudness when there were more people. Alec would gladly take on twelve more elaborate six word coffee orders if it meant not dealing with the teasing.

“You’re so dramatic,” Lily laughed at him as she came up to him, eyeing the takeaway cup of coffee in his hands. “And here I thought that was Magnus’ thing.”

Alec wordlessly passed her the cup, only to be dragged by her out to the front.

“Here you go,” Lily smirked down at Clary, who looked a little embarrassed at Jace and Izzy’s antics.

She grinned up at both her and Alec. “Ahhh coffee, my love. Thanks, guys.” She then leaned forward towards Alec in an exaggerated whisper, “I’m sorry about these guys. They overheard Simon apologising about not being able to meet for coffee and decided it was only their duty to accompany me instead.”

“And where is Simon?”

“Oh, he has an early meeting with his band.”

“And how nice of you to join us, big brother,” Izzy said, her arm propped up on the counter and giving Alec the most innocent gaze that Alec definitely didn’t believe.

“Or rather, how nice of Lily to bring you out here,” Jace cut in. “Is your brain getting stale from all the caffein you’ve been inhaling all day?”

Alec rolled his eyes at them. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“Payback, brother mine,” Jace grinned at him and Izzy laughed.

“Just wait til you get a job, Iz,” Alec muttered.

“Oh thanks for the concern, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure to get some part time work at an office or somewhere. You might let your guard down in an obscure art supply store, Alec, but I know you wouldn’t do anything if I worked somewhere else. Jace was just unlucky.”

Alec didn’t really have anything to say to that. “Okay, okay, now that you’ve had your share of fun embarrassing me at my place of work, why don’t you go run off now — ”

“No way, don’t make them go! This is too much fun!” Maia, one of the few regulars still in the coffee shop, chimed in. She lifted her large cup to her lips to hide her smile at Alec’s subsequent glare.

“Don’t you guys have school or something?” Alec pleaded, casting a glance at Clary.

“Yes, yes we do,” she said, hooking an arm around Jace’s and leading them out the store. “Come on guys, we can come see him again next week or something.”

—

“Thank the angel,” Alec muttered as he retreated sulkily back behind the coffee machines. Lily followed him and Alec turned an eye on her. “And I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t help much either.”

“Of course,” she said breezily. “Why would I turn down such prime entertainment for no good reason? Oh don’t look at me with those disappointed blue eyes.”

Alec turned away from her just as the front door opened with a ding and Lily left to tend to the order. From what he could hear of her sultry “Well, hello”, he could deduce that the customer was hot. From her next “well of course, we can help you with that, you delicious peanut-butter-and-Jem sandwich”, Alec knew who it was and what his order would be.

Alec took several steps towards the cash register and was right. Jem Carstairs was standing at the counter, waiting patiently for Lily to package up two boxes. Will Herondale (Jem’s best friend? boyfriend? Alec was kind of unclear) was waiting behind him.

“Hello, Alec,” Jem greeted politely. “How have you been? How’s Magnus?”

Alec had heard of Jem and Will, and their friend (girlfriend? Alec was also unclear) Tessa, though he didn’t know any of them them well. They had been in the year above him at school, a close, exclusive group, and Alec wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. And there was also the fact that Alec and Izzy had almost gotten into a fight with Will back at the start of middle school when Jace had been adopted by the Lightwoods instead of moving in with his aunt and uncle and cousin Will. It had been complicated back then.

“Hi, Jem, Will,” Alec greeted back. “I’ve been fine. And Magnus is as magnificent as ever.”

Jem and Will traded secret grins at that, accompanied by a teasing (or at least, Alec hoped it was teasing) eye roll from Will who commented, “Oh, I’m sure he would love to hear that.”

“Ah, here you go with your snacks, Brother Snackariah.” Lily had packaged the two boxes into a bag and was holding it out for Jem. He took it was a smile, thanked her and left the the cafe.

“Ah yes the diamond Jem Come-and-stare never fails to disappointed,” Lily sighed.

“He’s nice,” Alec agreed mildly.

“Oh, I forgot,” Lily complained. “You’re with Monogamous Bane. Boring.”

Alec laughed at her expression. It had been things like this — Lily’s deadpan, serious teasing — that had been difficult for Alec to tell whether she meant it as an insult or a joke that had initially roused so much defensiveness from him. Not to mention that he had met her as a friend of Magnus’ even before they started working together and she and her group of friends had all teased Alec the same way, which Alec had definitely not appreciated.

“Oh,” Lily blinked up at the cafe clock. “It’s almost ten. Well, you have to get going to class. Unless… you want to spend the rest of the day with the amazing me?”

Alec shook his head and suppressed a grin (Lily shouldn’t be encouraged). “See you later, Lily.”

“Oh, boring.”

—

It was raining lightly when Alec came in for his evening shift. He didn’t have an umbrella with him and so had to brave the storm with only his backpack and was incredibly thankful that he hadn’t needed his laptop that day.

Lily gave him and his damp clothes a raised eyebrow as she drawled out a greeting over the counter. “Had a little date with the rain, Lightwood? Tsk tsk, I know a little someone who would be incredibly jealous someone else got to tousle those ‘silky smooth’ locks of yours.” She gestured to the

“Hello to you too, Lily,” Alec said. “Do we have any spare towels?”

“In the back.”

Alec stepped into the backroom, dumping his bag by the door and grabbing one of the towels to dry off. By the end, his hair was fluffed up by the towel, sticking up and in a general mess. Alec attempted to flatten it down to its usual state, to no avail, and he quietly resigned himself to his fate, reaching over to take his staff apron and putting it on.

When he came out the backroom, he was greeted by Lily’s peals of laughter.

“Oh, Alec,” she grinned. “Your hair.”

“Yes, yes, I get it,” Alec grumbled, taking refuge at his usual spot. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

She shook her head. “Wow, aren’t you lucky your siblings aren’t here right now.”

That thought was just dreadful and he groaned.

“Don’t worry, they aren’t,” she told him. “And get moving. You’re just in time for an order of sugar-free vanilla latte with two shots of expresso.”

And Alec was whisked into the normal bustle of the shop’s evening fans. The coffee shop didn’t serve any heavy food or drinks, only a few cakes and pies, so it wasn’t as popular at that time of day when most people were looking to get dinner. Unless your dinner was cake.

“Don’t look now, Alec,” Lily called. “But there’s a special someone here to see you.”

Alec knew that tone.

He took the few steps that separated him from Lily’s place at the cashier and his heart gave an absolutely embarrassing start at the sight of bright eyes and a loving smile. Unbidden, his own lips lifted into what he was sure was a sappy smile as well.

“Well, Magnus,” Lily grinned. “What would you like to order?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Magnus said flippantly. “Maybe a mocha. Maybe a surprise. Oh, but definitely that hottie standing next to you.” And he dropped Alec is glittery wink.

Alec could definitely feel his face heating up a little — even after two years, he wasn’t quite used to Magnus’ flirtations — and the heat worsened at the sound of Lily’s reply of “oh, we can definitely do that.”

“Lily!” Alec noticed, for the first time, the small group of people standing behind Magnus. Raphael Santiago, Lily’s closest friend, somehow managed to look appalled whilst sporting a grumpy scowl. “We do not encourage Bane’s disasters.”

“Oh, then I suppose we can’t help you, Magnus,” Lily told him serenely. “I suppose you’ll have to find your own way to wooing Alec here.”

“Lily,” Alec chided, exasperated.

“Yeah, let’s move on so the rest of us can get an order,” Ragnor complained from his spot at the back of the group, next to Catarina who just smiled indulgently.

“Well, why don’t you surprise me with a drink, Alec?” Magnus smiled at him.

“Leave it to me.”

Truth be told, Magnus was a total coffee snob. He could be very picky about his coffee and usual only drank from the most artisanal of coffee places. He mostly only stepped foot in a regular coffee shop when he was either meeting friends, or wanted to see Alec.

“There’s that sappy smile of yours,” Lily commented, sidling up to him, a sticky note in her hand. “Here are the rest of the orders. I’ll handle Raphael’s.”

Raphael was kind of difficult to please. Alec knew, more or less, how to deal with him in person, but his coffee order was something he didn’t have much confidence in. Ragnor and Catarina, on the other hand, had extremely simple order (plain and strong tea and coffee respectively).

They worked silently together, experienced hands moving quickly through the motions, and Alec felt happy.

#lbotwcountdown #yes the ending is really lousy #I'm not good at endings #or writing in general #but it's fun when it isn't driving me mad :D #not beta'ed #malec

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charmingturkeysandwich · 5 years

Text

fireworks (that went off too soon)

Hey there! This is a CS one shot. An AU in which Killian is the lead singer and songwriter in a band that sounds suspiciously like Fall Out Boy...

Summary: Emma and Killian were friends in college, but haven’t spoken in 9 years. Killian’s band’s new single changes everything.

Words: 4400ish

Rating: Teen? (Swearing, References to Sex)

Also on AO3

Big thanks to @awkwardnessandbaseball for reading this over, correcting all my dumbass mistakes, and helping me polish this up pretty :) (The title comes from my favorite Fall Out Boy song, Fourth of July. It’s heavily featured in the story sung by Killian’s band.)

---

It was 3pm on Friday the 13th – also a Full Moon – when Emma Swan finally had the meltdown she’d pressed “pause” on about nine years earlier.

(Nine years, three months, more accurately, but who was counting?)

The work week was winding down. The get this done today or be fired tasks had been completed and all the emails had been answered and it was about time to start doing the bare minimum to run down the clock to 5:01 when she could, without regret, run screaming from the building and put her god forsaken job out of her mind for two days of rest, relaxation, and rum.

(Definitely the rum. Or maybe it had been upgraded to a tequila weekend.)

It was Pandora’s fault, really. (A fitting name for opening up an emotional box inside her soul that had been sealed for quite a long time and with very good fucking reason.)

Usually Emma listened to wordless music – movie scores, Vitamin String Quartet and the like – so as to keep the creative juices flowing without breaking her train of concentration. But having reached the procrastination part of the afternoon, she thought, what harm could there be in listening to a little regular music?

Emma had always had a soft spot for pop/punk/emo music. It brought her joy even when it wasn’t joyful, which is either a sentiment only shared by lonely foster girls or perhaps all emo kids, but did it matter? It was her kind of music. Long before she met Killian Jones.

But then she met him. He was an insufferable ass at least 2/3 of the time, but for the other third of his life, he was sweet, funny, and musically a goddamn genius. His voice was smooth and warm, he could play guitar like it was in his DNA, and his lyrics were both relatable and completely original. She was half in love from the start, so of course she pushed him as far away as possible.

(Love is patient; love is kind. Love is slowly losing my mind)

He was aloof. At best. They were college kids who shared a dorm building and not much else, not until their roommates fell in love with each other. That’s around the time they started spending an inordinate amount of time together. He was fucking anything with brown eyes and tits and she absolutely did not care and everything was fine. They were friends, kind of. She was a fan of his band, but not in the groupie way. She had no intention of being just a notch in his bedpost or a line in his song.

(As it turned out, she ended up becoming both. Eventually.)

When he wasn’t playing shows in dive bars (or fucking freshmen girls in a shower stall of their dorm hall’s shared bathroom), he spent a lot of time in Emma’s room. Mostly to avoid Mary Margaret and David in his room who were, as he called it, “the most sickly sweet love story this side of the Atlantic” and “a complete buzzkill to complex song-writing.” And she was OK with it. She loved when he would compose while she read. And they had the best conversations. They challenged each other on everything from politics to pie flavors and she’d never been so stimulated by someone of the opposite sex in her life.

Intellectually stimulated. In the brain.

By junior year, the two pairs of roommates had moved off-campus, opting to share a three bedroom house while they finished up school. Killian’s band was starting to actually make something of themselves, but he vowed to get his degree (this pretty face won’t last forever), and Emma played tutor for him when he skipped class for weeks on end so he could play some gigs on the west coast.

They were friends. They were equals. They meant so much more to each other than “just” friends or study buddies or housemates or anything, because the past three years had been the most stable years in either of their lives and it was all because of the support they received from each other in the darkest nights and the brightest days and seriously.

Fuck Pandora.

It had distracted her when she was in the middle of perfectly pleasant procrastinating. Now she was getting off track. Frazzled. Fucking pissed.

With her work mostly finished, she had decided to listen to Panic! At the Disco’s station. It was a safe zone – the best of two different genres: emo and pop. She bopped along to Blink 182 and “the Ballad of Mona Lisa.” She swayed and swooned a little when “Secrets” by One Republic played. And she got a good laugh at “I’m Not OK (I Promise),” remembering the days she’d scream “I’m not o-fucking kay! [trust me]” every time she got into a fight with the foster mother she now loved so very much.

But then there was a dramatic twist and a cinematic sweep and that voice and before she could switch the station, some warning popped up at her, removing all the buttons and controls and displaying the error message of SOMETHING WENT WRONG and all she could think was no shit, Sherlock.

Killian’s band got big when they were 21. And stayed big. The band broke up once, briefly, but they’d been dancing around the American Top 40 for at least 6 of the last 9 years and as much as it hurt her to hear his voice through a radio and not through a wall of their shared house, at least the lyrics of the songs never stung her before.

Because they’d never been about her before.

It was the summer before senior year, late that June, and Killian had just returned from a little pop-punk festival in Seattle. She’d picked him up at the airport in Portland (Maine) and had been chatting his ear off about how much better “our” Portland was from “theirs” (Oregon), but Killian had been largely silent.

Which was out of character to the extreme, his little creative writing/song composer mind always racing and his far too pleasing voice always spilling from his stupidly attractive lips.

“What is up with you, Jones? I just said that they have better lobster in Oregon and you didn’t even react.”

From the passenger seat, he played with the window controller, the air whooshing in and stopping to the rhythm of Seven Nation Army AKA the world’s most overplayed song that wasn’t sung by Ed Sheeran or Taylor Swift.

“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing, Swan. A problem for a different day, to be sure.”

His voice had been quiet, unsure. That wasn’t him either. This was the asshole who could start a trend with a typo and who claimed to have made a girl come with nothing but his voice. His level of confidence was infuriating, but unshakeable.

(He made forgetting the words to his own songs look attractive. And that was an eventual Buzzfeed headline, not Emma’s own assessment. Obviously.)

“Killian, what’s up? Did the festival not go as well as you wanted? From what I saw on YouTube, it seemed awfully successful.”

“Aye, love.” He perked up just a bit, finally turning toward her and smiling. “It was grand.”

“And you’re brooding because, what, you’re worried that feeling happy for too long will sap you of your emo energy or something?”

Her attempt to lighten the mood didn’t seem to take, though, and Killian turned back out the window like he was practicing for his very own music video.

When they got back to their house, Emma grabbed his clothes and Killian lugged the musical equipment and neither of them said a word.

Fog had rolled in, or maybe it was on its way out, and if it weren’t for the green leaves, it might have felt like October. But there was something about his expression that was a hell of a lot more December. Something ending.

They were lingering almost awkwardly in their kitchen, Emma trying to casually wrack her brain for how to pull Killian out of his little funk, when he interrupted her with an overdramatic clearing of his throat.

“Ahem! Fancy a drink, Swan?” Killian extended a shot glass to her, a dark liquid inside that couldn’t be anything but spiced rum.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked hesitantly.

“Perhaps… perhaps it’s a celebration.”

“…of?”

“Your business sense, of course!” He lifted his glass toward hers for a clink and then downed the shot faster than she could even raise hers to her lips.

“What kind of business are we talking here? I’m not sure if this is the setup for an idiot joke or a reference to lyrics you swear you told me you wrote but never actually did.”

“Ah, love, no. Not that, this time anyway. Actually – actually, it’s about the band. And ‘Grand Theft Autumn.’ They loved it like you said they would.”

“They being?”

“The record company. They loved it. And they want it. And us.”

Holy shit! She knew it. They were going to be famous. Killian deserved it so much and they were going to be huge and everyone was going to love him just like she did and –

Wait.

“When you say they want you… do you mean, like, deferred acceptance so you can finish college or…”

“No, love. The boys and I … we’re packing up and moving to LA.”

She was dumbfounded.

“LA?”

“Aye.”

“When?”

“Monday.”

That’s right about the time her stomach dropped to her heels and the rum threatened its way back up her throat and perhaps onto Killian’s perfectly rumpled white shirt.

She just – wasn’t ready to let him go.

She could hear his honey-smooth voice drift through her head, his own lyrics seeming oddly relevant to this dramatic turn in her life.

Maybe he won’t find out what I know; you were the last good thing about this part of town.

So they drank. And drank. And drank some more. They were more honest with each other than they’d been in three years. She told him how much she hated that he thought setting his clocks early would keep him from being late. And he told her that he didn’t truly think that… it just had fit as a song lyrics and he felt like he needed to “make it authentic by living it.”

She called him pretentious and he called her painfully adorable and neither were true and yet somehow they felt like the perfect identifiers for the characters they were trying to be when they weren’t with each other.

So of course she fell into bed with him that night. Her bed. The twinkly lights hung around her ceiling were flickering as he kissed a trail down her neck and she tugged off his way-too-tight jeans and dear fucking lord if she thought the only thing he could do with his tongue was sing, she was officially wrong.

But come morning she was officially gone. As the sun rose on a rainy June Sunday morning, she slipped out of her bed, slid into whatever clothes she could reach without making noise, and jogged all the way to David’s brother’s frat house to hide until Monday came and went and when exactly did her life turn into an emo song?

When I wake up I’m willing to take my chances on the hope I forget

September. Friday the 13th. Pandora malfunction. Her brain was reeling and her heart was shattering all over again, because the song pumping through her pathetic tinny Dell speakers was, on first blush, just another of his melodramatic fictions, a series of sentiments that sounded good together but that he’d never actually experienced (he’d admitted the best songs were much like Hey There Delilah… a lovely story and 0% real). But she could hear something genuine in that still so attractive voice. And then… a few familiar thoughts.

I’ll be as honest as you let me

I miss your early morning company

If you get me

You are my favorite ‘what if’

You are my best ‘I’ll never know’

She’d turned off her phone the morning she’d left him in her bed. Kept it off until Tuesday. And blocked his number the minute she turned it back on.

Goodbyes were bad enough. To have been reduced to his very last college-one-night-stand? She couldn’t face it.

(Especially because she’d realized mid-fuck she’d kind of always wanted to be his forever, or whatever overly-romantic hyperbole he’d scoff at before writing it down in his notes.)

She hadn’t let herself think of him for longer than the span of one of his songs since that day. Even then, she’d usually change the channel. It was just too hard.

But could this one actually be about her? And if so, what the fuck was she supposed to do with that? Cry? Scream? Sue his sorry ass for slander?

(Not that one.)

She’d made a lot of mistakes in her life. He’d never been one of them, not until the end. Is it possible that didn’t need to be the end at all?

My 9 to 5 is cutting open old scars

Again and again til I’m stuck in your head

He’d probably had a lot of almosts. Maybe he’d just gotten better at faking genuine emotion in his songs. There’s no way he still thought about her. Even for lyrical dramatics.

I wish I’d known how much you loved me

I wish I’d cared enough to know

I’m sorry every song’s about you

The torture of small talk

With someone you used to love

Well there you had it. Small talk? They hadn’t talked in years. And she already knew every song was total bullshit, made up longing. Some of his best lovelorn pandering (that she admittedly loved) had been written when he claimed to be incapable of actual love. When he would only sleep with dark-haired, dark-eyed girls who didn’t want anything more than a good breakfast the next morning.

(I’m not looking for a soulmate, darling, just a beauty without a gag reflex, he’d repeated on many occasions. Sometimes literally to the women he was hitting on. And yes, they did usually blow him afterward and he would inexplicably tell her and she Did. Not. Care.)

(Until the day she realized she always had.)

A week after he’d moved to Los Angeles had been the 4th of July. It being summer and most of her friends working various jobs, she didn’t think there would be a huge party. James had insisted, though, that they needed to celebrate the fact that their friends were getting famous. David had pointed out the irony that the band – Killian, Will, Robin, and Graham – were all from outside of the USA. And yet they were being celebrated on America’s birthday.

“Stealing things from others is the American way. Now drink, little brother!” James had shouted just before his frat brothers lifted him into keg stand position and he chugged.

Emma wasn’t one for keg stands, so she’d opted for drinking straight liquor instead, and from what she could extrapolate from the massive headache the next morning (in addition to the vomit in her bedside garbage can), she had likely drank that bottle in its entirety.

After the opening of Pandora’s box that fateful Friday the 13th, Emma couldn’t think of much else but her almost-maybe-something Killian Jones. Suddenly his stupid band was everywhere and that stupid song was everywhere and she was feeling a deep longing to connect with that girl who had two whole albums by two different bands written about her to see how the fuck she coped with old wounds being opened every fucking visit to the grocery store.

(Then again, Brand New and Taking Back Sunday weren’t quite so mainstream. Maybe that’s how she survived.)

(Is that what you call a getaway? Tell me what you got away with, cause I’ve seen more spine in jellyfish; I’ve seen more guts in 11 year old kids.)

She’d taken to keeping the radio off at all times, and humming the Star Spangled Banner when she couldn’t escape Killian’s stupidly attractive and all-too-familiar voice gracing the airwaves.

Ruby asked her out for drinks, and alcohol was exactly the cure for her current tumult, so she agreed on the very specific request that they hit the country bar downtown instead of their usual Rabbit Hole escapades. Which worked out great for avoiding song-specific reminders, but sadly didn’t keep all Killian talk at bay.

“By the way, how have you been holding up?” Ruby asked, probably in response to Emma’s downing two shots – one of which that had been intended for Ruby – in the first minute or so at the table.

“What do you mean, holding up?” She wasn’t that transparent, right?

“Well the song… the one Killian wrote about you. It’s, like… huge. Weird how he waited this long. Did he warn you first or anything?”

… what? It wasn’t about her. Sure, it kind of, a little bit, had some moments that seemed like they could be inspired by her. But it had been nine fucking years and she hadn’t seen him since the morning she slinked away from their house and it’s not like he’d ever reached out or anything (or at least he didn’t try very hard, because blocking a cell phone number wasn’t like blocking a whole-ass person), hence her nine years of denial and shoving down her feelings like the very opposite of the emo kid she once was.

She probably looked like that stupid meme of the lady thinking about math and her heart was beating nearly out of her chest, but somehow the only sound that made it out of her mouth was, “huh?”

Ruby, bless her heart, was much better at dealing with, you know, life than Emma was. And sorting through feelings and coping with unprecedented situations that Emma had so far only seen odd iterations of in Hallmark movies or … emo music videos, probably.

“The song. Fourth of July. It’s been a while since he wrote a song about you and I mean usually they were about pining for you, which is a little more tolerable, probably. But this one… I don’t know. I just figured you probably didn’t appreciate it, and that’s why you were drinking my shots.”

Another lame, dumbfounded response: “What? Killian’s never written a song about me.”

Ruby’s eyebrow shot up to her hairline (the way Killian’s always had when she said something silly). “So all that shit in college was…?”

“Made up! Ruby, he was a creative writing major. He just made up characters and then wrote songs as if he were them. He never actually wanted to date anyone. Just fuck anything that resembled Megan Fox.”

Ruby didn’t say a word. She stood, walked to the bar, ordered two drinks, and sat back down with Emma a few minutes later.

“Sweetheart. You sure are dumb for a smart girl.”

And that’s how Emma’s Enlightenment began.

As it turns out, Killian’s creative writing skills were great, but not quite as great as his love for his best friend.

Yep, love. Apparently he’d loved her.

There was a reason he’d really only fucked girls that looked nothing like Emma.

There was a reason he had valued her input so much in his music.

There was a reason he’d hung out with her so often and it had nothing to do with Mary Margaret and David’s grossness.

Keep quiet; nothing comes as easy as you. Can I lay in your bed all day?

Fuck.

“Why didn’t he tell me?!”

Ruby laughed at her, which was totally uncalled for, but also kind of made a lot of sense if she had the ability to think of any of this objectively.

“Oh, honey. He told you every goddamn day in those songs. And how he acted. You’d have to be blind to not realize how much that boy loved you. So he assumed it was a ‘no’ from your side. And then after you slept with him and then he poured his heart out to you and still nothing? That was kinda it for him. But I mean, it’s been so long. I can’t believe he released a song about that now.”

At that, Emma’s jaw dropped. Hard. There was an audible pop and damnit, she was going to have to ice that later, probably.

“How do you know I slept with him?!”

“… because you had a fight about it literally in front of every person you knew?”

HUH?

The buzz of the alcohol was nothing compared to the stinging behind her eyes and the pain in her gut and seriously had the past decade actually been a very different reality from what she’d been living?

And how had Mary Margaret, AKA the Secret Spiller, never told her that A) Killian loved her or B) that Emma had apparently had a blacked-out fight with him in front of everyone?

Emma’s Enlightment continued.

Apparently no one spilled the secret because no one knew it was a secret to start. Much like Killian had, everyone thought that Emma knew his feelings, but that she just wanted to be friends.

And after the blow up on the Fourth of July, they just assumed she didn’t want to talk about it.

While David and James and a bunch of their friends were playing beer pong and Mary Margaret and Regina were trying to find another pair to play cornhole, Emma had been nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels from the roof of the frat house. She’d crawled out of Jefferson’s window, much to his annoyance (he worked in the morning and needed to sleep), and she just watched. Everyone was having a good time. The best days of their lives were now or even tomorrow.

But hers were yesterday.

So she drank and she drank and she drank until the boys were lighting off fireworks and Belle had started a chant of USA! USA! And out of nowhere she saw the floppy brown hair and scuffed-up leather jacket she’d been wishing for every minute of the last week.

“Swan! I need to speak with you!” he’d called up at her, perched on the Lion statue at the front entrance.

But, of course, he’d been pulled in a thousand different directions as soon as everyone else saw their about-to-be-famous friend. So Emma drank and drank and drank some more, not prepared to actually have to say goodbye this time.

Ruby wasn’t sure how long it took until Killian made it onto the roof with her. She did know they’d only been talking a few minutes when Emma started screaming at the top of her lungs about thanks for the memories, even though they weren’t so great. That seemed to have really upset him, because then he started screaming about why the bloody hell did you sleep with me then and Emma had cried but ultimately said she didn’t mean to and he needed to just leave because that’s what he was going to do anyway and there was no reason to feel sorry for her.

There had been more screaming that wasn’t quite intelligible (thank goodness), but when all was said and done, Killian had told Ruby that he laid it all down on the line, how much he loved her, how he wanted her to go with him to LA, how he really would burn down the whole city just to show her the light, but she’d said no. Emphatically.

Before crying so hard in Jefferson’s closet that he threatened to take her to the ER. When Emma passed out, Killian had carried her to his car (the only sober one) and carried her into her room when they got to his now-former house, leaving her with a kiss on the cheek and his later assurance to Ruby that at least he had tried.

And Emma didn’t remember.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Emma muttered to Ruby.

Was there anything worse than finding out something that could have changed your life nine fucking years too late? She had never loved anyone like she’d loved Killian. It had been the easiest relationship of her existence. She’d never felt more safe, more valued, more… loved. But she’d thought it was friend-love.

(Even after the amazing sex.)

What a fucking dumbass she was.

Ruby left her to gather her thoughts/sulk in the corner for at least three line dances before she came back over to their table, bringing Emma a nice tall water as she cleared the un-drunk Long Island Iced Tea from next to Emma’s slumped head.

“I don’t think I can ever un-fuck this up,” Emma whined into her elbow before sitting up to chug the glass of water.

“I do have his number,” Ruby offered.

Hey um Ruby gave me your number and apparently I have a lot to apologize for

Congratulations on the fame also by the way I loved you every minute of every day

This is Emma, remember me? Apparently your song about me is doing really well

Hey Killian, I was wondering if you ever made it to this side of the country any more

I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry

After about 15 failed attempts to send him a message that would convey the depth of her regret, she nearly gave up. Hands shaking, legs bouncing, lunch threatening to make an encore appearance, she pulled up the lyrics to his new song, took a screenshot,

And all my thoughts of you

They could heat or cool the room

And now don’t tell me you’re fine

Oh, honey, you don’t have to lie

And added:

I’m not fine.

It was a very painful 26 hours before she received a response, a screenshot with an addition as well.

I said I’d never miss you, but I guess you’ll never know

Where the bridges I have burned never really led home

Can I come home?

They met outside the old frat house (now shut down) a week later, staying awake until sunrise just catching up on all that had happened since they last saw each other (and a little bit of what happened when they did). She brought sparklers and he brought nine years of unreleased song lyrics.

And when his band’s next single was called Opening Pandora’s Box on Friday the Thirteenth, well, everyone but Emma just thought they were being their usual melodramatic selves.

Yeah, songs about her weren’t all that awful after all.

#cs ff #cs au ff #cs au #keisha writes #things i love #captain swan #emo music #BAM I PUT THEM TOGETHER #if you like this let me know?#because I think we'd be friends

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today-only-happens-once · 6 years

Text

In Pieces

Title: In Pieces

Word Count: 3698

Summary: Thomas may not have the whole picture, but he has enough of it. for @justisaisfine’s Sanders Bro AU. Familial LAMP/CALM, plus “guess I’m an uncle now” Thomas.

Warnings: parental abuse, food mention, yelling, cursing, physical abuse depicted through acting, sort of crying, I have no idea how real movie sets/filming work so it’s probably not accurate woops

Author’s note: I love Isa’s Sanders Bro AU an abnormal amount, probably. So of course I had to write a fic for it because I have no chill. Credit for the AU and the entire basis for the fic (from this post) is all to them. Please, please check out the AU on their blog because it is amazing. This fic certainly pales in comparison, but I hope it’s not too terrible. Heh. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but here it is regardless! Huge thanks to Isa for also answering my anon asks for clarification about a few things. Hope some of this isn’t too far off course. Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff@helloisthisusernametaken @ren-allen @lizaelsparrow @princelogical @random-pianist @ravenclawicecream @erlenmeyertrash @milomeepit @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes @rileyfirstname @pinkeasteregg @sassy-in-glasses@vigilantvirgil@generalfandomfabulousness@lacrimosathedark@thepoolofthedead @monikastec @heir-of-the-founders @yourworstnightmare999 @artistictaurean @kanejandkruge @cdragontogacotar@candiukas @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl@angst-patton@savingshae@noneed4thistbh@awesomelissawho@unikornavenger@bopthesnoz @spiralofsilencetheory@finger-gunsss @crownswriter123 @swlotakulady34

…

“And cut!”

Roman grins brightly at Thomas—who has him shoved up against a brick wall with a prop knife to his throat—and the tension from the dramatic scene they’d just finished is suddenly cut (no pun intended) with one look. Thomas laughs and rolls his eyes, letting Roman shrug out of his grip.

“Good take, guys. Take a break,” the director calls out as she flips through notes.

Thomas hands the prop knife to one of the stage hands and thanks him with a sincere smile before following Roman to the snack table behind the assortment of cameras. The teen picks up a turkey club sandwich from the pile and shoves it unceremoniously into his mouth. Thomas picks up an apple. He doesn’t blame the kid, really; they’d been filming and rehearsing since six this morning without much time for a lunch break.

The constant movement on set is oddly comforting to Thomas. Stage hands hustle to get props and actors, the director is watching footage of the scene he had just filmed with Roman and talks about it in hushed voices with her producers. She casts a glance at Roman, and Thomas smiles. He knows that look. She’s impressed, and to be honest, Thomas is too. Roman is young—still a kid, really—but he’s got serious acting chops. It’s a wonder he didn’t break into the business sooner.

Thomas glances at the teen beside him and smiles faintly at the awed look in his eyes as he watches the action around him. They’re a few weeks into production on this movie, but Roman still looks like he can’t believe he’s actually here.

A few smaller kids for the orphanage scene—maybe five or six—chase each other around the set, shrieking in laughter. A few of the cast members seem vaguely annoyed at the added chaos, but Thomas doesn’t mind. They were quiet, talented, patient kids who knew to only wreak havoc between shots.

“Tag, you’re it!” a little girl shouts as she runs into a boy’s shoulder before sprinting away. The young boy—in his tattered clothes costume but his eyes bright and lively—spins around. His gaze seems to zero in on Roman, and the teen barely has time to react before the boy barrels right into his legs.

“Oof!” Roman says dramatically, doubling over—but not falling over, and Thomas is vaguely impressed by that—and capturing the boy his arms. “Argh, you cannot escape my grasp!”

“You’re it! You’re it! You’re it!” the boy yells, grinning as he tries to wriggle his way free.

“I’m it?” Roman announces, playfully holding onto the kid, “Are you sure about that? I’ll have you know, I’m a three time champion in the art of playing tag.” He’s grinning, something warm and twinkling in his eyes.

“Nuh-uh!” The boy barrels out of Roman’s arms, and the Sanders teen lets him break right out of his grasp.

“You don’t believe me?” he says, throwing the back of his hand to his forehead. “I suppose I’ll have no choice but to prove it to you!” The boy shrieks with laughter as Roman chases after him.

Thomas crosses his arms over his chest and watches his coworker chase the kids around the set. A few people stop and watch the chaos unfold as well, but most people don’t mind too much. They’re between takes anyway, and he’s keeping the kids occupied in the very least. Thomas watches as one of them leaps up onto Roman’s back and feels his heart jump, but Roman only stumbles a step or two before hooking his arms underneath the kid’s legs in a piggy-back ride and running the kid around the set a few times.

“Roman! Thomas!” The director calls out. “We’re gonna need to do that scene again. I want to try some different camera work. Be ready in five.”

Roman looks over at the sound of his name and nods. He lowers the kid on his back to the ground, says something to him that Thomas doesn’t quite catch, and they both exchange a mock salute before Roman jogs back to the table.

“You’re so good with them,” a voice speaks up as Roman returns by the snack table. Thomas looks over his shoulder to see Valerie taking a cracker off the plate.

Roman smiles slightly and lifts a shoulder. “I have three younger brothers.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Valerie says, having seen Logan, Patton, and Virgil a couple of times over the past few weeks. “You’re all so cute. I bet your parents are so proud of you!”

Roman seems suddenly very interested in the cheese cubes on the table by the crackers. He picks one up and pops it in his mouth. “I gotta get back to set,” he says, in a voice that sounds just a little tight to Thomas.

“Oh,” Valerie says to Roman’s retreating form, her voice still bright and friendly, if a bit confused. “Of course! Good luck!”

…

“What do you mean you can’t make it tomorrow?” the producer says, his voice rising. It’s a month or so later. Thomas stops mid-sentence and looks over towards the noise. A young intern with short hair and big glasses seems to shirk away from the volume, and Thomas sighs.

“I mean, I’m sorry, it’s just….” The girl stammers, adjusting the frame of her glasses.

Most people around the set are keeping themselves busy, ignoring the exchange. The producer is known for his temper, after all, and few people paid attention when the interns were getting reamed out. A small number were trying not to stare at the exchange, and a few others appeared to not be listening but—when looked at closer—could be shown to be listening regardless. Across the set, Roman Sanders seems to have fallen into the latter of the group, staring a little too intently at the script in his hands.

“I gave you this break!” the producer shouts at her, his face red. “This is a real job, sweetheart, and you don’t get to just come and go as you please!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas sees Roman snap the script close and toss it onto the table in front of him. There’s something tight in his jaw, squared in his shoulders, something aged in his eyes… Even the producer looks taken aback when he realizes that Roman is walking towards him.

“I think,” Roman says, in a calm and measured voice that Thomas wouldn’t have even been able to hear if it wasn’t dead silent on set, “that she can hear you plenty well when you speak normally, sir.”

The producer blinks in surprise—even Thomas feels a bit taken aback by the new actor’s courage—before spluttering an indignant reply. “This isn’t any of your business, boy.”

“Perhaps not,” Roman replies, his voice still remarkably cool and composed. It stands in stark contrast to the producer’s indignant shouting a moment ago. “But it’s certainly hard to ignore when you’re screaming about it. Perhaps you should take a moment to calm down before discussing the matter further.”

Roman’s words seem to make the producer suddenly and startlingly aware of the people around them. At the sharp stare of the producer, most onlookers duck their heads and busy themselves with rehearsing lines, checking mics, finding their shoes suddenly fascinating. Thomas quietly meets the producer’s gaze with a steady one of his own. He doesn’t know what his expression shows, but Roman is right, and Thomas is fully prepared to come to his defense if the producer tries anything.

The producer grumbles something in a low voice and storms off. Thomas watches as Roman seems to relax back into his usual warm persona. Regular chatter and the sounds Thomas had come to associate with the backstage-between-takes bustle of the movie business filter back up. Roman flashes a smile at the intern, and Thomas reads his lips as he asks, “You okay?”

The young girl nods, smiling faintly back. The girl, by Thomas’s best guess, is probably around sixteen or seventeen, making Roman only a year or so older than her. But there’s a brief moment where Thomas can’t help but feel like Roman looks so much older for his age. A weariness and weight in his eyes, visible even across the room but only for a fraction of a second.

And then the bright, flamboyant, excitable kid is back as he laughs at something she says and responds easily. He shakes her hand, inclines his head, and then walks back to pick up his script and goes right back to rehearsing.

…

“Action!” the director calls a week later.

Thomas slips into character effortlessly, his hands fisting at his sides as he marches up to Roman and grabbing his shoulder. The fight is choreographed flawlessly—the coordinators were impeccable, honestly—and both Thomas and Roman had been working on this exact scene for weeks.

“What the—“ Roman says, delivering his line with just the right amount of surprise, eyes widening and ducking Thomas’s flying fist just in time. Thomas stumbles in just the right way, and Roman throws up his hands as if to protect his face. “Calm down!”

“Calm down?” Thomas snarls. “You nearly got us killed out there!”

Roman shifts his weight as Thomas delivers his line and is ready when the older actor barrels into him, sending him careening back into the ladder on set. It breaks away and collapses on top of him. Roman lets out a frustrated huff before scrambling to his feet.

“That wasn’t me! Would you just—“ he ducks another of Thomas’s punches, throwing an elbow in retaliation.

“Cut!” the director calls out, a slight note of annoyance. Thomas sees confusion and a bit of self-doubt flicker through Roman’s eyes, but Thomas is confused too. It was a good take. Or at least, it had felt good to Thomas.

“Sorry, guys,” the director sighs. “You were great. Our mic levels are off. Can we get a sound check? You guys take a break.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas sees a relieved smile flicker across Roman’s face.

“Nice job,” Thomas tells him sincerely. “That would’ve been a good take if the mics had been working.”

Roman laughs. The two of them make their way over a few yards across the warehouse behind the cameras.

Roman’s three brothers sit near a stack of shipping cargo. Logan—sixteen, Thomas remembers—is sitting with his back against the cargo and a textbook propped open in his lap. Patton is talking quietly but excitedly with Valerie. And Virgil (Thomas still wasn’t sure he entirely believed that he is eight years old, given just how small he is) is sitting beside Logan, so close their arms are brushing. He has some kind of homework worksheet on the cement floor in front of him, but his eyes are glued to something in the textbook in Logan’s lap.

“Hey guys,” Roman greets warmly. “How are we doing over here?”

“Satisfactory,” Logan replies, his eyes lingering on the textbook page before flickering up to meet his older brother’s.

“Good!” Patton chimes in. “Valerie and I were comparing favorite Disney songs. She has good taste.”

Valerie laughs. “Why thank you, Patton. So do you.”

Roman smiles at the exchange. “Good to hear.” With a dramatic groan, Roman takes a seat on the floor beside Virgil. “What about you, Virge? Doing okay?” Thomas notices—not for the first time—how his voice seems a little softer when he asks Virgil.

The youngest brother nods.

Roman arcs an eyebrow. Thomas sees him exchange a glance with Logan over Virgil’s head. Thomas can’t decipher the unspoken conversation they seem to have, but whatever is exchanged seems to relax Roman a bit. The teen leans back a bit into the boxes behind them.

“Hey, Thomas,” Patton says suddenly. “What’s your favorite Disney movie?”

The question surprises the actor. “Favorite Disney movie… hm…” Thomas sucks in a breath through his teeth and rubs the back of his neck. “That’s a hard question. If I have to choose one, I suppose Aladdin.”

Patton nods thoughtfully. “That’s a good choice.”

“It was awesome talking to you, Patton, but I gotta go to makeup. You’ll have to teach me the words to ‘Almost There’ one of these days, though.” She smiles as Patton promises to do so, then hurries off. The five of them lapse into a comfortable silence for a moment before Roman breaks it.

“Thomas and I are about to shoot that scene you guys saw us walk through a few weeks back,” he supplies conversationally.

Thomas’s lips quirk into a smile at the memory. One of the days Roman had brought his brothers along a few weeks back, he and Roman had done a dry run through of the fight scene. Both Patton and Virgil had been about ready to tackle Thomas in defense of their brother—or more accurately, to ensure he didn’t get injured. He and Roman had then proceeded to go through the fight blow by blow in slow motion to show them how the fight wouldn’t actually hurt Roman at all.

“Yep,” Thomas adds. “You guys can watch your brother beat me up today, if you want.”

Roman snorts. “Something like that.”

“Thomas,” one of the actors—Terrence—calls from a few feet away, waving a book of papers, “Is this your script?”

Thomas jogs over and snatches it back, thanking him before heading back over to the brothers.

Logan has turned the page of his textbook—it’s a science textbook, Thomas can see now—and points something out to Virgil who is still looking at it over his older brother’s shoulder. Roman also seems interested in whatever Logan is saying quietly to his brothers. Patton raises his eyebrows, then shifts to sit across from Logan, who tilts his textbook towards his younger brother and points to a picture of a nebulous star.

Logan, who had always seemed to Thomas to be very quiet, is explaining something to his three brothers and Thomas has the odd feeling that if he were to try to listen in, he may be intruding. It wasn’t that the four of them were cold—to the contrary, they were some of the warmest and kindest kids Thomas had ever met—but they had a certain close-knit aura around them that Thomas felt was different than other families. Certainly different from his own.

“Hey! Thomas! Roman!” one of the cast-mates calls, jogging over. Logan stops talking, glancing up at the new face. “Are you guys coming to Marco’s after filming wraps today?”

Thomas thinks about it, but Roman’s response comes immediately. “Sorry, Alex. I can’t.” The answer hardly surprises Thomas—he’s not sure he’s ever heard the teen accept an invitation to do something after filming.

“I’ll think about it,” Thomas replies.

Alex opens his mouth to say something, looking vaguely disappointed, but the director’s voice cuts through the air.

“Thomas! Roman! You guys are back on. Same scene from the top. Sorry for the delay.”

…

Months pass, and Thomas can’t help but see the patterns.

Roman having this way of quickly shutting people down who yell during an argument, the way he never accepts invitations to do things after filming, how quickly he deflects any mention of his parents being proud of him… at first, Thomas had written the latter off as humility, but there was always something forced behind the smile and indifference that didn’t quite sit well in the older actor’s stomach. There was also something about the way Roman and his brothers interacted with one another that Thomas didn’t quite understand—quiet, tight-knit, and protective.

Thomas doesn’t really know what it all means. Or even if it means anything. He could be reading into things more than they really warranted. Right?

Right.

Thomas pops a grape into his mouth and wanders over to stand beside Roman, watching the scene being filmed from behind the camera. He and Roman just wrapped on a scene and were scheduled to be next anyway, so both of them had elected to linger around and watch the next scene get shot.

It’s one the of the flashback scenes for Thomas’s character, evidenced by the set being the kitchen of a home rather than a warzone. The actor playing younger Thomas—around ten years old—does bear a striking resemblance to 26 year-old. The only other person in the scene is the actress playing the mother.

“Don’t you ever stop talking?!” the mother demands, the fury looking real and tangible in her eyes. Thomas has to admit—the actress playing the mother was exceptional at her job. Thomas had filmed another movie with her before, and she was a really sweet lady in real life.

The kid, also, is quite good. “I’m sorry, I just… I wanted…” he stammers, stumbling back.

Before Thomas can even blink, the mother hits her son across the face with the back of her hand. Beside him, Thomas sees Roman visibly flinch. When he glances at him out of the corner of his eye, he notices Roman is looking very pointedly at his shoes.

“What did I just say, kid?” the mother growls. “God, you never shut the fuck up!”

Roman seems to be standing suddenly very still. Concerned, Thomas looks at him more fully, but Roman won’t meet his gaze. His arms are crossed over his chest, and there’s something about the way his shoulders are hunched ever so slightly that makes Thomas suddenly and acutely aware that this kid beside him is a kid. And somehow, he looks and acts much older than that.

Something clicks. His brothers and their relationship with one another, the way Roman always deflected questions and comments about his parents, the way he didn’t tolerate yelling and never went out after filming, the way he flinched just now…

Thomas doesn’t have the full picture, but it’s all in a hazy focus that is just enough. Whatever Roman is dealing with, Thomas can’t help but feel like it’s something much bigger and much worse than any kid his age should have to handle. It’s not something someone his age should have to shoulder.

At least not alone.

“Cut!” The director yells a moment later. “Great take. I wanna run that one more time, then we’ll move on. Take a break, though.”

It’s, apparently, all the encouragement Roman needs. Because the young actor turns without saying a word to Thomas and walks off the set. Thomas follows after him.

…

Thomas hesitates for a moment outside Roman’s trailer, his breath making small clouds in front of his face in the brisk late autumn air. He remembers the look of pure disbelief, quickly overshadowed by excitement, when Roman had learned he’d be getting his own trailer for the movie. Thomas hadn’t even thought much about it—Roman had a number of costume changes, plus a not in-substantial role that necessitated long days of filming—but seeing Roman’s vaguely awed look had reminded him of himself when he’d gotten his first big role in a movie. He’d been just a little older than Roman at the time.

Thomas knocks softly on the door. “Roman?”

There’s a brief pause, then a hurried and slightly muffled, “Oh, yeah. Sorry, I’ll be right there.”

“We have a while,” Thomas replies, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “But I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”

Another pause, then the door swings open. Roman looks more composed than he had just a moment ago, his face now one of confusion and perhaps a bit of nervousness. “Of course. What’s up?” He shifts to the side, giving Thomas room as he steps up into the trailer.

The trailer is messy and generic; very little of Roman expressed in the small space. There’s a blanket on the couch that was provided when the temperature had started to drop. Some discarded shoes on the floor. Roman’s normal clothes tossed over a plastic chair in the corner. Roman shifts past him and rubs the back of his head before taking a seat on the far end of the couch.

“Roman…” Thomas begins, feeling suddenly unsure of where to start but knowing that he has to say something. He looks at the teen sitting in front of him and sighs. “Are you okay?”

Roman throws him a brilliant smile. “Of course, Thomas. Just, uh…” The smile falters for only a fraction of a second, then stays in place. He lifts a shoulder. “Y’know.”

Thomas gives him a soft, knowing look. “I don’t, actually. Not really.” He takes a seat on the couch beside him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “And that’s okay. I don’t want you to tell me anything you don’t want to, or aren’t ready for. But…” Thomas holds Roman’s wide stare. “But I’ve got your back. And I’ve got your brothers’ backs.”

Roman is shaking his head, words tumbling out of his mouth even as his eyes start to shine. “Thomas—“ Roman says, and Thomas pretends he doesn’t hear the way his voice cracks just a little.

“I mean it,” Thomas says, with as much sincerity and earnestness as he can because he needs Roman to know it and believe it. “Any of you need anything—anything at all—you have my number. I’ll be there. That’s a promise.”

Roman opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it. He scrubs a hand across his eyes and sniffles. “Okay,” he says, in a soft, choked voice. He coughs to clear it. “I… thank you.”

Thomas gives him a small smile. “Any time. I mean that.”

Roman releases a watery laugh. “Yeah, I know you do.”

Thomas thinks of Roman’s bright energy and aged eyes. Of the quiet way Logan always seems to have words pressing against his lips but for some reason, holds them back more than he speaks. Or the way Patton’s warm smile and sincere curiosity makes every person feel seen, even though Patton is so much younger. Or how Virgil looks at his brothers like he’d move mountains just for them.

“Good,” Thomas replies softly. “Because you guys are a good group of kids.”

…

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders bro au #familial lamp/calm #familial lamp/calm fanfiction #tw angst #tw abuse #tw physical abuse #tw parental abuse #tw cursing #tw yelling #i literally dont know how i feel about this fic but i wanted to post it anyway #because i worked on it for a while y'know #meep #maybe one day it won't be intimidating to post fic but that day is not today #hope its enjoyable!#and please go check out isa's au #also sorry mobile users #its kinda longish

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kingdomofbretonxrpg · 5 years

Photo

Congratulations Lins! We are delighted to welcome Javan Floch to provide sustenance and drink for the hungry and thirsty citizens of the Kingdom of Breton and the wonderful visitors to this lovely nation. Please complete our after acceptance checklist. We are looking forward to seeing you develop him! Please send in his blog on or before 31 December.

Out of Character

Alias: Lins

Preferred Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 26

Timezone: PST

Anything else? I was only going to start with one, but this bio was too good and it spoke to me. So here we are.

Character

Name: Javan Floch

Birthdate and Age: April 23, 38

Preferred Pronouns: He/His

Faceclaim: Michiel Huisman

Family Affiliation: Maine

Profession: Owner of J2 Bar and Restaurant

Claim: unclaimed

Children: No

Designation: Dominant

What is their symbol?: Javan has a sword tattoo along his right forearm that looks like this. When he’s forced into formal wear, he wears a ring like this.

Kinks: Biting, Bondage, Lingerie, Oral (giving and receiving), Orgasm control/denial, Public Play, Rough Sex

Anti-kinks: Ageplay, Blood, Gore, Humiliation, Non-con, Scat, Watersports

Biography:

Javan took his responsibilities seriously. He had to do so because his parents were either negligent or cruel and very little in between. His brother, Jadon, was five years younger than him and from the minute he met the tiny red screaming infant, a sense of resolve began to harden within him. He learned things just so he could teach them to his brother.

Javan had regular relationships, which he promptly ended every time the submissive he was seeing hinted that they wanted something more serious. Javan had already endured one terrible home life. He enjoyed his bachelor ways and had no intention of giving them up.

Who knows what would have happened to the pair of young boys if it wasn’t for the Uncles - Edmund and Roberto. They were great-uncles, making them considerably more senior to the pair of young boys. The bachelors owned a large farm in the countryside and every summer as school wrapped up for the year, they would show up in their big truck and load up the pair of boys and cart them away, not bringing them back until school was due to start the next day.

Javan loved the Uncles. They were consistent and gentle. From these old men, Javan learned about crops, animals, food, responsibility and love. They really seemed to see the children. Praise came easy. Discipline was a cluck of disapproval and then an explanation as to the correct way to do the thing that he had gotten wrong. From his Uncles, Javan learned what it was to be a man and a Dominant.

Going home was always a nightmare, something to be endured, but alas his parents never did quite enough ‘wrong’ to be reported to the Head of House. So they suffered and endured and truly lived during their summers on the farm. When the Uncles died, quickly in succession of one another, Javan and Jadon were heartbroken. To the family’s shock and complete horror, the Uncles left all their considerable fortune to the two boys.

While they debated keeping the farm, realistically it was not their dream. After much discussion, they opened the J2 Bar & Restaurant in their honour. To their amazement, J2 was a roaring success, with a steady base of regulars and a nice lift from the tourists who could read about J2 in all their guidebooks. They specialized in traditional Breton dishes with a twist, wholesome ingredients and high quality alcohol.

Writing Sample:

Javan sighed as he shut the door on his (blessedly empty) apartment. He should have known she’d be a crier. If he had thought that Janelle’s tears were actually a sign of hurt feelings, he would have felt a tiny bit guilty. But he knew her too well for that. She was mad that she hadn’t been able to break his reputation as a confirmed bachelor and she would have to actually find her own place instead of flipping between his place and…her friend’s? Her sister’s? He hadn’t actually bothered to keep track of the details. What would the point be when he knew she wouldn’t be around for long?

Still, some parts of his life were easier when he knew he had someone on hand when he had to scratch that itch. At 38, the pool was getting small of people who weren’t either claimed or desperate. Or too damn young. A sub who had to have been max 22 had tried to flirt with him the other day, and all it did was make him feel old.

Running his hand through his hair, Javan tossed his jacket on the couch and walked through the clean living room to the internal door. The one that led down to the only other thing he let himself love besides his brother. J2 Bar and Restaurant.

As soon as he opened the door and heard the dull roar of a bustling Wednesday night crowd, he had to grin. Not many places could get this kind of pull on a weeknight, but damn if he and Jadon weren’t good at this. Back when it had started, it had been the two of them, a couple part time servers, and a cook to pinch hit when one of them was about to keel over from exhaustion. Now it thrived with full time chefs, bartenders, servers, and live music a couple times a month. For his own satisfaction, he knew he could still step into any position in the business and be just as good as whoever was standing there now. But there was something pretty damn cool in knowing that at this point, he didn’t have to.

He made his way into the kitchen, doing his best to keep a low profile. But of course that failed as soon as he walked in.

“So, crier or screamer? You’re here way too early to have to have reported on assault charges from that one.”

Javan grinned and relaxed enough to let out a full-throated laugh. “Crier. Big crocodile tears.”

Andre, head chef here for the last four years and close personal friend, let out a sharp sigh of disgust. “I should have known. Bet she managed to do it without smearing her mascara.”

“If you know this shit, why do you make me say it every time?”

“Because it is one thing to know and another to know. Your drama keeps me young and it means my people buy me drinks as I relate the latest incident in the saga of Tall, Dark, and Heartbreaking.” As he spoke, Andre’s hands were constantly in motion, stirring one pot, flipping a sauce pan, garnishing a dish, and pulling sauces out of thin air. It was a mesmerizing dance to watch. Only more impressive for the fact that Javan was almost positive that he could have done all of this while simultaneously writing the next Great Breton Novel if the mood struck him and someone had a good tape recorder.

“Tall, Dark, and Hungry would be more accurate,” he replied drily.

“Bah, so you come back to interrupt my kitchen? Of course you do. You never eat before you break hearts and then you complain after at the waste of the date. Luckily I am a genius and I decided to make Garbure today. You are allowed one bowl.”

Javan snorted as he grabbed a bowl and poured himself a generous helping of the stew that was one of their winter staples. “Allowed, huh? You planning on making me pay for it?”

“Details. I will require exquisite details.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok. How’s the new server working out?”

“Well. She’s made a couple mistakes here and there, but she’s so smiley and personable the customers are charmed before they can even start to get mad. She even survived serving Angelique earlier this evening and didn’t come in here crying to me. So that means hands off on this one, J.”

Javan had been eating his stew while leaning against the counter, more focused on Andre’s recital of information than the food that was going in his mouth. But that last warning had him stopping all movement. All of the easy humor vanished, and the look he shot Andre was completely flat and cold. “You know better.”

The silence for a moment was charged, both of them knowing that Andre had crossed a line. Javan might not want permanent in his life, but he was never careless. He never deliberately harmed anyone – which was why he ended it as soon as there was a whisper of serious. But more importantly than that, he would never do anything to harm the business. Ever. He had never gotten involved with a staff member while they worked for him. He rarely dipped into the customer pool unless it was a tourist he knew wasn’t hanging around. The only things that mattered in his life were Jadon and J2, and those needs would always come before his. Always.

“There is an extra slice of tarte au citron on the back counter,” Andre eventually said. It was as close to an apology as the other man was comfortable saying, and Javan accepted it as such. They had been friends for long enough to have developed their own language of communicating, neither of them comfortable with sentimentality or emotional conversations of any sort. Food could speak well enough for the two of them to understand.

Slice of tarte in hand, Javan made his way back upstairs to the suite of rooms he called home. Even with the door shut, the sound of customers was a muted rumble, but that was just how he liked it. It was continual proof that he had finally left those heavy silent rooms of his childhood behind. Meals he’d learned to cook to make sure his brother could eat had become the backbone of a restaurant that fed hundreds of people on a good night. Business classes he’d forced his way through meant that he’d gotten their place into the black and kept it there.

Money that had been given to them in love had made sure he and Jadon had been able to build something good. On the bad days, days where he had woken from another nightmare of being small and helpless in the face of another locked door or hearing that sarcastic laugh as he was called weak and emotional another damn time, he could walk straight out into the Bar and see something different. That mural of Edmund and Roberto that they’d had painted on the wall. His people that he was able to keep employed and taken care of. Customers who knew him by name and kept coming back for more. Tangible proof that his parents’ words had nothing to do with who he was now. Nothing at all.

Everything they were, everything they valued, he’d trained himself into the opposite until it was as natural as breathing. The final lesson he’d learned was to never let himself get too involved. He would never have a claim or a child. Even with practice, even with good examples, he would never risk finding that portion of his parents within him. He was never going to be that careless or that cruel to anyone who was tied to him. So he wouldn’t tie anyone. It kept his life simple, and it was just how he liked it.

Settling at the desk he kept up in his home office, he ate one handed as he started to read over the proposal from a new supplier. After all, he had a couple hours of his night free now that Janelle was out of the picture. Might as well put it to good use.

#michiel huisman #accepted #bretonaccepted

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mon-amour-eternel · 8 years

Text

Bound by Blood

Original!Caroline AU. Warning for lots of blood, some underage (vikings married as young teens and slept in the nude, it’s unavoidable) and domestic feels. Mostly historically accurate.

In front of the fireplace was a bed. It wasn’t very comfortable, just the earthy floor under two layers of blankets and furs and a pillow of feathers, but it was theirs.

At first, Niklaus and Caroline had been uncomfortable sharing a bed. Theirs wasn’t a love match; they were barely friends. However, it had been a long few weeks, and they were much more comfortable together. They’d even shared, if you get Niklaus’ meaning, the bed several times, though Caroline was hesitant each time. He made sure she never regretted letting him so close.

He didn’t want her to regret anything about their match.

So when they woke up one morning, and blood was on their bedspread, he didn’t overreact. Father had always hated this about women, the bleeding. Most of the village didn’t care; in fact, most saw it as women getting closer to nature, to the gods. But Father was different, and he felt it was undignified. All of his children knew when Mother was bleeding, because Father always made her lay with Rebekah in her small bed.

Mother had hated that treatment. Niklaus would not do that to his wife.

Instead, he gently shook her awake.

She curled deeper into him, clutching her stomach. “What is it, Niklaus?” She moaned.

He rubbed her back, and she purred, pressing even closer to him.

“My love, you are bleeding,” he whispered into her ear. “Where did you put those things?”

“What things?” She asked, mostly asleep.

“The bits of wood with wool around them. You said they were for this, did you not?” When they’d moved into this home, she’d had several of those little things. She never named them, nor did she seem to want him to see them. She’d explained a few nights later that they were for her bleeding and they were to staunch the blood so that it didn’t get on their clothes. He’d accepted it and not asked where they were, though now he wished he had.

“Ohhhhh.” She blinked her eyes open. “They are by the water basin.” He nodded and pulled away to fetch them. As soon as he was mostly out of their warm bed, she added, “please hurry.”

“I will.” He moved to where their clothes were cleaned and looked in the drawers. In one were farming tools, in another were sewing tools, and in the last one, closest to the floor, was a small pile of the things. “How many do you need?”

“One.”

He grabbed the closest one and swiftly moved back to his beautiful wife. She had said she had bad stomach pains on her first and second day of bleeding, and sometimes even on the third. He didn’t want her to be in pain, and thought maybe these things would ease it.

He moved under the covers, snuggling close again. She wasn’t like Father had said a good wife was; she didn’t let him enter her every night, didn’t always please him first the times she did. Despite that, she wanted him close as soon as the sun had descended in the sky, and in the early morning light, she clung to him. That morning was no exception.

The only difference was, instead of kissing him as usual, she plucked the small tool from his hand. It went under their furs, and she did something with it he wasn’t sure what was. Briefly he thought maybe she put the piece inside of her, using the wool to hold the blood, but the thought was embarrassing.

Still, once it was done, she pushed the blankets away. He very deliberately did not look down, but looking up was no better. (With such a perfect body, he had married a goddess, he was sure. He knew he didn’t deserve her, but now that he had her, he wouldn’t give her up.)

“We need to replace the blankets,” she said. Together, they stripped the bed of the blankets, then she moved to get a new one. There were several on the loom, and two hanging off one of the pillars near the entrance.

He watched as she walked to them, frowning when he saw the blood on her legs. He had been told by several people that the bleeding, unlike in combat or injury, did not hurt. The only body parts that did hurt were the stomach, breasts, and, in his mother’s case, feet. Caroline told him the same.

Still, there was so much blood, he couldn’t help but think it had to hurt. They met in the middle of the home, as he was too concerned to wait. “Caroline, are you sure that the bleeding does not hurt?”

Her annoyance at being stopped softened. “Yes, Niklaus, I assure you. It’s just a lot of blood, that’s all. Now, I would like to lay down again before the day begins, so let’s remake the bed.” She pushed the blanket into his arms, clearly meaning that he was to be the one setting out the blanket.

He took it gracefully and did as told. Father would think him weak, submissive, but he didn’t care. It made Caroline happy, and if she was happy, then so was he. (And later that day, when she cried and said her stomach hurt so bad she felt like she was dying, he freaked out, completely went against everything Father said a man was, and stayed in bed with her all day, rubbing her stomach and telling stories that distracted her. It was surely the least he could do.)

One thousand years and broken curse later, they laid in their big king sized bed.

Again, there was blood on their blankets. Only this time, it was from Niklaus.

He’d been staked in his flank with some kind of special wood that wouldn’t kill but would maim. He claimed it didn’t hurt, but winced every time he moved. That stopped after she pulled the little bits out.

She dabbed at the wound with a cloth, not sure if the bleeding would stop any time soon. It had been nearly forty-five minutes, and it had yet to slow down.

“Does it still hurt?” He nodded, biting his lip with double fangs. Pain did that to him, every time. Usually, she loved his incisors, but in those moments, she wished they would stay inside his gums. “I’m sorry, my love.”

“This is what I get for listening to you and sparing the girl,” he grumbled.

She didn’t deny it, even though she knew he also did it because Elijah and Stefan insisted. “Yes, yes, I know.”

“Stop cooing at me,” he demanded, though his tone was very different than it was when he spoke to his hybrids. “I’m not a child.”

He was always grumpy in these moments, she reminded herself. He was her husband and she could not strike some gratitude into him, no matter how much she wanted to. “I know that. If you were, then you’d probably be asking me a million questions.”

He snickered, remembering their human years together. Whether it be her period or combat wounds, they both bled quite a lot. Every time, he’d asked if she felt okay, if she needed anything, if his wound was closing up, or any other thing he could think up. The roles had reversed as the years went on, with her being the rambler now and him the silent one. Despite that, neither had forgotten what he was like when they were teenagers.

“On that note, has it slowed yet?”

She rolled her eyes at him, shaking her head. “Surely you can feel that it hasn’t yet.”

He shrugged with a wince. He’d also been shot in the shoulder with a bullet of regular wood; though it was long gone, he must’ve still felt phantom pain. “Caroline….”

“Don’t whine,” she berated. At the face he made, she softened. “What else should I do to make you feel better?”

He thought for a moment, then a wicked grin came to his face. “Kiss it better?”

She scoffed affectionately and did his bidding.

#original caroline #klaroline drabbles #klaroline drabble #klaroline fic #klaroline fanfiction #my fiction #blood //#rated m #sfw #au #wrote this in like 2 hours and i am so proud of myself #domestic

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