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[antisociallilbrat]

The Williams Part One

Part Two

Read on Ao3

Ships: Will Byer/Bill Denbrough and background Richie Tozier/Mike Wheeler and Eleven Hopper/Stanley Uris

Rating: This first part is rated G- other two parts are rated M

Summary: The story where Will and Bill pine over each other helplessly in a coffee shop and Mike and Richie are meddling little shits.

Now that they've met they've gotten past the awkward stage...right?

There’s a coffee loft in downtown New York that has been humbly dubbed “The Bean'' by its loyal customers. The real name of the shop is printed on the window front, but the font is so faded that it’s hard to tell what it originally said. The name “The Bean” came about because, unlike the painted name of the loft, a big faded cartoon coffee bean is still visible on the window pane.

No one knows why the paint of the Bean has withstood through the years and not the paint of the name. At this point, it doesn’t matter. The Bean is cracked and dirty with age and it just fits .

The Bean is just out of the way enough to be an inconvenience to tourists but for locals, it’s a hot spot. It has a comforting atmosphere with its mismatch couches and corner tables. The furniture is a mixed drab of whatever the Owner was able to find at the thrift store. They have the same two baristas who never mess up an order and the place plays smooth jazz softly over the speakers. 

This place is perfect for an artist like Will Byers. 

Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon he heads there after his morning class, his satchel full of sketchbooks and pens. He is a very patient man but his roommate has a way of working his nerves so it’s easier to work somewhere else. It’s like the guy has never heard of headphones- and he's always playing some garage band music.

The barista, a sweet girl named Addy, rings up his usual as he walks in the door, the ‘ding!’ of the bell behind him. The smell of cinnamon warms his nose and he already starts to relax. It’s reminiscent of home.

He pays for his hot chai tea; two dollars and fifty cents, with a small “, thank you” to Addy as he heads to his little corner. Mike may give him shit for hating the taste of coffee and still hanging out at the coffee loft, but Mike has never tried The Bean’s chai tea. 

There’s a corner of the loft that has this old loveseat couch and a coffee table in front of it. When Will first started coming here he would sit on the floor with his back against the couch and do his work on the table. When the Owner saw this, Mr. Brandis, he insisted on getting Will an easel for him to work on instead. 

Will tried to tell the older man that it was too much but Mr. Brandis had money to blow so he bought Will one anyways. Mr. Brandis hasn’t been in the shop much anymore and Addy tells him it’s because his arthritis is getting worse in his old age. A shame, Will genuinely enjoyed Mr. Brandis’s presence.

The easel is already set up for him and he pulls his biggest sketchbook out and sets it on it. With the easel, he does get to sit on the couch now which is nice. With his drink warming his hands, he scrutinizes his work. It’s his art midterm, the first one of his freshman year, and he’s a little nervous. 

Going to school for art is such a cliche. The eye rolls and the ‘oh that’s…nice’ he’s had to hear from high school teachers and other grown-ups. He knows. It’s just that he couldn’t bring himself to go to school for something he didn’t care about. That said, he’d rather not fall into the “starving artist stereotype”. If he can create a good-, no; a great piece for his midterm, it feels like this could be worth it. 

A silly notion, he knows. 

Right now he’s just in the sketching phases. The prompt for the midterm is “Character of light.” He doesn’t have a clue how his project is going to come out. Character of light?- Maybe he should paint his mom. 

There’s a "ding!" of the door and Will looks up, is it really that time already?

There’s another reason Will frequents The Bean. A guy that looks around his age, who shows up every day at noon, orders a different drink every time and sits in the same spot across the shop. Will studies him as he chats with Addy, who laughs at something he said. He’s getting some iced drink despite the dropping temperature outside.

When he turns away from the counter with his drink their eyes lock. The guy gives him a polite smile and Will smiles back; before going to his booth. The same routine every Tuesday and Thursday.

Will has affectionately dubbed this stranger “the Writer”. At his booth, he pulls out his laptop and will type away at something. Will has wondered many times what exactly he’s writing. It’s a fiction story, he thinks, because the Writer always has notebooks on the table too. Like he’s keeping track of details in a story. On second thought that could work for writing non-fiction as well but this guy doesn’t look like a boring non-fiction writer. He can’t explain it, he just knows. 

Dressed in flannel (always flannel) with his ripped jeans and his auburn hair tucked up underneath a beanie, the occasional strands escaping. He looks so mundane but to the careful eye, you can tell he looks like someone who has something to say. Will hopes he says it. Hopes he gets to hear it.

That would mean talking to him and that’s not something he’ll do. Will Byers doesn’t talk to strangers. People he doesn’t even know the name of. No no no, he’s perfectly content secretly pining over the Writer from his little corner.

Will sighs and gets to work on his midterm as the Writer boots up his laptop. Once the screen is on and he’s clacking away, the Writer won’t look up for anything. Zeroed in on his work, like Will needs to be. He can’t help it! He’s an artist, he likes pretty things! And the Writer is very pretty.

For the next two hours Will sketches and erases portraits of his mom. Would it be too cheesy to choose his mom for this prompt? He could do his sister El, but that may be just as cheesy. At the end of it, all he’s accomplished is to make himself frustrated. It’s time to go home. He glances at the Writer one last time as he always leaves before him.

He picks up his things and politely says goodbye to Addy as he throws his drink away. Maybe he’ll get lucky and his roommate will have gone out for the night. 

The New York air is cold on the tip of his nose. Mid-October was bringing in that cold air with a vengence. 

“Hey! Wait up!”

Thinking of October he has no idea who he’s going for Halloween. Does the Party want to do a group costume or have they outgrown that? He doesn’t think- A hand grabs his shoulder and Will jerks back. Is this his first mugging? 

No, it’s not a mugging because when he turns around it’s the Writer standing there. His cheeks are red and he’s panting and he’s holding Will’s dorm pass.

“You dropped this back there, I figured you weren’t getting home without it.” The man explains.

“I- thank you.” After months they’ve never said a word to each other, just shared little smiles as the writer got his coffee. 

“Just being a good citizen,” he laughs. There’s something to his voice. It’s slow and he can’t tell if it’s just because this guy has an accent or what. Before handing the pass back to Will he looks at it, nodding appreciatively, “NYU, that’s a good school.” 

He hands the pass back to him, their fingertips just briefly brush, “It is, thanks," he dismisses. 

The Writer smiles at him, “Well ss-see you Thursday!” and heads back the way he came, back towards The Bean. 

Will stands there for a minute with a blush on his cheeks and stunned at his own stupidity. “It is”? He couldn’t have thought to ask the guy if he went to school there too? Start a conversation? He now knows the guy knows his schedule too but that could mean anything. God, he feels like an idiot.

-

Bill Denbrough is an idiot. 

He sits there, staring at his laptop screen and chewing at his fingernails. Why did he grab Art guy? Cute Art guy to be exact. He looked like he scared the guy half to death.

After months of his romantic pinning, he couldn’t stop himself from taking the chance. When he saw Art guy’s dorm pass fall out of his back pocket as he was leaving it was like fate. The universe was saying, “Now’s your chance Denbrough,” and he fucking blew it! Very Bill of him as Richie would say.

And why did he come off as a stalker?! “NYU, that’s a nice school”?! He dropped out of that school! That’s not even the worst part, the pass was in his hand and he didn’t check the name. Now the guy is stuck being dubbed ‘Art guy’. Dammit, Denbrough! The guy probably thinks he’s a creep. 

Groaning, he slams his laptop shut. The words aren’t coming to him as steadily as they usually are. Maybe he calls it an early night and sees if Richie is down to grab a drink. A real drink, not whatever surgery crap Addy concocted today. Plus Richie is always down to drink, even on weekdays. Perks of being the two college dropouts of the Losers club.

“Bye Addy!” he yells over her shoulder. The poor girl is sweeping, getting an early start on closing since she has to do it all alone. The other barista (Diana? He thinks that’s her name.) hides in the back, playing on her phone. They really should hire someone else.

-

Thursday rolls around and Will is a bundle of nerves. He keeps going back and forth on whether or not he should go. But it would be weird to break his routine suddenly. Oh but his nerves! He knows he came off so cold the Writer! Should he apologize or would that be weird?

He’s still deciding when Mike texts him that he’s joining Will at The Bean. A blessing and a curse. If he chooses not to go now he’d have to explain why to Mike and he would just ask too many questions. His friends are aware of his routines, and Mike and El have joined him at the coffee loft a couple of times. El when she really needs to focus on her school work and Mike when he just needs to relax for a little.

Mike is already sitting in his spot when he arrives. Chai tea on the table alongside Mike’s usual order of americano and a blueberry muffin. Will takes his seat next to Mike. He doesn’t feel like drawing today, his legs are too jumpy. 

Mike being Mike immediately notices, “What’s got you in a bunch?”

“Nothing.”

In lew of arguing Mike hands him his chai tea. He regrets it, the cup shakes in his hand. Mike looks at him with a, “You gonna tell me now?” expression.

Will sips his tea in spite, “Seriously, I’m fine.”

Mike starts in on him, “And I’m straight. Was it class? Was professor Harlen a dick to you again? Or was it your roommate? I swear if he-”

“I’m fine!” he lowers his voice as he gets a grumpy look from an old lady in an armchair, “I’m sorry Miss Baker,” he whispers to her. She glares at him for a moment longer before returning to her Cosmo magazine. Mike looks at him expectantly. He sighs, “It’s this guy.”

“It’s this guy?” Mike repeats back to him, “What guy? Did he do something to you or something?”

For someone so smart, Mike can be a bit dense at times. “No he didn’t do anything to me!” he hurriedly whispers, “I just- I just happen to think he’s cute.”

This piques Mike’s interest. For a reason too. Will doesn’t often get ‘crushes’. He feels like such a schoolgirl. “And what happened with this cute guy?” Mike asks.

So, against his better judgment he tells Mike about the incident on Tuesday…and about how he’s been harboring a crush on this guy for months. He can’t look at Mike’s smug face. 

“Sooo that’s why you love this place,” the bastard teases.

“I love this place because Addy makes a good chai tea,” he says, getting defensive. There’s a telltale feeling of a stupid blush warming his cheeks.

Mike hums, “So when does Lover boy get here? You said he’s a regular here as you?”

Looking at his booth he realizes what time it is, “He’s um, he’s actually supposed to be here right now.” 

He must sense the apprehension in Will’s voice, “I’m sure he’s just running late, that’s all,” Mike tries to reassure.

But Will isn’t listening, he’s thinking about how he came off cold to the guy and now he’s ruined everything. The Writer is probably never going to come here again and that means he’s never going to get to see him again and he never even got to learn his name. God, he’s so stu- Oh wait. 

As Will’s eyes were scanning the room they landed on the outside window where the Writer is standing outside next to someone. He has his bag with him so it appears he’s coming in, just chatting to someone right now.

The tension leaves his shoulders and he nods his head towards the window, “Nevermind he’s outside talking to that guy. He’s the one in the gray flannel.”

“The one he’s smoking a cigarette with?” Mike asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Mmm yeah I guess.” Honestly, he’s only ever seen the Writer smoke a couple of times before and it’s always with this same guy before he comes inside sometimes. At first, he feared the other guy was the Writer's boyfriend but the pair have only ever playfully shoved each other when one of them had, apparently, said something stupid. They remind him of Lucas and Dustin. 

And there’s the fact that few and far in between, a couple of the Writer's friends have joined him in The Bean. None of them acts less platonic than the other.

The Writer finishes his cigarette before snubbing it out and tossing it. The other guy, his friend, ruffles the Writer’s hair before walking down the street. 

Will finds himself holding his breath as he pulls the door open. 

“At least he’s the cute one, would have seriously judged you if it was the other guy. The one with the curls looks like he needs a bath,” Mike says with a grimace, unaware of Will’s state.

He agrees noncommittally, trying not to stare but also can’t look away as the Writer places his order. The Writer got something hot today and when he turns around, as always, he makes eye contact with Will. 

Instead of rolling his eyes or scowling, or any of Will’s worst fears, the writer smiles and waves. Somehow Will manages to give a small wave back. The Writer, seeming pleased, grins one last time before heading to his booth.

Well…that was new.

“Oh ho ho,” Mike chuckles, “Looks like you didn’t come off too cold to him.”

“Shut up,” he scolds but he’s smiling. 

Mike taps his finger to his chin, “I think that you should go talk to him.”

It’s almost comical how quickly Will snaps his head towards Mike, stuttering, “Wh-what? It was just a wave, not an invitation to go bother him!” he whispers yells. He is not risking the Writer overhearing him.

“But it could be an invitation to go bother him, you don’t know,” Will glowers at him and Mike holds his hands up in defense, “I’m just saying! If you want to sit over here and continue to pine for even more months like a sad Disney Channel movie heroine, that’s your deal. You could at least ask his name,” Mike smiles mischievously, “Or I could go ask for his name.”

Will stands up, “Okay we’re leaving.”

“What why?”

“Because I don’t trust you. Come on, get up.”

Hopefully, it wasn’t as embarrassing as it was in his head, leading out Mike who was fighting a fit of giggles. Good to know his love life is funny. 

-

“You know you’re overthinking this right?”

Bill resists rolling his eyes at Stan, yes he knows this. He’s Bill, he overthinks everything, it’s a part of his personality at this point. “Doesn’t matter,” he disregards, “I’ve been s-smiled zoned.”

Stan does roll his eyes at him, “That’s not a thing, stop being overdramatic."

He huffs at his friend. Stan uses a coffee stirrer to push back his cuticles as he sits across from Bill at his booth. He doesn’t often accompany Bill to The Bean but today is a special occasion. Richie got a job here and today was his first day. 

A few weeks ago Mr. Brandis finally fired that lazy barista. Addy basically runs the shop anyway so it didn’t affect her but Mr. Brandis still insisted on filling the position. 

So Bill got Richie the job. He’s always complaining about having no money, free open mics don’t exactly pay, so now he has a day job. Bill’s happy for him but it is oh so infuriating. His friends are the worst. That’s it. 

Richie has been working all day so he was there when Addy took Art guy’s order, he knows his name and he won’t tell Bill. He texted Richie as he was walking here with Stan and Richie just sent him the middle finger again emoji. Then he asked again when he placed his order and the jerk just smiled smugly, miming zipping his lips. 

But he still smiled at Art guy when he turned around- and waved. Waving is part of their new routine now. He was so scared he fucked it up when he chased him down the street to return his pass that he decided to take a chance the next time he saw him. If Art guy waved back then hope wasn’t lost. Bill considers himself lucky that he did.

Now a whole month later, they have come to an impasse. The only new development was the wave. He still sits at his booth and pines over Art guy, stealing glances at him when he’s not looking. At his point, he knows he’s getting on his friend’s nerves, particularly Stan and Richie’s. 

“I don’t even know if he’s gay Stan,” he almost whines.

Stan takes a glance towards Art guy and looks at Bill with a raised eyebrow, “Are you serious right now?”

“What? S-serious about what?”

“Bill Denbrough you’re a dumbass,” he sighs, “That guy couldn’t scream more gay if he had a shirt on saying it.”

He scrunches his nose, “I don’t understand, how can you tell?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe because he dresses way too nice for a straight guy,” Stan states matter of factly. 

“Ben is st-straight and he dresses nicely.”

Stan looks almost pained, “Ben isn’t straight Bill.”

“Wh-what?! Since when?!” 

He rolls his eyes again and is chastising him for his lack of gaydar when the door chimes and stops mid-rant. Stan never stops mid-rant so he’s immediately turning around to see who came in.

Oh, it’s just her. The girl with curly brown hair who’s always slightly smiling is one of Art guy’s friends. 

But she’s not just a girl to Stan apparently. Bill watches his eyes as his eyes watch her, following her from where she goes to place her order and then to sit next to Art guy. Stan’s mouth is still hanging open from where he was speaking mid-sentence. 

He doesn’t bother to hide his snigger when Stan’s attention finally returns to him. Stan glares at him but asks anyways, “Does she often come here with him?”

Bill finds a sudden interest in his nails, feeling completely smug about the whole thing. Stan and Richie have been giving him shit about not talking to Art guy and here Stan is gaping at one of his friends. “Hmmm, I don’t know, why? You feeling smuh-smitten suddenly?” He’s not looking up from his nails as he says it, going for the full effect of bastard.

Stan throws his coffee stirrer at him, “I’m definitely not telling you Art guy's name now!” he hisses. 

Bill squawks, “How do you know his name?!”

“Because Richie texted me it on the way here!”

“I have the worst friends,” he pouts, sliding down into the booth.

-

Mike is surprised and annoyed to see Will’s Lover boy’s friend behind the counter the next time he visits The Bean. Will is still on his way and Mike tends to get here before him anyways when he joins him.

Before he approaches the counter he knows this guy is going to get on his nerves. He just looks dirty! His curls need a brush and his black fingernail polish is chipped to hell. To make it worse he can see the horrendous orange shirt behind his black apron. Who let him go out like this?! Why is it weirdly attractive?!

The guy- ‘Richie’ as it says in a messy scribble on his name tag greets him with an all too big smile, “Hey good lookin' what can I get brewin' for ya?” He sings songs. 

He resists glaring; just barely, and orders, “I’ll have an americano and a blueberry muffin. Oh and a hot chai tea.”

“Two drinks?” Richie asks as he rings him up, “What? You got a date coming? And your total is eight dollars and ninety five cents.”

“I’m just ordering for my friend that’s joining me- not that it’s any of your business.” He tosses a ten-dollar bill towards the barista who annoyingly catches it.

He hums, “No date, is it bold of me to assume you’re single then?”

“Just get me my coffee,” he bites out a “please,” so that he doesn’t come off as too rude. 

Richie chuckles and grabs two cups and a pen, “Before I do that I need to get your name pretty boy.”

He positively does not blush at that, “It’s Mike.”

“And the other name?” he asks him, scribbling Mike’s name on the cup and picking up the other one, “The name of your supposed friend?”

“It’s Will.” 

That makes Richie stop mid-writing and look up at him with an eyebrow raised, “Will? As the one who comes in every Tuesday and Thursday?” 

“Yeah that’s him, he has a weird obsession with this place,” Mike tells him, confusion lacing his tone. 

“Does his obsession with this place have anything to do with the hopeless writer that sits right at the booth over there?”

The pieces are starting to fall into place as he catches on, “I do believe it does,” a smirk is tugging at his lips. 

Richie leans over the counter, matching him with his own Cheshire grin, “Tell me, Micheal, are you also sick of them and their dramatic pining?”

“You have no idea.” He loves Will, really, but ever since Will told him about his crush it’s all he wants to talk about. Mike can recall the different colors of plaid the Writer has worn the last two Tuesdays and Thursdays because Will has insisted on telling him. 

“Well well I think it’s time I execute my plan 'The Williams’,” he sees Mike looking at him questioningly and clarifies, “Oh my friend’s name is Bill, they’re both named William so I guess it’s good they go by different nicknames because otherwise, that shit would be confusing.” 

“Hmph look at that,” he muses. 

Richie challenges him, “So you ready to hear my plan?” 

He thinks about it for a minute. Will hates it when his friends get involved in his love life so does he really want to deal with the inevitable grouchy Will over this? On the other hand, can he stand to hear about how the sun filtered in on The Writ- Bill’s hair one more time? With that in mind, he nods. 

Richie shoots him a wink, “Great, knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he calls over his shoulder to the other barista who was stocking syrups, “Hey Addy would you mind coming over here for a sec? I got something to ask.”

-

Will doesn’t notice anything off when he enters The Bean. Mike is sitting over on his loveseat couch, their drinks sitting on the table and his muffin half eaten on the plate. 

He also doesn’t notice Mike’s lack of overflowing conversation as he watches for the Writer, no interest in working on his project for the new term. He got an A on his midterm so that’s subsided his worries about his career choice for a while. He painted his mom, Hop, Jonathan, and El. His family- his characters of light. His work was so good that his professor didn’t care that he chose multiple subjects. 

Between watching the clock and humming an agreeing noise whenever it sounds like Mike has asked him a question, time moves quickly. 

The Writer comes in right on time and heads to the counter. His friend, the one he occasionally shares a cigarette with, has started working here so it’s been fun to watch their interactions. His friend’s name is Richie. Will likes him, he’s only been here for about a week but he’s always super nice to him. Sometimes Will wishes he had the courage to ask him about the Writer but that would be too obvious. 

Will watches as the Writer and Richie exchange words, the Writer flips him off and Richie makes kissy faces at him. He wonders what on Earth they’re talking about. The Writer gets his drink, a warm one today, and on cue turns around to smile and wave at him. As always Will waves back. 

Something Will does notice is Mike’s lack of snark over it. He eyes his friend, “What? No teasing today?”

Mike gives him an unimpressed look, “I don’t know what to tell you, William, the world doesn’t revolve around you.” 

Will rolls his eyes, “Whatever- and don’t call me William. It’s weird.”

They make ideal chit-chat, Mike finishing off his muffin and Will drinking his chai. Lucas’s birthday is coming up so they discuss what to get him. The man who notoriously just goes out and buys the things he wants himself. Meanwhile the Writer is pretty invested in the story he’s writing so Will risks a couple more glances than usual.

The sound of Addy's voice interrupts his and Mike's conversation. “Special order for William from Mr. Brandis!” she calls out, putting two drinks on the counter. 

He just stares up at the counter, confused. Mike nudges him, “I think she’s talking to you.”

Since when does Addy call him William and why even would Mr. Brandis order him a drink? He’s not even in today! ….He thinks. 

Hesitantly he stands and walks towards the counter. Addy is taking an order for another customer and Richie has magically disappeared. She gives him a quick smile as he approaches. 

The two paper cups are empty when he picks them up; there are no drinks. What is going on here? One of the cups says ‘Will’ and the other is labeled ‘Bill’. 

“What the fuck R-Rich,” Comes from behind him, making him jump.

It’s the Writer and he turns around and sees that he looks annoyed. He’s still confused as to what is going on and is starting to worry that he somehow did something wrong. 

The Writer quickly drops his look of annoyance though, trying to smile instead but it’s tense, “I’m ss-sorry. I think my friend is playing a prank.”

Will looks down at the cup named ‘Bill’ and holds it out to him, “Is this you?”

He takes it and observes it, “Yeah I’m Bill- sadly,” he looks at the other cup in his hands, “What does yours s-say?”

Will tries not to snicker but it’s kinda funny, the guy he’s been pining over has his name, “It says Will, short for William.”

It seems like it finally dawns on Bill, “Oh shit we have the same name!” he says, a little too excited. It makes Will squirm, and his cheeks hurt from trying not to smile too big but he's just as nervous. Scared he’ll say the wrong thing and lose this chance. 

Bill steps closer to him and he can smell his woodsy cologne and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. For some reason he completely expected the Writer, Bill, to smell like this. He talks again in that slow voice of his, “Do you want to come sit down with me? Can’t let a special order from Mr. Brandis go to waste.” His words are smooth but his smile is boyish and cheeky and it is utterly charming. 

But then Will remembers Mike and in a panic looks over towards him...only to see that Mike is no longer there. He’s standing outside The Bean, looking in through the window and giving him a thumbs up before proceeding to fake gag. Very Mike of him. 

So Will turns to Bill and nods, “I’ll sit with you only if you tell me about that story of yours I’ve seen you writing.”

Bill’s eyes light up, “Deal but only if you let me ss-see some of your artwork,” he goads. 

That sounds more than fair to him. 

A/N: AAAAAA I know it seems like it ends abruptly but that's what chapter two is for ;)

Thank you for reading! Please comment if you enjoyed!

[the-source-finder]

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Conclusion

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[designmantra]

Top Interior Designer in Pune

https://designmantrastudio.com/

Design Mantra is one of the Top Interior Designers in Pune, is a pioneer in rendering Total Interior Solutions for all of your Interior needs. We specialize in Home Interiors, Home Renovation and Office Interiors. With an experience of 13 years in the field of Interior Designing, we have earned invaluable reputation and have grown into one of the Top Interior Designers by creating elegant and functional signature interior spaces.

We offer our services in Kolhapur, Solapur in particular and in many of the major sub cities like Hinjewadi,Viman Nagar,Pimple Saudagar, Pimpri  Chinchwad, Baner, Aundh. Our ever growing clientele stands testimony to the high quality standards adopted by us starting right from the designing stage and goes on into the execution stage and handing over.

With our experience spanning over 13 years, we have understood that each customer is different and in addressing that, we specialize in bridging the gap between their requirements, taste and budget. We have in our pay rolls, experienced designers and architects who go that extra length to understand the customer and help in giving breathtaking designs.

We have an equally experienced team of supervisors who head teams of masons, carpenters, painters, plumbers, electricians & tile layers. We always have used materials that are time tested and hence are able to give Warranty for all the materials used by us and Guarantee for our workmanship.

We provide our clients with regular updates in the form of photos and videos that would be sent through e-mails, whatsapp and other forms of electronic medium. We ensure maximum transparency in all our dealings and what we promise is what we do.

Welcome to Design Mantra, where your vision meets our expertise to create stunning interiors that reflect your style, personality, and aspirations. As a premier interior design firm, we specialize in turning ordinary spaces into extraordinary environments that inspire, uplift, and delight. Whether you're looking to refresh a single room or embark on a full-scale renovation project, our team of talented designers is here to bring your dreams to life.

Our Approach: Design Mantra, we believe that great design starts with a deep understanding of our clients' needs, desires, and lifestyle. That's why we take the time to listen closely to your ideas, preferences, and goals, ensuring that every design solution is tailored to suit your unique vision and requirements. From there, our experienced designers combine creativity, innovation, and attention to detail to craft spaces that are not only beautiful but also functional, comfortable, and inspiring.

Our Services:

Interior Design Consultation: Whether you're starting from scratch or seeking guidance on a specific project, our interior design consultation services provide personalized advice, inspiration, and expertise to help you bring your vision to life.

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Custom Design Solutions: Whether it's custom furniture, bespoke cabinetry, or unique decor pieces, our team works with trusted artisans and craftsmen to create one-of-a-kind design solutions that add character, charm, and personality to your space.

Who is the No.1 Interior Designer in Pune?

Design Mantra is a renowned interior designer and the driving force behind Design Mantra Interiors Pvt. Ltd., a leading design firm in Pune. As the founder of Design Mantra firm, Mr. Dhotre’s innovative approach creates harmonious spaces that combine style and functionality.

You are looking for home renovation in Pune, Kolhapur, Solapur to increase the property value of your home ahead of a sale or closing on a house you can’t wait to make your own, chances are there’s a renovation or remodeling your home in future. Which means you’ll have a lot of things to consider, not least among them how to find a home contractor, how to mitigate costs, and, no less important, how to translate your home renovation ideas into reality.

We are here to help. We tapped some of our most trusted home renovation sources and our archives to bring you this collection of home remodeling ideas for every room, including advice from the experts, checklists to help you get started, and fabulous before and after kitchen, bath, and living room transformations for inspiration. So whether you’re revamping a space to make it more functional or simply more beautiful, this handy guide is your one-stop shop for all things home renovation.

[ushidoux]

False Intimacy - Oikawa x Reader

Summary: You’re an escort that is quite good at her job but one particular client happens to catch you a bit off guard. (~1.9k words)

Warnings: minors dni, nsfw, fem pronouns, fem!reader, escort!reader, implied dom/sub dynamics, hurt/comfort

A/N: Ngl I was gonna write mean dom oikawa just cuz and then it got ~deep~ i’m sorry lmao

---

It was a colder night than usual in Buenos Aires, or maybe it was just the slight chill that ran up your spine when you remembered your client’s phone call just a couple of hours ago.

Please arrive at 8 pm sharp. I’m not a fan of tardy people~

His voice was honeyed before he cut off the phone abruptly - smooth and sweet as though masking some unpalatable part of his personality you hadn’t quite detected. 

Not that you would put your guard down anyway; most of the men you dealt with, either the extraordinarily rich, terribly famous, or some wretched combination of the two, were in some way dangerous. They all seemed to thrive on the same idea: that they had some power over others, and this could manifest in anything ranging from bratty behavior to a god complex.

But you could deal with these things well, you had been in the business for long enough. Oikawa Tooru was no problem.

He must have watched you arrive because the moment you stepped before his hotel room, taking a moment to adjust your hair and check on your makeup in a compact mirror before knocking, you heard the door swing open.

“You follow directions. Delightful,” he almost whispered, a sly smile on his face, shrouded in dark due to the paucity of light generated from a single lamp in his hotel room.

Had he been waiting, or was it the fact that he knew you wouldn’t disobey him?

You nodded.

“I’m quite compliant when I want to be,” you emphasized, in the sultry voice you reserve for meetings like this.

Oikawa’s smirk grew even wider. Hook, line and sinker. 

With the lack of continuation to your opening banter, you now started to wonder why he wasn’t moving; his frame, larger than you had expected in person, lingered in the doorway, seemingly blocking it and he made no indication of letting you inside. 

This was strange. Usually, it didn’t take long for your clients to undress you and have their way, at the very least a quickie before you actually went out with them, especially if they were having you meet first before the venue. There was a pause where you took a deep breath, trying your best not to look as disconcerted as you felt. What was he doing?

Oikawa was still staring at you, but not in the way your other patrons ogled you as though you were a piece of meat, nothing more than a purchased pussy. He stared at you with greed as though you were the most precious item in a set, and he were preparing to introduce his prized collection to a waiting crowd.

If it were an attempt to fluster you, you had to admit that he was close.

But not quite.

“Shall we advance to our location then?” You asked, sweetly. 

There was something like a snort that he made, derisive and slightly maddening. You raised an eyebrow reflexively, but instead gave him a wide, somewhat vapid smile. 

Good customer service. Men like him love power.

“Oh, are we planning to be fashionably late, Mr. Oikawa?” You said, tapping a finger to your lip and furrowing your eyebrows as though you were trying oh so very hard to think. 

“We’ll get there when we get there,” he replied. To your relief, he did finally lead you into the hotel room, into a wide suite that illuminated upon the clap of his hands, revealing a modern open plan setup with white on white furniture, fully glass windows that gazed onto the city skyline and bossa nova playing quietly from a speaker. You had barely heard the music it since you had been so focused on him.

Knowing that he was not a native of this country, you considered teasing him to re-stabilize power dynamics.

“This is Argentina, not Brazil, you know,” you teased, as you gently set yourself down on the edge of his couch.

He was the one to raise an eyebrow this time, as he circled around the bar island across from the living room.

“I mean about the music,” you said, with a soft laugh. He smiled.

“Of course.”

A pop of a wine bottle opening disrupted the tension between you two even further, and you crossed and uncrossed your legs with mild discomfort while watching him pour two glasses of red wine for the two of you.

“What’s your name again, darling? I have awful manners,” he said. 

You had the impression he was lying, but still you repeated your name for him.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he crooned as he handed you your drink.

---

If it weren’t for the fact that you’d watched him like a hawk as he poured out your glass of wine, you would have thought that he’d drugged you.

But you weren’t exactly drunk - not in the typical sense, but there was an altering of the senses that seemed to overcome you as the night progressed. Between the flashes of the camera as party guests filed in, a particularly lavish dinner, drinks, and a too-short dance where Oikawa literally whisked you off your feet, you were starting to feel less professional and more… needy. 

You guarded your heart well normally, so this was a new feeling for you, the sudden overwhelming need to fulfill your contract in the fullest. 

Quite frankly, by the time you had made it back into his private car, you were absolutely itching to be fucked. It didn’t help that Oikawa had grown comfortable enough over time with you to place the palm of his hand on your bare knee, his fingertips grazing your inner thigh.

He wasn’t looking at you by now, but your eyes were absolutely transfixed on him. He was talking on the phone quietly in an even Japanese, as though you weren’t even there, and by the sound of his soft laughter, his conversation must have been pleasant. 

The little bit of warmth between your legs as his hand suddenly moved up your thigh and then back down could only be called distressing.

---

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Did you or are you? The fact that he was asking this, while kneeling between your legs, slender fingers gripped on both sides of your shaking legs, and licking slow, languid strokes from the opening of your vagina to your clit made it unfair for him to expect you to answer.

His kisses were slow in between questions and through waves of pleasure as his lips pressed against your privates, you managed to eke out a “yes.”

It felt wrong to be feeling like this, inappropriate as though you were using him rather than him using you. As his tongue dipped into your center, you even dared to let out a soft moan, which only encouraged him to plunge in deeper, tightening his hold on you as you threatened to clamp your legs shut.

“Calm down,” he ended up growling suddenly, and your stomach stirred with excitement. A sound so animalistic didn’t sound fitting for a man as elegant and soft-looking as him. In an attempt to mollify the sudden tension he could feel permeating your entire body in anxiety, he whispered, “Don’t worry, you’ll return the favor soon enough. Plus, you taste delicious.”

Your heart fluttered.

Once he’d savored you to his fill, he rose to stand between your legs, inserting those same meticulous fingers into your pussy before leaning over to transfer the taste of your own fluids to your lips.

How can he be so tender to a stranger? You thought briefly, as you melted into his kiss. You were getting carried away, down in dangerous, dangerous territory.

His hands kept working as his tongue teased yours.

Shifting quickly from pussy to the mounds of your breasts, his hands continued to massage your body while your lips remained locked, until he maneuvered himself on top of you. A warm, hard cock laid pressed against your belly and his, igniting more fire between you.

Put it in, put it in, your body seemed to scream, but you knew better than to demand. You’re here to deliver fantasies, not indulge in one, even if Oikawa did not seem to get the memo.

He made your toes curl and your spine curve before flipping you over so that you lay atop of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, looking up at you as sincerely as one does an old lover. It was at this moment that you found yourself leaning forward to initiate the kiss before stopping yourself.

Distance was needed desperately. Remember, this was not a man who loved you.

You broke your demure act (which wasn’t really much of an act anymore) to pull back gently against the weight of his amorous stare, and slid downwards so that you could wrap your lips around his cock instead.

A blowjob is much less intimate, you told yourself. But you didn’t jump quite to that immediately.

Steadying your hand, now trembling almost as much as your heart was (what the hell was going on?), around his readied shaft, you glided your hand back and forth, aided by a few drops of precum leaking from the head and a generous amount of spit. You focused on his well-developed abs, not his eyes that were squeezing shut and the pretty mouth that groaned softly with every movement.

He was entirely too pretty for his, or your own good.

Why not a real partner? You wondered for a moment who you were standing in for. He touched you all too tenderly to be someone who cavorted casually. 

Even as you took him in your mouth, and his fingers made their way into your hair, tugging gently and praising you for how good you worked him up, bobbing your head up and down like the expect you were, you found yourself wondering. 

You took him deep enough to the point that you had to suppress a gag a couple times, and feeling the tightening of his grasp of your locks, you knew you did a good job.

“Fuck, baby, just like that.”

You considered maybe getting him to finish like this, in your mouth, so that you could go on your merry way and get as far away from this man that was already getting in your head as soon as possible, but he was pushing you off of him gently before you could get far enough. You ended up under him yet again, faster than you could bear.

His cock nudging its way against your folds on its way to your entrance made you shudder, and then he pushed inside you with another groan that was disgustingly beautiful.

Every thrust inside you felt like heaven but twisted; it felt far too self indulgent the way he wrapped his arms around you as his hips rolled against yours. He moaned your name, the name he asked for just hours ago, too familiarly as though he’d known you for a decade. The rhythmic slap of his skin against yours was hypnotic and you almost ascended as his arms raise your legs to dig into you deeper.

It’s too intimate, far from transactional, the explosive way you came around his cock, clawing at his markless back as you writhed around him, riding the wave of your orgasm. He pulled himself into a sitting position as you came, carrying you with him and holding you tightly as he followed shortly after. 

You could feel his cock twitch inside you.

And finally, you swore you could hear the name of the person he truly loved mumbled into the crook of your neck.

In response, you cling to him just a little bit longer.

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

Normal Love and Superheroes: Two - my city

Summary: Leena gets a meeting with the Bruce Wayne himself and a call from John Blake. 

Pairing: John Blake x OFC (Leena Duckett) 

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: none I think...characters discuss Sexy Times and getting drunk but like that’s it I suppose

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

“Why the heck would he want a private tour with me? He asked for me specifically?”

“Look that’s what he said over the phone, Leena.”

“But did he say why?”

“I’m so terribly sorry I didn’t take the time to ask Bruce frickin’ Wayne, one of the biggest patrons of the gallery, why he asked for a tour from you specifically.”

Leena blushed. “Sorry, Adeline. I just…”

“Don’t worry about it.” The blonde sitting behind the welcome desk smiled with a closed mouth. “I’d react the same way if I were in your shoes. A whole hour or more with Bruce Wayne….”

Another tour guide jogged up to the front desk from the bowels of the gallery. Leena turned and watched her approach. Phoebe had a look of conspiracy and impression on her long face. She came to a halt beside Leena and elbowed her in the side.

“So are you gonna take Mr. Wayne into one of the more….Private rooms of the gallery?” Phoebe asked with a wicked smile.

Leena rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the hot feeling that was spreading from her neck into her face. It was no secret about Gotham that Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, was extremely attractive and constantly single. She saw the tabloid covers as she stood in line at the grocery store. She even ran into him outside of a restaurant one time. But his sexual promiscuity was not what bothered her about giving him a private tour. It was more the fact that he was Bruce Wayne, billionaire enigma businessman that seemed to have intimidation come out of his very pores. Who was she to be giving him a tour of the galleries that he often bought from? A no-name artist who worked two jobs, one of which she hated, to make ends meet? That didn’t sound like the kind of girl that should be giving a Wayne tours of anything.

“No I will not, Phoebe, Jesus!” Leena laughed.

“Oh, come on, have you seen him? Plus, you know he’d be open to it. He’s slept with every hot girl in Gotham and beyond.”

“Just cause he’s slept around doesn’t mean he’d be open to swapping spit in a broom closet with a random gallery tour guide.” Leena rolled her eyes. “Maybe he wants just a normal day out. Like anyone else.”

“God, you’re no fun,” Phoebe groaned.

“I think we know from after hours drinks just how fun Leena can be,” Adeline, the front desk girl, pitched in.

Leena rolled her eyes again and smirked. She always told herself, after those nights out, that she would never fall into the temptation of going again. She always got way too drunk, being a lightweight that fell very easily under peer pressure. And because she always got way too drunk, she always ended up doing something she regretted. Like dancing on top of a table, kissing some random person in the dark corner of the bar they frequented, or possibly recreating dance scenes from Chicago with very little success.

“Please stop,” Leena begged with a red face.

“Excuse me ladies.” An older gentleman with an English accent approached the front desk. He looked very nice in a dark suit with white thinning hair. “I’m here for my tour of the gallery.”

“Of course, what’s the name attached to the tour?” Adeline asked.

Phoebe squeezed Leena’s arm and wiggled her eyebrows before she trotted off, back into the gallery. And Leena was about to do the same, but —

“Bruce Wayne. I run his house and am looking for some new work to be put up. I believe I set aside a tour guide already?” the old man said.

“Oh, yes, you did.” Adeline typed on the computer for a moment, giving Leena a bit of side-eye as she did so. “You’ll be touring with Ms. Duckett.”

Leena let out a breath. A sudden wash of relief and disappointment running through her. She knew that the gallery was the place for many of Gotham’s most elite families to buy art for their various homes throughout the world. Rich folk wanting to support local artists. But she had never given a tour to any actual members of those families. It was always the butlers, the house runners, the managers, the publicists even. But they always state that it is the butler or the house runner coming to assess new pieces that have been put up. So when Bruce Wayne’s actual name was logged into the system, Leena really thought it was going to be him walking through the halls of their gallery. Really laying his eyes on the art and choosing it for himself rather than someone else choosing it for him and barely even noticing that it was hung in his manor. The disappointment didn’t last long, however.

Leena stepped towards the old man with a smile. “And I am Ms. Duckett. A pleasure to meet you…”

“Alfred, miss.” He held out his hand and she shook it.

“Well, right this way, Alfred.” She gestured for them to enter the gallery and she began to lead. “We’ll start with our glassworks suite — “

They entered the first room of the gallery. The Shefield Gallery was extensive, housing several different mediums of art from a variety of artists. Pure white walls to off balance the bright pops of color that the artwork created, heightening the customer intrigue. In this first room there were at least fourteen pedestals strewn about the room, each one holding a different piece of glass artwork. Leena liked to look at glasswork, but would probably never attempt creating any herself. Molten glass just seemed a little too dangerous for her taste.

“Actually, sorry to be a bother, but I was hoping to look at something specific on this trip.” Alfred pulled a piece of paper from his suit jacket pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to Leena. “A piece specifically requested by Master Wayne.”

Leena stopped them and took the piece of paper with raised brows. It was a print out from the gallery’s website. Her eyes widened.

That was her painting. Put up in the employee suite of the gallery after much begging and finally the curator taking pity on her for being a slightly hungry artist.

She looked back up at Alfred to see him smiling at her. She quickly regained herself and asked, “Um — are you sure it’s this one that Mr. Wayne wants?”

“Yes. That’s the one.”

With a resigned nod and a thick swallow, Leena led Alfred to the employee suite. She could feel her fingers going numb. Bruce Wayne wanted her painting? Really? He asked for it specifically? She was sure that the old man had to be lying to her for her benefit. Playing some sort of weird joke that ended with her humiliated and a playboy billionaire laughing at the footage of her misfortune. Or maybe there was no farce and the man really did like her painting so much he wanted to buy it and hang it in his home. Leena rubbed at her neck. He would be the first person to ever like her work enough to do so.

They came to the employee suite and Leena stopped them in front of the painting in question. She put her head down as Alfred looked at it. His thin lips were quirked up in a small smile but she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

“Pick your head up, miss,” he said, “I know you painted this.”

“Is that why you asked for me for your tour?” Leena asked.

“It is indeed.” His smile widened. “Master Wayne wanted me to see what kind of person could paint something like that.”

He pointed to the canvas and Leena furrowed her brows. She turned to the painting herself. Was there some vulgar message she, the artist, had missed? No. She couldn’t see it. All she saw was a portrait of Gotham at night. Done in oil paints on a medium sized canvas, Leena had always been told she leaned too far into her impressionist influences. But she couldn’t help it. Ordinary subject matter with a heightened sense of romanticism and color was something that Leena was just drawn too. The painting was Gotham at night, looking out over the skyline with the lights from the offices and apartments shining brightly, as if the viewer were looking down from the highest story of some building or other. In the glowing rooms in the foreground, people could be seen. Families, tired office workers, friends getting together.

She had titled the painting My City.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said, turning back to Alfred.

“Master Wayne sees Gotham as a dark place — a place full of hate, injustice, and cruelty,” Alfred said.

Leena pulled a face. “While I will not disagree with Mr. Wayne — Gotham is full of the worst kinds of things — but it is also still worth saving. And loving. And living in if only to save it and love it more.”

Alfred smiled, a soft and knowing thing that made Leena’s eyes narrow.

“And Master Wayne would agree with that sentiment as well.” He turned to the painting again, hands clasped behind his back. “Which is why he was drawn to your work so much. You share similar views on a city that many have lost faith in — a rare find, especially in art form.”

Leena was puzzled. Bruce Wayne grew up in Gotham, just like she did. But they saw completely different sides of Gotham. Wayne saw only the elite, the rich, the famous side. The side that lived in penthouse suites, owned entire blocks of buildings, and could afford to eat at those fancy restaurants downtown. The faces of Gotham City. While Leena saw the hands and feet, the workers and the heart and soul of Gotham. The side that worked fifty hour weeks, lived in the slums, and had to cut up and burn their own furniture to keep warm. Gotham wasn’t worth saving because of the side that Bruce Wayne saw, that made it worth damnation. Gotham was worth saving because of what Leena saw.

“Um — well — uh — I…I don’t really know what to say. I wish I could tell Mr. Wayne thank you in person.”

Alfred seemed to get an idea. “How about you deliver the painting in person to Wayne Manor? Tomorrow perhaps? You could thank him in person and he would get to meet the artist behind the painting that has captivated him for so long. That is, if you are free, of course.”

“Well, if he wanted to do that he could have come himself today.” Leena couldn’t stop the words before they came out of her mouth.

Her eyes widened as she stared at Alfred. God, she really needed to learn how to control her mouth. She could feel her neck heating up and her face paling all at the same time. Her face scrunched up as she closed her eyes. Maybe if she didn’t look at him he would just go away or she would just sink into the floor. Either option would spare her from the agonizing embarrassment ripping through her right now.

“I’m so — “

Alfred chuckled. He actually started laughing. A polite and somehow very British thing that had Leena’s eyes flying open.

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Ms. Duckett,” he chuckled out, “But Master Wayne has turned into a bit of a recluse as of late. And I really do think he would appreciate meeting you.”

Leena bit down hard on her lip. If it meant making the $500 the painting was priced at, she was willing to do anything honestly. Even it meant borrowing Jamie’s car and meeting the actual Bruce fricking Wayne himself. That was enough money to pay her half of the rent for the month and she only had to do one thing. Not work her ass off at two different jobs. Her need for the money more than outweighed her apprehensions about meeting a billionaire and talking to him about her art and her thoughts on Gotham.

“Alright. Tomorrow at three o’clock. Is that an okay time?”

“Oh, yes. Just in time for tea.”

_______________________________________________________________________

“Please could you stop the noise? I’m trying to get some rest,” Leena sang as she cleaned her paint brushes, “From all the unborn chicken voices in my head!”

She moved back to the canvas she had set up by the windows overlooking the city. Who knew getting a meeting with one of Gotham’s most influential men would give her inspiration for a new painting? The reference photo of Bruce Wayne was tacked into the corner of the canvas. She had gotten the idea on the train ride and subsequent bus ride back to her apartment when her shift at the gallery was over. Something about Bruce Wayne being a recluse and seeing the good in Gotham just gave her a spark of inspiration. A spark of inspiration to lesson her fears about meeting the man by painting him as a vigilante sasquatch.

It was at least making her feel better about the whole thing. Jamie had walked in from her own work shift with many questions about it. But Leena had only held up a finger for patience and put her headphones back in. Jamie knew what that meant. Her roommate had had a weird day and needed to vent through her art.

Leena continued to paint for some time. Lost in the music and the colors and shapes that flowed from her paintbrush. Leena’s mother had given her paints and paper when she was very little as a distracting craft while she tried to clean around the house. But her mother could not have known that that would have sparked a lifelong love for art and painting. A dedication to get better and better and find her own style. Winning contests, medals, and even studying art in college. Leena felt the most at home when she was painting. Felt the most herself when she had a brush in her hand and a vision in her head that just needed to be let out.

This was one of those ideas she just knew would consume her every waking, and possibly sleeping, thought until she got it out and onto the canvas. Vigilante sasquatch Bruce Wayne was going to camp out in her cerebral cortex until she had brought him to life. Trekking through the woods, covered in body hair, wearing a stupid bright red face mask. If he thought the city was so worth saving, then why didn’t he give money to the police department so they had the tools to catch the criminals loose on Gotham’s streets? Why didn’t he donate money to improve Gotham’s infrastructure, education, hospitals, mental health services, or literally anything else besides funneling money into his own company?

If she were to see him right now, she would have a piece of her mind to give him that was —

Her phone started vibrating in the pocket of her apron. Leena groaned. She had gotten into such a good groove, too. She pulled out her iPod first and paused her music. Then she flipped open her phone and held it up to her ear. She didn’t even bother to see who was calling. Her mother usually called around that time of day anyway.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” she asked as she pinched the phone between her cheek and shoulder.

“Uh — “ A distinctly male voice came through. “Sorry, this is John Blake. Were you expecting your mom to call you? Cause I can call back later.”

Oh, God. After realizing that, in her euphoria, she had forgotten to get his number, she had been waiting to hear from him for nearly two days.  

“Oh, shit,” she said, quickly wiping her paint stained hands off on her apron, “Um, no — sorry. Sorry. I wasn’t — with my mom. I can talk now. Officer Blake — John. Officer Blake?”

At the mention of that name, Jamie peeked her head out from the gap in the curtains surrounding her bed with a look of pure interest on her face. Mouth open and her eyebrows raised as she looked across the room. Leena shooed her away with a wave of her hand and an uncontrollable smile.

“You can just call me John,” he laughed, “You getting around okay without the bike?”

“Uh, yeah. Taking the train and the bus — definitely throwing my budget out of whack but — that doesn’t matter…At all.” Leena glanced over at Jamie, still listening in, only to see her roommate roll her eyes.

When did she get so terrible at talking to men?

“Well, I have some good news for you.” Leena could feel her heart jump into her mouth, making her physically stand on tip toe and stare out the window as he continued to speak. “I found it. So — uh, where do you wanna go for our date?”

Leena squeezed her eyes shut, the smile on her face nearly hurting her cheeks as she tilted her head towards the ceiling. Was this really happening? After Jacob, she didn’t know if she would ever find anyone else. If she would be willing to put herself out there like that again. But with John, something felt different. He was safe, kind, and somehow she just knew that he would never hurt her like Jacob did. She twirled around once and she could hear Jamie whispering, asking what was going on. Leena ignored her roommate.

“How about Superdawg?”

Superdawg? Jamie mouthed with an unbelieving face.

“That hotdog place over by Robinson Park?”

���Uh, yeah.”

She heard him chuckle. “Sorry. I just suppose I expected you to pick something a bit more…I don’t know…”

“I’m not a fancy kind of girl, trust me.” Leena laughed. “We could eat and then maybe take a walk around the park or something? If that sounds good to you — I don’t — “

“No, that — that sounds great, actually.  Honestly, kinda glad you didn’t pick something fancy.”

“Okay, cool.” Leena looked over at Jamie with raised brows and a wide smile. “Uh, what time?”

“Saturday — tomorrow at six? I can pick you up?”

“Yeah, that sounds great. I’ll see you then.”

“See you then, Leena.” She loved the sound of him saying her name. “Bye.”

“Bye.” She flipped her phone closed and turned to face Jamie with fists triumphant in the air. “I have a date! And I’m getting my bike back!”

[monst]

Yandere Halloween ask, demon au Hawks or aizawa plan to haunt s/o but realized s/o has no fear?

Yandere! Demon! Aizawa Shouta x reader Hc

Yandere! Demon! Takami Keigo x reader Hc

I did both since I made you wait so long. I hope you like it.

Yandere Demon Aizawa x reader

It all started when you broke that stupid cat jar. It was just some random heirloom that has been passed down through generations. By pure misfortune it was gifted to you for your birthday. “Yay! It’s finally mine.” You had said with a grimace. You hated that thing.

So when it fell off the counter and hit the ground you were only really concerned with making sure you picked up all the glass pieces. You wanted to protect your feet from the torture of picking out glass. Not fun.

”Nice going.” That was the first thing the creature behind you said as you swept the glass shards into the dust pan. They say that on that day you broke the record for the longest sigh.

Of course the stupid cat jar had to be haunted… When you caught sight of the scruffy looking demon you rolled your eyes. “Nice loincloth Tarzan.” It was the start of a beautiful relationship!

The demon Aizawa was lazy by nature and didn’t mind that his new owner didn’t ask him to do much but ‘stay out of the way.’ Well he didn’t mind up until he realized that he really wanted your attention. A couple of centuries in a jar did that to a demon.

But how was he ever going to get your attention when you ignored him? It was literally like he didn’t even exist. It really got on his nerves. He was a creature of darkness for crying out loud! Sure he was under your command for setting him free but the least you could do was show some form of emotion towards him that wasn’t apathy. You hadn’t even flinched when he had appeared…..Odd

With that in mind Aizawa soon became obsessed with trying to unsettle you. He started out small random jump scares and, appearing at random moments. He tried everything from strange sounds that go bump to dead creatures. When that didn’t phase you he took to conjuring grotesque creatures to stalk you.

You befriended the hellhound...He was not amused. What would it take for you to crack? Why hadn’t you called him out on his behavior? What if you were trying to get rid of him?! He definitely couldn’t have that. Maybe if he succeeded in finding out what you feared then maybe he could use that fear to make sure you never thought of getting rid of him. 

That sounded right..Right? If you were scared of spiders you ran to someone who could protect you from them. And, if you ran to him then you’d see him as someone in your life and stop ghosting him. Seriously why’d you have to ignore him all the time. He wouldn’t scheming for your attention you-

Who the hell was that?! You had brought someone to the house. You never did that. You didn’t like dealing with people so who was he? Oh Aizawa knew who he was alright he knew he was leaving. And, it didn’t take long for the demon to spook him away.

After that you finally looked at him. Progress right? Apparently not as different people kept on coming around his house looking for you. Not that scaring them away was an issue. Besides he loved the attention you gave him when he would spook someone away.

Aizawa had long since figured out that there was no scaring you but, if scaring others around you made you scrunch your nose at him and question him he’d take it! Not only that but you two had been talking more often!

He honestly has lost count of how many people he’s scared away. His abilities to make himself invisible were one of his to go to moves and, as he watched the man rushed out he let a smirk settle on his face. But when you turned to look at him, he immediately changed his expression. And, when you gave him that pointed look he just shrugged.

”Shouta why do you always scare the real estate agents away?” You had asked the man one day. You had only asked to see if he finally fessed up. But the demon just averted his eyes. You shook your head. “Shouta if you wanted attention you could have just said so. You know how hard it’s getting to sell this place? Everyone thinks it’s haunted and, the price has been docked.”

”Why do you want to sell? Are you planning on leaving me here or something…” He frowned when you snorted. You would have never guessed he was this needy when you first met.

”You attention seeking idiot I’ve been trying to get a bigger place so you don’t have to sleep on the couch.” You confessed. 

”We don’t need a bigger place.” he grumbled. “This is our home and I like it.” He said. You had complained to him about how you felt bad for him sleeping on the couch. He brushed off your concerns. After all you still had no clue he slept with you in your bed every night after you went to sleep. Oh well what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you right?

Yandere Takami Keigo x reader (Hawks) 

Everyone could have sworn you were the reincarnation of pandora. There was nothing you weren’t curious about. It was both a blessing and a curse. It was this same curiosity that made you open every single box that you laid your eyes on.

So when you went inside the store doing tarot readings with your friends and saw a ‘do not open’ sign a strange box..well you can pretty much guess what you did. You were disappointed when there was nothing inside. ‘It must be a gag’ you had thought.

You had no idea that you unsealed one of the most mischievous demons from his confines. Said demon was also glad that the psychic woman doing the Tarot reading was oblivious to what you had done.

Takami wasn’t really much of a menace but you were really oblivious. He had been following you around for about three weeks. So far he had played small harmless pranks to scare you into sensing his presence. Silly things like moving your things to rearranging your furniture. You made the cutest facial expressions when you found things out of place.

Takami wouldn’t lie he was itching to speak with you but his curse prevented you from seeing him or hearing him for that matter. He also wanted to tell you that you should wear that one set of lingerie you had more often. The red one with the lace trimming…

Takami found himself entranced with you. It’s been months and his ‘pranks’ had escalated bumps in the night making your cat yowl by bothering her. Blood coming down your ceiling, doors opening and closing suddenly. He was at wits end. He craved your attention.

Often he found himself laying on your bed as you scrolled through your phone. He’d speak to you pretending that you two were holding a conversation. At one point when you were showering he left a fogged message on your mirror. It was a cute little confession with a heart. You wiped it away without even noticing. What did he need to do make your furniture float?!

It was a bust...You had assumed that a kohai you had over for tea had accidently used her quirk to make the chairs float. He tried. He really did he even used your t.v to try to speak to you but you just turned it off and called customer support. Takami was ready to cry.

One day he had stayed home while you went to work to arrange another attempt at contact. Oh he was so smitten. He hadn’t lost hope just yet and, using a couple of your lip sticks left a rather cryptic message on your wall. You see you had been crying previously about something that happened at work so on your walls he wrote-

You had friends over. And, Mark. He didn’t like Mark. But he ignored your male friend to greet you like always. Not that you ever heard him but it still made him feel good. When your eyes caught his message he smiled you quirked a brow and mumbled about not remembering doing that. Your friend screamed. He frowned was his message no good? He looked at the words again ‘I’m here with you.’ 

Your friends rushed you out the house. And, when you came back you came in with two people. One was a friend he recognized the other was the psychic. He grinned at the woman “Mrs. Hanami Hi!” The woman froze in shock at the winged demon. “If I remember correctly didn’t you lock me into that box?” He said a menacing grin on his lips as he stepped forwards.

Mrs. Hanami booked it out of there your friend following. You shrugged “Maybe she forgot something.” Takami smiled you were so oblivious. That night like all others Takami layed on your bed with your cat watching as you changed when your phone went off. He stood and leaned over you to hear. After all what was your business was his. He caught your friend say the words ‘haunted’ and ‘evil entity.’ You just laughed that beautiful laugh of your while Takami pretended to hold you. He felt pathetic…

The following morning, he was excited. He moped on your bed the whole day. But when you came back from work you held something that made his heart soar with hope. When you put the oujia board on the table he eagerly sat on the other side waiting for you to speak. “Is anyone there?” It was cute how you disregarded the rules. And, he moved the piece towards yes.

”Wow really? What’s your name?” Takami could almost cry. Once you said his name he would finally become visible to you. T.A.K.A.M.I  K.E.I.G.O. “Takami keigo?” You said.

”It’s about damn time.” He breathed as he smiled wide when your eyes finally landed on him. 

[frodos-bizarre-adventure]

@gingerreggg ooo the lore deepens

Heads Up- Part 10 (Joseph x Bust! Caesar)

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

With Joseph going to university every couple of days, and Suzi visiting often but still usually sleeping at her own home, there were days that Caesar was left home alone.

Joseph had invested in extra door locks to keep him safe, makeshift mini-elevators to help the bodiless bust get up and down the kitchen and living room tables, and put up canvasses and customized paint holders to encourage his fondness for painting to pass the time.

Caesar was a great painter-- especially for someone with no hands.

With much practice in holding a paintbrush in his mouth, something that Caesar found much easier as opposed to colored pencils that broke when pressed too hard, Joseph's artistic masterpieces had begun producing masterpieces of his own. Simple, abstract scribbles at first, but over time began to make art of the things he saw around the house. Still lifes of tables, furniture, windows, in his own crude, mouth-scribbly style.

Today was one such day. Joseph was away at the art school, working on projects of his own. And Suzi hadn't called for today, and probably wasn't coming for a while.

And so Caesar spent his time painting. But he was tired of the things within the confines of the apartment, and opted for a new medium.

Pulling the blinds of the window open with his teeth, Caesar exposed the view of the vacant lot behind Joseph's house. One that was somewhat still a wild region, overgrown with grasses, with a few sparse trees, and further into the horizon, the skyline of the big city with towering skyscrapers that seemed like mere toys from such a distance.

A smile crept across Caesar's face. This seemed like a perfect muse for another painting.

And as Joseph created art with a purpose, he wondered if this was his.

---------

Suzi looked over at the bag Joseph had given her.

She was in her own home, an apartment somewhat smaller than Joseph's. The post-graduate artist hadn't really done very much in the past year, and her house reflected it: it was quite a mess, with many boxes, items and inexplicable odds and ends cluttering every tabletop and shelf, a problem compounded by the artist's somewhat scatterbrained nature at times.

She sat on her couch, typing away at her laptop. She'd been very curious about the past few days about where exactly that design on the bag came from-- definitely a Mesoamerican influence, perhaps some sort of mystical trinket from long ago.

It had been the bag that Joseph had found in his attic, that had contained the lump of clay that had become Caesar. As Joseph had said before, it didn't seem like a particularly special material at first: yet now, given that it literally was alive, there certainly was something unique about it. Especially given that all other clay they attached to Caesar, in their failed attempts to give him a body, had invariably remained lifeless and cold.

And as she scrolled through pictures on her laptop, she happened upon something extraordinary.

A site cataloguing local folklore, with details that seemed oddly familiar.

Legends told in ancient Central America about sacred soils that could channel strange energies. One myth, in particular, caught her attention: a tale of a talented artist who, in her sheer devotion to detail in her work, managed to usher in spirits of inspiration to take new life into her work.

Idols that harbored the souls of the ancestors that led them to convene with their successors generations on.

Suzi scoffed. This seemed like strange superstitious magic, wasn't it?

Yet deep down, as much of a mature, rational woman as she was, a small part deep within her had always believed in magic, wished to believe. Perhaps it was the hopeful, wide-eyed child within her now enveloped in the shell of a responsible adult, that sometimes shone through when she was around people she was comfortable, like Joseph, and now, Caesar too.

Perhaps that was why she wasn't too surprised about Caesar when she first met the living sculpture in Joseph's apartment a couple of weeks earlier.

Because a bit of her had always believed in magic-- and Caesar's very existence served only to confirm it.

---------

Joseph strolled around the art gallery of the university, beholding in wonder at the vast, museum-like halls bearing the works of its many previous students.

Statues, sculptures, paintings and murals of all shapes and styles adorned the walls, platforms and shelves of nearly every corner of the building's interior. Everything was art, they said, and the masterpieces certainly reflected it.

And as much as Joseph was in awe of the beauty of the gallery, something made him uneasy, as he looked at them, especially the sculpted statues that resided in glass cases, carved in eternal repose with their lifeless eyes gazing blankly into empty space.

Would this have been Caesar's fate?

Joseph couldn't bear the thought of Caesar, his roommate, his friend and companion, spending the rest of his existence like this.

What kind of life would that be?

Joseph's disturbed thoughts were interrupted when he bumped into somebody, as he was too preoccupied with the art to look where he was going.

"Oh, I'm sorry, young man," said an old, throaty voice, with a prominent Italian accent. "You need to be careful around here too."

"Apologies, Mr. Zeppeli," Joseph said awkwardly, with an uncertain scratch of his head.

Mr. William Zeppeli was one of the oldest professors in the university, and had long taught the class on the subject of three-dimensional art. Instantly recognizable by his trademark moustache and top hat, Mr. Zeppeli had mentored Joseph in his first year in the university, and was quite familiar with him.

"I'm glad to see you've come so far, Mr. Joestar," Mr. Zeppeli said with a pat on Joseph's back. "I believe you would be graduating this year, are you not?"

Joseph smiled proudly. "I sure will be, sir!"

Mr. Zeppeli gave a warm chuckle. "That's the spirit!" he said. "So, the final project is due next month. What is your grand masterpiece?"

"A bust sculpture," Joseph said impulsively, before realizing he probably shouldn't have said it out loud.

A proud, yet solemn smile emerged on Mr. Zeppeli's weathered features. "Come with me," he told Joseph.

He led Joseph towards the hall of statues, where Joseph was amazed to see a vast array of clay figures, of people, objects and places, all impressively detailed even for him. Sculptures of birds in flight, each feather intricately carved in astonishing perfection. Miniature models of famous landmarks around the world, such as a replica of the Colosseum in Rome. Faces of people molded in clay, so expressive they seemed they almost could speak.

Something that, at this point, wouldn't have surprised Joseph anymore.

"He would have loved to meet you," Mr. Zeppeli said woefully. "I've seen some of the sculptures you've made before and they remind me of him so much."

"W-who?" Joseph asked, curious at the person Mr. Zeppeli had referred to.

"My grandson," replied the old teacher with a bittersweet note in his voice.

"He went to this school a decade ago, and was one of the best students this institution had ever known. All these, the figures you see before you, are his creations, and I...I am proud to call him my grandson," said Mr. Zeppeli, as he wiped away a tear.

The old professor gestured to a small sign next to the case displaying his grandson's masterpieces. "He was a jolly fellow, if not without a strange sense of humor. You two might have become friends."

Joseph looked closely at the sign. There was something very familiar.

And as its contents sank in, his heart nearly stopped.

"IN MEMORY OF ANTHONIO ZEPPELI (1983-2008), GONE BUT FOREVER REMEMBERED," said the caption.

But what captured his attention, and struck him to the very center of his being, was the picture of the late artist displayed on the sign.

He had no pink cheek marks, and he, of course, had a body.

But he was, unmistakably and otherwise identically, Caesar.

"Is--is this him?" gasped Joseph in disbelief.

"I guess you'd recognize that face," Mr. Zeppeli gave a faint laugh. "Remember that statue of Julius Caesar displayed here, several years ago? He based it off himself. That isn't even remotely close to what the real Julius Caesar looked like, he was a talented, if strange, boy who found it amusing to stick his own likeness onto his art."

Julius Caesar, Joseph thought. His reference.

He felt a strange sensation, as if his whole world was suddenly shattered, and was slowly piecing itself back together like a jigsaw puzzle, into a new reality that seemed way too fateful for his peace of mind.

"Uh...uh...I just suddenly remembered I have a class to go to," said a flustered Joseph, quickly conjuring up an alibi. "See you later, Mr. Zeppeli!" he said, and promptly dashed off in a hurry.

-------

"Jojo? You would not believe what I just found," Suzi said, as she entered Joseph's house later that evening.

"Well, you wouldn't believe what I found out today," Joseph replied, with a shell-shocked look on his face.

Suzi was taken aback. "Looks like you've seen some serious stuff," she gasped. "Y-you go first."

"Do you know a certain Anthonio Zeppeli?" Joseph asked her.

"As in...the student who died a while back?" she said. "I've...I've heard of him, he was talked about a couple of times by my friends one year ahead of your batch. And about...what happened to him."

Caesar, who at just the right moment, had been bouncing by, was intrigued. "Happened to who?" he asked, pausing in his tracks.

Suzi sat down on the sofa. "They say he was a student from a few batches prior. He was a talented sculptor who was great at working with clay, marble, concrete..."

"Yeah, I've seen his stuff," interjected Joseph.

"Well, the thing is, they told he had been commissioned to carve a mural into a hotel's front lobby, nearly ten years ago," she told. "He was perched up on a ladder, chipping away at the wall, when suddenly, he broke a support on a stone ornament, shaped like a cross--"

"--and he was so startled when it began to topple, that he stumbled right off his ladder, fell to his death...and then the stone cross fell and landed right on top of him."

Joseph winced. That sounded like a terrible way to go.

"Well, there's something you wouldn't believe," Joseph said, pulling out a yearbook he'd borrowed from the library. Look at his face."

Suzi leaned closer for a look, and gasped in shock.

"I'd never seen what he'd looked like, but...but..."

"Caesar. It's you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Caesar exclaimed. "I can't see anything from down here!"

Suzi picked up the bust with some effort and rested him onto the tabletop. He hopped over to the book to check out what all the commotion was about--

--and was silent for an uncomfortably long time.

"See, this is what I was gonna tell you," Suzi said. "I'd been reading on the design on the bag that you found Caesar's clay in. There were legends in ancient Mesoamerica that artists who were talented enough would be able to usher in spirits of predescessors into idols of a special sacred clay to serve as inspiration," she said.

"And maybe, just maybe, Caesar is alive-- because he is Anthonio Zeppeli's soul."

"So am I a ghost?!" Caesar screamed in terrified confusion, hopping backwards a few bounces from sheer terror. "I'm a dead man in a clay head?!" he cried, disturbed by the revelation.

"More like a reincarnation," Suzi explained. "The legends told that they became spirit guides to their creators, that they held the wisdom and knowledge of the past, but remembered little of their past lives-- rather, they carried over some traits, but were their own, unique person."

"Did they have bodies?" Joseph asked right off the bat.

"Yes... you were just unlucky to not have enough clay," she added.

Caesar groaned in frustration.

"You know, I honestly wouldn't have believed some ancient mythology," Joseph said, "but given I've been living with a talking, walking sculpture--"

"Not exactly walking," Caesar corrected.

"...er, bouncing, sculpture for the last couple of weeks, I'd take any explanation at this point." he admitted.

"I think he chose you, Joseph," Suzi said with a smile.

Caesar looked at Anthonio's picture in the yearbook, and saw only himself. The same green eyes, blond hair, unmistakable face. He lacked the pink cheek patches, however, which Joseph admitted he'd tacked on to Caesar just for kicks. Anthonio had a body.

Could he really be Anthonio Zeppeli returned from the dead? Caesar pondered. If that was true, he remembered nothing of being Anthonio.

The idea of having once been a living human unsettled Caesar.

But at the same time, he couldn't help but feel oddly vindicated.

He'd wondered often recently why he even existed, as just another of Joseph's art. What use did he serve?

But now he wondered, upon hearing of Suzi's tale-- maybe this was his purpose.

--------

(Previous Chapter)

(Next Chapter)

[morethanaprincess-a]

@hcpefulmarshmallow​ said: "I look good in a crown." (Prince Consort Ko!!!)

Send "I look good in a crown" for my muse's reaction to yours suddenly becoming royalty (No Longer Accepting)

"You know that it is custom to ask the King for a wedding gift after a proposal has been formally announced."

"I am aware, father. I only wish for two things from you and our country."

"Oh? Why do I have the feeling that your requests are not part of the Novoselic Crown Jewels?"

"Because all I want is for Nagito to have somewhere he knows he belongs: I want for him to have a proper home and a family. That is the wedding present I desire from you and our country."

***

Perhaps she should've been more specific. That was Sonia's thought as she navigated the underground corridors of Novoselic Castle. It was quicker than being driven around the vast building to the Royal Family's private entrance and she didn't dare cross through the rooms open to the public at this hour. As gracious as she tried to be with her time, greeting visitors she happened to come across as she went about her day, the Princess of Novoselic was in no mood to slow down.

After all, they'd been delivered today. She'd been on a visit to the capital's police headquarters when Cecily had discreetly whispered the news to her: after all the planning she'd tried to do so she could be with him when they were unboxed, and it had still been brought to their wing of the Castle while she attended an official royal appearance. While it was likely the least overwhelming aspect of Nagito's life in the past seven or eight months, that wasn't saying much. The official engagement announcement had propelled both of their lives forward, in responsibilities, in public opinion, faster than any roller coaster she'd ever tried in her life. In the blink of an eye, the most romantic time in her life had turned into interview after interview, endless media coverage and speculation, and more knick-knacks featuring their likenesses and wedding date than she even knew to exist. She'd been born into this and she still found it peculiar that people were buying dish towels with their faces on it. She hadn't really known how to explain it to him in a way that made sense.

But she had more pressing matters than rationalizing why t-shirts, tote bags, and china sets emblazoned with their appearances were selling faster than shops could stock them. From the first interview, opinions ranged from her own family to the servers at the café they both loved to visit in disguise: Princess Sonia's fiancé was too thin, too pale, with strange hair and such a quiet and awkward personality. He'll never outshine his wife, that's for sure. And no real family to speak of? They met at the Princess' private school in Japan, but what makes him special enough to be the other half to the Royal Love Story? The official biographer had her work cut out for her, and a month before the wedding had embellished their courtship to be a fairy tale fit for a princess, with a dashing, brave hero who rescued Sonia's heart from loneliness. At least, her mother had said to both Sonia and the biographer, they could play up the fact he wasn't poor. If the public opinion varied, the Royal Family's opinion was even more polarizing.

Passing her favorite wine cellar and her occult room, Sonia took the spiral stone staircase two at a time, her pale hand gripping the banister. Their temporary wing of Novoselic Castle was smaller than most and rather drafty, but at least it was further away from both her mother and father's sets of rooms. Outfitted in the favored shades of light green and gold, she'd promised Nagito that it was only going to be their home for a little while, while Boudry House, the capital's official Royal Residence, was being renovated. Taking up an entire city block, that had been the first gift her father had given them: a home with ten bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms, five offices, a formal and an informal dining room, a library, a study, a sitting room, an entertainment room, a full kitchen and pantry, and more, not to mention the staff to maintain it, including their personal assistants, secretaries, and security. This was still smaller and less luxurious than Novoselic Castle itself, but at least it would be theirs to call their own. That was enough to excite her, though when she'd taken Nagito there for the first time, she was sure he'd adore the garden. The house bordered the capital's largest and busiest park, with a section of greenery fenced off with large hedges just for the house's use. They could plant what they liked, or arrange outdoor furniture into a private oasis from the hustle of royal life. It was the perfect place for their future pets, and eventually children, to appreciate and enjoy nature, quiet and tranquil.

"Nagito?" She called out softly, pushing the painting of her 16th century ancestors aside. The underground passages were supposed to be hidden, but he was family now. Her family, and Sonia had taken every opportunity she could to show him how to move about the castle with little to bother him. Stepping through, she looked across the room to him, or rather his retreating back as he seemingly stood in front of the full-length mirror, with a gentle smile. There was little doubt he was admiring, or at least in shock by, the second gift. "I returned home as fast as I could. I'm so sorry I couldn't have been by your side when they arrived."

She was probably one of the only people in the world who still called him 'Nagito.' When she'd brought him to meet her family for the first time and when they'd gotten engaged, he'd been referred to as 'Mr. Komaeda.' But now he was royal by marriage, from titles her father had warmly, kindly, bestowed upon him on their wedding day. Informally, he was 'Nagito Komaeda' but the world knew him by 'His Royal Highness' and the dukedom he now held. For all the speculation the media had made over his new titles, insisting the King of Novoselic had been too generous by giving Nagito the title of Prince, it had all been done to fulfill Sonia's request: that he would have a family where he belonged.

But the decision had been agreed upon at the very last minute, far before the official medals and insignias could be crafted for their nuptials. So while he wore the proper non-military wedding attire, complete with white tie and morning coat, the decoration he'd worn, seen across the world, had been antiques from the Novoselic National History Museum. The pieces had been selected to closely resemble the real ones he'd eventually wear for the most formal of occasions and couldn't be discernible from far away, but that hadn't mattered: up close, her family and the aristocracy still whispered that the new prince was wearing someone else's earned titles and achievements the day he married Princess Sonia. Picking over his hair, no matter how elegantly he'd tied it back, and his posture no longer was enough to amuse them.

But today would change everything. Today, the official medals and ribbons for his new titles had arrived, fashioned in a royal design that she'd insisted he help with. Something that signified he was part of her family now but still retained a design that was uniquely his. That when he looked down, he'd never forget that he was no longer alone. While her entire family hadn't completely warmed to him yet, they were coming around. He was hers, and he was here to stay.

Surely he could see her in the mirror as she crept up behind him, and yet Sonia hardly cared. Instead she moved to his side, placing a kiss upon his cheek as the gold, emeralds, and diamonds of his new accessories sparkled, reflecting the light from the chandelier. "You look beautiful," She whispered in his ear. "Welcome to the family, my love."

[butterbeeryuta]

the ikea guy

ikea employee!yangyang x uni student!reader | oneshot series | fluff, CRACK| 1.9 k

Fuck Kim Doyoung. Fuck his boyfriend. Fuck the weak ass tv rack you bought. Fuck the human’s Id taking control over people. Fuck humanity.

The last thing you wanted to see was your roommate and his boyfriend, who were both barely clothed by the way, trying to fix the already broken tv rack you bought 2 years ago when you moved out of the dorms to a new apartment 8 minutes away from your university. Short story short, the two men were busy doing their shit— which you honestly did not mind since you yourself bring home some guys to, you know, have fun with. But what you could not understand was why they had to do in your living room, against the tv rack. All you could remember was screaming at Doyoung, while Taeyong was there apologising, but you knew that the little devil was internally laughing, finding the entire situation hilarious. Your roommate, on the other hand, was not giving a shit about what you were saying, which was normal for the two of you. Ever since he moved in with you in your second year, both of you had an interesting relationship. Despite your arguments with one another and ‘uncaringness,’ assuming that is a word, the two of you still looked after another. A month or so ago, Doyoung kept you up all night since he was busy having a little drinking party in his room, and his friends were loud. Especially that Jaehyun guy; his laugh alone could honestly wake up the entire neighbourhood. Then again, Doyoung’s laugh is pretty ugly too considering he literally laughs like, ‘ha ha ha ha ha ha.’ I swear, you love Doyoung. Anyways, Doyoung nicely mailed all of your professors the next day that you were feeling unwell, allowing you to stay in and sleep a bit more. Except, he told you about it while you were rushing to the door to run to your lessons. You two were interesting.

Eventually, Doyoung apologised and gave you the money to purchase a better tv rack. You were expecting him to buy it for you, then again, he was Kim fucking Doyoung. He just ain’t like that. So here you were, at motherfucking Ikea. Every child’s nightmare, including yours. Your aim was to find the cheapest tv rack, yet still pretty good in quality. You were not the type to give a damn about the aesthetics and things; if it’s going to help you store your shit, that’s all you needed. Which is probably why you hated furniture shopping, you could never appreciate the so-called ‘beauty’ of it. Following the arrows printed on the grey floor, buying the tv rack was more complex than you thought. There was black, white, yellow, brown, wooden, grey— more colours than you could have ever imagined. You honestly just wanted the cheapest one at this point, forget quality. Everything else was giving you a headache. Without wanting to use more of your brain cells, perhaps for now, socialising will make it less painful, even if you really hated people as of this moment. Looking around for a person wearing the yellow and blue striped shirt with a name tag on, you eventually found the person you were looking for. Not too tall, but he wasn’t short either. Well, at least he won’t be intimidating.

‘Um, excuse me—‘

‘Ma’am the hotdogs and ice cream are available after you purchase your materials at the cashier.’

What. What the fuck?

‘What?’ The guy turned to look towards you, unamused with whatever you currently had to say. Your eyes slightly widened by his appearance, but you swear to your kneecaps if he remains to be like this, you’re going to bite.

‘You’re looking for the food right? Just pay for whatever stuff you have now and—‘

‘Why the hell would I want to buy food here, I just want to know the cheapest tv rack you have in this store’ you interrupted, not willing to hear any of his bullshit, despite him having a pretty face. Now it was his turn to be taken back by what you said. Goodness, how long has this imbecile been working here?

‘Oh um… yeah I don’t know. Maybe if you’ll look around you’ll know?’ Oh you’ve got to be kidding. Not wanting to waste more time on this pretty idiot, you looked at his name-tag to tell off to another Ikea employee. You were not having it today. See you later Yangyang.

—————————————————————————————————

Okay. Apparently people who work in this nightmare of a furniture store take their shit seriously. You just went to another person to complain about Yangyang, and here you are, at the manager’s office. Literally, what the fuck.

‘I would like to apologise on his behalf again, he’s new here. He does not know what exactly he is doing, but I can assure you the rest of the staff here are kind and willing to help. I sincerely apologise that you had to experience such unacceptable behaviour from our staff’ the manager said, bowing his head for the nth time. You honestly wanted to leave and just purchase the tv rack online; you wanted that Ikea guy to not be a dick— that’s why you complained. What you didn’t want is the poor guy to be fired from his job.

‘No, no, please don’t worry. I’m pretty sure he is a good natured person, probably just had a bad day—‘

‘No, that is utter nonsense! We will get this settled now. Please take a seat Ms. ________’ he said, moving his rather puffy face towards the black microphone, pressing the green button with his stubby fingers. Oh no.

‘Liu Yangyang please come to Mr. Park Yoobin’s office. Liu Yangyang please come to Mr. Park Yoobin’s office, now.’ What have I done.

—————————————————————————————————

You were annoyed that you put yourself into this mess. But the guy beside you, if looks could kill, you would have probably woken up in hell by now. You felt bad, you didn’t want this to happen at all. Like you said, you just complained about Yangyang being ‘not helpful’ when you asked him a question to another man that was slightly shorter than you. You expected no reaction at all, you just did it cause you were in a bad mood thanks to Doyoung and his boyfriend. That was of course, until the older man gasped loudly, shocked to hear the words that came out of your mouth. Today was a really bad day.

‘Mr. Liu, I know that this is your second week working here, but that gives no excuse to treat a lovely customer like Ms. ________ poorly. Even if you didn’t know where a certain furniture piece is, you could have made the effort to look for it with her.’ Mr. Park said, his eyebrows furrowing even more as he spoke. It was quite a funny sight from where you were sitting. Then again, this was not a funny situation, you hated every minute of it because not only is it wasting your time, but you could possibly be the reason why this Ikea guy will lose his job.

Yangyang felt pretty guilty for assuming in an instance that you were wanting to ask for food, when you actually had a pretty genuine question. He also felt useless for not helping you effectively, but he didn’t want this job at all. He wanted to work at the cafe near his university, instead of travelling for another 30 minutes just to be in the corner and see people search for furniture to build their so-called ‘dream home.’ Although he did not exactly have anything against an aesthetic appeal or such, he did judge people like that. And little did he know, so were you. Then again, he didn’t exactly care about that at this point. He wanted to stay away from you as soon as possible for putting him in such a position. He already felt bad for not helping you properly, and maybe he somewhat understood why he was sitting in the manager’s office, but literally, what the fuck.

‘Mr. Park, I honestly did not mean to show such disrespect to the customer. I do admit that I was being a know-it-all, thinking that she— what’s your name again?’ He asks me, actually talking to me for the first time since he walked into the room.

‘Um, ________—‘

‘Ms. ________ wanted to go to the food court. And as you said, I have only been here for 2 weeks. I am still unsure of where certain things are, and I perhaps should have helped Ms. ________, so yes, I do sincerely apologise.’ My, my, was he good at saying bullshit.

‘Mr. Liu I appreciate your honesty, and you should really be grateful for Ms. ________ for being so kind, wanting to make sure that nothing happens to you’ the man in front of you said, both his hands interlocking one another as he looks at his employee. And although you were looking at Mr. Park, you certainly did not miss the widening of Yangyang’s eyes. He must be thinking that I was a hypocritical psycho bitch. He isn’t wrong with that at all though.

‘Um, Mr. Park. If you really want to make it up for me, I just really need the tv rack. My roommate is paying for it, so considering that, it really urgent for me to go soon. I’m sure Yangyang was just having a bad day, so please, give the boy a second chance.’ You began packing your things, eventually standing up, not wanting to hear any more rebuttals from the Ikea manager. You had enough.

‘Ms. ________ hold on—‘ And you closed the door. Fucking rat, why couldn’t he leave me alone and deal with his employee privately?

—————————————————————————————————

You finally got the cheapest tv rack available from Ikea, completely contradicting yourself earlier when you said you would’ve rather shopped online. With the amount of cash Doyoung gave you, Ikea was probably a better choice.

‘Hey, you!’ What the fuck?

You turned around, and of course, it was the Ikea guy, but he wasn’t wearing his uniform. And he looked so much more attractive, no matter how much you didn’t want to admit it. With his dyed hair swept to the side and his oversized knit turtle neck, he looked so much… softer and calmer. Well that contrasted with his character. You crossed your arms, waiting for the man to come closer.

‘What was that about? Look, I know I didn’t help you and I do feel quite guilty about it, but was it really that necessary to—‘

‘Before you act like a dick again, I didn’t want it to happen either. I’m a petty ass person, and though it wasn’t mandatory to tell on you, which I’m sorry for by the way, you annoyed me despite how pretty you look. I’m pretty sure you still have your job, and I got my tv rack. So let’s just forget all of this happened, and move on with our petty lives— are you okay? Did I say something wrong’ Why is he looking at me like that?  He just smiled at me, tilting his head slightly, and it’s making you feel warm for some reason.

‘Well since you said that we both live petty lives, and called me pretty so thank you for that, let me take this—‘ he says, tearing the tv rack box open, grabbing one of the rack’s legs, which only made you stand in complete astonishment; what the mcfucking hell was he doing? ‘—and well, somehow find me babe!’ Yangyang shouts, walking away from you quicker and quicker.

‘GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE, AND RETURN MY FUCKING LEG!’

‘By the way, I also think you look pretty!’ He’s worse than Kim Doyoung. He is actually so much worse than Kim Doyoung.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hey! I was wondering if you could recommend me some johnlock fanfics, smut (better if there is one based on the scene of TSoT when Sherlock and John were drunk) but short, just to read like in and hour or kind of. I have never read one so waiting for you answer!

Hi NONNY OMG I’M SO SORRY!!!

You’ve been waiting a long time and I LEGIT just found this post in my inbox. I’m so sorry!!!

AHHHHH okay, ah, you just reminded me that I need to do my “Johnlock for Newcomers” fic recs that I was asked for AGES ago, and because the previous asks were for non-smut, I’m going to use this opportunity to do the SMUT ONES. But I’ve a lot, so…. let’s go with shorter fics, since you want quick reads!!

Ah, this is exciting, and I hope that you are still around and I am SO SORRY for being a dick and missing this ask…. it’s giving me something for today’s Fic Rec Sunday because I didn’t have any other long lists ready so YAY.

Hope you enjoy, and let me know if you need anything else!!

These are just my suggestions for what a newcomer may enjoy :)

I also have these lists for you too if you’re looking for some other Short Reads:

MY LISTS:

Ten Fave Short Johnlock Fics (Easy Reads April 2018)

Fics Under 2000 w. 

Fics Under 2000 w. Pt. 2

Hurt / Comfort Pt. 1: Under 5K Words

Morning Sex (Short Fics)

Short Fluff and Pure Love (Masterpost)

Angry Sex Shorter Fics (Masterpost)

OTHERS’ LISTS:

Quick Reads Before Bed (Alexx)

Short Porny Fics (Alexx)

Other People’s Faves 2018: Short Fics / Self Recs (swissmissficrecs)

JOHNLOCK FOR NEWCOMERS (E-RATED / SMUT) Pt. 1 

UNDER 20K WORDS

Caught by Salambo06 (E, 1,859 w., 1 Ch. || Frottage, First Time / Kiss, Bed Sharing, Wet Dreams, POV John, Masturbation) – A hotel room. They’re here for a case, hadn’t planned to spend the night and ended up sharing a room. No, sharing a bed. Suddenly John is very much aware of his own hand closed around his hard cock and the ragged breathing next to him. Closing his eyes for the briefest second, John dares to turn his head just enough to confirm what he already knows. Sherlock, on his side, watching him.

A Study in Lace by KarlyAnne (E, 2,320 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Crafty Sherlock, Tiny Lace Panties / Lingerie, Domestics, Experiments, Oral, Masturbation) – “Why do you suppose he was doing that?” “Why do I suppose who was doing what?” “The room. The lace. The secrecy. He was playing with fire in everything he did, and didn’t care one bit. But he had a secret chamber, carefully concealed, solely for the purpose of making lace lingerie. Obviously for personal use. Why?“ Part 1 of The Unintentional Crafts of Sherlock Holmes

Where You Are by Mazarin221b (E, 2,478 w., 1 Ch. || Beach Sex, First Time, Fluff, Smut, Holidays, Pining) – He can admit he’s secretly a little glad Sherlock didn’t come with him. He needs a break. Sherlock is a handful at the best of times, and the near-constant apologizing, fixing, dealing-with, and following up on is exhausting. The near-constant unrequited attraction is a bit exhausting, too, to be honest, and John could really use a tiny bit of rest from the relentless hammering on his brain and heart.

What He’s Like by magikspell (E, 2,919 w., 1 Ch. || Love Confessions, Fluff, First Time, Inexperienced Sherlock) – Realistic first time. They love each other so much.

Pillow Talk by 221b_hound (E, 2,925 w., 1 Ch. || Post-HLV, Est. Rel., Preening Sherlock, Limpet Sherlock, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Sex on Furniture, Scent Kink, Masturbation, Fluff, Soft Sherlock) – John gets home late from work and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. John walks through the flat, distracted by memories of all the excellent sex they’ve been having, and finally finds Sherlock asleep in the upstairs room - apparently having fallen asleep mid-wank while inhaling the scent of John’s pillow. Well, you should always finish what you start, John thinks… Part 3 of Lock and Key

Bathroom Accessories by Evenlodes_Friend (E, 3,324 w., 1 Ch. || Sex Toys, Butt Plug, First Kiss / Time, Romance, Horny Sherlock, John’s Patience Wears Thin, Humour, Bottomlock) – John discovers that Sherlock has been playing with some very adult toys in the bath.

Come home. by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles) (E, 3,763 w., 1 Ch. || Texting / Sexting, Lonely Sherlock, Nude Photos, Pining, Fluff & Smut) – When John leaves for a medical conference, Sherlock tries to entice him back home.

Happy anniversary by Salambo06 (E, 3,772 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Vulnerable Sherlock, Wedding Anniversary, Anal, Texting, Lingerie) – John inhaled deeply, feeling his cock pulse under the silk gown, and he let his eyes travel on the lean body in front of him. Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, their bed, and the picture had been taken so John could perfectly see his bare chest and pelvis. But what mattered most, what made John harden rather quickly, was the pair of panties Sherlock was wearing in the picture. Black, string over each hip and laces that outlined Sherlock’s erect cock barely hidden under the soft underwear.

Coldness/Heat by agirlsname (E, 3,790 w., 1 Ch. || Cuddling & Snuggling, Body Heat, New Year’s Eve, PWP, Bedsharing, Frottage) – The inn is booked up on New Year’s Eve. The train home is cancelled because of the snow. The only option is to sleep in the non-heated guest room of a client, and John and Sherlock are freezing.You know where this is going. Part 1 of New Year’s Kiss

Upon Waking by joolabee (E, 3,901 w., 1 Ch. || Mild Dub Con, Magical Realism, Angst, Somnophilia) – It sets on slow: John can only be awake while Sherlock sleeps, and vice versa. Their lives are codependent, but never meeting. Like a set of scales.

Love and Hair Dye by WhimsicalEthnographies (E, 3,920 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Body Worship, Self Conscious John, Voyeurism, Idiots in Love, Smutty Smut) – Self conscious John decides to cover the greys on his head, and the colour isn’t what he thought it would be. Now he’s more self-conscious than ever.

Someone Else’s Heart by thisprettywren (E, 4,188 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, H/C, POV Sherlock, Caretaking John, Pining Idiots) – A crime scene, a rainstorm, and something they both should have known all along.

See Recipe for Details by pandoras_chaos (E, 4,981 w., 1 Ch. || Oral / Anal Sex, Food, PWP, Fingerfucking) – John knows Sherlock’s mouth will never water over the sweet smells of baking chocolate biscuits or a lovely roast chicken, but he’s watched Sherlock nick mince pies out of Mrs. Hudson’s fridge often enough to deduce that the man does have taste, albeit confusing and obscure. So John makes a list: Things Sherlock Likes

Every Little Thing by the_beekeeper_of_sussex (E, 5,066 w., 2 Ch. || First Time / Kiss, Fluff, Frottage, Come as Lube, Embarassed Sherlock, Porn With Feelings) – When Sherlock walks in on John making tea wearing nothing but a tight pair of boxer-briefs things get a little heated…physically and emotionally.

Nothing So Sweet by alexxphoenix42 (E, 5,275 w., 1 Ch. || Shopkeeper AU || Beekeeping, Sussex, Alternate First Meeting, Awkward First Time Sex, Self-Consciousness / Body Insecurity, Fluff, Hand Jobs) – In an alternate universe, Sherlock is busy keeping to himself, tending his bees, and selling lovely jars of honey when a soldier limps into his life quite unexpectedly. Part 1 of The Sweetest Things

a very soft epilogue (my love) by darcylindbergh (E, 5,395 w., 3 Ch. || Retirement, Domestic Fluff, Dancing, Dogs, Grumpy Old Men) – Across the pillows, Sherlock shifts and hums, the creases of his face deepening and then smoothing before settling. John watches him wake up, his chest swelling with affection and fondness, and thinks he’ll never get tired of Sherlock in the mornings, sleepy and soft. It’s been some forty-odd years, and John hasn’t gotten tired of it yet. Part 5 of things fairy tales are made of

Caffeine and Adaptive Programming by DemonicSymphony (E, 5,540 w., 1 Ch. || Androids AU / Bond Fusion || Android Sherlock, Coffee Shop AU, Pining John Hinted Bond / Q, Toplock) – Sherlock is a coffee shop android slowly falling for a regular customer. But he’s not supposed to be able to feel emotions.

Tease You Till You Come by phoenix089 (E, 6,090 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Clueless Sherlock, Sexting/Texting) – Initially, Sherlock was rather put out by John’s lack of presence on the case. But then he starts to receive pictures, several of them, of an unexpected nature. The case is forgotten rather quickly after that.

My First, My Only, and My Forever by vintagelilacs (E, 6,220 w., 1 Ch. || Post-ASiB, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Bum, John’s Scar, Sherlock POV, Body Worship, Fingering, Bottomlock, Promise of Forever / Proposals, Misunderstanding, First Kiss/Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Seduction) – Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. And then it hit him. John Watson was aroused.

Just a Touch by MissDavis (E, 6,248 w., 4 Ch. || Bed Sharing, Masturbation, First Time/Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Sharing a Room) – John has trouble falling asleep these days. There’s one thing he can do that always seems to help, but he’s stuck in this hotel room with Sherlock and doesn’t think he’ll get the chance. How will he ever find relief and a good night’s sleep?

The Effect of Memory by testosterone_tea (E, 6,430 w., 1 Ch. || Praise Kink, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, Love Confessions, Confused Sherlock) – John has temporary amnesia coming off of anaesthesia after an operation and not only does he not recognize Sherlock, he starts flirting with him! After John recovers, he doesn’t remember the incident at all. But Sherlock does. Confusion ensues.

The Death of Doubt by Gingerhermit (E, 6,584 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate Canon, BAMF John, POV Sherlock, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Hurt/Comfort, Angst/Drama, Meddling Mycroft) – Mycroft asks for John’s help in rescuing Sherlock from his Serbian captors.

An Interpretation of Viewing Habits by akitsuko (E, 6,653 w., 1 Ch. || Porn Watching, Masturbation, Anal, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Declarations of Love, Jealous Sherlock, Fantasizing, John in Denial / Internalized Homophobia, Bottomlock, Pining Idiots, Sherlock Has No Boundaries, Cockblocking Sherlock) – John watches porn. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do. If every video he watches happens to feature actors with remarkable physical similarities to his flatmate, well, that’s no one’s business but his own. Or: John is in denial, until his infatuation with Sherlock is impossible to deny anymore.

Fa Subito by kim47 (E, 6,659 w., 1 Ch. || Suit Porn, Cockblocker Mycroft, Obsessed Sherlock, PWP) – John wears a suit. Sherlock finds it extremely distracting.

Inside by magikspell (E, 6,757 w., 1 Ch. || Loss of Virginity, Anal / Rimming, Fluff, Humour, Awkwardness, Shy Sherlock, Bottomlock) – "Being inside someone. Feeling someone inside you.”

Abatement by WhimsicalEthnographies (E, 6,816 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Retirementlock, Fluff, Sherlock’s Self Esteem, Grumpy Sherlock, Idiots in Love, PWP, Fluff and Smut, Bottomlock) – “What’s wrong with you? You love the cottage,” John glances over to the passenger seat, then quickly turns his eyes back to the road. Driving was still not his forte, but considering Sherlock still couldn’t properly bend and lift his new knee enough to press and release the clutch, he had to make do. Not that Sherlock hadn’t tried to argue his way into the driver’s seat. “I love the cottage for a week or two, John. Don’t be deliberately obstuse,” Sherlock grumbles, sinking further in his seat. Well, as best he can with a four-week-old knee replacement. “And that’s all we’re going for, love,” John says out loud. But what he’s thinking is, shit. He knows.

Full Disclosure by Itsallfine (E, 7,032 w., 1 Ch. || Bars & Pubs, Fake Relationship, First Kiss / Time, Love Confessions, John’s Army Mates, Three Continents Watson, Semi-Public Sex) – John’s army mates get together for the first time post-discharge and invite John “Three Continents” Watson to join them. If John shows up alone, he knows he’ll be the object of non-stop ridicule all night. Sherlock plays along. John tests the waters.

Of Razors, Pipes, Red Notebooks and Rugby Jerseys, Or: Sherlock Doesn’t Like His Doctors Clean Shaven by allonsys_girl (E, 7,313 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., PWP / Porn With Feelings, John’s Beard / Beard Kink, Roleplay, Love Declarations, Banter, Rimming, Anal, Domestic Fluff / Bliss, Idiots in Love, Emotional Lovemaking, Pet Names, Obsessive Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Bottomlock, Cranky Sherlock) – John grows a beard. Sherlock really likes it. Part 1 of Consulting Husbands

I can’t pretend by Salambo06 (E, 7,692 w., 1 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Victor Trevor, Jealous John, Miscommunications, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Anal, BJs) – They had arrived more than a hour ago, and the moment they had walked inside the hotel reception, John had understood why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to come. Two men, posh suits and expensive watches on their wrists, had come to greet them with sharp remarks and badly hidden mockery, and John had seen red. Sherlock hadn’t said anything, mostly ignoring the two men entirely, and without thinking twice about it, John had slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and introduced himself as his husband.

My Life for His by QuinnAnderson (E, 8,816 w., 1 Ch. || Guardian/Protector, Greek Mythology || Growing Up, Sex, Religious Themes, Suicide, Minor Character Death) – It began when Sherlock was eight, and he attempted to climb all the way up to the highest branch in the old willow tree in his back garden. He’d thought he was still small enough that it could support him, but the second he’d grabbed hold of it to pull himself up, the branch snapped, and down he went, plummeting a solid twenty metres.The odd thing was, he never actually hit the ground.

With This Ring by Quesarasara (E, 9,121 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Marriage Proposal, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Embarrassing Hospital Visits) – Sometimes even the best of plans go wrong. And sometimes wrong turns out to be exactly right.

Inked in Memory by 221b_hound (E, 9,716 w., 2 Ch. || Post-HLV, Tattoos, First Kiss / Time, Anal, Cuddling, Scars, Captain John, Kissing, Switchlock) – John has been back at Baker Street for a year, following the debacle that ended in Mary’s death. Things are good. Back almost to what they used to be. Sherlock might wish they were something else, now, but he only has himself to blame, he thinks. It’s too late, now, for the things he first denied before he’d ruined any chances he might have had. Sherlock also thinks that people who get tattoos are idiots. But perhaps he’s about to learn a thing or two, not least of which might be it’s not as late as he thinks it is. Part 1 of Lock and Key

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by cypress_tree (E, 10,669 w., 1 Ch. || UST/RST, For an Experiment) – John helps Sherlock with an experiment: for an entire month, they are not allowed to touch each other and must remain at least one metre apart at all times.

Of Course I Forgive You by allonsys_girl (E, 10,735 w., 1 Ch. || Love Confessions, Canon Divergence, First Time, Frottage, Wall Sex, Infidelity) – What if things had gone differently on that train car?

Iris by slashscribe (E, 11,948 w., 1 Ch. || Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Post-S3) – Sherlock does his best to make John happy when John comes back to 221B with his new baby after the events of Season 3, but Sherlock has a track record of getting things wrong in this area. This story is an exploration of their gradual shift from friends to lovers, told from Sherlock’s perspective, full of a lot of pining and lack of emotional awareness.

Take My Breath Away by Quesarasara (E, 14,240 w., 1 Ch. || Emotional H/C, Angst & Fluff, Toplock, Smut, Lingerie) – Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at his friend—his best friend—and slowly tips his chin down until his forehead rests softly against John’s. They stay that way for a long moment, lips just a whisper apart, warm puffs of air mingling as each of them struggles to breathe. It’s no wonder they ended up here, really, locked in this breathless moment balanced on the cusp of something new. They’ve spent years taking each other’s breath away…

Pattern Behaviour by SilentAuror (E, 14,835 w., 1 Ch. || POV First Person Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Introspection, Stroppy Sherlock, Light Humour, Friendship, John Takes Care of Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Wall Kisses, Fluffy Angst, Happy Ending) – Sherlock doesn’t even know why he resents John’s dates so much. Until the day he does know. Slight angst, unrequited feelings (but don’t let that scare you off!)

Merlot by Itsallfine (E, 14,844 w., 17 Ch. || Christmas, Pining Sherlock, Wine, Slow Burn, First Kiss / Time, Love Confessions, Wine, Holmes Family) – Sherlock and John work toward becoming something more as they prepare to host the Holmes parents at 221B for the holidays. Part of 25 Days of Fic-Mas 2015.

A Silver Sixpence by _doodle (NC-17, 16,400 w., 2 Ch. || LJ Fic || For a Case / Case Fic, Fake Relationship, Humour, Romance, Marriage Proposal, Awkward Idiots, Cuddling, Touching, Kissing, Love Confessions, Bed Sharing, Friends to Lovers, Fake Until It’s Not, Schmoop and Fluff, Bottomlock) – “John, we need to get married. It’s for a case, not any romantic notions on my part pertaining to our partnership,” Sherlock said, with brutal honesty, and without even looking up.

A Hundred Thousand Ways to Say the Name John by Jberry (E, 16,825 w., 1 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Fake Marriage, POV John, Pining John, Cruise Ship, Angst & Fluff, Case Fic) –  John Watson and Sherlock Holmes must solve a case on a cruise ship. To get close to the crew and passengers, they must get married for the case on the Baetica. However, their relationship hits rocky seas both due to the case and internal conflicts. Part 1 of Baetica

About Sleep and Coffee and the Existence of Fate by Atiki (E, 17,426 w., 6 Ch. || Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Humour, 5+1) – Naturally, John was startled when suddenly the ultimate solution occurred to him: Marriage. This was, of course, a bit of a fundamental problem rather than an actual solution. One didn’t simply use the words “Sherlock” and “marriage” within the same sentence. Not even in a hypothetical context. Five times John kind of wanted to propose to Sherlock, and one time he didn’t have to.

John Watson doesn’t have a Boyfriend by naughtyspirit (E, 18,932 w., 7 Ch. || UST / URT, Fluff & Smut, Voyeurism, Masturbation) – John’s date has gone very well. Sherlock requires tea. John wishes he hadn’t resolved that their relationship was strictly hands off and isn’t about to address it. Unless he has to. Smut, fluff and shower time for a naked John Watson.

Through the Clouds by Mazarin221b (E, 20,004 w., 6 Ch. || Retirement, Sussex, Bees, Home Improvement, First Time, Romance) – Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing. They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you’re living to find the life you want. Part 1 of Through The Clouds

A Life Well-Lived by Kate_Lear (E, 20,121 w., 1 Ch. || Original Male Character, Sherlock Woos John, Jealous Sherlock, Reluctant Bi-John, Past Abuse, Insecure John, Reassuring / Caring Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, Understanding Sherlock) – John got scared off men by an abusive past relationship. Sherlock has to try and woo him while not scaring him off with protective possessive rage.

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Being Simon

Chapter 1: The Past

Chapter 1/2 (All chapters)

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word Count:  8493

Summary:  Simon's type of therapy is...unusual to say the least. He has the incredible chance to go back in time to fix what he regrets. However, things get more complicated when Simon meets someone very interesting in the past.

Read on AO3

AN: Ahahahaha I did it!!! I finished a fic! That's a big achievement for me nowadays tbh. This has taken forever because stupid fucking health, but I did it! Of course I'm not 100% good with it but I'm still proud. Being Erica is one of my fave shows ever and is severely underrated imo. Then I saw this post and was like "oh damn that would be great for snowbaz." Now like three-four months late, here we are! Big thank you to @carryonmylovelies​ as always. She has been a big support for me through this writing slump. I couldn't be more grateful for her <3

World basics: time travel therapy is a thing, no further explanation given, and going back in time to fix past regrets teaches patients how to live better in the present. Patients take over their past selves' bodies for a bit. Patients can return from the past either suddenly or by stepping through doors. So just imagine Simon doing that. Saying much more is spoilers. 

I’m gonna post chapter 1 today, then chapter 2 sometime within the next week. Hopefully y'all like it!

———————————————

You know that guy who’s got it all? A perfect job, a perfect partner, wonderful family, a life that people are secretly jealous of? You know that guy, everyone knows that guy. Unfortunately, I am not that guy.

My name is Simon Snow, and I’m a fuck up. But I’m getting better.

“Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow!” Cassidy shouts, waving her hand, “I know the answer!”

“Cass,” I say, “what did we say about inside voices?”

She pouts and crosses her arms. “Keep the volume down for all those around.”

“Exactly. Now, try again.” Cassidy raises her arm with no added sound effects. I point my chalk at her. “Cassidy, what’s the answer?”

She puts her hand down, grinning wide. “It’s 42.”

I hold my hand out to her. “Nice job, Cassy, right on the money.”

She gives me a big high five. The feeling of accomplishment surges through me. God, I love this job. My old customer service work made me feel dead inside. Day in, day out, same old fucking garbage from garbage customers. It was just never something I wanted to do. Now I get to see a little girl smile, and I helped her smile. Yeah, little self centred, but I’ll take it.

“Patrick,” I say, “can you tell me how we can find 8 times 4?”

Patrick nods and starts rattling off the technique he’s come up with. It’s a bit odd and round about but all his. That’s what I love about kids, the strange and unique things their little minds come up with. It’s why I wanted to be a teacher in the first place, before I lost my way.

The bell rings and everyone's on their feet immediately. “Alright everyone,” I shout over the clamour, “make sure to finish chapter three for tonight. And get your worksheets done! We’re going to go over them with a fine toothed comb. Have a good weekend, kids.”

“Bye, Mr. Snow,” they all parrot back. I wave them off, then start on my laptop. Being a teacher means having a lot of paperwork. (Or Google Doc work, I guess.) Everything is in mismatched folders and I have to scour them for my lesson plan draft. Unfortunately, I’m still not great at organization, but I’m working on it. I’m working on a lot in my life.

My phone rings. I look up from my screen, and notice there’s no sunlight from the windows. Holy shit, how long have I been sitting here? I quickly grab my phone. “Hello?”

“Simon!” Todd shouts. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Oh, uh, hi Todd.” Fuck, what did I do this time? “I-I’m still at work...”

He scoffs. “Of course you are. Shit, Simon, I’ve been sitting at Casper’s for an hour!”

My heart drops. I look down at my watch. It’s 6:34. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, love, I just totally lost track of time-”

“Yeah, I guessed that. I should expect that of you now.”

Well, that stings. A lot. I’ve felt like a screw up my whole life, so much so even my parents didn’t want me. Like they had some prophetic vision that their kid would be a no good moron. Therapy has started to rid me of those thoughts, but they still creep up every once in a while. Like now.

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m really sorry. We can go to my place, have take away-”

“No, Simon,” he sighs. “I just...I picked the day, the time, and the restaurant. All you had to do was bloody show up, and you couldn’t even do that. I mean...do you even care, Simon?”

A horrible, familiar pain goes through my heart. I can still hear Agatha’s voice all these years later. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. My thoughts get all muddled up, mixing up old fears and trauma with today.

“I do care, Todd, I really do. I just- I didn’t- I was- We can-”

“Please stop..” He sighs again. I can almost see him rubbing his pretty black eyebrows together. “Don’t stress stutter, it’s alright. Enjoy your work and takeaway.”

“Uh, could we reschedule?”

“No, we can’t.”

I gulp. I hate that I know what’s coming. “Are...are you too busy?”

“No, I’m just...I’m done. I can’t do this anymore, Simon. Hope you do well. I mean that.”

I slump in my chair. “Okay. You too. Bye, Todd.”

“Goodbye, Simon.”

He hangs up, but I keep the phone by my ear. My body feels too heavy to move and get out of this fucking chair. Once again, I screwed up my relationship. And the fact that it’s too familiar is even worse. This is what, the third partner I’ve lost in the last year? An abysmal track record. Before that I had been alone since uni, yeah, but I think it was better than feeling like this.

Slowly, I pack up all my stuff. Everything is quiet, like the world is in mourning for my latest lost relationship. Self centered as fuck but a nice thought. I sling my book bag over my shoulder and walk towards the door. It’s not even a shock when I don’t enter the foyer, but step through and end up in Dr. Margaret’s stony yet brightly lit office instead, complete with torches and pristine furniture. It’s like some medieval version of an IKEA showroom. Dr. Margaret is sitting in her chair with a book in hand, obviously waiting for me. Just another day with a super powered therapist who has her office in a pocket dimension outside of our reality. (That’s my theory anyway).

I speed walk forward and flop down face first on her white couch. “Hi to you too, Simon,” she says. I groan into the cushions. “Good day, huh?” I groan louder. “Tell me what happened or get off my couch.”

I move my face to the side, glaring at Dr. Margaret. She just keeps looking at me blankly from her large leather chair. Dr. Margaret has little time for my whining, something I usually appreciate. “Todd broke up with me.”

“You poor baby.”

I narrow my eyes even more. “Aren’t therapists supposed to be all sympathetic and shit?”

She scoffs. “Sympathetic when you’re not being pathetic.”

“My boyfriend just broke up with me, I’m allowed to be a bit pathetic.” I rub my very strained forehead. “I always get dumped.”

“Mhm.” Dr. Margaret picks up the notepad, the one I filled with my regrets the first day we met. It’s embarrassingly long, but a lot are crossed off too. “Tell me about ‘breakup with Agatha.’”

I groan, head falling back against the couch. “God, that’s one I’ve been waiting for.”

“Stop groaning and tell me.”

“Okay, okay, gimme a sec.” I sit up and put my elbows on my knees, rubbing my temple. Headache is coming. Though I’ve started to actually pay attention to my health and take care of myself now (thanks to Dr. Margaret), the headaches still happen sometimes. Especially when I think about this.

“It was 2003,” I sigh. “Agatha and I had been together for six years. Just before third year finals, Agatha broke up with me. I got really pissed at her. Turned into a huge screaming match. She said I didn’t care, and I called her an arsehole that never loved me.” I run a hand through my hair. Old stress habit. “I’ll never forget the look on her face. She was so unbelievably hurt. I knew it was wrong the moment after I said it, but I was too angry and proud to apologize. Agatha walked out. And that was the last time I ever saw her.” The words piece my heart like a knife. I feel like I'm about to shatter into pieces “We avoided each other all through finals. Right after graduation, Agatha moved to California for her masters. She wouldn’t take my calls, then she changed her number. So I gave up. Haven’t talked to her in twelve years. No idea where she is now and what she’s doing.”

Dr. Margaret nods thoughtfully, placing the notebook down. “What would you do differently? Try to fix things? Stay together?”

I shake my head vigorously. “No, god no. We weren’t good as a couple. But Agatha was one of my closest friends way before she was my girlfriend. I just, I want the breakup to not be so awful. That way we can stay friends. I want to keep her in my life. If I wasn’t such an arse, she would be.”

“Sounds reasonable. Let’s see if you can do it.”

A familiar chill hits me. At first it was terrifying but now I expect it. “Alright.”

Dr. Margaret nods, and the world spins.

———————————————

“You’re not hearing me, Simon!” Agatha screams. “I’m trying to tell you that it’s over!”

I stumble, blinking at Agatha and trying to focus on what’s around me. Dirty walls, Lady Gaga posters, a shitty desk I picked up off the curb. Yeah, this is definitely my uni apartment. And this is definitely Agatha screaming at me, trying to break things off and I’ve just been yelling. She’s so mad but I can’t help but smile. God, I’ve missed her.

“What are you smiling about?! Are you listening to me?!” She groans and shakes her head. “We’re done, Si. I can’t do this anymore. Goodbye.”

She turns around to leave and my pulse skyrockets. No no, not again. “Ags, wait! I-I am listening. Please, don’t leave!”

Agatha freezes, hand on the knob. She glares at me over her shoulder. “What?”

“I-I’m sorry for yelling, that was awful. Can we just sit down and talk this out? Please?”

She looks me over, probably trying to figure out if I’m being sincere. I know I am, but as far as she's concerned I was screaming my bloody lungs out a minute ago. Must be weird for her. Thankfully, she lets go of the knob. “Fine.”

I sigh in utter relief. I sit down on my shitty mattress (pretty sure I got this off the curb too) and Agatha follows. She’s tense, arms crossed. I fiddle with my fingers. The nail beds are all chewed up, hangnails surrounded by dark dried blood. Glad I broke that habit, but right now I sort of wish I still did it. It made me feel better.

“Are you going to say something?” Agatha asks, voice biting.

“Yeah, yeah, just, uh...” I rub the back of my neck. Words are getting fucked up again.

“You’re not going to change my mind, Simon. We’re through.”

“I know, Ags, I know. I don’t want us to stay together.”

Her eyebrows furrow. It’s really cute. I miss when she did that. “You don’t?”

“No, no, we’re not good as a couple. We don’t work well.”

“Oh.” Her arms fall into her lap. “Okay. Yeah, I think the same.”

“Awesome.” I turn towards her with a big grin. “But, uh, could we still be friends though? You’ve always been one of my best friends, Agatha. I-I don’t want to lose you after this.”

Agatha rubs her lips together, But slowly, she nods. “Okay, yeah.”

A huge weight lifts off my shoulders. I grin so wide it hurts. “That’s great! That’s so great. I-I just, I don’t want to lose you just cause our relationship didn’t work out.”

She looks even more confused, and I’m not sure why. “What do you mean ‘didn’t work out?’”

“Well, I-I mean, y’know, we just don’t work as a couple. We haven’t been happy for awhile because things have kind of...fizzled out, right?”

Suddenly, that infuriated expression comes back. She groans and stands up. “I can’t believe you, Si! You really haven’t been listening to anything I’ve said, have you?!”

I stand up too. “No, no, I have! You want to break up, and I get why, we’re not happy together. We’re not a good couple-”

“Because of you!” she screams. I stumble back slightly from the force of her words.  “You fucked up!”

A horrible, upset, disgusted feeling takes over my whole body. Like my very soul is sicking up. I step towards her, reaching out. “Ags, I don’t know what you mean. H-How did I ruin things? Tell me what I did wrong!”

She shakes her head and backs away. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Si. If you don’t know by now, I don’t think you ever will.”

Agatha starts to stomp away. I chase after her. “Agatha! Ags, please, don’t-”

She slams the door so hard all my knick knacks rattle. I’m left in silence, except for the thoughts rattling around in my head. Fuck, what did I say? What did I do? I can’t think of anything I’ve done horrible enough to warrant such a response from Agatha. I pull at my hair and gnaw at my nail beds. I mean, this me already does it, so where’s the harm? Fuck, I don’t know what I did. I can’t remember!

Penny. I gotta go find Penny. She always has the answers. She’ll remember why I fucked up. I rush out the door and swing my way down the shitty stairs, careful to avoid the usual vomit puddles. I’m speed walking across the lawn towards Pen’s TA building when I spot familiar frizzy white hair.

“That was fast,” Dr. Margaret says, looking down at her book with a Starbucks drink in hand. She’s dressed in a horribly ugly orange tank top and boho skirt. Perfect for 2003. She needs to blend in with the time period, or at least that’s what she says. I think she just likes to dress up. “Saw her storm out. Looked really mad.”

“What the fuck was the point of this?!” I yell. I’m so angry, I can’t help it. My temper is something I need to work on but I really don’t care right now. “I still cocked things up with Agatha, so she still hates me, and all I’ve learned is that I apparently did something horrible that I don’t even remember because it’s been twelve bloody years!”

She takes a long drink from her large Starbucks cup. “Hm. Quite difficult. What’re you going to do?”

“Find Penny, I guess, She’ll know, right?”

Dr. Margaret shrugs. “Don’t know. You have a phone. Call her.”

Oh, right, phones are a thing. I dig around in my cargo shorts (god, I can’t believe, I used to wear these things) and pull out my old Nokia slide phone. I sneer at the thing. It was my first and shittiest cell phone. I thought I was so cool because my mobile slid out. I was such a prat.

I go to my contacts, and Penny is one of five. That makes me a little sad. I always liked people, but I was always bad at making real friends. I’ve gotten better now but past me barely had anyone. I click her number, and she picks up after two rings.

“Hey, Simon, what’s up?” she asks.

“Um, not much,” I respond automatically. Dr. Margaret glares at me. Right, I don’t need to push down my problems and pretend everything is okay. Penny’s my friend, she’ll want to help. “Actually, there’s a lot. Aggie and I just broke up.”

“Oh Si, I’m so sorry. How’re you feeling?”

“Not too bad. I guess it was inevitable. I’m more confused than anything. Ags said I ruined it by doing something, but I’m not sure what I did. Do you have any idea what she meant?”

“Uh...I really don’t know. She hasn’t told me anything. She doesn’t usually tell me things anyway.”

I sigh and rub my face. “Yeah, true. I’ll figure it out. Thanks, Pen.”

“Welcome, Simon. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” I hang up and shove my phone back in my massive pocket. Dr. Margaret is back to reading. “Well, that was no help.”

“Too bad. Maybe going to the source would be better.”

I frown in utter confusion. “You want me to go talk to Agatha again?”

“She knows what’s wrong. You don’t. Ask her.”

I put my hands on my hips. “You’re never this direct. What’s going on?”

She flicks her eyes to me, smiling slyly. “Don’t trust me, Simon?”

“No! I just know you always have something else going on. Nothing in therapy is ever easy or simple.”

“Know that. Taught you that.” She snaps the book closed. “Do what you think is best, Simon. Then live with choices.”

She stands up, book tucked into her hippie purse, and walks down the lawn. I huff, blowing a piece of stray hair out of my face. “You know I hate when you say that! It’s just pointing out the obvious! That’s lazy therapy!”

Dr. Margaret, the woman who has changed my life in so many ways, makes the “whatever” W sign at me. I chuckle and shake my head. Okay, well, this is probably some weird test (again), but Dr. Margaret has a point. Best to be direct. Maybe Agatha will have cooled down by the time I get there. I should do something nice. Bring her flowers, yeah, that’s a good idea. I look down at my cargo shorts, baggy Eminem shirt, and filthy knock off converse. Definitely need to change too.

I rush back to my apartment. It’s dingy and gross, but there’s a weird nostalgia to it. I should’ve put up more posters. (Why can’t that be a regret? That would be so much easier.) My dresser is bursting at the seams as usual. I throw my t-shirts around looking for something passable, but everything is dirty, tacky, smells like weed, or all of the above.

“Christ, how did I live like this?” I grumble, as if I wasn’t pretty much still living like this a year ago. (Minus the weed. Kicked that after uni, thankfully.)

Eventually I find a plain brown shirt and a pair of jeans with only one tomato sauce stain. Alright, I’m passable now at least. That’ll get Agatha’s attention just because it’s so out of character for who I am in this time. I open the old pickle jar where I keep all my change and scrounge together about 20 quid. Should be enough for flowers, especially before the 2008 crash. The exchange rate is the only thing I miss about the past, honestly.

“Alright,” I mutter to myself, slinging my bookbag over my shoulder, “decent clothes, okay hair, pocket change, bag to hold flowers. Let’s do this.”

I walk out my front door feeling confident, hopefully not too much. Can’t get a big head. Need to focus on Agatha.

“Simon, mate.” I turn around to see Rhys wheeling out of his flat. “What’s up? Heard a lot of shouting earlier, you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m cool, man. Agatha and I broke up and things got messy.”

He inhales sharply between his teeth. “Yikes. Sorry to hear that. Can’t believe she dumped you for that snotty prep.”

I stand ramrod straight, then spin around on my heels to face him properly. “What snotty prep?”

“Oh you didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what?!”

Rhys raises his hands in surrender. “Whoa, take it easy, man.”

Shit. Reel in your temper, Simon, don’t explode. “Sorry, sorry, mate. Just, what are you talking about with this prep?”

“Yeah, this preppy pretty boy Agatha sits next to in our romantic literature and creative writing classes. They’ve always got their heads together. I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t my business, but then you said you two broke up, so...”

“So you thought she told me, got it.” I rub my temples. Headache is coming back. “Do you know who he is?”

Rhys scratches the side of his head. “Yeah, think so. Tall, dark-ish skin, grey eyes, posh accent, even more posh clothes. Name starts with a T. Terrence, Terry, Tyler-” He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Ty! That’s it!”

My face scrunches up. “Ty? Ty what?”

“Dunno. Just Ty, I guess. Like Madonna. Dude thinks he’s better than fucking everyone just because he’s rich or something.”

My blood boils to a fever pitch. So Agatha broke up with me for someone prettier and richer. She said it was my fault because she didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Mission failed, because I am fucking gutted.

“Thanks for telling me, mate,” I say, holding out my fist to him. He bumps his own against mine. “Really appreciate it.”

“Sure thing, mate. Come have a beer with us to commiserate?”

I chuckle. “Yeah, but you may have to remind me later. Brain like sieve.”

“Gotchu. See ya.”

“See ya.”

Rhys rolls down the hall towards Gareth’s. Right, it’s their weekly beer and footie night. I would hang out with them sometimes. I miss that. I should call them when I’m back in 2015. Right now though, I have a mission.

———————————————

Finding Ty will be pretty easy. I know when Agatha and Rhys’ creative writing class is, which is in a couple of minutes. (Rhys skipped a lot of class. Luckily he was a genius so he graduated at the top of our year. And Agatha never went to class when she was upset, so I know I won’t see her.) I run over to the building I know it’s in, a massive hall made from dingy grey stone and filled with caffeine addicted twenty somethings. Then I sit by a tree, waiting to see someone like Rhys described. Oh and when I find him I’ll- Well, I’ll do something. Not sure yet but it’ll be something!

Droves of zombified uni students pass me by. None of them look posh and preppy enough to be like this Ty dude. He sounds like such a twat. What the fuck does Agatha see in him? (Or did see in him, I guess. Time travel is weird.) Maybe Agatha is still with him. Maybe they went to California together. She talked about me going with her for a bit, but I was scared to leave England. I don’t regret staying, but I do regret the crushed look on her face.

The guy passes by me. He looks ridiculous, wearing oxfords, black slacks, and a goddamn tweed jacket with leather patches on the sleeves. It’s the preppiest posh shit I’ve ever seen. I can see his hands, curled around his textbook, and his slicked back hair. Dark-ish skin and ear length black hair. I’m on my feet in an instant.

“Hey!” I shout. He doesn’t move. “Hey, Ty! I’m talking to you!”

He finally turns around, and my heart stops for a second. Holy shit. This guy is beautiful. Like, super model on the cover of a high end fashion magazine gorgeous. He’s got cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and his eyes aren’t just grey, they’re green and blue mixed together. Like deep ocean water. And right now they’re staring at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

“Yes?” he says. His voice is smooth, strong, really pretty. “You called my name?”

I shake off my small gay panic (technically pansexual panic) and my anger returns. I glare hard at him. “Yeah, I did. My name is Simon Snow, Agatha’s boyfriend.”

His confusion quickly switches to stone faced boredom. “Oh you’re the boyfriend. Well, the ex-boyfriend now, according to the text Agatha sent me.” He tilts his head to the side, ocean eyes scanning me over. “I thought you’d be taller.”

My body feels like it’s on fire. This guy may be hot but he’s a total prick. How could Agatha dump me for him?! “Who do you think you are, huh? Flirting with someone’s girlfriend? That’s fucking low, you pathetic shit!”

He scoffs, putting on hand on his hip. “Very well spoken. If you’re done with your little alpha male display, I have a class to get to.”

Ty turns away. I’m ready to explode. I haven’t felt this angry in years but this guy is getting so under my skin. I grab his shoulder and force him to look at me.

“You don’t get to walk away, dick!” I roar. “Do you think you’re better than me?! Well you’re not!”

“I’m not the one shouting at a random stranger on the quad.”

“I’m shouting because you stole my girlfriend!”

“I didn’t steal her, you sexist shit,” he hisses. “She’s my  friend. Are you the kind of arse to not allow his girlfriend to have friends?”

“No! And I’m not sexist! I just don’t like someone flirting with the girl I was with when I was with her, especially when you’re all...posh and shit!”

Ty scoffs again and leans forward. “Well, at least I don’t wear dirty jeans out in public. I have more self respect than that.”

My entire body explodes in a way it hasn’t in ages. My vision goes completely fucking red. I shove Ty, hard. Way harder than I mean to. He stumbles backwards, dropping his books on the grass. He looks at me in utter shock.

“What the fuck?!” Ty shouts. He then shoves my shoulders, and I stumble five steps back. Holy shit, he’s strong. 

“Fuck you!” I shout back. I charge forward with all my might. Ty blocks me but that doesn’t stop me. I claw and push and pull at him, no clue what I’m doing at all. I’m just so angry and pushing it all at him. He pushes back just as hard. Neither of us will give an inch. We scrabble like a pair of cats. I can’t think, I just feel. I'm so angry and sad and worthless because...because....

Because I’m losing my friend again. And I don’t know what to do.

My hits get weaker and weaker. All the energy dribbles out like a melting ice cream in July. As I slow down, Ty stops pushing back. My arms fall down at my sides. His hands rest awkwardly on my shoulders.

“Uh,” he says, “are you alright?”

“No,” I choke out. Tears fill my eyes and cloud my vision. “No, I’m not.”

I break down, crying with heavy, ugly sobs. Everything is just collapsing in and around me. I really am losing Agatha all over again. It hurts even more this time. I’ve never fallen apart this badly on a regret. But everything from the past and present, losing all my partners in the past year then Agatha again, is just hitting me in one terrible mental blow.

“Oh shit,” he says. “Um...” I feel his hand move off my shoulder and slowly pat my head. “There, there?”

I snort like one of the kids I teach. I pull back, wiping the still flowing tears under my eye. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do?”

Though it’s a bit hard to tell, I think Ty’s face flushes. He crosses his arms defiantly. “Well, what the fuck are you supposed to do when a stranger attacks you then breaks down crying?”

I shrug. “Dunno, really. This is new for me too.”

Ty rubs the back of his neck, shuffling his polished oxfords in the dirt. I’m still sniffling like a child. “You want to go somewhere private? Where no one can see you?”

My eyes catch a couple of people glancing and outright staring at us. Or just at me. I nod vigorously. “Yeah, that would be good.”

Ty collects up the books I knocked out of his hands. He jerks his head to the side, and I follow behind him. Tears are still streaming down my face. They won’t stop no matter how hard I try. Ty leads us through a secluded area, past large trees and bushes, until we reach a completely hidden, beautiful ravine. Holy shit. Was this always here? I went to this uni for three years and I have no memory of this place. Either I’m super oblivious or getting old. (Probably both.)

We go past a couple more bushes until we come upon a ramshackle rainbow coloured bench against some trees. It looks handmade by some stoned out art major. The mess of cigarette and joint butts on the ground only reinforces that theory. Ty sits on one end of the bench. I take the other, but we’re still pretty close. It’s not very big. We sit in silence for a bit, save for my continued sniffling. Something bumps my arm. I look down to see Ty’s long fingered hand holding out a cigarette pack.

“Want one?” he asks.

“Smoking is bad for you,” I say automatically.

“Like you’re one to talk. You reek of marijuana”

“Fuck, really?” I sniff my shirt collar and get a whiff of weed. I groan, letting my head fall back against the tree. “Dammit. Thought this one was clean.”

“Unfortunately not.” He shakes the box. “You want one or no?”

I sigh and pluck a stick out of the box. Ty takes one as well, then pulls out a pristine silver Zippo lighter. He lights us both with one flame. I watch the paper crinkle and shrivel away into ash. I’m a bit nervous. Technically, I haven’t smoked anything in over a decade. Hopefully I can depend on past me’s muscle memory. 

Ty takes a long, deep draft and breathes out a long puff of smoke. I try to mimic him. My lungs burn with the heat of twin suns. I wheeze out, thumping my chest. Ty throws his head back laughing,  hair touching his neck.

“You must be a shitty stoner,” he chuckles.

“Yeah,” I cough, “never been great at inhaling.”

“Bring it into your mouth, then your lungs. Don’t do it all once.”

I nod, even though I kind of knew that. Just been awhile. I smoked a few joints but I preferred my old bong. But I try again, doing what Ty said. This time I only cough a little instead of wheezing like the world’s most pathetic dragon.

“There you go,” Ty drawls. He’s definitely mocking me a little.

“Fuck off.”

“Christ, what bug crawled up your arse?”

I glare at him, and his face is completely unaffected. “The bug that Agatha broke up with me for you.”

He scoffs, flicking cigarette ash on the ground. “Your  ex- girlfriend did not break up with you to be with me. We’re only friends. I’d never date her.”

“That’s mean, Agatha is amazing.”

Ty rolls his eyes dramatically. “It has nothing to do with Agatha. She’s wonderful. I just don’t like women.”

My eyes grow wider than saucer plates “You’re gay?”

He cocks an eyebrow. How did he get so good at that? Does he practice in the mirror? “You have a problem with that, Snow?”

“No, no, of course not. Just didn’t realise...”

“It’s not like I’m hiding it.” He gestures to his perfectly pressed button down, spotless navy slacks, and polished Oxfords. Okay, he has a point, most straight men don’t take such meticulous care of their clothes. 2003 closeted me had the excuse of being heteronormative as fuck, but 2015 pansexual me needs to work on his gaydar.

“I, uh, didn’t want to assume...” Usually a safe answer in my experience.

“How noble.” Ty takes a long drag. I still hate cigarettes, but the way his lips fit around the smoke plume is kind of attractive. “Agatha knows I’m gay. I told her after she almost kissed me.”

“What?!” I throw down the cigarette and shoot to my feet. The fire in my gut is back, along with the sense of utter worthlessness. I fucked up so badly, made Agatha so miserable, that she nearly kissed a gay bloke. I feel so awful and confused and I don’t know what I'm supposed to do, I’m just mad.

He rolls his eyes,  again. “Sit down, alpha male, I said ‘almost.’ I’m not even sure she realised what she was doing, we were both completely pissed. She leaned forward slightly and I blurted out that I was gay. Then she promptly burst into tears.”

My heart feels like someone has reached inside and twisted every vein. My arms relax at my sides. “She...she was crying?”

“Yes, quite heavily.” He taps the cig with one long, graceful finger. (Does he play piano? He should.) “She said she was sorry, then blubbered for an hour about how conflicted she felt about wanting to break up with you.”

The impact of those words send me back down onto the bench. My whole body feels heavier than lead. “She felt conflicted?”

“Of course she did.”

“I-I thought this was easy for her. That our relationship was already going downhill, then I did something so bad she decided to end it. And then I thought it was because she found you, someone better than me.”

Ty scoffs. “My god, she was right, you are completely oblivious.”

I scowl at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said. You’re so blind to what you’ve been doing.”

“What’ve I been doing?!”

“You’ve been a terrible boyfriend!” he yells. “You’re forgetful, you miss things, you don’t pay attention to Agatha, and most of all you take her for granted!” He sighs, rolling the half finished cig between his fingers. “Ags says you don’t mean to do it, you’re just oblivious, but she’s still hurt. There isn’t one bad thing you did, Snow. You’ve been hurting her for awhile.”

Every word is slap to the face. My body literally aches with all the guilt I feel. Ty is right. I was an awful,  awful boyfriend. Every missed date, every burnt meal, every stupid thing I’ve ever said, they all rush into me. Fucking hell. How could I have not seen it? I always had reasons, and they were always small things. But I guess a lot of small things pile up.

“Fuck,” I choke out. Tears make little wet spots on the dirt floor. I don’t know when I started crying again. God, I’m a mess.

“Please don’t cry,” Ty says, sounding almost sympathetic. “I only have so many cigarettes.”

That makes a laugh surprisingly fly out of my mouth. Yet I’m still picking at my nails, flicking away bits of my cuticle like I want to get rid of my pain. I’m nervously babbling before I even realise it. “My brain’s always filled with...stuff. Keeping my scholarship, keeping my job, working towards my future. E-Everything’s always been about my future, what I’ll do eventually, even with Agatha. She was supposed to be my happy ending after all the shit I’ve been through.”

“She’s a person,” he mutters, “not your goal.”

“I know that!” I rub away more tears. “Well, I’m learning. I dunno. I-I had a shitty childhood, okay? So I’m always waiting for things to get better. And I thought if I did well at school and found a nice girl, things would just fall into place. Turns out shit is more complicated than that.”

I laugh to try to break the tension, but Ty stays silent. I cautiously flick my eyes over to him. He’s still holding his cigarette. It’s burnt down to the filter. His face is stone again, yet I can see the slight tremor in his fingers. It’s miniscule but it’s there. I don’t think he’s okay, but I barely know this guy, I’m scared to ask.

“I don’t know how to fix things with Agatha,” I sigh. “I’m bad at talking, bad at relationships, sometimes bad at friendships. It’s not like I want her back. I...I just want her in life. She’s amazing. I don’t- I can’t lose her again.”

“Again?” he says. My face goes bright red and my breath hitches. Fuck. Stupid time travel, screwing things up.

“Y-Yeah, we’ve had fights before, stopped talking for a while. I know this feeling, I hate it. I want her to be in my life and be happy and I don’t know how to do that!”

“Tell her that.”

I face him, blinking in confusion. “What?”

Ty sighs and flicks the butt onto the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his utterly perfect oxford. “Tell her that. Say you’re scared and clueless but you want to still be friends, so you want to figure out how to do that. Be honest. What else are you going to do?”

My mouth flaps up and down. Fuck. It’s so damn obvious yet it never came to mind. I thought I needed something big and smart so Agatha would understand. But... “All I need to do is be honest with her.”

“Exactly.”

I smile for the first time since I got here. “Wow, can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

“You do seem to be a bit thick.” His slight smirk and teasing lilt save me from getting angry. I scoff and shake my head.

“Yeah, well, you seem like a bit of a prick.” He scoffs too, but he’s still smiling.

We sit there in silence for a little. All I can hear is birds chirping and students in the distance. I feel calm. So calm I don’t want to get up for a while. I just want to catch my breath. Ty slowly tilts his head back over the bench.

“I haven’t sat down in awhile,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself, but too loud for me not to hear. “I’m always at class or studying. I don’t sit down and just...sit.”

“Well you haven’t really been only sitting,” I chuckle. “You’ve been helping me.”

“Would it be sad that this has actually been the most relaxing time I’ve had in months?”

“Uh, yeah, and a bit concerning.”

Ty laughs a little louder this time. His smile seems a bit more genuine, but his pretty eyes are a bit sad. It may just be his face. It looks like it’s designed for pouting. “I’m a political science and English double major getting ready for law school. My whole life is stress.”

I chuckle sadly. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

“It is. A nightmare I chose...” He spins the cigarette pack between two fingers. I know he’s just fiddling but it looks so damn cool when he does it.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re happy about that choice.”

His eyes shift over to me without moving his head. “Since when do you know anything about my feelings?”

I shrug, crossing my arms. “I usually know what sadness looks like.”

Ty sighs. He rubs his temple slowly with his elegant ring finger. (What is with my finger fetish today?) “Ever since I was little, it was expected that I follow in the family tradition. Get perfect grades, go to a good university, go to an even better law school, become a lawyer, then finally take over the family practice. It’s what my mother did. It’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Doesn’t matter what I want,” he scoffs.

I tilt my head towards him, but not too close to scare him away. “Well, if you could do what you want, what would you do?”

“I told you, it doesn’t mat-”

“Then pretend it does matter. What would you do for the rest of your life?”

Ty sinks further into the bench. It makes his stupid tweed jacket bunch up slightly, and he almost looks like a normal young adult. “Honestly, I just want to read books forever.”

I giggle quietly, and Ty glares at me with a now obvious flush in his cheeks. “Fuck off,” he snarls.

“I’m not laughing at you!” He doesn’t look convinced. “It’s just, when I first saw you, I never expected you to be a total bookworm. You seem too posh for that.” Ty snorts, keeping his arms crossed. He won’t meet my eyes. I lean closer, and he doesn’t back away. “Reading books forever sounds hellish to me, but it sounds like heaven for you. It’s a great idea. Why not do it?”

Ty’s glare somehow gets even more intense. His eyes are just slivers of beautiful grey. “Because I’m a responsible person, unlike you.”

The words hit me right in the gut. I scowl deeply at him. “That is beyond not okay. You don’t know me, you don’t know my life. So you don’t get to spew shit like that just because you’re pissed off. Got it?”

Honestly, I’m surprised how clear and articulate I’m being. A year with Dr. Margaret has made it a lot easier for me to stand up for myself in a meaningful way, not just with growls and punching. But still, it’s hard, and I did this so easily. I’ve really made progress.

Ty scowls back, but I don’t back down. I’ve always been good at standing my ground, thankfully. Slowly, Ty’s face falls and gets less angry. In fact, he looks a bit regretful. We slowly move apart again. He takes a few deep breaths before he finally speaks again.

“You’re right,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Good, apology accepted.” I lean my cheek onto my fist. “Seems both of us are having trouble with our futures.”

“Mine is secure.”

“But not happy.”

He rubs his lips together, like he’s chewing his words. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Why not? Why not do what you want instead?”

“Because I’ve already applied to law school!”

“Okay.” I put my back to the bench again, staring up at the sky through the trees. “Well, I’m nearly done with my maths and am about to start my teaching degrees. Then I've got a private school job lined up, but who knows? Maybe I’ll hate the job and quit and work at shitty customer service jobs for years until I decide to get my shit together and find an actually good teaching gig at a school I like.”

Ty’s dark brows furrow together. “That is extremely specific.”

I shrug, hoping my smirk doesn't say too much. “I don’t know, just a possibility.”

“Alright,” he snorts. “My life will be fine, it won’t go off the rails.”

He looks so sure and resolute. I don’t think I’m going to change his mind, and I don’t think it’s my job to. I can’t save everyone, something Dr. Margaret taught me. Plus I just met this guy. No matter how pretty he is, I don’t know him. (Wish I did.) Hopefully he can figure out his own shit.

“Okay. Your life, you can figure it all out.” I put my hands behind my head, leaning back, staring at the sky.

“Your life is going to be fine,” Ty says. “Agatha says that despite what you think, you’re smart. And I’m partial to agree. You have trouble with relationships, but who doesn’t? You’ve still got a good head on your shoulders. You’ll figure everything out too.”

I can feel my face turns bright red, and from the smirk on Ty’s face he can see it. I rub the back of my neck, trying to use my arm to hide my blush. “Y’know, I get why Agatha liked you. You’re weirdly nice and, well, really hot.”

Now it’s Ty’s turn to have his eyes go wide. He looks very cute. “Wow, you’re pretty forward for a straight guy.”

“Whoever said I was straight?” I smirk at him with one eyebrow raised. I hope I look confident and sexy and not just fucking weird.

“Oh.” His voice is almost a squeak. “I’m sorry I assumed.”

“S’alright, common mistake.” I look down at my stupid Nokia. “Wow, you’re beyond late for your class.”

Ty scoffs. “And who’s fault is that?”

“Okay, yeah, guilty as charged. You should probably get to it though. Need good grades for law school and all.”

“Yes, good point.” He stands up, and I follow, hands in my pockets. I both hate and love that Ty is a little taller than me. “But...it was nice to talk to you, Snow.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Ty. So, uh, see you around.”

I grin brightly, then turn around before I say something really stupid. I usually do in front of pretty people. Plus I need to see Agatha. That’s why I’m here, back in 2003. I’m not supposed to be chasing after a pretty guy who went to my uni ages ago. Even if he is like,  really pretty.

“Simon.” His voice makes me stop in my tracks and turn back.

“Yeah?”

Ty steps forward and holds out a scrap of lined paper. “Since you’re newly single, and now I know you’re not straight, give me a call sometime? If you’re up to it, that is.”

My brain completely short circuits. Blows a fuse. Maybe every fuse. I just stare at Ty with my mouth hanging open for a bit too long. Ty starts to look genuinely concerned. But thankfully the synapses start firing again and I shake it off.

“Um, y-yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I would like that.” I take the paper. “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. I hope to see you around as well.”

I watch as he walks away, and I’m mesmerised by the way his hips swing. Fuck, he is so hot. And he likes  me. I honestly have no clue why but I’m not going to question it. I have to make sure to call him before I go back to 2020. But right now I have to find Agatha, so I carefully put the paper in the smallest pocket of my bag, then dash off towards Aggie’s dorm.

———————————————

I knock on the door softly, and there’s no answer at first. “Aggie?” I say. “I came here to say I’m sorry. I won’t yell, I promise.”

Still silence at first. I nearly leave, but then the sound of soft footsteps comes from under the door. The doorknob slowly turns and my pulse increases every second. Agatha is wearing her purple Watford lacrosse sweater, a pair of my trackies that I left behind last week, and blonde hair piled up in a bun. Her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are red. My stomach drops at the sight.

“What are you sorry for?” she asks, voice low and flat. She sounds more tired than angry. For some reason that hurts even more.

I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry for how I treated you, Ags. Our relationship didn’t fall apart for no reason. I didn’t pay attention to what you wanted and took you for granted. I was a terrible boyfriend. And I’m really, really sorry.” I start nervously pulling at my hair. “I-I’m not saying we should get back together. We weren’t happy, and you deserve someone who will put you first. But I still want to be your friend. You’re one of my first and best friends. I’m not sure how to do that, considering I was such an shit boyfriend, but can we figure it out? Together?”

Agatha rubs her lips together, taking slow deep breaths. Her fingers tap against the door one by one. I don’t know if I’m going to throw up or run or both. All are possible. But then Agatha nods slowly.

“Okay,” she sighs.

“Okay?”

“Let’s try to be friends again. I don’t want to lose you either.”

I grin ear to ear. “Okay, awesome, that’s great. I’m so glad you want to as well. I do love you, Ags, and I’m sorry I hurt you so much.”

“Apology accepted, Si, so you don’t need to do it anymore. Let’s just move forward, alright?”

“Alright, yeah, I’d like that.” I rub my neck and nervously gnaw at my lip. “Um, could I hug you? As a friend?”

She smiles softly. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her smile. Not just because I’m from the future, but I can’t remember the last time she smiled back when we were together. I hope I can make her smile more now.

“Yeah,” she says, “that would be nice.”

We both step forward and throw our arms around each other. I haven’t hugged Agatha in a long time either. Sure, we snogged and had sex, (though not very often honestly), but this is so much better. There’s no pressure or nerves. It feels normal. The most normal I’ve ever felt with her.

As we slowly part, we’re still smiling. “You,” Agatha pokes my chest, “need to study for your exam on Monday.”

I chuckle and nod, being silently thankful  I’m not doing that exam again. Once was more than enough. “Yeah, I know. This felt more important though. You’re more important.”

She blinks in confusion. I can’t blame her. Past me was always too focused on my work so that I could reach the happy ending I always wanted. Future me is figuring out that there is no happy ending. There’s just life, and I have to make it what I want, not just wait for happiness to fall into my lap. I haven’t got it down pat but I’m getting there. That’s more than good enough.

“Well, I’m definitely glad to hear that,” Agatha says. “Call me tomorrow. We’ll go get brunch, okay?”

I nod enthusiastically. “Sounds great.” The voice in the back of my head reminds me about the small fact of time travel, and that when I go back to 2015, past me is only going to remember bits and pieces of this day. “But, uh, studying may fry my brain. So could you maybe call instead? And I’ll call next time?”

Agatha sighs with exasperation, but she’s still smiling. “Alright, that’s a valid excuse.” She presses a small kiss to my cheek. It’s completely platonic, and it feels great. “See you later, Simon.”

“Yeah, definitely.” I hug her tight one more time before I go. She gives me a kind wave before closing her door. I’m grinning like a mad man as I walk down the hell. I did it, I saved my friendship with Agatha. I’m so damn happy. Plus I met Ty.

Oh right. I reach into my bookbag, feeling around for my notebook. My hand curls over the rings of the spine as I push open the stairwell door. And I instantly fall face first onto the dirty public school floor.

“Mr, Snow!” Ms. Petty, the nicest janitor in the entire school, possibly in the whole world, rushes to me. “Are you alright?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’m fine. Just clumsy.”

“Here, let me help.”

I take her hand and she hoists me to my feet. I still feel a bit dizzy, a small side effect of time travel I know all too well now. Ms. Petty keeps a hand on my back until I regain my bearings. “Alright, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll be alright.”

“Okay, dearie.” She pats my shoulder. “Go get some rest, get your mind off work.”

“Right, yeah, work...”

Ebb gives me one last comforting pat and goes back to sweeping the hallway floor. I wave at her as I leave, hoping she doesn’t see the distress in my face. 

Fuck.

———————————————

AN: Chapter 2 will be posted within the next week, i.e whenever I'm well enough to edit it lol. See you all next time!

[putanauhere]

so me and @foxesmouth are writing an art forgery au eh, tentatively titled by me only (didn’t run it by amy - you’re probs good with it, right?): a portrait of the artist as a con man. here’s our first scene.

--

Theo slips out of Hobart and Blackwell, walking two doors down to his own studio, just minutes before his 3 pm appointment. He takes more private sector work these days than working with museums, partly because there aren’t too many new masterpieces popping up out of obscurity these days, but mostly because he always gets the feeling he’s flying too close to the sun. 

This is the last of his appointments before he ships off to Boston for a restoration residency on a few John Singer Sargents as a favor to Peggy at the Gardner, and he’s anxious to see it resolved quickly. That must be why the thought of the appointment buzzes uncomfortably in the back of Theo’s mind, the same frequency as the persistent worry that he forgot to turn off the oven before leaving the house.

His fingers pick through the code to disarm the alarm as he shrugs his coat off one shoulder, not at all elegant as he turns to the coat rack and shrugs the other arm off to hook it up quickly. As he sets the coffee pot in the corner brewing, Theo tries his name out a few times, trying to find the cadence of it so he doesn’t embarrass himself, and settles on something that sounds familiar, if not correct, just as the buzzer goes.

His 3 o’ clock is younger than Theo expects, shorter than Theo is, and dressed far warmer than Theo thinks is necessary. Theo is given a swift onceover, then a slower one, both immediately disarming, before Theo remembers himself and steps aside to let him in. “Mr. Pavliovsky, it’s good to meet you.”

He looks amused by this. “Sure.” He has the painting tucked under his arm, wrapped in what looks like a linen sheet, to Theo’s horror. He’s already seen what Mr. Pavlikovsky has in the way of provenance, and his hopes aren’t high, but in the off chance that’s a real Renoir he’s got in there - Theo is already sweating with the thought.

Theo hangs his thick winter coat and rests the Renoir - wrapped in a pillow case, he realizes - on the intake table, itching to yank it free from its cotton prison like a grand reveal, ta daaa, but he’s a professional and lets his showroom do its showing. 

Mr. Pavlikovsky’s dark, critical eyes carefully scan the studio, eyes lighting on Theo’s work bench with its array of lights and magnifiers clamped to every available edge of the desk, surrounding like a frame to the Pissarro reproduction he has lying in wait on an easel. He moves toward the work bench with interest, leaning over to survey the painting closely but keeping his hands tangled together behind his back. Another win for the showroom. “Is this restoration?”

“God, no, I have a separate temperature controlled studio upstairs. This is… practice.”

His eyes flick up from the painting to the shelves of paints and small buckets of brushes stored above the bench where Hobie would keep chisels, hammers, and pliers. “You practice your craft in foyer of business instead of fancy art studio upstairs?”

“I - ” Theo stutters, never having been challenged on that.

“Is okay, I understand. You don’t sell art, you sell skill. Can’t frame a restored or debunked Pissarro on the wall, but you can leave gentle suggestion of experience on display.”

Theo stops up, irritated at having his intentions read so quickly, so easily by a stranger, but he doesn’t like the way it sounds almost nefarious on Mr. Pavlikovsky’s lips. Theo’s clientele often work on blind faith and reputation, and no one is allowed in his studio. Gentle suggestion is the only ammunition Theo has access to.

He turns to Theo, misreading Theo’s surprise about the easel’s placement for the easel’s content. “Did I pass the test?”

Yes, technically, yes, because everyone else tends to guess Monet, which is frankly insulting. But instead of answering, Theo smiles his customer-facing smile and gestures to Mr. Pavlikovsky’s painting. “Let’s have a look?”

He liberates the frameless Renoir from its slumber once he dons a pristine pair of white gloves and all six of its sides a quick scan before placing it down on the intake table. He knows immediately it’s a fake - one made with a lot of heart but a less than acceptable amount of skill. Nonetheless, he pulls his stool forward, switches his glasses for a specialized pair, and switches on an overhead light.

He’s joined at the table by Mr. Pavlikovsky, which is rare these days - even if his typical intakes are ten minutes or less, his clients are still glued to their phones or important business papers or a copy of the New Yorker. Theo’s not wild about having someone sit over his shoulder, he finished with that once he graduated from a formal university and from Hobie’s crash course in furniture restoration, but Theo allows him to stay in the name of customer service.

“Do you enjoy Pissarro?”

“I have seen - they have many of his paintings at the Met, is local, have you seen?” Mr. Pavlikovsky asks, and Theo’s heart shudders like someone has just walked over his grave. Shaken, he blinks his eyes firmly a few times and refocuses on the task at hand. Nobody has cared enough yet to draw the connection, and Theo himself has had no interest to check if the New York Times has immortalized the article with his name on it on the internet finally now that all copies of the paper should have been disposed of over fifteen years ago.

Thankfully Pavlikovsky doesn’t wait for an answer - he doesn’t seem to need one. “Beautiful painting of Montmartre, looks exactly like the boulevard! Have you been to Montmartre? Incredible, some things, they never change, you could paint same paintings today, same views, but with cars and tourists on cell phones instead of horses and carriages.”

“I’m sure I have seen it at some point. I am a fan of his landscapes, as you can tell.”

“Yes, you have a way with them.”

Theo’s cheeks heat up and he can’t quite figure out why, so he disguises it by lifting the canvas and taking a careful inhale down the right side of the canvas. If Mr. Pavlikovsky is concerned by this behavior, he doesn’t say so.

Theo frowns as he sets the painting back down. It’s a shame he won’t even have to get his x-ray out to get a look at the layers, but maybe he should - he could charge more for this session, and the longer an investigation, the more legitimate he seems. But from the way this conversation has gone so far, Mr. Pavlikovsky doesn’t seem like he needs the whole song and dance.

As if on cue, Mr. Pavlikovsky says, “I should leave you to work - I will come back later, no?”

“No need, I have made my analysis.” He strips his gloves and switches his glasses back out before turning his focus back to Mr. Pavlikovsky.

“Already.” It’s not phrased like a question, but the way he sounds impressed sends a wild thrill through Theo’s chest for a reason he can’t name.

“I’m sorry to say, Mr. Pavlikovsky, but this is a fake,” Theo says and braces himself for an impact that doesn’t come. Ordinarily there’s screaming and spitting, the unchecked pride of rich men bubbling over at being duped, and because they likely won’t be able to find the dealer again, Theo is the unfortunate sole recipient of their ire.

Instead Mr. Pavlikovsky grins and says, “How could you tell?”

There’s a lecture’s worth of material in this canvas, but most don’t want to settle in to listen to Theo drone on and on like the worst of his professors. Theo taps to six different problem areas, each of them having lit up like a glowing red sore as soon as Theo had laid eyes on them - poor blending, wrong paints for the time period - is that acrylic? really? - thick careless strokes that indicated speed and not care, and more. “Here, staples here, this is wrong, no fraying on the canvas edges is immediately suspicious, this issue with the verso here. And Renoir typically signed his paintings with a signature tail at the end of his r - this, at its most charitable, is a smudge - and he almost never connected his o to his i.” He snags a piece of paper and fountain pen from his desk and works out a quick recreation, the bold r, the diamond-shaped o, then taps at it. “Reno-ir.”

Mr. Pavlikovsky leans in close to Theo’s shoulder, peering seriously at Theo’s scrawled signature. His proximity is enough to make Theo stifle a shudder. “Perhaps he was drunk this day.”

“No,” Theo says bluntly.

Mr. Pavlikovsky laughs, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb thoughtfully as he leans back. “It is fake,” he says, but in a way that almost sounds like he’s confirming what Theo has said to be true, instead of mulling over this new discovery.

“I don’t wish to presume, I’m sure the price is not an issue - if you would like me to perform the standard x-ray and microscopy to confirm, I am absolutely able to. But in the interest of preserving your time.”

He nods, like fair is far, and picks up the painting to stuff it back into the pillow case. 

“Sorry - I - my apologies, Mr. Pavlikovsky, would you mind? I know it’s not a real Renoir, but it is still. You know. I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

He gestures an invitation. “Please.”

Theo quickly trims foam for the verso and wraps the whole thing in paper like a present. He presents the secure package back to Mr. Pavlikovsky, but neither of them move to complete the transaction. Something about the thing feels unfinished - yes, the money, Theo’s brain helpfully supplies - but Theo doesn’t think that’s it.

Mr. Pavlikovsky digs out a tight bundle of cash anyway, too many hundreds stuffed into a straining silver money clip that he peels their agreed upon fee from and slaps onto the table. It feels almost dirty transacting this way, Theo used to wires, money orders, checks, and the like - cash feels uncouth. One of Pavlikovsky’s hands repockets the money and the other doesn’t go for the painting like Theo expects, but rather squeezes at Theo’s shoulder. “Well, if I can’t reward your speedy expertise with more money. Do you want to join me for drinks?”

“I’m not - um.” Theo swallows his initial objection, the way his mind leapt to that conclusion feels too telling. “Sorry? Drinks?”

“It’s not fun to pretend anymore, let you talk talk talk, Mr. Pavlikovsky this, Mr. Pavlikovsky that.” He raises his eyebrows at Theo. “I will say it hurts my feelings you don’t remember me, Potter, though I know it was very long time ago.”

It’s the Potter that does it, the fuzzy sort of familiarity with the nickname born from a cultural phenomenon he’d missed almost entirely with the timing of it. The only way it had nudged itself into Theo’s brain was through some drunk coed at a party he was desperately trying to fuck at a houseparty holding him by the waist and telling him firmly that she thinks he’s a Ravenclaw, whatever the fuck that is. And, of course, also through Boris.

“Shit, Boris, sorry, man, sorry,” Theo says, his face widening with a grin. “God, it’s been forever since Vegas?”

“You look good.” Boris pulls him into a hug Theo isn’t expecting, but allows himself to be collected into. “It’s good to see you.”

He hadn’t exactly kept tabs on Boris at the time beyond the few classes they’d shared together, the rare times they’d found each other in the same places, nodding affably from where they’d each stood at opposite sides of the room. 

His last memory of Boris had been at this party at some girl’s house - Hadley, maybe - and the two of them had straddled their legs over either side of a diving board over the winter-emptied pool, and tried to lean forward and take lines off the laminate, giggling and knocking heads and clutching at the sides, at each other, every time the board would shiver and shake with their movements. Theo had already been fucked up on something he’d stolen out of Xandra’s purse just to give him enough motivation to leave the house, letting the world grow opaque in front of his eyes like it’d be easier to live in if he just couldn’t see it, but he remembers Boris at the time, clear as day, like his nearsightedness had transfigured into Borissightedness. 

He remembers Boris being taller than he was at the time in a way that burned jealousy into his skin - a non-contest he is too secretly pleased to have won out in the end now - and the way Boris would wear his hair in the style that his mom used to call Needs a Haircut and his dry, calloused hands that held onto Theo’s wrists when he risked toppling over into the pool and the urgent way he’d whisper I got you like it wasn’t anyone else’s business to know.

Looking at Boris now, things shift slightly until they click into place, it’s like the sensation of sliding on glasses for the first time and realizing the world was not an impression, not muted, but all sharpness and defined edges and tangibility. Of course it’s Boris. 

“Come get a drink with me,” he presses.

Yes, technically, yes, that’s what Theo wants, but. “I can’t - I fly to Boston tomorrow morning.”

Boris checks his watch in an outrageous flash of silver. “Is sixteen hour wait at the airport, or what? You can’t take night off your busy schedule and have a drink with an old friend?”

Theo would hesitate to call them old friends. He’d hesitate to call them anything, but there’s potential humming under the surface now that had always been there back in Vegas. He hadn’t known what it was, what it meant back then - it was just shared snorting at the dumb puns Mrs. Mullin would say to get everyone excited about earth science, sitting silently beside each other on the bus when there were no more empty seats left, and holding each other by the waist only when they were wasted at a pool party on the weekend and acting like it never happened on Monday morning. 

But Theo knows what the humming is now - the desperate desire to have a friend and the fierce inability to let himself have one. Boris leaves the painting on the desk and scoops up his coat. He holds the door open for Theo, his way of telling not asking again. So Theo grabs his coat as well and thinks maybe he can let himself have something now, maybe just this one thing. 

“It’s good to see you too,” Theo says, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

--

[shadowslackinglight]

#2 - The Interview

This is Victoria Winters. Friends and family had warned me prior to my fateful interview with the Collins family that they had a reputation of being eccentric. Of course, with the excitement of the opportunity coursing through my veins, I dismissed the concerns out of hand. I quickly came to realize, however, that this particular family was shrouded in dark secrets and motives. No person residing at the Collinwood Estate was without an internal struggle hiding just under the surface.

From the diary of Victoria Winters.

Vicky winters stood slightly damp from the rain in the foyer of the new Collinwood Estate. Although citizens of Collinsport referred to the current residence of the family as the “new” house, it was hardly a modern construction. The house was originally built during the Spring and Summer of 1860, just over two hundred years after the original house was built. It appeared to Vicky, who had a keen eye for these things, that much of the furniture in the modest-sized entryway was originally from the Victorian era. The floors were made of finely-preserved wood, part of which was covered in a large rug. The walls were covered in a dark red wallpaper with black flowers. Directly in front of Vicky was an elaborate wooden staircase, complete with a polished banister. To her left was a large set of double doors leading into another room. The wall opposite those doors held two more doors leading to other rooms. Between them hung a large oil painting of a tall, pale man with dark, black hair. The man was donned in what Vicky believed to be the traditional wardrobe of a gentleman from the seventeenth or early eighteenth century. 

“Miss Winters,” said an elderly man who had descended from the second floor of the home when  Vicky entered the house, “Ms. Stoddard-Collins will be with you shortly. Would you care for something to drink?”

Vicky looked at the man, attempting to make eye contact and convey a confidence that she did not feel in her heart.  The man’s face was gaunt and because the room was dimly lit, partially covered in shadow. What she could see of him did not appear to be in great health.

“No thank you, Mr...” came Vicky’s response in a semi-whisper. 

“Sorry,” he said to her, “How rude of me not to introduce myself. I’m Roger Collins, Elizabeth’s brother.”

The man motioned to his right where the large double doors stood. Vicky followed him to the doors and entered once he opened them.

“Who is that man in the picture?” she asked him, motioning to the picture on the wall.

“Oh, that old thing?” Roger replied, “He’s a distant relative. When this house was built, all of the art was taken from the original and put into storage here on the estate. Elizabeth has always loved all of the portraits, ever since she was a child. When she took over the house after our parents’ deaths, she wanted to add them all to this house. Unfortunately, the shed they were in allowed a bit too much of the weather to intrude. All of the artwork was destroyed except that one. Peculiar, really.”

“Peculiar, indeed,” Vicky said.

“Please, Ms. Winters, have a seat anywhere in this room. I will summon my sister, presently.” Roger left the room, closing the double doors behind him.

Vicky stood in the massive drawing room and took it in. The room was dimly lit by a fancy chandelier dangling from the center of the ceiling and several lamps placed at small tables arranged strategically around the room. The effect cast interesting shadows in every corner. The floor was wooden, polished extravagantly. There were a couple of old, green, leather couches and chairs in the room as well as a large piano. Each of these items stood atop very old, expensive-looking rugs. The walls were also made of wood paneling with various pieces of art hanging from them. On the wall directly across from the entrance to the room was a very large, elaborate fireplace that was outlined with a decorative, wooden hearth. The aesthetic of this room appeared to be untouched from the time in which the house was built. Vicky was sure the furniture was new, but it was clearly ordered custom to match the style of the rest of the house. The wall pointing to the outside of the house held a massive window. The storm was really picking up, now. Lightning and thunder struck again, illuminating the whole room for a moment before subsiding. 

Vicky chose one of the leather couches facing a small table with a matching chair directly across from it. Perfect for an interview, she thought. After a few minutes that crawled on like hours to Vicky, Ms. Collins Stoddard finally entered the room. 

“Apologies for the wait,” she said in a monotonous voice, “There was a bit of family business to address that ran longer than I had hoped. 

Vicky stood, turning to face the woman, “No problem, at all,” she replied, offering her hand to the matriarch.

Ms. Collins Stoddard walked to the chair opposite her and sat. Vicky wasn’t sure if she had seen her hand or had simply ignored it. Vicky sat back down on the couch, making sure her posture was perfect.

Looking at Ms. Collins Stoddard, Vicky could tell the woman was trying to put forth an air of superiority, but she wasn’t quite pulling it off. Her dark, brown hair, while put up in a bun, had a few strands that indicated it was done in haste. Her midnight blue dress was just slightly disheveled, and her green eyes looked weary. She looked stressed. Vicky was not surprised. The public relations nightmare that was this project had to have been taking its toll on Ms. Collins Stoddard. Daily protests and weekly articles about what Vicky assumed had to be a very difficult decision couldn’t have helped the situation, either. Vicky felt a bit sorry for the woman, but that empathy would quickly disappear as the interview started.

Ms. Collins Stoddard began leafing through the copy of Vicky’s profile that Vicky had mailed ahead of her visit. The woman’s face displayed no emotion as she did. Finally, after taking a look at every sheet of paper in the folder while Vicky waited in silence, Ms. Collins Stoddard finally made eye contact with her and spoke.

“Apologies for not being fully prepared,” she began, “Normally, I would look over your dossier in advance of our meeting, but to be completely honest, I did not fully expect you to come for this interview.”

“Pardon me?” Vicky stammered.

Ms. Collins Stoddard gave the slightest smirk, “Well, it’s just that you must’ve known that you are only getting this interview as a favor to a member of the family. A project like this takes experience and know-how. I don’t believe you to have either of those things. It’s a big responsibility that cannot fail.”

“I see,” was all Vicky could manage to say. Again, thunder cracked loudly outside. Vicky jumped at the sound. Her interviewer did not.

“But, here you are, aren’t you, girl? You should know that yesterday, alone, I interviewed three world-renowned architects itching to get their paws on that house,” Ms. Collins Stoddard continued, “However, I did promise to conduct this interview, and your work does look quite impressive for someone so...young. Therefore, in order to fulfill my familial obligation, I will give you five minutes to tell me why I should even remember that I met you. Why do you think you can do this project? What, if any vision do you have for my ancestral home?” she paused, “If nothing else, consider this a practice for your next interview at some low-rate firm in New York that has time to waste showing you the ropes of being a professional architect.”

Vicky looked down to her hands in her lap for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. If nothing else, she considered, at least the Collins family matriarch was honest. Vicky, however, considered herself to be an overachiever. She was not going to give up and let this opportunity pass her by. In truth, this project was the only thing, at this moment, that she wanted. 

She took a deep breath and looked up. Her eyes met Ms. Collins Stoddard’s. She tried to show determination and grit, but there was no visible response from the person across from her to indicate whether or not she had succeeded. “Very well,” Vicky said calmly, and then she dove in.

For the next five minutes, exactly, Vicky outlined everything she had gathered during her time researching the estate and during her time today in Collinsport. She spoke intently about her initial ideas and plans for a remodel of the original Collinwood house that would turn it into a bustling hotel and tourist attraction while maintaining what made it appealing in the first place: its history. She did not pause. She did not invite Ms. Collins Stoddard to interject. This was her five minutes, and she used every single second of it. She left nothing out because if she had, she knew she would regret it for the rest of her life. She may have been gifted this opportunity, but she was going to make the most of it.

The moment the five minutes ended, the double doors to the drawing-room opened with a creak, and Roger Collins walked through them. Ms. Collins Stoddard tore a scrap of paper off of the corner of Vicky’s resume, wrote something on it, closed the portfolio, and thanked Vicky for her time. She then stood up abruptly and exited the room, handing the scrap of paper to Roger as she walked past him.

Vicky felt tears welling up in her eyes. She had given it everything she had and, apparently, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for the job, and it wasn’t even enough for a response. She stood quickly, eager to leave the house before her emotions got the better of her. If she got to the station soon, she thought she might be able to catch the last train out of town, and if not, she would stay at a local hotel. There was no way she was going to stay the night in this house after that interview. The embarrassment would be too much.

As she began to make her way out of the drawing-room, she passed Roger who was looking at the scrap of paper in his hand. Her presence near his person startled him to attention, and he turned to her, “Where are you going, Ms. Winters?” he asked.

She turned on her heels and looked at him, exasperated. “I’m going to try to catch a train back,” she replied.

“That won’t be necessary,” Roger told her.

“Mr. Collins, I appreciate the opportunity and your family’s hospitality, but...”

Roger stuck the note out to her, “Here,” he said.

She hesitated, confused, then took the piece of paper and read it for herself. There was a dollar sign on it, followed by a number. A large number. A number that was at least twice as big as any she’d expect to get at a firm. 

“What is this?” she asked.

“Your salary,” Roger replied, “I know it’s a tad low, compared to what you may have expected, but we will be providing you room and board here at Collinwood, which will significantly cut your costs. I’m afraid, however, that the offer is non-negotiable.”

Vicky looked down at the number written by Ms. Collins Stoddard’s hand, again. After a moment, determined to keep a professional face, she looked up and replied as calmly as she could, “Mr. Collins, I believe this will suffice.”

“Excellent!” he said, “You begin tomorrow. Planning for this project must be underway at once!”

“But my things,” Vicky stated, “I’ve only brought enough for one night. I need time to gather my belongings to move.”

Roger looked at her incredulously, “Nonsense. Provide me with a list of your personal belongings, your address, and a key, and I will have someone fetch them for you. If you have them at breakfast, we should have the job done by tomorrow evening.”

Thunder and lightning crashed once more, but this time when the bright flash retreated from the room, all of the lamps and the chandelier had gone out. The two were standing in complete darkness.

“Drats,” Roger said.

To be continued...

[keeroo92]

True North Part 2

Part two of the commission sent by @clevermentalitybeliever, 

Part 1

Word count - 3,219

Apologies for any issues, my editing tool crashed so back to old techniques. And I really hope you like Lord of the Rings XD

_______________

---V---

The work wasn’t easy. The customers often browsed for over an hour and left without buying anything. At first, he tried to help them, but quickly learned his previous retail experience of assistance and urgency barely applied. If someone needed help, they asked. Otherwise, his offers of help met incredulous looks and confusion.

After the first week, you started training him in appraisals with the help of several reference books. As much as he loved old fashioned furniture and classic décor, determining its value was challenging. You spent as much time as you could spare teaching him, but you had several demands on your time.

And it doesn’t help that we spend half the time laughing.

He smirked, leaning closer to the ornate vase on the counter. Early 1950’s, judging by the decay of the enamel and the geometric pattern. It was in good condition, no major cracks despite its age. He scrawled a messy thirty on the sticker, setting the item in the growing pile of glassware with one hand while his other reached for the next piece.

“You’re getting faster. Might be time I popped your cherry,” you said over his shoulder.

He choked on his tongue, coughing loudly enough to echo in the massive storage area.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Acquisitions. Why, did you have something else in mind?”

Well, if I didn’t before…

“Ha! Made you blush.”

“Yes, that’s a point to you. Twenty-three to seventeen, correct?”

You nodded as he stood and stretched, stealing a moment to recover. He tried not to picture a whole new way to win the ongoing contest; you were his boss and quickly becoming a friend. To imagine you naked and wrapped around him, flushed and sighing as he lifted your small form and held it against a wall was unquestionably inappropriate.

Not to mention I owe her three grand.

“In my favor, don’t forget that part!”

He grinned and did his best to adjust his suddenly too tight pants without drawing your attention. “I wouldn’t dare. What do acquisitions entail?”

You chuckled and grabbed your purse, digging through it until you found car keys. V always got a kick out of your quirky keychains and focused on the myriad of shapes to push away the last of his lingering arousal. None of them made sense to him, other than the lucky rabbit’s foot.

“Sometimes folks want an appraisal before they decide to donate or sell us their stuff. Got a call this morning, a death in the family and they aren’t sure what to do with what’s left behind. Might be some sad people there, but the house is on a beach at least.”

A beach. He hadn’t been in years, but the thought of salty air and rolling waves brought a smile to his lips. There might even be time to look for seashells.

“What are we waiting for?”

---Reader---

A fifteen minute drive later and you were knocking at the sandy front door of a single story beach house with paint that matched the sky. It was the perfect day for being on the sea, not a cloud to be seen and a gentle breeze relieving the worst of the heat from the hot sun. You scraped your feet on the entrance mat, losing the bulkof the sand stuck in your shoes as a middle aged man opened the door. His face was strained in grief and you met his mournful eyes with sympathy.

“Hi, you must be Mr. Sutherland. I’m Y/N, from Another Man’s Treasure, this is my associate V. I’m so sorry for your loss,” you said, reaching out to shake the poor man’s hand.

“Right. Thank you, please come in.”

With one last run over the rug, you followed him with V a step behind. Inside, the home was bright and cheery. Yellow pastel walls and light wooden furniture set a welcoming tone in the living area. Only the outlines of where photos once decorated the room reminded you of the reason for your visit.

“Mom kept her collection in the back, it’s this way,” Mr. Sutherland remarked.

He shuffled down a dim hallway to show you a back room stuffed with treasures. A beautifully preserved secretary’s desk, an intricate standing mirror and a stunning collection of porcelain plates caught your attention right off the bat, but that was only the beginning.  

The morose man led you through a narrow gap in the items to show the rest. The pristine bassinet from the 1800’s was a joy to behold, the vintage lamps a close second. This was going to be fun. You turned to the client and hid your excitement behind a tight seal of professionalism.

“We’ll treat each item with the utmost care, you have my word.”

He managed a small smile and left you to it.

The hours passed in a haze of assessment and discovery. Since the client was still in the home, you kept the laughter and joking to a minimum, and V was perceptive enough to follow your example. He worked diligently, and by early afternoon you had a final offer ready. You carefully returned the last of the plates to its stand and went to find Mr. Sutherland in the living room, typing away on a laptop.

“Mr. Sutherland? We’re finished,” you said. He closed the computer and waved you and V over to sit on the grey couch.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I can offer you $7,863.47 for the lot, and here’s a breakdown of each item. Do you have any questions?”

He accepted the folder and opened it, glancing at the figures within.

“I’ll have to run it by my sister, she might want one or two things. Can I email you next week?”

You stood and smiled, extending a hand for another shake. “Of course, take all the time you need.”

He gave you a sad smile and escorted the pair of you to the door. V paused by the car, taking a deep sniff of the sea air before climbing in. It was easy to see how much he liked the beach, and you smiled as your stomach rumbled and an idea popped into your head.

“Wanna grab lunch on the pier? Maybe a quick walk on the sand after?”

His wide smile was all the answer you needed, and you guided the sedan back to the main road with several options to choose from. In the end, you wound up grabbing street tacos from a food truck and sitting at a picnic table. It was heating up and as you chewed, you wished you had a skirt to change into before taking that stroll.

You swallowed. “Mind if we hit the surf shop before that walk? I don’t know about you, but I need something less hot to wear.”

V nodded mid-chew, a sprig of cilantro stuck to his lips. You chuckled and handed him a napkin, pointing at your own mouth to guide him. His hand paused and he smirked, staring you right in the eye as he slowly, teasingly licked his lips and hummed. Blood rushed to your face.

“Ha, now it’s twenty-five to nineteen!” he crowed in triumph.

Huh? What?

It took a few heartbeats for you to come to your senses. The glimpse of his tongue had you thrumming and you shifted your weight to ease the tension. It was impossible not to notice how attractive he was, but this was all in good fun. Right? He was only trying to even the score, using every tool at his disposal.

It didn’t matter. You were his boss. Self-control didn’t come easily to you, but this time it mattered.

That didn’t mean you couldn’t beat him at his own game, though.

You sighed and nodded, admitting his point as you reached for your milkshake. This was going to be so good. Your tongue wrapped around the straw and you closed your lips, sucking deeply so your cheeks hollowed. The faint remains of your blush still colored your face as you closed your eyes and hummed at the flavor.

V's breath audibly hitched. It was too much and you opened your eyes to see his gaze fixated on your lips as you withdrew the straw, his lids wide and pupils dilated. You cleared your throat with a smirk and his eyes shot to yours, his blush a stark contrast to his normally pale skin.

Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have done that. I’m torturing us both…

His lips parted. “Make that twenty-six to nineteen.”

Victory was sweet.

 _____________________

You backed off for the rest of the meal, too aware of your own attraction to dare pushing the envelope any further. V followed your lead, though he tried a few raucous jokes he probably got from Peter. Nothing new and you kept your cool with ease. You headed to the surf shop with the same score.

It didn’t have much outside swimwear, a few wraps and the like but nothing that wouldn’t be above the knee. You took a small bit of comfort in the fact that V had even fewer choices, only a speedo, swim trunks or board shorts.  You ducked into the only changing room and arranged the sarong with care. It was the only one they had that wasn’t transparent, and it barely brushed your kneecaps.

Well, here goes.

Why were you so nervous? It was just skin, and not even that much. Nothing to worry about, he’d seen worse from some of the vintage comics at work.What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe you’d score another point.

You pulled back the curtain, stepping aside so V could take his turn but he didn’t move. His brow was furrowed, more confused than anything else.

“What?” you asked.

He pursed his lips and shifted his weight. “Is that skirt supposed to be so short?”

“Shorter, actually.”

You pushed past him with a smirk and took a seat on the bench to wait as he changed. It didn’t take long, he probably didn’t have to adjust anything like you had. Men had it so easy with clothes. As the curtain parted, you couldn’t help the twitch of your lips and the cough of laughter that slipped through.

I can’t… I can’t handle this. I have to say it!

He was staring at you, the first hint of a blush appearing as he waited for some indication of the reason behind your strange reaction.

It’s so rude, though! But it’s too perfect!

He raised an eyebrow and the dam burst.

“The beacons are lit! The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid!”

A second eyebrow joined his first. He didn’t speak and as the seconds dragged on in silence, you realized why. Your jaw dropped and you looked at him with new eyes.

“Wait… have you never seen Lord of the Rings?”

“No. What is it?”

Oh my god… he must be joking.

“Frodo and the One Ring? One of the greatest fantasy stories ever told? The cornerstone of fantasy tropes for decades?”

He shook his head. He seriously had no idea what you were talking about.

Unacceptable.

You marched forward and grabbed his hand, tugging him to the register to pay. There was no time to waste. Did V live in a cave? How could he not even know what Lord of the Rings was, let alone have never watched the films?

“Come on, beach is cancelled. I hope you like sword fights.”

This is going to be so good! If he doesn’t even know the story it’ll just be that much better!

“Wait, what? Where are we going?”

You smirked. “My place. I have popcorn and all three extended editions. You didn’t have plans for tonight, did you?”

---V---

It was truly as you said – one of the greatest stories ever told. He was hooked in ten minutes, laughing along at Bilbo’s party shenanigans and furrowing his brow as Gandalf confronted him. The world of Middle Earth entranced him with its complexity and detail. It felt as real as the world he actually lived in, as real as the Qlipoth. And the music! Superb.

His soul shattered as Frodo screamed for Gandalf. The raw grief reminded him of his own losses and he found tears spilling from his eyes as Aragorn dragged the hobbit away. The sheer heroism of Borimir’s last stand left him speechless, a stunning display of redemption. He hoped he could redeem himself so thoroughly. As the credits rolled on Fellowship, you turned to him with a huge grin, a gleam of excitement in your eyes.

“Well? What did you think?”

He struggled to find words for a moment, finally settling on a question. “You did say there’s three of these, right?”

The leather couch squeaked as you bounced happily, clapping your hands. It was easy to see how much you loved the story, and his heart warmed at how quick you’d been to demand he experience it. Inviting him into your home, making popcorn and dimming the lights. He didn’t even mind that he’d missed the beach, this gave him far more enjoyment. Especially when he glanced at you and saw you biting your lip, watching his reactions throughout the film.

Her joy is contagious.

“Yes! I knew you’d like it! Who’s your favorite character? Actually, no you should watch the rest first! Do you want more popcorn? I have some chicken too if you want something more substantial.”

He smirked, pitching his voice as close to Gandalf’s as he could. “Just popcorn, thank you.”

“You did not just do that! I’m so proud of you!”

And then your arms were around him. Hugging him. Squeezing his shoulders. He could smell your hair, feel the warmth of your body. Who was the last person to hug him? How long had it been?

It didn’t matter. He lifted his arms and returned your embrace, trying to toe the line between friendship and something more intimate. The moment he felt you pull back, he mirrored you and schooled his features into a smile.

“Bathroom’s on the left there, if you need it. I’ll get the popcorn!”

That seems wise.

He forced his legs to move at a normal pace to the bathroom. He didn’t need to use it, but a moment to clear his head was too valuable to refuse. The lines were clear, the boundary should be easy to respect. But somehow, it was becoming more difficult. V splashed some cool water on his face and sighed, staring into his green eyes in the mirror.

This was supposed to be simple. Make amends. Nothing more.

As long as he was careful, there was no reason anything had to change. It was just a hug, it didn’t even last that long. He’d tone down his jokes, but he was too selfish to push you away outright. Fool that he was.

He sighed again. Maybe he should just leave? Make some excuse and go home? No, too obvious. You’d see right through it. Plus, he really wanted to finish the movies.

He was starting to understand what Bilbo meant by feeling like butter, scraped over too much bread.

“Hey, you want something to drink? I’ve got some light beer, or water,” you asked from the hall.

Alcohol would be extremely unwise. I’m already barely holding on.

“Water sounds lovely,” he called back. He waited a moment longer and flushed the toilet, hiding his absurdity. A quick wash of his hands and he rejoined you on the couch, picking the same exact spot he sat in before so nothing seemed amiss. A glass of water was waiting for him and he took a few sips as the second film opened.

The hours flew by in a whirlwind of rocky plains and horses, black orc flesh and white wizard robes. If the first film left him speechless, the second left him gob smacked. Never would he forget the image of the Rohirrim, riding over the cliffs to save their king with the sun streaming over their armored shoulders. He’d been a little worried that the battle was lost and cheered at the victory. As the credits rolled, he stood to stretch with a smile.

“Ready for more?” you asked. He glanced down at you and nodded, his earlier discomfort forgotten in his eagerness.

By the end of the conclusion, he was crying again. What a beautiful ending. Even the credits were gorgeous and he couldn’t look away from the perfect artwork of the characters.

“So, now that you’ve seen them all! Who’s your favorite?”

Before he could answer, the front door creaked open, a thick figure stepping through. Your face went slack, the blood draining away in panic. V was instantly on alert, muscles coiled and ready to react if something went wrong. You hadn’t mentioned a roommate, but the dull resignation in your eyes didn’t speak to this person being unexpected.

It was a man, bearded and stocky. V thought he looked a bit like a dwarf, but knew better than to say so aloud. He stomped into the living room with an intense glare, taking in the scene.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man demanded, staring right at V.

You stood and approached the man, hand raised in a placating gesture. “This is V. He works with me and had never seen Lord of the Rings. We just finished watching. V, this is Caleb. My brother.”

Caleb snorted, derision in every feature. “Stupid name. Get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

“Come on, I’ll drive you back to the store,” you began, reaching for the keys. Caleb wrapped a meaty fist over your wrist before you got far.

V’s eyes narrowed in anger at the flash of pain on your face, quickly wiped away to pretend everything was fine. He missed his three familiars with every fiber of his being, wishing he could bring out Shadow to maul this asshole or at least get him off you. The fragments of their bond twitched at his thoughts, but the lines led nowhere. They were gone.

He was alone.

“Nah, he can walk,” Caleb said.

V knew there was no way he could fight the man; he was massive, a single hit would break his ribs. And who knew what would happen to you if he tried anything risky? It wasn’t worth it.

“That’s fine. Good night, Y/N.”

To say anything further risked angering the giant still gripping your forearm. He didn’t dare. Instead, he stood and gathered his things, shooting a worried glance at you as he left. He waited outside the door, listening for any hint of distress.

Nothing. All was silent.

This is wrong, this is so wrong.

But what else could he do? With only five minutes of interaction, how could he assume anything about your brother? Maybe this was unusual, maybe he was normally a kind man.

But your face when he walked in the door…

V growled in frustration. He still couldn’t hear anything from inside. There was no proof, no reason for him to intervene. And what if Caleb came out and found him still here? That could be disastrous. He had no choice but to leave. If you didn’t come to work tomorrow, he’d come back. For now, he needed to retreat.

His heart ached with every step.

_______

If you aren’t familiar, google the beacons are lit beach meme. One of my favorites!

Part 3

[quinzelade]

Making One’s Bones (chpt 9)

Chapter List

–

Porter Gage is in a pickle. Nuka-World needed a new boss and some woman just killed her way to the top. But a pre-war Mafia boss on the theme park’s throne? Well…at least she’ll have experience.

–

Acquired Tastes

–

The teetering sign outside Jack’s place was almost bigger than her lopsided brothel. Gage chuckled to himself as they drew near, remembering her poor attempt at advertising, that somehow still brought in the business. Probably because there was nothing in the Commonwealth quite like it. Still holding Bossanova up, Gage stopped a few feet from the ginormous sign, craning his neck up to read it.

“Jacqueline “Jack” “Call Me By My Surname and I’ll Kill You” Paddywack is a raider with a bad name and an even badder attitude!

“Want chems? Jack’s got you covered!

“Murder? Only the finest, cleanest cut throats this side of the Commonwealth!*

“Prostitution? Pick your piece of ass and Jack’ll name her price!**

“Slaves?

“No. Come on now, what the fuck, man?

“…Nah, just kiddin’ ya. Seriously, we’ve got shitloads of slaves.

“So come on down to Jack Paddywack’s Fun Shack, the baddest place in town!”

Gage bent over double laughing, managing to set Bossanova down before he dropped her on her ass. Time and time again, he’d told Jack to change her stupid sign. She’d read a stack of pre-war magazines with some of the worst advertisements known to man, and yet believed she’d hit an untapped goldmine.

His eye trailed to the small print beneath the huge, white letters of Jack’s erratic slogans, and burst out into fresh peals of laughter.

“*Unless specified otherwise—see terms and conditions for full details and special orders

**Deathclaw orders for premium members only. Jack Paddywack’s “Wack That Jack” Prostitution Services claims no responsibility for any injury, including blood loss, amputation of limbs, beheading, severed genitals, internal bleeding, organ failure, broken bones, punctured lungs, hemorrhaging of the brain, heart failure, radiation poisoning, and minor bruising. All deathclaw packages are non-refundable upon survival.”

Tears were now streaming down his face as he choked and spluttered, Bossanova squinting up at the sign in utter bewilderment from her place on the ground. Only Jack would do something like th—

Bang.

Gage scrambled for his sidearm as he dragged Bossanova upright again, before remembering it had been fried in the underground facility. Then he stopped, a tight feeling in his chest.

Jack Paddywack leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms, plump lips twisted into a familiar coy smile. Her sienna skin glowed in the rising light of the wasteland sun, and Gage dimly noticed she’d changed her hair, shaving the sides and twisting the rest into a fierce, black knot at the top of her head. Her strong nose was now slightly crooked, and he wondered how long it had been since he’d last seen her.

“Going to shoot me, Gage?” she purred, gesturing to his empty holster.

“I asked him the same thing,” Bossanova muttered as Gage grinned, though his chest still felt constricted.

He let his eye travel over her a little, enough for her to notice, and then met her gaze again. She raised an eyebrow. Gage ignored this and nodded to the sign. “‘Wack That Jack’? Since when did you arrange deathclaw fucking?”

“Since there was a market for it,” Jack replied sweetly. “With the right precautions, my clients live long enough to be repeat customers. And believe me, they pay big for the survival.”

They stared at each other, and then broke out into snickers. Gage’s stomach tightened at her smile.

Bossanova coughed lightly, reminding him that she was here. Jack turned to her, and glanced questioningly back at him. “Who’s the ghoul? I didn’t realise you’d need my special services.”

Gage shot Jack a withering look. “She’s—”

“Overboss,” Bossanova replied crisply, straightening up a little and fixing Jack with a lofty stare. “And you?”

“Madame of Nuka World,” Jack said with equal abruptness.

“Oh good. Men are easier to keep in line when they’re getting laid, and the women less likely to blow their heads off.”

Jack blinked and then snorted with laughter. Bossanova grinned back.

“I’m Jack,” Jack said, looking a little more relaxed.

“Mrs. Bossanova.”

“Mind if we crash in one of your rooms for a while?” Gage interjected, conscious of the rising sun. “Figured it’d be quiet at this time of the morning, and I don’t want to parade her in front of the others like this.”

Jack tilted her head to the side. “But you think it’s safe to bring her here?”

“Yeah, well, I…”

I trust you.

Gage pushed the dangerous idea away quickly. No. Not even Jack. “Look, will you fucking help me or not?”

Jack snorted and unfolded her arms. “You always had such a way with words.” She frowned and then sighed. “Fine. Get her in.”

Gage grunted in thanks and helped Bossanova over the threshold.

“Of course, you still have to pay.” Jack slammed the door behind them.

--

Jack’s brothel had the strange feeling of home. To others it was just a whorehouse, and a good one at that, but to Gage, the place spoke of comfort. The furniture was all in working condition, the lights were dim, the rooms pleasantly warm, and the surfaces clean of blood. There was a small shelf full of books and magazines, which were also the only things in the place not nailed down. He knew as well as Jack raiders would never bother to steal them, even if they ever learned to read.

Jack led the way up the narrow stairs to the topmost floor, and waved her hand at an open doorway down the hall from her private quarters. Gage dumped Bossanova unceremoniously onto the sagging bed, and she squawked in surprised as she landed with a heavy flump. Bossanova kicked out irritably, catching him hard on the ass, and he leapt away, swearing.

“I’d have done the same,” Jack said between giggles. She flapped her hand at him, shooing him from the room. “Ladies only. Gotta patch her up.”

Gage slunk out, trying to ignore his own aches and pains, and limped down the hall to a room Jack pointed out to him a few moments before. Slowly, he took his armour off and set it down on the floor, every inch of him protesting. He made his way to the bed, sitting down and staring around, unsure what to do with himself. None of his visits here had been for anything but the obvious.

After a while, Jack came in. Gage felt his stomach tense.

“She’s out like a light,” Jack said. “Had to up the med-x dosage, but we got there in the end.” She paused thoughtfully. “Gotta say, she don’t look like much.”

“Underestimating her is a bad idea,” Gage replied, thinking of the Safari Adventure. “Though I’ll admit you ain’t seein’ her at her best.”

“What happened?”

“Imagine deathclaws, but bigger, stronger, and more pissed off.”

“I’m imagining it.”

“Now imagine Nuka Town full of ‘em; a machine producin’ more and more.”

“Ah. Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I could work them into my special services somehow…”

Gage snorted with laughter, then grunted as pain shot through his midriff. Jack walked over, stopping in front of him. She tucked her fingers under his chin and forced him to gaze up at her. “You look like crap,” she said gently.

“I feel it too.” Gage resisted yawning. It had been a rough day, and an even rougher night. He absentmindedly put his hand against her leg, but she suddenly let go, stepping back.

“Oh no no no. You know the rules.” She grinned her wicked grin, pulling out a handful of stimpaks and passing them to him, along with a single syringe of med-x. “If you don’t have an infection by now, then the stimpaks already cleared it up. You can do the rest.” Jack’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, and then she sauntered from the room.

Gage watched her go, before lying back on the bed and covering his face with the crook of his elbow.

Damn it.

--

Three days later, Bossanova was up and walking again. Gage noticed her attitude had become frosty since they’d first arrived, barely speaking to him. Finally, Gage decided he’d had enough. He found her downstairs in the brothel’s waiting area on the third morning reading a book titled ‘The Iceman.’ He paid it little notice. Reading wasn’t really his thing. “Boss,” he said as he settled himself in a chair opposite her.

“Gage,” she replied, her tone cold and clipped.

He folded his arms and stared at her. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bossanova didn’t answer immediately, her eyes flicking to the end of the page. Then she glanced up at him, her face impassive. “Care to elaborate?”

“Oh don’t try to bullshit me. You’ve been funny ever since we got here.”

“And why,” she said delicately, returning to her book, “would you care? As you reminded me the other day, we’re not friends. So if we’re not friends, then we’re just business associates, and that means I won’t waste small talk on you.” She raised her hand and waved him away lazily.

Gage didn’t move. He blinked, rattling his brain to figure out what she was on about. Suddenly it struck him. When they’d left Safari Adventure they’d argued—although if he was honest with himself, he’d bitten her head off and she’d refused to rise fully to the bait. “But…”

“The last few days I’ve been bedridden, either out of my mind on painkillers, or in absolute agony. But the peace and quiet has been nice, and exhaustion has left me with little tolerance right now. I’m tired of you trusting me, only to panic and compensate by treating me like dirt straight after. It’s boring.” Bossanova turned a page in her book idly. “So go away until you’ve decided where I stand with you.”

She said it with such finality Gage knew the conversation was over.

Well, it was what he’d wanted, Gage thought as he climbed the stairs to the top floor of the brothel. Or was it? He’d gotten so used to her warm and friendly demeanour, the opposite was like being dropped into a frigid lake.

Gage snapped from his thoughts as Jack stepped out from the shadows, poking him hard in the stomach. He grunted in surprise and raised an eyebrow.

“No pain?” she asked sweetly.

“No pain,” Gage confirmed, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Good thing I’m around to save your ass.” She poked him in the stomach again, catching him off-guard. Laughing, she said, “Not much of a raider to fall for the same shit twice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, biting back a grin.

“Your boss is doing fine too,” Jack went on. “Did you know ghouls are immune to disease? I can’t tell if she’s bullshitting me, but apparently nothing can survive long enough to cause an infection. She doesn’t have a fever, so I’m taking her word for it.”

Gage didn’t want to admit he had no idea what caused infection other than dirt, so said nothing. Apparently not getting sick was one of the perks of being a ghoul.

“Anyway,” Jack continued, her voice low as she leaned towards him. “We haven’t had a chance to catch up yet.”

“Lead the way.”

Her eyes lit up mischievously and she motioned for him to follow.

He watched her ass as he walked behind her, and felt himself stir at the knowing grins she shot over her shoulder. How she could look so good in loose fitting combat pants and a stained flannel shirt, he didn’t know.

“You still off the booze?” she said to him from across the kitchen as Gage dropped into a nearby chair.

“Yeah,” he said, surprised she’d remembered. She tossed him a Nuka Cola, and he caught it with one hand and quickly prised the cap off on the coffee table. His attempt to show off was rewarded with the bottle slipping, spilling cola everywhere, and Gage swore as Jack laughed. She threw a dirty scrap of fabric which hit him in the face, but he mopped it up quickly without complaint before dropping the rag at his feet.

“So,” she said, settling down in the chair opposite him, a glass of vodka to hand, “last time I saw you, you were telling me about your grand plans to get rid of Colter.”

“Last time I saw you, your nose was straight,” Gage quipped.

“One of the customers got a little too rowdy,” Jack said, rubbing her crooked nose absentmindedly. “Nothing a shotgun couldn’t cure.”

“Customer?” Gage sat up rigidly, the tight feeling returning to his stomach. “I thought you didn’t take customers anymore?”

“I don’t. He was bothering one of my girls.”

“Right.” Gage tried to settle again.

Jack leaned forward, smirking. “So...your plan worked?”

He was grateful for the change of topic. “Sorta. The new boss is shaping up. Not what I was expecting, but she knows how to keep Nisha in line and she’s actually trying to get this place running, so fuck it. It’ll work itself out.”

“I’ll admit, I thought something went wrong,” Jack said, looking oddly serious. “When you stopped turning up, I thought you might have cut your losses and left, or...or worse.”

Silence filled the room.

Gage drained his cola for something to do, and Jack got to her feet, clutching her vodka like a grenade. “I’ll get you another drink.”

He watched her as she bustled away, feeling warm. It had been Gage who’d convinced Jack to move to the park in the first place. He’d known her for a long time—as long as he could have known anyone. She wasn’t associated with any gang, but she had the balls and smarts to carve out a neat piece for herself in the raider world. The others knew not to fuck with her—she was the queen of the whore market, and could cater to every and any taste. Gage thought she’d be perfect for keeping things from boiling over in Nuka Town.

What he hadn’t expected was his reliance on her after shit really began to hit the fan. When Colter’s attitude and Nisha’s threats drove him to the edge of his patience, Gage had come here and lost himself for a night or two every week.

Gage stood up. He suddenly felt hot—far too hot. Had to be the fucking armour. He undid the straps and with a grunt pulled it off, setting it on the floor. By the time he was done, Jack was by his side, holding out a fresh bottle of cola. Their fingers brushed as he took it from her, and he sat himself back down, staring at her feet.

“Well, I’m glad you ain’t dead anyway,” Jack said, flopping into her chair and crossing her legs. “The girls would have missed you.”

Gage snorted, meeting her eye again. “I haven’t been with one of your girls in years.”

“I know.” She grinned. “Yet you kept coming back.”

“And you kept lettin’ me.” He stretched out, relaxing again. The weird atmosphere in the room was seeping away, the familiar, comfortable buzz of lust taking over instead. He could see it in her hungry expression, feel it in himself.

Gage swigged on his cola, anticipation coursing through him. They both knew what happened whenever he visited. Jack didn’t even charge him for it anymore, and he told himself that was the reason he returned so often.

Jack stared at him from across the room, her dark eyes twinkling over the rim of her glass. She sipped the vodka deliberately, carefully. Gage could see the liquid clinging to those fine lips. She ran a finger over the glass and then sucked the alcohol off it, never breaking eye contact. Gage’s imagination immediately went into overdrive. He took another gulp of cola and choked as it went straight up his nose.

“Smooth as ever,” Jack said, grinning. She drained her glass and set it down carelessly. “Are we playing games today, or should we just skip to the fucking?”

“Skip to the fucking.”

“Good.”

She was on her feet and halfway across the room before Gage was even out of his seat. Jack shoved him back against the wall with a bang and pressed her mouth against his, her hand massaging his crotch. Gage’s heart pounded as he dragged her shirt over her head and threw it aside, before bending down and running his tongue over her breast. She seized him by the jaw and forced him back against the wall, tilting her head to the side.

“Have you forgotten the rules?” she murmured into his ear as she pulled at his belt, loosening it. “How things are done under my roof?”

“No,” Gage replied, the feel of her hand at his throat intensifying the urge to have her. “I just wanted to try my luck.”

“Did you?” Jack’s fingers tugged down his zipper and her hand slipped inside his pants, running along him the way she knew he liked it. She kept the pace for a few seconds and then stopped, biting gently on his ear. “I think you need to earn my good graces. What will you do for them, hmm?”

“Anything,” Gage mumbled, wanting to pick her up and fuck her where they stood. But he wasn’t allowed to touch. Not yet.

“Anything?”

Gage swallowed and nodded. Jack’s eyes lit up with mischief. She kissed him hard, nipping at his lip and gripping his hair as she ground against him. Her breasts pushed on his chest, and it took all his resolve not to reach up and run his hands over them. Jack’s teasing was merciless, and by the end of the night he would be a desperate mess.

God, he loved it.

“Undress me,” she whispered as she played with him.

Gage obeyed, knowing he’d have to move himself away from her tantalising strokes to free her from her clothes. He worked quickly, resisting returning the favour. He’d get his chance later. Within seconds, Jack was standing naked before him, and she pushed him back, her eyes telling him he still wasn’t allowed to touch. She rewarded his obedience by taking hold of him again and picking up the rhythm, smirking when he groaned and leaned his head against the wall.

Jack hooked a finger inside his mouth and pulled his head down to face her. Her kisses were fierce now, and slowly she ran her palm across his face. Gage felt almost drunk, her touch hot on his skin. Her fingers stopped over the strap of his makeshift eyepatch. There was a pause as their eyes met, and she tugged at it, trying to pull it away.

Gage clamped his hand over hers.

Shit.

They stared at each other, Jack looking surprised. Panic shot through him. He hadn’t meant to do it, hadn’t even thought about it. He’d never stopped her before, but then she’d never tried to do that either. Would she think he was weak, or pathetic, or…?

Jack smiled a soft smile, softer than Gage could ever have imagined on her sweet lips. She eased her hand away, letting it fall onto his shoulder with a small squeeze. She kissed him gently, tenderly, and for a moment, Gage didn’t know what to do. Then her next utterance sent a thrill through him.

“Kneel.”

It was the command he’d been hoping for, and his awkwardness evaporated. Gage grabbed Jack by the shoulders and slammed her bodily into the wall, dropping to his knees without hesitation. He didn’t wait for further instruction, but pressed his mouth between her legs, staring up at her. Her thighs trembled beneath his grip as Gage began to worship her with his tongue.

--

The walk back to Nuka Town was uncomfortably silent. It was as if he wasn’t there, Bossanova strolling ahead and humming, admiring the scenery as she went. Gage skulked some distance behind, battling with himself. Jack had been a nice distraction—the distraction he always needed when things were difficult. But now he was with his thoughts, and there was no more dangerous place to be.

Did he trust the boss?

Against all his better judgement, he wanted to. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Like Connor, Bossanova made a very good show of caring. Gage had believed every lie, every false act, every gesture designed to put him right in the firing line. But he was older now, wiser. He wouldn’t fall for it again.

And yet…

“Boss?” Gage said, before he lost his nerve. To his great surprise, she stopped and turned to him expectantly. His question solidified in his throat. He couldn’t talk to her about this again. He just couldn’t. She’d already said she was done with him. It was better this way.

Bossanova stared at him for a few moments, and then continued walking. Gage followed her, kicking himself, until she spoke. “Good time with Jack last night?”

Gage nearly tripped over his own feet. She was looking over her shoulder at him, her eyes stern but her mouth twisted as if trying not to laugh. He grunted in response.

“I could hear Jack from downstairs,” Bossanova went on as if they were discussing which Nuka Cola was their favourite.

“Yeah, she’s not exactly quiet,” Gage muttered.

“I’m sure you did fine.”

“God, please shut up.”

Bossanova laughed as his cheeks grew steadily hot, and Gage gritted his teeth. He made a point to march ahead, which took some effort, as he had to catch up to her before overtaking her in an aggressively dignified sort of way.

“So is Jack your girlfriend?”

Gage glanced over his shoulder and did stumble this time. “Girlfriend?”

“You know. Your partner. Love of your life. Etcetera.”

“No. We just fuck.”

Bossanova frowned a little at this and picked up her pace so she was walking alongside him again. It was as if they were trying to race without running. “Ever had a girlfriend?”

“No,” Gage said, wondering where the hell this was going. “Never wanted one.”

“So she’s your friend?”

“No.” He was starting to get exasperated with her prying. “Never needed them either.”

“Why n—?”

“Why all the questions?” Gage snarled. “You wouldn’t speak to me yesterday.”

“Didn’t like that, huh?”

“I couldn’t have given less of a fuck,” he lied, staring out to Nuka World in the distance and wondering how long it would take to finally get there.

“Ah. And there was me hoping Jack would fix your nasty temper.”

“Keep hoping. I’m a miserable bastard whatever happens.”

“Except when Jack is asking you to—”

“You finish that sentence and I’ll shoot you and then myself,” Gage snapped. Bossanova burst into peals of laughter, stopping where she stood and clutching her sides. He glared valiantly at her for a few seconds, and then felt his lips crack into an unwilling smile.

“Next time we’re at Jack’s just pick a piece of ass for yourself. Then you can spare me all the fucking questions. I’m sure Jack will give you a discount.”

“No thanks,” she said, starting up again in a slow stroll. “Not really my thing.”

“What, Jack?” Gage said, matching her pace without thinking.

“No.”

“...fucking?”

“Uh-huh.”

He stared at her. For a moment he considered asking her about Nicky again directly, but decided against it. The topic was dangerous water and she wasn’t in the best of moods. Tact was required here, which he obviously had in bucketloads. “I don’t...but...everyone fucks. Even ghouls. I knew some raiders with...tastes.”

“Not me.” When Gage continued to gawk, she said, in a horrible rendition of his accent, “Why do you care?” Bossanova grinned. “Relationships and everything in-between aren’t my bag. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful? No offence, boss, but you’re not my type.”

“Oh my God.” She rolled her eyes. “The feeling is extremely mutual, idiot.”

“Then why would I be—?”

“I think with my brain and not my…” She made a vague gesture in the direction of Gage’s crotch.

Gage flushed. “I don’t think with my dick.”

“I know. But some do. So be glad we have the same priorities.”

He shook his head. “This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”

Bossanova gave him a mocking look of sympathy. “I know. And think how sick of it I must be after two-hundred and ninety years of the same stupid questions.”

“You started it!”

She laughed. “True, true. Call it quits then?”

“Yeah, I think that’s for the fuckin’ best.”

They walked on, the silence returning and enveloping them like a blanket. Gone was the tension, but despite this, Gage could feel the conversation they’d almost had as they’d escaped Safari Adventure scratching the inside of his skull. It demanded attention, and strangely enough, this time he didn’t feel as afraid to talk about it.

“Boss,” he tried again, his mouth drying.

She looked at him, smiling faintly. “Gage?”

“Yesterday, when we was walkin’ to Jack’s, you...you asked me why I couldn’t understand…” Gage licked his lips, his chest tight with nerves. “You wanted me to ‘explain myself,’ whatever that means.” He slowed to a stop, rubbing the back of his head, before letting out a long sigh and meeting her eye. “What do you want to know?”

“Why do you hate the idea of trusting people?” she said at once.

Well, that was an easy enough question to answer. “Because every fucker is out for himself,” Gage said bluntly, folding his arms. “I learned that when I was sixteen.” He paused, gripping his own arms, the bitterness of the long gone encounter rising up through his throat like bile. “I worked hard to be an asset, and my payment was for some mediocre, two-bit punk to stab me in the back.”

“Tell me about it,” Bossanova said gently.

He considered saying no—all these years later and Connor’s betrayal still smarted. But then suddenly it vomited from his lips, decades of pent-up resentment spewing out into the open air. And once he started, he found he couldn’t stop.

“I became a raider young,” Gage said to the ground, scowling at a small rock as he went. “Didn’t matter ‘bout my age, though I also lacked the sense to know when to keep my mouth shut. Had more brains than the gang put together, and they all fuckin’ knew it—could tell by the look on their faces every time I offered suggestions to help make us all stronger. None of them liked it, but my ideas worked. So much so, I was eventually approached by Connor.”

“Connor?”

“The leader. Called himself some stupid-ass title back then—‘The Harvester’ or whatever.” Despite himself, Gage let out a snort of laughter. He glanced up without thinking, and saw Bossanova smirking too. All at once, he felt his body relax, though he quickly avoided her eye again. He went on. “I thought Connor might be pissed, think I was undermining his authority. But he took my advice instead.”

Gage still remembered the evening Connor came to him. The overwhelming sense of pride, inflating his ego to dangerous proportions. Blinding him to the risks, just out of sight. Gage smiled bitterly. “So here I am, this teenage punk who's got the ear of what seems like the most powerful guy around. I'm on top of the damn world. Connor's always coming to me, asking what I think of his plans, telling me how much he trusts me.” He hesitated. “Can't lie—it all went to my head.”

Bossanova’s expression was too knowing for his liking. She nodded. “Would go to any kid’s head, I imagine.”

“Yeah, well…” Gage coughed, stalling for time. “After about a year, we come up with this plan to make peace with a rival gang—work the whole thing out in secret. Meet on neutral ground, a backup plan in case shit went south, and me negotiating with them.”

He paused, remembering his exhilaration at being included, at being needed. Connor trusted him to play the most vital role.

“Did it all go to hell?” Bossanova asked, apparently reading his mind.

“Pretty much.” Gage sighed. “Just as talks were gettin’ somewhere, I hear the gunfire and the explosions. And at first I’m thinkin’, ‘Oh shit, something went wrong. Connor’s gonna have to bail us out.’”

“But…?”

“But...I eventually picked up on the real plan. The fucker set me up, and I fell for it. Probably thought he’d got everythin’ he could from me. Probably saw me as a threat.” Gage clenched his jaw shut. “Used me as a diversion, then pissed off the other gang. He gets their stuff and I die in the crossfire. Perfect day for him. Perfect reward for my fuckin’ stupidity.”

Bossanova studied him for a while. Her face was set in a peculiar expression—soft, but searching, as if trying to see right into him.

“Don’t know how the fuck I survived, but I did,” said Gage, feeling like he might as well finish the story properly. “Thought about finding Connor and putting a bullet in his head, but that was just the anger talking. Knew where it would end up. So I learned from it and moved on. Everybody looks after themselves.” He glared at her, and she stared back, her face unreadable. He didn’t give a damn. “I’m no different. And neither are you.”

“No,” Bossanova said softly. “I suppose not.”

“So stop with the bullshit. Stop pretending. We’re both using each other to get to the top of the shit heap, and that’s as far as it goes. But at least I’m fucking honest about it.”

“Just because I’m using you to get to the top,” Bossanova replied, the same strange expression on her face, “doesn’t mean I won’t help you up when I get there.”

Gage stared at her, his anger over Connor ebbing away. It felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders—a weight that he’d become so used to, he’d forgotten it was even there. Only with its removal had Gage finally recognised its presence and the damage it had done. And with the sudden lightness of his soul, he saw something else in its place. Something he couldn’t deny, as much as it worried him.

Gage sighed, rubbing his eye. “Look...I get what you’re trying to do. I really do.” He let his hand drop. “I don’t trust easily. At all, in fact. Connor fucked me over too hard for that.” Gage paused, but Bossanova didn’t speak, letting him say his piece. “I’ve been ‘round raiders for years, seen some shit—done most of it myself. I know what people are capable of an’ it ain’t pretty. But…”

He finally looked her full in the face. Bossanova wore a blank expression, her gaze sharp and focused on him. “Shit, can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but...I’m beginning to suspect you ain’t like that, boss. If you are, then I knew all along and it’s no big deal. An’ if you’re not...well, we’ll see.”

He shrugged awkwardly, his heart hammering at exposing such vulnerability. But Bossanova beamed at him. “That’s all I needed to hear. Knew I’d get it out of you eventually.”

“Yeah yeah,” Gage grumbled, biting back a grin, feeling weak at the knees all of a sudden. “Enough talking. Let’s go kill some shit.”

“We need guns for that. I say when we get back, we stock up and move onto the next section of the park—come back for the gatorclaws when we’re good and ready. Unless you want to rest up first?”

“No,” he replied, hardly daring to believe his ears. She was making plans, pushing for more land without him fighting with her over it. Without her acting like Colter. “Any ideas where you wanna hit next?”

“I say we go for a stroll, see where the mood takes us.”

Gage chuckled. “I can get behind that, boss. I can get behind it.”

--

A/N: Hi everyone. Sorry this is a little late. Going through a rough patch in my personal life right now, and I decided to drink alcohol instead of doing anything productive yesterday. Then I remembered I hadn't posted the chapter, but was too drunk to do anything about it at that point.

If you're enjoying my story, please consider leaving a comment! It really does mean the world to me.

Jack is one of my favourite characters I've ever made. She was created on a whim, when I received an ask telling me to make up a Fallout character on the spot. The sign outside the brothel was what I came up with, and down the line when I started writing MOB, I realised I HAD to include Jack.