#The last time I drew him I portrayed him with very straight and heavy hair

[sysig]

Handsome blacksmith so nice, he got married twice (Patreon)

[toria-lilith]

Smoke and Roses - A Douglas Booth!Nikki Sixx fan fiction (chapter one)

A/N - Hi guys! So I made a post about this a few days ago but I decided, since I finally remembered the fucking password to this blog, that I’d rework some of the writing and plot points in Smoke and Roses, and republish it! I really hope you enjoy more this time round! 

Fic Summary: Holland Van-Ness is a PR manager. At only twenty three years old, she is smart, sharp and straight edge; and the best in the business at what she does. But when she gets involved with the reckless Motley Crue, her life changes forever.

DISCLAIMER:: I would like start by saying I do not condone any of the actions portrayed by any member of Motley Crue, any member of their crew, or any OC. This work is fictitious, and is in no way meant to glamorise drug or alcohol abuse. ‘Smoke and Roses’ is based on the events of Netflix’s ‘The Dirt’, and the autobiography of the same name, and follows the both of them closely, and will include details regarding the aforementioned abuse that may be triggering to some readers. The timeline in this fic also differs slightly from real life and The Dirt. With all that being said, proceed with caution, and enjoy!

It was the ringing of the phone that awoke Holland.

In her grogginess, she seriously considered rolling back over and ignoring it, but just when she thought it was done, it started to ring again; long, and loud, and tearing her back from the comfort of sleep.

Holland groaned. She rolled begrudgingly out of bed and made her way across her bedroom, where her phone was hung upon the wall opposite her bed by the window. Whoever was calling her better have had a damn good reason to be bothering her at nine AM, and on a Saturday of all days.

“Hello?” She said tiredly into the receiver, running a hand back through her dark blonde hair to push it back from her face, “Holland Van-Ness speaking.”

“Ahh, Holly,” a voice, irritatingly cheerful for the time of day, greeted her on the other end. “It’s Doc Mghee.”

Well, that certainly peaked her interest, and Holland was suddenly wide awake. Though she had known Doc for years, he rarely called for a chat, which could only mean one thing; he had a job for her. “Doc, good to hear from you,” she responded warmly, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

It had been a year or so since Holland had last spoken to the infamous manager. He had been a close friend of her Father’s before he passed away, and had been the one to help her break into the music industry when she was a mere eighteen years old. That had been five years ago; and Holland was eternally grateful. She owed a massive amount of her success to Doc. “Tell me,” he said, “how soon are you able to get to LA?”

Holland raised an eyebrow at the question even though Doc couldn’t see her. “Doc, if I’m going to make a trip to LA, I should know what it’s about.”

Doc chuckled. “I’m getting to it. I’ve found you a band.”

“Oh yeah?” Holland had expected that, of course. She balanced the phone between her ear and her shoulder and reached over to her dresser to fish for a notebook and pen. “And… what band might this be?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Doc chuckled again, and Holland didn’t like the way he seemed to be deliberately avoiding answering her question. “But just hear me out, alright? I think this might be just the challenge you’ve been looking for.”

Holland felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Part of her thought she knew exactly who had had in mind, and he was right; she didn’t like it. “...Go on,” she pressed him after a moment.

Doc chuckled for a third time. He sounded unmistakably nervous. “Motley Crue.”

For a moment, Holland was silent as she digested this information, and then she laughed. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Holly-”

“Are you crazy? Doc, you seriously want me to fly all the way out to LA to be their PR manager? That’s career suicide!” 

“Holly,” he went on pleadingly, “these boys need help. If anyone can sort out their shit-show of a public image, it’s you. They’re on the verge of real success here, but my God, their image has got to be fixed. They need you, Holly. Just come to one show. If you think they’re beyond help, I’ll pay for your flight back. But just give them a chance. These kids need some sense talking into them and they don’t listen to me.”

“Kids?” Holland scoffed. “They’re not kids, they’re grown ass men!”

“Look, the choice is yours,” Doc sighed heavily, “can I expect to meet you at the airport or not?”

“Dammit Doc…” she groaned loudly, making it very clear to him exactly how she felt. “Fine. I’ll catch the next flight out.”

Holland heard Doc cheer. “Holland Van-Ness, you are a star!”

The line went dead as Doc hung up. That time, it was Holland’s turn to sigh. She’d heard stories about Motley Crue that were rivalled only by her nightmares. In the six months since they’d debuted, they’d singlehandedly caused more problems than any other band Holland had managed, and she had had to put up with some serious shit. From their very first gig, Holland had decided they were trouble, and she had sworn to herself that she was not going to get involved with them or any other band like them. Apparently, that was not a promise she was going to be keeping.

Holland padded sleepily into the bathroom, where she lingered for a moment to brush her teeth and pull a comb through her hair. She paused by the sink to take a good luck at her reflection. She looked a damn sight better than she had done five minutes ago, but there was an emotion in her eyes that Holland didn’t immediately recognize. She realised after a moment, that it was fear. 

She drew in a shaky breath. When she told Doc working with Motley was career suicide, she hadn’t been joking, and that thought scared her more than anything. If she didn’t have her job, what did she have?

She rushed back into her bedroom where she dressed quickly and threw a few essentials into a small suitcase. Anything else she needed, or had forgotten, she supposed she could buy once she landed in LA. Holland had worked with a menagerie of bands; from small, local acts to headlining musicians. She had helped all of them maintain a fairly respectable public image. But now, in the cab on her way to the airport to meet Motley freakin’ Crue, she couldn’t help but feel as though she was completely out of her depth.

She made her way through customs fairly quickly and within the hour, found herself in a less than comfortable aisle seat on a four hour flight from Miami to LA. That sinking feeling remade its home in her stomach as the plane started its ascension, and Holland found herself gripping the arm rest, so tightly her knuckles strained white against her skin. She was at least comforted by the thought that when she inevitably wanted to return home, she wouldn’t have to pay for the flight.

As the plane made its way through the sky towards LA, Holland tried to catch up on the sleep that Doc had so cruelly taken from her but it was nearly impossible over the roar of the engines and her own feelings of anxiety, and so eventually, she gave up and resigned herself to watching the clouds whizz by the window. Before she knew it, LA was upon her, and she found Doc waiting for her by the luggage claim.

When she saw her old family friend, all her frustration momentarily drained away and she embraced him in a tight, if not brief, hug. “It’s good to see you, Holly,” he told her with a smile.

“And you!” She said. She looked anxiously over his shoulder, expecting to see the band stroll through the duty free stores towards them. “They’re not joining us?” She asked him.

“Relax,” Doc assured her quickly, “they’re not here. I thought you’d want to get some brunch and get settled in first.”

Holland smiled weakly, reassured. “That sounds great.”

She collected her suitcase and allowed Doc to carry it out to the cab for her. She could have carried it herself given that it wasn’t too heavy, but she was exhausted after her busy morning, and was secretly grateful for his help. When they got into the back of the cab, Doc looked as though he was going to start with some pleasantries, but when he turned to Holland and saw the look on her face, he knew she was ready to talk business. He could tell she had a lot of questions, and motioned for her to start.

“Alright,” she said, folding her hands casually on her lap, “first and foremost, where am I going to be staying? You didn’t mention a hotel or anything in your phone call.”

Doc grimaced and didn’t say anything for what felt like an eternity. “Once again,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “you’re not going to like it.”

Holland’s face fell a mile. “Doc…” she deadpanned, “tell me I’m not going to be staying with them.” She looked at him intently but Doc said nothing, which only confirmed her fears. “Are you serious, Doc?” She asked him furiously, “working with them is going to be bad enough!”

“The money’s not bad,” he reminded her, hoping to diffuse the situation but she only scoffed.

“Yet clearly not good enough to buy me a hotel room,” she scowled. “Why the hell do I have to stay with them?”

“Holly, these boys aren’t like anyone you’ve ever worked with before,” Doc told her. “You’re going to have to work a lot harder with them than you have with any other band. You’re going to need them to trust you, Holly. And this is the way to do that.” He gave her a look that Holly recognized and understood almost instantly. It was the same pleading look her Father used when he wanted her to cooperate.

Even so, she groaned loudly. “Alright, fine,” she relented. “I’ll stay with them.” She sighed, turning to look out of the window to avoid seeing the triumphant grin on Doc’s face. “So, what are they like?”

“They’re…” Doc trailed off. He glanced out of his own window, as though the street passing by would inspire him. “They’re a handful,” he settled on eventually, “self centered. Arrogant. But, they’re talented as Hell, and I think they’ve got it in them to be good kids. They just need a little push in the right direction.”

Holland hummed in acknowledgement. She didn’t say anything else, but she didn’t need to. A beeping sound came from Doc’s pocket. He sighed, pulling out the small pager. A scowl passed over his face.

“Aw, crap,” he mumbled, “sorry, Holly. We might have to put that brunch on hold.” He slipped the pager back into his pocket and fed another address to the cab driver, different to the one he had initially given.

“Why?” Holland frowned, “what’s happened?”

“What’s happened is you’re about to start your job a couple hours early,” he said grimly, “there’s been a fight.”

Holland found herself rolling her eyes. “Of course there has,” she grumbled, though she didn’t know why she was surprised. When working with Motley Crue, she should have expected nothing less.

[xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx]

Love is Love - Gerard Way x Reader

Request: I need,,,, more Punk!Gerard in my life,,,, okay but seriously- can I request a Punk!Gerard fic? Also can the reader be male and can it be angst?? Thankies bro!! Take your time on it!!!!

Reader: male

Warnings: homophobic slurs, Spoiler Alert for ‘Love Simon’

Word count: 3 424

A/N: I watched ‘Love Simon’ (so spoiler alert) a while ago and got seriously upset about his friends’ behavior after he got outed. And I wanted to put things right in a way, because there has to be some weird shit going on with me if I don’t befriend the forcibly outed kid when I notice none of their friends are around.

Your eyes flickered over the screen again and again, not able to believe what you were reading. You reloaded the page, just to be sure, but the black letters were still clearly being displayed on the school’s anonymous confession website.

“Gerard Way is a fag”

You were not sure which part of the statement was disturbing you the most. Obviously this was not the way someone wanted to come out. You would not want to come out like that at least. So someone had outed this boy, probably without his consent. Someone who was, judging by the word they had chosen, homophobic.

It was no secret that your school was not the most LGBT+ friendly ground in town, but it still disgusted you. And then there was that name. You had never really talked to Gerard before, but you knew he was in art class with one of your friends. Apparently he was pretty good a drawing. And he would definitely not have been on top of your ‘who might be gay but not out’-list. You did not really have a list, neither on paper nor in your mind, but Gerard really was not within the first twenty names you would have said if someone had asked you who you thought was gay on your school. Of course you could not just look at people and tell if they were homosexual, but being gay yourself, you would have expected some sort of instinct or something kick in. Apparently not.

Anyway, Gerard was one of the lonely punk students at your school. You knew he had a brother, Mikey, but he was younger and not yet on the same school, his friend Ray had moved away before summer break and other than him you had never seen anyone talk to Gerard.

You wondered if he knew. Did he just sit in front of his laptop, like you? Was his heart beating faster, his chest imploding, tears falling down his cheeks? You knew that would be your reaction if someone outed you, especially like that.  ‘Gerard Way is a faggot’, who would write, say, or even think something like that? Had people no respect for each other? Why could some people not just accept that love is love? On the other hand, you knew why you were not out. Because there were too many people who were not tolerant, and you were not even sure if your friends would have your back.

~*~

You had kind of hoped that Gerard’s sexuality would not be topic number one when you walked to school with your friends on the first day of the new school year. But the post was barely a week old, and people were too excited to see Gerard, now that they knew this thing about him, that seemed to change the way they looked at him. Idiots.

The lunch room was as crowded as you remembered. People pushed around and tried to get their favorite spots in the room. You sat at a table close to the door, a warm breeze of late summer air blowing past your bare arms.  

“Okay, but seriously? I always thought something was weird about him,” your friend Gina declared, placing her tablet down next to yours and sliding into the bench, her knee brushing against yours.

“But he a girlfriend last year, right,” Paul, another one of your friends replied, making space for Mark, the fourth in the group.

“Imagine how she must be feeling right now,” he said, looking across the hall to where the girl was sitting.

“Imagine how he must be feeling right now,” you answered, not being able to stay quiet any longer. “Imagine some ass posts something so personal about you, how would you feel?”

Your blood was boiling, had been since you had seen that post last week, but within the last hours, you really, really had gotten very angry. Especially at whoever had submitted that post. And since the submission box of the website posted automatically, no one had checked it before it had been thrown out there, probably ruining this poor boys holiday, if not even high school time.

“It’s something people deserve to know though,” Mark shrugged.

“Deserve? What’s wrong with you man,” you wanted to jump up, shout, shake some sense into your friend, but you had to stay calm. “What next? Should everyone wear a sign around their neck, saying ‘straight’, or ‘gay’ or ‘bi’ or ‘pan’ or whatever?”

“Well, he’s just trying to say it’s not normal,” Paul jumped in, making you even angrier.

“Normal? Of course it’s normal, it’s love. Love’s normal. It’s just not as common,” you argued. Shit, you were seriously upset now. You felt personally attacked. And how should you not? They were basically insulting you. They just did not know it.

“It’s just a little freakish,” Gina said, definitely not helping.

“Freakish, how can-“

In that moment all noise around you stopped. People grew quiet and the white noise of clicking forks against porcelain faded, everyone staring at the door. Confused you turned around as well, and were met with the sight of a very pale Gerard Way. His long, black hair fell into his eyes, his shoulders were slumped and his black jacket was pulled tightly around his body, like a shield. He looked so lost and even a little scared, it broke your heart. And for the first time you noticed how pretty he actually was. It was a macabre beauty, dark circles under his eyes, greasy hair, looking a like a beaten dog, but he was beautiful. He would probably look breathtaking if he had a good night’s sleep, a little bit of sunlight, and a shower. You wondered what his smile looked like, if his eyes would sparkle along, before realizing that now was probably one of the worst moments to realize you had just started crushing on him. After all you just had a discussion about homophobia with your friends.

About a hundred pairs of eyes followed the pale boy as he walked over to the serving counter and paid for a plate with pasta. Slowly the conversations started picking back up, but your eyes still followed Gerard. He looked around for a moment before sitting at the end of a table, a few seat away from a group of seniors. They stuck their heads together, before they all got up, carrying their full tablets to the next table. You wanted to run over and scream at them, but you stayed seated, instead just throwing another glance at Gerard. His head hung low, hair covering his face. And then you realized he was alone. No one sat with him. No one was there to talk to him, to comfort him.

“Look who’s in the house! It’s our faggot!” someone, doubtlessly one of the brainless jocks, screamed through the room, earning laughs left and right. Even your three friends laughed. “Wanna suck my dick?”

Enough was enough, you decided. Without another word, ignoring the questions of your friends, you got up and grabbed your tablet. Your mind was clouded with rage as you walked over to the almost empty table. Only the loud slamming of your plastic tablet against the table pulled you back into reality.

Gerard’s head shot up at the noise, wide, hazel eyes staring up at you in fear. You ignored him and sat down in front of him, continuing your lunch without a word. When he was still staring at you after almost a minute you looked up.

“This seat is not taken, is it,” you asked, lifting your eyebrows.

A smile tucked at Gerard’s lips. Holy shit, he looked beautiful when he smiled.

“It is now,” he answered, his cheeks hinting at a tinge of pink.

“Good,” you said, smiling back at him before you continued eating.

~*~

You only realized that you had not thought of the consequences of your actions during the following days. After you had had lunch in silence, you finally started talking to Gerard, about art and music, about your families, about anything but his sexuality or his outing. And you noticed how much you had in common, yet how different you were.

During the following days, you started to hang out more with Gerard, during school, and after school. And what else would you have expected than an increasing number of homophobic slurs being thrown your way. Of course everyone assumed you were gay now, just because you hung out with someone who was. They were not wrong, but the rudeness, the unacceptance, the brutality of their words hurt you more than you wanted to admit to yourself.

So you stayed strong, during school at least. Gerard had it a lot worse than you, so you stayed strong for him. He sometimes told you to stay away from him, for your own sake, but you just laughed at that.

In fact it turned out that it had become impossible for you to stay away from him. A force stronger than gravity drew you towards him, and while you tried to convince yourself that you were not already head over heels for the dark haired punk, deep down you knew that that was a lie.

 So you found yourself lying awake at night. The insults of the day made your throat tighten, your eyes burn and your heart heavy, but then you remembered Gerard, looked at the glowing display of your mobile portraying his profile picture, and you knew it was worth it.

It was yet another sleepless night, the bright screen of your mobile illuminating your face, when suddenly the door to your room slowly opened. You sat up in your bed, trying to spy through the darkness.

“(Y/n), are you still awake,” you heard the familiar voice of your mother whisper.

“Yeah, you can come in,” you answered, turning on the light on your bedside table.

Your mother was living alone with you in the small house, and judging by the time your alarm clock displayed she had just come home from her shift in the hospital where she worked as a nurse.

“Everything okay, dear,” she asked, stepping into the room. Doubtlessly she had noticed your red eyes as she strode over to the bed and sat down on the blanket next to you.

“Yeah- I mean… not really, it’s just-“ you took a deep breath. You had thought these words through countless times, always thought how you wanted to come out to her, when, with which words. “Did I tell you about Gerard?”

“He’s a new friend of yours, right,” she recalled correctly.

“Yes, he- ahm… he’s gay, you know,” you carefully watched your mother’s expression as you told her about Gerard’s sexuality, but she just listened without showing any sign of emotional reaction. “He got outed during the last week of holidays, and… well, school’s pretty much hell for him right now.”

She nodded understandingly.

“The first day after holidays, he was sitting alone at lunch, and literally everyone stared at him, or talked about how being gay is freakish, and I just got… so… angry. So I went to sit with him, and yeah, that’s how I know him.”

“That was nice of you, I’m sure he’s glad to have you,” you mother told you, gently patting your arm when she noticed how upset you were about that topic.

“But since we started hanging out… people… they think I’m gay too, and I get all these insults and all this… I don’t even know what to call it… hate? I walk through a corridor, and people just yell stuff, so Gerard asked me to stop hanging out with him, so I wouldn’t get… you know, hurt,” you stuttered. You didn’t want to stop hanging out with Gerard, you didn’t want to stop being friends with him. You wanted to get to know him better, you wanted to be closer to him, you wanted so much more than just friendship, but he tried to push you away. And you had to share your thoughts with someone, and your mother was the best choice for that, at least at the moment. But first of all you had to tell her something else, something that was bigger than the thing with Gerard.

Your mother was still thinking about your words, quietly nodding when you continued, your throat tight, your voice wet from tears.

“I’m in love with him,” you confessed, biting your lip so it would not quiver, “I’m in love with Gerard, mum. And I’ve been in love with other boys before. I’m, I’m-“

You couldn’t say it. Something inside you fought against that word, that label. Love is love, why did you have to label yourself?

“You are my son,” your mother finished the sentence for you. “You are my son and you are beautiful and perfect and I feel very honored that you talk to me about these things.”

She wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into an embrace. Her shirt still smelled of the disinfectant of the hospital, a smell that reminded you of your childhood. She patted your back for a while, whispering how proud she was of you.

“So…” you pulled away, your face heated from crying, your eyes burning and your voice hoarse. “About Gerard, what do you think should I do?”

“What do you want to do,” your mother asked back.

You watched her, expected her to look differently at you now that you had come out, like all the people looked differently at Gerard now. But she just looked at you like she always had, with so much love in her eyes, the way only a mother can look at you.

“I want to be with him,” you told her, and you really, really wanted to be with him.

“Then tell him, tell him exactly that,” she smiled and patted your knee while you nodded.

“You knew, didn’t you,” you suddenly realized. “You knew I’m into boys.”

A mysterious smile played around her lips. “Not really, I suspected it sometimes.”

~*~

For the first time in this school year you felt actually confident when you entered the school building. You would tell Gerard how you felt about him, that you wanted him to be your boyfriend, to be his boyfriend. If he said no? Okay, not cool, but you could deal with that. You wouldn’t just leave him alone in the mess that he was in due to him being outed. You would stay by his side, if he wanted that. And if he felt the same way? Then you would probably die of a heart attack, but that would be worth it.

You had showered and put on your favorite deodorant, your worn out Smashing Pumpkins shirt and some comfortable jeans. You felt ready to deal with whatever fate threw your way. Until you reached Gerard’s locker.

Black spray paint letters spelled out the words ‘fag’ and ‘cocksucker’. You wanted to vomit. For a while you stood next to Gerard who stared at his locker in silence. At first you felt paralyzed. You wanted to wish the slurs away, wanted to rip the door of the locker off and beat these bastards up with it, you wanted to delete all memory of this from Gerard’s brain. But none of this was within the range of your capacity, so once you had stared at the locker for long enough, you grabbed Gerard’s wrist and dragged him to the director’s office.

It turned out to be a long conversation. The director listened to your story, which you told from the beginning, just to make sure he understood everything. Gerard just sat in his chair, head hanging low, wishing to be invisible. Then the director made Gerard tell his side of the story. The man in the big chair said some well-meant words of encouragement and told you that there was nothing he could do.

You stared at him disbelievingly.

“Are you seriously telling me that you can do nothing against bullies who insult and hurt and mentally scar one of your students,” you asked, totally forgetting who you were talking to.

“You don’t say it, maybe not even think it consciously, but somewhere inside this messed up brain of yours there is this rule that states that homosexuals, probably transgender kids as well, are worth less than your ‘normal, everyday’ student” you drew the quotation marks into the air. “You know who was gay? Oskar Wilde, and you teach his literature in school. You know who else was gay? Alan Turing, the father of modern computers. Hell, Turing even killed himself because of the way society treated him. And now everyone pities him. Do you really want to be the kind of person who tells a kid they’re sick, or a freak or whatever fucked up insult your mind comes up with? Do you want to be the one who stands in front of the world, declaring love is wrong? Because that’s all it is, love. Being gay is loving, being bi is loving, being lesbian is loving! It’s just the ‘wrong gender’ you love. Wrong the fuck! It’s society that’s wrong if they think love can ever be wrong. Not talking about pedophiles or the fucked up abusive kind of love, I’m talking about mutual love. And maybe it hasn’t come to your notice yet, but if you think discriminating against gays is some hip trend, then surprise! It’s not and your views are obsolete. The UK, Germany, Australia, Sweden, France, countless other countries, do you know what they have in common? Same sex marriages are legalized. The states too, by the way. Because these governments seem to get what neither you, nor your homophobic student body, get: that it’s just love after all, and that’s the bloody truth!”

There was a stunned silence after you had spoken, and for a moment you were afraid that you would get suspended or something, but then the director nodded and agreed before promising he would take care of the matter.

When you were finally out of the stuffy office, standing in an empty corridor, you took a deep breath. You could feel Gerard’s eyes on you, so you looked over at him.

“Those were some pretty powerful words in there,” he complimented with a smirk, a smirk that was so soft and gentle and adoring that you wanted to kiss him here on the spot.

“Thanks,” you smiled.

“It almost sounded like… please don’t take this the wrong way, like you knew what you were talking about.”

“Being afraid of getting hurt for loving someone of the same gender,” you wondered and he nodded. “Well… let’s say it was pretty easy since the person I love sat right next to me.”

Gerard’s eyes widened for a moment as he realized the meaning of your words and he gasped for air.

“You, you are… you-“ A smile brighter than any you had seen before spread over his face, lighting up the whole room.

“I’m gonna kiss you now, if that’s okay,” you told him, unable to keep your own grin under control.

When Gerard nodded furiously, you gently took his face into your hands and pressed your lips against his. They were soft, tasted a bit of Tabaco and coffee. Your heart was hammering in your chest and you were running out of breath faster than you liked. Your head was spinning and you hoped that holding onto Gerard’s face was enough to keep you standing. When you pulled away, he chuckled slightly.

“Technically I was sitting on your left,” he whispered into your ear.

Confused you turned your head to look at him, almost forgetting what you wanted to say as you met his beautiful, shining eyes.

“What?”

“You said ‘the person you love sitting right next to you’, but I sat on your left,” he winked.

“Idiot,” you giggled, gently nudging his shoulder, “you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah I do,” Gerard agreed, sounding incredibly pleased knowing that his feelings were being returned.

In that moment the bell rang and you heard chairs being moved around on the floor, and chatter growing louder behind the still closed doors.

Warm, soft fingers intertwined with yours, making your heart flutter.

“Shall we,” Gerard asked.

You leant forward, pressing your lips against his again quickly before the first doors flung open and revealed you to the rest of the students.

“Yeah, let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”

[sanm]

Dark Creatures - Seokjin

Word Count: 3,858

Content Warnings: Questionable consent, slight D/S themes, Jin is kind of an asshole, this is basically PWP 

Disclaimer: I do not know BTS personally, nor do I believe they are as I portray them. I am simply using them as characters in a plot of my own.

The cool evening air caressed your bare shoulders and the nape of your neck, hair knotted messily on top of your head and your tank top drenched with sweat as you jogged around your neighborhood. It was one of those nights where there was just too much going on in your head so you had decided to go for a run, even though it was past midnight. It was Friday, so the weekend party crowd was just starting to return home from whatever dens of iniquity they had visited for the evening. It wasn’t like the street was deserted. That would be unsafe.

Your route took you past an alleyway between your apartment block and the next. In the shadows cast by the streetlight, you happened to notice a couple heavily making out. From the quick glance that you got, the girl seemed to be enjoying herself. The man’s eyes suddenly snapped open, and glowing copper-gold eyes met your startled ones. You flushed and quickened your pace, scurrying back to your apartment and hoping that you would have exhausted yourself enough to sleep.

-----

The sheets slid soft as satin against your skin as long, tapered fingers trailed down your face to your breasts, squeezing lightly and teasing the tight buds located there. Your back arched as a soft moan escaped your lips, the hands leaving your breasts to part your slick folds, roughened pads rolling your clit beneath experienced fingers. Just as the tight little coil in the pit of your stomach was about to burst, the fingers stopped their ministrations. Snapping your head up in indignation, your eyes met a faceless man with a pair of copper-gold orbs and shock jolted your body awake.

-----

You rolled over and noticed the clock on your nightstand read 10:23 a.m., far later than you had planned on sleeping. With a curse, you catapulted out of bed, threw on a pair of jeans from the floor of your room and a sweater, and grabbed your phone on the way to your bathroom. Once there, you hurriedly scrubbed your teeth and dragged a brush through your hair, wincing as the bristles caught on tangles. In the hand not occupied by your hairbrush, your fingers danced across the touchscreen on your phone, dialing your best friend’s phone number from memory.

“Listen here bitch, I’ve been in this restaurant for 20 minutes and if you didn’t want to do brunch you just should have -”

“I know I’m sorry… I overslept. I went running last night -”

“You went running at night? _____, how many times do I have to tell you that’s dangerous! There are all sorts of things that hide in the dark, like rapists and murderers and -”

“I know, I know, I’m always careful.”

“I just worry about you, you know? Anyways, get your cute butt here so we can have mimosas.”

“All right, all right, keep your pants on,” You laughed as you hung up your phone, grateful that your friend wasn’t that mad about you being late.

Brunch with your best friend went well, with minimal teasing and your dream from last night all but forgotten. As punishment for being late for brunch, your friend cajoled you into going out to a club later that night. You went home to nap in between, strangely more tired than usual. After you napped, you changed into a formfitting dress and darkened your makeup. You regretted the dress choice immediately, as there was no possible way to wear a bra with it, but unfortunately it was the only club-appropriate dress you owned. Clubbing wasn’t particularly your thing, but you did kinda owe it to your friend for oversleeping and being half an hour late this morning.

Walking past the bouncer (just how did your friend manage to get you onto the V.I.P. list?) you entered the main room of the club. A heavy bass beat reverberated from the floors up through the soles of your shoes, making your very bones vibrate to the music. Heading over to the bar, you ordered your usual drink before turning around to try and find your friend. You thought you spotted her head in the midst of the writhing crowd, but before you could investigate fully a hand tapped on your shoulder forcing you to turn your attention back to the bar.

A pair of umber eyes met yours, the most intriguing pair of eyes you’d ever seen. Realizing you were staring, you quickly dropped your gaze to the bar where your drink was waiting. You looked back up to the bartender, noticing just how incredibly attractive he was. His hair was a honey brown, the slightly sweaty locks brushing his forehead and shading his eyes. A straight, romanesque nose and full pink lips completed his face making him almost too pretty to be real. However a glance at his body - broad shouldered and toned beneath the all-black ensemble bartenders seem to be required to wear - assured you that he was both very real and very manly.

He smiled, a truly heart-stopping smile, before gesturing to the glass between you and him. Blushing, you took the glass and scurried away from the bar, feeling his gaze between your shoulder blades the whole way over to your friend.

Downing your drink, you set the glass on the table where you and your friend had left your purses and coats and turned to find your friend on the dance floor. Locating her sandwiched between two men, you decided not to interfere and took a seat at the table. From where you were sitting, you had the perfect view of the bar, and it was to there that your eyes drifted.

The attractive bartender was still there, large hands expertly juggling bottles of vodka and triple sec. His pours were generous and done with precision, liquid coming to the brim of the glass, always full, never overflowing. As if sensing someone watching them, he brought his head up and shook his hair out of his eyes, surveying the crowd in front of him. Before his eyes could meet yours (and catch you staring), you dropped your gaze to your glass, sliding it back and forth on the table between your hands.

You risked a peek back up, only to find that the space behind the bar was empty. With a defeated slump to your shoulders, you looked back down at your empty glass and continued to roll it between your hands. However, you were distracted by someone taking the seat across from you. Scowling and ready to tell them off, you looked up only to meet the gaze of the bartender, the corner of his mouth upturned into a smirk.

“Aren’t you supposed to be behind the bar? Working?” You questioned the man who still sat regarding you with something dark in his eyes.    

“I am working,” he said as he slid another of the drinks you had been drinking all night across the table.

“And as for being behind the bar, I am allowed to take a break, you know,” his smirk turning into a real smile.

Blushing, you looked down at your new drink, cursing yourself for being so affected by his attractiveness.

“So, can I have the name of the pretty girl I came all the way over to personally deliver a drink to?”

“It’s ____,” you managed to stammer out.

“Hm, a pretty name for a pretty girl. So what brings you out tonight?”

Jabbing a thumb over your shoulder, you gestured to your friend who was still sandwiched between the two men from earlier.

“Ah, so you’re the one left out from the fun while your friend over there finds someone to hook-up with for the night.”

“Woah, I didn’t come here to hook-up with anyone.”

The bartender snorted.

“Sure, that’s what they all say.”

“Alright, asshole, I came here because I was late to brunch and this was my friend’s way of making me pay her back, that’s all there is to it, ok?”

“You’re awfully defensive all of a sudden.”

“It couldn’t possibly be because of guys like you making assumptions about girls like me, could it?” You drawled.

“And just what kind of girl are you, _____?”

“The kind that’s done with this conversation.”

You set your glass back on the table and got up to flounce off to the bathroom. You had just made it to the darkened hallway that housed the bathrooms when a surprisingly warm hand grabbed your wrist. Turning around and intending to give the person a piece of your mind, your scowl only deepened when you saw that the hand on your wrist was connected to the arm of the hot bartender.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” You screeched as you tried to tear your arm from his vise-like grip.

He tilted his head so that his umber eyes caught yours and suddenly, all the tension drained from your body. In fact, you began to feel a little warm, the tight dress that you chose to wear almost suffocating in the sudden heat. It also could he been a trick of the light, but you could have sworn that his eyes flashed gold.

The bartender’s grip slackened once he saw your pupils blow wide, and the corner of his mouth tilted up into a smirk as your breath slipped from between your lips in a pant.

Lowering his head to the shell of your ear, he whispered, “want to go somewhere more private?”

In your overheated, befuddled state, all you could do was nod.

The hand on your wrist was used to guide you further down the hall, past the bathrooms, and into a storage room on the left-hand side.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, his hands were at your hips, the pads of his thumbs rubbing small circles against the bone. His head dropped to meet your forehead as your eyes rolled up to meet his.

You could not recall the last time you had felt this aroused. Heat pooled low in your belly, muscles tightening that hadn’t been used in months. There was just something about the bartender that mesmerized you. The small circles he drew on your hips caused you to shiver in anticipation of things to come.

His eyes almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the room, the light from the single bulb creating a halo behind his head as he gazed deep into your eyes. Suddenly, the heat spiked, and you felt a bead of sweat slip down your spine. The bartender seemed to notice how flushed you were and his hands slid down to the hem of your dress.

His fingers stopped, poised just under the hemline, as he quirked his eyebrows up to ask permission. Sweating profusely now, your hands moved his away and tore the dress up over your head in one quick motion, desperate for some relief from the heat.

The store room’s air was blessedly cool against your fevered skin. Your relief was so complete that you barely noticed that the bartender’s eyes had dropped to the round globes of your breasts.

A fire was in his eyes as he stripped off his shirt, leaving him in only his pants and you in only your panties. His hands resumed their earlier placement, only this time stroking up your sides to cup your breasts. Once there, his thumbs ran lightly back and forth over your nipples, causing them to harden into tight little nubs. Feeling the need to return the favor, your hands came to rest gently on his shoulders before trailing down his chest, palms flattening over his nipples and causing him to release a sigh as his eyes fluttered shut.

When they reopened, something darker had slid into them. His head snaked down and captured your lips in a spine-tingling kiss. His lips were rough and chapped, as though he spent a lot of time exposed to the elements or did a lot of kissing. Your brain would have puzzled more over this, but his tongue had forced its way into your mouth while your guard was down. He probed gently at first, swiping his way in to collect the sweet taste of you. The taste drove him mad as he pulled back for a moment, allowing you both to take a gulp of air before his hands were carding into your hair and tugging you towards him.

Where the first kiss had been passionate but tentative, this kiss was one made to brand and claim, full of teeth and tongue and the bumping of noses. Your palms were crushed to his chest as you kissed him back with a fervent desire. Breaking for air, the two of you separated slightly.

With the newly-found space, the bartender hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and with a rip, he tore the flimsy fabric away from your body and the last of any modesty you may have had with it. The panties were dropped unceremoniously to the floor as his hands had better things to do. He probed two digits dipped into your exposed core, coating themselves in the wetness that had gathered there before bringing them to his lips and sucking off the sweetness with a rapturous expression on his face.

“You taste so damn good,” he growled.

His words caused the heat that had faded somewhat to return with intensity.

“I want to taste you too,” you managed to whisper.

He stepped back again, allowing you to reach between your bodies and fumble with the button on his jeans. Sensing your distress, his large hands closed over yours and gently moved them out of the way so that he could unbutton the offending fastening. He went to pull down his jeans, but you batted his hands away in order to yank them down his muscular legs.

He wasn’t wearing underwear.

His dick sprang free and rested proudly before you as he emitted a small groan of satisfaction at his freedom. A small, purely feminine smile of pride graced your lips as you noticed how hard he was because of you.

“Are you going to do something about it, beautiful?”

The heat spiking again, you dropped to your knees on the cement floor, hardly registering the pain as your hands wrapped around his dick, thumb swiping away the pearly fluid at the tip. A small moan escaped his lips at your touch.

Encouraged by this, you brought your face closer, sticking out your tongue to give a kittenish lick to the tip. He moaned again and pulled your hair from your face, gathering it into his fist.

“Quit playing games, kitten.”

WIth that, he used his grip on your hair to push your panting mouth onto his member, shoving your head down his length as far as he could until he felt you gag when he hit the back of your throat. He slackened his grip so you could come up for air before pushing you back down again. This went on for a few more minutes before he spoke again.

“The next time you go down, swallow.”

Nodding as best you could, you took in a big gulp of air before going down again, gagging a bit as he hit the back of your throat before doing as he instructed and swallowing. Suddenly, he was in your throat and you moaned at the feel of him. With a hiss, the bartender released your hair and pushed you hard enough so that you fell back onto your ass. At a loss as to what you did wrong, you looked up at him bewildered and somewhat drained. The heat was still pulsing through your body, if anything worse than before. The bartender pulled you to your feet, before bending down to grab you around the waist and lift you up onto one of the boxes lining the room.

He pushed your legs apart, coming to stand between them. The height of the box put you eye level with him, an incredibly intimate feeling. For a moment, you just stared at each other. His eyes had melted from umber to a smooth, glowing copper-gold, and the tips of his bangs were damp with sweat.

His head dove down again to capture your swollen and abused lips, communicating that he was done playing games. Muscles down low clenched in response, and to your embarrassment you felt some of your arousal dribble out onto the cardboard of the box. The bartender’s nostrils flared as he took in the heady scent of your sex.

“Kitten, I’m going to need you to be quiet. Can’t have anyone walking in on us back here can we?”

You mutely nodded your agreement. At this point, the heat was so demanding you would do almost anything he asked.

“Good.”

He finally gave you the relief you wanted. There was no warning other than the simple word that fell from his lips. A long finger slipped into you, quickly sliding in and out. Finding you to be open to his touch, he added a second finger, crooking them at the end and making you cry out. Immediately, he stilled and grabbed your chin with his free hand.

“ Kitten, what did I say?” He heaved a sigh. “Unfortunately for you, only good girls get to cum.”

Whining in the back of your throat, a tortured “please” escaped your lips.

“Please what?”

Biting back your pride, you replied, “please, Sir.”

He let out a growl low in his throat, and the lights flickered overhead. The heat within you reached unbearable levels, causing you to double over and almost fall off the box.

Strong arms caught you before you could, and turned you over to shove you against the front of the box. The flat of the bartender’s palm was placed between your shoulder blades to force your upper body to the top of the box, nose to the cardboard already damp with your arousal. His feet came between yours to nudge them further apart as your breath escaped your lips in harsh pants. The feeling of being trapped between the strong, hard body of the bartender and rough texture of the cardboard abrading your nipples sent shivers down to your core. Your lower belly was roiling with the heat, convincing you that you would die if you didn’t cum soon.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait long. You felt his hands part your folds and then the tip of him against your opening. All it took was one roll of his hips and he was in you to the hilt. You supposed you should have been embarrassed with how wet you were and how easy that, but you couldn't bring yourself to care over the wonderful stretch he provided.

The bartender drove his hips into yours at a punishing pace and the heat in your belly increased in direct proportion with your coming orgasm. Sensing you were close, the bartender shoved a hand between your body and the box to get at your clit, index finger rubbing it in tight little circles. It took only a few more moments before you felt the knot in your stomach unravel, your mouth opening in a silent scream as your orgasm ripped through you.

Curiously, the heat remained, almost pulsing in time with the bartender’s last few thrusts. It took only a few more before his hips jerked then stilled. However, instead of the warm wash of his seed, you felt the heat leaving you, and with it all your energy.

The bartender pulled out and it was if some mystical connection had snapped, all heat leaving your body and suddenly you were shivering. Lethargically, you began to slip down the front of the box, hands slapping weakly at the edges in an attempt to keep yourself upright. The bartender didn’t bother to catch you. You collapsed to the cement floor in a heap, upper body still half-leaning against the stack of boxes. With your waning strength, you were able to flip over to watch the bartender calmly pulling his pants back on, his eyes still glowing the same copper-gold. His gaze fell dispassionately upon your crumpled form, lips curving up once again into a smile.

“The name’s Seokjin, kitten. Not that it matters, since you’ll be dead soon anyways. It’s nothing personal, it’s just been way too long since the last time I fed. Incubus problems and all that. Anyways, I hate to fuck and run, but I’ve got a job to do, and my break is almost over.”

Seokjin pulled his shirt over his head and brushed his bangs back out of his eyes, taking a moment to straighten his shirt before throwing you one last look over his shoulder as he exited the store room. You would almost swear there was a hint of regret in his eyes. However, it was entirely possible that you misread the look, as staying conscious was becoming very difficult. Your eyelids were loaded with lead weights and breathing just seemed like too much effort. You gave a few more shallow breaths before your eyelids flickered closed and your chest fell still in the small store room that smelled of you and Seokjin’s sex.

Seokjin, eyes still faintly glowing, had sidled back to the bar to resume his shift.

“God, you stink.”

“Yeah, look who’s talking,” Seokjin sassed back at his friend and fellow supernatural creature.

The man was tall, with elaborately coiffed bleach blonde hair, and dressed all in black. A scowl seemed to be permanently affixed to his face, at least as long as Seokjin had known him.

“You want the usual?”

“Yeah, bloody mary, extra bloody.”

“Well, as it turns out, I have a particularly fresh vintage in the back storeroom.”

“Damnit Jin, that’s the fourth one this month.”

“Is it? Oops.”

The man in black dropped his head into his hands before muttering, “I’ll deal with it. I guess.”

Seokjin beamed at the younger man.

“You’re the best, you know that?”

“Yeah yeah, you owe me one.”

Seokjin just smiled as he slid the storeroom key across the bar, amused at what his friend would find, and also grateful that he wouldn’t have to deal with the body. Being friends with a vampire was useful, sometimes. Seokjin hummed a bit as he began preparing his friend’s drink, knowing it would be more for show than anything once he returned. With a final garnish of celery, the drink was done, and Seokjin was turning to face the next person in line at the bar.

She was a pretty young thing, and Seokjin would bet that she was barely a year over 21. His eyes began to glow as he asked for her order. He turned away to get her beer, opened it on the bottle opener kept behind the bar, and handed it over to her, brushing his fingertips against hers in the handoff. He smiled to himself when he turned away from the girl. Sweat had begun to bead at her brow.

[rauliskafan]

The Doctor and His Doll

Authors’ Note: Better late than never!!! Here is my contribution to @yourtropegirl‘s Alternative Coffee Shop AU challenge!!! Originally I planned to have the good doctor meet someone at a thrift shop, and I went through several drafts. It just wasn’t clicking. But then this came to me!!! Hope that you enjoy (and this story might keep going)!!!

Tagging @yourtropegirl, @vintagemichelle91, @mrschiltoncat

At least it was only a seasonal job.

In two months’ time, the space would be transformed into Decked Halls, a store bursting with fiber optic trees, wreaths of every size, and stockings seemingly discarded by a series of giants. Once all the gifts were unwrapped and this year became the next, it would change into The Spirit of Spring. Which was always kind of a cruel joke given the grayest days of winter. Fun in the Sun would rear its head after that with so many sunglasses and towels and displays of sand that tended to stick in shoes and turn one off to the very idea of spending a day at the beach.

But for the moment, it was The Devil’s Den, a business bursting with costumes for men and women, boys and girls, dogs and cats of every size. Add to that decorations for front yards suggesting doors to other dimensions, kettles that brewed dried ice seeming like the misty home of Macbeth’s three witches. When filling out the application, it seemed like such a smart idea. Because autumn was and always had been your favorite time of year, and the hours fit like a glove around your current course load.

It only took one shift of rowdy high school boys who seemed twenty and not three years your junior making rude noises behind the many masks to lift the spell. Add to that the animatronic fortune teller speaking in a loop that only made you want to ask when the world would end, hoping that the answer was tomorrow. Just a few more weeks. You could hack it; you’d been through worse. At least this day was somewhat quiet save for the young mother wanting her daughter to be a butterfly. The lovely little lady kept gravitating to psycho clown. One more reason you were never having children. The two older girls in the back seemed harmless enough while debating which kind of princess they would portray. You could tell them some stories about the pink dress and the violet…

Trying to get lost in your homework, you heard the door open and close without looking up. Footsteps drew nearer… along with a tap that started to grate on your nerves. Lifting the eyes that began to roll in your head, you stopped short of scoffing when you saw him.

He was older. Like the professors that always caused you to lick your lips as they explained epistolary novels or the line from Socrates to Plato to Aristotle. Maybe it was the light passing through the windows, but this man was so much more. Wavy dark hair, a proud roman nose, green eyes that called you to kick off your shoes and run through a forest. Why the cane? It seemed an odd accessory. But then you saw the limp. Suddenly your heart felt heavy at the thought that something or someone horrible must have hurt him. Wanting to know the where and when and why and if there was a way that you could help, you let Richardson’s Pamela fall aside and left the counter to meet him up close.

“Anything I can help you with, sir?”

As soon as he heard your voice, the man stopped short in front of a display of multi-colored wigs and even wilder hats. Focusing of his face, your eyes drifted towards his left cheek. A mark... a blemish bordering on a scar… was the man already wearing makeup? Was he practicing for All Hollows’ Eve, or did he wear this mask the other three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year?

“Did I ask for your assistance?” he replied in a curt tone before you could ask even one of the questions bubbling on your tongue. You wanted to hide your head in an over-sized Stetson or Elvira’s discarded tresses. Swallowing hard, you stuffed your hands in the pockets of your khakis and shuffled your feet.

“I… sorry,” you muttered. “I get it.”

“You get what?” he inquired.

“I mean I always kind of hate it when I’m in a store and someone’s right on top of me. It’s a total turn off.”

“Then why did you approach me?”

Now his green gaze made you feel like you were drowning under water, the seaweed shimmering and strangling your speech despite its beauty.

“Uh… it’s my job,” you feebly replied. “And you looked like you needed... so I---”

“So you thought the best use of your time was to pester me,” he mocked.

Feeling your face flush and wishing that you had resigned yourself to admiring him from afar, you nearly slithered away.

But just as quickly recovered your words, ready to tell him a thing or two.

“Happy not to help you over there,” you said, pointing to the counter and starting to turn on your heel. The split second before you twisted around, you swore you saw his green gaze quiver like the glare from a traffic light catching on a piece of rain swept pavement. The angry line of his lips and the way his large hand curled around his cane still made it a signal to leave. You hurried back behind the register and buried your nose in your book. After ringing up the little girl who won the psycho clown battle, you were left with the tapping of his cane. A few stolen glances as his firm back, his lean legs, that haunted face that could be molded into a tortured mask all on its own still had the power to make you tremble. But his eyes stayed angry, frustrated, and you tried to tell yourself that he was best left to the realm of your fantasies. 

…until your daydreams were broken by the sound of laughter.

Creeping out from behind the counter once more, you spied the two would-be princesses giggling quietly and pointing at your mystery man.

“Is he for real?” the blonde asked.

“My grandfather wears a tie pin or whatever like that.”

“Maybe he’s a promotional thing.”

“Sure scary enough.”

You froze, watching the man tense and look to the mean girls, expecting to see the fumes that eradicated the Great Sept of Baelor at Cersei’s command falling from his eyes. But despite the cane and the scar and the faint lines suggesting a life lived long if not well, he took on the shape of a little boy, scared and shy and shocked by so much abuse. It hurt to think that the passing of the years failed to quell that kind of fear, and he looked ready to run and hide.

Not like this… not on your watch.

“Hey!” you chirped in your best bubbly voice, standing strong in the face of the girls...

…and the stranger’s sad stare.

“Can I help you gals?” you asked, the last word stolen from your late grandmother.

“We’re good,” the blonde said, rolling her eyes at her friend. Looking to the stranger once more, you sensed that something could snap if the stars slid out of line… and while a small part of you was curious to see such a sight, you suddenly longed to protect him…

…and you also wanted your shot at these lousy ladies.

“Good?” you echoed, cracking the brightest of smiles that burned with a hollow light. “Great! Going for the scary sorceress look!”

“Excuse me?” the blonde challenged. “Are you crazy? That’s not even on the label.”

Cutting your eyes back to the man with the cane, you managed a small smirk, your stare willing, hoping that he would stay silent. The scarred man followed your lead, and your smile morphed malicious as you cracked your knuckles and grabbed the pink dress.

“Course not,” you continued. “But I can show you the secret…”

Your voice trailed off as you dug your fingers into the hem of the gown. The girls fell silent, and a sideways glance caught the stranger raising one eyebrow as you winked in his direction and sent a sea of spiders spilling to the floor.

“Holy fucking shit!”

The blonde screamed first and practically pushed her friend down as she fled the shop. You watched the other girl stumble behind her with arms flailing and saw your remaining customer slightly shocked as you grasped a bug and held it close to his face.

“What are you---?”

“They’re plastic!” you said with a sneaky smile. “Some kids were in here… thought it would be a good joke.”

Watching, hearing his breath calm, he took the toy spider from your hand, examining it carefully before emitting a low laugh.

“How would they be sure if they never saw the results of their efforts?” he queried, leaving you stumped.

“Um… good point,” you finally conceded. “Guess they didn’t see the plan through to the end.”

“Not at all,” he said, leaning closer so you caught a hit of his cologne and thought that you would swoon until his smile turned softer… sweeter. “But you picked up the cue and marched to the final curtain. To that I say bravo.”

Forgetting the plastic bugs, not caring if they truly came to life and crawled up and down your legs, you gestured towards the rest of the store.

“I’ll take a bow after I figure out what you need and how I can help you get it.”

Was that a mistake? He looked like he might turn cold or beat the crowd before the conclusion of the curtain call when he spoke fast.

“I have to attend a costume party,” he started. “On Halloween. It is not by choice. Certain people would rather I stay home. I do not wish to give them that sense of satisfaction.”

And now you liked him even more. A misanthrope wanting to beat the world at its own game. You could relate and lightly touched his arm, smiling at the electricity humming over your skin.

“Well then let’s make you the best-dressed man at the ball.

With his cane tapping again, he followed you down an aisle where capes made like curtains blocked out an unseen sun.

“I… I suppose that something like this makes the most sense,” he said, his voice even more sorrowful as he brought a white half mask to one side of his face. He concealed the scar, and you felt your lips curl into a frown.

“Why would you say that?” you asked. “Phantom of the Opera is so last century.”

“It’s timeless for me,” he sadly explained. “Come now; I promise it will not compromise your commission. Simply be straight with me.”

Understanding why he had a want to strike out, wondering how many times he had to endure cruel words muttered under cold breaths, you still thought him handsome and snatched the mask from his fingers before tossing it to the back of the shelf.

“Why hide the battle scar?” you asked.

“Excuse me? You do not know how---”

“Not important,” you cut in. “Whatever happened, you wear it well and…”

Your mind spun towards the next aisle.

“And what?” he asked. “Would you be so kind as to finish your thought?”

“I’d rather show you.”

Taking his free hand as his cane started tapping on the tiles again, you turned another corner and paused before a rack of feathers and pearls, wide-brimmed fedoras over pinstriped suits.

“Well… here we are,” he said. “I fail to understand your intentions.”

“Really?” you asked. “Come on! With the right hat and a snazzy jacket…”

You affixed said items of clothing to him quickly, basking in the feel of another one of his warm’s sighs hitting your neck and gently braiding through your hair. Fighting the urge to fall into him right then and there, you found a pocket square colored in crimson, placed it in his pocket, and smiled.

“Scarface!” you said.

“Excuse me!”

The emphasis on every syllable turned your blood to ice, and you wanted to kick yourself for saying too much when your reached for a plastic Tommy Gun and pressed it under his free arm.

“Who is like the toughest guy ever,” you said. “No one messes with him. He takes down empires. The world is his.”

“Until the final act,” the man said.

“You know it?” you asked.

“I have not been living under a rock, my dear.”

For that much you were glad; less so when he tossed the gun aside and looked ready to exit the shop.

“This is never going to work,” he grumbled.

“Why not?” you asked. “It looks so good on you.”

His eyes drifted towards a mirror, and for a second his smirk returned.

“I almost do not want to argue with that,” he began.

“Then don’t,” you said, surprised that you liked him a little vain when he lost the hat and hung his head.

“But I am hardly the type to shoot up a room… despite everything…”

What was the secret to his story? The tips of your fingers just grazed against his when he shot away and looked ready to rush to parts unknown that you never had any hope of finding.

“Or get the girl.”

Leaning on his cane, he aged in the span of your sight. You remembered an eighth-grade dance where you were Esmeralda only to lose your Quasimodo to a genie, your gypsy not standing a chance. No one deserved to feel that way.

And given the chance…

“You got her.”

His cane stopped and threatened to fall as you touched a strand of pearls.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m up for a party,” you said.

“I---”

“Look I know it sounds forward or whatever,” you continued. “But I clean up pretty nice. And I can dance. Bet you have a plus one, right?”

“Yes I---”

“So let’s do it! What’s a tough guy without his doll?”

You smiled brightly with wide eyes… and saw his face twist. Fuck. Why did you do that? Step over every line ever drawn in the sand. He wasn’t some eighteenth-century-styled brooding male just in need of the love of a good woman. Or you. You wanted to hide under every mask in the shop, bury your head in the smell of sweat and rubber until the sound of his cane faded into the distance. Even after that. Blushing while your palms began to sweat, you gasped ever so slightly and glanced up at the sound of rustling plastic…

…and you saw the chain of faux pearls in his hand, held just shy of your neck, and you blinked fast..

“Perhaps you are on to something,” he said. “I hardly want to go alone.”

The lines in the sand leftover from the summer became ropes pulling you through the seaweed, back to the forest and the first and best version of his gaze.

“You don’t have to,” you offered softly. “I don’t really have any plans.”

Oh Christ! That sounded so pathetic and---

“A pretty thing like you?” he said.

And your heart exploded in your chest. Because no one, not one family member or friend ever called you pretty… to the point that you believed the word was meant for puppies before it could fall on your shoulders. But here he was, calling you something close to lovely and smiling as you shook your head.

“Guess I was waiting for you to come calling,” you said, biting your lip at the end of the sentence.

And it worked when he blushed, highlighting his scar as he draped the boa over tour shoulders.

“We could make a handsome pair,” he reasoned, still blushing and moving just a few steps down the aisle when two red eyes and a low moan caught him off guard.

“What is that?” he asked as you hurried toward him and touched his shoulders.

“Fortune teller,” you said. “When you walk by it, it sets him off.”

“It… is it…?”

He shivered under your hands, and you steadied him until he stilled.

And spoke once more.

“Do the tea leaves tell the truth?”

Trailing your fingers down his arm and finding your fingers clasped in his, you looked to the skull with red eyes resting under a turban.

“Will… will I… will me and… what is your name?”

“Frederick,” he said. “Dr. Frederick Chilton.”

“Doctor?” you echoed. “Oh boy.”

“It is not all that it is cracked up to be,” he said. “I could tell you stories…”

And you were ready to read them cover to cover when you held his hand tighter and took a deep breath.

“Will the doctor and his doll have an absolutely astounding time at the masquerade ball?”

The silence didn’t bother you as your eyes locked, his green gaze seeming like the cover page of all those stories you were dying to dive into and puzzle over and over again.

“Doll,” Frederick said. “I think I like that.”

And before you could answer, the mechanized voice filled the aisle where you stood, the pair of you seeming like the only two people in this world or any other.

All signs point to yes.