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anonquack · 3 years

Text

| His Merch |

Alex Quackity x Reader, Oneshot!

Word Count: 4256

Warnings: None, just some curse words. Fluff :]

Summary: Being such good friends with Quackity leads to the inevitable; catching feelings. In fear of ruining your friendship with him, you kept quiet about your feelings. Although usually good at that, after a merch drop and a slip-up on stream, you prepare yourself for the worst. Queue the incoming call from Quackity himself.

Today had been a productive day, in your opinion. You'd woken up earlier than usual, ate breakfast, cleaned around your apartment, and managed to get started on editing a video you'd recently filmed.

That's why you considered yourself very deserving of sitting down and enjoying your friend's stream as you ate some snacks.

Quackity had a fun stream planned, and had hyped up a 'big announcement' on Twitter, and the whole timeline was already speculating what it could be as they awaited for Quackity to start stream.

Being his friend had some perks though, contrary to popular belief. He'd discussed with you what the big announcement was as you sat on call with him a few nights prior to the big day. It was merch, and according to your past experience with Planet Duck products, it was sure to be soft and super comfy. You were very much looking forward to getting your hands on some of his new merch.

He'd brought up sending some to you, one of the previously mentioned perks of being his friend, but you politely declined. Much to his surprise. He'd asked why and you'd simply stated that "It was fine," and perhaps it came off as a bit rude. A 'no thanks' to his merch that you hadn't even seen.

But you had plans of your own, you wanted to acquire said merch on your own, and support him financially in the process. He didn't have to know that though, so with a small 'Oh' from him as his response, you swiftly changed topic of conversation.

Now here you sat, watching the stream as Quackity explained what he'd be doing with his friend John Smith. Riding go-karts around what looked like a storage unit. You couldn't help but worry as you watched them zoom around, occasionally getting close to crashing, and eventually doing just that.

The stream itself was rather fun to watch, but you kept your debit card beside you. This was in case he decided to drop the merch announcement out of nowhere. And that was exactly what he did. Another perk of being his friend was you grew a 6th sense for these type of things. Always had a feeling for what was about to happen when it came to Quackity.

You watched as the chat freaked out, watched as the notification from Planet Duck went out, notifying everybody that the merch had been released. You quickly typed into your computer, and the internet seemed to be taking its time to redirect you to Quackity's merch site.

After some time, it finally loaded and you began to look at all the options. The merch was wonderful, Quackity had been hyping it up to you (you'd asked for no reveals, wanting to wait like everyone else) and he had been absolutely right.

Most of the designs were new, except for the iconic Planet Duck logo, and were all very cute. You had Quackity's stream playing in the background as you maneuvered your way around the site, finally deciding on which merch you'd be buying.

As you went to purchase, a red sign alerted you that there was no shipping to your location. To which you quickly raised an eyebrow, panic starting to rush through you. Maybe you should've accepted his offer.

After refreshing multiple times and watching the Twitter timeline freak out as well over the inability to ship to several locations, it finally seemed to work, and the payment finally went through. A big "Thank you for your purchase" appearing onto the screen.

You let out a sigh of relief, clicking back onto the tab where the stream was, a small smile on your face. You'd actually managed to get it on your own. It was nerve-racking, when it seemed like you wouldn't be able to get the shipping to work, when it seemed like it'd sell out before you had the chance to buy some.

Now you finally understood what it felt like, the stress of getting your hands on merch before it sold out. It'd been an exhilerating experience.

You relaxed into your seat as Quackity's laugh filled the room. He was recreating bits from Fast and Furious, and zooming all over the place. You watched with a fond smile as he drove around, throwing random Spanish profanities at John Smith here and there.

The funky heart glasses he had on did nothing to ease the warmth that was spreading through your chest at the sight of him. You were suffering due to your confusing feelings towards your close friend, but nobody knew, or at least that is what you told yourself.

You tried to focus on something else, something that wasn't solely him. The go-karts were going pretty fast, and you remembered the scene they were recreating from the movie. Whichever random thought came to mind, you'd focus on it instead, too scared to let your thoughts wander elsewhere.

When it came to and end, you were conflicted. You were glad your heart would be able to catch a break, but you also missed him almost immediately. Sickening, really.

You took some time to reflect on what you'd done so far. Cleaned, ate your meals, worked on some editing, got some Quackity merch, and enjoyed a fun stream. It was rather productive, to say the least.

But there was still some time left in the day, and you figured you'd put the energy coursing through your body to use.

Taking a seat at your desk, you turned your monitor on before opening the twitch app. An alt stream would be perfect right now. After going live and sending out a tweet letting your followers know you were live, you patiently waited for the viewers to start coming in.

Considering this was an alt stream, you figured you'd play some random game and just chat for a bit before heading to bed. As the viewers came in, you gave your greetings before opening a tab for roblox, getting on a random server to play an obby game as you talked to chat.

There was a content smile on your face as you asked chat how their day had been, how they were feeling, your little character jumping around and passing through the beginner levels on the obby game.

"I'm actually in a really good mood, chat. My day has been going so well." You began, glancing at chat here and there, smile growing at the memory of the adventures acquiring Quackity merch.

After the chat was flooded with questions asking about what had happened, you indulged. "I was watching Quackity's stream earlier today, and it was so much fun!" The smile grew before softening as you focused on the obby. "I was also able to get some of his new merch."

The chat erupted into bits of 'friends supporting friends' to 'y/n in quackity merch???' and people yelling that they had been or weren't able to get merch.

Seeing the chat made you laugh, nodding your head a bit. "No because I was so nervous I wouldn't be able to get some-" you admitted, attention now focused solely on telling the viewers about your own experience.

"I was trying to purchase, and there was a line, and then it said it wouldn't ship to my location?? I was so worried I wouldn't be able to get some. But it finally worked. I'm excited for it to get here." You finished your small rant, a content smile on your lips.

Chat consisted of people agreeing with the technical difficulties occurring at the time of the merch drop, others saying they were too broke to buy anything. It felt nice, to see something from their perspective and also have shared an experience like this.

"Big Q actually offered to send me some, but I told him no because I wanted to get it myself.. Wanted to get it fair and square." You said as you refocused on the obby in front of you, fond smile on your face as you thought about how nice he was. He was willing to send all of his friends some of his merch, free of cost.

"Also wanted to give him my support by actually purchasing it, you know?" You added, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as it leaned against your desk. You took this time to read chat, which was exploding with what you thought was a combination of Quackity's username with yours, and 'bffs ur honor!!'.

You smiled at that, hands finally moving your character around. "Really, he has been such an amazing friend, extremely welcoming, always fun to be around. And just.. life is never dull when he's around. He's always been there for me when I needed it and well‐" A pause. "I'm glad I was able to support him in some way." You hummed softly as you finished up yet another small rant about Quackity.

At the realization that you'd been talking about him for far too long, and that he was not meant to be the focus of your alt stream, you cleared your throat and began focusing on the obby game once again.

You shifted the topic of conversation to the video you'd also been editing today, and that quickly took everyone's attention away from how affectionately and fondly you'd been speaking of your dear friend. Everyone was now excited about the new video.

Seeing how easily the chat's focus changed made you ease up a bit, and you were able to enjoy the rest of your stream playing random roblox games and discussing some stuff with chat. It lasted for a bit longer before you finally decided to end stream.

Some goodbyes and after stream officially ended, you found yourself on Twitter. Everything seemed pretty peaceful on the timeline, up until the trending page came up.

Your name was trending, along with 'QUACKITY IN CHAT' and the infamous combination of usernames. A monstrosity, really.

You heard yourself audibly gulp as you clicked on the trending topic 'quackity in chat'. Much to your dismay it was true. There was screenshots that showed Quackity was watching your stream. That meant that he'd heard you talking about him in that sickening tone. That tone that was unnecessarily sweet and fond.

You didn't know who was freaking out more, the so-called shippers, the timeline, or yourself. You gently bit at the inside of your cheek, scrolling and reading all the tweets of people trying to guess how Quackity must've felt while hearing all that. Others raising an eyebrow at how long you'd gone on about Quackity and how 'perfect' he was.

You'd fucked up, that was for sure, and it wasn't even intentional or fan service of any kind. It was an alt stream, it wasn't planned in any way, shape, or form. He'd been brought up, and you'd accidentally spilled all fond thoughts you held of him.

Your cursor hovered over a specific tweet that read, 'want someone to talk about me the way y/n talks about big q'. It was sweet, and perhaps made you smile just a little bit.

As you read it over in your head, a notification popped up on your screen, the discord notification ringing in your ears as you read who the message was from. Quackity.

You messed around with your mouse for a bit before finally closing the Twitter tab, and instead opting to open the unread message.

Quackity

hey (:

You stared at it for a bit, blinking in disbelief at how normal the message came across. Perhaps he'd tuned in during the last half of the stream. Perhaps he hadn't been able to watch while you rambled about him, and perhaps he hadn't been on Twitter either. One could hope.

y/n hi (:

It showed that he was typing almost immediately after, and you tried your best to calm your nerves.

Quackity call?

You felt yourself tense at the message. Maybe he wanted to let you down kindly. 'Hey! Saw your stream, and I just wanted to ask if you could chill the fuck out. That was kind of creepy. Maybe never speak of me ever again. Do not perceive me any longer, thanks!'

Something along those lines for sure. That's what probably awaited you if you said yes to this. But what exactly were you supposed to do instead?

y/n ofc

It only took a few seconds for the call to come through. Stalling wouldn't help, so you answered by the third ring.

He greeted you, and everything seemed normal. The calls were normal between you two, but you were just on edge due to twitter trending and the stream that took place less than an hour ago.

"How are you feeling, Quackity?" You asked with a small smile, today was a big day for him, and you were sure he'd enjoy talking about how fast the merch sold.

"I'm doing great. Really happy that the fans liked the designs and just.. we sold a lot. I'm happy." He restated the last bit, the smile was obvious in his voice. You didn't have to be seeing it to know. Another perk of being so close to him. You had a clear visual image of what he probably looked like right now. Cute smile plastered onto his equally cute face.

"I'm really happy for you, Big Q. You deserve all the success that is coming your way and more." You hummed softly. Everything you were saying, you meant wholeheartedly. There was silence for a bit before he finally spoke again.

"I watched your stream."

Fuck. There it was. You should've expected it but it still hit like a ton of bricks. You felt your mouth turn dry, could barely manage to get out the word, "Yeah?"

"Mhm." Straight to the point. There was a bit of silence, you were unsure of what to say. Why had he brought it up? It was bound to happen, but what was the reason behind bringing it up? To tease you, let you know he wasn't interested, or because roblox obbies are just so much fun?

"You didn't have to buy it, you know?" He finally said, breaking the silence.

"I wanted to." You reassured, "the merch is really pretty. Worth every penny."

"I could've sent you whichever you wanted." He stated bluntly. As if it was weird of you to have gone and bought it on your own.

"Thank you, but I wanted to buy it myself. Let me? Please?" Let me show my support this way, is what you meant to say. It came out softer than intended, and you could feel your heart beating against your ribs. You really needed to watch your tone around him.

"Of course." He responded, just as softly. He'd drive you crazy one of these days. They'd have to lock you up, and you'd never see the light of day again.

"Did you have fun riding the go-karts?" You asked, a small smile on your lips as you wandered back onto the Twitter tab, a clip of his stream now on display on the timeline.

He let out a small laugh, "I did. Did you enjoy watching it?" You nodded before responding, "Of course. Was concerning watching you crash into walls though."

He hummed softly in response, possibly contemplating what to say with how long he took before he spoke again.

"Did you really mean all the things you said on stream?"

Somehow, even with your own attempts to change topic, the focus was back on your stream and the things that had been said. You wouldn't be able to dig yourself out of the hole you'd dug.

It was entirely your fault, for even allowing yourself to consider him as anything but a great friend. It was your fault for taking the late night calls, the sweet tones, and messages the wrong way. Your interpretations were all wrong and now you'd have to sit here and apologize for practically outing yourself on stream. For letting the whole world know that you had romantic feelings for a good friend of yours. You'd probably made him so uncomfortable.

You felt yourself cringe slightly at his words, already gone quiet for far too long. You had to speak up, even if it lead to a good friendship ending a few minutes from now.

"Of course I did. You're great, Alex." The use of his name was meant to assure him you meant it wholeheartedly. It made the moment feel more intimate, too. Much to your own dismay, yet again. You couldn't help it.

The possibility that your friendship with him could come to an end real soon made you act on your feelings. It left you unhinged. If it was all going to end here, maybe you'd allow yourself to act on impulse. End it with a bang.

"Thank you, really. I know I probably wasn't meant to hear all that, but it was really nice. Made me feel nice as well. And just, seeing that you didn't accept the merch from me because you wanted to support me directly.. thank you."

His voice was soft, felt like warm honey to your taste buds. You could almost hear your heart melting inside your chest, could feel it dripping down and touching your diaphragm, oozing into every single crevice in your body. You'd never understand how he had such effects on you. How he was able to make you so fond of him.

"I meant every single word. You deserve that and so much more." You reassured yet again, a small smile on your lips. You heard him let out a small chuckle, which made you laugh as well.

Moments later, he had turned his camera on, wanting to show you all the merch. You'd asked for him to put it on, since you were a 'visual learner' and had to see it on him in order to fully understand what it looked like. He had playfully rolled his eyes, but hadn't really argued against it.

So there you were, watching as he changed from hoodie to hoodie, moving out of frame to change into the shirts. You could feel your heart thumping harshly against your rib cage at the sight of him. Some looked bigger on him, some looked just right. They all looked wonderful, and super comfy. Perhaps that was simply because they were on him, and he looked so comfy.

He looked like he could give the best hugs.

"You really think so?" His voice came out a bit sheepish, and the light pink that dusted his cheeks was becoming more and more evident. Huh?

"What?" You said, a dumb look on your face as you tried connecting the dots.

"That I could give the best hugs." He stated slowly, as if he was testing how it sounded before adding, "Do you really think that?"

Had you really said that out loud? Fuck. It took acting on impulse to a whole other level. This wasn't something you two usually did, but I guess it was okay since everything might be ending soon. Ballsy moves.

"Yeah. You make the merch look so cozy." Your throat felt dry, eyes glued to his face, wanting to catch every single second of his reaction. Wanting to see each movement of his facial muscles, to find out what it could possibly entail. "Makes me wonder what your hugs feel like." You admitted.

Your eyes scanned the entirety of his face, perking up slightly at the sight of his face flushing, leaving him with the softest tint of pink to spread across his cheeks, almost matching his pretty lips. What the hell did that even mean?

"Maybe you won't have to wonder for too long. With guidelines being lifted and all." The line. Blurred at that very moment, for sure. His eyes were glued to you as well, which only made you hesitate every single movement you could think of doing at that moment.

"And in the meantime? What am I supposed to do?" Risky. Crossing lines, jumping over hurdles. This all had to be against friend rules or something. You could feel your sanity decreasing each second this call went on. But he wasn't stopping any of this either.

"I could send you a hoodie." The sentence brought you out of your Quackity-induced haze, making you quickly shake your head. What? Before you could protest or ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, he explained.

"My hoodie. Y'know. Mine. One I wear. You can give it back when we meet up, perhaps."

Your mouth went dry again, shocked at the domestic feeling it gave. He was suggesting he send one of his hoodies. It would smell like him. It was the closest thing to giving him an actual hug. It would be paradise.

"You'd really do that?" You asked, still in disbelief, but he quickly nodded his head. "Oh." You said softly, before a smile appeared on your face. "I would like that, then."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'll send it then." He hummed, smile spreading on his lips as well. Everything going on was making you feel dizzy. It felt so surreal.

You'd mentally prepared yourself for the worst, but instead were met with a flirtatious Quackity. He'd said sweet things to you before, but you never allowed yourself to take it seriously, not wanting to get your hopes up. And it never went to this extent.

It seemed he realized what just went down, a loud laugh escaping his lips. "Holy shit. You're gonna have one of my hoodies soon."

"I am." You chimed in, smile on your lips as well.

"And you'll wear it around." He added.

"I will."

"You'll look good, as always."

You could feel the heat rush to your face. What was going on? Was this real, or just a very cruel dream? Alex Quackity was fucking flirting with you.

"Are you flirting with me?" Bewildered tone, raised eyebrows. Your brain couldn't even begin to progress what was being said.

"What the fuck does it look like I've been doing?"

"Have you really?" Warmth spread across your chest at how blunt he was being. The line was gone. It'd been erased, never to be seen again. There was no shame in him. Admitting he was flirting with his whole chest.

"I have. Why are you so surprised though? I've subtly flirted with you before.. and I mean, were you not confessing your undying love to me on stream?" He raised a brow, feigned confusion on his face. He was teasing. You let out a groan, covering your face with your hands as he let out a laugh.

Surreal. He confessed to having flirted with you in the past. So you weren't delusional, nice to know. "Are you done?" You asked, face still covered by your hand in shame.

"I saw a tweet that was saying they felt like third wheels since I was in chat, and you were just going on about everything you liked about me." You kept your face covered. He was not stopping. Now he was the unhinged one.

He was visibly scrolling through the timeline at this point. "Oh, and one saying they want what we have. What do we have?"

You finally uncovered your face. "I don't know. Whatever the fuck this is, I guess?"

"Well, what is this?"

"Mm... whatever you want it to be." You finally answered, and there was a surprised look plastered on his face at that.

"Whatever I want?"

"Yeah." You paused. Would he regret this after he got out of this haze? What if it had just been flirting for fun? But he wouldn't play with your feelings like this, would he?

Alex Quackity was perfect though, and perhaps he had a sixth sense about when stuff was wrong with you, because he caught on to your hesitation.

"Hey." He called out softly. The teasing, flirtatious tone was gone, now replaced by the softer tone reserved for late night calls, or when everybody else in the vc had left and it was just you two.

You look at where his face was on your monitor, relaxing a bit simply by his tone and the soft gaze he held on you.

"I know everything sort of progressed pretty fast tonight.. but your stream really helped me realize a few things. I do like you, y/n. Not fucking around or anything." He said it in a firm tone, one that told you he wasn't messing around, but still felt oh so intimate.

Everything he was saying was exactly what you wanted and needed to hear. Reassurance that your feelings weren't unrequited. You couldn't believe your rambling on stream had lead you guys here.

"I like you, too. If that wasn't obvious already." You mumbled out, eyes averting before glancing to see his reaction. He had the biggest, cutest, grin on his face. Charming, and extremely contagious. You couldn't help but smile back.

Holy shit.

"Is this real?" You asked out loud, smile never leaving your face.

"It is. All thanks to your ranting on stream. How cool is that?"

You couldn't help but still feel rather embarrassed that he'd heard all of it, but it had brought you two here. All embarrassment was worth it. Especially if it meant it opened up a whole new world of possibilities for you two.

"Very cool." You mumbled, before a smile appeared on your lips. Today really couldn't have gone any better.

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isbergillustration · 2 years

Text

This is a Ghost Story: Part III

I wake up, shaking, terrified. The exact details of the nightmare fade rapidly, but the feelings stay. My skin is clammy and sweaty, my hands shaking, and I yelp loudly when I look up to see the dark shape silhouetted against the window. It is tall and humanoid, with glowing eyes, like the way headlights reflect off of animals’ eyes in the dark. I blink, and it’s gone. Then, because my life is a horror movie now, feel the blankets bunching further down the bed, the mattress shifting. The movements grow closer, and I am frozen in fear, unable to move even to try to get away, but then- then the movement stops. And I feel a weight on my shoulder, and though I expect it to feel like a claw grasping me, it isn’t. A weight and size like a hand, rubbing down my back, in soft and soothing motions. Oh.

“Hey,” I say, and I can hear how terrified I sound.

“It’s nice to, uh, to see you. Feel you. And uh. Thanks.”

It takes me a while to calm down. Obviously. And to be honest, the presence of the ghost doesn’t help, but I appreciate the gesture, so I don’t comment. The idea that the ghost can actually physically touch me is… it’s deeply unsettling. Because then, what else can the ghost do to me, should I piss them off sufficiently? They haven’t done anything other than express frustration with their situation, which is fair. Being stuck in this flat for all eternity doesn’t seem ideal. They haven’t done anything to threaten me since I started talking to them. They haven’t, really, given me any reason to be afraid. But then, that’s never stopped me before.

“Will you tell me your name?”

“Okay. Fair. Can you tell me when you died?”

T-h-i-r-t-y-o-n-e-y-e-a-r-s-a-g-o

“Oh, wow, that’s before I was born. What happened?”

F-i-r-e.

“Oh. Like the old building. I’m sorry. Do you have- I know it’s been a while, but is there anyone you would like me to… I guess to contact? To tell any last words to?”

There is a long pause, long enough that I almost think they have left. Then they move the planchette to no. Oh. That’s- that’s sad, isn’t it?

“I’m sorry.”

I wait as long as I think polite.

“Can you… uh. How far can you go? I’m sorry, I’m just curious. About, uh, ghost limits, I guess. Are you just haunting my place, or the building in general?”

N-o-t-f-a-r

T-h-i-s-f-l-o-o-r

“Aww, bummer. I was hoping you could tell me what the howling coming from the basement is.”

W-e-r-e-w-o-l-f

“Oh. They come up here?”

H-o-w-l-i-n-g-o-n-l-y-h-a-p-p-e-n-s-d-u-r-i-n-g-f-u-l-l-m-o-o-n

“Ah. Yeah, I hadn’t kept track. That makes sense, though. Have there been any werewolf related deaths in the building, do you know?”

“That’s good. I’ll make sure to be on watch during the next one.”

I lean back on my old sofa, whose cover is scratched up by some past renter’s cat, or possibly the ghost on a particularly bad day. Speaking off.

“I know you don’t want to tell me your name, but it would be pretty easy for me to find out. Can’t have been that many fires in this building thirty one years ago. Would it be safe to assume you do not want me to try to find out?

Yes d-o-n-t

“Fair enough. I promise. I’m Morgan, by the way. Which, which I guess you know from hearing me answer the phone. Is there anything you want me to call you? Ghost? Flatmate?”

The planchette moves to Boo which is an addition to the spirit board I’ve made in black marker. Ghost it is, I guess. After this, the ghost seems to run out of energy, or interest in the conversation. This seems to be about the cut off point, time-wise, every time. A few minutes. But I did get almost a full sentence today, so that’s pretty cool.

After double checking both a calendar and the night sky to make sure today is not a full moon, I head down to the basement storage units. It’s an even split between the singular largeish flat down here, and space for the storage units belonging to each flat. It’s damp down here, and smells unpleasant, and the lights flicker. They don’t eventually go out, they just perpetually flicker, as if that is their intended purpose. But then, this is a haunted building, so maybe some other dead soul is lurking down here, fucking with the wiring.

Here, behind the wire door and the fifth padlock I’ve had to buy, despite no one ever actually stealing anything, is where my art supplies live. It’s hard, when you work, to have the time and enthusiasm to get out canvas and paints. I keep and use a sketchbook, but anything bigger? Haven’t touched it since graduation years ago. Something about having to work a low wage job anyway just really takes the wind out of your, uh, poorly stretched canvases. I bring up a few of the really big ones, a few with the hint of sketches, but most of them untouched. Some paints and the better brushes, too.

“Hey,” I tell Ghost, “I know you enjoy doing finger painting with blood on the walls, but it’s really hard to clean, and I can’t really afford to lose my deposit, and also, to be honest, it smells kind of bad. So. I brought you some canvases and brushes and stuff. So maybe you can use these instead of the walls?”

The singular open window rattles in a deliberate way in response.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I tell them, and lay out some newspaper, and set the canvases up along the wall on top, ready for spectral arts and crafts.

The next morning, I wake up to a new painting. It is, judging by the smell and colour and crustiness, still blood. And judging by the brushstrokes, still finger painted. But it is on the canvas, and that’s definitely a step up. It is a figure, who looks a bit like me, staring wide eyed at the viewer, and a towering dark and nebulous shape behind me, clawed hands on my shoulder, pale eyes looking at the viewer. Huh. It’s pretty good. Expressionistic, certainly. Unnerving? Absolutely. But I think it’s a nice selfie of the two of us, rather than a threat. At least, given circumstances, that is what I am going to choose to believe.

“That’s very cool!” I tell them, “please feel free to experiment with the actual paint, too. I don’t know where you are getting the blood from, and I am starting to worry!”

#ghost story #sketchbook #ghost #illustration #artists on tumblr #my writing #my art #ink #colour pencil #coffee

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

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In Over His Headboard

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E Word Count: 7560

This is a submission for the first day of Thotumn, organized by @spideysmjs!!! Today’s prompt: Dirty Talk.

Summary: MJ learns that Ned's best friend went through a lot of backpacks as a teenager. And a lot of headboards as an adult.

MJ is very observant.

But that’s old news.

The other O-word she lives her life by is ‘organized’. In kindergarten, she rearranged everyone’s cubby during naptime (without permission) to suit her precepts. As an adult, she keeps her books sorted by topic and, within that, by size. The handles of her measuring cups are perfectly aligned. The apartment that houses both the books and the measuring cups is tidy, full of furniture with secret built-in storage spaces, and fewer than five miles from the house in which she grew up. MJ has organized and reorganized her own space so many times that, even though her few good friends think it’s crazy, it explains why one of her passions is helping people move.

Packing boxes is a delight. Laying down rugs so that their straight edges are perfectly parallel to the walls thrills her. Helping someone determine exactly the correct lineup of toiletries in the cabinet under their bathroom sink is a religious experience. She doesn’t express her joy in smiles or shrieks of excitement, but in her diligence. She’ll be tucked quietly in the closet, ordering jeans by shade of blue, while the rest of the volunteer movers crack open a beer in the kitchen, calling it time for a well-earned break.

Lately, everyone in MJ’s life has gotten disappointingly settled: her brother and his wife upsizing in suburbia for the baby on the way, her parents (who are finally coming down hard on not letting her shift their knickknacks around anymore), and Betty. Betty’s engaged—so engaged—and simply made space for her fiancé to move in with her, so MJ didn’t get to assemble a single cardboard box. She still feels slightly betrayed.

When Betty calls and starts in about schedules and plans and photographer, MJ assumes they’re about to go over more wedding details. But no, her friend informs her, the schedule involves the timed renting of a moving truck and the access date for a storage unit, the plans are who’s lending a hand and with what, and the photographer is Ned’s friend and future best man, some guy named Peter. MJ forgets the name (and asks Betty for it again later—day-of, as they’re driving to the guy’s apartment building). It’s a dull speck on the metaphorical diamond Betty has just held up to the light for her to inspect—whatshisname needs people to help him move.

Before the pleasure of putting someone’s possessions in just the right spot can commence, there’s the grunt work. MJ understands and accepts this as a necessary evil. On the day of Ned’s friend’s move-in, she dresses in overalls—multiple pockets for micro-organization on the fly—with a cropped t-shirt underneath because there will, inevitably, be stairs and it’s July. She’s trying not to begin sweating too far in advance, limiting her anticipation to a foot jumping on the immaculate rubber foot mat of the passenger seat of Betty’s car and a series of probing questions.

“Doesn’t this guy have any friends?”

“He has friends,” Betty assures her, being a responsible driver and keeping her eyes on the road, “just not a lot of super close friends.”

“And the close friends he does have weren’t available?”

“Umm…” She concentrates on watching the pedestrian countdown light as they cross an intersection. “I think a bunch of them went with him to the storage unit to load up the truck. I guess they don’t have the whole day off.”

“Oh, unlike me, who has nothing better to do.”

“Don’t get snippy. And don’t pretend you wouldn’t have begged to help if you’d heard me mention what I was doing today.”

MJ plays with the seatbelt strapped across her chest, feeling defensive. It’s her go-to reaction whenever Betty reveals how clearly she sees her.

“I was just trying to figure out why I was asked.”

“Ned’s his friend, I’m Ned’s fiancée, and you’re my friend.”

“The six degrees of Michelle Jones,” she mumbles.

“What?”

“Nothing. He lives in Queens?”

“Yeah, Peter’s local. He and Ned went to school together. Crazy, huh?”

“Crazy that you can travel the world and end up with a fiancé and a circle of friends from your hometown,” MJ agrees. Today, Betty’s in jean shorts and a beachy shirt that ties in a knot at the end of its row of iridescent buttons, but MJ mostly sees her on the news, looking as prim and expensive as a collectible doll. She’s a foreign correspondent for CNN, though she’s reining in the foreign part now that she’s living with Ned and about to get married.

“Crazy,” Betty repeats distractedly, making a perfect, tight turn into the belowground carpark next to the building bearing the address MJ wrote down two weeks ago. This is where the magic will happen.

The pile out and her friend beeps her fob to lock the car. She wants to take the elevator that’ll bring them up to the lobby, but MJ insists on trekking back up the ramp they drove down. It stretches her legs, a good warm up. As they emerge from the darkness of the lot and sun slices across their faces, she feels like she’s walking into Disney World. They stand on the sidewalk and right as she’s about to ask Betty when they guys are supposed to make an appearance, a U-Haul pulls up to the curb.

She sees the driver’s side door open and slam shut without seeing the driver, but Ned comes bounding down from the passenger’s side to hold his fiancée’s hands and give her a quick kiss on the forehead (they’re so engaged), then three more guys fold themselves out of the tight back of the cab and hustle around to the rear of the truck. The couple’s display of affection distracted MJ; she can only assume it’s the driver out of sight in the back, passing belongings down to his helpers, who swiftly stack them on the sidewalk near the front doors of the apartment building. There’s an array of boxes, then staggering steps as the guys navigate couches and mattresses out of the truck, racing against the inflexibility of the No Parking and No Idling signs on this street. If a bylaw stooge comes along, they’re screwed. New York’s street signs exist for the city to make money, not for the ease of citizens needing to unload their furniture.

The guy’s—Peter’s—friends are surprisingly quick, so MJ lets the speech she was mentally writing to argue in favour of his right to park the truck in front of the building he’s moving into dissolve in her head. Peter hops down from the back of the truck. From where she and Betty are standing, she can only see his legs and hear the clang of the rear door closing. The trio of extra helpers clamber back into the U-Haul with the intent and discipline of clowns into a clown car and wheel off to return the truck. MJ finally sees the man she’s come to help as he brushes his hands together and steps quickly onto the curb to avoid another car angling into the carpark. He shakes hair off his forehead and squints towards them, sun in his eyes, already smiling.

“Um, hello,” MJ hisses at Betty, quickly turning to her. “Were you going to mention that your fiancé is best friends with Spider-Man? That’s Peter fucking Parker.”

“And I’m Betty fucking Brant,” she counters breezily. She’s looking past MJ, waving at Peter. “I’m on the news more than he is and you don’t freak out when you see me.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Hey!”

MJ spins to look into the eyes of a municipal—no, a national—no, an international hero. She doesn’t say anything fast enough, so he moves past her to hug Betty before coming back to her with eyebrows raised in what looks like a mixture of inquiry, politeness, and gratitude.

“Michelle?”

“But my friends call me—”

“MJ,” he finishes for her, and normally that would be irritating, but Peter Parker is endearingly boyish close-up. He’s shorter than she is. He’s freckled. He does look like somebody she could’ve gone to school with and had a low-key crush on for years and years. The fame can’t touch that, which is why, she figures, his hero-next-door schtick works so well for him. He’s local, like Betty said. Every bit of him sells that and it’s obvious that he’s not trying.

“And yours call you Spider-Man?”

Might as well get that out in the open—that she recognizes him. He laughs easily and glances down.

“Nah, pretty much just ‘Peter’. ‘Petey’ if they either really want to make me suffer or they really like me.”

He gives her a look and it’s brief, but there’s a lot to it. The propositioning tilt of the head, the wolfish curl of the smile, the assessing cut of his eyes to catch her from the corner of his vision. MJ gets a strong sense that ‘really like me’ is a euphemism for ‘enjoy me sexually.’

“We’ll see how I feel once we’ve moved all your shit upstairs, I guess,” she responds flatly.

“That sounds fair.” His voice is bright now, no lurking depravity. “I hope I don’t have enough boxes to make you hate me.”

“Please. Boxes are nothing. I’d be more worried about that dresser turning me against you. What is that thing made of?”

“Solid oak,” he brags, then grimaces. “It sucked just lifting it onto the truck.”

“Can’t you just…” MJ mimes the motion Spider-Man does when he shoots that gunk at people and buildings.

“Lift the furniture up to my building with web fluid?” Peter crosses his arms and looks like he’s really calculating it in his head. “Wouldn’t be graceful. I’d probably smash some windows if I tried to do it from outside, and doing it from inside wouldn’t be that much easier than just carrying it up the stairs. Also, that’d attract a lot of attention and everything I do doesn’t need to make the news, you know?”

“Oh yeah,” she agrees dryly. “I hate it when I’m just grocery shopping and there’s a whole camera crew right in my face.”

He laughs at her sarcasm. Appealing.

“Right?”

And then they have to scurry to catch up because Ned and Betty have already started moving everything into the lobby.

After it’s all inside and not available to be swiped by anyone walking or driving down the street, they decide to take turns carrying stuff up to the fourth floor. (Fourth? MJ could swear she was told second.) One person stays with the remainder of Peter’s stuff while the other three lug boxes and chairs and, eventually, the dreaded oak dresser. She’s too focused on maintaining a brisk pace to really check out his apartment—beyond noting the large windows and protruding edge of the kitchen countertop (that catches her in the stomach while she’s squeezing around a box Ned left too close to the front door). It wouldn’t matter. Layout and organization haven’t been much on her mind since Peter Parker stepped out from behind that truck.

This process isn’t supposed to be a spectacle, but people notice Peter, and Peter, ever the neighbourhood Spider-Man, notices people.

A man exiting through the lobby nods towards Peter’s desk and starts a conversation about materials and quality. MJ almost trips up the stairs with a box in her arms as she hears him say, “Yeah, I’ve got more wood than I know what to do with.” Betty, on her way down, catches her eye and gives her a funny look.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot,” she fires back.

Ned’s above, guiding one end of the couch, and Peter and MJ are heaving the other (mostly Peter) when a different dude narrowly gets past them on a landing, only to turn around and remark on the wonder of them being able to maneuver it. “It’s long,” Peter agrees, “but I’ve fit this thing into some pretty tight places.” Right after, he asks MJ if she needs a break. She’s fine. She only almost dropped her corner of the couch because her hand cramped.

As she’s taking a final box through the door of his apartment, she overhears, “I’ll let him choose the position. What do I know? I’m happy to put it anywhere. The only thing I can be trusted to be in charge of is making sure it’s well-hung.” Stumbling forward, she sees that Peter (who just spoke) and Betty are admiring a large, framed print of him and Ned in cap and gown, clutching diplomas. MJ grabs a bottle of water from the case they carried up here at the beginning—it’s lukewarm, but practically glacial compared to the temperature of her face right now—and asks her friend if she wants to step outside to get a little air before they continue.

Leaning against the wall of the building, MJ chugs some of her water, then hands it off to Betty. While her friend’s drinking, she says, “So, he’s gay, right?”

Betty catches the water that slops down onto her chin.

“What?”

“Peter. He’s gay.”

“I’ve seen him with guys when we’ve all gone to the bar together—”

MJ breathes deeply in relief. She needs him to be gay; the knowledge will quell how she feels when he utters these outrageous, completely explainable sentences, or when he walks ahead of her up the stairs and she’s forced to stare at his ass for four floors, or when she remembers that look he gave her before they started moving everything.

“—but Ned mentioned a serious girlfriend Peter had in high school, so I think he’s bi. Oh my god,” Betty adds in a tone of realization that scares the hell out of MJ. “You want him.”

It takes rapid backtracking and a convincing presentation of the facts (those being every suggestive thing Peter’s said today and leaving out the part about his ass) to wipe the excited look off her friend’s face.

“So, you’ve just been misunderstanding him. And eavesdropping.”

“Can we call it eavesdropping if he has nothing to hide?”

“Fine,” Betty says, rolling her eyes. “It’s not eavesdropping because he has nothing to hide. I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known Ned and, yeah, he might have an entire second identity, but the guy’s an open book. Peter couldn’t be sly if his life depended on it. He’s a goof, MJ. He’d never say that kind of stuff for real.”

Except that they hike back up to the apartment together and Peter’s voice drifts into the kitchen from one of the rooms down the hall, making the women halt and lock eyes.

“Remember how many backpacks May bought you in high school?” Ned chuckles. “This reminds me of that.”

“I do go through a lot of headboards. I’m not trying to break them, but I always put my legs into it too much and I just go so deep.”

“The room,” Betty babbles next to her, gripping her wrist. “I’m sure he’s talking about the depth of the room, coming in through the window too quickly from patrol.”

“It’s easy for you to tell yourself that,” MJ points out. “You’re engaged. You have no reason to think about Peter like that.”

Ned emerges and heads straight for Betty. These two are so gross together that neither of them protests against being hugged, though they’re sweaty from labour. With his arm around her friend’s waist, Ned turns to address MJ.

“Are you hanging around for a while?”

“Yeah, definitely. I can help unpack,” she pledges.

“Great. I know Peter’d like to get curtains put up for privacy today too, because, you know, being Spider-Man and having all these windows don’t really go well together, and you’re the tallest. He’ll probably want your help.”

She’d rather be assigned the task of choosing which kitchen cupboard will hold his plates, his glasses, the cans of premade soup she imagines Spider-Man relies on when he’s always darting around at night, too busy to devote a lot of time to making dinner. But she’s here to help. It’s not her apartment; she’ll go where she can be useful (any maybe do some sneaky rearranging later if he makes dumb organizational choices).

“Babe,” Ned says to Betty, “I’m going on a beer run—and maybe tacos, do you feel like tacos?—do you wanna come with me?”

“Of course, babe, but I don’t want…”

She looks at MJ, who’s trying to be inconspicuous, sorting the boxes labelled ‘KITCHEN’ from those labelled ‘LIVING ROOM’.

“One sec,” Betty tells her fiancé, walking over to MJ. “Will you be alright here if we go out for food?”

“Mhmm.”

Without glancing over, she plucks the X-Acto knife from her overall pocket and slices through packing tape to reveal nested pans, cloaked in mismatched dishtowels to prevent scraping during transport. The combination of careful and slapdash makes her smile to herself.

“It’s rush hour now, so I’m not sure how long we’ll be,” Betty warns.

“That’s fine.”

“I think we all need a little fuel before we settle in to unpack.”

“Yeah.”

“MJ,” her friend says sharply.

“What?”

“Are you ok being alone with Peter for a while?”

“Yes,” MJ says, rolling her eyes. “He’s Ned’s best friend and he’s Spider-Man, not some random creep. I’m not afraid he’s going to jump me. Anyway, I have this.” She waggles the knife.

“I’m more worried about you jumping him.”

She narrows her eyes at Betty.

“Have a little respect for my self-control.”

Her friend just shrugs.

“I’d understand. There’s the allure of him being a superhero and, more importantly, the fact that Ned and I can both vouch for him being a genuinely great guy.”

MJ narrows her eyes even more, this time in suspicion.

“Is this a moving day or a blind date?”

“Oh please.”

“That’s not an answer. Betty,” she presses, but her friend turns and grabs Ned’s hand. The wave as they leave the apartment is mockingly innocent.

Alone, MJ darts a glance down the hall, where she knows Peter is still doing whatever in the bedroom. She’s not going to race in there like some glassy-eyed fangirl. Even if Betty does endorse him so warmly, and he does seem so down-to-earth, and his ass does look like that in his jeans. She lifts his cookware out, one piece at a time, then moves on to the tangled jumble of utensils in the next box, trying to separate a pair of tongs from a warped spatula. She doesn’t hear Peter walk into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says suddenly from behind her.

MJ jumps and holds up the tongs threateningly, but her hand falls as she stares at him. He’s wiping sweat from his neck with the hem of his navy t-shirt. There are his abs and the taut skin below his navel.

“If you have a minute, could you give me a hand with this rod? I can’t get it up on my own.”

Her gaze springs up to his face and she stares at him.

“Huh?”

“The… curtain rod?” Peter says. “I can stand on a chair to do the one end, but I can’t do both ends at once. Do you think you could—”

“Yeah, sure.”

His smile is pleasant and relieved and MJ follows him into the bedroom like he hit her with some sort of magic spell, not just artless, unintentional dirty talk. She sets the tongs down on the floor by the wall; whoops.

“Warm in here,” she notes as she sidesteps a clear plastic tote of Peter’s clothes.

“Yeah, I was gonna open the window, but I didn’t know if the humidity would only make it worse.”

MJ watches as he gestures with one hand and props the other on his hip, hiking up his t-shirt to hook his thumb in the waist of his jeans. She encourages him to go ahead and risk it. The space is unbearable without at least the illusion of fresh air. She redoes her drooping ponytail, feeling new sweat slide down the nape of her neck as Peter crouches and jerks the window up from its sticky sill. Her gaze, and possibly her mind, gets lost somewhere in the breadth of his shoulders. His triceps look as hard and as perfectly rounded as the rolling pin that was still in the box when she left the kitchen. Emptying her chest pocket of odds and ends—knife, scissors, permanent marker, Allen key—MJ unbuckles her overalls, letting the straps and the bib hang down. The buttons on the hips keep the pants part up, but she can’t stand to have the whole thing closing her in any longer. She can’t breathe.

They each take an end of the curtain rod and Peter uses his knees to climb onto his nightstand, already positioned against the wall. It’s overkill because he’s not that much shorter and MJ can hook her end into the bracket without even having to get up on her toes. She’s done first and turns to look at Peter, kneeling on the nightstand with his thighs apart. She pictures joining him on that narrow surface, straddling his lap. God. How long have Betty and Ned been gone?

Then again, why fight it?

“Having some trouble getting it in?” she asks.

The rod clunks against the wall as Peter whips his head around to look slightly down at her.

“Your rod,” MJ clarifies. “You want me to take over? I can handle it.” At his continued dumbstruck silence, she goes on. “Or I can just direct you from here. You could try working it back and forth a little until you get the perfect angle. Then I’m sure it’ll ease right in.”

He hardly seems aware when the curtain rod falls into place. After a few extra moments of immobility, he dismounts and swishes the semi-sheer curtain across the window. She can feel his eyes on her, tracing the strip of stomach between the bottom of her crop-top and the folded-over denim of her overalls.

“What’s next?” she asks. “Maybe go into the bathroom and investigate the plumbing? Or, you know what, I didn’t finish unpacking your utensils. Would you rather go back to the kitchen and get your hands on my box?”

“What are you doing?”

It sounds like his chest is tight, like he’s forcing the words out. MJ smiles gently at the real-life superhero into whose apartment she has miraculously been deposited for today and perhaps only today.

“Helping.”

“Did you have to call it handling my rod?”

“Did you have to tell me you couldn’t get it up without me?” she challenges.

Peter’s mouth falls open and he makes a choked sound of protest, but she raises her eyebrows at him, daring him to argue.

“You asked me for a hand with your rod,” MJ presses. “That was you. You started it. And it wasn’t even then, it was hours ago. What is there in this apartment that you haven’t made some sort of phallic reference to?!”

“I… did I? I’ve been doing that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Spidey. Own it or don’t, but don’t pretend you haven’t heard some of the shit you’ve said today.”

“Are you offended?” he asks, avoiding her eyes, but not her body; he takes his time staring at that.

“I might be if you don’t do anything about it,” she huffs. “I’d hate to think that Spider-Man’s all words and no action.”

“I’m off-duty.” A sly smile.

“We can just talk,” MJ says casually, thinking that she’ll possibly die of heat exhaustion and unresolved sexual tension if they stand around chatting. “Why don’t you tell me how Spider-Man’s managed to crack so many headboards?”

He shoots her the same kind of look he gave her on the sidewalk.

“It wasn’t always Spider-Man.”

She smirks and gives him a look of her own.

“Then why don’t you show me?”

It’s the honesty in his expression that she appreciates as Peter surges towards her, grabbing her face between both hands and kissing her urgently. She grips his waist and scrunches his t-shirt in her hands. At the first little pause they take to snatch a breath, she peels the shirt up and he yanks it off the rest of the way.

“Nice,” she breathes, stroking his torso with her gaze before adding her hands.

He gives her a jerky nod of acknowledgement and goes for her shirt. Tugging it off screws up her ponytail again, but she doesn’t have time to care; Peter’s kissing her, wet and demanding, while he reaches around and fumbles to unhook her bra. When he nudges his hips against her, she feels him. He’s been making sideways insinuations about his dick all day (whether he admits it to her or not), and here’s the real deal at last. MJ presses her tongue slickly into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering at the urge to open her eyes and see what kind of face he’s making to accompany the groan he lets out as she deepens the kiss. As he draws the straps of her unfastened bra down her arms, she regretfully takes her hands off his chest, swiftly unbuttoning her overalls. Left side buttons, then right. Peter hampers her by grabbing her ass and rolling his hips forward as she’s trying to get her pants down. She doesn’t discourage him. It’s thrilling that he’s handsy.

The room’s a mess—not dirty, thankfully, and she assumes he must’ve come on another day to vacuum and clean, but with a short, uneven stack of boxes in one corner, the container of clothing, the box spring and mattress leaning together against the wall, and the headboard, poking out of the closet because he hasn’t put his bedframe together yet. MJ hates disorganization, especially when it fucks with the logistics of what has all the promising tempo and quick chemistry of a fantastic hookup.

“We could just…” He huffs, lifting his mouth off her neck where he’s started licking and sucking. “…tip the mattress onto the floor?”

She’s taken aback by the idea of fucking Spider-Man on a mattress in the middle of his mess of a bedroom. With the curtain as the only thing to show they made any progress in this room before giving in to their libidos. But she’s in her underwear, overalls ringing her ankles, and the man beneath the famous mask looks hot as hell when he’s been kissed hard and riled into an expectant erection. How else are they going to pass the time before their friends return? Fanning out magazines on his coffee table?

“Let’s do that,” she agrees.

They work as a team to control its fall. The room’s carpeted, so the mattress doesn’t make much of a sound beyond a soft thump when it hits the floor. MJ frowns at it thoughtfully. “You don’t have sheets.”

“Fuck sheets,” Peter says, half declaration, half laugh, and walks across the mattress to get to her.

She smiles against his mouth because it’s funny that he’s momentarily taller, standing on the mattress while her feet are still on the floor. Good thing he’s already taken his shoes off. MJ pulls away and drops to unlace her own sneakers, very, very aware of the rasp of Peter unzipping his jeans right above her head. She steps out of her shoes and overalls, then frees her hair of the elastic, flinging it spontaneously across the room, tousling her hair in her hands to fight the tingling of her scalp as she straightens up.

Oh. He’s already stripped his boxers off.

If her mouth actually does fall open as dramatically as it feels like it just has, it’s fine. MJ forgives herself. You’re supposed to be embarrassed after meeting a celebrity, wincing over every rambling sentence you blurted at them and every awkward twitch in your high-strung body language. Only you will ever recall your spastic behaviour. The celebrity forgot you the moment you exited their line of sight. Wait, will Peter mark her down as a horny fan and forget her? She hasn’t known him long enough to separate the man from the heroic icon, but she hopes neither side of his identity involves treating a partner like that. But no. Doesn’t matter. She can overanalyze later. Peter takes her hands and guides her onto the mattress where they make out standing up for a few minutes—him hot and rigid against her stomach, her not quite naked—before things get so heated that they collapse with roaming hands (Peter) and trembling knees (MJ).

For such a wholesome figure, Spider-Man curses wildly as he slides her underwear off, nose skimming down her skin from between her breasts to below her bellybutton while he works.

“You… you look…” he pants, propping himself up on his hands just to admire her. She has to confess, to herself alone, that it’s flattering, that it’s already making her want more of this: reckless afternoon sex in her friend’s fiancé’s best man’s new apartment. “God, I’m so glad you—”

“Called your bluff?” she suggests wryly.

“And everything before that. I’m so glad you were standing on the sidewalk when I got out of that truck.”

Well. That’s a little earnest. Then again, the man is hovering over her in the nude, so they’re in the heat-of-the-moment realm, during which time, comments of disconcerting earnestness do not count, or can be retracted later with no fault to either party.

To counteract it, MJ teases, “Are you saying you’re glad I came?”

“I’m glad you didn’t immediately leave when I said that thing about my wood,” he confides, kissing swiftly back up to her chest and using nothing but his tongue to toy with her breasts. She gasps at the sudden pull of his teeth, then laughs.

“So you were saying that shit on purpose.”

“Don’t be mad that I was too intimidated by your hotness to flirt with you to your face.”

His tone is playfully giddy and she likes this guy, she really does. She gets a good grip on his soft brown curls and tows him up for more kissing. Her knees bump his bare hips as she forms a cradle for him to drop into. Hint, hint.

Luckily, Spider-Man knows his cue.

He rocks between her legs and her chest rises and falls like breathing is a massive exertion. His angle is almost just right, so MJ shuffles and shifts and he’s endlessly patient as she rubs against him from below, testing. Well, not endlessly patient. The instant she moans in satisfaction, he’s got a hand wrapped desperately around her hip as he grinds down with tenacity. Right. This isn’t just any hookup, any guy. This is the guy who makes a career out of not backing down. Heat flows through her at the sudden thought of being handled with the intensity of one of Spider-Man’s mission.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says as she feels the head of him slip lower, skipping across her entrance. “Condom.”

Intense, and kind of a lustful dumbass.

“Right,” he agrees, flushed when he raises his face from where he’s been breathing in the scent of her hair. “I have one, uh, in my wallet.”

And then he doesn’t break away from her for a good ten seconds, like he’s hoping she’ll let him slide in bare. Horny motherfucker. MJ wants to screw Spider-Man, not birth his crime-fighting offspring. She tucks her chin and gives him a look that promises, as much as it would pain her, this thing is shutting down here and now if he doesn’t wrap it up. With a resigned exhalation (and a little smile implying he knows what he was trying to get away with), Peter pushes off of her and goes to dig around in the pocket of his jeans. She rolls onto her stomach to study the ropy musculature of his thighs. When he extracts the condom with a triumphant burst of sound, she flips onto her back again and watches him trip over the jeans he just dropped. There’s a charming contrast between this unexpected klutziness and her assumption that he could pull anybody with a pulse using those trusting brown eyes and his Avengers status.

He crouches beside MJ and doesn’t take his eyes off her, flapping the condom between his fingers.

“Should I put this on or do you wanna put it on me?”

She presents her palm.

“Give me that. You can’t even be trusted to install a curtain rod.”

“Oh, I’m extremely ready to install a rod,” he says eagerly, watching her tear the condom open and reach for his waiting cock.

“You know, you’re a real dork for a guy with those commitments and that ass.”

“Thank you?”

Before his uncertainty can swell to self-congratulations, MJ rolls the condom roughly down his dick, making him heave and shake, hips bucking into her perfunctory hold. Smirking, she closes her fist and pumps him quickly, eyes on the blank bliss on his face, his slack jaw. After a brisk minute of this, he begs her to slow down, then, still kneeling at her side, cups between her legs and starts fondling her at an even more vigorous pace than she was using on him. Her breaths come in hiccups and she can’t point out how unfair this is. Just as she’s arching for more, thinking she’s about to come faster than she ever has in her life, Peter stops cold.

“Are you ready to—”

MJ glares and knocks him back onto his ass, then scrambles onto his lap, continuing to push him down until his shoulders touch the mattress. His expression is cheerily confused.

“I was this close,” she says, pinching her fingers together until they nearly touch. When her complaint brings an impish smile to Peter’s face, she pinches those fingers around his nipple, so he hisses and curls into himself. Shaking her head at him, she takes hold of his erection and eases down onto his lap. His ecstatic chant of, “Oh man, oh man, oh man,” is moderately distracting, but MJ persists. It’s just who she is: stoic.

“God,” he groans beneath her as she begins swaying forward and back, “this is almost as good as catching the midnight opening of a new Star Wars.”

She covers his mouth with her hand and he laughs behind it.

“I was just trying to lean into your perception of me. I’m kidding.”

“Are you though?”

But she frees him for the noises he makes. Some of these grunts and whimpers scale her spine like a ladder, raising goosebumps as they go, until the whole sensation comes shivering back down and she finds herself riding him harder.

“Firm mattress,” she huffs.

“’S new. The last one was awful on my back and—ughhhhhhhohfuuuck—with the hazards of my line of work, I figured I gotta start taking care of myself.”

“If you won’t, I will,” MJ mumbles, curving forward to lick his chest, charting it all under her tongue, as she continues to shove back against him.

“Fuck,” he says, short and sharp. He seizes her hips and rolls her beneath him. “You should know, you taking control is a big turn on for me.”

“Clearly.”

She’s not sure how much sarcasm comes across in her gasp because his manhandling has knocked the wind out of her. Actually, she’s happy to let him steer things; being on top was starting to remind her legs of every step she’s walked up and down in this apartment building today, carrying Peter’s shit. He kneads some of the tightness away when he grasps her thigh and digs in with a roll of his fingers. Her moan is as much in relief as arousal. Then he starts thrusting so fast and deep that he has to pull her back towards him every so often so she isn’t forced off the mattress. The hum leaving her mouth is somewhere between breathing and moaning, one note that drags on and on, jumping and breaking when he catches her mouth in sloppy, ravenous kisses.

He’s still doing his damnedest to make out with her when her lips part with a genuine shriek. The tickle of Peter’s tongue against the roof of her mouth somehow adds to the sensation, like a high vibration over the low thrum of him drilling in and out of her. MJ comes seconds into the beginning of her scream; Peter comes with a crack. The sheer force of her orgasm—Spider-Man is clearly not without finesse, he simply does not choose to employ it in favour of fucking like he’s a sportscar running a red on a highspeed chase—has her too stunned to figure out why the sound accompanying his was wrong.

“What was that?” she asks hazily as Peter slumps over her body, breathing hard and still gently thrusting. He’s sweaty, but so is she. With something like pride, she realizes he’ll have to go to sleep tonight with his mattress soaked in her scent.

“Leg slipped,” he says.

MJ does vaguely recall that. In the midst of her climax, he’d moved. It wasn’t enough to distract her, so she’d focused on the feeling, as well as the resolution to not let him get her that close to the edge a second time without going over it.

“And hit what?”

“Uhhh…”

He doesn’t appear to know either, with his bleary, punch-drunk expression that’s unfortunately pretty adorable. No, no, no. A hand with moving, a hasty fuck, and she’s out. The whole day’s been extremely worth her while. She tells herself she doesn’t need more.

But Peter rolls off and she misses his weight and warmth, his shape and soft eyes. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress with his knees folded high when he goes, “Shit,” under his breath.

Because he also happens to be handling condom-removing at the time, MJ sits up fast, in a panic.

“Did it break?”

His posture inflates with a deep breath, then sags.

“Yeah. I don’t think there’s any way to salvage it.”

Salvage it? That’s a weird fucking thing to say in the situation, like it could possibly matter whether or not they were able to repair the condom after he’s already come inside her. Still, MJ’s skeptic nature makes her grab Peter’s shoulder and wrench it back, only to see the tied-off condom dangling between his fingers. It looks intact. She grips his chin and turns him to look at her.

“What do you mean it’s broken? It’s not in tatters. It’s not leaking.”

“What?” He squints at her, then follows her gaze to the condom. “Oh, not the condom. My headboard.”

Sure enough, she looks up and there’s his headboard, still protruding from the closet, but now in two pieces. The closest is on a slow, sad slide to the floor. He must’ve kicked it. MJ laughs breathlessly.

“Oh, thank god.” Abruptly, she’s pissed. “I thought you were talking about the condom! You don’t scare a woman like that!”

“You thought the condom broke?”

“You had it in your hands and said ‘shit’ in this horrible way and I thought…” She sighs.

“We could’ve made it work,” Peter argues, making her nostrils flare as she puts her underwear back on. “Our baby would be super cute.”

“Our baby?! We met hours ago.”

“I’ve developed stronger bonds in less time,” he says with a shrug, leisurely getting up and sliding his boxers up his legs. Nice ass. No. “You’d be surprised how soon after meeting me some of the villains in this city get themselves so worked up that they wanna kill me.”

She yanks her t-shirt over her head with silent ire. Then has to take it off again because she forgot to put her bra on first.

“Quit looking like that. Nothing happened to you.” Peter’s mouth turns down as he glances over to the wreckage of his headboard. “I have to replace that. Again.”

MJ’s seriously about to snap at this idiot for his insane priorities when he straights up stiffly as he’s stepping into the legs of his jeans.

“They’re back.”

“Who? Betty.”

“And Ned,” he says, now moving faster, doing the fly, throwing his own t-shirt on.

“Inside out,” she says. Not to be helpful, just so that Peter doesn’t give away exactly what they’ve been doing with their time since their friends left.

She goes to swat him when he comes towards her, but then his fingers are buttoning one side of her overalls while she does the other. MJ’s just clicked the straps back into place when the front door opens and closes. Sourness fading, she gives Peter a grateful nod for his help.

“Wait,” she hisses. “Where’s the condom?”

On the instruction of some bizarre reflex, he grabs it from the floor and whips it clear across the room, sending it sailing out the window. Her jaw drops in horror.

“I can’t believe you just—"

“Guys?” Betty calls. “The Mexican place up the street was closed, so we just hit the liquor store for now. How’s the bedroom coming?”

MJ and Peter race to the door; she pulls it closed so fast that it smacks him in the ass, but then he gives her this stupid look like he liked it. And here’s Betty.

“You’re sweaty,” she notes. “Been working hard? You guys get the curtain up?”

“Yep,” MJ says honestly. “No problem.”

Her friend beams in satisfaction, but her expression shifts to conspiratorial as she links her arm through MJ’s and starts to guide her towards the kitchen, likely wanting to know if Peter said anything else colourful during her absence. Except that moron decides to pipe up from right behind them.

“And when we finished with the curtain, we moved on to the bed.”

“You did what?” Ned demands from the kitchen, then comes hurtling around the corner.

“No,” Peter gasps. He flings himself back to the bedroom door and blocks it, holding both hands out to keep his best friend back.

“MJ?” Betty questions with a growing grin.

She glances between the three of them for a moment and realizes there’s no way Peter’s keeping this secret. Time to go on the defensive.

“You brought me here,” MJ argues. “I can’t be blamed for my weakness for organizing—”

“Oh,” Betty shoots back. “For organizing and not for—”

“—apartments. All I—”

“—Peter, who you were so clearly attracted to from the instant you saw him?”

“—wanted to do was—”

“Me?” Peter says, taking a hopeful stab in answer to MJ’s explanation.

She glares at him.

“You flirted shamelessly with me all day—”

“You didn’t even realize I was flirting.”

“—so how am I supposed to help it if— Oh,” MJ says, catching the end of that comment, “and is that supposed to negate the effect it had?”

“I loved the effect it had. I have nothing to say against it.”

“How did you two go from shy teenagers sneaking glances at each other to an old married couple within the last half-hour?” Ned asks, jubilant.

“You’d have to ask my new neighbours,” Peter says calmly. “I think the scream they overheard is probably enough of an explanation.”

“That scream was on you,” MJ protests.

“And the noise complaint I’ll probably get is on you!”

“Sounds like you two should exchange numbers,” Betty suggests brightly. “In case you need to follow up for that noise complaint.” They both look at her. Then, MJ withdraws her phone from the back pocket of her overalls and pushes it into Peter’s hand.

“Fine,” she says.

He agrees with a shrug, eyes on the screen as he taps out his information.

“Come on, you crazy kids,” Ned coos, “let’s grab a beer while they’re still hot from the walk back.”

Betty giggles at this and twines her fingers through her fiancé’s.

In the kitchen, she pulls MJ aside right as MJ’s contemplating squeezing past Peter a second time on the pretext of getting ice. (The first time, she pressed her ass to his groin and felt him rub against her in response.) She didn’t even need the ice; she dumped it straight into the sink.

“So, how was that?” Betty asks, searching MJ’s face keenly for approval and recognition of a job well done.

“Perfect,” MJ has to grant her. “He did something incredibly irritating right before you guys got back, so I’m sure he found my annoyance entirely organic.”

“Method number sixty-three for getting a guy’s number still works like a charm. Though you know you could’ve just asked me for it.”

“Yeah, but messing with him was more fun.”

Her friend smiles against the lip of her bottle.

“Do you feel bad?”

“Nah. He’s been messing with me all day.”

“Hey, MJ,” Peter calls to her from where he and Ned have started emptying another box marked ‘KITCHEN’. “You wanna help me screw something to the wall later?” Smiling broadly, he waves a magnetic wall-mounted knife holder.

“Like that,” MJ stresses to Betty, then tosses her bottle cap so it bounces off Peter Parker’s stupid, smug, handsome face.

#thotumn #peter parker is a thot #my writing #spideychelle #peter parker #michelle jones

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malewifegrantaire · 4 years

Text

The Birthday Thing

READ PART ONE HERE

PART TWO: Guess who’s coming to dinner hang out for no apparent reason (as far as Grantaire can tell)?

Combeferre had inadvertently ruined the rest of Grantaire’s week. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He couldn’t be blamed for Grantaire’s Incredibly Bad Brain. But still, “I just know Enjolras and I know he likes you” is a very reckless phrase to pepper into a conversation with someone of Grantaire’s constitution. He could hardly fall asleep that night because the words I know he likes you were clanging too loudly against the bars of the jail cell he called a mind. He didn’t mind too much though. The clanging was because Enjolras liked him, which made all of the noise sound a bit like music.

Grantaire picked out an outfit for the party and laid it out like he was a little kid excited for a school trip. Embarrassed with himself, he threw the entire outfit into his clothing hamper so he wouldn’t have to look at it lying out on his dresser anymore. Which was obviously a mistake, because now the clothes were are wrinkled and they were touching his actually dirty clothes. Which meant now he had to do a half load of laundry on a weekday, which he really didn’t like doing.

As he folded his laundry, Grantaire felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Huh. It was from Combeferre. Odd.

hey, are u free? sorry lol i am bored and wanted to know if u wanna hang out ??

Very odd. Maybe the wrong number? Just to be safe, Grantaire texted back:

grantaire is folding laundry right now, like a responsible adult.

Two texts back:

very interesting use of third person..

i can help if u want! i love 2 fold things

So this was Grantaire’s life. He used to be young and wild, and now he’s the sort of person that makes plans with people who text him sentences like “i love 2 fold things.” He typed his response.

uh, sure? might get boring, but i’ll never say no to an extra set of hands.

About fifteen minutes later, Combeferre was inside of Grantaire’s apartment. “You got here fast.” Grantaire said.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“Aren’t you always?”

Combeferre took in Grantaire’s apartment, which gave Grantaire such a wave of self-consciousness that he thought he might be sick. It was a fine apartment, kept clean mostly because Grantaire hardly spent any time in it. The ceilings were far too low for Combeferre.

“This is a really nice place.” Combeferre said. “Have you lived here long?”

“Five years, I think.” Grantaire said. “I think the landlord thought I’d have left by now, but, well. I’m still here.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s nice. Good windows. Not easy to come by.”

Grantaire laughed at that. “Hey, was there something you wanted to talk about? Or are you just here to admire my big beautiful windows?”

Combeferre looked slightly embarrassed. “Uh, the latter, I guess.” he said. “I mean, just what I texted, I was bored, and I guess . . . I don’t know. I guess I thought we could just hang out?”

Now it was Grantaire’s turn to be embarrassed. Of course. Combeferre is the sort of person who’s actually, you know, decent. He was just trying to be nice and Grantaire was accusing him of having an ulterior motive. Way to go. Grantaire cleared his throat. “Well, thanks for coming. Feel free to park wherever. I only did a half load of laundry so I’m finished folding, sorry. I know how much you love to fold.”

“I went through a very intense Marie Kondo phase.” Combeferre grinned. “Let me know if you ever need your closet to be reorganized.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Grantaire said. It was dawning on him that, being more of the roaming type than the nesting type, Grantaire almost never had people over his apartment, and therefore had very little hosting experience. So he did what he always did in situations like this - said what people say in movies and books and all that.

“Can I offer you a beverage of some kind? I’ve got . . . tap water. And orange juice. And maybe beer?”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Combeferre said kindly. Combeferre’s fridge was probably fully stocked with sparkling water in every flavor for guests to sip on, the bastard. He sat down in a little chair by the kitchenette. “What, what is it?” he asked, looking at Grantaire’s expression. “Why are you - what’s funny?”

“Everything is too small for you in here. It’s like shoving a Barbie doll into a Polly Pocket house.” Grantaire said with a laugh. Combeferre tucked his long legs a bit closer to himself.

“Well, Barbie is a good role model, so I’ll take that.”

“I think an averaged sized woman or two might disagree. Anyways, you’ve got impeccable timing.”

“What do you mean?” Combeferre inquired.

“I mean that someone must have wanted us to hang out today. God, the Fates, some non-denominational arbiter of Destiny.” Grantaire was doing that thing he always did where he ended sentences in a way that begged the listener to ask him to explain himself. Why he chose to speak in these irritating circles? We will likely never know. Grantaire sure as hell didn’t.

Combeferre rolled his eyes, but he seemed more amused than annoyed. “You’re impossible.”

“It’s been said before.” was Grantaire’s reply. “What I mean to say is I’m literally never home. Not literally-literally, but, you know. This apartment is basically a glorified storage unit that I visit when there is absolutely nothing else to do. So the fact that you happened to be passing by on a laundry day...”

“... a work of divine intervention?” Combeferre finished.

“I’d go so far as to call it a miracle if I believed in that sort of thing.” Grantaire said.

Combeferre’s next question caught Grantaire off-guard somewhat. “So you’re an atheist, then?”

Grantaire had never actually seen a shrink, but he had the passing sensation of being sprawled out on some brown leather fainting sofa. Maybe that’s what this was, a psych eval. He’d get a message from the official Les Amis de l’ABC e-mail account later in the week saying “sorry, R, you’ve been deemed mentally unfit to be a part of this organization. We know the Musain is public property, but if you could avoid the premises during our scheduled meeting times we all think that’d be for the best.”

“Well, yeah, aren’t all of the lefties heathens nowadays? At least that’s what Twitter tells me.” he said. His paranoia would not rob him of his (debatable) sense of humor.

Combeferre just shrugged. “I guess if I had to call myself something I’d say I’m agnostic.”

“Huh!” Grantaire said, genuinely surprised. “A member of the ‘namby-pamby, mushy pap, weak-tea, weedy, pallid fence-sitter’ brigade, are we?”

Two things occurred to Combeferre at once: One, that Grantaire was quoting Richard Dawkins, and two, that Grantaire could not have been certain that Combeferre would recognize the quote when he said it. Grantaire was both the sort of person that committed Dawkins to memory and the sort that didn’t really care if someone mistook his references for a string of improvised insults. The more Grantaire spoke, the more Combeferre became aware of how little speaking they’d ever done.

“I guess I just think one can never be sure.” Combeferre said.

Grantaire thought now would be a good time for a subject change. “So, how is party planning going?” he asked.

Combeferre sighed. “It’s . . . it’s going.” he said. “Well, okay, I’m being dramatic. Courfeyrac is actually the one doing most of the planning. I just get weird about stuff like this. I want Enjolras to like everything, you know?”

“I don’t think Enjolras is capable of disliking anything you do.” Grantaire said in a way that to the untrained ear might sound like a veiled insult, but that Combeferre suspected was an attempt at genuine sincerity.

“Well, thanks.” Combeferre smiled gratefully. “I just want him to have a good time.”

“He will. It’s the rest of us you’ll have to work to entertain.”

“Well, Courfeyrac has a slew of party games he’s preparing. Oh, and, uh, Enjolras mentioned he’s glad you’ll be able to make it. By the way.” Combeferre said, which made Grantaire blush, which made Combeferre smile.

Grantaire hated that. Not just when Combeferre did it, when any of them did. Making faces or little comments, as if they were in on some big secret. It’s like they were proud of themselves for noticing Grantaire’s little crush, like they knew something funny or scandalous or cute. But they didn’t know anything, not really. Grantaire didn’t have a crush on Enjolras at all. It was more like a religion. Maybe he’d been too quick to brand himself an atheist earlier.

His annoyance with Combeferre soured the rest of their conversation. He became mean, curt, and downright humorless. This wasn’t at all fair, he knew. Grantaire probably annoyed Combeferre every third sentence (maybe every third word) and that had never stopped Combeferre from being his usual amiable self. There was another difference between the two: Grantaire lacked both grace and graciousness, and Combeferre, it seemed, never ran out of either.

“Well, I guess I should be leaving.” Combeferre said after a while, rising from the squat chair he was sitting in.

“I guess.”

“Uh, thank you for having me over. We should do this again some time. I had fun.” Combeferre lied.

Grantaire smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “Yeah, why don’t we all do brunch some time? You can bring your friends, it’ll be a real party. Everyone can sit around admiring my huge windows. What a blast!”

Combeferre knew he was joking, but he couldn’t decipher the punchline. What would be so bad about having all of their friends over for brunch? Why did he say the word “friends” like that, all sardonic and italicized? Combeferre almost asked him, but instead he just shook his head and smiled.

“Okay. Well. Bye!”

Grantaire waved lazily. “See you around.”

Under normal circumstances, the phrase “Enjolras mentioned he’s glad you’ll be able to make it” would have found itself fluttering in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach. Instead, there was something else sitting in there. Something that felt a bit like failure, a bit like guilt, and - most surprising of all - a bit like affection.

This is precisely why he didn’t like having people over.

#LOL this was fun.#next up: the actual birthday thing!#ok tags time #grantaire #combeferre #les amis #les miserables #my fic #uhhhhh what else....#cw alcohol mention #it’s sort of blink and you miss it but you know #again it’s peripheral but might as well:#e/r #i’ll come back if i think of anything else

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panda-noosh · 5 years

Text

lets talk business {Finn Shelby x Reader}

Words: 9.4k

Summary: Polly Gray comes to you looking for a good business deal. It’s only luck that makes her bring Finn Shelby along with her.

Genre: fluff ??????????????

Warning: swearing

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions!

---

“Polly fucking Gray.”

The woman smiles. Sharp, all cheekbones. She somehow manages to keep her lips pursed, illuminating the mischievous glint in her eyes that much more.

Part of you still cannot believe she is sitting in front of you; the woman herself, one of the leading cronies of the Peaky Blinders, one of the most feared people in all of England. She’s certainly got an air to her, one you can’t dismiss as you sit on the other side of the table, hands folded on the wood, heart thumping no matter how calm you may look on the outside.

You’ve trained yourself to deal with people like her - people who think they can come into your office and twist your arm whatever way they want. Men, women, gangster wanna-be’s - you’ve dealt with all of them, and you have no intentions of letting Polly Gray be any exception to the harsh realities of your business.

She leans back in her seat, tapping her fingers against the edge of the desk; she has been in here for two minutes already and has not said a single word.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” you ask.

Polly tilts her head to the side, examining you in the way only a Shelby really can. “I’m here to talk business, Y/N. Don’t waste my time.”

“I’m not the one who’s been sat in silence since I walked in.”

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself.”

You raise a brow. “No? Maybe that’s why you and your little motley crew have been dropping like flies recently - bad communication can have detrimental effects on a business.”

Polly pauses. It’s brief, barely noticeable unless you’re paying extra close attention. “Is that what you think the Peaky Blinders are? A business?”

“No more than I am, love.”

“If I were you, I’d get that out of my head as soon as possible.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you threatening me already? We haven’t even got to the good stuff yet.”

Polly slaps her hand against the desk. Globes and glasses rattle, only the security of your expensive storage units keeping them from shattering. Polly’s nostrils flare, her eyes glaring into your own - but you do not look away.

You just smile, tapping the little pile of papers to your left. “I’ve got all the details you want right here, Miss Gray. Feel free to start being polite at any time. I’ve got all day for you, love.”

Polly growls, slowly sitting back. “How many guns can you provide us in a fortnight?”

“How many do you need?”

“As many as you can get.”

You hum thoughtfully, despite already knowing the answer. Keeping her on her toes is a goal, a way to make sure she is aware that you are in charge right now, that you will not be taking orders from her just because everyone else is so willing to trail in her wake.

Polly inhales deeply, clearly trying to calm herself down. “I haven’t got all day, Y/N.”

“Let’s put this into perspective,” you reply, resting your elbows on the desk. “My people collect shipments from all over the fucking world, Polly. We get deliveries of twenty to thirty assault weapons every single day - at most, I can get you over four hundred guns in two weeks; it won’t be subtle, and you’ll need to have a hiding place ready for them before the first shipment, but we can do it.”

Polly’s eyes glisten. “Over four hundred?”

“If the money’s right on your end.” Her smile fades. You shrug, tapping your fingertips together. “This is an expensive world we’re living in, Miss Gray, and you are dealing with some very expensive business. You gather the funds, we’ll gather the guns. That’s the only way this is going to work.”

Polly tilts her head to the side, lips still pursed like there is forever something sour playing on her tongue. “I don’t think you understand who you’re making business with right now.”

You smile. “No. I understand just fine - I just don’t give a fuck. You people don’t scare me. I’ve got wages to pay, love. This isn’t a game.”

It takes a minute - perhaps a minute too long, but Polly eventually smiles. It’s small, barely there unless you’re looking for it. With her head still tilted, brown curls resting on her shoulder, she nods and says, “Fair enough. We can get the first payment to you before the end of the night, but we expect them four hundred guns in fourteen days. Or else consequences will be dire.”

“Oh, I know, Miss Gray. I’ve heard all about you and the Shelby boys.”

You’re not lying - it would be impossible to live on this side of town and not know who the Shelby boys are, the things they do to people who don’t follow their plans meticulously. You have no intentions of falling into that category - but that doesn’t mean you’re going to let them walk all over you, either.

----

The docks are cold this time of day, but the police are nowhere to be found.

Early morning starts are not high on the laws agenda, apparently, which is why you find yourself half-awake, bundled in layers upon layers of clothes, standing beside the boats currently delivering the guns you requested - the guns for Polly Gray.

It’s not like you to be there when the deliveries come in - you deal with the issues behind the scenes, often staying locked up in the dark office, sifting through papers and complaints, getting rid of people who have a bit too much to say about the way your business is run.

But Polly Gray is more than just a normal client. She’s Polly fucking Gray, someone you need to please or else face a wrath unlike any other. So, you dragged yourself from your bed at four this morning, and now stand by the boats, watching the crates of weaponry get dragged from their decks.

Fingers graze your elbow. You tilt your head to the side, a silent request for the stranger to talk.

“Someone is here to see you,” an Irish accent says. You turn, first catching sight of Mr Luther Murdock, one of the few men in the world whom you trust with your life.

Standing behind him, however, is someone you most certainly did not expect to see this morning.

Finn Shelby is a tall man - a tall boy? - with the slicked back, half-shaved hair of the Shelby clan. He wears an expensive suit, consisting of only three layers, and you silently wonder how he isn’t shivering right now. But he isn’t, instead standing tall and bold amongst the dust and grime of an early morning business delivery.

You turn fully, folding your arms over your chest. “Finn Shelby. What a surprise. Has your aunt had my name in her mouth again?”

Finn shoves his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t even look at you when he speaks, too busy examining everything going on around him - you realise he doesn’t get out much, not as often as his brothers, anyway. This side of things must be so new to him, so bizarre. You nearly laugh in his face - his brothers go out murdering people every single day, but the idea of someone importing guns into Birmingham is what intrigues him.

“Yes,” you continue when he doesn’t respond to your previous jab. “This is where all the magic happens. See that crate over there?” You point to a wooden box being hauled from a boat onto the platform. “That’s for you and your shit-stain family.”

Finn smiles. “Is it now.”

“The money was given to us quite promptly, I will admit. I thought for sure you would have just threatened us till we did what you wanted.”

“We don’t work like that.”

“No? So where have all the big bad tales come from then?”

Finn’s mouth twists. Still, his eyes do not meet your own, giving you plenty of time to smile to yourself. Finn is certainly one of the easier ones to mess with, if just because he’s lived in his brothers’ shadows for as long as he’s been able to walk. He doesn’t have the same confidence, the same quick-wit that the other Shelbys have.

It’s kind of sad, really.

You stare at him a moment longer, waiting for him to continue the conversation, perhaps offer up an explanation as to why he’s here in the first place. Most of the time, people make their orders and just leave you to get on with it - it’s very rare someone actually comes down to view the process.

Finally, Finn sighs, and for the first time since you acknowledged his presence, his eyes snap to your own. “This is an interesting little set-up you’ve got here.”

“It’s not so much interesting as it is cautious.”

“Is that why you’re here so early?”

You shrug. “Don’t get it twisted, Shelby. You won’t find me down here at this time every day - I just wanted to make sure my people were doing the job right for you and your people, yeah.”

Finn hums. “Nice of you. Considering you’re a twat.”

“Now who gave you that impression?”

Finn tilts his head, examining you for longer than strictly necessary. His gaze makes you uncomfortable, being dragged forth to the point where you have to look away and change the topic; maybe that’s where his skills lie. John, Arthur and Tommy carry the guns for intimidation, but all Finn needs is his expression.

You turn and start walking along the docks, giving Luther a thankful nod that reads go away. Finn follows close behind you, polished heels clicking against the rough wood.

“So, are you going to tell me why you’ve really come here today?”

“I overheard Polly talking about her inquiry.”

You raise a brow, glancing over your shoulder. Finn catches your eye, smiles sheepishly.

“You really made her angry.”

You shrug. “It’s business. It’s what we do. If your aunt can’t take that, then maybe she isn’t as tough she likes to make herself out to be.”

Finn pauses. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“It’s true what they say, Shelby - being tough doesn’t just come from violence. You might be able to shoot a gun and kill people without blinking, but if you can’t handle a little tough criticism, then how strong can you really be?”

Finn doesn’t respond. You think you might have hit a sore point for him.

Barrelling on, you say, “You overheard Dear Pol talking about me. Then what? Your interest was piqued?”

“I wanted to see what made you so special.”

You very nearly freeze on the spot. Instead, you catch yourself, glancing at him yet again. “She said I was special?”

“She said you were a lot of things,” Finn replies. “But we have our own people when we want weaponry - I want to know why she came to you this time. You, of all people. Basically the same age as me-”

“You’re older.”

Finn tilts his head. “I guess I just want to know how you fucked your life up so bad that you’ve ended up on this side of things so early on.”

Your mouth fills with cotton. You swallow thickly, turning back to the path in front - around you, people are bustling back and forth, bowing their heads, giving you tiny little “Hello’s” that are meant to sound pleasant but honestly just reek of fear. You are surrounded by grown men who want nothing more than to impress you, to place themselves in your good books because they know what will happen to them if they somehow find themselves upon the alternative.

You never would have thought such a reaction a bad thing, but now that Finn has spoken, it does seem a bit weird. You’re successful, rolling in money you honestly don’t deserve, but what does it all mean if you have people terrified of you?

Finn picks up his pace, strolling alongside you now. His shoulder clips with yours, and it takes everything in you not to turn around and shove him into the harbour.

“I’ve never met someone like me before,” he says.

“You haven’t yet. We’re nothing alike.”

“No?”

“I don’t fancy being compared to a Shelby.”

“Mm. See, I might be wrong, then. Us Shelby’s can admit when something’s true - clearly you can’t.”

You grit your teeth, balling your hands into fists. “Do you want these guns or not, Finn? Because if you carry on the way you are now, I’ll cancel everything. You can take your fucking money back.”

“You think you have that kind of power?”

You whirl around so abruptly, Finn nearly crashes into you. “You think I don’t? Are you forgetting whose business this is? Are you forgetting who’s in charge?”

Finn steps back. He doesn’t look scared, but he doesn’t look unprovoked, either; slightly widened eyes, a swift swipe of his tongue across his lower lip that proves to you this is not the reaction he was expecting. People from all over the world will drop to their knees to see to every Shelby boys wish and desire - clearly this is what Finn wants from you, as well.

“If you came here just to spew your bullshit superiority complex, I don’t want to fucking hear it. Unlike you, I have work to do, shit to get done.” You turn, calling out to a nearby dock worker. “Oi! Mate, take this little prick back to wherever the fuck he came from.”

The dock worker scrambles forward, bending to your every wish.

Turning back to Finn, you give him a sarcastic smile. Again, he swipes his tongue along his lower lip.

“Have a safe journey home,” you say. “Maybe you can find a dark alley somewhere to go fuck yourself.”

----

“So I fucked that up pretty badly.”

Arthur takes a long drag of his cigarette, cold eyes set in a wrinkled face running the length of Finn Shelby as the two brothers sit across from each other in The Garrison.

Finn doesn’t want to be here. Finn wants to be back in bed, cuddled up under a warm blanket after the early morning he was subject to today. He argues the early morning was entirely against his will, but even he isn’t delusional enough to believe such a thing - the moment he heard you were doing business with his family, he knew he needed to see you.

And it has been a long time since you and Finn Shelby last spoke; taking from the conversation you two had this morning, he can only assume you don’t really remember your last meeting at all. The smiles, the laughter, the getting-to-know-each other. Today, you spoke to him like he was a complete stranger, and Finn doesn’t know if you’re just trying to protect yourself, or if you really do not remember him.

Arthur sighs in that heavy way Arthur always does. He has one hand perched on his knee, the other holding his sixth lit cigarette. “I expected nothing less from you, brother. Absolutely nothing less.”

“I don’t get it,” Finn grumbles. “I don’t even know where I slipped up.”

“Sometimes it’s best to just move on. If the devil’s not interested in you, then that’s how it is.”

Finn scowls; it’s become a habit of his to agree with everything his older brothers say, but this is something he can’t get on board with. You’ve changed, yes, but it’s not really in a bad way - you’ve become stronger, more in-tune with your surroundings. It’s a big difference from the timid business-oriented person you were before, sitting behind a mahogany desk, taking shit from anyone and everyone.

Part of Finn is happy you’ve grown a backbone. Another, more selfish part of him just wants you easy to bend again.

He sighs and takes a sip of his whiskey. “Fuck me, man.”

“Right,” Arthur replies, slapping the table. “How about this, Finny-boy. A whore for the night. I’ll pay for her, don’t you worry, but you clearly need something to get your mind off this Y/N person you’re on about.”

Finn flicks his eyes up. “Stop pretending you don’t know who they are.”

Arthur shrugs, slumping back in the booth. He takes a drag of his cigarette, blows the smoke directly into Finn’s face. “Polly’s been raving on about them for a good week and a half now. Sounds like a right handful.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a bit rich coming from a fucker like you.”

Arthur grins. “I never said it’s a bad thing. I just don’t know if a handful is the type you should be focusing on.”

Finn raises a brow. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Well.” Arthur trails his eyes along Finn’s form, and Finn already knows exactly what his brother is going to say. “You’re not exactly the sturdiest little bastard in Birmingham, are you? Y/N will be trailing you through the streets by the bollocks if this turns into anything.”

Despite himself, Finn’s cheeks heat up. He looks down, scratching a few lines into the table; Arthur is wrong, of course. Finn can hold himself just as well as any of them, and he’s not about to let some sketchy business-owner boss him around. Yes, he has fond memories of you, but at the end of the day, you’re a different person now. You’re Finn’s rival. He has to remember that.

He looks back up. Arthur is already staring at him, amused smile appearing beneath his bushy moustache. “Promise me you won’t tell Tommy anything about Y/N.”

Arthur scoffs. “Tommy already knows about Y/N, you stupid twat. Even without Pol ranting about them every two seconds, Thomas Shelby knows everything.”

“Y/N might be a bit different.”

“Oh, give it a rest, lad. None of this they’re special bullshit - Tommy knows all about them, and listen to me when I tell you this.” Arthur leans in, lowering his voice despite the privacy of the booth they’re seated in. “He’s got them and their little business high on his radar.”

---

Finn isn’t someone you would ever call a friend.

Especially not now.

Once upon a time, perhaps you could classify him as a fascination - but all the Shelby’s were a fascination when you lived in Birmingham - especially Small Heath. Their names were once plastered everywhere until Thomas Shelby started getting a little too big for hit boots. The mans wife died, and he went downhill from there. People stopped respecting them as much; people had less fear; the streets of Birmingham became less of a risk, because people saw that the Shelby clan could be brought down if the need arose.

Finn, however, was one of the only Shelby boys you ever had any direct contact with. Brief, barely memorable, but it happened, and you remember it better than you are willing to admit.

You sit in your office now, the only light coming from the lantern lit on the desk beside you. The door is closed, but you can still hear the bustle outside it, employees yelling at each other, people falling over one another in their attempts to get the heaps upon heaps of work finished in time.

You should be helping them. Usually, you would be out there, making sure your business stays on it’s toes, but seeing Finn today has done something to you that you can’t quite explain - rattled you, maybe. Thrown you off guard. His visit was certainly unexpected, but you’re usually so good at pulling yourself together when you need to.

You tug your knees into your chest, leaning your forehead against them. Through the door, someone cries out, another person telling them to suck it up. You close your eyes, try to catch your breath before you really do sink into the territory of absolutely insane.

You want to drift off to sleep. You want to close your eyes and not resurface until all of this drama has been cleared up, until the Shelby’s are out of your life for good. Only then will you be able to focus solely on the work in front of you.

A knock sounds at the door. You bite your lower lip, resisting the urge to yell at the guest to just fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, it’s too late for this, you don’t have the mental capacity-

“Come in!”

The door creaks open. Heels thump against the carpet. The smell of expensive perfume fills the room. You know exactly who has just entered.

Slowly lifting your head, you are greeted by Polly Gray. She’s wearing an expensive striped suit, and standing behind her is her young son, Mr Michael Gray, dressed in a simple grey suit with his hair slicked back. Compared to the last time you saw him, he’s certainly broadened out.

“I see you got your custody back.”

Polly’s nostrils flare. “It’s like you’re running some kind of zoo out there.” She plucks a cigarette from your desk and sits down, gesturing for her son to do the same. Without invitation, the two Gray’s get comfortable, Polly propping one knee up against the arm rest of her seat, lighting a cigarette at the same time. Michael’s beady little eyes are dancing around in search of alcohol.

You slump against your own seat, sighing. “I’m tired, Polly. Tonight is not the night to talk to me about business.”

“Ah, see, that’s not acceptable,” she replies, pointing her cigarette at you. “When you’re working with me, love, you have to be on call at all times.”

“And when you’re working with me, you need to have a bit of fucking trust.”

Her eyes snap up, narrowing. “Beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play dumb, Pol. It’s really not a good look on you.”

Polly slowly leans forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sending Finn to come check on me this morning was unnecessary.” You pluck the cigarette from her fingers, taking a drag of your own. “My people know what they’re doing. Plus, Finn Shelby is hardly a decent fear tactic - I could snap that boy in two if I wanted.”

Michael and Polly fall silent, and for a second, you second-guess your sentence choice - did you just make yourself sound stupid? Either way, the pair share a confused glance before Michael leans his elbows on the mahogany and says, “Finn visited you this morning?”

You freeze. “At around five am, yeah.”

Polly snickers, a noise that would infuriate you if it came from anyone else. From Polly, however, it just captures your attention, and suddenly you’re awake again.

“You didn’t send him?” you question.

“We don’t send Finn to do anything,” Polly says. “And this is exactly why. He gets infatuated. He’s not like his brothers, dear - he isn’t completely heartless.”

You blink, unsure what she means. She’s still smiling, still staring like she’s waiting for you to catch on, too.

You lean back, folding your arms over your chest. “None of your business dealings have to do with Finn. Keep him out of it.”

“We never dragged him into it in the first place,” says Michael. He, too, is grinning, though he has the decency to hide it behind his whiskey glass. “That’s all on Finn, I’m afraid, and who are we to tell him to back off?”

You scowl. “You Shelby’s really enjoy walking on thin ice, don’t you?”

“You said it yourself, love,” says Polly. “Finn has nothing to do with our business dealings, meaning his actions have no connection to what we’ve got going on. If you were to cancel all of this because of him, you’re going against your own quote.”

You hate that she’s right. You hate that she’s got your arm twisted behind your back, hate that she has even the tiniest bit of control over you and your decisions. But she’s paid you already. The first delivery of guns has already been set up, already been stored away for later use - taking everything back now would just be a hassle.

Plus, it would be giving Finn the control he clearly wants, and you can’t have that.

Because why else would he come and see you? Why else would he want an insight into your business process?

When you fail to reply, Polly sighs, an almost dreamy sound clearly meant to infuriate you. You look at her through the tops of your eyes, watching as she snatches the glass of whiskey from her sons hand and takes a sip for herself. Michael doesn’t even flinch, just folds his arms over his chest and continues watching you like a predator watching prey.

“I only came here for an update on my guns,” says Polly. “But I’ve received something much, much more interesting.”

“Your boy is an idiot,” you snap. “If he thinks he’s getting anything out of me-”

“Finn isn’t one to care for family business.” Polly grins, tilting her head to the side; it’s that look she’s famous for, the one that makes anyone feel ten times smaller. “If he came to visit you, it wasn’t for business of any sort. I’d maybe ask him what he wants next time you see him.”

Michael smiles, a dimple popping on his left cheek. “Cute.”

“Go to hell,” you spit.

Polly chuckles, placing a hand on Michaels arm. Together, the two of them rise from their seats and start towards the door; they didn’t even get their update, but they both look smugly content, like they’ve gotten exactly what they came for.

You hug your knees closer to your chest, fully aware that the pose makes you look cowardly, but you don’t care right now. You watch them leave, Polly giving you the smallest wave over her shoulder before her and her son disappear through the door; outside, the halls get quiet. You can hear the back door slam shut before the hustle and bustle of business life starts back up again.

You close your eyes, letting your head fall to your knees again; you’re exhausted, even more confused than you were when you first laid eyes on Finn this morning, and quite frankly, in no fit shape to be dealing with the Shelbys’ bullshit.

---

“Look, there’s nothing we can do. One of the orders went missing, and we can’t find a way to get it back.”

“Great. Fucking fantastic! This is exactly what we wanted today, eh?”

Luther lowers his head, blonde hair falling in his eyes; he’s trying to hide his shame, but you see right through him. There’s horror there, an acceptance of the punishment he and the entire team will be receiving from the Peaky Blinders if this deal does not go to plan.

You run your hands through your hair. “How does an entire order of guns go missing?”

“My best bet is it was stolen,” says Luther. “Going through all them borders, it’s not far-fetched to imagine someone with sticky fingers getting their hands on it.”

“Yeah, well, they’ll think twice when I cut off those fucking sticky fingers.”

“And who are you threatening?”

No.

This is the last thing you need, the absolute last thing you need. You whirl around nonetheless, like Finn is a magnet you are drawn to - and there he stands, tall and lanky and gorgeous but so, so smug and annoying that it nearly makes you want to rip your hair out.

You grit your teeth, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “Who let you through?”

Finn grins, striding forward. He examines the crates on his way towards you, stopping only when he is centimetres away from exactly where you are stood. “No one needs to let me through. You’ve got some loyal people here, Y/N, but you’re forgetting the Peaky Blinders run Birmingham.”

“So the rumours say.”

“You never answered my question, though - who are you threatening?”

He’s going to find out eventually. In a weeks time when he and his family are receiving their order of guns and they are an entire crate short, he’s going to know exactly what happened.

You glance up at him, and you feel something break inside you. You can’t quite pinpoint what it is, but you’ve felt it before, tried fighting it off so many times. It’s linked to those blue eyes, blood-shot with exhaustion and years of seeing things no man should ever have to see. It’s linked to the way he stands, so close you can feel his warmth radiating off them stupidly expensive suits he has the honour of wearing every single day. It’s linked to the tilt of his head, the small smile that seems to only appear when he’s taking the piss out of you.

You look back to the ground, shoving these thoughts aside enough to say, “One of our orders went missing during delivery and we can’t get it back.”

The admission is like a blow to the chest, even though it shouldn’t be - it was a simple mistake, one you had no control over. But it’s a mistake that shouldn’t have been in place, a mistake you’ve never made before, a mistake that is linked to Polly fucking Gray.

Finn pauses for a brief moment. Looking up, you notice his eyes are no longer trained on you, but on a spot just by your head. His lower lip jults out, and if you listen close enough, you can make out the sound of him humming.

“Polly isn’t gonna be too happy about that,” he says finally.

You fold your arms over your chest. “No. I don’t think she will.”

“That’s not very good, is it?”

You glare. “Fuck off, Finn.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. The move surprises you, considering it’s the most emotion you’ve ever seen a Shelby display in a sober state; it’s nice, but you curse the warmth that immediately spreads to your chest. It forces you to take a step back, just for safety.

“Right, what are we gonna do about this, then?” he says, lowering his head to glance at the crates. “I’ve got a few orders I can probably spare - throw a couple onto the pile.”

You blink, not entirely positive you’ve heard him right.

He looks down, raising a brow at your silence. “What?”

“What?”

He chuckles. “Isaiah and I have more guns than we can store. We can toss a few onto your shitty little pile-”

“Watch your mouth.”

“And then you’ll have nothing to worry about. What do you say?”

“There’s a catch.”

“No there isn’t.”

“I’m not stupid, Finn.” You take another step back, very nearly tripping over a worker bustling past. “I know your family. You don’t do things for others unless you want something in return.”

Finn scowls, folding his arms over his chest. “Why does everyone just assume me and my family have the exact same personalities? We’re different people, you know, and I just so happen to be willing to help you without getting anything back.”

This is something you can’t even fully wrap your head around - he’s Finn Shelby. He’s a Peaky Blinder. Him and generosity do not - and will not - go hand in hand.

Finn groans, tilting his head and closing his eyes. “Do you want the offer or not? ‘Cause I can just go back to The Garrison and tell Polly you’re-”

“Let me see what you’ve got.”

His eyes flick open. That smile starts again. “Of course. Follow me.”

And that’s how you end up alone with Finn Shelby, standing in a freezing cold storage locker, surrounded by more crates of guns than your maths skills allow you to count.

Wrapping your arms around your middle, you say, “Holy fuck,” because that honestly seems like the only decent response you can give to a sight like this.

Finn slips his blazer off, drops it casually over your shoulders before he strides forward and starts unclipping the lids of the crates. “Yeah, it’s quite a lot. We got carried away when the Russians were around.”

“Right. Russians.”

He jumps up, balancing one foot on the edge of a crate as he looks inside and rummages through what can only be a great, great number of guns. They scrape against each other, and you can imagine the scratches currently infesting their slick black armour with how badly they’re being handled.

You tug Finn’s blazer tighter around yourself, biting your tongue.

“We’ve got all sorts,” he explains. “Pistols, automatics, semi-automatics, pump actions-”

He tosses a pistol onto the floor.

You yelp. “Finn!”

He glances over his shoulder, a glimmering smile on his face. “I knew that was gonna rile you up.”

You pick up the gun and stuff it in the waistband of your jeans. “You’re such an asshole. Do you know how dangerous it is to go round throwing guns about? What if the safety hadn’t been on?”

“Why wouldn’t the safety be on?” He goes back to rummaging, shaking his head. “Honestly, you think I’m some kind of fucking amateur-”

You groan and stomp forward, grabbing his arm and yanking him down from the crates. He stumbles into your chest, turning to look at you, but you’re already pulling yourself up onto the ledge he was previously stood upon.

“What are you doing?”

“A better fucking job than you, that’s for sure.”

He doesn’t respond, but you hear him chuckle.

The crates are truly what a serial killers dream would be made of - piles upon piles of guns, all sorts of guns, crammed in a single crate. Some of them have the safety gauze on them, whilst some just hang out loosely, a danger to anyone who handles them too roughly - it’s this danger that sends a thrill swirling through your stomach, this danger that prompts you to reach forward and grab one from the box.

Finn tenses. “Careful.”

“A Colt, hm.” You point and aim at the storage room door. “1903 model, yeah?”

“I haven’t looked.”

You nod. “Definitely a 1903 model. Don’t see many of these around nowadays.”

Finn sighs. “Put it down. We’re not here to piss about.”

“I’m not pissing about. I happen to know exactly what I’m doing.”

“I’ve never seen you shoot a gun in your life.”

You scoff. “You haven’t seen me do a lot of things, Finn Shelby.”

Why he is so rattled, you do not know. Usually so calm and laid back, the youngest Shelby now stomps towards you, grabs your wrist-

“Finn! What the fuck?”

You try tugging your hand out of his grip, but his fingers tighten. Your arms are tossed over your head in the quarrel, your own fingers tightening on the trigger, just enough for a bullet to speed into the roof. Concrete crumbles over your head, and you barely have time to yell before Finn’s arms have wrapped round your waist and he’s tugging you to the ground, his broad body thrown on top of your own.

An entire chunk of concrete collapses, landing and smashing on the cold floor, just inches from where you and Finn are currently kneeled.

You pause. Your heart thunders. You can hear nothing but his breath tickling the side of your head, your blood rushing to your ears. The Colt 1903 lays discarded by the crates you have just been thrown from, and Finn’s arm is still on the small of your back when you finally emerge back into reality.

“Finn,” you whisper. There’s dust in your throat, blood on your elbows and knees.

“Yeah?” he whispers back.

“I won’t have to pay for that damage, will I?”

Finn pulls back, hand snaking along your hip as he pushes himself up onto his elbow to take a look at the damage in question. You hear him take a sharp breath, fingers tightening on your hip before he stands up. You follow shortly after, eyes widening as soon as you take a look at what has happened.

“Oh, fuck.”

The cracks in the floor aren’t even the worst bit of it; there’s a chunk taken from the roof, wires and long pieces of wood hanging down. Dust floats through the air, blinding you for seconds at a time until you eventually swat it away. An entire crate of guns has been knocked over, and it’s only by the good grace of God that none of them went off in the collision.

Finn stands to the side, one hand trailing through his hair, the other rubbing absently at his stomach; his lower lip is pulled between his teeth, a clear sign that he has absolutely no idea what to do, that the two of you are more than likely going to be in deep, deep trouble when one of the other Peaky Blinders finds this mess.

“Are you alright?”

You close your eyes. “It’s not really been my day, Finn, so no. I can’t say I am.”

Finn purses his lips. It’s rare for anyone to see a Shelby look awkward, but the way Finn shifts from one foot to the other screams of nothing more than pure, unfiltered ohfuckohfuckohfuck. He runs his hands through his hair, glancing at the damage done to both the roof, the guns and the ground, and it is very clear that he’s already dreading the process of telling his family what has happened.

You know you should do something - anything at all, something to help him out of this dilemma. At the end of the day, you played a part in this mess. You had the gun, had startled Finn enough for him to dive towards you in his fragile attempts to get it off you.

But why was he so worried in the first place?

You hollow out your cheeks, stuffing your hands in your pockets when you say, “I’ll tell Tommy.”

Finn stiffens. “No you won’t.”

“This is my mess to deal with. We wouldn’t even be in here if it wasn’t for me fucking up the order-”

“Tommy will fucking kill you if he thinks you’ve been screwing with his collection.” Finn starts towards the door. “I’ll tell him. You take whatever crate you want and get the fuck out of-”

You spring forward before he can reach the door, grabbing his wrist and twirling him around. His eyes widen slightly, mouth parting as he attempts to get a single protestation in, but you’re quicker. You shove him behind you and dart out the door, hearing nothing but a strangled, “Y/N!” emerge from behind you.

You know where Tommy is; he’s where Tommy always is, hiding away in his office. Despite having not had any communication with the Shelby boy for quite some time, you’ve kept an eye on him and his whereabouts, purely for your own safety. This is why you’re able to make the journey from the docks to his front door in a very short amount of time.

But Finn is also just as quick as you.

He grabs your wrist just seconds before you make to knock upon the massive mahogany door, red paint chipped and crumbling beneath your knuckles. He tugs your arm back, and you stumble directly into his chest.

“You have a fucking death wish,” Finn growls in your ear.

You lean your head against his shoulder, whisper in his ear, “So will you if you don’t let go of me in the next three seconds.”

His fingers loosen just enough for you to pull forward and knock the door. Your heart is thundering; you’re doing this for Finn, and you don’t know why, because he’s never done anything for you, but the thought of him walking into his brothers office and taking the blame for something you played a part in will not let you rest.

The door opens in mere seconds, Francis standing on the other side of it. She raises a brow when she sees you, a sure sign that she’s heard of you before - maybe you’re infamous in the Shelby household, a common name spoken around a candlelit dinner in which Polly Gray has a grand old time talking about how much of a bitch you are.

Nonetheless, you’re not here to find out.

“Morning,” you say, giving the maid a nod. “Can I speak to Thomas please?”

“Y/N, please,” Finn utters as Francis moves out of the way and grants the two of you access to the oversized building - only three people live inside it, but it could honestly be a hotel with how big it is.

You start up the winding staircase, Finn trailing close behind. You don’t answer his muttered plea, too invested in the artwork lining the walls as you climb to the top level - pictures of Grace, drawn in granite yet somehow managing to capture the way her blonde hair used to curl, used to glint and shine with the unnatural light of the Garrison. Pictures of Tommy, sitting with a young boy in his lap and a scowl on his face that somehow manages to look a little more chipper than the scowl he’s usually wearing; perhaps that is him posing, getting ready for a pleasant family picture with his growing son and dead wife.

“She was pretty, wasn’t she?”

The question is out before you can think better of it. You have halted in the middle of the staircase, transfixed on a picture of Grace stood on her own, small smile on her face, hands folded along the top of an empty chair big enough to be a throne.

Finn steps up beside you. “That’s why Tommy liked her so much.”

You risk a glance in his direction. Hands stuffed in his pockets, lip between his teeth, he’s the picture of uncaring. “Did you talk to her much?”

“No.” He looks at you and shrugs. “You know how Tommy is - he doesn’t share stuff like that.”

“He doesn’t share women?”

“He doesn’t share feelings.” Finn gestures to the portrait. “Grace was his whole life for a while. I don’t think he was ready to incorporate us into his whole life.”

You look away, cheeks blazing for a reason you are unsure of - hearing Finn talk like that, perhaps. So open and honest, like he’s talking to someone he can trust. It makes you feel a little guilty, considering you know for a fact Polly will never allow something like. . . that to form between you. She’s already decided she doesn’t like you - there’s no way in hell she’ll have you as part of the family.

Dispelling these thoughts - and the disappointment that comes with them - you slowly start back up the stairs. Once you reach the mahogany doors of Tommy’s office, you risk Finn another glance before knocking, knowing there is no going back after this.

“Come in.”

Finn grabs your arm. “Let me go first.”

“You really think I’m some kind of wimp, don’t you?”

Finn scowls. “Just let me go first and test the air, for fuck sake.”

You bow out of the way, gesturing grandly to the door. “Go ahead then, O’Great Little Bastard.”

Finn kicks you in the ankle before pushing open the door. His broad shoulders cover you, confirmed when Tommy says, “Ah, Finn,” with no mention of you standing behind him.

Finn waltzes into the room, and then Tommy’s eyes land on you.

They’re like ice - you’ve always said that. Piercing and dangerous, holding years worth of stories that look so interesting but too dangerous to hear. He sits with his shoulders drawn back, one hand placed on his forehead and his mouth slightly parted, having clearly not been expecting guests this evening.

Finn shifts, glancing slightly to the side, making sure you’re still there, that Tommy’s gaze hasn’t somehow managed to obliterate you in the past two seconds. You step forward, drawing your own shoulders back when you say, “Mr Shelby.”

Tommy doesn’t respond. He slips his gaze to his youngest brother and tilts his head. “What the fuck have you got yourself involved in now, Finn?”

“Tommy-”

You take another step forward, grabbing Finn’s arm to silence him. “I shot a hole in the roof of one of your storage units.”

There it is. That’s all you needed to say, and yet the words taste like acid when they make an appearance. Thomas - forever the professional at hiding his true emotions - keeps his head tilted, but his eyes are on you now, and that makes it all ten times worse. You held yourself well in front of Polly, but Tommy is a completely different ball-game. He really isn’t all talk. He isn’t one to make a decision and then go back on it - if he’s thinking of your death right now, you will be dying.

Finn lowers his head. “Right, it wasn’t exactly all Y/N’s fault.”

“I’m still waiting for an explanation,” Tommy says calmly.

You look at Finn, and he looks back. There’s a tiny, silent conversation being held that lasts only the space of two seconds before Finn is stepping forward, and you’re yanking his arm trying to get him back, and suddenly the two of you are brawling in the middle of Thomas Shelby’s office.

You’re both trying to explain everything, but the words are mashed and nonsensical because Finn has his elbow in your side and you have one ankle wrapped around his leg. His arm is wrapped around your waist, tightening as he tries to shove you off him.

Tommy slams a stamp against the desk. “Enough!”

You and Finn freeze, your hand bundled in his shirt, his hand wrapped around your middle.

Tommy scowls. “Fuck me, it’s like talking to children.”

You separate quickly, brushing your hands down your clothes. “He was gonna take the blame, ‘cause he’s an idiot.”

“I grabbed your hand!” Finn exclaims. “You wouldn’t have shot the fucking thing if I hadn’t-”

“We wouldn’t have been there in the first place if it weren’t for me!”

Finn rolls his eyes. “Oh, give it a rest, Y/N.”

“Am I wrong?”

“We’re not here to talk about why we were there-”

“Why were you there?”

You close your eyes. You’re a professional, though, and you’ve dealt with issues like this too many times to count. Finn exhales shakily, but you don’t let him take the reigns. You step forward and say, “One of the deliveries for Polly’s order went missing on its way over, so we’re missing an entire crate.”

Tommy pauses. “So you were going into my storage units to - what? Steal?”

“I took them in,” Finn interjects. “Tommy, you know what Polly will do if she finds out her order isn’t exactly what she signed for. She would have killed Y/N and their entire crew in two seconds flat.”

Tommy runs a hand along his face. “And she’s got every bloody right to do that, Finn. You’ve no reason to interject in her business.” Tommy looks up, gestures to you. “Why do you give a shit what happens to them anyway?”

“Have a fucking guess.”

Your breath leaves you in one clean swoop, eyes snapping to take in Finn’s profile; he doesn’t even look tense, simply standing there with his arms swinging and his head tilted. You don’t even know how to properly decipher what he’s just said, but you don’t get a chance to before Tommy is sighing and saying, “Fuck sake, Finn.”

“What?” Finn shoots back. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

“Not with one of our rivals, it wasn’t!”

“Sorry, Tom, but last time I checked, Grace wasn’t just an innocent little barmaid.”

Tommy stands, knocking the desk with his knees. His hands are balled, jaw clenched, and it’s reflex when you step forward and grab Finn’s arm, tugging him back just that little bit. You want to drag him from the room completely, get him out of harms way, pull him into an empty room and question him on what the fuck is going on right now.

“You’ve got some mouth on you, Finn. I just wanna know where you got it from,” Tommy growls.

And Finn leans forward, not unlike a shark wading through dark water. “Where we all got it from - the Peaky Blinders.”

You expect Tommy to snap - with anyone else, he would have snapped a long time ago. The conversation would have long since been over, but now, the older Shelby glares, and you watch as his eyes soften. It’s so unusual, so unlike the Thomas you know; you take it as a warning, tightening your grip on Finn’s arm.

Tommy’s eyes snap to your own. “I’ll talk to Polly about the missing delivery.”

Your eyes widen. “You will?”

“Stay out of her way for a little bit,” he says. “She’ll need time to cool down, but I won’t let her hurt you. Finn won’t let her hurt you.”

“I’m not scared of Polly,” you reply, because you aren’t, and it feels important to let him know that.

Thomas opens his mouth to respond, to maybe call you stupid for not fearing the woman, but Finn turns before he can get the words out, and suddenly it’s as if Tommy isn’t even in the room. Finn’s eyes meet your own, soft and glazed and exhausted from years of mental torment, but for the first time since you met the man, you can see a tiny hint of humanity within them, a tiny hint of human emotion that he certainly never expressed before.

It’s such a good look on him.

A small smile graces his features. He tilts his head to the side, placing a gentle hand over the top of your own, still clutching the sleeve of his blazer. “I’ll walk you back to the docks.”

You would usually say no, but you can’t right now - you have so many questions, so many missing links that you need joined together for this meeting to make sense. In and out in a heartbeat, even though you’d walked in under the assumption that Tommy was going to happily order your death.

So you and Finn walk out of Tommy’s house, Finn saying a quick goodbye to Charlie before the two of you are once again exposed to the dusty, polluted air of Small Heath. Finn tucks his hands in his pockets, and you dip your chin further into your scarf, neither of you saying a word because neither of you know what to say.

Which is weird considering your brain is a tangled mess of questions right now.

It’s Finn who breaks the silence. “That wasn’t how I wanted to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Finn bites his lip, suppressing a smile. “Don’t act stupid.”

You shrug like his words from before meant nothing, like they hadn’t made your heart erupt. “I thought it was pretty well done, to be honest.”

“Yeah?”

“A little unclear, I won’t lie, but I think I got the jidst of it.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

The thing about you and Finn is, both of you are new to this. There is no experience to back up these kinds of feelings, which leaves behind only a vague sense of uncertainty. It’s reaching in the dark. It’s asking for help when neither of you want to give up your pride. It’s wanting to try because this is something new, and the rush from a new experience is what you thrive off.

These are feelings that trigger both your fight and your flight response, and you’re not sure whether you want to flee or stay and see how things turn out.

---

The desk, cluttered.

Your head, sore.

Your fingers, littered with paper cuts.

You slump in your office chair, a single candle lit on the corner of your desk, the only source of light in the room currently with drawn curtains and no lanterns on; you can’t bring yourself to go around turning them on, preferring the dim light for concentration.

The papers in front of you make absolutely no sense, but you can’t just ignore them. It’s your job to make sure everything is in order, whether you understand the details or not.

“Fuck sake,” you whisper to yourself.

The door flings open then, as if your curse summoned someone.

You don’t even have to look up to know who that someone is - Finn Shelby is the only person in the world who would just barge into your office without knocking. He’s the only person in the world who can get away with it.

“Fucking hell, Y/N. You’ll damage your eyes sat in here.”

You don’t look up. “Don’t turn a light on.”

“Oh right. You’re busy.”

You wave a dismissive hand in his direction, using your other hand to shuffle through the pages scattering your desk. So many words, so little time to figure them out. The client will be here tomorrow. They’ll expect everything to be in order, because you promised them everything would be in order, but now you’re sat behind your desk and you don’t even know where to begin-

Fingertips, light as butterfly wings, tickle along your jaw line.

Your eyes snap up, breath leaving you in a single swoop when you see Finn sat on the edge of your desk, a fond smile on his face as he traces his fingers along the curve of your jaw, down your neck until he pauses at the collar of your fluffy dressing gown.

“Stressed?”

You swat his hand away. “None of this shit makes sense. It’s driving me insane.”

Finn sighs, swinging his legs over the desk and pushing himself over to your side. He lands beside you and kneels down, taking a look at the pages you were previously dawdling over.

You glance at him. “Why are you bothering?”

Finn picks up a page, squinting. “Just because I can’t read, doesn’t mean I can’t be useful.”

You snatch the page back. “Yes it does.”

“Take a break.”

You scoff, the idea ludicrous.

Finn raises a brow, tilting his head to intercept your line of sight. “I mean it. If that client tomorrow has a problem, he can come to me about it.”

“This is my business, Finn. I have responsibilities that need to be sorted.”

“You also have a lad who also needs to be sorted.”

You narrow your eyes, glancing at him. “What a pervy thing to say.”

“It’s my way of telling you I miss you without sounding like a knob.”

You snort. “It didn’t work.”

Finn grabs your hand, twirling you around to face him. He stands to his full height, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him from your place in the desk chair. He smiles, swiping his thumb along your lower lip.

“How about I get Isaiah to have a look through these pages for you tomorrow morning, hm?” he asks.

“Finn…”

“You’re exhausted, Y/N. I’m doing you a favour. Now stop being a twat and let’s get-”

“I feel like you just want me to go home with you.” You look up at him, raising a brow. “Even though Arthur said…”

Finn rolls his eyes, grabbing your hands and tugging. “Fuck what Arthur said. Just come home.”

Home. His place. His room. His bed. His warmth. All of it is home now, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You sigh and stand up, giving into his complaints. His smile gets wider when you rise from the chair and wrap your arms around his shoulders, revealing just how right he was - you are exhausted.

He hugs you back, swaying a little bit before he presses a kiss to your lips; just a small one, because kissing when he means it is still something a little unknown to Finn Shelby; he used to kiss the girls his brothers hired for him, but he’s openly admitted to you that he never felt like he should, he never felt like them kisses mattered. Now, he kisses you with precision, making sure to draw back every now and then to make sure it’s okay, he’s okay, he’s doing a good job.

You grin, tapping your tongue against his lower lip in that way that drives him insane. “I liked it when you said you were my lad.”

Finn scowls, crinkling his nose up. Freckles scatter his face, constellations against a pale sky. “Don’t think too deep into it.”

“I’m going to.”

Finn picks you up bridal style. You don’t even squeal, simply rest your head against his shoulder, humming into his neck. “Let’s get you to bed, love. You’ve gone delirious.”

“Isaiah better not lose me a fucking client tomorrow.”

Finn chuckles. “We’ll find out in the morning.”

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders one shot #finn shelby #finn shelby imagine #finn shelby one shot #finn shelby fanfiction #finn shelby fic #finn shelby x reader #finn shelby fanfic #peaky blinders reader insert #finn shelby fluff #peaky blinders writing

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corpse--diem · 4 years

Text

Haunted Hallways | Jasmine & Erin

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @halequeenjas & @corpse–diem SUMMARY: Jasmine shows Erin around a new apartment when they’re interrupted by an old friend.

It was interesting how time could keep moving and stand still all at the same time. Weeks had gone by since her world had all but gone up in flames but the world kept going. Still pushed forward. So Erin had to keep moving with it, and by the time the opportunity came to look for a new apartment, it made all the sense in the world to jump on it. Nic and Skylar had been more than gracious allowing her to stay with them as long as they had but she needed her space. Always had. Especially now, given that some lunatic felt comfortable just waltzing in and burning down buildings she frequently inhabited. The door was already open when she approached the apartment building her new realtor, a Ms. Jasmine Hale, had picked out. From the outside, the place seemed nice enough. Seemed like a place she could exist, at first glance, even if only temporarily. “Hello?” She called out, knocking on the open door before she saw the other woman. Greeting her with a smile, Erin reached out her hand. “Jasmine?” She asked tentatively. “Erin Nichols. It’s nice to meet you, finally! Sorry, I hope I’m not too late. The fog out there is extra wicked today. I had to take my time getting here,” she apologized with a crinkle of her nose.

As Jasmine had rushed up to the apartment she was showing her new client, she was grateful Erin had yet to arrive. One of the stupid floating fish had been circling her Jag and she wasn’t about to become some fish’s dinner. Being late was never a good look for a professional and she wasn’t in the business of wasting people’s time. Just as she was about to head up and place some wards around and scope out the scene, she heard her name. Crap. She threw on her megawatt smile anyway and extended her hand to shake. “Yes, it’s me. Good to meet you in person, Erin.” This fog did really put a damper on the whole driving thing and the fish were weird. With a laugh, she responded, “Oh yeah, the fog is a doozy. Really uncharacteristic for it to be this thick, but better to drive safely.” She kept her face bright and smile winning to not give way to the nerves that were boiling underneath. Larry Bob was likely to show his pathetic, scraggly face to blow this rental for her. She had to hide the horrified look on her face as she opened the door and saw the stripes. She could spin this. “As you can see, this place is really into modern decor, but I think the floor plan and price here is what the real winner is.”

Jasmine was as chirpy and bright as Erin expected any good realtor to be. Not unpleasantly, though, like how an overzealous salesperson could drown you in big grins and enthusiasm. Jasmine was teeming with all of that stuff too, that much was obvious, but Erin could still breathe. She appreciated that. “Good to meet you too--” Erin started, the smile she returned drooping into a slacked jaw she couldn’t stop. Black and white stripes. Everywhere. “Christ,” she mumbled under her breath, the unexpected bold lines making her squint. There was something innately familiar about this scene she couldn’t put her finger on. Probably saw something like it in a magazine at one point. “Modern decor is…” she started, shrugging when nothing positive came to mind immediately. “Well, it’s something, alright. Definitely not my area of expertise.” Didn’t find a lot of that in a funeral home, that was for sure. With a chuckle, she raised an eyebrow in Jasmine’s direction but slowed her movements until she came to a complete stop, gesturing towards the stripes that felt like they were swallowing them whole the farther they went. “I’ve got to be honest, if the apartment looks anything like this hallway, I’m going to save you the trouble and stop the tour right now. This is…” she grimaced, shaking her head. “Like, a lot.”

Modern decor was one of her personal areas of expertise, but this definitely wasn’t it. Still, Jasmine could spin this. They’d both driven all the way out here in the crazy fog and from the video tour, the apartment itself looked darling. “I’ll admit, the exterior is a little loud for my tastes, but that’s not where most people spend a lot of their time… well, unless you like hanging in hallways but that seems weird so,” she explained with a shrug as she led them to the unit in question. Internally, she pleaded that they hadn’t decided to redecorate the interior of the unit as well. As she opened the door to the apartment, she let out a breath of relief. Totally normal just as she had planned. “See, definitely different from the hallway. I think too many buildings are trying to be trendy nowadays, but the floorplan here is amazing. You’ve got all this open space, but let’s take a look around. I always like to end with the kitchen-- if it turns out they didn’t clean something right, you don’t wanna deal with the smell the whole time you’re perusing the place.”

Oh, thank God. This whole set-up was a temporary solution--somewhere to stay while Erin waited for the insurance to kick in and the (hopeful) rebuilding to start. But even temporarily staring at an apartment that looked like the hallway was absolutely out of the question. “Oh, no, you’re so right. This is great,” she exclaimed with genuine surprise and relief. Way better than the other apartments she’d found looking on her own, anyway. “I honestly don’t need anything too fancy. If everything goes to plan, this should be temporary. I should mention that, shouldn’t I? And it’s just me and my cat, anyway. Well, and sometimes my boyfriend, but I’m usually at his place. Indoor pool guy--need I say more?” She raised a playful brow, grinning. “Pets are okay too, right?” She asked, though her attention drifted to the windows in the living room. Not a great view she determined, but not bad either. Decent enough for temporary. What felt like a small gust of wind moved past her--barely detectable if it wasn’t for the temperature. Like someone had opened a freezer right in her face. “Oh, is it always this cold? How’s the heating?” she asked, turning to Jasmine again, following closely behind as she did her thing.

There was a bright smile on her face as she saw Erin look around seemingly happy. Jasmine knew this would be a perfect spot. Nice open floor plan, decent storage space, a nice view from the window-- and for a fair price? Who wouldn’t love this place? If she wasn’t already living in her perfect waterfront home on Harris Island, she’d have snagged this place up. “I do try to make it a habit of being right,” she joked although if she was being honest, she actually meant that statement. “I think this might be the spot for you then. Not overly fancy, but still very comfortable and a practical price. And wait… isn’t indoor pool guy the one who eats water with his cereal?” Men really needed to be stopped sometimes. Water in cereal when milk wasn’t even expensive. It was definitely gross and she definitely judged him a little for it. Still, she recovered with a laugh and said, “But indoor pool. Sure it makes staying there more fun.” She’d looked over the details carefully before showing this place even if she did somehow miss the striped hallway. “Yep, cats are totally welcome! They don’t even charge pet rent,” she answered as she felt a familiar cold sensation. Oh no. She swore she would throw Larry Bob out of existence as she cursed under her breath. She clutched the bag of salt in her purse and looked around carefully only to be shocked to find a ghost that was surprisingly not Larry Bob. “Oh my god, I totally have to show you the bathtub. It’s right over there,” she gestured and quickly threw a dash of salt at the tacky ghost in the Hawaiian shirt. Who dodged her. Of freaking course!

It’d been a few years since Erin had lived in an apartment on her own, and while the circumstances that had brought her here weren’t ideal, it was a little exciting. Something of her own again. Something that wasn’t passed down and filled with ghosts of a family that no longer lived there. This could be hers, for as little or as long as she had, and the thought was a welcome one. Jasmine’s upbeat attitude had a refreshing grounding nature to it. She liked her already. “Ah. You remember that, huh?” she laughed quietly, shaking her head. “The one and the same. Bit of a dumbass--I think the water cereal speaks for itself on that. But he’s a good one,” she said, a teasing fondness in her tone. Good. Betty could live peacefully here too no problem. At this point, she had little doubt about whether or not she would be taking the place. She could picture her curled up at the large window, Nic frying up eggs in the kitchen--oh, she wanted to see the kitchen next. God, it was freezing in here though. Holding her arms against herself, she followed Jasmine, turning her head sharply at the exclamation about the bathtub. “Oh, yeah. Sure,” she nodded, narrowing her eyes.

“Missed me, bitch.”

Was someone else here? A squatter, maybe? The familiar voice, that deep-throated chuckle shook her immediately. She knew that voice somehow. Her mind jumped to Roy and his goons. Was he seriously watching her this intently? How? “Jasmine?” She called out, slowly reaching for the knife in her purse. “Everything alright in--” She saw the bowl of fruit flying straight at them as she turned the corner to the kitchen. An apple smacking her shoulder when she turned and cowered away and that hearty laugh echoed through the apartment.

“Oh hell yeah. That’s what I’m talking about,” the voice boomed. Erin saw the loud Hawaiian shirt first, covered with dry blood that had soaked down from the side of his head. There was still a gash from the baseball bat she had nailed hi No, no, no. This--this wasn’t happening. Dale was dead. Dale was not standing there in her soon to be new kitchen. “...Dale?” His eyes turned dark when they fell on hers. “Miss me, sweetheart?” His grin was as sharp and vile as she remembered, and without missing a beat, he sent one of the pans hanging for show beside the stove hurtling their way.

If it wasn’t Larry Bob, apparently it was some other jackass in a Hawaiian shirt trying to crash her showings. Seriously? Jasmine was fuming now and wanted to smack this ghost into whatever ether it was supposed to be in. She had been pretty sure Erin went to go check out the bathroom, so she was surprised when he asked if she missed him. “I don’t even know you, you absolute creep,” she retorted with a glare on her face as she quickly reached into her bag for her iron rod. The familiar chill had never been comforting to her, but she wouldn’t lose her resolve to a ghost in a tacky shirt.

She saw him ready to throw and apple and her head whipped back to follow it. It clearly wasn’t aimed at her and she gasped when she saw Erin there. Shit. How was she supposed to explain this? “I’m so,” she started but quickly had to dodge a pan. There was a loud crash as it fell to the floor after colliding into the wall. “Oh hell no,” she grumbled, standing taller this time and charging toward the ghost. “You were not invited to this and I don’t know who the hell you think you are. I’d get out of here before I exorcise you out of existence. I know it must be hard to move on stuck in that awful shirt, but trust me, it’s better than what I’ll do to you.” She raced forward ready to whack him with the iron rod, but he dodged out the way, causing her to stumble forward.

Was Jasmine trying to apologize for the big ass bald ghost in the kitchen? Dale. Fucking Dale. Erin didn’t understand the how or why but there he was, and she’d be a liar if the word zombie didn’t cross her mind again. Because here he was, live and in color. She was still trying to wrap her head around it when Jasmine went on the attack. “Jasmine, don’t--” Erin started, but she was insulting the clothes on his back and charging at him anyway. Exorcise? Did she just say exorcise? Sounded like some Blanche-flavored ghost bullshit she wanted nothing to do with. “Don’t worry lady, you’ll have your turn,” he growled, giving Jasmine a good kick from behind after she stumbled forward.

Erin ran forward out of instinct after her, stopping in her tracks when Dale turned around only feet from her now. His smile wicked, verging into a sneer. “Been a while, huh?” He asked, reaching for anything close. Both of their eyes widened for different reasons when he managed to get a hold of a display knife out of it’s holding block. Erin stepped back with every step forward, shaking her head. “No, no, no--you’re dead,” was all she could manage. She was sure of it - she’d burned his body and that ugly blood stained shirt herself. This wasn’t possible. There shouldn’t have been a body to come back, even if this was some sort of zombie situation. But here he was anyway, swinging the blade at her. She stumbled on the pan that he’d tossed earlier, falling back when another swing of his arm narrowly missed. Grabbing it, she used it as a shield when the blade came down, leaving a dent. Fuck. Yep. Didn’t matter how at this point. He was very much real. “Jasmine!” Erin hollered for help, clambering backwards.

The kick in the back she got from this ghosty asshole as she moved forward hurt, but Jasmine wasn’t about to let this rando spirit ruin this showing. She quickly recovered and tightened her grip on the iron rod. A horrified look crossed her face as she realized Erin was charging toward the ghost who was clearly still stuck in a mid life crisis without any salt or iron. “Don’t,” she called out, but it was too late. She was already in range of the Danny Devito knock off and now he was picking up a knife. She swore she’d banish him from existence right now if he used that knife on Erin. That was a $400 chef’s knife and he’d ruin it. Or worse, it’d be stuck in evidence forever. “Hey, asshole, over here,” she called out as she reached out for the salt on the counter. “Maybe next time you choose to haunt a place, stay out of the kitchen you absolute buffoon of a ghost!” She threw a dash of salt at him, which had to sting, but he was still with them. Ugh. She tossed the salt to Erin and raised her iron rod, daring this jackass to take her on.

Salt? What the fuck was she supposed to do with this? Erin racked her brain, trying to remember something Blanche had mentioned about it -- but it seemed to work. His physical form wavered just enough for him to drop the knife and let out a hiss. “God, you fucking b--” He hollered, turning his head to Jasmine, the dried blood on the side of his head the most glaring thing. Erin kicked the knife down the hallway, scrambling to sit up before taking Jasmine’s lead. His fist missed Jasmine when another handful of salt burned his corporeal form and he flickered again, like someone trying to blow out a candle. “You both want to die today? That’s fine by me, chickadee. I’ve got all the time in the fucking world,” he practically snarled, grabbing for Jasmine once he got a hold of himself again.

It seemed Erin didn’t hesitate too long on the salt. Small miracles were still miracles, but anger rose in Jasmine the moment he grabbed hold of her again. “Oh, hell no. Get your ugly ghost hands off my blouse,” she yelled as she kept her grip solid on the iron rod in her left hand and stabbed it through him. There was something nausea-inducing in the feeling of an iron rod going through his very much solid form, but she could feel that he was a ghost. Plus, the salt had worked on him. The iron did, too, and soon enough after some choice words he faded away. She let out the breath she had been holding before straightening her jacket and blouse and turning to Erin. “Okay, excuse my French here, but what the fuck,” she exclaimed. “It’s clear you know Mr. Wannabe Tommy Bahama over here, so what’s the deal?”

Ghost. Erin definitely heard the word ghost come out of Jasmine’s mouth. Fuck that. Fuck ghosts. Fuck Dale. Thankfully Jasmine shared the same sentiments. With wide-eyes, she watched as he practically dissolved before her eyes, gone as quickly and violently as he’d come. Something told her he wasn’t gone-gone though. The room was still as cold as it had been before, like a slightly wind chill nipping at her skin. Erin shifted uncomfortably, straightening her clothes as she tried to think of an adequate explanation. “He, uh--” Erin cleared her throat, shaking her head. “He was an old co-worker. It didn’t… you know. End well,” she nodded. That was all she needed to know, right? Her eyes narrowed at Jasmine. “How did you know he was a ghost? He was--” she held out a hand, tapping her forearm with her pointer finger. “Tangible. He could hold stuff. I thought they weren’t supposed to do that.”

It dawned on her that she said ghost outloud and Jasmine mentally cursed herself. Thankfully Erin didn’t find the concept to be too far fetched. At the mention of him being an old coworker, she immediately had a kindred feeling. Funny enough, they both had old coworkers as ghosts following them around. “Funny, I’ve got a pain in the ass coworker that’s a ghost, too. Normally, you wouldn’t be able to see yours. I just happened to be ‘blessed’ with the gift of seeing ghosts… and of getting rid of them. Since you’re not totally running for the hills, I’m an exorcist.” At the question of being tangible, she grumbled. She was thoroughly over this whole ghosts being solid thing. “I don’t know what’s going on there, but it’s a thing right now. Ghosts seem to be solid some of the time and I’m not loving it. So no, he’s not supposed to be able to do that and you shouldn’t have been able to see him.” Realizing this ghost had it out for her, she added, “Whatever place you move into, I’m throwing up some wards for you.” Talk about full service realty.

Jasmine’s words did little to comfort Erin, and it was even less of a relief to know that Dale was probably hanging around with her long before this. That cold feeling wasn’t entirely new--just something she’d shrugged off on more than one occasion. Awesome. Her heart was in the process of dropping to her stomach as Jasmine spoke, only perking up at ‘exorcist’. “Right,” she drawled with a hint of unintentional skepticism in her voice. “I hope yours at least shopped at places that weren’t tacky beach gift shops,” she murmured, trying to lighten the tightness suddenly enveloping her chest. Didn’t work as well as she’d hoped. “All I know is that they exist. I’ve never seen one before. Ever,” She said with a sigh, running a frustrated hand through her hair. Is that what Blanche had to endure on a daily basis? She couldn’t blame her for her freakouts if that was the case. “If he’s not supposed to be like that, then how is he like that? And do they always--uh, you know. Look like that?” She gestured towards her head, a reference to the bloody crack in his skull. The one Erin had put there months and months ago. Her heart beat hard again and she started to pick up the dented pan and knife at her feet, wincing at the scuff marks on both. Her eyes filled with fear, jumping back up to Jasmine. “He’s not going to come back, is he?”

It was evident to Jasmine that Erin wasn’t exactly comfortable with this news. Not that she could blame her. It was likely that this tacky ghost had been following her around for longer than she’d known which was far from comforting. “Worse, when he’s off work, he had crocs in 10 different colors,” she joked to keep the mood from getting too heavy. Of course Erin had never seen a ghost before. It wasn’t a gift that most people had and had to be alarming if you weren’t entirely used to it. Hell, even she was alarmed from time to time. “That makes sense, I’m not sure why people can see them now and why they’re solid. Probably some bigger White Crest bullshit like the fog and the mimes. But yeah, they do usually look like that. Well, not that specifically, but any injuries that killed them are still there as a ghost. Not always pretty, but to be fair, I don’t think your guy here was all that pretty to look at when he was alive either.” Jasmine started tidying up a little bit and put the knife back in its rightful spot. Dale had really come in and made a mess of the kitchen. At least no one was hurt. “The iron will have him gone for at least a few hours. Whatever place you pick, I’ll put wards up. Actually, wherever you’re currently staying should have wards, too. It keeps them out.”

Erin tried to laugh at the joke Jasmine volleyed back at her but it came out more like a stunted, heavy breath. “He sounds like the worst kind of person, honestly,” she said a bit distantly, her brow raised in harsh skepticism. Ghosts. Fucking ghosts. Dale’s ghost. It was hard to focus on anything else but those two things right now. How long had he been following her? How the fuck was he solid now suddenly? Skipping town and going into hiding, putting this place behind her just kept looking better and better every day. “Aren’t we just… super lucky to live in a town like this?” She asked, teeth tight against her smile and her fist slightly clenched. God, she was tired. But for all the nonsense they’d just experienced, this apartment fortunately looked just as good as it had before things got weird. “Oh, yeah, please. I’ll take all the wards you can possibly give me. Anything you’ve got. Like, I will personally pay you extra just for the wards,” she said, finally letting out a long breath, trying to think of anything but the sound of her baseball bat crunching skull bone or that toothy grin. He was gone. They were fine. For now. “But that asshole sure as hell isn’t going to stop me from missing out on a great apartment.” She paused a beat, nodding towards Jasmine, a gentler smile finding its way to the surface. “I’ll take it.”

#wickedswriting #chatzy #chatzy: jasmine #haunted hallways

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let-me-luve-you · 4 years

Text

Christmas Prep

Gabriel x Reader

Summary: Gabriel helps you get into the Christmas spirit

Warnings: I don’t think there’s any.. if there is and you see it, please let me know.

Word Count: 1092

@spnchristmasbingo

MASTERLIST

SPN Christmas Bingo

You decided on Thanksgiving night that you were going to decorate the bunker over the weekend. You had all the decorations in storage. You just had to get a truck to bring them all to the bunker.

You knew Sam and Dean weren’t going to be ecstatic about the decorations, but you didn’t care. They really didn’t get a say since they were gone on a hunt with Jack and Cas. Christmas was your favorite time of year. You loved everything about the holiday and you wanted to share that with everyone in the bunker.

On Friday morning, you drove to your storage unit on the other side of Lebanon. You loaded box after box into the bed of the truck. You quickly found out you had more than you remembered. You were definitely going to need help. You pulled out your phone and dialed the number to your tied for first favorite Angel.

“What can I do for you sweetheart?” You heard the angelic voice. “Gabriel!” You said as a hello. “Do you have any plans today?”“Just the normal shenanigans. What do you have in mind?”“I want to decorate the bunker for Christmas. Do you want to help?”Gabriel went quiet and you were afraid he was going to turn you down. “That depends. Are you planning any other holiday activities such as cookie decorating?”“I plan on doing that when the boys get back. You’re welcome to join when we do it.” You said. “Oh but I do have a cake and some chocolate chip cookies I made yesterday that you can have.”“I will take you up on all of it.” You smiled. You heard the sound of wings and turned around. “When do you want to get started?” He looked over at the truck. “Is that the decorations?” You nodded. “Then let’s go. The bunker isn’t going to decorate itself.”You smiled and hugged him in thanks before you ran to the drivers' side. You and Gabriel hopped in and you started the drive back to the bunker. By the time the boys got back Saturday night, the entire map room had garland and lights hanging. And when they entered the library they saw even more decorations. They saw the tree in the corner fully decorated with a few presents underneath. Gabriel walked in to see the boys' look of confusion and excitement. “Well, what do you think? Y/N and I did a pretty good job, huh?” He asked with a smirk. “This looks amazing,” Dean replied. Sam nodded in agreement. “Where is she anyway? She usually greets us at the door.” Sam asked, looking around. “She is on her way back from Christmas and grocery shopping. We were out when we got the call that you were close so she had me pop in to distract you while she hid the presents.” Gabriel said laughing. “There she is. Need help with the groceries?”“Yes please.” You said as you led the boys to the garage. “I got us enough food to last us the month. Plus I got everything we need to cook Christmas dinner.” You stopped and turned to Dean, “And if I notice any of the Christmas dinner ingredients missing, me and you are going to have some problems.” “What? Why me? Why not Sam?” Dean asked, shocked you were accusing him. “Because Sam has self-control.” Sam smiled. You turned to Gabriel, “and if any of the sweets are missing, we will have problems as well.”“That’s fair to accuse me because I will probably eat something I’m not supposed to,” Gabriel said with a laugh. You rolled your eyes as you reached into the truck and grabbed a few bags. “Don't make me take your Christmas presents back. Santa knows who’s naughty.” All the boys laughed as you started to head for the kitchen. Later that night Gabriel knocked on your door. “Hey Y/N/N, I cleaned the kitchen for you. All sweets are safe except the ones you offered me.” He laughed. “Want help wrapping?”“Sure.” You said sticking your tongue out of your mouth trying to wrap Dean’s present. You weren’t the best wrapper so the boys were going to get what they got. “You spent too much on them,” Gabriel said seeing the presents you had already wrapped in the corner. “Yours are in that stack. I wrapped yours first.” You said with a smirk. “Anyways, these boys deserve to be spoiled. Sam and Dean never got a proper Christmas growing up. And this will be Jack and Cas’s first one. I just wanted it to be special. And they all spoil and protect me during the year, this is the least I could do.”“You are the definition of Christmas Y/N,” Gabriel said, staring at you in awe. “I’m lucky to know you. And those boys are lucky to have you in their lives.” You smiled and said a quiet thanks. You continued to wrap presents well into the night with Gabriel. Quiet for the most part as both of you are concentrating really hard, but the occasional small conversation or messing with each other would happen. It was around one am when you finished wrapping all of the gifts. “Okay. Now time to take these to the library. I just hope Dean can wait until Christmas Day.”Both you and Gabriel loaded up your arms. You walked to the library to see Gabriel had popped in and out to take all the presents to the tree. You started to arrange them in a way to make the tree look good. As you put the last present down, Sam walked in. “Wow!” He said looking at all the presents. “Did you get these all yourself?” You nodded as red filled your cheeks. Embarrassed thinking you went way overboard. “She wanted you to have a special Christmas this year, Sam,” Gabriel said. “Plus I helped.” “We don’t deserve you,” Sam said while he hugged you. He pulled away and went back to his laptop. You turned to look at Gabriel. “Thanks for all your help this weekend. I’ll make extra cookies for you on Tuesday.” You pulled Gabriel into a hug. “It was my pleasure sweetheart.” He hugged you back. When he pulled away, he asked, “Dinner is at 6 and decorating is at 7?”You nodded. “I’m making all your favorites since you helped do all the heavy lifting.” “And I will gladly come eat it all. See you Tuesday.” He smiled at you before he disappeared.

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ericsonclan · 4 years

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Putting Up The Stars In The Sky For Her

Summary: Prisha wants to surprise Violet by bringing the stars to her.

Read on A03:

Prisha felt her annoyance growing with each passing second. No matter where she looked in the basement, she couldn’t find what she was looking for. The dust that had settled on the boxes and miscellaneous items over the decade of this new world had been tossed up in the air, irritating Prisha’s nose more and more with each box she moved. She had been searching for nearly an hour now and still she was coming up empty-handed. A small orb of fear that had settled in the pit of her stomach was rising as her goal seemed further out of reach.

“Damn it,” Prisha whispered under her breath, moving past the shelving unit she was next to and onto one that was nearby the entrance. If things keep going like this… Prisha’s hand brushed off some dust from a container, a frustrated groan escaping her lips when yet another failure had been added onto this search. I’ll never find it before Violet gets back.

“Hey, Prisha! Whatcha up to?” Louis’ cheery voice made Prisha spin around sharply on her heel and caused her head to collide with one of the metal railings. “Oh shit. Prisha, are you okay?” Louis ran over towards her with a concerned expression on his face.

Prisha let out a small hiss while she gently rubbed the back of her head. “I’m fine,”

“Okay, sorry about that. Clem told me you had gone down here and I just thought I’d check on you,” Louis’ eyes trailed over to the container that Prisha had recently dusted off. “So, mind if I ask what’s piqued your interest enough to come down here today?”

“I was trying to see if there was any paint stored down here, but after a thorough search of most of the storage so far I think that the chances may be slim,” Prisha let out a sad sigh at her own statement. Her whole plan rested on this one element.

“Well, have no fear, Prisha, for I know where some may just be,” Louis pulled on the sides of his coat with a dramatic flair, a proud smile appeared on his lips.

Prisha’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really. Now if my memory serves me, I think it may be over in the far left corner right by that weirdly shaped box. Back when the world went to shit some of the kids had found the paint supplies and Ms. Martin ended up having to hide it all away with my help so they wouldn’t mess up the whole school. ” Louis stopped by the metal shelving. “Aha! Here it is!” He dusted off a large tub-like bucket of paint, revealing the company logo when suddenly he inhaled a puff of dust that caused him to cough sharply. “Oh man, that is dusty,” Louis smiled back at Prisha whose eyes seemed to practically shine at the sight of the paint.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Louis,” Prisha grabbed the container and set it down on the ground. “I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find-” Prisha’s face suddenly dropped before she pushed aside the bucket. “Damn it!”

“Hey, it’s alright. Why is the paint so important anyway?” Louis glanced over at his friend.

“I…” Prisha took a deep breath. “I wanted to surprise Violet by painting some of the walls in our room to look like the night sky,” Prisha’s hand wandered down and started to play with the tip of her braid. “I thought because of her limited eyesight and the fact that a way to improve it hasn’t worked out yet, I could help her be able to see the sky again. At least a version of it.”

“Holy shit,” Louis had a huge grin on his face “That has to be about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. I know Violet’s gonna love that. So I’m going to help you. Now what is the problem with the paint?”

Prisha looked surprised for a second before a small, appreciative smile played on her lips. She should’ve known that Louis would be willing to help out, especially whenever it had anything to do with Violet. “It’s all dried up so it’s useless. Unless…..” Prisha’s eyes grew large when the answer appeared in her mind. She looked over at Louis. “Louis, you don’t happen to know if there’s any paint thinner in here, do you?”

Louis shook his head sadly, “No, I don’t. But...” Louis gave a hopeful smile “With the two of us, I bet we can find it if it is down here.”

The two immediately set out to find the paint thinner, quickly searching the areas that Prisha had covered in her previous hunt for the paint before turning towards new areas. Piles upon piles of dust flew into the air, causing both Prisha and Louis to sneeze occasionally as their eyes searched for the treasured item. It was only after nearly fifteen more minutes of searching that the paint thinner had been found. The pair made their way back over to the dried out paint, determined to revitalize it.

“So…” Louis held onto the paint thinner “Got any ideas on how this works?”

Prisha looked at the bucket of paint. “I think if we added it in slowly in small quantities and stir it with something while we do it, it should get back to the right consistency,” Prisha’s eyes scanned the air carefully before landing on an old ruler. “This should work if you can just pour a little in,”

“You got it,” Louis slowly tipped forward the paint thinner causing it to splash against the cracked, dry paint.

After a few moments the paint started to change forms, returning little by little back to its former glory. Prisha carefully stirred around, causing the clumps to fall into the center of the bucket as she motioned for Louis to add more. Steadily with the patient work of the duo they got the consistency back and just in time too as they heard voices coming from nearby the gate signalling that the hunting team had gotten back and that the watchtower shift had been changed. Due to how long they had been in the basement, it probably meant that it was nearing evening.

“I need to go,” Prisha dusted off her clothes as she rose to her feet. “I’m on dinner prep with Omar,”

“Oh, okay. What should we do with the paint?” Louis lifted up the bucket with one hand.

“We can just leave it in this corner and I can pick it up tomorrow when I have some free time.” Besides, Prisha looked down at the container. I still need to figure out how to get access to dye or figure out if I can make it. With that thought in mind, Prisha wandered back up out into the courtyard, lifting up her hand as she shielded her eyes from the change in lighting. She looked around and noticed that Omar was already busy at work getting the fire’s height back up to standards in preparation for the meal. Clementine was already busy at work chopping up some of the veggies. When Prisha had made her way over to the picnic table, she was greeted by the smiling faces of her friends.

“So,” Clementine started up on her next vegetable, cutting it horizontally before slicing it into smaller cubes. “How did the search for the paint go? ” Clementine’s voice went down to a whisper

“Think you’ll be able to paint the walls for Violet?”

“It took awhile, but thanks to Louis’ help I was able to find it,” Prisha grabbed some of the fresh herbs slowly, slicing through them to get the right cut of them for dinner. “But it was white paint which means,” Prisha let out a tired sigh, “That my work seems to be far from over. Unless someone knows where some dye is, I feel like this may end up being a lost cause,”

Clementine looked over at her friend sadly. It was really sweet that Prisha wanted to do this for Violet, but it seemed like a long and tedious process just to be able to get the supplies.

“I know how to make dye,” Omar’s calming voice drew over the girls’ attention. “I found out about it when I went through some of the library books that survived the fire in hopes that I would find some new recipes.”

“Really?” A smile pulled on the corner of Prisha’s lips. “Would it be possible to make blue and yellow dye?”

“Sure, if you have the right ingredients,” Omar turned his attention back to the pot for a minute, making sure that the base hadn’t begun to smoke and burn. “I think I remember that if you get some dogwood bark and its berries, you can make blue dye and any dandelions that you get can easily be turned into yellow dye. All you need is some boiling water and a container to process it. I can help you tomorrow if you’d like.”

“That’s perfect. I think I saw some dandelions just outside the gates and dogwood isn’t too hard to find around these parts.” Prisha felt the small bit of hope that this plan could still work growing stronger inside her. “Omar, I… Thank you. It would mean a lot to me.”

Omar smiled back at Prisha. “I’m glad to help. Now can you focus on getting the rest of the prep done?”

“Right, my apologies,” Prisha returned to cutting the herbs. This can work. I can still do this.

The rest of the evening went by more or less like usual. Dinner time, as always, was as lively as ever. Willy and AJ told tales about their day before letting the others add into the conversation. After that most decided to head off to bed, giving Prisha and Violet some time to talk about this and that. As the sky grew darker they decided it would be best to head to bed themselves and so hand in hand they made their way into the dorms to prepare for the next day.

----

Prisha had offered to go on the hunting trip with Aasim in the afternoon in hopes of finding the right ingredients while still providing food from the newest traps Louis and Willy had made. As soon as they had gotten out the gates, Prisha veered right and snatched some dandelions that were in a small patch of grass. When she had tucked them away in her pockets, she was met with a confused expression by Aasim.

“I’ll explain in a minute. For now let’s just continue down the path,” Prisha moved past Aasim and began to make her way down the path. Her ice axe clinked against her hip while she walked. Aasim soon caught up and walked alongside her. His bow was already out and an arrow in the notch just in case they ran into any walkers.

After they were a fair distance away from the gates, Prisha spoke up.“I was grabbing those dandelions because I need them to help make dye for this paint I found.”

“Paint?” Aasim looked around, his eyes scanning the left side before the right. “What for?”

“It’s for Violet,” Prisha stated. Her own gaze was focused on making sure they wouldn’t be caught by surprise as well as searching for the last ingredient she needed.

“Alright, do you need anything else out here?” Aasim asked with a kind smile.

“I need to find some dogwood bark and its berries,”

“Oh, well I think I saw some the other day over by the west traps. We can grab some on the way back.

Prisha gave an appreciative smile before returning her focus back to the task at hand. The pair made their way towards the traps, talking about different ideas they had come up with to improve Ericson that they could work on and bring up with Clementine. After going through some of the traps, undoing, resetting and relieving them of the prey they had caught, Prisha and Aasim moved onwards to the last set.

When they had arrived they immediately saw the dogwood tree and the rich red berries that clung onto its branches. But first they need to see if the traps have gotten any game for them. Giving a quick glance around, it seemed only one rabbit had been caught and it was a baby at that. Aasim instantly let it go and looked between Prisha and his shoulders to see if they had gotten enough for the day. That was when he noticed a few stray walkers roaming nearby.

“Prisha,” Aasim motioned with his eyes towards the two walkers that were walking over towards them.

Prisha nodded in understanding before setting down the rabbits on her shoulder and unclipping her ice axe, moving to the first walker. With a mighty swing upward, Prisha embedded the weapon underneath the jaw of the walker, crunching through some smaller bones and making a small squishing sound when it impacted the brain. Letting go of her weapon which remained in place, Prisha repositioned her hand, yanking down hard and releasing her signature weapon with a hearty squelching sound. Prisha took a deep breath, ready to face her next opponent when she heard Aasim’s arrow hit its mark directly in the right eye, leaving the walker that was making its way behind her lifeless and hollow on the dirt path. Prisha held out her ice axe, carefully surveying the area before placing it back on her hip.

“Good thing there weren’t that many,” Aasim noted as he tucked away his bow and arrow for a moment.

“Have to count your blessings each chance you get,” Prisha added, her eyes traveling over to the dogwood tree. Wordlessly she made her way over and began to peel off some of the bark while Aasim started to grab some berries. After they had grabbed what they were positive would be an appropriate amount, they began to make their way back.

It wasn’t long before they were in sight of the tall, proud, lightly battered gates of Ericson. Aasim gave his share of the ingredients over to Prisha as they made their way back into the safety of their home.

Immediately Prisha made her way over to Omar and handed off the items. Looking around it seemed like Violet was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she got greenhouse duty today.

“Thanks, I can help you in a minute, just gotta get some more wood for the fire.” Omar placed aside the different bits of nature and walked over towards the pile of firewood that they had stored inside the gates.

“Allow me to help. It’s the least I can do,” Prisha grabbed a few pieces of firewood, tucking them under her arm before grabbing a couple more. Omar walked by her side and gave a warm smile.

“I think it’s really nice what you’re doing for Violet. I know she doesn't say much about it, but I know she must miss the stars,” Omar let out a small grunt when he tossed down the wood. “She used to sneak up all the time.” He took the pile from Prisha’s arms and started to place some in the fire pit.

“I just hope I’m able to get this to actually work after all the hoops I’ve had to jump through. But seeing Violet’s smile…” The brightness of it, the way it makes her eyes dance... “It will be worth it.”

“Well, the dye process isn’t too hard,” Omar took out some small containers. “I found these inside the admin building. They should work for the cooling part.”

Prisha nodded before offering her help. The two began the steps. Omar instructed Prisha to break down some of the ingredients and then asked her to hand them to him while he tossed them into the small pot. It was one he rarely used for anything with meals so it wouldn’t affect the taste of dinner.

Once he had tossed in the ingredients he stirred it around, allowing for it to seep and bring out the color that would make the dye. Adding in some more dogwood bark and berries, Omar tried to get the perfect shade of dark blue and give it the depth that it needed. After a few attempts, Prisha and Omar agreed that they had finally reached the right shade of blue. Next Omar added a thickening agent to make sure the consistency wasn't too runny and ineffective. When that had been completed and Omar was content with the quality, he moved to place them into the containers and handed them off to Prisha.

“There you go. It was my first time so I hope I made the color sharp enough. Just stir it into the paint and it should produce the colors you want.”

Prisha accepted the dye with a bright smile on her face. “Thank you,” With that she turned around and headed down to the basement to hide it along with the other parts to her plan. With some free time on her hand, she sat down with Willy and the two talked for what felt like hours, tweaking and refining some of their plans that had been a bust in hopes to make life better at Ericson.

Soon dinner was called and quickly consumed. The different members of the group wandered off in different directions to go about the free time they had. The sky slowly changed from its warm orange tones, pushing aside the lazily rolling clouds and making way for the dark blue sky.

“Well, I’m gonna go back to the room.” Violet’s voice drew Prisha’s attention as her girlfriend rose up from her spot on the steps of the admin building.

“Alright, I’ll join you in a bit,”

Violet gave a small smile before leaning down and placing a kiss on Prisha’s cheek.

“Okay, see you in a bit then,” With that Violet went off into the direction of the dorms, leaving Prisha alone.

Prisha’s gaze turned upwards to the sky. She had hoped to get some time to herself to properly look at the sky before she attempted to paint the walls tomorrow. Wanting to capture the beauty of the sky that had given her girlfriend so much peace and happiness before she had lost her sight. Prisha’s eyes wandered from star to star, completely lost in the marvel of the starry sky. It was no wonder Violet had grown so fond of the stars: they were beautiful. With a few more moments of peace and looking up at the sky, Prisha got up and made her way to the dorms, her excitement born anew from the success of the day and the stunning sky.

----

The next day rolled around and in the morning Louis and Prisha had pulled aside Clementine in hopes that she would agree to take Violet fishing with her today.

“Say no more, I’ll make sure we go fishing for a long time and give you two all the time you need to get the painting done.”

“Thanks, babe,” Louis placed a quick kiss on Clementine’s lips. “You’re the best.”

Clementine flashed a goofy grin back at her boyfriend. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I really do appreciate it,” Prisha added in which caused Clementine’s smile to grow.

“Please, it’s the least I can do. Besides, I'm happy to help Violet. I’m sure she’s gonna love it!”

It took a few minutes for Clementine and Violet to get ready but soon they had said their goodbyes and were off to the fishing shack.

Not wasting a second, Prisha and Louis made their way down to the basement and grabbed all the necessary supplies. Then they moved into the dorms, moving past all the now empty rooms that were once filled until they arrived at Prisha and Violet’s room. Carefully balancing some equipment, Louis opened the door and made his way to the desk where AJ’s drawing of Violet, Omar and Aasim making their way off the Delta ship was placed proudly above it on the wall and some rough sketches that Prisha made for future inventions laid scattered on the surface of the desk. Louis placed down the bucket of paint and dusted off his hands.

“Could you actually move it over towards those beds?” Prisha motioned with her eyes.

Louis gave a quick nod and moved over to the left bunk beds where the latest innovation that Prisha had been tinkering with laid in bits and pieces. Plopping down the bucket, Louis looked up and noticed the different pieces of art on the wall. A sad, small smile tugged on the corners of his lips. There were a few small sketches that Tenn had drawn of his sisters and Violet, but for the most part the pieces that had covered the wall were ones that were done by Sophie. Bright, lively colors filled those pages which seemed to match the artist’s own soul. It made sense why Sophie was so clearly prominent in her own art. She had poured her heart and soul into every sketch, painting and drawing that she did whether it was of nature or of her friends and family. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis noticed a white bed sheet dangling from the top bunk.

“Oh!” Louis snatched the bed sheet and pulled it off the top bunk “We can use these to make sure the paint doesn’t get on your bed.”

“That’s a great idea,” Prisha smiled while she balanced the dyes in her hand, walking past the bookshelf that held a few books that had caught her attention for future reading. The lower shelfs of the light brown bookshelf held the many different pages of music that Minnie had composed and other songs she didn’t want lost to the sands of time.

Prisha set down the two small containers of dye and four empty cans on the side table that stood between the two sets of bunk beds. A small, blue violet in a garden pot was placed on top of the side table. Its tiny, delicate blue petals danced with the light breeze that was coming through the cracks of the window.

“Alright,” Louis moved over to stand by Prisha. “Let’s get this started. I’ll mix up the yellow while you mix up the blue?”

“Yes, that should work,” Prisha waited for a moment while Louis filled the four cans cans before letting Prisha start mixing in the dye. The two stood around slowly stirring in the dye as it made the right color paint for them. “Oh, Louis? Could you grab the art box in the closet?”

“Sure,” Louis jogged over, pulling open the closet door and revealing Sophie’s old art box covered with all her stickers.

“There should be a couple of paint brushes in there.” Prisha looked back at Louis who nodded and then snatched up all the paintbrushes, both big and small. Returning to Prisha’s side, Louis placed down the paintbrushes and worked on completing the yellow paint. When both of them were satisfied with the colors, they worked on getting the old bed sheets up on the beds to cover them.

Louis was the first to get up, climbing up onto the bunk before the realization struck him. Shimmying his way under the sheet so he wouldn’t get paint on his coat, he reached out his hands to grab the two cans of paint, one of each color, and his paintbrush from Prisha. When he was all set and ready to go, Prisha positioned her set of paints and brushes and climbed on to the bed to start painting. “Man, Violet is gonna be so happy when she sees this,”

Prisha couldn’t see his face, but she was sure it was beaming with excitement. Prisha felt her own smile grow as she dipped the paintbrush into the dark blue and moved it across the wall. “I can’t wait,” Prisha lay down on her side to make sure that she was getting the whole wall so that it could be absolutely covered with stars when she started adding the second color.

Louis hummed happily as he smeared blue paint on the ceiling. The two were wrapped up in their work, wanting to create the best possible starry sky for Violet. It was only when they had finished applying the dark blue paint that they took a break for it to dry.

“So, how are you going to draw your stars?” Louis looked over the safety railing down at Prisha, his arms dangling lazily off it while a goofy smile lay on his face. Prisha shifted on the bed and looked up at Louis.

“I’m going to try and draw it to the best of my abilities to look like the real thing,”

Louis noticed the nervousness in Prisha’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Prisha, I’m sure it’s gonna look great. I’m thinking of making mine like those classic stars that you would see in story books. Big, bright yellow stars that cover the whole ceiling. So Violet can really enjoy the sight if she ever decided to lay up here.”

“I think she’ll like that,” Prisha smiled up at Louis.

The two continued to talk while the paint dried. Louis offered to try and cover their shifts while Prisha showed Violet the room and gave them some time alone. Prisha gratefully accepted the offer. A happy giddiness danced in her stomach at the thought of Violet’s smile when she saw the finished painting. After some time the first layer of paint was dry and a second layer was soon applied to make sure that the blue paint was going to really stand out and last. When that had dried the pair moved to the other color to make the stars.

Louis had a bright, loud, yellow paint which he slapped on the ceiling while he shaped the stars. His excitement grew with each paint brush swipe that completed another star. Soon the ceiling was covered with Louis’ stars that were beaming, sparkling with all of the care he had put into crafting them.

Prisha stared at the deep blue before her. Slowly she closed her eyes, trying to recall the feeling that she got when she stared up at the sky and the bright, marvelous beauty that the stars brought to it. Opening her eyes, she lightly dipped her paintbrush into the can with a very light yellow, barely different from the white. Thanks to Louis’ careful work he had made just the right color for Prisha’s painting. Moving the paintbrush, Prisha created small dots on the wall, putting them each in precise places. When she felt like she had added enough of them, she dunked the paintbrush into the can again. Positioning the paintbrush in between her knees, she held onto it with a tight grasp while she used her hand to pull back on the bristles of the paintbrush. This caused small, minuscule specks of paint to fly and land on the wall, creating dozens upon dozens of tiny stars that covered the spots that the larger stars had failed to capture. Soon the entire wall was filled with tiny stars and a few prominent larger ones that stood to represent more specific stars in the sky. Prisha looked at her handiwork with a proud smile.

“Are you done too?” Louis climbed down the bunk, landing with a hard thunk before he snatched up the paint supplies and the bed sheet, pulling them off the top bunk bed. Louis gave an impressed whistle when he saw Prisha’s stars. “Damn, Prisha, you never told me you were an artist.”

Prisha rolled off her bed and took off the paints and bed sheet before looking up at Louis’ handiwork. “You’ve got some skills yourselves.” Prisha smiled at the different odd shapes and sizes of Louis’ stars.

Louis gave a small chuckle and scratched the back of his head. “Please, it's nothing compared to yours.” His eyes looked out the window, noticing the change in color signaling that it was nearing early evening. “I bet Clem and Vi are back. You wanna gather the supplies, wash your hand and greet them?”

Prisha looked down at her hand; her fingers were covered with the whitish yellow paint. “That would be a good idea.”

The two talked excitedly as they made their way to the water basin. Taking out some of the water, they washed the brushes and their hands before placing away the supplies. When they had just finished cleanup and had made their way back to the courtyard, they heard the happy barking of Rosie and the eager hissing of Garbage that made it known to all that Clementine and Violet had returned. Louis and Prisha made their way over to the two just as they had reached Omar and set down the buckets with a few fish in them.

“Hey, Clem!’ Louis leaned in and placed a kiss on her cheek. “How was fishing?”

“It went really well today. Vi and I were able to bring back a pretty good haul,” Clementine smiled over at Violet.

“Eh, I still missed a ton but yeah, I was able to get a few of them,” Violet gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Well it looks like you brought back a lot,” Prisha added, standing by Violet’s side.

Violet looked up at her for a second before glancing away, a small smile appearing on her lips.

“So, Omar, how long till dinnertime?” Louis tilted his head to try to peek into the pot.

Omar looked up from his prep. “It's gonna be a while. Maybe at least an hour, and no, Stew with Lou would not help,” Omar had seen the playful look in Louis’ eyes and wanted to stop it before he had to hear the classic spiel that Louis gave. Not that it was really that annoying… the first time. But after the amount of times Omar had heard all the variants of Stew With Lou from Louis, he figured he should try and space it out if he got the chance.

“Well in that case, Violet? I want to show you something before dinner back at our room,” Prisha’s words caused Violet to look up at her girlfriend with a confused expression.

“Okay, sure,”

Prisha reached down and gently intertwined her fingers with Violet while the pair made their way back to the dorms. When they had passed by Louis and Clementine, out of the corner of her eye Prisha could see both of their excited expressions and Louis giving a small thumbs up.

Violet and Prisha walked in silence through the halls. Prisha felt her heart race with each step that she took. She wasn’t sure whether her nervousness or excitement were stronger within her. She’ll like it... right? Prisha felt a small inkling of doubt appear in her mind.

“Prisha?”

She looked over to see Violet who seemed slightly concerned about her. Prisha gave a small smile.

“Sorry, just got lost in thought for a moment,” Prisha looked up and saw that they had arrived at their room. Stopping in front of the door, Prisha turned to look at Violet. “Okay, I need you to close your eyes.

Violet studied Prisha’s face for a few seconds.“I’m pretty fucking blind, but okay,” Violet closed her eyes. Prisha then opened the door before carefully grabbing both of Violet’s hands into her own. Steadily guiding her through the room, Prisha positioned Violet in front of the bunk beds. She took a quick second to make sure everything looked good. “Alright, you can open them,” Violet’s eyes slowly fluttered open. It took her a few seconds to see what the surprise was. But when she did her eyes widened in surprise. Her mouth was slightly open while her eyes traveled around to take in all of it.

“Louis helped me paint. He did the stars on the ceiling,” Prisha moved forward. “I did the ones by our bed. I know how much you miss seeing the stars at night. So I thought since we haven’t found a way to get your sight back yet, I would bring the stars to you.” Prisha watched as Violet silently made her way up on the bed and sat in front of the mural of stars that Prisha had painted. “I wanted to capture the beauty of the night sky and while I know it doesn’t compare to the actual thing, I hope-”

“Prisha,”

Prisha paused when she saw Violet’s hand reach out for her. Taking a place on the bed beside her, Prisha took her hand.

Violet was still busy staring at the stars when she spoke. One of her hands had touched the wall, brushing over the different stars. “Holy shit. I... You did this for me?” Violet looked over with slightly watery eyes.

“Of course,”

The two stared at each other for a minute when suddenly Violet reached her hands up and cupped Prisha’s face. Leaning in, she captured Prisha’s lips in a deep, loving kiss. Prisha felt her heart soar. Reaching up her hand, she placed it on Violet’s face and leaned further into the kiss. Right there in that moment it felt like she could melt into that kiss. Get lost in this feeling forever. She never wanted it to end.

After a while both of them pulled apart in need of some air. They looked at each with loving smiles while Prisha’s hand held onto Violet’s.

“Is it okay if we stay here for awhile?” Violet asked, rubbing the back of her neck while she looked over at her girlfriend.

“Sure,” Prisha looked at the smile on Violet’s face. It really had been worth every single second of struggle to see that rare bright smile that Violet had.

The two lay down and faced the wall. Prisha’s arm gently wrapped around Violet who curled up beside her. Violet’s hand reached up and intertwined with Prisha’s caressing the side of it as Violet stared at the wall. A warm smile appeared on her lips, her heart filled with happiness. “I love you,”

Violet’s words made Prisha’s heart skip a beat. There was no other feeling in this world that was quite like this. Nothing seemed to compare to it. The way that Violet made her feel, the peace and joy that having Violet in her life gave Prisha.

“I love you too,”

Prisha nuzzled her head against Violet as the two lay there, enjoying the moment, staring at the stars that Prisha placed in the sky for Violet.

#twdg #twdg violet #twdg prisha #twdg privet #fanfic #fluff

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seven-oomen · 4 years

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Hi, Ben! I’m glad your day went well and you’ve had good luck with your therapists so far! Thankfully today was not as bad as they’d feared (hence why they had me come in early), so it was mostly just a very long day, but not an especially stressful one. I spent most of it channeling my somewhat dormant Tetris skills to redo aisles to fit out all the new crap they’ve been sending for the holidays, actually. Which I generally tend to enjoy, as long as customers stay out of my way (sadly this is not often the case.) Hopefully since we’re past the traditionally worst days, and one of the managers is back from vacation, my schedule should go back to normal for a little while.

The new preview is adorable, even if my entire knowledge of Phineas and Ferb has been gleaned from Tumblr posts (I was always more of a Cartoon Network girl.) I look forward to learning along with Peter. XD And I look forward to all of the cuteness, even if they are being idiots. XD (Poor Mel - “I think this is worse than high school. How the hell is this actually WORSE than when we were in high school? Jfc.”)

And I’m pretty proud of the mountain ash thing, too, even though I’m sure I’m far from the first to think of it. XD And may I offer the suggestion of back-seam fishnet thigh highs? That way they could leave them on, and also offers the option of a garter belt. And because I’ve accepted that I’m absolutely shameless for clothes sharing, I feel like their tops are some ratty old college ones of Peter’s that they found in the vault/Noah’s attic/Chris’ storage unit, that didn’t make it into any of the memory quilts. They’re 90s tees, so they’re already kinda short and boxy, but they cut them off even shorter, trim the sleeves and remove the collar and open up the neckline until it reveals most of their neck and collarbone area.

Peter just comes home one day and Chris is bent over the island top making notes in a cookbook, the toe of one leather boot occasionally scuffing the floor, hips idly swaying as he works. Peter’s eyes just lock onto him like a laser, fervently following a line from the pointed tips of his heels, up the seams of his stockings and the straps of the garters that hug and highlight every line of toned muscle, to the blatant invitation printed across the graceful curve of his ass, like it’s his own personal treasure map. A herd of elephants stampeding through their living room couldn’t distract him from a view like that, so he sure as hell doesn’t notice the half-circle of mountain ash just inside the doorway to the kitchen until he quite literally faceplants against it. Chris hears his noise of pain and confusion, and just nonchalantly glances over one shoulder like “oh, are you finally home?”

Desperately attempting to play off his reaction, Peter finally manages “It’s not nice to tease, Christopher.”

“Why am I getting full-named? You don’t think I laid that line myself, do you?”

That’s when Noah comes sashaying past in a matching outfit, closing the circle of the ash line before Peter can react, heels clicking gently against the wooden flooring. He spins and hops up to sit on the island next to Chris, leaning back on his hands and crossing one knee coquettishly over the other, his cropped sleeves just barely clinging to those sturdy shoulders and doing absolutely nothing to conceal the flex of his arms, thigh highs cradling nearly every inch of those long, long legs, one heel tapping lightly against the island, smirk equal parts mischief and pure, unadulterated sass.

“What can I say? We thought it was only fair that you get to at least look at your gifts. We just weren’t entirely sure you deserved to touch." He turns his smirk down to Chris, who’s got a nearly matching expression at this point, and Chris tosses his book off towards the far counter as he climbs up onto the island with Noah, and they proceed to make Peter both very, very glad that the island is more than big enough to fit two grown adults, and very, very irritated with himself for his own distractablility (though really, who could blame him? he’s just grateful that Noah included a dining chair in the circle so he has something to collapse into.) (…so I perhaps should have included a warning that I’ve had wine. Sorry, not sorry?)

Uhhh…*clears throat* moving on… I saw the post with those littering clips, and that would be hysterical to see. Like, Chris doesn’t even have any cleaning products with him, he just tugs down his sleeve over his hand and starts polishing the guy’s side-view mirror and the driver’s side windshield while giving his not-threatening-you-but-I’m-definitely-threatening-you speech, while Noah just casually pulls out a ticket book and starts filling one out. And oh god, that lady is lucky Peter didn’t put his entire foot through the door. XD It would be absolutely impossible to tell if Ben was being sassy or completely serious. Peter would be so proud. And why can I hear Julio screaming out "GOOOOOOAAAALLLL!!!” at the top of his lungs because they used to do shit like that as kids and he just can’t help himself?

And I love the idea of them watching stuff together (shows, movies, whatever.) In the case of The Witcher, I feel like Derek would be part of the super into it group with Stiles and Allison, and they’d all be sitting there having intense discussions about it after each episode and somewhat wishing everyone else would be quieter. XD Anytime Chris or Noah tries to get up because someone needs a refill or a snack, Peter tightens his grip and sends one of the kids to get it instead, flashing his eyes and backing it up with a bit of alpha command if he needs to. He rarely has to though, whoever he calls on mostly just rolls their eyes and mutters under their breath about how embarrassing the three of them are, but does it anyway. The other two always make sure to profusely thank whoever it was, rolling their eyes with grudging acceptance at Peter’s antics.

Since this got unexpectedly long, and it is now later than I thought, I’m gonna try and wrap up. XD I hope that today is another good day, and that you have a good experience with the other therapist on Wednesday, too, no matter who you end up going with. And I’m glad you’re enjoying what you’ve written so far, because everything I’ve seen of the next chapter I’ve loved. Take care! *Hugs!*

I’m really glad to hear your day was not as hectic as it could have been. Though I hope things further calm down and that the relief of your manager coming back will set things back to normal. Because it sounds like things have been brutal.

honestly, I’m loving every single second of your wine induced babble and kept giggling while reading it, so apology accepted but very much not needed please keep going XD.

Now it is kinda late here and I have my other therapy appointment in 12 hours so I’m gonna keep it short. But there’s another little preview and I wanted to share this gem. (I hope it comes across as cute.)

Peter’s face was currently torn between a look of disgust at said vegetables and pure adoration for both him and Chris and it was honestly one of the funniest tormented faces he’d ever seen on their mate. Far funnier then that time they’d locked him out of a make out session while at the mall. Back when they were teenagers and horny and sassy all the time and when they didn’t have children or responsibilities.

Hope work’s okay and you’re doing okay, me and Mo are giving you lots of hugs and encouragement at least. <3

#ben says stuff #once upon a time comments #my convos with anon #B #submission

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yogaposesfortwo · 4 years

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The Yamas Explained - 8 Limb Path

The Foundation of Yoga When we mention yoga as asana (postures), we are only pertaining to one among 8 Limbs of Yoga. There are 7 other foundational pillars that structure the 8-fold-path and if we only specialise in the postures, we are ignoring 90% of the practice. within the Yoga Sutras, Patanjali states that every of the 8 limbs is adequate to the others and necessary. Yoga philosophy can sometimes feel very daunting and heavy, it’s tons to digest. thereupon being said, i would like to present this during a way that you’ll be ready to absorb and apply this to your life, so we'll take this step by step, one limb at a time. This will be first during a series of 8. Today we'll discuss the primary of 8 limbs: Yama. What are the YAMAS? The word yama translates to “restraints”. they're what Patanjali calls, the good Vows, a system of living. “The great vows are universal, not limited by class, place, time, or circumstance.” they're essentially guidelines asking us to be reasonable and decent to others. They are ethical disciplines that teach us the way to show up within the world and not be an asshole. Non-violenceTruthNon-stealingNon-excessNon-possessiveness AHIMSA – Non-violence II.35 “In the presence of 1 firmly established in non-violence, all hostilities cease.” There are obvious sorts of violence which will be easily understood like killing or physically harming another person or living being. We are taught from a young age to not harm others, but Ahimsa goes beyond just physical violence. It means “to do no harm”, which applies to others, ourselves, and therefore the world around us. It applies physically, mentally, and emotionally. Non-violence stands at the very core and foundation of yoga philosophy and practice. Non-violence shows up in some ways . one among the most important ways it shows up on behalf of me is that the way I ask myself. The negative self-talk that shows up once I look within the mirror and feel bloated, once I don’t like what my hair is doing, once I desire I’m not ok . this is often once I need to practice Ahimsa. If we would like to march through this life pityingly and act from an area of affection towards others, it's to start out with ourselves. Learning the way to move through lifestyle , and therefore the challenges we all face, is how we grow our capacity to be non-violent. When we practice Ahimsa continuously in our thoughts, words, and actions, our entire personality brings out those vibrations and from our core, we will act from an area of affection . SATYA – Truthfulness II.36 “To one established in truthfulness, actions and their results become subservient.” What Patanjali says about Satya is essentially that whatever you speak is your truth. This sutra doesn’t necessarily always ask telling the reality , it’s deeper than that. He says “ If a curse is spoken, it'll happen. If a blessing is spoken, it'll happen.” It’s an encouragement to steer an open life, to be more honest with ourselves so we will live a life that aligns truthfully to our values. This means standing in our truth and not telling little white lies, albeit it it makes us uncomfortable. It doesn’t mean be so truthful that you simply will hurt another person. We are to talk the reality when true, as long as it’s kind and necessary. If it’s not kind or necessary, then just don’t say it. We’re not meant to cover behind our niceness, we also are not meant to harm another with our words (ahimsa). There’s that quote from the bible “The truth will set you free”, and consistent with the yoga bible (The Yoga Sutras), John was right! Truth has the facility to free us from sorrow and fears. If we all know our truth and follow our integrity we will be more confident in deciding , and in our relationships with ourselves and with others. For me, finding my truth means really digging deep into Hell of my soul and excavating my core values. It’s not a simple task, but once we do that quite work, it’s extremely rewarding. Lately I’ve been practicing Satya by being more conscious of the lies I tell myself. My lies range from “you’re not good enough” all the thanks to “you’re better than them”. I also mislead myself about about time and money, creating an inner dialogue that creates me think there’s never enough. this is often a lie. When I’m ready to distinguish the difference between what are my truths and what are my lies, my life is far more peaceful. I’m a nicer person to myself and to others (again Ahimsa), and overall I feel more grounded. Trusting myself is one among the foremost valuable tools yoga has taught me. ASTEYA – Non-stealing II.37 “To one established in non-stealing, all wealth comes.” Patanjali says, “the richest person within the world is that the one with a cool mind, free from tension and anxiety.” He’s not just simply talking about stealing material possessions from others. We steal in numerous ways in which won't be obvious. Stealing can are available the shape of stealing other people’s ideas, or other people’s time. We steal from the world , we steal from ourselves, we steal from our own opportunity to grow. Let’s use the instance of stealing someone else’s excitement or sadness. I even have a lover who we’ll just call Susan. Any time I’m with Susan and I’m telling her about something exciting that’s happening in my life, or something that I’m sad about, Susan always finds how to show the conversation back on herself. this is often an enormous sort of stealing. once we compare ourselves to others or pipe in with our own stories when someone is else telling us their story, we are, albeit it’s subconscious, boosting our own ego’s and not being present for them. For all you yoga teachers out there, the thought of stealing time may be a big one. It’s important to honor time in order that you’re not stealing it from your students. People have places to be. We must consider it as our practice of Asteya. It’s not fair for you to consistently run 5 or 10 minutes over, that's not some time to require . If you’re getting to borrow ideas from other teachers, give credit where credit is due. Did any folks “make up” yoga? No! can we get inspired by other teacher’s sequencing? Of course! albeit they didn’t structure the pose, if you learned something from somebody else and you’re applying it to your class, honor your teachers and acknowledge them. This is true for timeliness generally . Practice non-stealing by exposure on time to a coffee date or dinner with the women . Honor each other’s time and your own, and remember of once you are taking over an excessive amount of of somebody else’s. BRAHMACHARYA – Non-excess II.38 “By one established in continence, vigor is gained.” All things carefully . The fourth yama asks us to use moderation in our lifestyle, and with our energy. this suggests that when our bodies are tired, we rest. And when we’ve been sitting on the couch for two days watching Netflix, we move. Essentially, Brahmacharya is about maintaining balance altogether senses by practicing moderation and consistency. Think for a flash about what’s sitting in boxes in your attic or within the basement or a storage unit. does one actually need these things? If you’re being honest, does one even know the contents of these boxes? once we have an excess amount of “stuff”, this is often described within the Sutras as overindulgence. It’s the things that you simply want, but you don’t actually need . In my experience, these things weighs us down and blocks us from reaching our greatest potential. Getting obviate the unnecessary possessions frees up space in our minds and in our lives. It creates a way of liberation and vitality. This also applies to an asana practice. once you do a pose because simply because you'll or simply because you see others around you doing it, but you don’t really need to try to to it, this is often practicing in excess. simply because you'll doesn’t always mean you ought to . It’s important that we concentrate to our bodies once we are on our mats so we will listen and concentrate to what we really need vs. what we would like . this stuff feel similar but if we take a better look, they're very different. And if we will lookout of our basic needs, the requirements subsided and fewer valuable. APARIGRAHA – Non-possessiveness II.39 “When non-greed is confirmed, a radical illumination of the how and why of one’s birth comes.” The 5th and final Yama, Aparigraha, means non-greed, non-possessiveness, or non-hoarding. It also can mean non-clinging, non-grasping, and non-coveting. Another to thanks to check out this, is having the ability to “let go”. Whatever we possess, possesses us. We can abandoning in some ways , like letting go of our attachments to identities, or to our favourite clothes. Without realizing it, we walk around in life, attaching ourselves to identities or roles (mom, doctor, yogi, vegan, etc) and that we allow them to define us. this is often where we get in trouble. What happens if we allow our external environments to impact our belief about who we are? for instance , let’s say you let your job title define you, otherwise you deeply identify together with your romantic relationship, then you get fired or your spouse dumps you. You then also lose your sense of self. you're then liable for your own pain and sadness. This Yama is about releasing attachment to people , to substances, to the will to realize success as sort of validation from others. As we cultivate a way of simplicity in our lives, we start to honor ourselves on a way deeper level. Taking It beat The Yamas are our basic restraints. Read them, and skim them again. Soak it up and let it sink in. These points are something to review and live by throughout a whole lifetime. Revisit them however often you would like to and begin applying these principles to your life, and the way you show up within the world. Allow them to require form, and witness the evolution of your own being. Author: Nicole Gheorghe Source: https://dopeyogi.com/the-yamas/ Discover more info about Yoga Poses for Two People here: Yoga Poses for Two Read the full article

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mimiplaysgames · 5 years

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Transitions ~ In colors like paint

Terraqua Week Day 3: Seasons

Summary: Change hurts. There will be a lot of missteps before Aqua can figure out how to start anew. Where each season makes them realize how much they really need to forgive each other - and themselves. @terraquaweek

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Autumn ~ Taking stock of adulthood

Their first days back home are about rest: remembering what laughing feels like, how delicious Aqua’s baking is, how a snore sounds.

What they’ve reaped from months (years) of neglect is a castle full of dust and piles of dirt tucked into corners from the wind blowing in. It’s how autumn gathers a storm of red and yellow, leaving them stacked against windows that need to be aired out like dirty laundry.

The castle is far too big for them, so the west wing is particularly ignored, wood all needing a good wax and cushions that need to be washed. Right now, it’s about figuring out what they have in order to prepare for the new students coming in next year.

Ventus sneezes as he walks past the fifth couch in the third lounge they have seen today (they’ll have to convert a lot of them into bedrooms) when Terra opens the door.

“You won’t believe what I just found,” he says, though he’s directing it mainly towards Aqua.

It’s a short walk around two corners, heading towards the back of the castle, where he leads them through a maze of hallways just to stop at another hallway.

“Remember this?” He points and asks Aqua.

A small painting near the floor, faded from age, depict stick figures of a girl and a boy with a cartoonish mockery of a castle in gold, and a simple sun. Plus two tiny hand prints, one made in gray-blue paint and one in dull-orange.

It’s been at least a good twelve years since she’s ever thought of it.

Aqua sits on her knees and touches the figure - the paint is so dry and crusty that it chips off the shoulder of her character. She’ll have to be gentler next time.

“I still can’t believe the Master never removed it,” she says softly.

“Yeah, he was really mad at us,” Terra says, bending down with her and pressing his hand against the print his child-self left behind. He is so big now that the child’s memory in its entirety is smaller than his palm.

“How old were the two of you when you did this?” Ventus asks, leaning on his knees to inspect the masterpiece.

Aqua and Terra shoot looks at each other, seeking permission to speak first, pondering their minds to see if they have the same answer.

“Six and seven, I think,” Aqua answers, and Terra agrees. “We finger-painted it. That was the first time I was ever grounded.”

“Cute… what are you going to do with it now?”

Desaturated from its original colors, the painting looks like a stain against the towering white wall, which stretches down the hall.

“The responsible thing, I guess,” she says, though her voice hitches in the slightest - something about the thought makes her feel like she’s killing her child, like the Aqua of the past and the Aqua of now are two different people. In a way, she’s betraying someone close to her. “Paint over it, keep it clean for the new students.”

Terra shakes his head, running his palm against the wall surrounding the old paint like he’s measuring it.

“Is that what you actually want?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“I don’t feel right doing it either,” he says. “It’s like, the Terra who left this behind had no idea how his life was going to turn out. All he had were goals and dreams.”

She chuckles - as much as she enjoys watching him smile, she’d have to say he’s at his most beautiful when he’s introspective.

“I feel the same way, if I’m going to be honest.”

“Yeah.” He takes one hard look at the painting. “I want to make amends to my younger self, instead of burying him. Let him be happy. Is that strange?”

“Not at all.” What is strange is how near she is at tears - Terra always has a way of knowing what she needs, even if he doesn’t mean to. Less strange is her need to hold his hand; years of lacking any affection made her realize that what she truly wanted this entire time was for him to touch her.

So she takes his hand, grips it firmly, and so easily he weaves his fingers in hers, like it’s same old, same old.

Terra faces Ven, to include him in. “Why don’t we give it some attention? It looks really sad.”

“There’s paint in the storage unit,” Ventus replies excitedly.

The old paint smells bad but it’s not like they have anything else - it’s not every day these three indulge in a little arts and crafts session. Fingers too big to mimic the traces of children, they use pencil-thin brushes and careful strokes to make the recoat as close to the original: Terra and Aqua on their respective characters and handprints, Ventus on the cartoon sun and castle.

It’s only with Terra’s permission that Ven can add a stick figure of himself and Chirithy.

When they are done, Terra opens a sealed pot of green paint. “Ven, you’ll join in.”

He dips his own hand into orange paint, and plasters it on the wall, right next to his old hand print.

Aqua follows suit with the blue, and it feels like she’s making a new friend.

With the stick end of a paintbrush, Terra points to a place in between. “Yours will go here, Ven.”

Ventus gives him a look, almost like he was about to joke over how seriously Terra is taking this, but decides against it, following orders by dipping his hand into the green paint and adding it to the painting.

“Cheers’ will go right beside yours,” Terra says.

Chirithy chooses purple and on goes its tiny pawprint, like a period to a sentence. One little happy family with a cat-thing.

Honestly, it still looks like a mess in comparison to the stunning white wall, but at least it’s colorful, like a permanent bouquet of flowers in an otherwise cold season that only exists to make it colder.

Winter ~ There are two kinds of death: one of irreversible changes, and one of growth from rot

Winter is for snuggling, for warm hot chocolates, blankets, fireplaces, and stories to make everyone forget that it’s miserable outside.

If only Terra is here to enjoy that. His replies through the Gummiphone are inconsistent and short, like he doesn’t want to be bothered or is too busy to really check. He is most vague when he refers to his whereabouts.

Ventus is doing the favor of waiting for Terra to return, but he’s been planning his own trip for quite some time. It’s not fair to him - but at least he won’t be alone, since Chirithy will go with him.

Aqua supposes that she would like at least a day with her whole family together.

“You sure you have everything?” she asks him.

Ventus smirks but thinks better than giving her a sarcastic answer. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me, but yes.”

She sighs. Snow builds up in the skylights. Where is Terra?

“Excited?” she asks, thinking it best not to dread over things. It’s always how she ruins the moment.

“I am,” he starts, slowly realizing something else like there’s a voice in his head trying to convince him otherwise. “Maybe. Merlin is probably going to have me sitting all day reading books.”

Ventus doesn’t think he’d be a good teacher or has the capability of being a leader, so he wants to seek knowledge instead. And who better to start than by honing his finesse over magic than with the wizard himself?

“Lea and Kairi only had good things to say about his training.”

“That’s only because they’re polite when you’re around,” Ventus smirks.

She sighs. Again. “Terra should be here to say goodbye.”

He nods over to the direction past her. “Why don’t you tell him?”

Whipping over her shoulder, she sees who-else-but strolling up to them, his overcoat gone and without his shoes which means he has entered the castle and didn’t say hi to them first.

Chirithy, who most of the time sits quietly on Ven’s shoulders and is a bit too calculating with which conversations it joins, squeaks to itself. “Something is not right.”

She’ll pretend not to hear that. “Where were you?” Aqua asks Terra.

Ventus clears his throat - an indication that just maybe, the inflection in her voice may sound a tad accusatory. Not the best way to start anything with Terra.

“Around,” is his casual answer, gliding past her and reaching to ruffle Ven’s hair. “I’m glad I made it in time. Needed to say good luck.”

“And now it’s time for me to leave,” Ventus says, fixing his hairdo. “I want to beat the snowstorm at least.”

“You’d only be exposed for a few minutes before you leave the world,” Terra objects.

“Well, someone should have been here earlier.” Ignoring the way Chirithy is pulling at his hair, he takes his only suitcase. “The next time you’ll see me, I’ll wow you with my new skills, and you will all be jealous.”

He gives the two of them one final look before heading out the door. “Play nice, you two.”

Maybe she’s the only one thinking that something’s amiss, what with Terra rubbing his forearms together with a smile on his face as he faces her. “I want to show you something.”

That something is a pile of rags neatly laid out on the floor under the wall with the child’s painting, and brand new buckets of paint.

Terra is excited. “I thought we could make a mural out of this.” His fingers graze the wall, tracing it as he walks down. “We could have a night sky up above, with stars. Under it will be the mountains, and the castle at the very end.” He comes back to their childish project, cupping his hands around it. “We’ll keep this here, protected.”

It’s hard not to burst his bubble. It’s also really hard not to make it sound awful coming out of her mouth. “You left us to buy paint?”

He lays a fist against the white. “Not really. I just needed some time to myself.”

She folds her arms to hug herself. All she really wants is a straight answer, but Terra’s not the type to be pushed. “You were gone for a really long time.”

“I know.” He doesn’t look her in the eye; she will not get her answer tonight. “But we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he says, addressing the wall. “We’ll only do it with your permission.”

“My permission?” She scratches her ear. “You already bought the paint.”

“We may need it for other things.” He shrugs. “You’re still keeper of the castle.”

She sighs. It’s nice to see him look forward to something. She’s thought so much about what made him leave in the first place, reliving the days right before again and again in her mind - he was restless a little bit, didn’t sleep much, but none of that is new. Then he left to fight some straggling Heartless in another world, and never came back.

Maybe she’s taking him completely out of context.

“Tell me first why you’re so attached to this idea,” she says.

He taps the wall. “It’s weird, I know I’m back, but it feels like I’m not...

“I wanted a fresh start. Do something the Master would never approve of. A blank slate for us to go off on that has nothing to do with the lives we’ve lived or the hell we’ve been through. I want something just for the both of us. Like, something that tells us we have our lives back together. Does that make sense?”

It does. Getting on the right footing with him isn’t the easiest thing when he’s completely enveloped in giving her attention one day and then completely distant the next. She can’t blame him for that either, she behaves the same way sometimes.

Having trauma is like having some days all to herself; the rest no longer belong to her.

But a few weeks of him gone - when she’s spent years praying that he’d touch her again - is worse torture.

Aqua decides it’s time to let the past die. She wraps her arms around his waist, digs her face into his sweater.

“We’ll start by hugging you?” she replies.

He closes the embrace, holding her firmly like he’s forgotten that he needed the hug too.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice in her hair. “For making you worry.”

She nods. “Can I hug you whenever I want?”

He snorts, bringing her in tighter. “I’d like that.”

“Okay.” She brings herself to look up at him, his genuine smile in full display. “We can do the mural.”

Excitement on Terra’s face is special: it’s subtle, so much so that anyone who doesn’t know him well would probably never guess.

He gives her a gentle squeeze to let her know he’ll let her go, before opening a bucket of blue paint and dipping a wide brush into it. Starting a few inches from the child’s painting, he sweeps upward - the color of a winter sky.

Spring ~ Birth by sleep

Flowers make blossoming look easy. It gradually comes in a matter of days, berry sprouts and flecks of color casually making their acquaintance through the fields. Soon, the Master’s old gardens will have a variety of colors.

Soon, if she takes care of them.

The ease at which she finds gardening isn’t true for anything else in her life that needs growth. Birthing a new life with Terra is slow, arduous, exciting, and truth be told, painful at times - painful when old habits don’t die and he keeps stonewalling her when she presses him too hard.

Nighttime in the spring isn’t like the summer’s - it’s cold.

It was only supposed to be a simple mission, taking out Heartless that threatened a small town. That was it.

Terra storms through the entrance hall, throwing his helmet in a fury as she follows from behind.

“Listen to me,” she calls from behind him, “there’s nothing wrong with what-”

He stops dead in his tracks, whips to face her, holds a finger up like he’s going to jab it in her face, then thinks better of it and crosses his arms, head slung over.

Part of her wants to berate herself for pushing the subject when he’s uncomfortable; the other has lost her patience. How many times is this erratic mood going to continue?

“It wasn’t a big deal,” she says. Wasn’t it?

“How can you say that,” he snaps.

“You were only trying to help-”

“That doesn’t help at all-”

“You didn’t even hurt anybody-”

“I could have!”

It shuts her up, it surprises him. She can count the number of times Terra has ever yelled in his life in one hand, this being included. It’s just not like him. The sound of it throwing itself against the walls still vibrates, and he stares at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have really pressed the issue.”

All Terra does is shake his head, mumbling to himself with his eyes closed. He’s in a ton of pain, and in her desperate need to correct what’s been going on, she really failed at seeing it. She really should have been more sensitive, she really should have…

“This is the reason you disappeared a few months ago, right?” she asks.

It’s the purse in his lips and the sharp inhale that tells her she’s right. “I’m going to bed,” he says.

“Terra, I really am sorry.”

“I heard you, you’re forgiven.” Said like someone who wants to be as far away from her as possible.

“We-” she starts, her hand outstretched because she always, always hugs him goodnight.

He actually stops and turns to face her. Leave it to Terra to be the better person, to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Um…” She hides one hand in her sashes, to let herself fiddle with her fingers without making it obvious. “We can work on the mural tonight, if you want to.”

He licks his lips. “Not tonight.” Defeated and tired are just two words to describe it, turning away like they’ve never made a deal about hugs before.

The castle is still and sleepy when she’s by herself. Ventus is still in his sabbatical, Terra retiring to his room for the rest of… some part of her is scared that he’ll have to take a break too.

When she walks, the echoes of her shoes are heard by nothing, slightly bouncing off the walls before silence takes a bite.

It’s quieter in the western wing. The mural is tedious work, so humongous that Terra, who’s been doing the sky, has to shuffle in between steps of the ladder just to paint vertically, before having to scooch the entire thing over to get to the next surface area. She’s doing the grass, and she splits her time between standing up and being on her knees.

So far, the base colors are done, two flat sections of dark blue and green. What they’d have to do next is the shading, making grass blades and pepper it with stars...

Which would give them ample time to talk about things, if he was here. Painting is the best therapist, giving their hands and half their mind something pleasant to do while allowing them the comfort to talk.

But Terra isn’t here.

No, Terra is in his room, and she hears ruffling when she stands outside his door. She’s sure to knock softly.

He gives her a soft “Hey” when he opens the door, his face wearing regret over what happened earlier. Behind him is an opened suitcase with haphazardly folded clothes.

“You’re leaving again?” she asks and crosses her arms.

“Thinking about it.” He slips his hands into his pockets, clears his throat. He honestly looks like a child accepting that his parents have abandoned him. “I’m just not comfortable with… with knowing what I’m capable of.”

“You don’t think, for even a second that-” She breathes. “That maybe darkness won’t be so bad if you used it right?”

“Used it right?”

“I’ve had it.” She places her hand firmly against her chest, in conviction. So that he sees her, so that he understands. “And it was sad. That’s all I felt, that’s all it was. And I still feel sad sometimes, but I’m not dark.”

“But I don’t want it.” He swings his arm in dismissal. “If I could, I’d punch it in the face for what it did to you.”

Pause. To care this much, and she cares, too. Too much to let him think it’d be a good idea to leave. “It was effective at least.”

“It’s still darkness.”

“Riku wouldn’t even agree with you.” Her breath hitches. When is she going to learn to respect his boundaries? “You have a good heart, Terra. You have all the right intentions, you’re kind and generous and steadfast and the best person I know-”

It’s the way he’s staring at her that makes her stop. She hasn’t realized yet that she’s building tears behind her eyes.

“I won’t leave if you don’t want me to,” he says, a compassionate smile on his face, like he’s so tired of this but he chooses to sympathize with her anyway.

She wants to say Please don’t leave me, beg him to keep this castle alive while Ventus and Chirithy are gone, but that is unbecoming of her.

She could say Please stay, but then how could she be better person if she was still trying to nudge Terra around to her whim?

She could say It’s fine, please go, and it would betray what she really wants, allow Terra to cater to his own needs while she tolerates her pain. Again.

Taking that first step towards him is the hardest, like trying to breathe underwater and feeling the burn, her heart pounding like it’s beating holes into the earth with its bare hands. Starting over has its costs.

Her arms wrap around his neck, and she says, “I love you.”

She doesn’t know what else to say, this being the truest, as bare as the tears falling down her face.

Terra… gasps. Freezes in her touch like he’s unsure of what to do, before hugging her back, so tightly like she’ll just slip if he loosens his grip.

All she hears are trembling sighs like she’s cast a silence spell on him, but she still listens - to the way he rubs her arms, the way his eyes scatter her face, the way he cups her jaw and leans down to kiss her -

Not on her mouth, but on her eyelid, leading down the trail of tears like he’s drinking them, to her jaw before moving on to the other eyelid. It’s loony for sure, but it speaks with his truth: this new, mutable Terra has his heart where it’s always been all these years - with her.

The touch of his lips, it’s better than anything she’s ever daydreamed about in her youth, in the Realm of Darkness. Startling and soft enough to make her stop crying, that every tear coming out now is just a straggler who left too late.

When he’s done, he takes her lips in his, her waist into his arms, her hair into his hands. They both tremble in this embrace, shocked and nervous and excited about the exchange, anew, like this is the first time either of them have been born.

They only stop to take a breath. “Can I stay?” she asks.

He grins into her forehead. “I was going to ask you the same.”

It takes countless more kisses, more silent tears of joy, more back rubs and more breathy laughs in between before they go to his bed and make a new life in between their bodies, for themselves. They end the night with a whispered promise that they’ll continue the mural tomorrow.

Summer ~ To make room for joy

If summer is supposed to be for relaxing, it doesn’t exist inside the castle. It’s crunch time - setting up class schedules, moving new furniture in, making a dormitory out of the western wing.

Perhaps, most personally, it’s time to finally finish it. The tediousness gets easier with time.

Terra stands at the very top of the ladder at the far right side, finishing his last few stars, rounded out like curved Wayfinders, some larger, others like twinkles.

Aqua is below, proudly finished with shading grass and adding trees. She’s touching up the biggest stained-glass window of a depiction of the castle, using a photograph as a reference - it’s very two-dimensional but she’s not a professional.

“I think I’m done,” she announces.

“You’ll find a reason to come back and tweak it,” he says, his face mere inches from the wall as he adds the tiniest bit of stars over the tallest tower.

“But,” he adds, taking one last look over, “I’m definitely done.”

He waddles down the finicky ladder, squeaking with every step. The last stars he added look like dots, scattered and spread over the castle like a blessing.

“Stardust,” she says. “Protecting the castle, that’s so sweet.”

“Really?” He looks up, his grip never leaving the ladder rungs, and shrugs. “Kind of, yeah.”

“What is it supposed to be?”

“I mean, stardust, you’re right.” He lets go. “I think other people would interpret it the same way.”

“I’m serious.”

He chuckles, rubs the back of his neck. “The star is crying.”

She nearly drops her paintbrush. “Why are you thinking about crying?”

A pause first before he crosses his arms, wipes his mouth of nervousness. “There’s not much I remember from… being… Xehanort really.”

That name always makes them tense and they seldom say it. It’s usually you-know-who, or him, or that time.

“I don’t know where he was during that time,” Terra continues, “but it was one of the very few moments that I actually had some consciousness. I heard things, like voices. I don’t know why he was talking to a little girl, but I heard her, so clearly.”

He’s somewhere far away, completely forgetting that he has his hand suspended in the air as he reminisces.

“They were actually talking about hearts, him and this little girl, and she said to him that when a person cries, their tears are their hearts shedding, and they lose a part of themselves the more they do...

“And I always suspected that was what made me so weak, because being in that darkness felt like I was crying for twelve years. I wanted to paint that in to make it okay.”

The thought makes him cry, like he’s finally putting a secret to rest.

She takes his face in her hands, does the same nutty ritual he gave her months ago, starting with a kiss to his eyelid, tracing the tears running down his cheek, to his jaw, then to the other eyelid.

There’s sense in picking up his tears and making them her own.

“It will be our secret interpretation,” she says.

He takes her by the waist, smirking in his last attempt to let go of the baggage. Stares at her for a second too long, like he keeps arguing with himself to say something.

“I love you, too.”

The words leave her speechless - she always chose to feel loved when he held her close every night.

He laughs, his fingers interlacing with each other on her back, so he can’t let her go. “I’m sorry I never said them before.”

She cocks him a half-smile. “Why didn’t you?”

“I…” He shrugs. “I knew this was all real but when you told me that, I honestly started to question if I was in a dream. That I’d wake up and find myself in darkness, like I was experiencing a fantasy I wanted.”

“Terra,” she smacks him on the chest. “That’s depressing.”

“I just didn’t know why.”

“Why?”

“Yes, why you love me.”

She kisses him, long, hard, sweet. “That’s why.”

… It’s like someone has been watching a show and was just waiting for the prime opportunity to interrupt.

“Looks like no one’s been missing us,” Ventus says from behind her, Chirithy along for the ride, getting a front-seat view.

It makes her jump and whip around, nearly melting in Terra’s arms out of embarrassment.

“Ven,” she calls, half-relieved, half-shocked, mostly hot-faced as she picks up speed to give him a well-deserved Welcome Back hug. Terra follows with a rough rustle through the hair, like he’s been dying to do it for months.

“Please be sure,” Chirithy says, “to behave more appropriately in front of the students when they get here.”

Aqua brings her hand to her chest like she just heard something scandalous - Chirithy is way more responsibility than a house cat, almost like having a nagging teacher around that they have to feed and bathe and brush.

“I’m sorry, Cheers, I just didn’t know,” she says, to keep the peace, scratching under its chin like an olive branch.

Terra gives her a look, a smirk that says he’s quite proud of himself. Yes, let’s pretend they haven’t been kissing for months and that no one has seen anything.

“It looks so great!” Ventus says about their handiwork.

“We had a lot of fun,” Terra says, bringing his hands back into his pockets.

Ventus has a huge, ornate book that looks like it has been written 500 years ago in one arm, and he opens it. “I think it’s missing something.”

“You’re not ruining it.”

He waves his arm in dismissal. “I know what I’m doing.”

After reading to himself, he takes a look around, then back down to the page. Then back up. “We’ll need the lights off, please.”

He then prepares himself in front of the mural, re-checking his book and noticing that he can’t read it anymore because it’s too dark.

It would be nice to add Ven into such a precious project, but come on.

“Terra’s right,” Aqua says. “If you ruin it, you’re done for.”

“I get it,” Ventus says. He turns over his shoulder. “Just don’t make out behind me.”

“Get on with it,” Terra says, taking his place next to Aqua.

Ventus sighs, takes a moment.

“You can do it,” Chirithy squeaks, “teach him he is wrong.”

Teach who he is wrong?

Ven conjures a ball of light, grabs it, waves it, and throws, making it burst into a spray of sparks, each landing on one of Terra’s stars, adding bright shine to them and a glitter effect to the stardust.

“Ven, it’s wonderful,” Aqua says, nearly being moved to tears. She stops herself, bringing a finger to her face and looking over at Terra, who is wide-eyed at her and points a finger like he’s telling her to watch.

It’s been a long time since all of them smiled like this.

“HA!” Ventus exclaims, and it makes her jump. He slams the book closed. “This will show him.”

“What is this about?” she asks.

“I’ve been with him for months and he didn’t think I was capable of doing this.” He brings his gummiphone out, to take a picture. “I swore I’d make him eat his words.”

“You’ve shown all of us,” Terra says, nudging Aqua on the arm. “I’m completely jealous.”

“Yes,” Aqua says, shoving him back before accepting an arm around her. “I am, too.”

“It will now shine at night like this forever,” Ven says. He’s proud of himself, and he should be. “Something for the students to look at whenever they want.”

“We’ll have stars indoors when it’s storming out,” Aqua says, leaning her head onto Terra’s.

“The best gift ever.” Terra slips his fingers in between hers, in the dark, where Ven can’t see (but Ven can assume correctly that it’s happening).

In the mountains, summer nights are clear. The perfect shade of blue skies, a balance of cool breezes to scare away the heat, begging for noise and campfires.

Stardust will bless the castle, trees will dance in the wind. In the wish for a future, there’s a halo of white to protect a painting of childish dreams.

#terraqua #terqua #terraquaweek #kh fanfic #aqua #terra #kingdom hearts fanfiction #terraqua week #AHHHHHH this is the only long one #i swear!!!!#my fic

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ficstogo · 5 years

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Christmas With You

Pairing: John x Reader

Summary: You spend your first christmas with John.

Word Count: 2875

Warnings: None

A/N: What was suppose to be a fic at first I turned this headcannon to what you see here now. Sorry for the mix up! I need to learn how to read things over.

Exams were Exams. You were on your last one for the day and you were happy it was the easiest one you’ve taken before your holiday break officially began. You didn’t care much for the holidays all too much, the older you got the less magic it had. You didn’t hate it but you didn’t care for it either. You were mainly looking forward to spring and the warm weather to come back. That and the end of the semester. Happy that you were on the last question, you smiled at your freedom. Walking out the door, you see John waiting with his books in his hand and all snuggled up in a winter coat. It made him look cute, like a small child.

“Hi.” You said as you give him a peck on his lips.

“Hi.” Walking out, holding your hand with a smile, he asks, “How’d you think you did?”

“Pretty sure I passed. It wasn’t too hard of an exam.” You said with a smile to return.

“Well how about we get some coffee to celebrate.” He responded back as you gave a nod. Even if there was nothing to celebrate, it was a ritual to go to the coffee shop whenever the both of you got done with classes. It was your guys thing even before you two started dating about a month ago.

As relaxed as two people can be, you and John spent the time conversing with each other about whatever came to the top of your heads, no matter how ridiculous. The conversation then turned to the reason why everyone was out for classes. Christmas.

“So what are you up to for Krimble?” John asks as he takes a cautious sip of his refill.

“Uh, nothing really. Sleep in and all. My parents are actually away on holiday now that I’m in school so, no plans really.” You explained to him. Although you would like to spend the holidays with them, you were actually happy that they finally had some time to spend together alone.

John looked at you with a bit of concern. He didn’t like the idea that you would spend the holidays on your own but he was going to be visiting his parents also. “Oh, well I’m going to be with my parents to help them set up a small christmas party but I’d really like it if you’d come along to it, if you want.”

You only smiled at his kindness as you went to hold his hand. “I’m sure it’d be a fun time if I went.” You didn’t think too much of it. You already met his parents beforehand but as a friend. This would be the first time you would see them as his girlfriend but it didn’t worry you that much. They did like you, which you appreciated and they were always so kind to you, a second family you could say.

During the days leading up to the party, You spent your time doing the usual errands and going to work while John did the same coming in and out of your apartment to spend time or have dinner with you. There was that day you hadn’t seen John. He rang you up a little late since he went to help his parents. He sounded so tired but he wanted to talk to you before he went to bed for you him to go out tomorrow.

“I really wish I brought you along today, really. There was a street fair happening and there were so many knick knacks and paintings and just so many things I wish you’d seen…” He sighed out in content. You could only imagine his sweet smile as he was telling you about his day. You could honestly fall asleep to the sound of his voice, always so soft in your ears. Gentle as though he’s never shouted a day in his life.

As he went on about his day while you listened to his sweet voice, he brought up the plan for tomorrow. “So I was thinking maybe we’d stop and have lunch and then go round my parents house to help them set up. Julia should be there a little later.”

“And what do you suppose we should have for lunch then, love?” You smirked as you asked.

“Of course the usual! A great big lobster with some oysters! Maybe even snails! Fancy enough for you, dove?”

“Oh very!” You laughed. His sarcasm and sense of humor is what made you swoon over him, even when you first met him. After the laughter has subsided, you then ask “What time should I expect you dear?”

“Sometime around noon. We’re not expected at a specific time, so we’ll just goof around beforehand.”

After things were settled and planned, morning seemed to come by in a flash. You were up and ready to take on the day. The day of christmas eve seemed so busy as you and John walked around town noticing all the last minute shoppers. The two of you only enjoyed your time together before heading over to the Deacon household, where there was a whirlwind of activity going on in there, and being the good samaritans that you are, helped with these chores.

Soon evening came around, you helped Julia and her mom with making dinner while tidying everything up. John went out with his father to finish up some errands and making sure the guests found their way to their residence.

The night was filled with laughter, stories, family, friends, and of course, some alcohol. Although it was a fun time for you all, you only found yourself speaking to either Julia or their parents as all the other guests were unfamiliar faces. John on the other hand, had to be the good son and speak with all the guests, such as his uncles and cousins as well as some work friends and neighbors. It was a bit hectic to say the least but fun over all. At times you find yourself talking to John in the kitchen before he gets dragged out to see another aunt from a far away land, but as the night dwindled down, you found yourselves to each other once more as you huddled up against his side while his arm was slung around your shoulder, his fingers playing at the tips of your hair.

You realized the time and how the both of you were beginning to be in the state of fatigue. Everyone else seemed to still have some energy as they kept at talking to each other, eating, and drinking. Lifting John up by his arm, he was ready to fall asleep. “It’s about that time we get home now, don’t you think so love?” He only nodded his head as his eyes were trying to keep open. You went to go find John’s family to let them know you both were heading out, giving them your thanks and goodbyes, you both found yourselves out in the cold. Walking a couple blocks with the both of you looking as if you were connected to the hip, you headed to the direction where most of the taxis would drive by.

The feeling of his hand holding on to yours while his head rested on top of yours as a temporary pillow only made you smile. Your poor boy was tipsy and tired and he only wanted to sleep. It was your mission now to get you both home and tuck him in for a good night’s rest.

You were happy that there was at least one taxi out this late at night for this time of the month because you didn’t know how long you were able to hold to John. You only relished on to the feeling of John snuggled up so close to you with his head still on top of yours as you rode all the way to his apartment. These little moments were what you really liked to think about and to live in.

Once you both arrived to John’s apartment, you fished for his keys in his pockets as he chuckles, saying, “Getting a little handsy there bean?”

“Come off it John, you know that’s for tomorrow morning.” You replied with a wink, unlocking his apartment door. He mainly spent time at your place as it was a little more spacious than his, at least by a few units. He also felt more at home there with you then he ever felt here by himself. And he’s lived in his apartment for a good amount of time. The thought crossed his mind to express that feeling but he thought that that should be saved for the morning as well.

The last time you were at John’s apartment was right before he asked you out. Both studying in his small living area as he left all the necessities to do so at home. A fond memory it is as it was out of the blue yet it was bound to come up at some point. Everything was the same since then. Neat, orderly, clean yet bare. There was nothing there to really indicate that there was actually someone living here. What made you chuckle though was the small plastic christmas tree that was on the coffee table with lights twinkling around it. It was cute in the sense that that was definitely a John thing to do. It was small gesture yet it showed how he was very much into the christmas spirit.

You two once again dropped yourselves on his couch, a comfortable silence taking over as your heads leaned against each other. You only had a smile on your face as you made sure to save this to memory bank. Taking a peek at John, you see that his eyes are closed. You leaned in to kiss his cheek and asked, “Got any hot chocolate?”

“Yes. In the cabinet left of the sink.”

“Would you like a cuppa?”

“Yes please, love.” He says in a small polite demeanor, as if he were a child.

Getting up, you took a second to look at John again, brushing his hair to the side of his forehead while he smiled at the touch. In the cabinets were packets of hot chocolate as you had the kettle going on the stove. With your back against the counter and arms crossed, you looked at the sight before you. All small and dimlitted, quiet and peaceful. For some reason you wanted to save this particular memory in your storage system as well. Nothing was going on but you could only assume that you wanted to save the atmosphere, the way everything felt in this exact moment.

Heading to John, you nudge him a bit as he was close to being knocked out and passed him his hot chocolate. Sitting up straight, he takes the mug from you and asks, “I hope you had a good time. I prayed that nothing embarrassing happened while you were there. Julie told me nothing did but, you know…” He chuckled.

You smiled at him taking your spot next to him. It was cute how he still worried about his family embarrassing him even though many of those occurrences have already happened. Baby pictures, 11 year old girlfriends from grade school, and so on. What else could possibly embarrass him that you hadn’t already witnessed? “No, I had a good time. I just didn’t know most of the guests there.”

“Neither did I and the funny thing is that the majority of them are family.” he chuckled taking a sip from his mug. You two talked about the events of today until you finished your mugs of hot chocolate. Looking up at the clock that faced you both, you knew you two were going to sleep in later than usual as it was nearing 1:30 in the morning.

The night ends with his arms wrapped around you and your head against his chest. His breathing soothes you into a deeper sleep while his head rests on top of yours once again, loving the feeling of someone holding onto him throughout the night.

Before you know it, morning takes over and you find yourself staring at one of the walls at your side of the bed. You blink a few times as you try to recollect the events from last night as well as what today is. You were excited about today as you quietly got off the bed and headed into the living you room where you left your bag to retrieve John’s present. Before you could even take it out, you hear John calling out your name in his raspy and groggy voice. “I’ll be right in!” you say in a tired yet happy tone.

Slipping back in the room, you see John with his back facing you while he stretched out his limbs. Taking a seat next to him, he raises an eyebrow at the package you have in your hands. You have a wide smile as you landed the package right on his lap, only for him to look down, realizing what the box is. “Seems that father Christmas has left me a gift!”

You scoff at his comment and say, “Ppff, father Christmas, it’s me you should be thanking!”

“Oh, I’m sorry love! Of course!” He says as he leans in to kiss your cheek. He then looks back down at your gift and starts to unravel what’s inside. His eyes go wide as he sees the gift that you got him. He’s in shock to see that you got him a brand new camera, obviously a replacement for his broken one. “Jesus! Y/N, this must of cost you all your savings! You didn’t have to get me this!”

“Deaky! Of course I had to get it! This was the one thing I was really looking forward to and I wanted to get the best for you. You deserve it.” John could feel his heart constraint a bit. He sees how the devotion and care in your eyes and it only made him question how lucky he is to find someone like you. You were too sweet to him and terribly caring. He knew from there how thoughtful you were and attentive you are to his needs. He only wished that he could be up to par with you as you deserved much more than him.

John leans in to give you a peck on your lips as he looks back down to his camera with heated cheeks. “Thank you love. I think it’s perfect, especially for what’s coming next.” He then gets up to his dresser that’s nearby and pulls out a dark blue velvet box and starts handing it to you but when you reach for it, he pulls away. You look up to him in confusion when he explains, “Now I don’t want to hear any “you shouldn’t have”s because if we’re being honest, your gift might’ve costed a lot more than mines.” He then hands you back the box as you look at him in wonderment. Inside contained a beautifully crafted wired necklace where it wraps around a crystal of your favorite color. You’re taken back at the fact that he had gotten you such a wonderful gift.

He takes back his seat as he looks down at the necklace in your hand. “Remember how I went to my parents to help them with some errands while there was also a street fair going on? Well I might’ve asked this nice lady to make a gift for my special girl and, well, I think she did a right job, don’t you?” You turn to look at him, feeling some tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. You wrapped your arms around his neck while burying your head into his neck. You were so happy in that moment, knowing that out of all the men that you have dated or would have possibly dated, he was the one that made you the absolute happiest. If anything, he was far better than any gift you had ever received and you never wanted to lose him. His face heats up once more as he feels you kiss his neck and ask him to put it on you. You blink away the small amount of tears that were piling up in your eyes and hand John the necklace. Sweeping your hair to the side to clasp your necklace, he kisses your shoulder while rubbing them as well and then lays his chin on top.

“Merry christmas dear.I hope there are many more to come…”

You turn to wrap your arms around him again saying “I’ll bet money on that. I can’t possibly imagine that this is the last christmas I’ll spend with you.” John gives you the biggest smile you’ve ever seen as he plants a passionate kiss to your lips. His heart swelled at hearing you say that. He loves where his relationship with you is and where it’s going and the fact that you felt this wouldn’t be the last of you two not only eased his mind, but made him think of future with you.

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howtohero · 5 years

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#248 Countdowns