#i drew it from memory with a half broken pencil

[bleep-bloop-boo]

oh yea i was bored in math so heres a willow doodle!

[gumnut-logic]

It was a lazy day.

Virgil suspected John, who had been kicked off Five the day before, had Eos routing all but the most dire situations to local authorities whether Scott authorised it or not.

There were days where Virgil wondered if Scott was really in charge, since John had so much ultimate say.

But that thought was for another day. He was tired and it was likely going to be a day off - please let it be a day off - and he was going to find a corner of the Island to sit alone and scribble in his sketchbook.

He ended up on Mosaic Beach, a personal favourite on the edge of the caldera. Gordon had mentioned it the day before regarding the quality of flotsam available after the last storm and Virgil thought he would see what he could find.

It was overshadowed by an ancient pokey tree brilliant in red blossom and the sand here was a mass of black and white swirls as the coral detritus fought the eroded igneous rocks – the reason they had given it its name. Gordon was right - there was all sorts of things tossed up the sand and Virgil spent the first half hour wandering along the strip of sea wrack picking up shells and whatever caught his eye.

One of the shells appeared determined to return to the ocean and it was with a small smile that he picked up the tiny hermit crab and watched it curl up into its shell.

Holding it gently in his palm, he sought the shade of the giant tree and sat down on the sand in its shadow. Here the breeze was gentle, the sand cool and, leaning back against a rock, he set the little crab down on a smooth patch of sand, along with his small hoard of shells and let it scamper across the little landscape that resulted.

Sketchbook out, he spent the next few minutes sketching the crab madly as it moved about. It shifted angle at random and he found himself increasingly switching from real life to a character sketch. A little personality sprouted from the page that reflected the little crab’s determination.

Ever aware of the crab’s needs above his own, he sketched fast, took a few photos and then gathered the little creature in his hands once more. He trotted down to the rock pools at the edge of the beach and found a spot he felt the crab would be happy.

Crouching down, he watched it scamper into the water.

His lips curved into a smile.

Gordon would know what species it was, where it lived and how to best care for it. Virgil was pretty sure he knew what type it was. Mel was pedantic about crabs and had given them a list of ‘these are endangered, tell me if you see them, kill one and I will kill you’. Fortunately or unfortunately, it wasn’t a long list, so Virgil had memorised it. This little guy...he should be happy here.

The crab found some weed and promptly hid under it.

The rockpool drew Virgil’s eye a little longer before he finally stood up and let the breeze cool his face. A sigh at the sun’s warmth and he wandered back to the shadow of the pokey tree and sat down again.

The little crab stared up at him from his sketchbook, spritely and determined.

Kind of like Gordon really, despite the claws.

That prompted a smile at the thought of his fish brother’s reaction to being compared to a crab.

He would squawk, but he would love it.

Virgil returned to sketching the shells and bits of coral he had collected. Rearranging them, repositioning for lighting. He picked one up and stared at the colours created by a little mollusc. He was ever amazed at what Mother Nature was capable of. Simple geometrics and chemical formulae made one of the world’s strongest and most beautiful substances in nacre. Another broken shell showed the rainbow of colour that he knew his paintbrush would never quite be able to capture, much less the pencil and stick of carbon he had with him today. He was left with a little snapshot from his phone...which was never quite the same either...and what his memory could provide.

Perhaps it was nature’s way of ensuring it was always the most beautiful.

He shifted to scribbling down the beachscape after that. It wasn’t the first time he had drawn this beach, but as with all beaches, it was different every day as the tide sculpted it.

His fingers grew more and more lazy, his lines wandering through more emotion than reality as the day drifted on. At some point, he ate the sandwich he had packed, quite happy to not care what time of day it was and refusing to look at his watch.

Eventually the sketchbook was set aside and he let himself just stare out at the ocean lagoon, eyes tracking the movement of the distant waves and the laps of the ripples against the shore.

And nature’s rhythms lulled him to sleep.

-o-o-o-

“Hey, big bro, you might want to drop by Mosaic Beach before the tide comes in.” Gordon waltzed past the desk Scott was sitting at with a smirk on his face.

“What?” Scott’s brain was still stuck in working out what the hell Simmonds meant by the ‘urgent memo’ that had interrupted his afternoon off.

“The snoring is scaring away all the wildlife.” With that Gordon grabbed a book off the shelf on the far side of the room and backtracked out the way he had come in...without another word.

Scott was left staring where his brother had been.

But then Gordon was worth ignoring some times.

He turned back to his display and continued to try and work out why Simmonds had ordered sixty plastic flamingoes and then memo’d him about it in a panic.

It took him a good few minutes more before throwing it back at Simmonds’ supervisor in Japan with a ‘concerned’ note.

What did Tracy Industries need with sixty plastic flamingoes?

He shook his head and forced himself to stand up and not invest any more in any comms from the business. Today was hopefully his day off and he refused to fall into the trap of losing himself in all the things that required attention.

All the things.

He paused mid rise.

But no. No! Vacation day. He forced himself away from the desk and out onto the balcony.

It was a beautiful out here. The afternoon sun was blazing in a brilliant blue sky without a single cloud. The sea was murmuring far below. It was an artist’s dream.

He blinked as certain Gordon utterings connected neurons together.

A frown. “Gordon!”

No answer.

Another frown and he strode back inside, following the recent tracks of his fish brother down to the kitchen.

Scott found him reading at the table, a phone that was most definitely not his in one hand and the book in his other.

There were lots of photos of crabs.

“What are you doing?”

“Confirming the identification of a crab.”

“Why?”

“Virg found one down on Mosaic Beach and I wanna make sure it is what I think it was so I can report it to Mel.”

The dots that had been connecting earlier fused into a solid line with an arrow pointing directly at Gordon. “And where is Virgil?”

“Snoozing on the beach.”

“And why do you have his phone?”

“Because his drawings were excellent, but I needed a colour shot.”

“Gordon!”

His brother didn’t even look up. “What?” But then he blinked and frowned at Scott. “He’s fine. Well above the high tide line.” A glance down at the book again. “There, that’s it. Oooh, Mel is going to be so excited.”

Scott glared at Gordon for a whole second longer before storming over and snatching the phone out of his hands. Without another word, he strode out of the kitchen and took the path that would lead him down to the reported beach.

Younger brothers were hard work.

The little beach wasn’t the closest on the Island. Probably one of the reasons Virgil chose it to get away from those pesky younger brothers. Trust Gordon to find him anyway.

He fingered Virgil’s phone in his hand as he walked. The green leather case was embossed with an elaborate dragon design.

Looking at it, all he could really feel was fondness.

He must be tired. Grandma was right. He needed a day off.

Easier said than done. It wasn’t like he could park himself on a beach and fall asleep.

He grunted as he stepped over some rocks to start the climb down to the little cove. The path was thin and wove amongst several pōhutukawa trees – or pokey trees as Alan called them, their dark green leaves adorned with puffs of red blossom. Birds darted between them squawking at each other. That combined with the surf in the distance and the breeze rattling palm trees, it wasn’t the quietest of places.

Nevertheless, he found his brother sprawled against a rock under the largest pokey tree at the edge of the beach, snoring his head off.

Definitely noisy.

Virgil was dressed in an old pair of work shorts and a t-shirt with a hole in it. Both sported spatters of paint and clearly showed how relaxed his brother was trying to be.

Beside him on a rock, carefully placed, no doubt by Gordon, the brat, was a sketchbook and a box of drawing tools. Virgil’s artist backpack lay folded up supporting his head - again likely Gordon.

Virgil snorted and curled up just a little more against the rock.

Gordon was a shit, but he was a kind one. Virgil slept like the dead and would likely need one of those waves off in the distance to wash over him if he was going to wake up before he wanted to.

Staring a moment longer, Scott sighed, gave up and sat down beside his brother. He dropped the phone onto the sketchbook and looked out at the beach.

Virgil continued to snore.

His biggest little brother had always snored. Scott had cornered him and got him tested for a variety of sleep issues, but he was fine. Just loud.

The terrible two used to make a point of pointing it out as much as possible. But that was before the hydrofoil accident.

Gordon didn’t know it, but due to his injuries, he now snored, too.

The ribbing about snoring in the Tracy household had dropped to a minimum since, Gordon the only unknowing ribber.

But Virgil remained the major noise maker and the brothers worshipped the soundproofing in the villa.

Regardless of the racket, Scott did find it strangely quiet out here. Sitting on the sand with nothing to do was oddly relaxing. Of course, he wasn’t really one to do nothing and Virgil’s sketchbook was right there. Gordon had obviously already stuck his nose into it and Scott was pretty sure Virgil wouldn’t mind if he took a peek.

Would he?

Lifting the phone off the book, Scott carefully picked it up and nestled it in his lap...ever, ever so careful. Okay, so he had some respect and not a little fear of damaging Virgil’s artwork.

The pages were thick and stiff and likely designed to support wet media as much as dry. Most of the work in it was pencil, however, maybe some charcoal? The darks were so deep in some that they had to be.

But Scott was no artist and really only had eyes for the content.

The first page found him looking at himself. Virgil had obviously either captured Scott’s likeness on the sly or drawn from a photo or holoprojection. His drawing stared up at him in almost all three dimensions. The expression on his graphite face was thoughtful, almost wistful. He could see his rendered self was thinking or planning and totally distracted...which was likely why he had no clue his brother had captured this shot.

But the artistic strokes were strong and sure, simple in their complexity.

Scott blinked, moved that his brother was so talented and capable.

Though he really shouldn’t be surprised.

Turning the page, he discovered their grandmother.

He had to smile. The concentration on Grandma’s face was almost comical. A bowl and a recipe book sat in front of her and the very tip of her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth as she frowned at whatever she was reading.

There was a touch of caricature in the drawing, a little exaggeration, but done with love and fondness, not mockingly. His grandmother was beautiful.

Scott swallowed and turned the page to find several detailed scribbles. They looked like pieces of machinery and the pages had notes written down the sides.

It was a spark moment. He knew Virgil well enough for that. One of those times when his thoughts all came together and saw him running naked out of the shower to grab whatever he could find and get it written down.

Several major equipment improvements had occurred exactly this way. It appeared that at some point, this sketchbook had been the nearest note book and had borne the brunt.

He stared at the diagrams, doing his best to work out exactly what they were. Sharp notation, numbers, that had to be the backend of a pod. It clicked. This was part of the pod assembly redesign from the previous year. Virgil had come to him with some major improvements, including a pod body redesign. What followed had been a massive overhaul of all the ‘birds’ assembly systems and a whole new set up, including colour changes according to which Thunderbird housed which pod. Virgil and Brains had been buzzing for weeks.

And it was possible it had all started here on this piece of paper. Now he could see the scribbled down inner workings of the assembly mechanism and the shape on the second page was a worked and reworked pod shell.

He glanced over at his brother who was still snoring peacefully. Virgil was amazing. Scott could not have been prouder of what his little brother had achieved. Yet Virgil never really boasted or bragged or even highlighted what he had done. He was just there. Always there, one step behind him ready to help.

He must be really tired because now he was getting emotional. There had been a few times in the last couple of years where he had come close to losing Virgil. He hadn’t, but there had been nightmares and many a night where he had spent reassuring himself that his biggest brother was still with him.

And yes, he could stand outside his brother’s bedroom door and listen to him snore.

It gave him comfort.

Gordon had caught him once.

That had been a heartbreaking moment.

Because his fish brother hadn’t said a thing, just reached up, squeezed his shoulder, dropped his forehead against Scott’s arm and just stood there for a solid moment. Another gentle squeeze and he left, not even looking up at Scott before he was gone.

It said more than any words.

Scott sighed and turned the page...only to come face to face with Gordon again. Though this time the joy in their fish brother’s eyes was lighting up the page. He was grinning at a shell and there was a speech bubble - ‘Virgil, come and see this!’

Scott had to smile. Gordon was notorious for sharing his beach discoveries. Virgil was usually the target because at least he knew a little bit about their little brother’s fascinations. Scott loved to see Gordon happy, but honestly, he couldn’t tell the difference between one shell or another. He tried. He honestly did, but Virgil had the patience of a saint and was much more engaging.

Scott loved to watch the two of them instead.

And yes, he saw Virgil sneak things into his pockets. Usually shells, but occasionally rocks and bits of coral. Those finds made their way back to Virgil’s studio and there was a whole corner devoted to marine still life.

Which was why it was no surprise when the next three pages of sketchbook turned out to be exactly that. A curly shell, a pile of cockle shells - Scott knew those at least - they were good for fishing. The third page had a plan for a reef painting. It had scribbled notes, much like the pod redesign pages, but this was based around a sketched layout. Scott frowned at it...it was vaguely familiar. He would have to ask Virgil about it when he woke.

The next two pages sported today’s efforts. The same beach he was sitting on emerged from the paper, along with some sketches of a crab. The first few were realistic, but the last one had the little hermit crab with an IR symbol on its side and one of Dad’s old uniform hats perched on top of its shell. It bore a sash that resembled Virgil’s despite the lack of green colour and one of its claws was bigger than the other in a very exo-suit-like way.

That had Scott grinning. This was no doubt the reason why Gordon had run for the crab book. Mel, in her position of Director of the Kermadec Expedition south of them on Raoul Island, was very particular about the endemic crabs on all the islands in the area.

He wondered what she would think of them inducting crabs into IR.

He wondered what she was doing today and if she might be available later for a nice evening together.

That thought was very distracting and had nothing to do with crab identification at all.

Virgil snorted, rolled over off his backpack and face first into the sand.

Scott startled, fully expecting a woken bear of a brother to surface from that.

But Virgil just kept snoring, now snorting sand as well.

He placed the sketchbook down, scrambled around his brother and gently shoved the folded backpack under his head again.

His fingertips brushed sand off Virgil’s face.

And he found himself sitting beside his brother again.

Why was he out here?

Because Gordon was evil and dangled the concept of Virgil drowning in the tide simply to aggravate him enough to do exactly what he did.

Gordon was a shit.

But a good one.

Another sigh and he lay back against the rocks and got comfortable, because, let’s face it, he wasn’t going back up to the villa without Virgil. His brother was safe, sure, but walking off and leaving him to the elements ran against his grain.

And Gordon knew it.

He would throttle, and possibly hug, his fish brother later.

Besides, it was nice out here, taking a moment to just be.

Virgil would approve.

Virgil would fake being asleep just to get him to do it.

Scott’s eyes darted to his now softly snoring brother, a sudden suspicion at the forefront of his thoughts. He would put it past either of Virgil or Gordon’s conniving ways to conspire to get him out here.

Virgil was drooling a wet patch onto his backpack.

Ugh.

Well, maybe not.

Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

Perhaps he just needed to relax.

Relax.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. Kayo was good at meditation. So was Gordon. Virgil did some connecting with nature thing that seemed to work for him.

Exhibit A snorted as if in agreement.

He could try.

Out of all the sounds he could hear, only one really held his attention.

That same soft snoring. No waves or wind or birds squawking brought him any kind of comfort.

The sound of his brother breathing evenly beside him, safe and sound, was the most beautiful sound in the world.

What that said about him...well, he didn’t care right now. He was tired and worn out. Maybe Gordon was right. Maybe this is what he needed. He should care, should be annoyed, but the rhythm was lulling and, god, he was so tired.

So goddamned tired.

Virgil kept breathing and Scott followed him into sleep.

-o-o-o-

Hidden in the foliage of the grove of pokey trees behind his two brothers, Gordon just smiled.

-o-o-o-

[0idril0]

May I request based on the reblog about ‘new normal’ you just did a much later Nico & Clint, maybe Nico trying to do art again or school or cook or something and struggling ??

Nico’s head was pounding as he laid the last lines on the paper in front of him, teeth grinding as he forced his eyes to focus. For just a few more minutes.

Please.

“F-Fuckin’ finally...” he slammed the color pencil down, scrubbing his aching hand against his eyes until colors swirled behind the lids. The drawing was already imprinted in his head, a wolf head that he hoped resembled Clint’s, surrounded by a multitude of wild flowers. It was more frilly than what he usually did, he tended to gravitate towards reds and blacks and more forgiving mediums, working around the continued seizures and poor eyesight. But it felt important for what he was trying to portray.

His mate surrounded by softness and love in the form that Clint said looked beastly and terrifying.

He didn’t know when Clint had started to think of his wolf form that way, but he hoped it was before they had ever met. Clint had let slip more than a month before that he was scared of being around Sorina and Evans new baby, worried he might slip a little and scar the baby for life.

Nico had immediately told him that it was a ridiculous thought, but the doubt and hesitancy that colored his face when he’d turned back towards the the group of people gathered around the new bundle was enough to send a lance through Nico’s heart.

And the worst part was he didn’t know what to say. He’d never been good with words, and now with the brain damage, he was even worse. And there was only so many ways to kiss sense into a stubborn werewolf.

But maybe he could show him. Clint’s wolf had always been a source of comfort for him, his beautiful russet fur the softest pillow, the warmth he emitted a constant comfort when he’d been too emaciated to regulate his own body heat. A gentle crutch when Nico needed help but couldn’t tolerate human touch.

And the man himself had the biggest and kindest heart of anyone he’d ever met. The fact that Clint thought any part of him could be a danger to his niece was horrifying.

“Uuuuugh....” Nico scrubbed at his eyes again before scratching at his short beard, an attempt at hiding the scars that still spotted his cheeks from deep ulcers that had had difficulty healing. “It’s g-gonna have to do...”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, like it was going to help him focus at all, he scrutinized his work. Before Martin he would have said it was still a work in progress..... but now? It was one of the better things he’d done in a while. He’d moved away from realism when he’d been able to pick up a pencil again, the migraines hadn’t been worth the fight, and paint was more forgiving.

The color pencil was smudged at the corners, the lines shaky in areas where a crisp finish would have made the piece stand out, but the wolfs face was Clint’s, highlighted with yellows like he was basking in the sun, a delicate blue butterfly contrasting with his red fur and half lidded green eyes beautifully.

It was his mate. A giant, gentle, protector of a man that hadn’t moved for 20 minutes when that stupid butterfly had landed on him at last years Fourth of July party.

He felt his mouth twitch at the memory, pulling at some of the scars on his mouth and cheek. His Mate was ridiculous.

Nico could hear Clint’s rumbling snore from his drafting table, the wolf had been running in the woods for hours today and had returned a few hours ago soaking wet and panting. When he’d returned he’d stuck his head into the sunroom where Nico was, lupine grin smug as he’d tried to sneak around to see the drawing Nico had kept from him for over a month now.

Nico hadn’t been able to help his snicker when he’d shoved at his over sized head, scratching in the spot Clint loved as he did so, “Go dry-dry off, I’ll s-show you when I’m done.” Clint’s tail has wagged so hard Nico had been able to hear the thump through the cabin walls, but his wine was truly pitiful when he’d slunked out and flopped onto the porch to bask in the sunlight. The sunny happiness Nico could feel through their bond betrayed Clint’s attempt to guilt him into a sneak peak, and Nico hoped it would be worth it now.

Daniel’s cane was propped up against his desk and Nico rubbed a thumb over the silver handle as he picked it up, using the object just like Daniel had for years before he’d died. Nico had found it tucked in the back of the shop when he’d finally been able to return and had swapped for the heirloom as soon as he was able to ditch the walker.

The initial thunk against the hardwood has Clint’s ears twitching as he comes out, a high pitched yawn following it as Nico shuffled further onto the porch.

“H-h-hey Honeyb-b-bear....”

Clint rolled onto his back at Nico’s greeting, legs and paws stretching to full effect as Clint yawned loudly and rumbled his own wolfy greeting back, squinted eyes finding Nico as his tail swished against the hard wood. “Sugar..” Nico heard the echo in his head, and snickered around a grin at the nearly 300 lbs wolf at his feet. Clint’s tongue rolled out of his mouth in a lupine laugh and Nico couldn’t keep his own smile down, even as broken and ugly as he thought it was now.

“Come-onnn, y—ou goof, you wannned to see -this right?” Nico shook the paper in his hand, backing up like he was going to go inside.

Clint’s jaw snapped shut as his head whipped towards Nico, eyes wide in question now. Really??? Nico could read the question clear as day on his face and grinned. “I c-could change my mind...”

He made to take a step back and Clint whined, stretching, this time muscles and bones popping as he morphed back into his human form. Where there’d been a ridiculously large wolf now lay an extremely large, naked man, toned muscles stretched to full effect as he reached for Nico, making grabby hands as he whined again with his human throat.

“Babbbbbyyyyy.... come back??? Show me here??”

Clint’s teasing grin and wink did nothing to help the burning blush that was creeping across his face and neck, headache forgotten as he swallowed heavily at the sight in front of him.

“Fine-“ His voice came out a squeak, and he cleared his throat, scowling at Clint’s snort of laughter. “-Fine, you’ll have—help me s-stand up...”

Clint’s grumbling turned deeper as he turned towards Nico, grin mischievous, “Like I would pass up the opportunity to get my hands on you...”

Nico grinned at Clint’s joke, knowing the wolf wouldn’t touch him without his permission, skin heating at the thought of Clint’s hands against him today. He loved Clints hands, long solid fingers and thick padded palms that had sooth so much and given him so much pleasure in the past few years.

He groaned as he slid down to the porch, using the bannister and accepting Clint’s hand against the small of his back as support, knowing the werewolf’s strength would be more than enough to catch him even from the awkward angle. His hip protested bending and Clint’s thumb rubbed small circles into his back when he settled heavily on the porch.

“Fuuuuck....” he groaned loudly, careful to keep the drawing turned away from Clint’s prying eyes as he flopped dramatically onto Clint’s bare chest.

Clint grunted around a laugh as Nico landed, sun warmed arms wrapping around him as he maneuvered Nico closer. “Hi Sugar....” Clint nibbled on Nico’s neck and snuggled closer. “You finished that drawin’ you’ve been teasin’ me with??”

Nico smiled as he felt the nerves that had been fluttering in his stomach settle in Clint’s calm presence, and he brought his scarred hand up to tangle in Clint’s hair.

“T-told you, surprise.....” He leaned into the kiss in his cheek, grinning. “Hardly- surprise-you get to s-see it...”

Clint chuffed, and Nico could feel the grin spread across his mates face. “I know but I’m about to explode over here, lemme seeeeee-“ he squeezed Nico and rocked him, the fingers pressed into Nico’s skin vibrating with excitement.

Nico took a deep breath, turning to press a gentle kiss to Clint’s curved mouth. The wolf melted, kissing Nico back gently until he pulled away, his green, dilated eyes following Nico’s as he backed up.

“Love you.” Nico turned more, scratching at Clint’s scalp until the low rumble vibrated the chest he leaned on. “Wa-wha-wanted you to see, h-how....” Nico growled, words stuck in his throat, and Clint kissed against his jaw, mimicking a deep breath, and Nico followed suit, unclenching his jaw to continue. “S-so, I-I drew it.”

Nico flipped back, holding the drawing above them, against the blue sky, puffy clouds the perfect backdrop to the tranquil drawing. He heard Clint’s breath catch; rumble stilling as the wolf froze.

Slowly Clint lifted one of his hands from Nico’s stomach, the other keeping Nico pressed firmly against him. “Darlin’, what... what is this??”

Nico could hear the wetness in Clint’s voice, the thin wobble that meant the wolf was getting emotional.

“You-been strugglinn-since Elena was born, scared you’ll hurt her...” Nico swallowed, “but this.... Love, you wouldn’t budge... you’re gentle, an kind..... hate for y-you,-for fear to keep—y-you, from holding her, only t-thing I’ve gotten from being held—by you is love.”

Clint was trembling behind him and Nico bit his lip, doubt working its way back into his mind until Clint started to sit up, Clint’s body doing the work so Nico stayed glued to his chest, arm pulling Nico’s hips flush against his as he re maneuvered their legs. Clint had reburied his face into Nico’s hair, and he heard the wet snuffle as Clint took in his scent, his mates thick arms holding him close. “Darlin’.... I don’t..... I love you...thank you....”

Nico leaned back against Clint, setting the drawing aside so he could catch hold of one of Clint’s hands, the other tangled in the blonde hair as he rubbed a thumb along a delicate ear. “Love you t-too, Honeybear....”

Nico brought Clint’s hand up and kissed along the long digits, heart full as Clint wrapped him further into his arms. Knowing his mate had understood him.

[eclecticmiasma]

Human Art (Yandere!Rohan x Reader)

🖤 For the eternally lovely @vani-ya​ 💚

When strange things start happening around your apartment, your kind friend Rohan offers you a place to stay. 

NSFW

[Warnings: somnophilia, rape, mind control, abuse, dead dove: do not eat] 

It started out innocuous enough. Doors ajar that you could have sworn you closed. Missing laundry. Strange bruises. The fact that Morioh had a serial killer running around wasn’t exactly a secret, so you just felt like you were being overly paranoid when little things around your apartment began to go awry. You weren’t always the most mindful person, and a few little incidents did not a serial killer make.

That is, until the open doors had broken locks. Until you found strange stains on your underwear. Until the bruises that marred your hips and thighs began to look like fingerprints.

“Maybe it’s a ghost!” Okuyasu jested, waggling his eyebrows. Rohan shot him a look of deep disgust. Okuyasu’s face fell as he remembered the existence of Reimi, “Sorry…”  

“Well, you’re more than welcome to crash at my place,” Josuke interjected, “Mom’s probably dying to have another woman around-” At this, Rohan let out a snort of laughter.

“Stay at your place? And sleep where exactly?” Josuke chewed the inside of his lip.

“I…I mean I could sleep on the couch…” The mangaka rolled his eyes and set down his coffee with a frustrated clink.

“Am I always the only one with any real solutions?” He turned to you and looked you sternly in the eyes, “[Y/n], I’m sure you’ve noticed that my house is massive. As long as you don’t interrupt my work, the best thing to do is to stay with me for a while,” The gang blinked at Rohan, shocked at his uncharacteristic generosity. Okuyasu got ready to grill him on the fact that he refused to let him and his father stay at his mansion despite the fact that they continued to live in an abandoned shack, but Josuke elbowed him before he could start.

You were hesitant to accept. While it was a generous offer, you never really spoke to Rohan beyond gathering cursory information about the town’s other stand users. He sensed your unease and softened his gaze.

“It’ll be…an adventure. Maybe you could even help me model certain character poses? There is a severe lack of women in my work.”

In the end, you agreed. All of your things were moved to Rohan’s with the help of your friends, and you found yourself much more at ease with someone else in the house. Even if your rooms were fairly far apart, you felt much less likely to be murdered while not living alone. Whether or not that was misguided, you began to enjoy your temporary home.

But, slowly, incidents began to occur at Rohan’s home too. Much like before, they started out small. Bits of hair in your bed that weren’t yours. More marks on your body, covering the ones that had faded. One morning, you woke up with something dry and flaky across your chest and neck. You started to think that Okuyasu was right, maybe you did have some kind of ghost following you around.

When you voiced your concerns to Rohan, he waved them away. The two of you did laundry at the same time, so of course it was probably his hair caught in your blankets. Your aloof nature meant that you constantly bumped into things, he saw it himself. As for the mystery substance on your chest, maybe you needed to buy some new body lotion that wouldn’t clump up in your sleep. He recommended a local brand. Everything you came at him with, he had an answer for. Rohan’s level-headed nature put you at ease, and you were thankful for him.

But then everything fell apart. You don’t know what possessed you, perhaps it was a familiarity with the mangaka’s drawing room after having modeled for his various projects several times, but you found yourself perusing his massive catalogue of books. He had a novel on nearly every subject. As he told you many times, he found it of utmost importance to take inspiration from the real world.

When none of his library piqued your interest, you walked away from his bookshelf and padded over to his desk. Though you were never allowed to look at his unfinished work, curiosity got the better of you. Rohan was much too controlling when it came to his work, you felt. A little peak wouldn’t do anyone any harm.

You picked up a sketchbook and rifled through it, amazed at how detailed his drawings were. Birds, insects around the home, coffee plates, sandwiches, human hands, anything and everything he saw was sketched out to the most minute details. He was absurdly talented. You felt a bit of pride in being his friend.

At the back of the sketchbook were nude drawings. You blushed as your eyes raked over the lewd poses. Some genitalia was drawn, both male and female. The model’s body was contorted in all different poses, many sexual in nature. As you flipped the page, you were shocked to see actual sexual acts being performed. You had never heard of models that were willing to do this kind of thing. Although, Rohan had a lot of money and none of the sketches showed their faces. Except for one.

The sketchbook tumbled to the floor.

The face was yours.

Not once had he asked you to pose nude for him, but there you were. Your full body was on display. Leaned back over the edge of a sofa so that your hair dragged along the floor. One of your hands grasped your breast seductively while the other delved into your core. It was unmistakably you, down to the birthmark on your abdomen. You knew Rohan only drew from what was directly in front of him, so how in the world-

Rohan cleared his throat behind you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. A devious look danced behind his eyes. He set down his satchel unceremoniously and closed the study door.

“I suppose this was bound to happen at some point,” Your heart raced as the lock clicked in place. Rohan slid off his gloves and threw them on the leather chair next to his satchel. Not once did he take his emerald eyes off of your now trembling form.

“I don’t understand,” You managed to say, though your voice was weak and nearly unintelligible.

“You wouldn’t,” Rohan chuckled darkly, “You’re much too stupid to put two and two together. Now, kneel.”

To your shock, your knees immediately hit the wooden floor.

“Heaven’s Door,” Rohan muttered, taking your face in his palms. Your whole body tensed and something like a book opened in your left cheek, “You know, this charade has been quite fun. I probably could have been happy to keep you as my perfect little pet forever. But, seeing you like this, seeing the genuine fear in your eyes, I’m starting to realize that your inability to remember our time together has honestly been quite boring,” He whipped out a pencil from his pocket and erased something from your pages.

All at once, everything came flooding back. The nights in your apartment where something, someone held you down while you sobbed, marking your body as their own. The way they flaunted your stolen underwear as they huffed it while fucking your breasts. Broken locks strewn to the floor as you screamed.

And at Rohan’s house, memories of him choking you until you complied with his demands, his thick cock stretching your throat. The unhinged glee in his eyes as he came all over your neck and chest. Images of your naked, trembling body on display as he drew you any way he wanted, even while being used by him.

Paralyzed by Rohan’s stand, all you could do was remember and weep.

“There we go,” He said, closing your pages and stepping back, admiring his work, “I even took out the clause that says you have to obey any orders I give,” A dark grin danced across his features, “Now, look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

You couldn’t. Not after the visions that played in your mind. Everything you had feared for months stood directly in front of you, taunting you. Pain erupted on the side of your head as Rohan twisted your hair around his fist and pulled you way from the side of the desk. He used that momentum to throw you to the floor and, immediately, he was on you, tearing off your clothes with practiced precision. Though you kicked and screamed, Rohan was deceptively strong. You cried out as he wrenched your arm painfully behind your back.

“Keep fighting me, and I’ll pop your arm out of its socket,” Despite his warning you continued to struggle, wriggling underneath him for any kind of opportunity to get the upper hand. He let out an exasperated sigh and tugged hard. You cried out as burning agony shot down your arm and the limb fell to your side with a thud, “You really think one would learn after the first twenty or so times. How did you even survive on your own for this long?”

With the rest of your clothing off, he moved his weight from you and ordered you to get back on your knees. Trembling, you acceded, forcing yourself up with your working arm to face him. You watched as he retrieved his sketchbook from the floor. He flipped through the pages with annoyance.

“Not many left. Ah, here’s a spot. Now…what do I need from you…” Rohan’s brow furrowed as he tapped his chin with a fountain pen and looked at your sobbing face. His lip curled in disgust, “Let’s put that mouth to use. Open up,” Your eyes met his and you silently pleaded for mercy. Images of him forcing his way past your lips flashed before you, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to comply.

“I shouldn’t have to repeat myself,” Fury bubbled beneath Rohan’s calculated stare. After you continued to hesitate, he cupped his hand and put it to his ear, “What’s that? You’re begging me to paralyze you with my stand?” You shook your head furiously and opened your mouth for him, ashamed, “Good girl.”

Rohan walked over to you and unzipped his baggy trousers. With pen in hand, he fished out his half-hard member and let it hit your tongue. Fresh tears streamed down your cheeks. His thumb grazed your cheek, and for a moment you thought he might even take pity on you. He only smirked.

“Mess up my drawing, and I’ll throat-fuck you until you have to use a feeding tube,” Fear coursed through you as he started to draw, lightly thrusting his length along your tongue to allow it to fully harden. You barely breathed.

Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Rohan sketched the way his cock sat between your lips as if he were sketching a detailed flower. Nothing in his facial expressions betrayed the act in which he was participating. But he was certainly aroused. You fought back the urge to gag when salty pre-cum hit your tongue.

When he slapped the sketchbook closed, you jumped. The sick sense of security you felt while he was drawing melted, and terrified anticipation took its place.

“Get on all fours,” Reluctantly, you did as he said. He came up behind you and slid his hands along your inner thighs, “Spread your legs…Further,” Your face heated up with shame and rage as you felt him grasp the soft flesh of your behind. He toyed with it, massaging it and spreading it apart to examine your innermost parts.

“Wait!” You cried out as something prodded at your entrance. You lurched forward to escape him, but tumbled onto your dislocated shoulder. Rohan quickly caught your hips and dragged you back across the floor. A sharp slap resounded in the room as he reared back and spanked you as hard as he could, “Please, Rohan-”

“Please, Rohan,” He mocked, smacking you again, “Do you know how long I’ve kept myself from burying my cock inside of you?” Burning pain filled you as he thrust himself forward, plunging inside of you with his thick length. Your nails dug into the floor as you sobbed, begging him to stop.

His pace was instantly vicious, dizzying. It was painful, so incredibly painful, but your cries fell on deaf ears. He even chuckled as you writhed beneath him, trying desperately to get away. With a swift motion he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you to him so that your back stuck to his chest. His clammy hands enthusiastically grasped at your bouncing breasts.

“Don’t you wonder why…” He growled in your ear, rolling his hips against you, “…after all the ways I’ve taken you, why not here?” His hand moved from your chest to rub painful circles into your clit. His other hand slid up to your neck and gripped it so tightly that you could barely respond, “I don’t mean to sound sentimental, but I wanted you to remember it. A whore like you should be so lucky to be fucked by Rohan Kishibe.”

Finally, his thrusts slowed and he shifted the angle of your body. Though it was still painful, the new position allowed his dick to plant a cloying feeling deep within your core. Every time he penetrated you, it gave you pause. Combined with the more deliberate ministrations of his fingers on your clit, the realization dawned on you that you were dangerously close to orgasm. Your heart raced at the thought. You wanted to scream, but Rohan’s grip on your neck kept you near silent.

“Cum for me you little slut. I know exactly where your buttons are, so don’t try to fight it,” The world around you spun as lack of oxygen finally took its toll, and everything you had been fighting so hard to stop fell by the wayside. Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, little pinpricks of light dancing in your vision as your body trembled. Rohan cackled psychotically and let you drop to the floor.

While you came down from your high, Rohan fucked you harder. Your knees rubbed the floor painfully as he took you, slamming his cock deep within you again and again and again. You had no energy to hold yourself up, especially with just one arm, and you let him have his way with you as you silently cried.

His own orgasm wasn’t far behind. To your absolute shock he pulled out of you, digging the nails of his left hand into your thigh as his right milked out semen all over the skin of your back.

As soon as he released every drop of cum, there was shuffling behind you. You dared to glance down to see that he immediately went to grab his sketchpad to draw your freshly marked body and abused hole. You didn’t even need to be told to stay still.

When he was finished, he flipped you over. You yelped in shock as he grabbed your foot and held it up to where he could see the bottom of it. Pain shot through you as he took his fountain pen and sliced into the sole of your foot, cutting a thin line.

“There,” he panted, dropping your leg, “You didn’t really think that was our first time, did you?” He cast a smug smile your direction as your face dropped, “That’s it, that’s the face! Hold still,” He picked up the book beside him and quickly outlined your pained expression. He grinned as his pen flew across the paper, absolutely unhinged. “Anyway, of course you believed me. The only person more gullible than you is that buffoon Josuke.”

“But…I saw everything…” Rohan let out a genuine cackle.

“You remember what I let you remember, you stupid bitch. Why would I pass up the chance to break you anew every single day? To let you think that I still had one more line left to cross? The raw emotion…that’s truly art,” You thought you had run your tears dry, but more just kept coming. A choked sob left your lips as you dared to look at the bottom of your foot. It was covered in scars, some fresher than others. There must have been hundreds. Little tick marks that denoted how Rohan had used you time and time and time again.

Before you could process everything that happened, before you could curl up into yourself and howl at the indignity, Heaven’s Door had you between its grubby little hands. Rohan himself sauntered over and scribbled something on your cheek.

“Now, why don’t you go wash your filthy little hole and go to bed?” Your mind went blank as the world around you fell away. Rohan called out to you as you mindlessly lifted yourself up to walk to the bathroom as he bid you.

“Sweet dreams, [Y/n].” *all original work is my intellectual property. do not edit or re-upload.

[writingsbychlo]

put her together again (02)

word count; 6241

summary; mitch realises just how literal your instructions an be taken, and teh extent of your trauma, before helping you get over a major breakthrough.

notes; pretty major stuff in this part, so I hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing about it. I know we’re moving quiet fast through the time spaces right now, but that’s kinda’ just the way it has to go.

warnings; reference to abuse, reference to brainwashing, reference to injury.

Following a rocky introduction to his life, the ripples you caused seemed to smooth out fairly easily after that. Mitch found himself acting less and less like you were a baby in need of protection, and instead, you had become more like a simple accessory to his life. You reminded him of a cat, you didn’t really talk to him, but you simply coexisted, moving around the shared space and living together without ever having to talk.

You no longer sat in silence and sulked in your room, though, because he’d managed to coax you out. Simple tasks and basic chores meant you were pulling your weight around the house, and he definitely notice that you’d occasionally things would be in slightly different places, objects cleaned an inspected while he wasn’t looking, as you learned your whereabouts. Books to read, paper and pencils to draw with, anything he could think of to try and get a little information of you, because talking never worked.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying, this wasn’t exactly his ideal assignment, a year out of action as he babysat a moody assassin wasn’t something he thought he’d be spending his life doing, and so he was determined to try and make breakthroughs with you and learn as much about you as he possibly could, because the sooner you started talking and making progress, the sooner you’d be off of his hands. He just had to ensure you were stable and functional enough to undergo whatever therapy and rigorous interviewing it was that Irene had lined up for you.

You’d had a few conversations with him, which were mostly one-sided as he spoke and you stared at him with that same blank look, and over what had been almost a month now, Mitch had flittered through a range of emotion. Confusion, concern, anger, irritation, helplessness, and now back to confusion. This confusion, however, was mixed with some form of sadness and pity for you, the broken-toy vibe that you gave off made him permanently feel depressed and exhausted himself, and he was grateful for the reprieve when you seemed to perk up - even just a little bit - while reading of drawing.

The books were mostly just everything that he had around at the time, and you must’ve read everything on his shelves at least twice right now, even the ones written in Arabic that he’d forgotten he’d ever owned, which had lead to an interesting discovery that you apparently knew five languages fluently, and had a reasonable understanding of a further three. You were still icy and cold with him, and so he gave up on trying to ask you what the drawings meant, encouraging you to just draw whatever came to your mind when you picked up a pencil, most of your doodles and scribbles meaning nothing to him, but he faxed copies of them all over to Irene, and saved them in a folder when you were done with them.

The most startling thing he had learned, though, was just how young you’d been when you were taken.

A simple series of questions he’d asked you one day over dinner, stemming from his desperate attempt to find out more about you at the beginning o week two, an answer that had shaken him to his very core and sent his insides twisting in disgust and sadness for you, and his appetite had quickly drained after hearing your response. All he had asked was how old you were, how long you’d been doing this, and you had seemed entirely unaffected when you’d answered.

“Unit eight has been active for twenty years, six months and eight days - and has been in service for eleven years, three months and seventeen days.”

He remembered Irene saying that the agents were taken young, but that was younger than anybody could even remember, your life was based entirely on the way you’d been raised, on being grown and shaped into a weapon for a company that would use you until you died. You had no childhood, no young adulthood, you had nothing but the memories of a cell and an abuser, and even he had a childhood he could look back on before his own parents had passed away.

You weren’t a puzzle, you were like a broken glass, shattered on the floor and chipped, but it was his job to put you back together again. You’d never be whole, never the way you were before, you’d be splintered and cracked, but you’d no longer be shattered, and he was determined to achieve that for you.

Setting your mind up to do something productive seemed to be the best way to make progress with you, and he began to notice a steady pattern of what made you seem like you were on the verge of a breakthrough, and what made you seem like you were closing back in on yourself.

When you used shades of blue in your artwork, you seemed to be denoting happier scenes, things like snow and food, or simple sketches of what you were seeing around his home, and Mitch had decided that blue must be your favourite colour, even if you didn’t know it yourself, because you gravitated towards blue things. You liked to sit at the end of the couch with the blue cushion, and you favourite the deep navy hoodie he’d given to you, and the blue body wash in the bathroom seemed to be used up far more quickly than the yellow or red one, even though it had no scent other than sea salt, and the other two had a fruit essence that he’d originally thought you’d enjoy upon purchase.

Reds and purples seemed to donate darker times, the tips of the pencils often broken and in need of sharpening, and he had to buy those far more often than any others, because you pressed down harder into the paper, scribbling aggressively as you drew cages and corridors, until dark images with barely any white paper left revealed were created, and these must’ve been colours associated with things that hurt you in the past. Blue brought you calmness and serenity, and even made you more open to answering his questions or listening to him talk at dinner, but red and purples made your mood turn sour, and on those nights a palpable tension shrouding in darkness would often hang over the room.

You liked it when you were able to read sci-fi books, he’d noticed because his one copy of that genre on the bookshelf had never been put back after it had been picked up, always seeming to follow you around the house, even if you were on other books at the time. Mitch figured you liked to escape into another world, that you just wanted to get away from the life that you actually lived to find a better one, and he wasn’t entirely sure he blamed you. He was taking notes, jotting it down, the way you favoured certain things over another, and the way you scowled when he turned the vacuum on, but liked to sit in the laundry room when the washer was on, even though it was a little broken and rattled. The clock that clicked loudly with every second that passed was something he often found you sitting near on the bad days, your fingers twitching in time with the clicks, and he’d be damned if he said he didn’t find it at least the littlest bit endearing that you were able to search and find comfort in somewhere that was probably unfamiliar and rather scary to you.

The weeks passed on and on, your walls crumbling bit by bit as you seemed to grow more comfortable around him, choosing to sit with him on the couch when you ate dinner in the living room instead of at the table, and you had even begun to mimic some of his actions, taking on basic responsibilities around the house. You washed up, and unpacked the shopping when he brought things back, and he knew you tidied your room, because while you kept the door shut to him, he would occasionally catch a glimpse inside, and it was always spotless.

Luckily for Mitch, he’d managed to wrangle himself a few moments free at the end of each week. He set you off with a few hours worth of tasks each Friday, before slipping out to the coffee shop to get himself a well deserved hot drink and moment of quiet, before doing stopping by at the gym, and then going on to do some shopping. 

From midday until five PM every Friday afternoon, Mitch got a little bit of freedom to himself, but as of two days ago, that had gone too, Irene telling him he was to come in and start giving her actual reports on how you were doing. 

He wasn’t ready for the earlier rise this morning, and apparently, it had been a bad day. You’d spent the night screaming as you dreamt until the early hours, and so he’d only had a few moments of sleep, barely scraping himself out of bed in the morning. You’d been a challenge, to say the least, unwilling to leave your room after the awful dreams you’d had, until he’d shouted at you to come out and eat, a thing he was feeling guilty for now as you’d trudged from the room with your head hung low, and refused to meet his eye as he rushed around to get ready. 

He felt guilty about a lot of things that had happened this morning, the most important of which being the fact that he had completely forgotten to go through the list of tasks with you, which he had spent an hour and a half making for you last night as he sat in the home office, his face popped up on his hand as he leaned over the desk and started at the sheet of paper, while trying to think of ways to help you without seeming like he was taking advantage of you to do household jobs, or patronising you by treating you like an incompetent child. He had rushed out before giving you the list, the paper sitting on his desk still, the office in which you never entered, the door closed from his exit last night, and he was genuinely convened that he would come home and find you still sitting at the kitchen table, legs numb and body aching from holding yourself upright for almost five hours, a dish still sitting in front of you and hours wasted once again. 

He had realised this about thirty minutes into a meeting with Irene, one that had gone on for a further two hours, and then Stan had caught him in the corridor to discuss the upkeep on his training, before demanding a sparring session, which had taken up another hour of his time, and despite how much he knew he needed to get home to you, the two of you were rapidly running out of food, and so he was certain he needed to make at least a bare minimum shopping trip. 

And so over four hours later, with shopping bags in hand a twisting feeling in his gut, Mitch was trudging his way back up the stairs to his apartment and rifling through his pockets to find his keys, only to remember after five whole minutes, that they were clasped between his teeth. It had been a long fuckin’ day.

Muscles aching, stomach rumbling, and silence meeting him when he opened the door, Mitch let out a deep sigh as he saw you. 

It was out of relief, his lips flicking up at the sides as he realised at least one thing had gone right today. Your hair was still a little wet and your clothes were changed, clearly, you had showered, and you were peering at him over the edge of your book, face stoic and blank as you looked at him, and he kicked the door shut, moving around the room to place the bags down on the kitchen counter.

Your pencil set was out on the coffee table too, a new drawing facing upwards, this one decorated with splotches of greens and blues, a house in the foreground and a sunny day, signs along the road and toys in the garden, and it was possibly the most detailed drawing you’d done yet, similar to the line sketch you’d done a few weeks ago, the comparison in his mind flashing up as a green flag. 

“I was worried that you’d stay in that chair all day, I’m glad to see that you haven’t.”

It had almost seemed like you’d shrugged, closing the book you were reading and sitting up to look at him over the edge of the couch as he put away all the food and supplies he’d bought for you both. “Based on previous assignments, it was logical that the handler would be satisfied with the unit’s task choices.”

He stilled, mulling it all over in his mind. 

On the one hand, he was incredibly happy to see that you were gaining your ability to come up with ideas for yourself, even if you were doing it to please other people. It was the first time you’d gained a little individuality, choosing what you wanted to do from a list of ‘approved’ tasks, and just like that, he realised you’d made a pretty impressive breakthrough.

On the other hand, though, you saw him as your new handler, and that made him feel like yous aw him as a possible threat and someone who might hurt you, and he certainly never wanted you to feel like that. He wanted you to be safe with him, he wanted you to trust him and open up, not see him as someone who’d hurt you.

He finished tidying away, leaving out some pasta and basic ingredients for mac and cheese on the counter, and you were still sitting on the couch, watching him move around and waiting to be told what to do now that he was back. 

“I think we should have a schedule, y’know? We can make a routine, then you don’t have to wait for me to tell you what to do.”

“Differing to the current routine?”

If he wasn’t mistaken, there was almost a hint of judgement and sass in your voice, spoken to him like he was just supposed to know that, and he placed his hands flat on the counter, raising his brows at you. “We already have a routine?”

You fixed him with a look that he couldn't quite decipher, before getting up and walking past him, disappearing into your room for only a moment, before re-emerging, a sheet of paper clasped in your hands. 

Handwritten in the pencils you had scattered around, a pang shot through his chest as he got a glimpse of your writing, something that was unique to you, and so, in turn, felt so personal and special in a way that he couldn't quite place, but deeply appreciated. Taking a seat at the table, you pushed it towards him, head bowed down to look at the slightly stained wood, and he didn’t like standing above you, forcing you to see him as a superior, so he sat down opposite you.

Picking it up, his eyes scanned along it, taking in each and every note you had written, timeframes jotted down alongside tasks and notes, and a lot of things suddenly began to come to light about the way you acted, and when you wouldn't inevitably emerge from your bedroom, before retreating back into it. You stuck to this timetable like your life depended on it, and he was certain that at a time it had, but not anymore, and so making a routine wasn’t the direction to go in. He didn’t need to reinforce that behaviour, he needed to break you out of it. 

Your entire life up until now had been based on punishments and time frames, and so what you needed were reward and spontaneity, to show you that you still had an entire life to live, if you could just let him free you from the box you’d been forced into. Mealtimes, work out schedules, study breaks, there was no free time, your day was filled with waiting on handler tasks and basic upkeep from the moment you got up to the moment you went to bed, and he shook his head in distaste, turning it back to you.

“Do you want to go for a walk? It’s a little late, but it’s not too cold tonight.”

“Exercise is scheduled between 10 AM and 3 PM every day.” He felt his head tip to the side a little as he studied you, licking over his lower lip and bringing it to sit clenched between his teeth as he nodded. 

“I saw that, but I was thinking we could make an exception.”

“Is this an assignment?” You were pulling the paper closer to yourself, but looking up at him now, meeting his eye as you waited for an answer. 

“No, it’s not an assignment, it’s fun.”

“Fun?” You echoed him, and he grinned a little as he watched you, and there was no doubt that there was judgement in your tone this time, a slight underlay of confused mocking, and while it wasn’t quite the emotions he wanted you t greet him with, it was more than the monotone and clipped sentences that he’d been awarded so far.

“Okay, so that’s a no on the walk then, but we will come back to that.” You raised a single brow at him, and the entirety of his bad day seemed to pale into insignificance as the first semblance of a personality from you dripped in, and it turns out, you were rather sassy. “You did good today, and everyone loves pasta, so how about you let me set us off some mac and cheese, and then we can rework this routine a bit, okay?”

“Command understood.”

You sat back in the chair, giving him a curt nod and crossing your arms over your chest as you waited.  “Not a command, okay? Just a suggestion, something to be done, but I’m not commanding you.”

Your mouth opened, before you paused for a second, and he watched carefully, before you swallowed, bringing your gaze up to his own boldly. “Understood.”

“Progress.”

That statement was more for himself than for you, and he pulled out an oven dish and the jar of sauce he had, beginning to measure up pasta quantities as he prepared the meal for you both to share. During that time, he’d heard you get up, anew piece of paper being fetched and your pencil case, bringing them both back to your seat and spilling the wooden sticks out over the surface. 

He had watched on in interest as he poured you both a glass of water while you arranged the colours to your liking, perfect rows in colour order, and you seemed satisfied with your job, folding your hands into your lap as you waited on him to join you. Pulling out a chair beside you instead of opposite you, your body stiffened slightly beside his own, but you didn’t flinch away or move, and so he decided to take that as a good sign. The original schedule sat by it for comparison, one you’d work through every day, and he hovered his hands over the lines of pencils, waiting for your approval on the act, and you offered him a curt nod to allow him to pick one up. 

The first action he took was to write times along the side, knowing that he couldn't snap you out of it too much, he didn’t want to startle you or make you panic and curl back in n yourself, not when you were taking so many steps forward now, and so he wrote the times from morning to evening all the way along the side, and drew lines to match each one, before picking up two new colours of pencils. 

“I’ll be green, and you’ll be blue, okay?”

You nodded, leaning in a little as you watched him transfer some of the events and items across onto the new sheet, using the blue pencil first as you changed some things around. Breakfast was at ten o’clock instead of eight, and you would only work out for one hour a day instead of a killer five hours every day. Dinner would be at five, and you had no commitments after that, but you had household jobs scheduled at four just before you ate. 

Then, he moved onto himself, adding in green in the filler hours, such as his office work and his own workout, and he made a mental note to show you his home gym, so that you didn’t feel like you had to be locked away in your room. He also put in the time for showers and personal grooming, which was optional depending on the day, before he let out a proud sound, and presented it to you for approval. 

“There are empty spaces. Units must not be left without tasks.”

“You won’t be left without things to do.” He turned, tapping the tip of your nose with a pencil and your face screwed up at the ticklish touch, before resetting to the blank expression he was oh-so-familiar with. “Those are called free time, or downtime. Time to relax, and do whatever you want to do. Like read, or draw, or whatever.”

You only nodded, seeming suspicious of the idea, but you didn’t argue and so he was happy with that, because he had the chance to help you discover who you wanted to be, and who you were when you weren’t under anybody’s control except your own. 

“How about we say that once a week, we’ll go for a walk after dark? Just around the block, but it’ll do you good to get some fresh air.” You gave him your confirmation, and he felt like tonight you’d taken more steps in the last hour that you had in the previous six weeks of living together. Pushing his chair back, you flinched a little at the wood on the tiles, and with a mumbled apology under his breath, before he was rearranging the things pinned up on the fridge to make space for the sheet. “How about we keep this out here, where we can both see it, yeah?”

Your response game after a moment’s deliberation, but you were tucking your hands into the sleeves of the sweater in a way that made you look adorable as you let a little of you defences down again, seemingly without realising you’d done it, using his clothing like a suit of armour as you shielded yourself within them; “That would be acceptable.”

“Great. Now, it’s pasta time.” 

You didn’t fight him on that, but he did hear you sniff the air as he opened the oven, and Mitch smirked to himself as he pulled the tray out and up onto the surface, bubbling cheese sauce and steaming pasta, and he fished around for two dishes and a serving spoon with which to sort the meal with. 

Grabbing at forks and covering up the leftovers but leaving it out in case you wanted more, he placed the dish down before you, taking a seat beside you and while you didn’t say the words ‘thank you’, he saw what was most definitely a grateful look in your eyes, and he ducked his head, stirring his food around and stabbing at his pasta, shoving hot food into his mouth. He was slightly startled, to say the least, when you started a conversation, never having optionally chosen to be the first to talk before, and he looked up at you expectantly as soon as he heard your intake of breath;

“What are the recommended ‘free time’ activities?”

The routine seemed to work for you, it opened you up a little more to him and made it easier for the two of you to bond, but he quickly realised that having you sound when you had no idea what to do was slightly less functional. 

You now seemed to follow him around like a lost puppy, and you still didn’t talk as much, so he didn’t mind having you around, but he felt sorry for you. You would sit and just keep him company silently as he did his office work, for hours at a time, or slink away to workout and take a shower before returning. Every book he had was now rearranged on the shelves, and you were running out of paper, beginning to sketch the same things over and over again because you had nothing else to do, and he quickly realised that his apartment was nowhere near as entertaining as he thought it was. 

Sometimes, the two of you would watch a movie in the evening, but the television gave you headaches after too long, not that you ever voiced the pain but he could tell from the way you’d squint and rub at your eyes, getting a little cranky before going to bed and rubbing your temples. That meant you still needed an adjustment period to screens, not to mention that you had no idea how to operate much technology, and so he was left to occupy you with more basic forms of entertainment. 

Your personality had been developing, though, coming through in dribs and drabs. You had favourites in the books now, a stack that you would go back over every day, whereas certain genres had been delegated back to the shoves to never again be touched, and he flicked through them one day before you got up, smiling to himself a little at the idea that science-fiction and fantasy were your favourites.

Following that discovery, he’d got a library card, making room on one of his Friday afternoons out to go to the building and browse the aisles, checking out ten new books following those genres to surprise you with, and you’d all but bounced in your spot as you stood before him, eyes wide and slightly sparkling as he handed them over to you. That day you did thank him, looking him in the eye as you said those words, and the locked eyes felt almost too intense for him to handle, you didn’t shy away or duck your head in respect of authority when he didn’t turn away either, heat crawling along his cheeks before you’d chosen to look down at the new books he’d given you. 

He found in meals that you would eat anything you were given, despite his insistence that if you particularly liked something or didn’t like something, then you should speak up so he knew what to get, but you ate anything he gave you. 

He picked up on the fact that you ate chicken at twice the speed you ate lamb, and that you’d had seconds of the beef stew and mashed potato he’d made one night, and you always pushed broccoli onto a fork with other food to eat it, but were happy to eat carrots and peas without having to accompany them with something else. Cheesecake was nice for dessert, but only if it had the lemon swirls, not the strawberry ones, and you preferred brownies to cookies. 

Despite all his studying of you, he knew you were studying and learning him just as much in response. When he did the laundry, you’d fold it so he didn’t have to, and when he was cooking, you’d set the table. He’d watched you go around the entire apartment with a fine-tooth comb one day, checking everything and learning their places, memorising where it would all go and the positioning of things, finally accepting the environment as your own. You knew which side of the table he liked to sit on and which was his favourite chair, never sitting in it or disturbing his routine, and you’d grown to knocking on the office door before entering to sit with him quietly instead of just barging in and starling him if the world had slipped away around him as he drowned in mission reports and debriefing statements. 

It was odd, to learn someone so well, to become so in tune with another person when they hardly spoke to you, and to know someone so well when they barely knew themselves. It was hard to talk to you, you didn’t even know your name, but he knew of your childhood trauma at the hands of kidnappers, and you lived with him but couldn't remember your own house while growing up. Having another person in his life was something that Mitch had expected to hate, but as the ‘end of your third-month’ marker of slightly uneasy but otherwise reasonably acceptable cohabitation came around, he found that he rather enjoyed having your presence. 

The large space felt more welcoming now, and knowing he had someone to come home to and sit with as he ate his meals or watched his movies made the long days feel a little shorter, and the stressful workload feel a little more bearable, even if it was only a temporary fixture, but Mitch was making the most of it while it lasted.

“I’m home!” Mitch had to resist the urge to add the word ‘honey’ onto the beginning there, his eyes rolling at himself as he grinned at the joke in his mind, waiting expectantly with the bags at the door as he tried to kick off his shoes, but you didn’t come to greet him.

Lately, he’d been able to trust you alone enough to go out more, and so he was given a little more freedom, the alone time seeming to give you a chance to develop your own mind a little more too, making more and more little breakthroughs each day. You normally came to find him after he arrived home, padding through the house to greet him at the door, even if you didn’t say anything, you’d offer him a nod of the head and take some of the bags from his hands if he had any.

You didn't come to find him though, concern and fear racing through his veins as he listened to the eerie silence in the house, and he left the bags abandoned on the kitchen table as he checked through the house, ensuring security and safety. He found you in your bed, curled up under your covers with the blanket lifted over your head, despite the fact that the chart you’d made to give you a routine stated that you’d be reading one of the more informative books you owned right now.

He knocked on the door, your body not moving out from under the blanket, but you shuffled a little, and he chuckled, making his way across the room. Peeling the blanket back from over your head, the teasing smile on his face dropping as he took in red puffy eyes and wet cheeks, a distressed look on your face as you curled into your pillow a little more, backing away from him across the bed as your body closed in on yourself.

“What happened?”

You didn't reply, barely moving, and he settled down on the floor, kneeling before you as his knees brushed the carpet, placing his forearms flat on the edge of the mattress and balancing his chin on top of them. You peeked up at him a little, and his heart broke a little bit as you brought up one sweater covered hand to wipe at your face. It was the first real emotion he’d seen from you, he expected things like a smile or an angry outburst, but he’d never expected to see tears, and right now you looked like you were walking the line between distressed and utterly terrified.

“Wanna’ tell me what’s wrong?”

You took a deep breath, sniffling a little before pushing yourself to sit up, smoothing your hair back out of your face and crossing your legs, trying to gain a little bit of composure again, before taking a deep and raspy breath, coughing to clear your throat before you spoke. “Unit eight has another title.”

His brows furrowed, your voice barely above a whisper and cracking at the end, and he echoed the words back to you in confusion. “Another title?”

“(Y/N).”

He mulled the name over a little, letting it rattle around inside his head before realising exactly what it meant, and he felt his own face light up as you continued to stare at him with a cross of horror and despair. “That’s amazing! Why do you look so sad? That’s your name.”

You just played with your hands in your lap, taking your gaze away from his as your head dropped down, and he let out a low sigh. Lifting his body up from the floor, he was soon to find his seat on the mattress instead, back pressing to the wall as he sat beside you, keeping his gaze fixed on you.

“Can I call you that? (Y/N)?”

“It would be acceptable.” The words were hardly audible, but you were at least accepting your name now, and he was psyched just to have something to refer to you as, because up until now, it had been extremely difficult just to get your attention.

He never wanted to call you ‘unit eight’ and he didn’t want to startle you by touching you out of the blue, knowing that you were still jumpy and stiff even when he just got a little too close without warning, but this was major progress. Your arm brushed against his as you shuffled, and you moved in a little closer to him, not quite leaning your head on his shoulder but your cheek brushed the curve of his arm, seeking out comfort as you cleared your skin of tears, and he remained still, allowing you to do so.

He knew it would take you a while to actually settle into the name, to get used to hearing it and remembering that it was you, in order to reply to the name and become familiar with it. He dared to reach out a hand, placing it over your clothed knee and squeezing comfortingly as you settled into the realisation that you weren't just a unit, you were a person with a name, and he couldn't really imagine how you were feeling, but he could empathise.

“Well, for the record, I think it’s a lovely name, and I think it suits you.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded his head, tipping it to the side to rest on your own, and he could feel the slight tension of your body, freezing up for a moment, before you accepted the physical touch, and it was all symbols of how well you were settling into your new life.  “How about we make some dinner? Do you want to come and cook with me? I bet you’re starving, right now. You made a pretty big breakthrough.”

You merely nodded, letting him guide you up from the bed slowly as you stretched out muscles and joints that must've been locked up for a while. He waited as you straightened out the sheets, wandering away to the kitchen to give you that moment of space, and you joined him only a few minutes later, opening up the fridge and having a look through, before pulling out a packet of chicken breasts and looking up at him hopefully.

“Chicken and potatoes? I have that broccoli you like.”

“That would be nice.”

The two of you worked in harmony, side by side as he stood over the hob, creating a seasoning for the chicken and frying it up, and you expertly chopped potatoes and vegetables with a kind of precision and speed that he knew was a skill gained from your years in captivity, but it was still incredible to watch, dicing everything up small and making it look so easy. You had ended up choosing mashed potatoes over boiled, and he worked carefully to ensure there were no lumps and that it was smooth, while you set the table, and he plates up two dishes of hot and delicious food for you both, humming to a song under his breath.

You had poured drinks, laying them out too, before going to take a stand beside him, staring at both of the plates, and leaning in a little as he practically watched the cogs work in your mind, and he waited patiently, brows raised, for whatever it was you were thinking about and trying to work out how to say. “Is this one.. um, this one is mine?”

He paused, lifted up the spoon he’s dished out the mash with to lick it clean, but couldn't help the large grin that plastered across his face. Mine.

Your name made you acknowledge yourself as something other than another person’s plaything and machine, and he nodded, letting out a breathy laugh as you claimed something as your own, as a person capable of having possessions.

“Yeah. Yeah, that one is yours.”

[uwua3]

Hello! Sunflowers hold a really special meaning for me so when i read the "sunflower dreams" My heart was so happy!! I havent felt this happy in a long time since quarantine started so thank you for taking the time to write it! It really made my day. If i could request a kazunari x reader where they're both artists that would be amazing. Maybe the reader can be a famous anonymous art influencer? Its up to you! Again thank you so much for writing "sunflower dreams" 💜

i’m so happy i could make you smile ‧⁺◟( ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ·̫ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀ ) it’s messages like these that absolutely make my day! thank you so much for taking your time to even read it, i’m glad to know it touched your heart ♡ i hope you have a good rest of your day—please know all of a3! love you vvv much!!! ｀･ω･)9 i hope this makes your heart happy just like before! thank you, anon, for everything

summary: every time you fell in love, you made a new art piece

author’s note: please smile from this absolutely soft and endearing kazunari fluff! in times like these where negativity is all around us, it’s good to take a break and purposely give yourself happiness. i hope this is a light in your day and makes you experience all the goodness of love! ♡ — concept based on “to all the boys i’ve loved before”

word count: 3,389

music: i like me better – lauv

to everyone i’ve loved before.

🌻🎨 miyoshi kazunari

you created art every time you had a crush so intense, you didn’t know what else to do

no matter how big or small it was, or how long or short it lasted, love is love. even if it was a random stranger you’d never see again or someone you knew for a lifetime, love is love

therefore, there was no exact total. because even if you didn’t remember every single person you’ve made art for, you clearly remembered what it was like experiencing the euphoria of love. the phenomenon of your heart selflessly beating for someone else. the attack of getting hit by cupid’s arrow out of no where. the rush of emotions unlike any other

love was everywhere and you made sure to create something that was a memory of it. that was when you decided to practice art after being unable to recall a person’s face a moment too long

it was your form of a love letter. a picture spoke a thousand words you couldn’t write, and art was the perfect way to convey that. online for everyone to see were your love letters in art form: portraits of everyone you’ve loved

you fell in love again and again, a new art piece posted soon over the years of your life. under the username, to-everyone-ive-loved, a lifelong project was in the works for all of social media to see

unknown to the rest of the world, you were the artist behind the blog “to-everyone-ive-loved” who created portraits from memory

but, you didn’t mean to fall in love with another artist as well

all it took was one comment and you were theirs

it was one of your most recent posts, a finished piece on a stranger you saw. you found yourself in veludo way, the ideal street to find people you’d never forget. after witnessing a sudden street act, only one actor caught your eye that day

you didn’t know his name, but you didn’t need to. you were in love

you immediately rushed home without a second thought, the inspiration and creativity infectious after watching him perform. something about his energy was wildly entertaining and bizarre, like a modern pop song as a person. he was effortlessly trendy, popular, and charismatic just from the few minutes you saw him

the moment he stood up on that street corner like it was a stage, all eyes were on him and he knew it. as you sketched into the day, you remembered the small details clearly. dirty blonde hair with no dark roots in sight, glittering green eyes, wide welcoming smile. he had the face of an actor, that’s for sure

when you posted it right after finishing, you didn’t expect any major attention. on average, your posts got 100 likes or so. while it was an impressive feat, nothing could’ve prepared you for that one comment

kaz-PIKO: i’m in love with your art ♡

as your popularity and fame grew before your very eyes, you clicked on his profile and realized it was him. the actor you had seen earlier at veludo way

you didn’t know what happened, but all you knew was you couldn’t forget this one person, miyoshi kazunari, no matter how hard you tried

no matter where you went, you couldn’t draw anyone else except that boy named kazunari. after scrolling through his entire instablam account, you found out he was an actor for mankai company’s summer troupe. he was a star in his own right, with a stage presence like the spotlight was constantly on him and a heart of gold

this was the first time you ever got so caught up on someone that they didn’t leave your mind. hours became days, and days began becoming a week before you let yourself follow him back

everyone you had ever drawn had never recognized themselves before. it was all because a follower connected the visual similarities between your art and kazunari’s unique traits that kazunari knew you had seen him before

if only he wasn’t a social media influencer with followers reaching the hundreds of thousands. at least, his popularity attracted attention to your profile...

this was a problem, however. because if you couldn’t draw anyone else, what could you do? once again, you stalked kazunari’s blog once again like it was a habit

it was never really a rule to make one love letter per person, but you never had wanted to make another for the same person. until, now

video after video. picture after picture. story after story. you could see kazunari’s face even when you closed your eyes. what about him made you daydream about him constantly? was it his charming voice that could make anyone stop and stare? his intricate piercings that were different every day? his ability to make you feel at home? whatever it was (or maybe it was an accumulation of everything and more), you had to draw kazunari again

when you posted it, you typically didn’t add more to the caption than the date and time. except this time, you felt like all your rules were being broken over someone who had no idea who you were

to-everyone-ive-loved-before: XX/XX/20 (3:33 A.M.) — social butterfly

you watched it upload. it was a piece you had never done before. glowing butterflies of all colors surrounded the center of the masterpiece, a smiling kazunari

hopefully, this would solve whatever feelings you were having and the world would go back to normal. you’d move on, fall in love with someone else, and repeat

it didn’t work, because some time later, you woke up to a comment that made you feel the butterflies in your stomach

kaz-PIKO: like a butterfly, i’ll fly to you, wherever you are~ ☆

and for some reason, you wanted kazunari to find you

you had never felt so motivated to draw before. however, your muse was the same. a beautiful boy named miyoshi kazunari who was slowly capturing your heart without even knowing it. you watched the pages in your sketchbook lessen and lessen. the corners of assignments and napkins and anything in between was covered in doodles. if there was a writing instrument in your hand, something related to kazunari would come out of it

it was a fascination. a fixiation, even. you had only seen one performance before falling in love. was it because kazunari responded that it made you feel like you had a chance?

you wouldn’t admit it, but it was becoming embarrassing with how much you were staring at the few unread messages from kazunari in your dm box. they came in right after you had followed him back, and more arrived when you posted the “social butterfly” piece

what was stopping you from talking to your muse? you knew the answer without thinking: what if these feelings were real?

obsessions and crushes come and go, but... love, love stayed. there wasn’t any possibility you could love someone from afar without knowing anything about them, right?

but, then again... you did know some things about kazunari. you knew kazunari was the best actor of all time, with expressions and gestures the equivalent of art. kazunari was art—in every single way possible. everything about him made you want to draw and draw and draw

you only drew kazunari for a certain time, no matter which stranger crossed your path. people you knew you would’ve sketched simply became passer-bys, and it was all because of kazunari’s sunny smile that you were in love. or, what you thought was love

the more you thought about kazunari’s unread dms, the more you wondered what this was. why did kazunari make you so happy? was this truly the first time you were experiencing... a crush?!

for the first time since that street act, you found yourself in veludo way. while half of you was hoping you’d randomly bump into summer troupe’s moodmaker, the other half was petrified about how kazunari was a real person. a very much popular, recognizable person

it was the weekend, and the burden of university projects was telling you to go back and focus. yet, with a sketchbook in one hand and a pencil tucked behind your ear, you were very much prepared to draw to your heart’s content

as you tried to flip to a clean page, you heard something that made your heart flutter. despite the noise and busy atmosphere of veludo, a distinct laugh was audible above the crowd. when you looked up, your eyes barely registered a deep blue jacket before walking straight into the person

you nearly tumbled to the ground before two hands steadied you, a surprised “whoa!” leaving their mouth before being followed by a gentle laugh. the usual embarrassment didn’t set in until you went to go thank the person, only to stop

oh my god. you had just bumped into miyoshi kazunari, your muse for the past month or so

kazunari grinned, even though it faltered slightly at your wide-eyed expression and awkward silence. he didn’t seem to mind as he adjusted his black top hat, pocketing his phone and confidently meeting your gaze

“i’m so sorry~! i hope you’re okay, i’m kazunari!” kazunari introduced and you realized he didn’t know you were behind to-everyone-ive-loved-before. you quickly adjusted yourself, pretending as if this wasn’t the highlight of your entire week

when you introduced yourself, kazunari’s eyes sparkled with interest as he easily led you into conversation. despite being a bit of a socially awkward artist who preferred being alone over anything else, kazunari was... comfortable. you didn’t feel self-conscious of how you acted, because he readily accepted how you were with a smile

was he like this was everyone or... did he find you to be a work of art, too?

standing off to the side, you finally noticed several members of mankai were advertising their latest play. bright, aesthetically pleasing flyers were being handed out to everyone walking by, and you seemed to look a moment too long before kazunari followed your gaze and suddenly snapped his fingers

“oh! are you interested in theatre?” you really weren’t, but you nodded anyways just to see kazunari’s excitement. he pardoned himself for a moment just to snatch a flyer, returning to show it off with a proud smile

“please come to mankai company’s summer performance!” kazunari’s smile sparkled and before he looked around to see if anyone was watching, he winked. kazunari covered the side of his face that was facing his troupe members, pretending as if you two were sharing some big secret

“plus, i’ll be there. if you come, i’ll make sure to do my very best~” kazunari bargained, even though you already knew he was already planning on wowing the audience with his charisma. you took in his genuine want to impress you and the butterflies came back

“i’ll come.” you agreed without even checking the date or reading anything. now all of you just wanted more & more opportunities as the person kazunari was surprisingly interested in, not as the artist who was basically in love with him

agreeing right away was worth it when kazunari shot you a grateful, blinding smile in return. you stumbled over your words with how taken back you were, but asked anyways, “do you like flowers?”

kazunari’s eyes softened for a moment, his usual energy suddenly gone before returning. he seemed genuinely moved by your question, and you wondered how many flowers it’d take to see him smile again like that

“i do, especially if they’re from you.”

“what kind?”

someone called kazunari’s name, insisting they were going to be late for practice. kazunari shouted back an agreement by telling them to go ahead first, before putting all his attention on you once again

“hibiscus.” meaning delicate beauty

before kazunari could ask for your socials, with his hand already reaching for his phone, you cut him off, hoping your voice wasn’t off

“next week. 7 P.M., mankai theatre. i’ll be there, front row.” you promised and took off, rushing off with a wave as kazunari stared after you for a second before waving back enthusiastically

as you left, kazunari was about to leave before he noticed something on the ground. it was a plain sketchbook, unassuming at first but it was nearly bursting at the binding with how many pages there were

when kazunari picked it up, he was about to flip to the first page before mankai called his name again, impatient this time. kazunari held onto the book and sent one last glance towards your direction before disappearing, hurrying to make sure the director wouldn’t penalize him for being the reason everyone was late

when you arrived home, you instinctually reached for the pencil behind your ear. at the same time, you put your hand in your bag, attempting to feel the familiar edges of your sketchbook

then, after turning your bag inside out and finding nothing, you collapsed onto your desk chair with shock and disbelief

you lost your sketchbook in veludo way the moment you met kazunari. what if he had it?

you drew another piece and stared at your screen, wondering if you should post it. it was kazunari once again with a yellow hibiscus flower behind his ear, the same gentle smile you couldn’t perfectly capture gracing his lips

you typed the caption and backspaced before settling on something that only you and him would know

to-everyone-ive-loved-before: XX/XX/20 (8:01 P.M.) — delicate beauty

you hesitated before deleting the post a second after. maybe, you’d keep some artwork to yourself

kazunari had the sketchbook open next to his bedside, his phone in his hands and your profile open. he could recognize your art style a mile away, and the moment he saw the first sketch after practice, he couldn’t believe it

did this explain why he felt such a natural attraction to you? when you bumped into him, kazunari swore he could see the sparks flying. you made him feel like he was falling in love and you only proved him right when you two talked earlier. he wanted to know everything about you, he wanted to see you again

was this what love at first sight felt like? kazunari giddily typed a message over and over again, the unread messages of his filling his screen

kaz-PIKO: heya!! ★>d(,,･ε´-,,)⌒☆ just wanted to say i LOVE your art fr!!! we should totes collab, you know???

kaz-PIKO: thanks for drawing me btw :0 does this mean you live near veludo? let’s meet up!!!

kaz-PIKO: ,,, i don’t usually say this but, that social butterfly piece was breathtaking. you must really like me, huh? (･ω<)☆ jk haha

kaz-PIKO: no but really, it’s beautiful. thank you, honestly. it made my day, you make me happy ♡

kaz-PIKO: you must be really beautiful, too. i would want to draw you as well. lmk if ur up for that haha

kazunari read back his previous messages, all of them delivered but unopened. he realized how... how open he already was with the anonymous faceless artist, despite never interacting with them

now that he knew what you looked like, it only reassured his intuition that he was rightfully head over heels for you

kazunari typed something before deleting it, closing out of instablam and throwing his phone somewhere on his bed

kaz-PIKO: i was right, you are beautiful. i may have fallen in love, too

some things were better left unsaid. after all, you two had until next week to figure everything out

for the rest of the week, all you and kazunari did were think about the other person. a small part of you was afraid kazunari wasn’t the dream boy you imagined, but he was much more. you noticed he started posting more often and turned his notifications, wanting to be one of the first to see his practice videos and university selfies

you didn’t post any of the art you made of kazunari, making it the longest you hadn’t posted ever. kazunari couldn’t help but refresh your account every now and then, hoping he’d see his face again, as selfish as it was. kazunari wouldn’t know how’d he feel if he saw someone else had your heart

the longer time went on, the more you were certain. every fascination you had with someone was temporary, and you remembered the feeling rather than the person. but, with kazunari, you liked him for who he was. everything kazunari made you feel was new and exciting, but even when that went away, you still liked him

kazunari was your first crush, for real

kazunari liked making people like him. so, your online confession through art wasn’t exactly a surprise. but, yours was different. it was earnest, honest, and everything he didn’t know he was needing

kazunari looked through your sketchbook again and again, tracing over the notes you wrote in the margins and admiring your skill

kazunari liked you, and he was certain he would’ve still liked you even if you weren’t to-everyone-ive-loved-before

when showtime arrived, kazunari was oddly nervous. peeking from behind the red curtain, kazunari could already see you were one of the first sitting front row, just like you said. he had practiced his lines a thousand times and summer was fully prepared, why was he nervous?

before he went on, kazunari ignored the urgency of the mankai staff and quickly texted a message to your profile, hoping you’d at least see the notification this time

kaz-PIKO: i like you, too

(when you felt your phone buzz, you quickly silenced it)

the show moved you to a standing ovation, just like everyone else in the audience. as summer walked out to bow and express their gratitude, you watched kazunari’s eyes search for yours as he tilted his head towards backstage. you nodded, knowing you’d do anything to see this kazunari. actor kazunari, who was on cloud 9 with his performance and glowing from praise

you wanted to see, to experience, to draw, all versions of kazunari

after the applause, you looked around backstage before feeling a hand on your arm, the feeling reminiscent of the first time you bumped into kazunari

“you came.” kazunari breathlessly stated, as if he was surprised. before he could say anything else, you presented him with a bouquet of hibiscus flowers. the same shade of yellow you drew him with

“of course, i wanted to see you again.” you honestly admitted, knowing it made you flustered. kazunari carefully took the flowers before grinning, gently placing then beneath his chin. he looked like a vision, you wish you could’ve asked him to stand still so you could capture this moment forever

“i wanted to see you, too.” kazunari softly said, all the energy of being on stage gone. it was tranquil and peaceful, like you two were the only people in the entire theatre

kazunari took a moment to admire you before realizing something, taking something from behind him and presenting it to you. it was your sketchbook on the bottom, but a smaller version was on top of it, signed in silver sharpie. kazunari’s signature was glittering like his eyes as you took it

“next time, let’s draw together.”

kazunari’s sketchbook was filled with you. anything from small doodles to encouraging messages was found inside, with tens of post-it notes of just thoughts about you. kazunari’s art was colorful and extremely out of the box compared to his usual traditional style. it made you smile

kazunari watched you flip through it, already knowing this was the greatest act of love he could’ve declared this early on. he anticipated for you to reach the end

when you landed on the last page, you saw a note

do you want go on a date with me?

“next time, respond to my dms! that way i don’t have to write everything~!” kazunari teased and you two shared a laugh, knowing everything was going to be okay

“yes.”

“yes...?”

“yes, i’ll respond to your dms. and yes, i’ll go on a date with you.”

eventually, you ended up closing your blog for good. your last post was a picture of you and kazunari, with one caption

to-everyone-ive-loved-before: XX/XX/20 (3:33 P.M.) — to the one boy i love now, i love you

kaz-PIKO: i love you, too ♡

[king-finnigan]

16. prison AU, and 86. I didn't mean to turn you on, geraskier fic

Read at your own risk lmao. Contains some nsfw. (But with a prompt like that, can you blame me?)

***

Geralt had expected many things when he had been hired as a prison guard. He had expected fights, he had expected insults thrown at his head, he had even expected riots.

What he hadn’t expected, was standing in the recreation room for hours on end, watching as prisoners read books, watched reality shows on the tiny tv, and drew. Of all things, Geralt had been most surprised about the drawing, really. It hadn’t really seemed like a thing grown men did in prison, but as it turns out, it’s as good a hobby as any.

So, he stands there, arms crossed in front of his chest, in the corner, mind wandering to the matter of what he’ll have for dinner tonight, as he keeps one eye on the prisoners, the other on the clock. It’s nearly 5, which means he has about two more hours left of his shift. 

The prisoners eat at 6, he knows, so he’ll probably either be stationed in the dining room, or he’ll have to patrol the halls to make sure no one’s doing anything potentially illegal.

He sighs a bit, as the minutes tick by, slowly but surely. His attention is caught by one of the inmates, Jaskier Pankratz, he remembers. Here because of manslaughter. Stabbed a guy in the neck with a broken bottle for insulting him. Only convicted for manslaughter and not murder, because he did not plan it for a single second, though the judge did give him an extra long sentence - deemed him emotionally unstable, apathetic, and likely to reoffend. The young man will be lucky if he gets out of here in the next thirty years.

Shame, really, Geralt thinks, as he looks at the young man drawing... well, something, Geralt’s not really sure what it’s supposed to be, as it looks like a bunch of scratchy lines in random colours, but he’s sure that if he were to ask, the inmate would give him a longwinding explanation about how it represents his situation or some shit like that. They always do when he asks.

He sighs again, shifting from foot to foot a bit to relieve the pain in his legs from standing still so long. It is a shame, that Jaskier will likely spend his remaining days here. He’s so young, quite good-looking, and clever, too. He would’ve had a bright future if he hadn’t been such a little monster. There’s a reason why Geralt reads the file of every new prisoner that arrives, and Jaskier is the perfect example: if Geralt hadn’t known about the gruesome crime the young man had commited, he would’ve let his guard down around Jaskier.

After all, he thinks, as he looks at the way the tip of Jaskier’s tongue pokes out between his lips, as he concentrates, it’s so easy to be charmed by the young man’s good looks and silver tongue, by the facade of innocence and naivety he puts up.

Geralt blinks, and suddenly he realizes that Jaskier is staring right back at him, blue eyes curious. The guard clenches his jaw when the young man shoots him a wink, and he looks away, trying and failing to stop heat from rising to his cheeks. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be giving the prisoner any wrong ideas - whatever they may be.

He startles a bit, shaken from his thoughts, as his walkie creaks, the monotone voice of his supervisor telling him he’s on patrol duty for the rest of the shift.

He risks one last glance at Jaskier, and sees bright blue eyes looking right back. He fixes his gaze on the wall opposite him.

---

The noises from the dining room are dulled in the hallways as Geralt walks through them. Of course, there is no one else in sight, all the other guards either in the dining room or on the other side of the building, all the inmates eating dinner.

He sighs to himself. Just half an hour more, and he can go home. He just has to bear thirty minutes more of this boring nothingness. He can do this.

He stops in his tracks as he walks past the door to the recreation room. He frowns, as he sees someone on their hands and knees on the floor, searching for something under the table.

Well, really, hands and knees is a bit generous. The guy’s shoulders are practically on the floor, ass in the air almost invitingly, for lack of better word, as his hand sweeps under the table.

Geralt walks into the room, rounding the man, who looks up at him. He meets brilliantly blue eyes and a cheeky grin, and, combined with the... compromising position Jaskier’s in, it makes heat pool in the pit of Geralt’s stomach.

He frowns, shaking the thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be having away. “What are you doing, inmate?”

Jaskier looks back down, frowning in annoyance as he takes one last look under the table, before crawling to the bookshelf Geralt is standing next to, looking underneath it. “A pencil. A yellow one, to be precise. Rolled off the table, earlier, and I can’t find it.”

“You should be at dinner.”

Jaskier looks up again at Geralt, grinning widely, eyes sparkling. “I know. But yellow is my favourite colour, and I really want that pencil back.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’ll find it tomorrow, now get up.”

“Alright, alright.” Jaskier sits up on his knees, wiping the dirt off his hands. He looks to the side, right at Geralt’s crotch. “Oh,” he breathes, “I could get used to this sight.”

Geralt blinks, mind crashing and burning as he tries to process what Jaskier’s just said. “What?” he manages to choke out.

Jaskier looks up, all cheeky grin and sparkling blue eyes. “Oh, my bad.” He looks down for a second, then back up, gazing at the guard through his lashes, something changing in his face that sets Geralt’s skin on fire. “I could get used to this sight, sir.”

Geralt swallows thickly, heat definitely starting to pool at the bottom of his stomach, and he knows he’ll probably have to relieve himself in some quiet corner after this. “Get the hell up,” he bites out.

Jaskier pouts up at him, but does as he’s told after Geralt staring him down for several seconds. The inmate’s fingers brush against the side of the guard’s leg, as he finally gets up, blue eyes glinting with something dangerous that makes adrenaline pump through Geralt’s veins in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Oh, dear,” Jaskier mutters out, when he’s finally standing up, looking down at the obvious tent in Geralt’s trousers. “I didn’t mean to turn you on, sir.”

He feels anger course red-hot through his veins, along with the adrenaline and arousal, and he snarls at Jaskier, pushing the young man to the back and to the side, pressing Jaskier’s back against the wall. “I suggest you stop this right now.”

“Or what?” The young man stretches his neck out, nose brushing against Geralt’s, his breath ghosting over his lips teasingly. “You’ll punish me?”

Geralt grunts in surprise when Jaskier slings his leg around him, the inmate’s heel digging onto the muscles at the back of his thigh, pulling him closer. 

He can’t help himself, not in this position, as he plants his palm against the wall next to Jaskier’s head, taking in the way the wicked grin turns into a small gasp of pleasure when he grinds against the young man, their cocks brushing against each other through the layers of clothing. Jaskier is insufferable, and Geralt would like nothing better than to ruin this facade of cockiness and self-confidence, to reduce the young man to panting moans and whimpers as he comes undone.

Infuriatingly enough, Jaskier seems to know that, as the wicked grin returns to his face, though his pupils are blown wide, almost completely taking over the blue in his eyes. “Please, sir, have mercy on me.”

And Geralt can’t stop the low rumble that escapes his chest at the way Jaskier purrs the word ‘sir’ into his ear. He noses at the young man’s neck, teeth clamping down softly on his pulse, grinding against Jaskier at the same time, earning him another shuddering moan.

The reality of what the hell he’s doing hits him when the noise from the dining room become less and less muted, the other inmates done eating dinner. He pulls back from Jaskier with a few trembling steps, taking in a shaky breath.

He points at the young man. “Don’t tell anyone,” he hisses.

The inmate chuckles, all dark eyes, sweaty, brown curls and rosy cheeks. “Wouldn’t dare.” 

Geralt can see a glimpse of a wink, before he turns around, stumbling out of the recreation room.

---

He has to pull himself off in the bathroom to get rid of the arousal coursing through his body; quick and dirty, groaning into his palm as he comes. Still, even after that, he can’t get rid of the images that keep flashing through his mind every time he blinks, can’t get rid of the wave of heat that spreads through his body at the memories.

Rosy lips, blue eyes, blown pupils, sweaty, brown hair sticking against flushed skin, nimble, wandering hands, a silver tongue.

He pushes the thoughts away, heading to his locker when his shift finally ends. He rushes out the door without as much as a goodbye to his colleagues, slamming the car door shut behind him, driving home way too fast, well over speed limit.

Once he’s finally home, he closes the door behind him, leaning against it. He presses his palm against his forehead, feeling the heat that resides just under his skin, ready to be awoken the second he thinks about Jaskier.

He sighs, walking to the bedroom, taking off his uniform. He puts his gun in the locker next to the bed, reaching for the key badge he always wears on his belt.

He freezes when his hand finds empty air.

Fuck.

The little shit’s stolen his badge.

[bigpandahero]

The legacy of appetence(欲望遗产 written by 此人已死  in Lofter）

the original writer :此人已死

the original link:https://ryuusuke.lofter.com/post/1cc28a98_1cb209a44

chapter 2

Salmon

 The first time Wang Yao received a call from Edward von Bok was when Ivan was busy laying wallpaper, and the overly cautious and low voice followed the electric current into Wang Yao's ears.

"Who are you?"

"Lover."

"...What about the boss?" A smart man always knows which voices to ignore.

"He's doing decoration." Wang Yao was chewing gum feeling little bored.With sticky bubbles blowing in his mouth, his voice sounded very vague.

"This is Edward. The metal paint of the original order is out of stock. The other party wants to change the brand. Be in the shop before two o'clock in the afternoon. Wish you a good day and goodbye."

The other party hung up after speaking, without even giving Wang Yao a second to say goodbye.

Neither party left a good impression on that call. And this time, Wang Yao stared at the caller's name, he had a hunch that it would not be much better than the former one.

Wang Yao didn't take the initiative to speak after answering the phone, so the person opposite seemed to perceive something and hesitated to speak.

“Where is the boss?”

Wang Yao was silent, glanced at the person who was eating in the dog pot on the open space next to the dining table.He walked up to him angrily, kicked his dog pot, and the food was scattered all over the floor.

He held the phone in the direction of Ivan, and then Edward heard a string of angry dog barks in the receiver.

This time Edward hung up directly.

It may be difficult for most people to imagine that a person will be like a dog, because for humans, walking on the ground with hands and feet is very funny and unbearable.

But Ivan, oh no, it's Los, he is a dog through and through.

It walks slowly and gracefully, and likes to rub its head on the side of your trousers to coquetry. Those purple eyes had discarded the complexity of human nature, crushed some simple kindness and gentleness, leaving you with the most sincere trust and company. It will always be your most loyal Los.

But Wang Yao didn't like it, which meant he had to take care of it, do all the housework, and sometimes even prevented it from estrus.

 What a joke, even if it had a look of human, he wouldn't have sex with a dog.

Even in just a few short hours, Wang Yao felt that he was dying.

 He is a useless person.

His hands were never flexible and powerful, he couldn’t lift heavy things as easily as Ivan who could even wring out a square rag. Walking for him was also a little inconvenient, which is the reason why he doesn't like to go out.

 When it rains, the bones of the whole body will scream in the figure with pain, and he is so annoyed that he couldn’t wait to take them out and smash them to ashes. At first, Wang Yao didn't realize that there were other personalities hidden in Ivan's body, because they were somewhat similar, and they were not quite easy to be distinguished.

July 3, 2015

 As an adult, Wang Yao and his acquaintance were not very good, worse than the vomit of a hangover.

 Wang Yao stood in the back alley of the bar to sober up. He curled his hands and feet in the cold wind and stared at the puddles on the ground in a daze. He was a bartender, but his works tasted terrible. The reason why he can still work in the bar was only because the guests like his beautiful and young face. The price is that strangers often try to get him drunk.He always gritted his teeth with ulterior motives,supporting his shaky body. .

The rough sound of door opening behind him, and he shuddered.

A drunkard stumbled out from the back door of the bar—he had light blond hair and was as pale as a ghost in the moonlight.The soles of the feet were crushing the gravel, making a disturbing sound in the dark alley,his tall body swallowed the moonlight into the shadows, and he strode towards Wang Yao with his strong fists, rude and frightening.

“Mister......”

Even after a quite long time, Wang Yao never said a whole word in front of this man.

He fell to the ground with a fist, nosebleeds running down his dry lips to his chin. The nosebleeds converged into droplets of thick plasma, burrowed into the soil and disappeared.

“Не повезло тебе, коротышка." (Unlucky for you,imp.)

The man stepped over his fallen body, chanting words of inexplicable meaning, and walked deep into the alley.

Familiar voices pierced into Wang Yao's ears, and memories of wandering around midnight for countless times appeared in his brain. Cold sweat oozes from his palms, and those dark thoughts disturbed him.

I had studied Russian for three years just to remember one of your swear words. "please wait! "

Wang Yao grabbed the stranger's trousers, half of the man's face hidden under the heavy scarf, only a pair of dark purple eyes squinted at his embarrassed body from the night sky. "Tell me your name! имя!" "Отпусти свою руку, Сука." (Let go of your hand, bitch.)

The man tapped his tongue impatiently, and easily pulled the corner of his clothes back from his weak hand.He kicked the bow tie on Wang Yao's chest with his toes flat, leaving the opponent with an indifferent back.

Damn it.

Wang Yao quickly got up and drew a broken wine bottle from the trash can. He clenched the narrow mouth of the bottle with both hands, and slammed it down at the golden head.

He was not strong enough to smash the wine bottle, but he still let the hapless guy kneel down on the ground.

“Fuck！”

The man covered the back of his head, which was bleeding. He curled up and whimpered vaguely.

He stood up swayingly, squeezing a drop or two of emotionless tears into his eyes, looking at Wang Yao in confusion.

“Are we fighting?”

Wang Yao stared at the man, threw away the wine bottle in his hand, and slammed it on the ground. He rubbed his hands, wiped his nosebleeds, and smiled pleasantly.

“Damn it!We are making love !Now,tell me your name,Russian.”

If anyone asks, Wang Yao will explain like this ---the god of love broke out of the ground and gave him a blow,  feeling like being struck by lightning.

In the early morning of the next day, the victim and the offender did not show up at the police station, but the church

They applied for a marriage license and even took a photo.

The pale picture frame froze them,there was neither smile nor hug .They were like gangsters who were about to go to jail.

At that time, Wang Yao hadn't realized that the person was not Ivan. If he knew, he would fight to death with that person in the alley,but kissing him,making the promise”I would never leave you” like a woman.

See ,what big trouble he caused himself.

Wang Yao forget to close the door when he went out to check the mailbox.Los slipped out of the door, chasing behind his ass .

The Labrador next door was playing frisbee with itself in the yard. He was really clever. Wang Yao wanted to learn how to train dogs from his owner.

The frisbee flew into Wang Yao's lawn for the twentieth time. Wang Yao was trying to snatch it from Los's mouth and return the frisbee to the poor Labrador.

"Los! Fuck, let go of your mouth!If the neighbor saw me I would be arrested to the fucking jail! Damn it!"

Los showed silver canine teeth, clutching the Frisbee tightly, squatting on the ground like a dog, and made a threatening sound in his mouth.

"Well, buy you a Frisbee! A new one! Bigger than this!" Lost reluctantly let go, and Wang Yao was finally able to get the Frisbee that had been gnawed by a dog.The Frisbee was still stained with human sleeping fluid, which turned into a shiny perverted medal on the Frisbee.

Wang Yao wanted to die.

But Los loved Wang Yao a lot.

In the corner of the bedroom, there was a large cardboard box with its name crookedly written in a pencil. It was filled with dog bones and strange sex toys, as well as socks and Wang Yao's panties that had been put in by himself.

He threw the Frisbee back into the yard next door, and then heard a dissatisfied dog barking from the other side-it must be because it was covered with the smell of Los.

Wang Yao dragged him into the house before he opened his mouth and howled in an attempt to quarrel with the Labrador.

In this regard, Mr. Braginsky knew that he had a dog in his body. Every time he changed back to his master, he would be silent for a long time.

*Discloseable information:

Edward is a man who engraved caution into his DNA, and he is the only person in the auto repair shop who knows the truth and is not afraid of Ivan. Wang Yao had met Ivan a long time ago, and he was three years younger than the opponent.

-----------------------tbc.------------------------------

[svnflowervol666]

Hey!! Could you write an imagine where the reader is an artist and wakes up early, Harry is sleeping next to her and for a few minutes she's there watching him and then decides to draw him while he sleeps and when she's finishing Harry wakes up? Thank you so much ♥️

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: mentions of smut

Author’s Note: Thank you for the request! Like always, if you’re interested, let me know what you’d like for me to write next. Take care and tpwk.

Y/N wasn’t very sure how she’d managed to wake up before Harry considering how hard they partied last night. Her head pounded in her ears and she felt an overwhelming sense of dehydration in her throat. The events of the evening were somewhat blurry after Harry handed her a shot of something wretched and led her immediately to the dancefloor to work up a sweat. She knew judging from the fact that she was stark naked in the bed she shared with Harry and the fact that she could see her dress from the night before shimmering in the sunlight off in the corner of the room haphazardly that they’d at least made love to each other when they got home. Aside from that, her mind was drawing a blank.

Seeing as the blinding light from the harsh, early morning sun made it impossible to go back to sleep, she carefully removed the limp, ringed hand that was draped around her waist and wriggled her way over to her nightstand to grab her phone. Fuck, she thought to herself. Her battery was dead and she couldn’t be arsed to lean all of the way down to the ground to reach for her charger. After lying there for a moment and contemplating how to proceed with the morning, in which she decided she certainly would not be getting out of bed to start the day just yet, she reached a bit further past her phone for the sketchbook and pencil that Harry had gotten her for her birthday last year.

It was almost completely full of her drawings and doodles, something she prided herself in. Often times, she’d lose her sketchbook or spill her coffee on it before she could finish drawing in all of the pages. Maybe it was the fact that Harry had gotten this one for her which meant it was special, or maybe it was just luck, but she’d managed to hold on to this one almost down to the very last page. 

In an attempt to soothe her hangover without getting out of bed, she began drawing away. She started by finishing up the flower she had started the other day after saw the most beautiful bunch of daisies while on her daily walk with Harry. Sure, they were technically an invasive weed that took over greenery like wildfire, but Y/N always thought they were beautiful. 

When she’d perfected that one enough to her liking, she flipped the page and started another drawing. This one was also unfinished, and it was a landscape portrait of the bungalow she shared with Harry while on their vacation to Bora Bora last year. She’d been on many vacations and stayed in many nice houses since that trip, but this bungalow she’d never forget. It was where Harry took her to tell her that he loved her, though she hadn’t known that at the time. They had been having the time of their lives, drinking sugary, alcoholic beverages all throughout the day and lounging lazily by the ocean. Harry finally told her while they watched the sunset on their third night there. It slipped out faster and not as smoothly as Harry had imagined the moment in his head, but the overwhelming, swooning sensation he felt in his chest whenever he looked at Y/N made it impossible for the words to not spew from his lips. She’d never forgotten that trip because it was where she fell significantly more in love with Harry than she already had been.

There wasn’t much that needed to be done on the portrait of the bungalow, just some shading on the roof and a bit more detail on the waves that surrounded the structure. She finished that one fairly quickly then moved on to her next blank page. This one, she fucked up. What she had tried to draw one of her old pets from memory, but for some reason, it wasn’t looking right. She quickly scrapped the piece of paper and moved on to the next page, which was coincidentally the final page in her sketchbook.

She pondered for a moment on what idea in her head would earn the final spot in her book of drawings. She could try to draw her pet again? No, she shook her head softly to herself. Hers and Harry’s favorite table at the coffee shop that was down the block from their London apartment? No, she’d need to get a better look at the place before she attempted something like that. She looked around the now bright and sunny space of their bedroom, trying to find something that would shoot a spark in her brain and cause her to think of the perfect thing to draw. As she turned her head towards the sleeping, seemingly unconscious body that burrowed itself into the gigantic, down comforter beside her, it struck her.

Y/N propped herself up on her side so she could get a better look at the scene in front of her. Harry was sleeping the morning away, though she couldn’t say she blamed him since she didn’t even remember coming home last night (or was it technically this morning?). His face was completely covered by the huge down comforter that he’d hogged from her, but she didn’t mind. All that was visible of Harry was the top of his head, adorned with messy, chocolate-colored waves, and the outstretched palm of his left hand. That was it. His hand.

Her hangover had more or less subsided by now without the need of a greasy diner breakfast or a handful of headache medicine, so she was able to work diligently on her newest and final sketch. She traced over every crease and dip of his long, slender fingers, making sure no detail went unnoticed. Every ring, including the large, gold ‘H’ and ‘S’ rings on his ring and pinky fingers got their own moment in the spotlight. His bright yellow nail polish, the color that she’d picked out for him last week, was slightly chipped at the corners, but it only added to the uniqueness of the piece. Each knuckle she shaded with the closest attention. Unlike her old pet or the table at the cafe, she was almost certain she could draw this from memory, but a little reinforcement never hurt. Plus, she felt like she could stare at Harry’s hands for days on end without growing tired of them.

Harry’s hands were miracle workers for her. They’d held her through both her darkest and brightest days. They’d made her feel safe in times when she’d never felt so alone, and during big moments when she couldn’t be sad even if she tried. Harry’s hands cooked her breakfast on Sunday mornings, carried her to bed when she’d fallen asleep watching Netflix in the living room, massaged her tired feet after a long day of work, brushed her hair out of her eyes before kissing her goodnight each night, made her see stars as he pleasured her over and over again with his skillful fingers. So many times people overlook what hands do in a relationship, but not Y/N. 

It was right when she was shading the corner of Harry’s cross tattoo that was barely visible from beyond the comforter she felt the bed sheets rustle and the sweet creature beside her come to. The peaceful silence of Y/N doodling away was broken when Harry moved his hand, the one she had been drawing, towards his face to rub harshly at his emerald green eyes.

“Wha’ ‘re you doin awake? ‘ts so early,” she heard his groggy, morning voice pierce the walls of the room.

“It’s almost noon, Harry,” she responded softly, letting the sketchbook fall gently into her lap.

“Oh, shit,” the lanky brunette chuckled, “Wha’ did we do last night?”

“I was actually hoping you could tell me.”

“‘ve got no idea, princess,” Harry groaned before reaching over to pat her thigh, feeling the hard material of her sketchbook instead.

“You drawin’? Lemme see.”

He plucked the open notepad from her lap to examine what she’d been drawing while he was asleep. She didn’t feel embarrassed or like she needed to snatch the book away from him before he could see that she’d been drawing his hands whilst he slept. That was another thing Y/N loved about Harry, how she never felt shy or that she needed to hide her art from him. He always praised her work whenever he crossed paths with it, so she was always willing to share her latest masterpiece.

“M’ hand? You drew my hand while I was asleep?” Harry was still delirious from a combination of his hazy, half-asleep half-awake state.

“I love your hands,” she stated firmly but softly, “plus, it was the last page in my sketchbook so I wanted it to be of something important.”

“Hmm,” Harry pondered as he cased over the drawing once more, “I like this one, but I think I much rather prefer the one you drew of my co-”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Y/N interrupted his sentence and yanked the sketchbook from his grasp before placing it back on its home on the nightstand.

She took her rightful half of the comforter back from Harry and nestled herself back into bed, making sure to cozy right up into Harry’s warm, bare chest so they could have a proper, conscious cuddle before dreadfully starting their day. The two of them were adults now and while they were still granted the privilege of being able to party, they couldn’t stay in bed and waste the day away after a long night of drinking like they used to.

Harry traced soft circles on Y/N’s back with the same hand that she was drawing just minutes ago, almost lulling her back to sleep. He watched as her breathing evened out and her eyes began to droop despite her awareness that they had a late lunch planned with Anne and Gemma in a few hours. 

“Baby,” Harry beckoned her back to consciousness.

Her eyes blinked open quickly, unaware of how she’d almost went right back to sleep in Harry’s arms.

“Yeah?”

“We’ve got to meet up wi’ mum and Gem soon. ‘Need to get up.”

“Ten more minutes.”

This made Harry chuckle, seeing how she was acting like a grumpy teenager who refused to wake up for school in the morning. God, how he loved her.

“How about I show you just how important my hands are to you and then we hop in the shower, yeah? Sound like a plan?”

She opened one eye just slightly enough to see that Harry was giving her his iconic smirk that caused one of his dimples to shine through. Leave it to Harry to squeeze in a shag before lunch with his own mum.

She supposed she really couldn’t say no to that.

[gumnut-logic]

Mosaic Beach

It has taken me since Thursday morning (it is now Saturday night) to write this goes-nowhere-piece-of-fluff. I had a low level migraine Wednesday night and felt awful Thursday morning, so the first 850 odd words are me visualising being in a better place other than outside my daughter’s school. Then Scott had something to say and promptly ate my fic. But then at least he was thinking about Virgil.

Also, Gordon is evil.

As always, many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ @scribbles97​ and @janetm74​ for the read throughs and support. You guys are amazing to me :D

I hope you enjoy this totally lazy fic ::hugs you all::

-o-o-o-

It was a lazy day.

Virgil suspected John, who had been kicked off Five the day before, had Eos routing all but the most dire situations to local authorities whether Scott authorised it or not.

There were days where Virgil wondered if Scott was really in charge, since John had so much ultimate say.

But that thought was for another day. He was tired and it was likely going to be a day off - please let it be a day off - and he was going to find a corner of the Island to sit alone and scribble in his sketchbook.

He ended up on Mosaic Beach, a personal favourite on the edge of the caldera. Gordon had mentioned it the day before regarding the quality of flotsam available after the last storm and Virgil thought he would see what he could find.

It was overshadowed by an ancient pokey tree brilliant in red blossom and the sand here was a mass of black and white swirls as the coral detritus fought the eroded igneous rocks – the reason they had given it its name. Gordon was right - there was all sorts of things tossed up the sand and Virgil spent the first half hour wandering along the strip of sea wrack picking up shells and whatever caught his eye.

One of the shells appeared determined to return to the ocean and it was with a small smile that he picked up the tiny hermit crab and watched it curl up into its shell.

Holding it gently in his palm, he sought the shade of the giant tree and sat down on the sand in its shadow. Here the breeze was gentle, the sand cool and, leaning back against a rock, he set the little crab down on a smooth patch of sand, along with his small hoard of shells and let it scamper across the little landscape that resulted.

Sketchbook out, he spent the next few minutes sketching the crab madly as it moved about. It shifted angle at random and he found himself increasingly switching from real life to a character sketch. A little personality sprouted from the page that reflected the little crab’s determination.

Ever aware of the crab’s needs above his own, he sketched fast, took a few photos and then gathered the little creature in his hands once more. He trotted down to the rock pools at the edge of the beach and found a spot he felt the crab would be happy.

Crouching down, he watched it scamper into the water.

His lips curved into a smile.

Gordon would know what species it was, where it lived and how to best care for it. Virgil was pretty sure he knew what type it was. Mel was pedantic about crabs and had given them a list of ‘these are endangered, tell me if you see them, kill one and I will kill you’. Fortunately or unfortunately, it wasn’t a long list, so Virgil had memorised it. This little guy...he should be happy here.

The crab found some weed and promptly hid under it.

The rockpool drew Virgil’s eye a little longer before he finally stood up and let the breeze cool his face. A sigh at the sun’s warmth and he wandered back to the shadow of the pokey tree and sat down again.

The little crab stared up at him from his sketchbook, spritely and determined.

Kind of like Gordon really, despite the claws.

That prompted a smile at the thought of his fish brother’s reaction to being compared to a crab.

He would squawk, but he would love it.

Virgil returned to sketching the shells and bits of coral he had collected. Rearranging them, repositioning for lighting. He picked one up and stared at the colours created by a little mollusc. He was ever amazed at what Mother Nature was capable of. Simple geometrics and chemical formulae made one of the world’s strongest and most beautiful substances in nacre. Another broken shell showed the rainbow of colour that he knew his paintbrush would never quite be able to capture, much less the pencil and stick of carbon he had with him today. He was left with a little snapshot from his phone...which was never quite the same either...and what his memory could provide.

Perhaps it was nature’s way of ensuring it was always the most beautiful.

He shifted to scribbling down the beachscape after that. It wasn’t the first time he had drawn this beach, but as with all beaches, it was different every day as the tide sculpted it.

His fingers grew more and more lazy, his lines wandering through more emotion than reality as the day drifted on. At some point, he ate the sandwich he had packed, quite happy to not care what time of day it was and refusing to look at his watch.

Eventually the sketchbook was set aside and he let himself just stare out at the ocean lagoon, eyes tracking the movement of the distant waves and the laps of the ripples against the shore.

And nature’s rhythms lulled him to sleep.

-o-o-o-

“Hey, big bro, you might want to drop by Mosaic Beach before the tide comes in.” Gordon waltzed past the desk Scott was sitting at with a smirk on his face.

“What?” Scott’s brain was still stuck in working out what the hell Simmonds meant by the ‘urgent memo’ that had interrupted his afternoon off.

“The snoring is scaring away all the wildlife.” With that Gordon grabbed a book off the shelf on the far side of the room and backtracked out the way he had come in...without another word.

Scott was left staring where his brother had been.

But then Gordon was worth ignoring some times.

He turned back to his display and continued to try and work out why Simmonds had ordered sixty plastic flamingoes and then memo’d him about it in a panic.

It took him a good few minutes more before throwing it back at Simmonds’ supervisor in Japan with a ‘concerned’ note.

What did Tracy Industries need with sixty plastic flamingoes?

He shook his head and forced himself to stand up and not invest any more in any comms from the business. Today was hopefully his day off and he refused to fall into the trap of losing himself in all the things that required attention.

All the things.

He paused mid rise.

But no. No! Vacation day. He forced himself away from the desk and out onto the balcony.

It was a beautiful out here. The afternoon sun was blazing in a brilliant blue sky without a single cloud. The sea was murmuring far below. It was an artist’s dream.

He blinked as certain Gordon utterings connected neurons together.

A frown. “Gordon!”

No answer.

Another frown and he strode back inside, following the recent tracks of his fish brother down to the kitchen.

Scott found him reading at the table, a phone that was most definitely not his in one hand and the book in his other.

There were lots of photos of crabs.

“What are you doing?”

“Confirming the identification of a crab.”

“Why?”

“Virg found one down on Mosaic Beach and I wanna make sure it is what I think it was so I can report it to Mel.”

The dots that had been connecting earlier fused into a solid line with an arrow pointing directly at Gordon. “And where is Virgil?”

“Snoozing on the beach.”

“And why do you have his phone?”

“Because his drawings were excellent, but I needed a colour shot.”

“Gordon!”

His brother didn’t even look up. “What?” But then he blinked and frowned at Scott. “He’s fine. Well above the high tide line.” A glance down at the book again. “There, that’s it. Oooh, Mel is going to be so excited.”

Scott glared at Gordon for a whole second longer before storming over and snatching the phone out of his hands. Without another word, he strode out of the kitchen and took the path that would lead him down to the reported beach.

Younger brothers were hard work.

The little beach wasn’t the closest on the Island. Probably one of the reasons Virgil chose it to get away from pesky younger brothers. Trust Gordon to find him anyway.

He fingered Virgil’s phone in his hand as he walked. The green leather case was embossed with an elaborate dragon design.

Looking at it, all he could really feel was fondness.

He must be tired. Grandma was right. He needed a day off.

Easier said than done. It wasn’t like he could park himself on a beach and fall asleep.

He grunted as he stepped over some rocks to start the climb down to the little cove. The path was thin and wove amongst several pōhutukawa trees – or pokey trees as Alan called them, their dark green leaves adorned with puffs of red blossom. Birds darted between them squawking at each other. That combined with the surf in the distance and the breeze rattling palm trees, it wasn’t the quietest of places.

Nevertheless, he found his brother sprawled against a rock under the largest pokey tree at the edge of the beach, snoring his head off.

Definitely noisy.

Virgil was dressed in an old pair of work shorts and a t-shirt with a hole in it. Both sported spatters of paint and clearly showed how relaxed his brother was trying to be.

Beside him on a rock, carefully placed, no doubt by Gordon, the brat, was a sketchbook and a box of drawing tools. Virgil’s artist backpack lay folded up supporting his head - again likely Gordon.

Virgil snorted and curled up just a little more against the rock.

Gordon was a shit, but he was a kind one. Virgil slept like the dead and would likely need one of those waves off in the distance to wash over him if he was going to wake up before he wanted to.

Staring a moment longer, Scott sighed, gave up and sat down beside his brother. He dropped the phone onto the sketchbook and looked out at the beach.

Virgil continued to snore.

His biggest little brother had always snored. Scott had cornered him and got him tested for a variety of sleep issues, but he was fine. Just loud.

The terrible two used to make a point of pointing it out as much as possible. But that was before the hydrofoil accident.

Gordon didn’t know it, but due to his injuries, he now snored, too.

The ribbing about snoring in the Tracy household had dropped to a minimum since, Gordon the only unknowing ribber.

But Virgil remained the major noise maker and the brothers worshipped the soundproofing in the villa.

Regardless of the racket, Scott did find it strangely quiet out here. Sitting on the sand with nothing to do was oddly relaxing. Of course, he wasn’t really one to do nothing and Virgil’s sketchbook was right there. Gordon had obviously already stuck his nose into it and Scott was pretty sure Virgil wouldn’t mind if he took a peek.

Would he?

Lifting the phone off the book, Scott carefully picked it up and nestled it in his lap...ever, ever so careful. Okay, so he had some respect and not a little fear of damaging Virgil’s artwork.

The pages were thick and stiff and likely designed to support wet media as much as dry. Most of the work in it was pencil, however, maybe some charcoal? The darks were so deep in some that they had to be.

But Scott was no artist and really only had eyes for the content.

The first page found him looking at himself. Virgil had obviously either captured Scott’s likeness on the sly or drawn from a photo or holoprojection. His drawing stared up at him in almost all three dimensions. The expression on his graphite face was thoughtful, almost wistful. He could see his rendered self was thinking or planning and totally distracted...which was likely why he had no clue his brother had captured this shot.

But the artistic strokes were strong and sure, simple in their complexity.

Scott blinked, moved that his brother was so talented and capable.

Though he really shouldn’t be surprised.

Turning the page, he discovered their grandmother.

He had to smile. The concentration on Grandma’s face was almost comical. A bowl and a recipe book sat in front of her and the very tip of her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth as she frowned at whatever she was reading.

There was a touch of caricature in the drawing, a little exaggeration, but done with love and fondness, not mockingly. His grandmother was beautiful.

Scott swallowed and turned the page to find several detailed scribbles. They looked like pieces of machinery and the pages had notes written down the sides.

It was a spark moment. He knew Virgil well enough for that. One of those times when his thoughts all came together and saw him running naked out of the shower to grab whatever he could find and get it written down.

Several major equipment improvements had occurred exactly this way. It appeared that at some point, this sketchbook had been the nearest note book and had borne the brunt.

He stared at the diagrams, doing his best to work out exactly what they were. Sharp notation, numbers, that had to be the backend of a pod. It clicked. This was part of the pod assembly redesign from the previous year. Virgil had come to him with some major improvements, including a pod body redesign. What followed had been a massive overhaul of all the ‘birds’ assembly systems and a whole new set up, including colour changes according to which Thunderbird housed which pod. Virgil and Brains had been buzzing for weeks.

And it was possible it had all started here on this piece of paper. Now he could see the scribbled down inner workings of the assembly mechanism and the shape on the second page was a worked and reworked pod shell.

He glanced over at his brother who was still snoring peacefully. Virgil was amazing. Scott could not have been prouder of what his little brother had achieved. Yet Virgil never really boasted or bragged or even highlighted what he had done. He was just there. Always there, one step behind him ready to help.

He must be really tired because now he was getting emotional. There had been a few times in the last couple of years where he had come close to losing Virgil. He hadn’t, but there had been nightmares and many a night where he had spent reassuring himself that his biggest brother was still with him.

And yes, he could stand outside his brother’s bedroom door and listen to him snore.

It gave him comfort.

Gordon had caught him once.

That had been a heartbreaking moment.

Because his fish brother hadn’t said a thing, just reached up, squeezed his shoulder, dropped his forehead against Scott’s arm and just stood there for a solid moment. Another gentle squeeze and he left, not even looking up at Scott before he was gone.

It said more than any words.

Scott sighed and turned the page...only to come face to face with Gordon again. Though this time the joy in their fish brother’s eyes was lighting up the page. He was grinning at a shell and there was a speech bubble - ‘Virgil, come and see this!’

Scott had to smile. Gordon was notorious for sharing his beach discoveries. Virgil was usually the target because at least he knew a little bit about their little brother’s fascinations. Scott loved to see Gordon happy, but honestly, he couldn’t tell the difference between one shell or another. He tried. He honestly did, but Virgil had the patience of a saint and was much more engaging.

Scott loved to watch the two of them instead.

And yes, he saw Virgil sneak things into his pockets. Usually shells, but occasionally rocks and bits of coral. Those finds made their way back to Virgil’s studio and there was a whole corner devoted to marine still life.

Which was why it was no surprise when the next three pages of sketchbook turned out to be exactly that. A curly shell, a pile of cockle shells - Scott knew those at least - they were good for fishing. The third page had a plan for a reef painting. It had scribbled notes, much like the pod redesign pages, but this was based around a sketched layout. Scott frowned at it...it was vaguely familiar. He would have to ask Virgil about it when he woke.

The next two pages sported today’s efforts. The same beach he was sitting on emerged from the paper, along with some sketches of a crab. The first few were realistic, but the last one had the little hermit crab with an IR symbol on its side and one of Dad’s old uniform hats perched on top of its shell. It bore a sash that resembled Virgil’s despite the lack of green colour and one of its claws was bigger than the other in a very exo-suit-like way.

That had Scott grinning. This was no doubt the reason why Gordon had run for the crab book. Mel, in her position of Director of the Kermadec Expedition south of them on Raoul Island, was very particular about the endemic crabs on all the islands in the area.

He wondered what she would think of them inducting crabs into IR.

He wondered what she was doing today and if she might be available later for a nice evening together.

That thought was very distracting and had nothing to do with crab identification at all.

Virgil snorted, rolled over off his backpack and face first into the sand.

Scott startled, fully expecting a woken bear of a brother to surface from that.

But Virgil just kept snoring, now snorting sand as well.

He placed the sketchbook down, scrambled around his brother and gently shoved the folded backpack under his head again.

His fingertips brushed sand off Virgil’s face.

And he found himself sitting beside his brother again.

Why was he out here?

Because Gordon was evil and dangled the concept of Virgil drowning in the tide simply to aggravate him enough to do exactly what he did.

Gordon was a shit.

But a good one.

Another sigh and he lay back against the rocks and got comfortable, because, let’s face it, he wasn’t going back up to the villa without Virgil. His brother was safe, sure, but walking off and leaving him to the elements ran against his grain.

And Gordon knew it.

He would throttle, and possibly hug, his fish brother later.

Besides, it was nice out here, taking a moment to just be.

Virgil would approve.

Virgil would fake being asleep just to get him to do it.

Scott’s eyes darted to his now softly snoring brother, a sudden suspicion at the forefront of his thoughts. He would put it past either of Virgil or Gordon’s conniving ways to conspire to get him out here.

Virgil was drooling a wet patch onto his backpack.

Ugh.

Well, maybe not.

Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

Perhaps he just needed to relax.

Relax.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. Kayo was good at meditation. So was Gordon. Virgil did some connecting with nature thing that seemed to work for him.

Exhibit A snorted as if in agreement.

He could try.

Out of all the sounds he could hear, only one really held his attention.

That same soft snoring. No waves or wind or birds squawking brought him any kind of comfort.

The sound of his brother breathing evenly beside him, safe and sound, was the most beautiful sound in the world.

What that said about him...well, he didn’t care right now. He was tired and worn out. Maybe Gordon was right. Maybe this is what he needed. He should care, should be annoyed, but the rhythm was lulling and, god, he was so tired.

So goddamned tired.

Virgil kept breathing and Scott followed him into sleep.

-o-o-o-

Hidden in the foliage of the grove of pokey trees behind his two brothers, Gordon just smiled.

-o-o-o-

[louloubarnes-99]

Darcy the Librarian part 1

Darcy x Steve x Bucky nsfw (eventually! omg)

this is 7k 🥰✨

“Casey, I’ve read this sentence six times.”

Darcy pulled the earphones out and gave the younger woman her full attention. The poor thing was shrugging helplessly, her hand covering the mouthpiece of the landline receiver.

“It’s Ned, I’m sorry –”

Darcy took the phone, swapping seats with her, putting the phone to her ear as she tried to remedy the situation.

“Hello, Ned? It’s Darcy.”

The man on the other end was already yelling, sounding frustrated.

“Hello? Can I – Am I calling the foot doctor? Hello?”

“Ned! I don’t think you can hear me! It’s Darcy. Hello? Ned?”

“Darcy?”

“Yes, it’s Darcy,” she half-yelled, giving Casey a thumbs-up. “You’ve got an appointment with us tomorrow at 11. We’ll see you then!”

“Eleven?” Ned repeated. “Okay. I’ll see ya.”

Darcy hung up and she let out a low sigh, swapping seats with Casey again. She glanced at the clock, then at the screen in front of her. It was mid-morning at the podiatry clinic, both of the receptionists on duty running steadily through the routine. Darcy had been writing another letter to be sent out for auditing purposes, and if it was her working alone she’d be doing them in her sleep. She’d had plenty of dreams of her writing reports and doing work that was piling up and up. Today she was training Casey, reviewing what she’d already written, listening to the Dictaphone, her boss’ voice in her ear.

“Please confirm Ned’s appointment, Casey. The right-click, yeah…”

Casey sat back, giving a little smile when she was done. She was beginning to remember everything, and Darcy could remember that distinct relief. That Thank God something’s finally going right kind of feeling. She didn’t want to burst her bubble, but she found several errors in the letter Casey had typed out.

“No, it’s hyperkeratosis,” she said, picking up her pencil and crossing out the spelling mistake. She tried not to see Casey’s face fall. “And onychauxic.”

She handed it back to Casey, standing up.

“All good. Just fix those and we’ll send it off. I’m going on my break.”

She patted Casey’s shoulder and stepped away, walking down the corridor to the break room, seeing Patrick sitting at the table with his sandwich in his hands.

“Hey,” he mumbled, mouth full. “She doing okay?”

Darcy made a so-so movement with her hand. She hoped he’d keep that to himself, since Casey was his wife’s little cousin. Patrick was the podiatrist, and probably the best boss Darcy had ever had. He was at least one of the friendliest ones she’d had, pulling out the chair beside him for her to sit down with her yoghurt she retrieved from the fridge.

“She’s fine,” she amended, pulling up the chair as she sat down, the legs scraping across the linoleum. “You can tell Linda she’s doing a great job.”

Patrick gave a little chuckle, shaking his head. “I swear, I won’t bring another one like her in again, I like you too much.”

“Well, maybe not so much when I abandon you at 5.30.”

She was referring to what she’d already reminded him of twice that day. She needed to leave a little early tonight because Ian asked her to that morning when she jumped out of bed. Her boyfriend didn’t ask her to do that often, to come home early, unless it was a special occasion. She had already read into it enough to start thinking about engagement announcements. She didn’t want to call her mother but she knew she’d be the first one of her family to know. She hoped Ian didn’t cry too much, because Darcy knew she would when he got down on one knee. She always liked hearing how other people got together, even when people said “oh we met online”. She wanted to ask what exactly drew people to one another.

She took a spoonful of her yogurt and shoved it into her mouth, smirking at Patrick.

“How’d you and Linda meet?”

“Group of friends, mutual friends at a bar,” he murmured, looking away. He blinked. “Christ. I think about that time, all the uncertainty, and now…”

He’d been married several years. Darcy didn’t necessarily like Linda very much, since she was perpetually condescending and always acted like work was what kept Patrick from her, and therefore Darcy was in part to blame, but she thought Patrick seemed happy with her.

Also he’d paid for her boob job last year, not that they ever spoke about it, but Darcy more than noticed those things when she was at his fortieth birthday party last year.

“I feel like we’ve been married longer than we’ve known each other,” he murmured. “I know that doesn’t make sense.”

“I get it,” Darcy said, ducking her head, smiling. “Me and Ian met seven years ago, and I can’t remember life without him. I don’t remember how I used to feel. It’s so weird.”

Patrick nodded, finishing his next mouthful.

“I was a kid when I met him,” she added, rolling her eyes. “How’d you propose?”

“Didn’t really, sort of decided it together,” Patrick murmured. “I didn’t get down on one knee, it was after – uh…”

Darcy watched his face change, his cheeks flushing, and she began to chuckle.

“Yeah, we were both in a really good mood, you could say.”

“Right,” Darcy said, laughing. “Good to know.”

They lapsed into silence and Patrick nodded, chewing. He finished the rest of his food and balled up the plastic wrapping to throw away, checking his watch.

“I better get back.”

“Yeah,” Darcy said. “I’ll be right out.”

He paused at the sink after he washed his hands, drying them on the towel that hung over the oven handle.

“Hey, congratulations, when it does happen,” he said, and Darcy looked up.

He was smiling at her and she returned it, feeling a familiar warmth in her stomach.

“Thanks, Pat,” she murmured.

He left her there and she watched him leave. Unable to truly be professional, her eyes fell to his rear as he went out the door. He wore forty well. She knew his schedule, she knew what he ate for the most part, and she knew that he worked out. If she met him on the street, she’d think he was some kind of sports psychologist or physical therapist if he told her he was a doctor. His clientele was mostly elderly people, the majority of them diabetic, and feet was the last thing that came to mind where Patrick was concerned.

Darcy’s best friend Jane had the pleasure of meeting him once last year, grinning at him like she couldn’t stop herself, and ever since then he was Hot Doctor, or Hot Boss when she and Darcy spoke on the phone.

He was very handsome, and very kind to Darcy, considering how much shit she put him through for the first six months she was there. The office manager had quit, the archives were a mess, and Darcy wasn’t going to put up with it. She drew a line in the sand and fixed so much, and made sure it wouldn’t be so disorganized ever again. It had happened soon after she finished her library studies diploma, and she’d been hoping to use her new qualification somewhere else, but she still got to flex her diligent cataloging skills from time to time.

She returned to the front desk five minutes later, after sending Jane a text:

I think Ian is proposing tonight

-

She couldn’t keep the thrill from coursing through her, grabbing her bag from under the desk with her phone. She smiled at Casey.

The waiting room had an elderly couple waiting, the Needlers, who both rose their hands to wave goodbye to her as she slipped out down the corridor.

She stuck her head in Patrick’s office, seeing him throw out a plastic sheet, preparing for the next client. She knocked on the doorframe and he spun around.

“You’re gone?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I have my phone in case, y’know… something blows up. Or if Casey blows something up.”

“Have a good night,” he said, and she smiled. “I’ll have a beer in your honor.”

She laughed, turning away and walked out, her stomach flipping. On the drive over, she tried to keep herself calm, but she kept bopping along to the songs on the radio. She kept watching the people in the street. She saw a couple with their toddler in a stroller with a dog on a leash.

She could picture it. A few years ago she’d have rolled her eyes at such a suggestion – her, as a married woman with a kid? But now she’d settled into the podiatrist clinic, she could feel things were stable enough. It wasn’t so crazy. People fell in love all the time, and stayed together...

She pulled up at the apartment block, switching off the car, taking a few deep breaths. She got out and walked up, seeing kids playing in the street.

She paused in the hallway, taking out her deodorant to spritz as subtly as she could. It was August, and her A/C was still broken – she was saving up – and she didn’t want any memory of the proposal to be tainted by her body odor. She stuck the can back in her bag and unlocked the front door, stepping inside and looking around.

“Hi!”

She was tempted to yell out “honey, I’m home” but she was so excited she blurted out the first thing that came to mind, and Ian appeared a few seconds later, his hands in his pockets as she moved down the hallway.

She moved to kiss him on the cheek and he took out a hand, touching her arm.

“I got here as quick as possible. Patrick wasn’t too swamped, thank fuck…”

She gave a little laugh, taking his hand in hers, their fingers twining together. He walked with her in silence, until they reached the living room, and he promptly let her go, gesturing to the person sitting on the couch.

“Darcy, you remember Amy.”

Amy was a petite blonde woman, her hair so light it was almost white. She wore a pastel pink dress, looking like she’d come straight from a garden party. Darcy tried to place her and finally did – she was a friend of theirs through Ian’s sister. She flashed a wide smile, and Darcy watched as Ian moved to sit beside Amy.

“Hi,” Darcy said, shaking her head a little to right herself, trying not to feel the disappointment begin to settle in. She’d completely mistaken this occasion. It was unusual that he didn’t tell her it was Amy coming over. She felt like she’d be better prepared.

She froze as Ian’s hand slipped down to rest on Amy’s thigh, squeezing it.

“Could you sit down, Darce?”

“What’s going on?” she said, staring at his hand. She looked at Amy, seeing her smile falter.

Ian turned his head to look at Amy.

“Darling, could you get her a glass of water?”

Amy nodded, standing up. Darcy gaped after her. She knew where the glasses were in her apartment.

“I was hoping we’d talk about it like adults,” Ian said, his voice soft.

She snapped her eyes to meet his.

“I appreciate you getting here quickly tonight.”

Amy returned with a glass of water, handing it to Darcy. She held it, staring at Ian and Amy on the couch.

“Sit down.”

“I don’t want to take this sitting down,” Darcy blurted. “Whatever this is.”

“I’m moving out,” Ian said, his tone changing. He was edging toward defensive. “I thought it was better that way. I’m moving into Amy’s place.”

She woke up this morning with a completely different person. At least, it felt that way. Darcy could feel she’d gone into shock, unable to feel much at all as he went on in his English lilt.

“I’ll come by when you’re at work, to take my things. We started packing this afternoon.”

Darcy studied Amy’s hand resting in her lap, her nails squared off and clean.

“How long has this been happening?”

Ian stopped mid-sentence, something about an internet bill that Darcy had tuned out. He blinked, clearing his throat.

“Uh, I suppose about eighteen months.”

She let out a breath, looking down at the glass in her hand.

“Okay.”

“I know it’s hard to hear –”

“You don’t know how it feels to hear this,” Darcy said, looking up again, staring him down. “You have no idea.”

She hadn’t been cheated on before. She’d seen her mother go through it.

“Those trips, the ones to California?” she asked, looking at Amy.

The blonde nodded. “Yes.”

“Well,” Darcy murmured, finally putting the glass to her lips to drink, unblinking. “That makes sense.”

He had a West Coast franchise she knew nothing about. She let out a harsh little chuckle, only because it was the only other thing she could do instead of crying. She felt her eyes prickle.

“We’ll go,” Ian said, glancing at Amy.

In that moment, Darcy truly hated them both. She wasn’t sure who she’d attack first if there were no repercussions. Ian would be harder to overpower, since he had the reach of a basketball player. Attacking Amy would be satisfying if she managed to make her scream. She looked elf-like in her features, except for the ample cleavage she had partially hidden beneath her dress.

He was her type, then. Little and curved in all the right places. Except she seemed to be daintier than Darcy ever could be, moving off the couch gracefully, moving into the corridor.

Ian lingered, and Darcy clutched the glass a little tighter, glaring at him.

“Darcy, I know it’s not right –”

“It’s not,” Darcy bit out.

“- but I wanted to be honest.”

Why couldn’t he have broken up with her months ago, years ago? She thought of the last time they had sex and it had another dimension to it – he’d teared up at the time, and she thought he was in one of his rare overwhelmed moments. At the time, she’d comforted him, thinking he’d be embarrassed by being overcome with love.

He’d been crying because he felt guilty.

“So when you came inside me the other night –”

Ian’s eyes widened slightly and she hoped Amy heard every word.

“- you didn’t think that was the ideal time to be honest?”

“Darcy –”

“Whatever, you’re in love. You don’t want anyone to think you’re an asshole,” she muttered, scowling at him. “But are an asshole, Ian. You’re an asshole.”

He drew back, his jaw set. He let out a sigh.

“Fine, I’m gone.”

“Go,” she snapped, and she turned away, doing her best to suppress the sob that bubbled up.

When she heard the front door shut and she knew she was alone, she let out a gasp, the echoing quiet of the apartment haunting her. She put down the water and sunk to the floor, putting her face in her hands.

-

She spent the night looking back on seven years, wondering when he decided to betray her. She tried to think of a moment that was the catalyst. Was it when they moved in together? Eighteen months ago she was at the podiatrist clinic. Ian was working for the investment firm.

She remembered they told each other they were soulmates. She’d never been closer to someone in her entire life.

He’d hardly spoken to Amy the night they met her. It was his sister’s engagement party and she was a random stranger in the background, someone Darcy had never thought she should note. Ian was her person, and she was his.

Amy?

Amy?

She hardly slept, crying and fuming, rolling around, so alone. She wanted a time machine. She wanted ignorance. She wanted to find the moment when he switched. She still wanted him, despite how confused and furious she felt.

How had she not seen this coming? Had he hinted at it, ever? Had he laid clues somewhere for her to find? She’d never suspected it. He was always such a dork, he had no ability to flirt with anyone but her in his clumsy, awkward way.

She dragged herself down to the clinic and opened up for the morning, feeling puffy-eyed and exhausted. She heard Patrick come in and walk up behind her like he did every day, and she thought of what to say, every option sounding so humiliating and stupid.

“Hi,” she murmured, unable to force the smile. “Your files are there for the morning.”

Her voice was rough and she cleared her throat. She kept her eyes on the screen, pulling up the emails. She began scrolling and heard Patrick pick up the stack of files.

“Bit of a rush today?”

“Yeah,” she replied, nodding. She was thankful that he wasn’t asking her anything personal. He sounded subdued.

She turned around, seeing him search her face and she smiled, a little one that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Ned Campbell will probably run late. His daughter’s meant to pick him up and she’s in Buffalo.”

“I’ll try to work around it,” Patrick replied, and he gave a little smile of his own. “Get yourself a coffee, okay?”

“Yeah, I’m on it,” she said, standing up fast, walking out before he could say anything else.

She covered her mouth as she waited for the coffee to pour through the machine. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue when she returned to her desk, hearing the first clients come in.

“Shelly, hi,” she called to the little old lady. “You didn’t bring Buffy!”

Buffy was her dog. Shelly waved at Darcy, shaking her head.

“Too hot in the car. And on the pavement, too…”

“Right, that’s a good call,” Darcy said.

She was able to lapse into the role soon enough, except every half an hour or so she’d come back to the realization that last night was not a dream and she’d blink up at the ceiling. It was harder when Casey came in, fifteen minutes late, her smile dropping when she saw no ring on Darcy’s finger.

“Bummer,” she said. “I brought you prosecco.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Darcy said, waving her off. “We… we broke up, actually.”

Casey’s eyes bulged and she scooted closer to Darcy, her mouth falling open.

“No! Why? What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Darcy said, and she went back to the paperwork in the pile next to her, scanning the text. “We need to work on this letter together.”

She took her lunch break later than usual, but she wasn’t able to avoid Patrick, since Casey passed on the bad news. His eyes were trained on her as she slipped into the chair next to him.

“Are you alright, Darcy?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“I don’t need to go home,” she murmured.

She opened her yogurt and scooped some out, taking a mouthful. It tasted too sweet. In truth, she wanted a stiff drink, but this would have to do for now. She realized she hadn’t answered his question.

“I’ll be okay,” she added.

“Are you sure?” Patrick asked, and he looked toward the doorway. “We could manage, if you want to go…”

“I’ll stay,” she said, patting his hand on the table. “I might even stay back, there’s shit to do.”

Her cursing always made him smile at her and he didn’t disappoint. They ate in silence, until Darcy heard Casey calling for her, sounding out of sorts.

The rest of the afternoon flew by, and Darcy sent Casey home, telling her she’d do the end of day banking and paperwork. Casey gave her a little sympathetic hug that made Darcy want to shove her away, but instead she patted her shoulder twice before they drew apart.

“You know, if you need someone to talk to, I’m always here,” Casey whispered. “I’m the one all my girlfriends talk to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” Darcy murmured, trying her best to grin and bear it.

Casey held up the little bottle of prosecco, enough for two drinks, handing it to Darcy.

“Thanks,” Darcy said again.

When she was finally alone she let her head fall onto the desk, hitting it there a couple times, sighing when she sat up again. She grabbed the prosecco, twisting it open and put it to her lips, taking a long gulp. She added up the cash in the till, taking sips from the little bottle, moving steadily through the work.

“Hey, Darce?”

Patrick was calling to her from down the corridor and she stopped midway through shutting down her computer.

“Yeah?”

He didn’t answer and she frowned, ducking down to grab her belongings, snatching her prosecco before trudging down the corridor, stepping into his office.

Patrick was sitting back in his chair, a beer open, his sleeves pushed down to his elbows. His eyes fell to Darcy’s bottle and he smirked.

“Glad to see I’m not the only one who can drink on the job,” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

She walked in, throwing her bag on the floor as she sat in the special chair, putting her bottle to her lips again. Technically, neither of them were working.

“How long will you stay back?” she asked, Patrick’s back to her once more as he opened his emails up again, scrolling down.

He gave a little shrug. “I dunno. Don’t really want to go.”

He clicked off, turning again, and Darcy watched him move closer, looking at her sneakers. She’d replaced her kitten heels with them, since no-one was meant to be impressed by her after 5PM, at least no clients.

She nodded, thinking of having to drag herself back to the empty apartment, to see the photos on the shelves and the two sets of everything all over the place. Ian had left his toothbrush in his hurry yesterday, and that morning she’d contemplated scrubbing the toilet bowl with it and not telling him.

“I don’t wanna go home,” she whispered.

Patrick got up and Darcy stared at him, sitting back in the chair as he moved toward her, his hand coming up…

“Darcy –”

“What’re you doing?” she cut in, and she felt his hand touching her face, tracing her cheekbone.

He’d never come this close to her before. She’d given him a hug before, like at his birthday party, but this felt like something beyond a platonic touch. He was watching her, licking his lips nervously.

“We could maybe – I thought, I-I…”

“Patrick,” she whispered, and he lowered his face to meet hers, pulling her into an embrace.

She felt his lips brush against her neck and she went still.

“Patrick. Pat. Honey –”

“God, I want you,” he breathed, and he drew back, searching her face. “I think you and Ian breaking up was a sign, for me to finally do something…”

“What are you talking about? Since when?” Darcy said, her eyes widening.

“Since always,” he said, and he kissed her, a peck on the lips.

Darcy’s face felt hot and she felt like she couldn’t breathe, her heart racing as he kissed her again, deeper, his tongue pressing into her mouth as he moaned.

“I love you,” he breathed, pulling back, and Darcy shook her head.

“You don’t love me,” she whispered.

“Yes, I do,” he said, and he kissed her neck, moving down.

Darcy kept still as his hand went under her skirt, reaching between her thighs, and she was pulled back the second his fingers brushed the seam of her, over the crotch of her underwear.

“I have to go,” she yelped, and she pushed him against his chest, stumbling off the chair and grabbing her bag from the floor.

“Darcy, can we talk about this?” he said, and she shook her head. He was sitting on the floor, reality catching up with him, too. “Oh, fuck…”

He passed a hand over his face and Darcy closed her eyes to steady herself.

“I won’t come in tomorrow,” she said, and he nodded.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, and she nodded, just trying to get out the door, inching toward it. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“Please don’t,” Darcy breathed, and she ducked out, feeling the blood rushing in her ears as she fled, the door slamming behind her.

She got to her car and slammed the door shut, breathing heavily as she tried to understand what the fuck had just happened. And she felt, beneath it all, that she was turned on.

“Oh, God,” she gasped, putting her face in her hands, letting her face rest on the steering wheel.

She tried to think of what to do, her mind going to that office, picturing racing back in and confronting Patrick by climbing on top of him and kissing him. The last 24 hours had been hell, and she might be lonely enough to do that – but she knew, not even deep down, that she’d hate herself for it. He was married, for fuck’s sake.

“Oh, God,” she said again with a groan.

She shoved the keys in the ignition and took off down the street, flipping through the channels on her radio until she found a song she knew.

She began to sob as she sat at the traffic lights, Angel Of The Morning unable to drown her out. A woman stared as she crossed the road, since Darcy made such a racket. She cranked up the speakers louder, her car shuddering with the bass.

She bought a frozen pizza and a giant family-sized Caesar salad, before stopping by the liquor store, where she grabbed two cold 40s and retreated to her apartment. She drank and ate while she watched Love Actually and cat videos, growing more miserable the drunker she got.

-

She fumbled for her phone the following morning, her head throbbing with the hangover headache she sustained, and she saw Jane was FaceTiming her as she squinted down blearily at her phone.

“Hey – what the fuck, what happened to you?”

“I guess the radio silence could, um, be a red flag,” Darcy mumbled, rubbing her eyes. She didn’t remember taking her makeup off, so there was a high chance that she was resembling a raccoon.

Jane looked good, the sun in her hair, her brow furrowed with concern.

“Uh, Ian left me. And my boss tried to hook up with me,” Darcy said, and Jane’s eyes bulged.

“Oh, Darcy. Darcy –”

“I don’t want the –” Darcy waved around, the movement a terrible idea in her condition. “- fuss. I’m fine. I drank too much last night, but I’ve got the day off.”

Thinking about having to make herself go back tomorrow had her filled with dread so sudden and shame-filled that she shut her eyes, groaning.

“You should get another job.”

“Yeah, probably,” she muttered. “But where? I don’t have any references.”

“Put me down.”

“I can’t keep doing that. I helped you out one summer. I need Patrick…”

Jane’s lips were pressed together in a thin, grim line. Darcy hated that she tended to only hear about her problems, never good news. She hoped she’d be telling her she was going to be her Maid of Honor. That hopeful, pleasant little world felt so far away. Darcy sighed.

“I’ll ask around. Some places are trying to hire new librarians for the new school year. They’re going back soon.”

“Right,” Darcy said, but she didn’t think much would come from it.

She was a qualified technician with limited experience. She didn’t know the right people, and she knew it was all about networking. She learned that far too late, which was how she ended up at Patrick’s office instead of in a library.

“Seriously, I’ll check for you. Ian left…?”

“He did, he went to stay with his girlfriend.”

“What?” Jane snapped, appalled. “Since when would he -? That fucking weasel –”

“It’s Amy, his sister’s friend. Go on Instagram, she’s got tits out to –”

Darcy gestured holding two heavy things in her hands, shrugging.

“Well, they’re out like mine…”

“You can’t stay there,” Jane said. “It’s full of Ian.”

Darcy picked up the remnants of her Old English 800 that sat by her bed and took a swig, making a face. She tried to remember last night and only could get snapshots of things.

“Darcy?”

“Yeah. Just – moving? A new job? I don’t wanna do that again…”

Jane went quiet and Darcy felt a wave of dread like yesterday, her eyes misting. She’d known Jane longer than she’d known Ian. She wondered if she’d be able to tell her what she was like before he came around.

“Darcy, it’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah, well,” Darcy whispered, her voice thin. “It’s gonna have to be.”

-

She nursed the hangover, cleaned up the mess of the leftover pizza, the empty salad carton, and the empty bottles. She did laundry, threw things into boxes, and tore up pictures.

By the late afternoon, she sent an email through to Casey, informing her that she was taking tomorrow off as well. She tried to not think about the clinic falling to pieces without her there.

She changed by the hour. She’d be destructive and throwing Ian’s belongings around, ripping up mementos while playing loud music through the TV, and then she’d be wracked with sobs and wishing he was there to hold her.

She looked at the classifieds and tried to find somewhere to go – she wasn’t sure how desperate the situation was when she didn’t have a job to go back to, not if she wasn’t going to show up again on Monday. It felt less likely with each hour that passed on that Friday.

She called up landlords the Saturday, feeling wretched, since the last time she didn’t have to do this alone. She’d had Ian, and the process was shared. She wished she had someone to bear that weight with her, but she knew she had no choice. She had a fleeting moment of clarity – she should move out and sleep in her car! Then she reeled at the thought of being that alone and vulnerable in the world.

She found a listing an hour away from her and took the plunge, calling the number. In the rush, she asked to see the place as soon as possible. The owner sounded friendly enough, maybe a little surprised that she was insisting on seeing the advertised piece of shit.

“How much is the bond?” Darcy asked, within a few minutes of being there.

The owner was a middle-aged woman named Maureen, who for whatever reason didn’t seem bothered by the stifling heat that was affecting Darcy. She was sweating through her shirt, dripping down her bare legs.

“It’ll be about eleven-hundred,” replied Maureen. She frowned. “Do you mind me asking what the rush is, hon?”

“I’m not fleeing, like, a bounty hunter or something,” Darcy said, and Maureen didn’t laugh. “I, uh, ended a relationship.”

She got a few texts that morning from Ian, asking when he could come over to get more of his things. She’d told him she’d be out for a few hours, when in truth she’d packed up most of her things when she could sleep last night and had shoved them all into her car, ready to escape the apartment as soon as possible. She’d even taken the key off of her chain and left it on the table.

“Can I move in today?”

“Sure,” Maureen said. “You got cash?”

“I can go get some.”

Darcy departed, came back ten minutes later and Maureen handed her the keys, giving her a shrewd look when she was done counting the notes Darcy laid in her unturned palm. She signed the tenancy agreement, handing it back to Maureen, waiting for the signal that everything was okay.

She rose her fingers to give Maureen a cautious peace sign, a little smile forming.

“Yeah? We good? Awesome.”

She only cried later that night, nursing her beer as she heard the echoes off life outside the walls.

-

She got a phone call on the Monday, when she’d been expecting Patrick chasing after her, only to find an unknown number on the display.

“Hello?” she said when she picked up, shifting to sit up on her elbows.

She’d slept on the floor in her sleeping bag. She hadn’t bought a mattress yet. She was close to asking for money from her mother, who had only been told the bare minimum about the breakup with Ian.

“Hi, am I speaking to Darcy Lewis?”

She didn’t recognize the voice. It wasn’t Patrick’s wife as far as she could discern, and she cleared her throat.

“Uh, yeah. This is she.”

“Great, I was wondering if you could come in for a meeting. My name is Maria Hill, I work at Sacred Heart –”

“I’m sorry?”

“Doctor Foster passed on your resume, and we’re hoping to find someone to help us with the library at our school. Is this a bad time?”

Darcy began to crawl out of the sleeping bag as fast as possible, looking around, before taking the phone away from her ear to see the time. It was after 10AM and she wondered if it was that obvious she’d been sleeping.

“This is a great time, Maria, thank you for calling me,” Darcy said, frantically snatching her bra from the floor, looking around for her pants. “I would love to meet.”

“Is today too soon, or -?”

“I can-I can do today,” Darcy said. “Whereabouts?”

Maria gave her the address and Darcy made a vague affirming sound, pretending she knew exactly where it was. She walked over to her laptop on the kitchen bench and flipped it open, Googling the name of the school as Maria confirmed a time.

“See you then.”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Darcy replied, promptly hanging up and scrolling through the search results.

A “rich tradition, with Christian values”, the website read. The children on the homepage wore navy and yellow uniforms.

“What the fuck,” Darcy muttered, making a face.

-

She pulled up at the school’s front parking lot, stepping out in her pencil skirt, hoping she hadn’t sweated through the sharp blazer she wore on top of her silk blouse.

She shoved her feet into her kitten heels and grabbed her handbag, looking around.

It was a quiet street, which was understandable for the time of year. No-one would be around, except maybe maintenance staff, and Darcy’s car was the only one parked there. She felt her phone buzz and she checked it, seeing Ian texting her back:

What the fuck????

He must have found her key, and the note that told him the lease was his problem to solve. She turned off her phone, shoving it back into her bag as she took a deep breath, walking up the front steps.

She knocked, trying to peer into the stained-glass window in the door. It was trying to see through a piece of boiled candy and she stood back, glancing over her shoulder. There was loud, distant banging sound that made her jump and Darcy went rigid, eyes wide.

The door burst open and she startled again, the sweat on her brow dripping down.

A woman with a short brown ponytail met her eye, offering her hand.

“Darcy?”

“Yeah,” she replied, taking her hand to shake. “Maria?”

“Yes,” she said. “You find everything okay?”

“Yeah, am I – can I park here?”

“You probably could get a spot in the teachers’ one around the back, but we use both during the summer anyway. Follow me.”

Darcy nodded, watching as Maria turned her back and walked inside. The front hallway was dimly lit, and Darcy was hit with the scent of paint and dust. She saw a large painting of Mary holding baby Jesus and tried not to react to it, her eyes swivelling over the walls as they walked down the hall into a larger corridor.

“Classrooms,” Maria said, gesturing. “Kindergarten down here and then first grade. I’ll take you in somewhere here…”

“I kinda heard a loud, uh, ruckus earlier?” Darcy said, and Maria glanced at her, her brow lifting, and she smirked.

“A ruckus?” she repeated.

“Was that not an appropriate word –?”

There was a second bang, much louder, unadulterated by the school’s walls. Darcy flinched, while Maria only glanced toward the sound, vaguely interested.

“That’s Mr. Barnes, he’s moving things around,” she murmured. She smirked again. “He’s the ruckus.”

She pushed open a door marked 1R and Darcy followed her. She was met with a couple dozen tiny desks, all of them lowered, with tiny chairs, sitting in a horseshoe shape. There were posters for the alphabet and numbers on the walls, along with a painting of Jesus above the clock, his eyes fixed on Darcy as she moved to copy Maria, who was grabbing a regular-sized chair from the front of the classroom.

“I was sent your resume at a pretty good time, all things considered,” she said, and Darcy nodded, looking away from spooky Jesus, only to see a photograph of the Pope waving at her on the whiteboard.

Maria didn’t seem to notice how distracted Darcy was.

“Our situation has changed a lot in the last semester, even in the last couple of months,” she said, placing her hands in her lap. “Our library is in dire need of organization, re-organization. We’d want our students to have a better library environment in this new school year.”

Darcy bit her lip.

“I’m – I’m a technician, I’m not a librarian,” she said. “I can’t teach.”

She wasn’t selling herself at all. She figured the unconventional style of this interview had thrown her off-balance. There was another distant bang but she didn’t jump that time, instead staring at Maria, waiting for her reply.

“We had needed to juggle our staff after our librarian left quite suddenly in May,” Maria said. “Other teachers are stepping up, but our collection is in dire need of help. From what I heard from your references –”

“Y-You spoke to Doctor -?”

“Yes, I spoke to Doctor Foster and Doctor Chandler,” Maria said, flipping open the file she had, showing what Darcy recognised as a copy of her resume. “They both said you were a remarkable young woman.”

Darcy’s brows lifted, especially since Doctor Chandler was Patrick.

“Really? What did the podiatrist say, specifically?”

“Basically that I’d be a moron if I didn’t hire you immediately,” Maria said, another smirk forming. She shut the file, glancing out the window. Her eyes swung back to meet Darcy’s. “I’m not the principal. I’m the deputy. To make a long story short, Miss Lewis, we’re in a pretty messy situation as a school. The kids are back in less than three weeks and the library looks like a pipe bomb went off in it.”

Darcy blinked. “Right.”

“I would be taking you on as a technician, not a teacher.”

“I don’t know if I’m… I didn’t apply for a job here, I don’t remember anything being advertised –”

“Your name popped up in my network,” Maria said, and she stood up suddenly.

There was another bang.

Darcy mirrored her, smoothing her skirt down, hoping she hadn’t left a sweat patch on the chair. Maria didn’t seem interested, instead moved to walk out, pausing when she took hold of the doorknob.

“I’m not going to sugar-coat it. It’s a big job, and you wouldn’t have a lot of time if you were aiming to finish it enough for kids to use the library on the first day back.”

Darcy nodded. “Right.”

“I have other people to see as well. We didn’t advertise for this role but word of mouth tends to work better than any recruiting website.”

Darcy nodded again. She didn’t think she’d get this job. A better qualified person, maybe a teacher librarian looking for a change, would get it. She departed from the classroom, slipping into the corridor. Maria took her hand and shook it.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll be heading toward that ruckus you heard earlier,” Maria said, and Darcy nodded, feeling her face flush.

“Good to meet you,” Darcy said.

She stopped walking and watched Maria walk down another hallway and out of sight, another bang ringing out in the distance, and then a couple yells. It sounded like Maria was investigating, muffled yells going back and forth, and Darcy gave a little sigh, adjusting her bag on her shoulder before she moved back the way they came through.

She stopped at the Mary painting, leaning forward to see the tiny brushstrokes on the blue gown she was swathed in, along with the tiniest text beneath.

Sister Siobhan O’Keefe, 1908

“Holy shit,” she whispered, stepping back. “Go Siobhan…”

She walked outside, the sun in her eyes, and she got in her car, putting her keys in the ignition. She turned them, but the car remained silent.

At that moment, another car pulled up, parking several spaces away from her, and she felt her cheeks flush again with embarrassment. Her car had been idling the other day when she was in traffic but she hadn’t taken any notice, of fucking course, because she was on her way home the day Ian told her about Amy.

Her battery was dead. She waited for the person in their car to get out, hearing their door shut. She tried again in vain, closing her eyes.

“Please…”

She couldn’t afford a tow truck. She gnawed at her lip, feeling the bullets of sweat glide down her back as she tried to shove down the growing anxiety. She had money for a bus ticket, at least…

She glanced over at the car and saw a man standing there wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, watching her.

“Fuck me,” she said under her breath, because he was cute as hell.

Blonde with blue eyes, muscular and tall like a football player. He frowned, signalling her to lower her window. Darcy shook her head hastily, opening her door.

“My battery’s dead,” she called, feeling like her face was on fire.

“I thought so,” he said, and she nodded, flashing an awkward smile.

He went to his trunk and held up a jumper cable and Darcy blinked.

“You want help? Unless you wanna call someone –”

“No, please, I mean, thank you –”

She motioned for him to come closer. He walked over, leaning down, and Darcy wiped some sweat from her face.

“I just – I was in there before, I don’t want – I mean, I already fucked up the job interview, I don’t want this to end in mortification.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? Interview?”

“Yeah, you work here?”

“Yeah,” he said, and he gestured to her hand resting on the keys in the ignition. “One more time, see what happens.”

She tried again, but nothing happened. She let out a sigh.

“Yeah, I’ll need that jumper cable.”

“Just a sec,” he said, moving back.

Darcy watched as he moved the car closer until it was facing hers, and he slipped out again to pop the hood, which was when Darcy decided she needed to move out of the front seat and try to pretend she knew what was happening.

She’d only been in this situation once before with Ian and he took over. She’d taken that for granted, not knowing something as basic as this. She knew how to change a tyre, too, but she didn’t think it was something she should do, necessarily.

He seemed to be doing fine without her pretending to supervise him, and Darcy watched him attach the cables, moving back and forth between the two cars.

Her car sprang to life after he told her to give it another try, and she let out a laugh, so relieved.

“God, thank you so much,” she said, and he smiled at her.

“Anyone else woulda done it,” he said, and Darcy kept smiling.

She was fucking lucky he showed up when he did. He went to his trunk to get out a carton of books and rose a hand in a short wave.

“Thank you!”  she called from her window, pulling her seatbelt on.

He walked up to the front door and disappeared inside as Darcy drove off.

[ineloqueent]

Starstruck: Part 6

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 6 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 5 / Part 7

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.  

Warnings: swearing, drinking

Historical Inaccuracies:

Again, I’m sure Bri’s eyesight really was absolutely fine haha

Word Count: 5.8k

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Thursday night, it was raining. Again.

Always raining, were the skies above London, and the house was big and empty once more, the echoes of conversation long since departed the halls of your residence— everyone else was working.

But you were reading, always reading. You thought perhaps that you should play guitar, but you still had yet to fix that broken string, and the thought of balancing an instructional book on one knee and your guitar on the other made you feel further discouraged.

Then there was a knock at the door, and a flutter touched your sides.

Trying to calm whatever sensation of nervousness that had swept through your core and settled in your stomach, you took a deep breath and put your book aside.

You hurried toward the door, then mitigated your pace after you slipped and nearly fell to the hardwood floor in your fluffy socks.

You paused at the door, oddly hesitant about opening it.

The knock came again and you jumped. No way you could feign calm now, with the little hairs along your arms raised, with your breath so short. But you resolved to try.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Oh, thank goodness. I was starting to wish I’d have stolen your umbrella.”

Brian stood in the rain, one arm holding a jacket over his head. Under the other arm he carried a book, and in his hand he clutched the handle of his guitar case.

He blinked up at you from the bottom of the two steps that raised the door above the ground. The ends of his hair were sodden, and he had once again neglected to wear proper boots, opting for his classic white clogs, now speckled with muddy rain.

But what drew your attention was that he was wearing glasses.

Classic wayfarers with a thinner rim added to his already delicate yet sophisticated manner, and his poise, despite the jacket he held aloft, brought forth in him a regality. Queen indeed.

“You’re wearing glasses!” you exclaimed, as it was the first thing that popped into your head.

“Yes I am, lovely. Mind if I come in?”

The endearment caught you off-guard. The incline of his head and the curve of his mouth even more so.

“Uh, yes,” you blundered, “of course.” You stepped aside and held the door open for him.

“Ta.”

You closed the door behind him. He stopped to remove his shoes and to hang his jacket on one of the many coat pegs by the entranceway.

You waited, then gestured in the direction of the hall to your room. “This way.”

He nodded and followed you.

You walked slowly down the hall so as to not slip again and Brian padded along behind you, soft footsteps not characterising his height.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you said comically as the two of you entered the small room.

You tried to see it through Bri’s eyes, observing the white sheets and mound of cushions, the Jimi Hendrix and Beatles posters, the rickety bookshelves you had put up above your bed one late, insomnia-driven night, taking in the sight of books and records and plants scattered atop the furnishings. The window let in a little light from the street, and you had to say that you were quite pleased with the atmospheric cosiness that your multitude of fairy lights provided the room with. Of course, that was your side of the room. Heather’s side was a mess of posters and trinkets and concert tickets.

His eyes flitted about the place, taking in his surroundings, and a small smile graced his lips as he spotted the guitar on your bed.

“Very chic,” he said of the room.

“My side or Heather’s?”

“Yours. Freddie would call it cosy. I think I’d get lost over there,” he nodded at Heather’s side.

“Ha, cosy seems to be Freddie’s favourite word.”

“Mm, no, I think it’d be darling,” Bri drawled, and you stiffened. For one startling heartbeat, you had thought he was calling you darling.

You recovered quickly upon realising your mistake, though perhaps not as quickly as you might have liked, because Brian spoke again.

“So,” he said, “derivatives first, or guitar first?”

You rested your hands on your hips. “Think it’ll have to be derivations. We should prioritise you passing Carmichael’s tests.”

“I think really our priority is making you the next Jimi Hendrix,” Brian argued.

You shook your head. “Put down the guitar, Brimi.”

His narrowed eyes challenged you. “You know why people call me that?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a combination of my name and Jimi’s. You saying that... that is definitely a sign that we should leave off the calculus for later.”

You shook your head again. “You’ll just get carried away.”

“With calculus or the guitar?”

“Very funny. Sit down.” You pushed him toward the desk that sat between the two diverse sides of the room.

“As you wish.” He fluttered his eyelashes at you over the brim of his glasses, and alongside his eyes, your insides fluttered too.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Oh, but it must be impossible,” Brian groaned, running his hands through his hair and staring down the exercise book in frustration.

It had been an hour and a half since you’d begun, and you’d made it through what felt like a thousand rules and definitions, and seven rather complex derivations, but this eighth problem had taken up the majority of the last thirty minutes. You’d started out by doing a problem for Bri, then going through one with him, then letting him do a few and only prompting him when he chewed his lip or the end of his pencil. But now, you figured, you had better let him do one completely on his own. The only trouble was, he kept forgetting the same rule, so every time he rubbed his pretty, looping scroll from the paper and began anew, he was no further enlightened when he reached the same point as before.

“We can’t possibly be expected to understand something so complicated, can we?” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “I’m absolutely hopeless.”

You were seated beside him on a stool, and you leaned your elbows on the desk next to the exercise book.

“It’s just the one rule, Brian,” you said. “It’s not impossible and you’re not hopeless, and this whole self-deprecating thing isn’t really you.” In fact, he seemed rather out-of-sorts this evening, impatient and finicky where he was normally quite the opposite. Something was bothering him.

He smiled at you blearily, “Oh but it is. I’ve just tried to spare you of it.”

“Really?” you folded your arms. “Should I not have befriended you?”

He wrinkled his nose. “No, you shouldn’t have. Now you’re stuck with this self-deprecating scientist.”

“Astrophysicist,” you reminded him of his own convictions concerning the technicality. “And who’s to say I won’t run screaming out of here any moment now?”

His eyes focused on something behind you. You followed his gaze and saw your guitar.

“I think we both know that you won’t.” Then he slammed the exercise book shut with a thunk. “Hendrix time.”

You swivelled on your stool and leant over to pick up your guitar, a second-hand Fender Strat in an ombre of orange and black. Dismay tightened your jaw as you eyed the snapped string.

Brian had opened his guitar case and taken out the beautiful red guitar that had resided between the velvet. He’d taken off his glasses and placed them on your desk, and he now sat strumming softly with a coin on the strings, a cord already running from the body of his guitar to your amp on the floor.

He glanced up. “Ready for your first lesson?” His smile was friendly, but fucking hell it was intimidating to be sitting across from someone so experienced while you yourself floundered at changing a string. And speaking of strings…

“I, uh, I have a broken string,” you couldn’t look at him. “I don’t know how to fit the new one.”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot,” he said brightly, reassuringly. “Well, that’s a good thing to learn too. Do you have a replacement string?”

You nodded, holding up the little packet that contained six replacement strings you had bought a few days ago. At least you’d managed to get as far as buying them.

“Did you snap the high E?” Brian continued, seemingly oblivious to your embarrassment at not knowing how to change a string.

You nodded, unpacking the strings. Brian set down his guitar.

“I did that during a concert once, and just bloody launched myself toward some poor stagehand, in a sort of wild panic,” he chuckled at the memory. “Had to play a Gibson for the rest of the concert. Not the same sound, really.”

His banter was comforting; you felt at ease when he spoke in that level, melodious voice of his.

“This might be easier if you sit next to me,” he said.

Understanding his meaning, you left the stool and sat down on your bed. The bed dipped beside you as he sat down. He held out his hands, you passed him your guitar, and he positioned it so that it lay across his lap with the headstock pointed toward you.

“Since your strings don’t look too worn, we’ll just change the one.” He took the string winder that you also grasped and loosened the tuning peg of the high E. “So just remove the string from the bridge,” he slipped the string out from the far end of the guitar, “and then unwind it from the tuning peg.” He then went through a series of uncomplicated motions, aligning the tuning peg properly and attaching the replacement string accordingly.

“There,” he said, not two minutes later. “Easy.” His smile was easy too, though his eyes were strangely dim on this occasion. You wondered how he could smile so easily when he’d been gone for a week without telling anyone where he’d gone to, and presently neglected to explain where he’d been.

“Easy for you to say, pro-guitarist,” you teased.

“Ah, I wouldn’t say pro,” he eased the restored guitar back into your grip.

“I would.”

“Flattery won’t help you when you’re so mean about my derivative abilities,” he sniffed.

“You can retaliate by telling me how awful I am at guitar.”

“Somehow,” Brian took his guitar back into his lap, “I don’t think that’s true.”

You snorted. “Watch and learn.”

“I thought that was your job, now?”

You rolled your eyes. “Where do we start?”

“Well,” Brian ran a hand through his curls, “play me what you can play.”

You had just the song. It wasn’t really meant for guitar, but it hadn’t been a hard one to transcribe from its original piano format.

“Alright, then.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Brian shifted so as to give you room to play, and you took a breath.

You began strumming.

“I was dreaming of the past,” you sang softly, “and my heart was beating fast…”

You chanced a look up at Bri, and his expression was not what you had expected— he was slack-jawed and wide-eyed. You couldn’t fathom why he was looking at you this way; you’d barely played anything yet, so he couldn’t have been flummoxed at how bad you were, or even at how good you were. His expression nearly threw you off of your chords entirely.

Shaking your head for your hair to fall across your eyes and shelter you from the burn of his gaze, you continued to play.

You began to sing more loudly as you reached the chorus, because despite your reservations about playing for anyone, this song, this ballad, had to be done justice.

When the song finished, you tucked your hair behind your ears again.

Brian was sitting completely still, his hands clasped in his lap over his guitar.

You smirked. “Terrible, was I?”

“When did you learn to play that?” he didn’t bother to answer your question, simply stared at you with warm golden eyes.

“Over the weekend. It’s from one of Freddie’s records.”

“Yes, I know. That’s John Lennon,” said Brian.

“I can’t have been all bad, then, seeing as you recognised it.”

He shook his head adamantly, “It’s just— that’s the record I picked.”

“What are the chances—” you began, but Brian cut you off.

“No, you don’t understand. That’s my favourite John Lennon song.”

Oh.

Oh.

Well, shit. You’d just ruined one of his favourite songs for him. You grimaced, leaning your arms on the body of your guitar.

“I’m sorry, this is awkward,” you trained your eyes on the window, though it was now far too dark to see beyond the glass. You pretended to see something, anyhow. Anything to not have to look at Bri and his expressive face and its delicate features and how his mouth twisted in obvious disappointment as he tried to figure out how to tell you that you were the hopeless one, you were the lost cause, you were the one not worth saving, you—

His fingers skimmed your knee, featherlight but nonetheless eliciting response from your skin, goosebumps along your leg, a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes flew to his.  

“That was beautiful,” he said earnestly.

You were flummoxed. You were enraptured by the way his body seemed to lean toward yours, toward you. If you had been standing, your legs would have felt weak.

“I honestly don’t know where to start,” said Bri, drawing back, and the tension you had felt before dissipated. “You’re definitely more knowledgeable than you give yourself credit for. And you have a lovely voice,” he smiled warmly. That weak-legged feeling returned to you as suddenly as it had gone away.

“So what now, then, pro-guitarist?” you dared yourself to say. He chuckled, tossing his curls.

“Do you like David Bowie?” he said then.

“Are short-period comets superior to long-period comets?” you grinned.

“A stellar response.”

“Oh ha ha,” you rolled your eyes.

“Do you know ‘The Width of a Circle’?” You nodded and Bri continued, “Well, that’s what you’re about to learn how to play.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Dammit, Bri, why did I agree to this?” Your fingers ached from stretching up and down the fretboard of your guitar.

Brian laughed, letting his arms fall to his sides. “Because I’m so persuasive,” he winked.

Your cheeks coloured. “I mean, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” scoffed Brian. “I spent school years writing painful argumentative essay upon painful argumentative essay, and you say that you suppose?”

“Pfft, you’ll have to try harder to get me than that,” you replied, and the way he tilted his head at you made you wonder if he was considering the ambiguity of your words. “That’s not what I meant,” you said quickly.

“Oh, I know what you meant,” said Bri, but with a twinkle in his eye. Your flush deepened. You lifted your chin defiantly before bending over your guitar again.

“How the hell do you get your pointer on the first fret of the first string and your pinky on the fourth of the same?!”

Brian laughed. “You need to stretch your fingers more. They’re not flexible enough yet.”

“Just one more thing I’m not yet good at.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn to be.”

“Oh, what?” you let your guitar strap hold the instrument for you, crossing your arms. “Your magnificence didn’t happen overnight?” you mocked.

He held up his hands. “Your words, not mine.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why does it feel like we’ve had this conversation before?”

Brian sighed, “Because we have. Sometime in the past hour.”

“And before that, too,” you grumbled, irritated by your own incompetence.

“Here, crossing your arms won’t help. Stand up.” Brian stood and you followed him reluctantly. “There’s an exercise that’ll help. Straighten your back, and now place your first finger on the eighth fret of the first string.” You obeyed, and he nodded. He began to go through the movements on his own guitar. “Okay, now without moving that finger, put your middle finger on the next fret, and your ring finger on the next, and then your pinky. Now move the first finger down a string and let the others follow, one by one.”

Bri had already gone through the exercise and repeated it faster and faster again down the strings, humming the notes as he played them, unperturbed by the world around him.

But you hadn’t even gotten your pinky to fret the first string. The stretch was too far; your hand simply twitched and you could hardly bend your pinky into the correct, curved shape.

You huffed loudly, melodramatically, and Brian looked up in surprise.

“My,” he said, “I never took you for a drama queen, but I see now why you’re such good friends Freddie and Roger and John.”

“Nice of you to exclude yourself from that back-handed compliment,” you responded dryly.

Bri said nothing, only slung his guitar over his curly crown and laid it on your bed.

His eyes ran over you, and for a moment you felt utterly exposed. What was he looking at, what had he seen?

“You need to straighten up, and then relax.”

You said tiredly, “Those two things are complete opposites, Brian.” It must have been around eleven o’clock now, and your shoulders were starting to ache with the weight of a long day and your distorted sleep schedule.

“No, Y/N,” he went on, tone calm and unpatronising. His patience was seemingly infinite. “Straighten your posture, relax your hand. Relax your wrist.”

You made a valiant attempt, but your hand spasmed again.

Immediately, you glared at Bri, warning him not to laugh— you felt pathetic enough as it was.

But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he embodied that serenity you sometimes found in him, the one that existed in the corners of the universe that did not pale beside the stars, but instead thrived in their light.

“Here,” he said again, though softer this time. He took a couple of tentative steps toward you, eyes locked upon yours, and then walked behind you.

You didn’t have time to question what he was doing, and barely enough to startle when his right hand curved over yours, and the fingers of his left curved around your wrist.

You could barely think as he moved closer still, with his chin hovering above your shoulder and his soft breath on your ear. His thigh brushed against yours, and you felt hyper aware that only velvet and suede was between skin and warmth.

“You just,” he murmured, “relax. Easy wrist.” His fingers ran along the line of your pulse and you inhaled sharply. “Just slightly… softer.” His words became a breathless whisper as he nudged your fingers along the fretboard, guiding your other hand to pick the strings.

He hummed the beginning of the riff he’d been teaching you, leading you through playing it.

It felt effortless to play when his curls pressed against the side of your face, when his fingers wrapped around yours. But breathing was another matter— you could not do it at all. Your lower lip between your teeth, you leaned into his tender touch, feeling the warmth of his chest seep into your back.

His hands stopped moving and where they enveloped yours, your skin tingled. He released a shaky sigh that hovered in the air like smoke above your tensed shoulders.

“Y/N,” he hummed your name beneath the course of a sigh, and his hands tightened around yours.

It was then that the phone rang.

Brian’s hands slipped from your skin in an instant, and he stepped away, lowering his head as though ashamed, his pretty angles hidden away behind his mass of hair.

Who the hell calls at eleven o’clock at night, anyway?!

You discarded your guitar at the foot of your bed, then traipsed into the hallway and picked up the phone, leaning against the doorframe to your room. “Hello?”

“Y/N!” cried a giggly voice over music with heavy bass. “It’s Kate. Katie. Katie-Kate.”

You covered your eyes with one hand. “I… I thought you were here, at home, asleep?”

“Naaaaah, I got peckish and nipped out for a bit.”

“Peckish?”

You glanced over at Brian, who seemed for the life of him to be holding back a smile. You rolled your eyes in the direction of the phone and his lips curved properly before he fluttered his eyelashes and looked away.

“Mmmm, maybe a tad thirsty too.” Her voice had been sing-songy before, but now it turned serious. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I don’t do this, normally, but could you possibly come pick me up? I mean, I’m taking the tube back, obviously, but I’m not here with anybody and you know it’s not the best idea to go walking alone at night in our lovely city when you’re slightly—” and here she hiccuped, “—tipsy.”

Your resolve softened. Kate really wasn’t normally like this, and in her place, you would have been terrified to make your way home, your senses dulled by alcohol and a night spent out on the town.

“Of course, Katie. I’ll be right… right where?”

“The little pub on the Southwark side of Tower Bridge.”

“Ah, okay,” you said, knowing the place she met. “I’ll be there in twenty. Stay inside, okay?”

“Okay, thank you Y/N.” She hung up without another word.

You turned to Brian who glanced up at you, almost frightenedly. No, not frightenedly, but startled, like you’d disturbed his thoughts. You’d have to ask him about those later. Many mysteries of the past week remained unsolved, and he was a major player in all of them.

You smiled as brightly as you could manage at this late hour. “Fancy some hot chips?”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

The tube ride from Camden to Tower Bridge was mostly silent, at least on the parts of you and Brian. The noise which did exist was generated by late partygoers, heading home from a rave in the city, or leaving a party on one side of London to attend a party on the other side of London.

Hanging onto a pole to stabilise yourself as the train shot through the network of tunnels that made up the London Underground, you looked up at Brian, who stood across from you, fingers wrapped around a handle hanging from the ceiling.

He smiled when his gaze fell on yours, and reached out an arm to tug the end of your scarf— his scarf.

You rolled your eyes in response, then tapped your shoe to the tip of his clog, silently mocking his fashion choices.

He wrinkled his nose at you. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You wanted to.” He mussed his hair sleepily, and you felt a shard of guilt pierce your side. It was late, and you’d dragged him along on an adventure he hadn’t asked for.

“Thank you for coming with me,” you said, your voice softened by the same tiredness that Brian embodied in his movements. “I just thought that it was silly to go off alone so late when the very reason I was leaving the house was to make sure someone else didn’t go off alone.”

“I wouldn’t have let you go alone anyway,” he told you, and warmth spread in your chest.

“Thank you,” you said again.

He simply inclined his head in that regal way of his.

The tube soon reached Tower Bridge station, and the two of you disembarked. The walk from the station to the pub was short, and it took even less time to find Kate; she was waiting in a chair by the door.

“Y/N, thank goodness!” she leapt up, before sinking her volume to a whisper. “There’s a creep who’s been watching me for the past half hour and I’ve been struggling to shake ‘im off.”

You clenched your jaw. Why could people not just fuck off and keep to themselves? It was pretty obvious to you when you weren’t wanted around, so why could creepy men not take a hint?

“I’m sorry, Katie,” you frowned, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

She nodded, then stopped when she saw Brian standing behind you.

“Oh, Kate, this is Brian, Brian this is Kate. He’s a friend,” you said to Kate.

“Hello,” Brian extended his hand to Kate and she shook it.

“So you’re the person who gets Y/N out of bed in the morning,” Kate said.

“I’m— sorry?” Brian balked, colour rising in his cheeks.

“She’s drunk,” you dismissed Kate’s words with a shake of your head, ignoring the clench beneath your ribcage at Brian’s blush.

“Tipsy!” she cried, as though this proved her point rather than disproved it. “Y/N hates mornings—”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Brian answered with a slight laugh.

“Yes, well, not if you’re waking up beside someone you love, no,” Kate babbled, “and lately, Y/N’s been okay in the mornings, so I’d like to thank you.”

Realisation dawned.

“Oh no—” you began as Brian said “We’re not—”

You glanced at Bri, hoping he’d finish his sentence so you didn’t have to. This was awkward enough already.

But he didn’t. He just stared at you, and something in the way he stood made you think he was holding his breath.

Your eyes couldn’t leave his. “We’re not together,” you said, slowly.

Kate made a face in your peripheral vision, pushing open the door and stepping outside. You followed her.

“Shame,” she sighed. “Thought you looked good together.”

You could feel Bri’s eyes on you as you left the pub.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

You’d gotten Kate home without too much trouble, aside from the fact that she was wearing stilettos and was rather unsteady on her feet.

Now you leaned against your bedroom doorway, staring at nothing as Brian packed away his guitar.

He snapped his guitar case closed. “Hang on,” he said.

“Hm?”

“I thought you promised there would be hot chips.”

You smiled. “You look tired, Brian.”

“I think now’s a good time to confess I’m an insomniac.”

You let out a laugh.

“Honestly, I am,” he professed, then regarded you with folded arms. “And you did promise food.”

Truthfully, you didn’t feel like you could sleep right now, even though your shoulders thrummed with a dull pain and you knew it would be ill-advised to stay up any later than you already had.

But it was a few minutes past midnight, and the late night felt magical as the streets dimmed and the world shuffled off to sleep, while you still held the power of consciousness in your hands. It thrilled you. Midnight always had.

“And where do you expect we’ll find hot chips at this hour?” you crossed your arms too.

Brian grinned, then looped his arm through yours. “I know a place.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“How come you know my area better than I do?” you said, stealing a chip from the cardboard carton Brian now carried.

The two of you were walking through Camden Market along the canal. Bare lightbulbs that were strung up along fences lit the path in little galaxies, and trees hung low over the water, as though they had once been men and women who had lost their loves to the river.

Brian shrugged. “Roger’s sort of quite fascinated by a lot of different subcultures, and all of London’s seem to coexist in Camden Lock, so he and Freddie and John and I come here often. Rog says it inspires him. And who would we be to deny him his muse?”

“Huh,” you said. “I thought cars were his muse.”

“Right?!” Brian agreed. “He never stops talking about them. Even in his sleep.”

“Maybe he should write a song about them.”

Brian nodded thoughtfully as he munched on chips.

“What about you?” you asked. “What’s your inspiration? There must be something behind that ‘White Queen’ song of yours.”

Brian suddenly choked. Reflexively, you hit his back in alarm.

He coughed, “Sorry. Too many chips at once, I think,” he muttered sheepishly.

You handed him the bottle of water you’d bought, and he thanked you.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Well, isn’t it obvious?”

You blinked at him.

“Stars,” he said. “I’m in love with the stars, remember?”

You nodded, quoting, “The white queen walks and the night grows pale, stars of lovingness in her hair. Makes sense.”

But Brian had a strange look on his face. “Yeah,” he responded slowly. “I suppose it does.”

“For the chap who has his bedroom ceiling covered in plastic glow-in-the-dark stars, it does make sense,” you nudged his shoulder.

“I should never have let you be on gathering duty instead of bird duty,” he shook his head. “The endless teasing.” Then his eyes widened. “You didn’t touch my guitar, did you?”

“Speaking of endless teasing,” you said, “you have quite the attachment to that guitar. Kind of like Rog and his cars, really. What’s her name, the Red—”

“The Red Special.”

“And you two are exclusive, or..?”

“We’ve always been a pair.”

“Yes, but you have a Fender and that acoustic as well. I mean, doesn’t she get jealous when you—”

“My dad and I made her.”

You almost spat out the chip you’d just snagged. “You… you made her? Like, from scratch?”

Brian nodded, and you stopped walking. He nodded like it was nothing that he and his father had crafted the prized instrument, the one which Bri had used to compose so many songs for Queen. Like it was something average, not worthy of praise but simply something done over the weekend with a couple of hours to spare. Nothing impressive.

“From an old mantlepiece, pieces from my bike, buttons, bits of a table… Took forever,” he chuckled, a fondness softening his eyes in the glow of lamplight. “Worth it, though.”

Your lips had fallen open, and when Brian saw this, he laughed. “Alright, Y/N? Earth to Y/N?” He shook the carton of chips in front of you, trying to glean a reaction. “Houston, we’ve had a problem.”

You shook your head slowly. “I just… That’s amazing, I can’t fathom how much work that must have taken, and from everyday bits and pieces…”

“You see why I love her?”

“Now I’m wondering why we tease you in the first place. That’s bloody impressive, Brian.”

“Thank you,” he said humbly. He draped his arm around yours as you began walking again.

You liked walking with Brian. Despite the fact that his legs were ridiculously long and that his steps matched his legs, he was lithe and his gait had a swaying quality to it, as though he permanently wandered around with his eyes up to the stars and was swept away in a dream. His side was soft and always flush against your own, and his warmth became yours and rushed through your veins as surely as your blood when he leaned closer or spoke more softly. Your thoughts strayed frequently when he walked with you this way, but never far from him— only to stars and the universe and things that were already his.

You remembered the full moon that had risen in the sky a few nights ago, remembered how you’d wondered if he’d seen it too. The idea of staring up at the same heavens as the rest of the world was a favourite musing of yours because it gave you the feeling of not being alone in the world; everyone and everything was bound together by the stars.

But maybe Bri hadn’t seen the moon last Tuesday. Maybe he’d been too busy, with whatever it was he had been doing. You had to admit, it hurt a little that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you where he had disappeared off to.

“Brian,” you murmured.

“Mm?” Now, of all times, he had his head in the stars. You wanted to take his face in your hands and make him look at you, let your resolve be swallowed by amber-flecked irises and barely pouted lips, to forget what your skin felt like and to replace it with the memory of his. You almost did. Almost.

“Where have you been?”

“As a spaceman, I went travelling.”

“Brian.”

“I was visiting my aunt.”

“You were visiting your aunt. And you couldn’t have called?” You took hold of his hand, and his eyes flicked to you.

“She was dying,” he said bluntly.

Any relief you might have felt previously now disappeared as abruptly as light does in a solar eclipse. The light seemed to be eclipsed from Brian, too.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, heart heavy in your chest. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Well, how else would you have found out?” he muttered grimly.

“You could have told me.”

He ignored your question. Then he pulled his hand from your grasp. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea,” he said.

Tendrils of cold wrapped around your heart as he let you go and his expression became closed off. How dearly you wished you’d never asked your stupid question and instead had let him explain in his own time.

“I’ll just collect my guitar, if that’s alright.” No emotion coloured his words in any way, and in being neither positive nor negative, his demeanour was unsettling.

“Yes, yes that’s fine,” you responded.

You and Brian walked back to your place in silence, and the space between you was heavy. A feeling of dizziness clouded your mind, rattling your thoughts with tremors like earthquakes.

As Bri stepped out into the early morning, an urgency gripped you. Everything hung in the balance, and it fell to you to tip the scales. Equilibrium would not be good enough for you, not today, not ever. You’d said that you’d be damned if you let one of your best friends suffer in silence, and Brian was no exception. In fact, he was the rule.

“Brian,” you spoke his name in a sigh, a breath that ran along your skin in sparks and a name that tingled on your lips. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to pry.”

He didn’t move and said even less. The moon lit his sharp angles and the round ringlets of his hair and held her breath alongside you.

Then, mercifully, he nodded. “I know.”

But he left you with only those words, and without another glance at you.

The clouds obscured the stars and the light left as he disappeared into the night.

You covered your face with your hands.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: there you are, my cheeky mid-week update! hope it’s not a disappointing one. love to you all <3

taglist: @melting-obelisks​ @hgmercury39​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @topsecretdeacon

Masterpost / Part 5 / Part 7

[thethoughtsfromthreeam]

A Work of Art

Pairing: The Mandalorian/ Din Djarin x Reader

Warnings: None

A/N: @mandowhorian posted a prompt that came across my dash and goddamn it, I had to write it.  Why does my brain do this to me when I got another fic to finish?  

Also @amarvelousmandalorian wrote a ditty that gave me the jump I needed.  Won’t ever be as good as some people’s but whatever, I had to get it out on paper, so to speak.

Reminder:  I ain’t ever seen Pedro Pascal in FUCK ALL, I’m just coming up with this as I go along, using imdb.com, wiki, and 84,000 tabs I got open to plan out this shit.  I also write soft versions of his characters so if you’re craving asshole vibes, I ain’t got any but my own to offer.

Tags:  @zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer, @beskars​ , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder, @lavenderl3mons , @pascalisthepunkest , @mandoandyodito​ , @randomness501 , @fioccodineveautunnale  

---***---

When she heard footsteps coming up the walkway, she rose from her chair to open the door.  She had just finished setting the table up for a meal, wondering if the man coming to her was going to enjoy her baked goods.  At least the house smelled of warm sugar rather than the bitterness of oil paint that usually permeated the space.

“Mandalorian!”  She called, waving at him with a large smile on her face.  She made a small note that his arms were empty of the little green being he had taken under his wing.  “I didn’t think you’d reach me by sundown, the rains have made the forest roads a little treacherous.  Come in, the tea is almost ready!”

He stopped in his tracks, confusion radiating off him and she laughed. She was his bounty and she was inviting him in for tea?  As he began to walk again, his steps were less certain as if he expected her to ambush him.  He kept his hand near his blaster and continued up the stone pathway.  

When he entered, the room seemed to shrink to half its size and for a moment, the Mandalorian felt awkward and unsure.  He mentally berated himself for letting these odd thoughts invade his mind.  She was the damn bounty and who cares if he was practically a bull in a china shop in her home?  She was coming with him and it wouldn’t be hers for much longer.

“Where is the little one?  I hope you haven’t left him on the ship unattended.  I thought you’d have learned not to do that.  No matter, we can make up a basket for you to take back.  I’m sure you hardly have anything homemade in your storehouse.”  She busied herself preparing plates of food and motioned for him to sit as she poured tea into heavy cups made of local wood.  He didn’t move, completely unnerved by her comments.  In the blink of an eye, he drew his blaster and pointed it at her.  She merely smiled and his irritation grew.

“How do you know about the kid?”  He growled at her, the hairs on his neck standing on end.  What the hell was going on?  Nothing about this seemed right to him.

“Exactly how I know about you, Din.  And why you’re here.  Please sit. I know you won’t eat with me around, but we can at least chat a bit.”  When he didn’t move, she looked at him pointedly.  “You sat on this job for four days even though you knew it could be done in twenty minutes.  Sit down.”

She had him there.  He sat down with a large thump and she worried he would break the wooden chair, sending himself sprawling into the stone wall behind him.  She giggled a bit at the image, wondering if he’d knock himself senseless in that helmet of his.  He pointed the blaster at her again.

“Talk, bounty.”

“I am Force sensitive, much like your little one and I know the Empire wishes to use us to regain power in the galaxy.  That’s why you were sent after us.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t tell me how you know me or my name.”  He still sounded hard, but he wasn’t growling at he any longer.  Only a select few knew his name and no one since Mandalore had fallen had spoken it directly to him until Moff Gideon said it on Nevarro.  And now this woman was speaking his name as sure as if they had been paired all their lives.

“I’ve always known you.”  Behind the mask, Din’s jaw dropped and his hold on the blaster wobbled a bit.

“How?”

“The Force.  Come with me.”  When she rose, she skirted the table and laid a hand on his shoulder.  Even through the layers of cloth and beskar, he could feel her warmth.  He angled his helmet to look at her before standing up.  He towered over her, his suit of armor crowding her out.  She turned and walked through a small door and motioned for him to come in.

When entered he stopped and in his state of shock, the blaster fell from his hand.  He was surrounded by. . . himself.  The walls covered in images of his face in different mediums – oil, chalk, crayon, pastels, acrylics, ink, and even embroidery.  No two pictures were the same and he slowly began to walk around the studio, taking it all in.  

He saw his face as a child before it went under the helmet and there in a pencil drawing was his face after a night out with Ran’s crew.  He looked up and saw a small portrait of himself holding the kid with the mudhorn insignia behind them.  All around him his face – his history – was charted on these walls.  Goosebumps broke out on his skin as he turned, seeking answers.

“When was I was ten, the Force began to grant me visions and sight.  By the time I was fourteen, I saw your face for the first time.  I was so in tune with your essence that I begun to draw you, to try and figure out who you were to me.”

“What did you discover?”

“You’re my soulmate.”

“Your what?!”  He barked out a laugh, utterly shocked at her words.  Soulmate?  People really believed that tripe?  He shook his head.

“How else to do you explain any of this?”  He shrugged until she pointed to a picture on the mantle.  He walked over and his breath hitched in his throat.  It was his face on Nevarro, right before he nearly died.  It was a harsh painting, dark with heavy blots of paint.  The image was almost grainy, and he could feel pain radiating from it, but he wasn’t entirely sure if it were his or hers.  He shuttered as he turned away.

“I watched you nearly die, Din.  I felt it in my very core as your life force leaked from you and a part of me was taken with it.”  She walked up to him and raised her hand. She tapped the back of his helmet, right over where the scar was.  “Here. Right here is where my life nearly ended had it not been for a droid.”

There was no way for her to have known what transpired on Nevarro nor where his scar was. And yet, she did and when she touched his helmet, it was as if there was no metal between them.  He could almost feel her soft fingertips along his skin.

“I do not know why the Force thought a Mandalorian would be good for me. But it did.  And I have been haunted for years as you were reckless with Ran.  I watched with pride as you became the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy.  My heart clenched when you showed what a good man you are Din Djarin when you went back for that little one and saved his life. And I know you have thought about me.”

“What?  I’ve never seen you before in my life and certainly I haven’t felt anything like you’re describing.”  His goosebumps were turning to shivers that he tried to ignore – little fissures of truth coming out of the darkness to shame him.  This was too weird, and he shook his head as if to clear everything.  A simple bounty, that was all this was supposed to be.

“Give me your hand.”  She looked at him and he looked down at her.  When he didn’t move, she asked again.  This time he complied and held it out to her.  She looked at him while removing his glove, exposing his calloused hand to her. She laid her own soft hand on his and closed her eyes.  Din stood rock still as he could feel her in his mind, in his soul.  Her voice sounded in his brain.

“Din.  Remember.” His eyes closed and suddenly a rush of memories came to him.  Gut-wrenching tears as he laid dying.  A smile that rang with laughter that he heard on the wind after receiving his sigil.  A horrified gasp as he shot IG-11.  A small caress filled with warmth as he laid in the Razor Crest while tracking a bounty on Hoth.  A voice telling him to go the other way as he got lost in the jungles of Byss.  A pair of eyes staring at him with love as he renounced Ran’s crew and left.  Even further back to days on Mandalore when a girl made eyes at him that he didn’t return because the specter of a face in his mind told him to wait for her.

He gasped loudly as these broken images formed together into her. His bounty.  She had always been there and yet she hadn’t.  He opened his eyes to watch her staring at him with a calm look on her face.  Those eyes, her voice, that face.  He knew something about her bounty puck photo seemed familiar to him and yet he couldn’t ever place it.  Now he knew why.

“How is it that you see me fully, but I couldn’t see you?”  His voice was quiet, and he curled his hand around hers.  Her smiled returned.

“You’re not Force sensitive to tune into the connection.  But it was there for you, and it showed itself when it could or when your guard was down enough for you to feel.”  She stopped smiling, brows knitting in concern.  “Are you going to turn me in?”

“Hell no.”  She let out a laugh.

“So, you’re just going to go around collecting Force-sensitive beings and protect us all from the Empire, then?”  He stood there and dropped his head back, groaning.  Oh Maker, he was in it now.

“Yeah, sounds like it.”  He pulled his head forward to look at her.  “I don’t know what this is between us, but I need more answers.”

“It’s a lot information, though, Din.  It’ll take some time.”

“Come with me.  We’ll make the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  He knew that despite the helmet that she could see his grin.  He knew because her smile looked just like his.

[derireo]

Got a request! MC loves drawing and decides to draw them (and gives them the drawing afterwards) with homare, omi, hisoka, tenma, and citron please! Whew now that I got that down... I am so glad I came across your blog! You're out here serving full course meals and I applaud you for your work!! I always look forward to reading what you put out luv! ♥️

d'aw thanks anon! i try my best for y'all and only wish to give u the best of my writing so that we can all be happy! thank you again, and i hope u stay a little longer as a reader! ❤️

Homare, Omi, Hisoka, Tenma, Citron: Artist MC

Homare

Clutches his chest in shock at how pretty you made him out to be! Seriously, like– even though he does take proper care of himself and makes sure he looks nice for others to look at, his breath is absolutely taken away when you show him the drawing you made.

His eyes sparkle in amazement! He's so smitten by your talent that he's unable to say anything for a good minute or two when usually he's great at talking.

He's only able to smile at you and pull you in for a tight hug as 'thanks'.

Later at night, he's at his desk with his head in his hands while Hisoka sleeps in Azuma's bed for the night, looking for inspiration for his poems.

He's suddenly reminded of the drawing you gave him, and is given a new boost! He writes about your adorably sweet look of concentration as your pencil stroked along the fine paper; speaks about the way your tongue pokes out from your mouth and compares it to a butterfly's kiss when it licks away your tears.

In the morning, when he shows some of the members what he wrote last night, he's given a clap on the shoulder and a round of compliments.

He is especially fond of the bashful response you gave him when he handed you the paper.

Omi

He's so adorably flustered! He is sososo oblivious to the fact that he is a handsome man, and when you show him through the drawing you worked on as he cooked in the kitchen, he was shocked!

The way you accentuated his angles and prominently outlined the way his muscles bulged in his sleeves made him quite shy. He didn't know you saw him this way and it made his heart flutter like crazy. And he especially loved how you drew a little heart by his face with an arrow pointing at the scar on his chin.

Despite the bad memories that came along with the scar, he always appreciated how you'd gently kiss the rough tissue or caress it with your thumb. You let him know that the scar was a part of him that you loved dearly.

His cheeks are flushed after staring at the paper for a bit too long, and the eye crinkling smile he sends you sends a happy feeling to your stomach. His voice is quiet as he thanks you for such a nice gift, and pulls you in for a tight hug, saying how much he appreciates you taking the time to draw him and show him how he looks through your eyes.

He affectionately kisses your face, and later at night, he's seen by Taichi, slipping your simple piece of art into a laminate page protector.

Hisoka

He's a little dazed when you first try to show him, seeing as you gently tried to wake him up from his little nap on the couch. You had been sitting on the other end of the sofa when you started doing little doodles of Hisoka, some in the form of a floofy cat, and the other half in the form of a squishy marshmallow or cloud.

His eyes are half open when he takes a peek at what you're holding right in front of his face, then lets his head fall back on the couch with a yawn, sending you a surprisingly energetic thumbs up as he opens his arms up for you to crawl in.

"How long did those take you?" He'd mumble through a mouthful of your hair as he curled himself around your back, his sleepy gaze skimming over the paper as you traced an outline of one of the cats you drew.

And with how much he managed to utter after being woken up just five minutes ago, it seemed he liked what you did.

Your response makes him hum thoughtfully, and he closes his eyes again at the thought of taking any amount of time to do something. 

When you offer to give him the paper full of your drawings, he only kisses your hair and nods his head before going back to sleep.

The paper is later seen hiding under his pillow when the boys are doing some Spring Cleaning.

Tenma

Pleasantly surprised and a little shy. Of course, since he's a pretty big celebrity he has seen fanart of himself many times, so he's used to it, but the way you drew him with such joy and professionalism, it was super cool.

He especially loved the way you drew his sharp eyes and toothy grin, as it gave off the vibes he always wants people to get from him. He actually didn't believe you drew him at first because for some reason, the person on the paper seemed so much more cooler than he could ever be.

His fingertips curiously traced over the deep outlines on the paper, nails dragging over the grooves and scratches made by granite and ink as you watched him with a smile on your face.

It was truly embarrassing to receive something so nice from you and he covered his mouth with his free hand to hide how truly astonished he was by your talent. His eyes darted back and forth between you and the drawing, his mind racing with gooey thoughts as you only looked at him with a curious look in your eyes.

When you tell him he can keep the drawing, his heart nearly bursts with joy, but all he can do as a response is flush a dark red and mutter under his breath about how it's embarrassing.

He takes it anyways.

Citron

The most dramatic of them all besides Homare.

"Oh, Princess! That looks elevating!" He says, with his slightly broken vocabulary. His smile was so wide that it looked like it was going to split his lips so you decided not to correct him (you didn't know what he was trying to say either).

He sits down with you on the couch with curiosity in his eyes as you explain to him what you tried to do. He noticed that you had drawn him in some traditional Japanese yukata, and marveled at all of the fine and harsher details engraved in the paper.

He's ecstatic once he finally gets a good look at the paper and stares at you with wide eyes, smiling brightly. His gentle hands hold the drawing to his chest as you offer giving it to him and he nods enthusastically. He is so honored to receive such a wonderful, beautiful gift!

"It must have taken you quite some time." He said seriously, prying the paper away from him to look at the drawing once more; seemingly in awe.

"I want to try drawing you too," he pondered after a while, holding a hand out for you to grasp, "let's go to your room! That way the other members will not disturb us!"

His enthusiasm definitely caught you off guard as he tangled your fingers together with his and immediately started to drag you down the hallway to your bedroom. Your surprised yelp received a joyful laugh from Citron as you both scurried into your room.

[valhallanrose]

Diane Young

In which Miriyam meets Cadenza. 

2.6k words. No CWs apply. Cadenza belongs to @arcanecadenza

Good things came in threes, Miriyam had always been taught, but she wasn’t entirely sure how much she’d believed that until she met Cadenza.

She’d seen her first one morning in the marketplace, with a passing glance that made her do a double take to look at her - really look at her - and seared her face into Miriyam’s memory. In moments she knew every wild curl, every freckle, the dip of her furrowed brow and the slight purse of her lips as she curtly informed the butcher that no, she would not be paying twice what she did the last time she bought lamb from them for half the product. Miriyam didn’t know why, but even the lilt of her voice, accent and all, drew her in and begged her to just find out more.

It took her a few moments, but she shook it off, the crowds blessedly thick enough to keep her from being caught gawking like the useless lesbian she was - but for hours after the fact, the raven-haired woman seemed to have her mind in a vice grip. 

Miriyam thought she’d shaken that grip by the time the following morning came and went and the impending storm sent the residents of Vesuvia scattering for cover, but she quickly found out how wrong she was. 

The cozy little tea shop was near packed as it began to drizzle, but Miriyam found an empty seat and dropped unceremoniously into it. After pulling her well-worn sketchbook from its place tucked into her waistband, Miriyam had barely pulled her pencil from its place behind her ear when her eyes landed on the woman seated near the window of the shop in question. 

It was her. 

Later she’d be a little embarrassed at how shameless she was, but with her knee braced against the edge of the table and her sketchbook on her thigh, Miriyam found herself quickly pulling her pencil across the page to capture the woman’s likeness. Occasionally her eyes flickered upwards to observe a detail, but her features were so scorched into Miriyam’s mind that they might as well have been tattooed on her forehead. 

Dark curls, wilder than she’d remembered, hanging loosely around her shoulders and framing freckled cheekbones. Her gaze was cast somewhere beyond the pane of glass, teacup raised thoughtfully against her lips and her other hand spread over the pages of the book she’d been reading to keep it open. She looked so serious that Miriyam had to bite back a smile at the contrast of her pastel attire, the patterned fabrics so light and colorful and airy and somehow just right for someone like her.

In all her musing and sketching, she didn’t notice the woman’s head turn, but she certainly noticed the way her eyes narrowed when Miriyam lifted her head to look at her again. She paused, then waved somewhat sheepishly, lowering her gaze back to the page in question to sketch out a few more lines before a voice made her nearly jerk her pencil across the page. 

“Do I really have that many freckles?”

Miriyam floundered for a moment under the depth of the woman’s gaze, entirely unexpecting her approach and how much lovelier she was at such close proximity, before she managed to clear her throat and glance down at her page.

“I thought so.” Miriyam idly picked at the corner of the paper, feeling a bit of heat rise in her collar at the intensity of those dark eyes. “I’m sorry, I hope I’m not being rude. I was just...inspired.”

“Hm.” The woman nodded, watching for a moment longer before dropping neatly into the seat across from Miriyam. “Well then. Carry on.”

Miriyam stared for a long, long moment, trying to process what had just happened, before she nodded and lowered her gaze to the paper again. She wasn’t sure her pencil had flown faster than it did in that moment, putting the woman’s likeness to paper as she lowered her gaze to her book and began to read again. 

That would prove to be both a blessing and a curse. As she neatly pulled one of the drawings from her sketchbook - the one of the young woman seated across the table, elbow propped on the surface and chin resting in her hand as she read - Miriyam gave her a smile that perhaps was a little flirtier than she intended. 

“Thank you.” She said after a breath, pushing her hair back from her face. “The purple suits you rather well, by the way. I would have added it, but I didn’t bring my whole pencil set.”

The woman nodded nonchalantly, a hand spread over her book to keep the pages open. “Thank you. That’s why I’m wearing it.”

“Of course.” Miriyam felt her lips quirk up into a smile as she slid the drawing across the table, getting up from her seat as she did so. “Well...I should be going. Rain’s passed. But thank you for playing muse for a little while.”

The dark haired woman nodded loosely, fixated on her book, and Miriyam thought that was that as she left. But the next few days, she found herself struggling to shake those honey-brown eyes from her thoughts, sometimes looking for them when she passed the tea shop on city patrol in hopes she’d catch a glimpse of her looking out that window again.

But a brief time passed, and Miriyam had almost forgotten about the intensity of those eyes save for the occasion she flipped through her sketchbook and found herself lingering before finding a blank page. 

*     *     *     *     *

The second time she met her, perhaps two weeks later, Miriyam was out walking the streets - broken collar in hand, searching for her cat to make sure she was alright. Sappho’s collar was designed to break, but only if she got caught on something - and she was worried when she hadn’t seen her. It wasn’t unusual for Sappho to spend the night roaming, or come and go before Miriyam woke, but she hadn’t touched the food or water that had been left out in the kitchen. 

So she walked for a while, beginning in Sappho’s usual haunts and then stretching beyond, until she heard a loud meow come from behind the shop she was walking past. 

Miriyam paused, picking her way carefully to the back street to see the source of the meow - even if it wasn’t her cat, she still wanted to check on them - but low and behold, that fuzzy bastard was sitting on someone else’s doorstep.

She didn’t necessarily process who was with the cat so much as she zeroed in on Sappho herself, happily chowing down on the food in the dish they set out, and she let out a sort of laugh as she approached with her hands shoved in her pockets. 

“Oh, you little shit -”

“Excuse me?”

Miriyam paused mid step - mentally and physically - as she realized that she was damn near eye to eye with the person who had taken over a significant portion of her thoughts. She floundered for a moment before she realized what she’d said, then looked down at the cat who had stretched up to paw at the edge of her jacket. She laughed nervously, scratching the back of her head as the woman folded her arms across her chest and her brows lowered. 

“Not you...no, definitely not you. I’m so sorry, that came out wrong. I was calling my cat a shit.”

She dared hope the woman’s lip twitched up in amusement, but if it had, it was so quick that it was likely her imagination. 

“This cat is a sweetheart.”

“Yeah, because she’s found someone to sucker into spoiling her.” Miriyam bent down, scooping Sappho up and smiling a little as she walked up her arm and coiled around Miriyam’s shoulders. “Somebody’s just cranky because the market’s been out of her favorites when I go shopping after work.”

Miriyam spat out a bit of cat hair as a large, fluffy tail swiped across her face, but didn’t particularly mind as Sappho began to play with the dangling earrings she wore. “Thank you, though, for taking care of her. I was worried she’d gotten into trouble, but I’m glad she found somebody kind enough to look out for her.”

Sappho meowed quietly as Miriyam dug in her pockets, scribbling down an address on a scrap of paper - not noticing the woman stepping closer until she saw her hand move past her peripheral to scratch beneath Sappho’s chin. 

“It’s no trouble. She’s pleasant company.” 

It took Miriyam a second to realize she had been spoken to - her keen sense of smell picking up on the strong scent of lemon, ginger, and something floral she couldn’t name that clung to her palms - before she stammered out an answer, clearing her throat awkwardly.

“She is. I’ve had Saph pretty much since I came to Vesuvia - she’s a loyal friend. Always around when you need her.”

The woman’s brow lifted, her fingers wrapping around one of Sappho’s outstretched paws and playing with the pads of her feet as the cat purred her contentment. “Short for Sapphire? I suppose that makes sense, she does have very blue eyes…”

Miriyam flushed a little, realizing exactly how much of a useless lesbian she was in this very moment as she floundered under the proximity of someone who she found undeniably attractive. “Ah...no, actually, it’s short for Sappho.”

“Oh, the poet.” The woman nodded and released the paw in question, stroking her fingers through Sappho’s fur one last time. “A fair name.”

Miriyam nodded slowly, reaching up to pet Sappho herself - then remembering the paper she’d written her address on and quickly extending it. 

“Well, she’s certainly food motivated - honestly, she might come looking for you now that you’ve fed her. If she’s ever a pain or lurking around too much, here’s my address.” Miriyam adjusted Sappho on her shoulders, feeling her start to make biscuits on the smooth fabric of her jacket as she spoke. “She’ll get the message if you drop her off there. I let her roam during the day since she was an alley cat when I took her in and she likes her freedom, but she’s got all her comforts inside.”

The woman looked at the paper for a moment, then nodded, folding it and tucking it neatly into her pocket. “Alright. I don’t mind her around, but if it starts getting late, I’ll see her home.”

Miriyam gave her a relaxed sort of smile, extending a hand to the woman in question. “Thank you…”

“Cadenza. She/her.” She reached out, taking Miriyam’s hand and giving it a firm shake. 

“Miriyam. Also she/her. And you know Sappho.”

Cadenza nodded, the bounce of her curls making Sappho’s head bounce in time with them. “I do. I hope to see her again. I find I liked having her company for dinner.”

“I’m sure you will.” Miriyam chuckled, giving Sappho a scratch behind her ear as she swatted at the open air to try and reach Cadenza’s hair. “She wouldn’t have come back if she didn’t like you.”

“Well, she’s always welcome.” At that, Cadenza really did seem to smile a bit - an upturn of her lips, not a full one, but a smile nonetheless - but she turned and began to walk up the steps, picking up the empty dish Sappho had happily cleaned. “Enjoy your night.”

“You as well.” Miriyam called, and as the door closed, she gave Sappho a massive side eye - the cat all too pleased with herself as she dragged a sandpaper tongue across Miriyam’s scarred brow. 

“You know, the only reason I’m not mad at you is because I got her name, but if you do that ‘running away because you’re not making the dinner I want’ shit again you’re getting your catnip toys revoked.”

*     *     *     *     *

The third time she met Cadenza, she was getting off patrol and was walking home herself when she happened across her in the market. Her arms were full of boxes - likely for her shop - that seemed rather precariously balanced as she dug in her pocket for something she needed. They leaned, and Miriyam leapt forward, balancing them before she got a good look at the face of the person carrying them. 

“Whoa, okay, that’s definitely a recipe for disaster. Are you alri - oh, hey, Cadenza. You doing okay?”

Cadenza huffed a piece of hair out of her face, nodding briefly. “I’m fine. Just on my way home - I didn’t want to make two trips.”

“Right.” Miriyam watched her for a moment, seeing her struggle to get a good grip on the boxes, then snorted and reached forward - pausing before grabbing them. “May I? It’s the long way home for me, but I can help you bring these to your place. I really don’t see you making it home without dropping these.” 

Cadenza eyed her for a long moment before she eventually nodded, and Miriyam picked up the upper boxes easily before nodding for Cadenza to lead the way. 

They walked in comfortable silence down the lamp lit paths, Miriyam occasionally stealing glances toward an indifferent Cadenza - who surprised her by breaking the silence between them. 

“What did you mean when you said you were inspired?” 

Miriyam balked slightly, nearly fumbling her hold on the boxes, her head whipping toward Cadenza to meet her gaze with a raised brow. 

“At the tea shop. You said you were inspired when you were drawing me.”

Miriyam cleared her throat awkwardly, drumming her fingers on the bottom of the box. “I did, didn’t I?”

Cadenza nodded, having an easier time retrieving her keys as they approached her shop door. “I want to know what you mean by it.” 

“Well, I feel like that’s pretty obvious.” Miriyam muttered, her collar growing a little hot the longer she was stared down. “I think you’re rather lovely. Beautiful, in fact, but that felt a little forward to say to someone I’d just been caught drawing.”

Cadenza’s brow lifted as she dropped the boxes inside her shop door, pushing them out of the way before she reached for the boxes Miriyam held. “But you don’t know me. And I don’t know you, but that’s expected.” 

“I know you’re Venterrean, the accent makes that obvious - I speak a touch of it but not nearly enough to try and talk to you without making a fool of myself. And I know you’re a musician. Probably something in the strings family, your left hand is calloused more than your right if what I saw while I was drawing is anything to go by. Plus, Sappho’s a pretty good judge of character, so if she likes you I find that I can’t argue with her opinion.” Miriyam shrugged, smiling a little as she passed the boxes over. “It’s just...observation. I can’t say I know you fully, but I know some of you, and I’d like to know more.” 

“Ah, right, Captain - you are the watchful sort, I suppose.”

Miriyam quirked a brow. “I thought you didn’t know me.” 

Cadenza smirked, stepping down and gently flicking the Vesuvian crest pinned on Miriyam’s jacket - making her cheeks flush in turn.

“The same tea shop is fine. They steep theirs long enough for me to taste when I ask. Saturday, three o’clock?”

Miriyam blinked once - twice - then grinned, nodded as Cadenza turned back to head up the stairs. “Yeah...three’s good. I’ll see you then.” 

And this time, she supposed, that good things came at three. 

[side-effect-of-the-meds]

When Andrew has a depressive episode that’s worse than Neil’s seen, I hc he makes himself get over his dislike of Bee to go to her (and finally listen to her ofc) so she can give advice on how he can help

Okay so this got a little long and p off-topic and I’m sorry but here. At least you get a kiss at the end :)

Bee’s excitement is palpable but she’s trying her best to contain it. She starts by asking if Neil can identify what might have triggered it and attempt to work from there. The thing is, there isn’t one. Not one that Neil would have known to look for at least. 

It’s incredibly apparent in all of my works that I hc Andrew as secretly insecure about his self-worth, specifically he doesn’t think he’s good enough for Neil. Andrew binds the people he loves to him with pacts and promises. Andrew promised to protect Kevin and Neil from the Moriyamas but now that Riko is gone, they don’t need him anymore. Andrew promised to remain by Aaron’s side so long as neither of them were in romantic relationships. Andrew broke that promise to be with Neil. HE BROKE HIS PROMISE. TO HIS OWN TWIN. TO BE WITH NEIL. It scares him shitless to know that Neil has this power over him. And Neil didn’t even ask for it. Neil wasn’t even trying. Andrew literally put a collar around his own neck and handed the leash to Neil without being asked to. 

So Andrew’s constant inner monologue is just FuckFuckFuckFuck and it’s his own fault. Neil doesn’t need his protection anymore. He can leave anytime he wants and then Andrew will be left broken and alone once more. Sometimes, Andrew will see Matt and Dan or Renee and Allison doing couple things and it hurts. He sees them cuddling and kissing, so unabashedly in love with one another. He sees Nicky and Erik face timing every week and hears them saying goodbye for a whole fifteen minutes before Erik really does have to leave. The worst one, by far, is Aaron and Katelyn’s relationship. Aaron shares 100% of Andrew’s DNA and is just as broken as he is but even he knows how to love like a normal person. 

The trigger itself was Andrew taking a trip down to Redding. Neil had wanted mexican food and the restaurant wasn’t willing to deliver so Andrew went to grab food for him. Parking is hard to find on a Friday night so Andrew parked half a block down from the restaurant and walked. On his way, he passed by the italian restaurant too. Walking by, he glances into the window. What he sees knocks the breath out of his lungs. Seated beside the window is Aaron and Katelyn. They’re sitting opposite one another and holding hands across the table while they feed each other with their free hands. In between bites, Katelyn is talking animatedly about something and Aaron? Aaron has never looked happier in his whole life. In the middle of her talking, he gets up and leans across the table to press a kiss to her forehead. It leaves her a giggling mess and Aaron is smiling wide. 

Hurrying away, Andrew grabs the food and returns to the dorms. Neil is studying so he drops the food on his desk. Neil thanks him without looking up and starts eating. Oof. Andrew feels his chest tighten. Usually, Andrew’s very presence was enough to pry Neil’s attention away from his work. What was different today? The answer is that if Neil doesn’t get his grades up, he’ll have to go extra tutoring. If he gets extra tutoring, that will cut into his time on the court and Kevin won’t have that. Kevin will take away Neil’s time with Andrew so that Neil can spend time on the court and Neil really doesn’t want to give up Andrew for Exy. Of course, Andrew doesn’t know this. 

Instead, he starts to get insecure. Did he do something wrong? Was Neil’s interest in him just a fling? Does Neil really not swing? Andrew goes quiet while he tries to sort it out. He’s wrapped up in his own little world, analyzing his own actions and comparing them to the things that Matt, Renee, Erik, and Aaron do. Maybe he should be more affectionate. So he tries that. He tries to hold Neil only to find that it triggered some long-buried memory. It left him a shaking mess. He tries to hold his hand but Neil’s rough hands remind him of the hand that pinned him to the bed. Andrew starts to think he’s too broken to love. 

Neil doesn’t know this. How the hell would he? Andrew hasn’t said anything. Neil knows that a lot of Andrew’s cues are nonverbal so he searches for physical signs but Andrew’s building new walls to keep him out. Telling Bee as much worries her. She asks if Neil wants to have a joint session but he declines. He needs to learn how to do this on his own. Bee nods. Remembering that Andrew has a hard time speaking, she asks Neil to talk to him about writing things down. Maybe he’d find it easier to communicate if he could put his feelings down on paper. 

And that’s how Neil finds himself wandering the dollar store for a notebook. Taking it home, he decides that he’ll write first. With a deep breath, Neil opens the book and presses his pencil to the first line. He sits there for an hour before realizing he hasn’t written anything. This is a lot harder than he thought it would be. 

It takes another hour before he’s finally got something. It isn’t very much but he thinks is conveys his own thoughts well enough. He leaves the notebook open to the page his letter is on on Andrew’s desk before slipping out to meet Matt. 

Neil knows better than to expect an immediate response but he can’t help but feel his heart sink when he sees the notebook closed on Andrew’s desk. Going up to the roof, he settles beside him and they smoke in silence. 

It takes almost a week before Neil finally gets a response. Returning home from a shopping trip with Allison, Neil’s heart skips a beat when he finds the notebook on his desk. When he opens it, he understands why it took so long. Half of it has been scribbled out and rewritten. Several whole sheets have been torn out. Andrew’s struggle to write him this letter is apparent. When speaking, it was easy for Andrew to hide his feelings behind his clever tongue but there was no hiding on paper. 

It broke Neil’s heart to see Andrew comparing himself to everyone else. With great care, Neil wrote his response. After some debate, Neil grabbed the notebook and slipped out of the room. Taking it up to the roof, Neil found Andrew waiting for him. Andrew looked at the notebook with apparent disinterest but Neil knew better. 

“I want to read it to you,” Neil said. 

“I’m not illiterate,” Andrew replied. 

“I didn’t say you were.” Neil waited until Andrew looked at him before he spoke again. “Just because I don’t need you to protect me from the Moriyamas doesn’t mean I don’t want you around anymore. Being with you makes me happy. Being with you makes me feel real. When we’re together, I don’t feel like I have to prove anything. When we’re together, I feel like I’m finally good enough. I want you to feel the same way. 

“Just because your not as affectionate as Aaron doesn’t mean your any less than him. I picked you, not him. I picked you in your drugged mania and I picked you in your sober apathy. Do you understand what that means? It means your enough. All the things that you do? They’re enough, Drew. They’re more than enough. 

“I can not undo your past but I want to give you a better future. I can not fix you but I want to help you get better. I don’t want to be your pipe dream anymore. Look at me, Andrew. Touch me. I’m real. I’m real and I’m here and I’m going to stay here until the day you tell me to go. Is that what you want? Do you want me to go?” 

“No,” Andrew whispered. 

“Then stop pushing me away,” Neil insisted. Leaning into Andrew’s space, Neil waited to see if he’d move. Andrew did. He moved closer until their lips were just a hair’s width apart. “You like promises so I’ve got one for you. Promise me you’ll tell me what’s wrong next time.”

“Promise,” Andrew replied before closing the space between them.