#maybe i will complete this sketch into a whole piece with this writing!!! (<- lying)

[killianhemlock]

// cw gunshot, blood, gore, icky. plus writing bc i couldnt help myself bear with me here

his ears were ringing. and he didnt know for how long but he found himself staring at some fragments of an ear on the pavement. it had his earring attached. which was funny. why would they go through all the trouble of bringing him here just to show him an ear with his earring in it?

he was. staring at the sky? they were dragging him by the legs. he tried to ask how the person was doing but his eyes couldnt stop rolling into the back of his head. his words stayed in the back of his. throat. odd.

where was january? everything was oddly muffled. he found himself making some odd gurgling noise as he tried to breath. his head hit. ow. a couple of steps. how could he be drowning on land? where was he? he should... probably check his phone.

where. jan? he was staring at. a light bulb attached to the ceiling. it was. very bright.

he couldnt move. and he was very. very tired, sleep. but dont, sleep. awake. alive.

...where are. you .

jan where. are y

[malfoysstilinski]

Hello love, I absolutely adore your writing. <3 Could you maybe do a tooth-rotting dracoxreader fluff. It can be anything, I just love soft draco sm haha. Tbh I feel like theres no such thing as too much soft draco asjdkhfask.

thank you so much!! hope this is okay :)) 

post shower | draco malfoy (fluff) 

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader

summary: you like picking out draco’s clothes for him and playing with his hair after he’s had a shower. and he’ll never admit it, but he likes it too.

warnings: extremely healthy relationship and soft!draco

word count: 1.9k

a/n: there’s a part where draco plays with your hair and i’m sorry if it’s not inclusive to yours (curly, afro-textured, braided etc.), i generally try to keep my imagines inclusive but this idea was just stuck in my head!! it’s quite brief but i thought i’d acknowledge that i realise some poc readers and others with curly hair just might not be able to relate and i’m really sorry about that!! :( but again, it doesn’t make up the whole imagine! <33

also not proof-read!! 

....

18.00. my dorm. prepare for cuddles.

my mother sent over some more of

those sweets you said you liked.

yours, draco

The ripped piece of parchment in your hand included an inked sketch beneath it; the image of a wrapped sweetie surrounded by some scribbled-out love hearts. Your heart skipped a beat at the message written in Draco’s usual rushed cursive, a small smile threatening to twitch at the corners of your lips. Glancing up towards the direction the charmed crane had come in, you sent the blond boy already watching you a small nod of confirmation.

A wink was your reward before he turned back to face Professor Snape at the front of the classroom. It made your heart flutter and your stomach fill with butterflies as you wondered how you’d ended up with a boyfriend as perfect as Draco Malfoy.

Not many would theorise that he was a secret romantic, but then again, not many truly knew Draco for who he actually was. You adored him - the way he looked, the way he smelled, how he loved you, his voice, his laugh, his jokes, and his sarcastic comments. If there was one person on the planet guaranteed to make you smile, it was the Malfoy heir.

You were thrilled to be invited back to his dorm, even if this was quite a regular occurrence that you probably should be more used to by now. The thought of spending the evening after a long day of lessons with Draco cuddled up on his bed eating sweets sent by his mother sounded like a dream come true. There was no other way you’d rather spend your time.

The rest of the day couldn’t have gone by slower, though. You finished your classes and then skipped dinner to shower, knowing you’d be stuffing your face later anyway. By the time you’d slipped on comfier clothes than your school uniform and had dried your hair, it was nearly time for you to head to Draco’s dormitory. He was lucky enough to have his own one as a prefect, with a huge bed and silk green sheets that felt amazing against your skin.

You did some last minute homework for your Herbology class in the morning, though your mind seemed to constantly drag back to your boyfriend. He was like some sort of drug and you clearly had an addiction.

Perhaps the best part was that the love she had for Draco was mirrored back onto her by the boy; their love was a redamancy to be jealous of. Students and teachers alike could see the adoration in their eyes when they looked at each other. They saw the grin on your face and the slight blush on Draco’s cheeks and knew that if what you two had wasn’t love, then love didn’t exist at all.

You had your ups and downs, of course you did. No relationship was ever always perfect. However, it was the way you were constantly able to bounce back and be stronger than before that kept the fire burning between the two of you. It was the way that Draco had worked on his communication, knowing it was the only way he’d be able to keep you, and how you’d worked on being more patient with him that meant the two of you could fall so indescribably in love.

So when you turned up to Draco’s dormitory at exactly 6 pm sharp, you opened the door without knocking, more than certain he wouldn’t mind. He never did. However, Draco was nowhere to be seen in his room. You thought maybe you’d managed to read the note wrong until you heard the running water coming from his bathroom.

You smiled to yourself as you headed towards his bed, dropping on top of the silky sheets you loved so much, your fingers tracing on top of it. Your ears strained to listen out for Draco, a deep hum filling your ears that you knew belonged to him. He had a good singing voice, but he refused to believe it whenever you told him.

You closed your eyes and listened as he hummed in the shower, his voice echoing off the walls in a way that had you wishing you could not only listen but watch him sing it. You weren’t sure when Draco stopped humming or when the water shut off, but the next thing you knew, the bathroom door was opening, steam rolling out as well as the scent of his green apple shampoo.

“Ah, darling,” Draco greeted upon seeing you lying on his bed.

You sat up, beaming at him. A white towel hung around his hips, his platinum hair wet on his head and dripping down his broad shoulders onto his platinum skin. You thought he looked beautiful like this, like some sort of God you’d like to worship. Especially with the smile that he wore upon his face, one that was reserved for you and you only.

“Hi, my love,” you said back, watching as he began to hunt through his drawers for something to wear. “You said six.”

“I must have lost track of time,” Draco admitted, “Cold days are meant for hot showers, you know.”

“No, cold days are meant for cuddles with your girlfriend,” you protested, but nevertheless scooted off the bed to join him by his dresser. “What are you gonna wear?”

“Y’wanna dress me up again, don’t you?” Draco acted as if he was annoyed, but a smile was threatening to tug at his lips.

“It’ll be cosy, ‘promise,” you replied, your hands moving through his dresser, hunting for the pair of black jogging bottoms that you liked on him. “Top or no?”

“No,” Draco replied as he stood in front of his mirror, towel drying his hair.

You found a pair of socks for him too, knowing how he hated if his feet got cold. As Draco cast a charm to dry his blond locks, you settled everything on the end of his bed for him and then began hunting through his drawers once more. You found one of his black tees and pulled your own off, shrugging his on instead.

Arms wrapped around your waist as soon as it went over your head and you shrieked as you were hauled onto his bed. You laughed as Draco suddenly crawled between your legs so he was straddling you a little, his fingers toying with the hem of his shirt.

“Did I say you could wear that, pretty girl?” Draco fauxed a glare.

“Please,” you pouted at him. “It’s comfy and smells so good. Like you.”

Draco rolled his eyes in amusement, smiling again as he kissed your forehead. “You’re lucky you’re so gorgeous. Can’t say no when you pull that face, can I?”

You beamed, feeling your cheeks heat up a little bit. You realised Draco had already pulled the joggers and socks on, his top half naked as he moved to grab his comb off of the dresser.

“Let me do it for you,” you said, holding your hand out.

Draco shot you a look. “Not a doll for you to dress up, you know.”

“‘Just wanna comb your hair for you,” you huffed, sitting on the edge of his bed, your legs dangling over the mattress.

Draco moved to stand in between them, your face level with his body as he began to brush the comb through the back of your own hair. Smiling, you leaned your head against his stomach, wrapping your arms around his middle and enjoying the sensations and tingles that Draco brushing your hair spread through your body.

Your eyes closed and you swore you could fall asleep like it - one of his large palms on your back, his comb brushing through your hair, the warmth of his toned stomach against your cheek and the smell of his aftershave and body wash fresh in your senses.

“You washed your hair, didn’t you?” Draco hummed, his hand moving off your back as he ditched the comb, his fingers playing with it.

“Yeah, had a shower before I came here,” you murmured, not peeling your eyes open, just relishing in the feeling of complete relaxation with your favourite person in the entire world.

“I can tell,” Draco murmured, his fingers gliding effortlessly through your newly-combed hair. “Your hair is really soft after washing it.”

“Good,” you replied, smiling a little against him. “That’s kind of the point of washing your hair, you know.”

“No, it’s to keep it clean,” Draco protested.

“It’s for both,” you compromised, knowing how stubborn he could get quickly. “Now can I comb your hair.”

About a minute later, Draco’s room was playing music quietly and he was slouched between your legs on the bed, the bag of sweets his mother had bought you both on his lap. Your back rested against the headboard behind you, your hands brushing through his silky platinum locks. You put the comb down, beginning to part his hair into tiny sections.

“Sweet?” Draco offered, his mouth full as he lifted his arm behind himself.

He felt you lean forwards and capture the sweet between your teeth from where your hands were occupied in his hair, making him chuckle. Draco knew you were making small plaits with the longer sections of his hair, but he closed his eyes and pretended he had no idea. To be honest, he cherished the feeling of you being so close to him, of your hands in his hair, your nails scratching gently on his scalp every now and then.

“Feels good?” You hummed, glancing down at him and seeing that his silver eyes had shut.

They flickered back open at your question, smiling when he saw you looking down at him. “A bit,” he admitted, which was an under exaggeration. He loved it.

“‘Nother sweetie, please,” you called as you moved onto your third tiny plait.

Draco’s hand came back over and fed the sweet straight into your mouth. You giggled as you carried on plaiting, humming lightly to yourself. A tug a little harder than the rest caused Draco to dramatically cry out.

“Ow!” Draco hissed, “Watch what you’re doing, woman!”

“Shh, I’m just braiding your hair,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “And if you call me woman like that one more time I will shove this comb so far up your arse-”

“Okay, okay,” Draco winced at the imagery. “By woman I meant ‘my lovely, beautiful, sweet, kind, intelligent girlfriend who I love with my whole heart’.”

“You’re such a kiss arse, Malfoy,” you replied, running your hand over the small plaits you’d created. “They look cute. You should grow your hair out like your father so I can do really good ones-”

“Y/N!” Draco grimaced, “If I ever grow my hair out as long as my fathers, feel free to cut it off for me in the middle of the night.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you cradled his head in your lap, your nails lightly scratching his skin. “Okay, okay. I like you with this haircut anyway. And I like the lack of gel in it. Looks so fluffy and cute.”

“Not what I’m going for, but thanks, darling,” Draco remarked, grabbing another sweet for himself. “You’re comfy, by the way.”

You simply hummed back as you began to undo the plaits, knowing Draco would be annoyed if you forgot and he had little curly bits in the morning. You grazed your fingers back through, watching his eyes flicker back.

“I love you,” Draco murmured sincerely. “So much.”

Your heart swelled. “I love you too, Draco.”

taglist: @lolooo22 @yyoflam @fjorelaant @cpetrova @bby-gxrnet @draysslytherclaw @dawnmalfoy @miarivic @hpotter3390 @justfangirlthingies @fleurwands @hufflepuffsophie @riddleswh0r3crux @dracosathenaeum @weaselbrownie @Dracoscumwh0re @miraclesoflove @wh0re4blaise @ilovemoviekidd826 @drarrysimp @secret-obsessions @writeandtranslate @aetheralist @wholebigboxofyikes @honeyloverogers @icecubewhat @edithreads @abbott27 @Sweetvnlla @skaratjung @dlmmdl @sw33tgirl @ayaosk @acosmis-t @astoria-malfcy 

[polnareffenjoyer]

Uh unsure how many characters you’re willing to write for but can I have the SDC crew reacting to seeing their crush’s sketchbook filled with drawings and silly comics of them? On the case you do have a limit on how many, then I’m fine with either Polnareff, Kakoyin, Jotaro or Avdol (who can pick whoever if you want to!) Hope you’re having a lovely day!💕💕

This is such a cute idea anon, hope you like it. Also I don't really have a character limit, I wanted to do all of the crusaders but then I got tired and it already took me such a long time to finish it and ahhh. Sorry for all the grammatical errors, English is not my first language and it's already so late when I'm finishing it and it's just bleh. I hope you like it anyways, sending much love to you anon! ♥️

Stardust Crusaders finding their crushes' sketchbook

Jotaro Kujo

He notices that you've been spending most of your free time drawing in that sketchbook of yours. Truth be told, it bothers him a lot. Jotaro has had a big fat crush on you for a while now, and he secretly longs for your company. He can't admit that tho, he has a hard ass bad boy reputation to maintain after all. What would people say if the saw him all flustered for a girl? The fact that you would rather sit by yourself and draw than be around him and the others bugs him. So one day, when you're busy with something else, he takes your beloved sketchbook and decides to see what's in there. He knows he's being creepy, but he couldn't care less. Just trying to get to know you better, without actually talking to you. Exactly.

He's very flustered but would rather die than admit it. Has read through all of it, admiring every single little drawing. After he's done, he'll just put it back where he found it, it the exact same place just so you don't notice someone has been messing with it. You probably have no idea he had seen your sketchbook at first, but you surely notice the blush dusting his cheeks whenever he speaks to you from that day on. Probably avoids you for a little while because he's so flustered.

The rest of the crew also notices something is off, Jotaro is always lost in thoughts and smokes more frequently. He can't keep himself from thinking about those cute drawings of yours, reading through your comics was a true delight. It fills him with glee to know that HE, among all of the crusaders, is the one who's the main character in your stories. It makes him giddy on the inside.

His secret eventually comes to light one night, he accidentally admits to having read through your comics while a late night talk between the whole group. While you were talking, Kakyoin had brought up the topic of your sketchbook. Now it's your turn to be embarassed, blushing crimson while trying to get as much information out of him as possible. How much did he see? Did he read through ALL OF THEM?

The rest of the crusaders are shocked at first, but quickly they start to laugh at the scene. Jotaro is reluctant to give any information, but he eventually tells you that yes, indeed, he's seen EVERYTHING. However, doesn't admit what the content of the sketchbook really is. Despite everything, he would never embarass you like that.

After everyone goes to sleep, you catch Jotaro before he has a chance to fall asleep, lying on his sleeping bag while looking at the night sky. You want to apologize, say anything, just to talk to him, but you're unable to find right words. He just sighs.

"Yare yare daze, there's no need to be embarassed [Y/N], I'm not mad"

Your eyes light up at his words. You want to say something, anything, thank him, but before you get a chance to do so, Jotaro's deep voice cuts you off.

"To be honest, I think your drawings are amazing. I really liked them" you notice his face is slightly tinted red from underneath his cap "But if you wanted me to model for you, you could've just said so"

With that, he rolls over and away from you. Completely baboozled, you roll over as well and try to sleep, or at least pretend to be asleep. Honestly, neither of you had slept much that night.

Kakyoin Noriaki

Kakyoin had a thing for you since you joined the crusaders, and your sketchbook is probably the very first thing he had noticed about you. He's always been interested in art, his parents had signed him up to numerous art courses and whatnot through his life. He's always loved drawing and painting, using it as an escape from his daily problems, and seeing that you two might have something in common makes him incredibly happy, especially since he has feelings for you.

He'll try to approach you about your sketchbook very subtely, afraid that he might scare you away by being too pushy. Of course you get extremely flustered everytime he brings it up, but it doesn't discourage him. Kakyoin respects your boundaries and understands that you might not be ready to show him your drawings yet. Despite that, he's always willing to share his knowledge with you. He'll give you advices about proper shading while you two are waiting in the hotel lobby for the rest of the group to finish up picking rooms. During a long car ride, he'll talk to you about his favourite artists. If you want him to show you how to put certain shading techniques into practice, he'll be more than happy to do so. He'll just pick a random piece of paper and start drawing on it, you might want to lean in closer and maybe put your head on his shoulder to get a better look? He has no objections! Just sayin.

When he eventually gets to see your sketchbook, this man is so honored! He didn't mean to look, at first he though it was just some book lying around and wanted to take a look inside, out off boredom. Once he realizes what he's reading at, his face flushes with crimson. Your sketchbook is filled with sketches of him? This whole time you were actually drawing him, out of all people? He couldn't be more grateful that no one else was around, if someone saw him reading through your comics with this stupid smile on his face and red cheeks, they would've though he went mad.

Kakyoin wastes no time trying to find you. For a moment, he thinks that perhaps he should've waited a bit, just to get you alone and not embarass you infront of the whole crew. He can't think straight though, his mind filled with your cute little drawings, with his face drawn with black pen over and over again. With glee, he notes that you had used the very techniques he had told you about earlier. If you had drawn him so many times, does it mean that you have a crush on him too? It's too good to be true.

"[Y/N]! Can I talk with you for a minute?"

He goes to confront you immediately. Others give him a puzzled look, but he couldn't care less. He grabs your arms and leads you away.

"Don't be mad [Y/N], but I've seen your sketchbook and I have to say, I think your art is beyond amazing!"

You're at loss of words, your face red and you could swear that you've never felt so embarassed in your whole entire life. However, his reaction is making you feel a bit better. He's not mad, nor is he making fun of you. If anything, he seems enamoured.

"Please, [Y/N], we should draw together! Maybe next time we have a chance, I should paint your portrait?"

Despite the awkwardness, the whole situation turns out amazing in the end. How he's sure you must have feelings for him, and it makes him incredibly happy, hoping that one day, after your crusade is done, he'll get a chance to repay you and make that promised portrait.

Muhammad Avdol

With everything that's been happening lately, Avdol gets a little bit distracted from you. Before he would steal glances your way all the time, watching with curiosity as you would draw something in your sketchbook. Recently, he's been too busy fighting enemy stand users and... well, trying not to die. He still cares about you a lot and watches over you during fights, ready to shield you from danger with his own body, if it's what it takes to keep you safe.

It probably happens because of a mishap. While you are deciding on your rooming, you leave your sketchbook lying next to Avdol's things and go to the bathroom. After he's done helping Joseph with translating and getting everything done, he goes back and assumes that it's just one of his books that has fallen out of the bag. Not thinking much of it, he picks it up and leaves with Mrs Joestar to settle in their shared room.

You can imagine the panic and shock that nearly paralyzes you once you notice that your beloved sketchbook is gone, nowhere to be seen, reduced to atoms! You begin to look around frantically, looking under the furniture while sweating profusely. Other quests give you weird looks, but you don't even notice them staring. Polnareff is one of them, he asks if you're okay and tries to calm you down, but to no avail. After he leaves, you try to focus really hard and try to remember - when did you see it last time? It was on that chair for sure when you left. God, you can only pray that it doesn't end up in Avdol's hands somehow...

Meanwhile, Avdol is getting ready for shower and goes through his bag. He notices the book he picked up from the lobby isn't even a book, but a sketchbook! Now he's sure he must've picked it up by mistake, he decides it would be best to put it down and not look through it. It's someone's very personal art after all, it would be very disrespectful to - wait a damn minute, is that HIM?

Long story short, he goes through a good portion of your drawings before Joseph comes out of the shower and gives him a puzzled look, seeing how his eyes are literally shinning with adoration. He puts your sketchbook back into his bag, acting as if nothing happened and continues on with his nightly routine. Later on, when Joseph is already fast asleep, he contemplates about whether or not he should go to your room right now and ask about the sketchbook he had found. He's already suspecting it's yours, whose else would it be? He has seen you drawing often, could it be that you returned his feelings and had spent your time sketching him? Ultimately, he decides to wait until tomorrow to find out.

The very next day, he knocks on your door early in the morning. It startles you awake, running up to your door to look through a peephole, seeing a muscular man on the other side. Sighing heavily, you unlock the door and open it just a little bit.

"Excuse my intrusion, [Y/N], but I have found something that I think belongs to you."

Now that's embarassing. You see your sketchbook in his hand, a wide, knowing smile on his face. He knows it's yours. All it took is one look at your stupid red face to figure it out. God, he can read you like an open book, can't he? While you reach out to take it from him, your fingers touch just slightly.

"Don't worry, I swear I won't tell anyone about this" she winked at you, which almost made you gasp "If anything, I think I should maybe pose for you in private? So you can get a better look? You should think about it..."

Who would've thought this man could be such a flirt sometimes...

Jean Pierre Polnareff

You better watch out, because if this man has a crush on you, you bet he would go above and beyond to find out what's inside that sketchbook. I'm not joking. He forgets what personal space is, he's even worse that Jotaro, because while JoJo would make sure to be sneaky, Polnareff wouldn't even bother. He'll try to catch a sneak peak by looking over your shoulder while you're drawing, constantly asking you questions about art related things, everything always leading to your sketchbook.

He wants to know what's inside. Simple as that. You're like an enigma to him, I feel like all women are mysteries to him and he always works towards finding out what their secrets are. You are especially interesting to him, because of how secretive you are with your art. He's captivated, and while he never had any interest in arts himself, he had always fancied himself as a man with a great sense of beauty. That being said, he's always trying to get your attention while talking about how "France is a wonderful country for artists! You should come and visit after our crusade is over, [Y/N]! I'll show you all the greatest museums and art galleries!"

He's like a puppy, following you around and being just a bit too pushy. If you tell him you feel uncomfortable, he'll back off of course. He's not just some juvenile pervert after all! He's a honourable man who would never touch or bother a woman without her permission, no matter how desperate he seems sometimes.

When he finally sees your sketchbook, it's probably because he did it on purpose and not because of an accident. He wanted to make sure that it was him your were capturing in your drawing, and boy was he happy when he saw what's inside! It's all him, cute little sketches, little comics, it's better that he could've ever imagined! He's literally crying the tears of joy while reading them. Before it was all just wishful thinking, but now it turns out to be true! He's honoured, admiring every single little drawing with hit tears streaming down his face. He must look pathetic right now, if anyone was around they would think the was a mad man. He gets up and runs away with your sketchbook in his hand, trying to find you.

"[Y/N]! Ma cherie! Mon coeur! My love, my life! We need to talk!"

Did i mention that he doesn't shy away from nicknames? Yeah.

It's probably the worst confrontation compared to the rest of them, he's not subtle like Kakyoin and decides to talk with you about your drawings right then and there, in front of everyone. At first they're surprised, looking at Polnareff as is he was crazy, but slowly their shock is replaced with amusement. Joseph doesn't even try to hold back his laughter, while the rest of the crew is trying to keep it cool as not to embarass you any further while the Frenchman is just going on and on with his declarations of undying love. It's a bit dramatic, one of these moments that you will probably laugh about in the future, but you felt like disappearing right then and there.

"Your drawing are magnifique! [Y/N], my love, if you wanted to draw me, you could've just said so! Although I don't think I deserve to be potrayed by you, to be drawn by your skilled hands, ma cherie!"

You snatch the sketchbook from him. After that incident you probably try to avoid him, but he won't give up! He's more determined than ever, knowing that you feel the same way as he does fills him with hope, hope for a future life with you that is! He won't give up until he makes you the happiest woman on earth.

[20moonchild21]

𝗦𝗲𝗵𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗵𝘁 [𝗯𝘁𝘀]

⇉ 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 6

[pairings]

JK x female!oc, bunny!Hybrid!JK x human!female!oc, Jin x female!oc, leopard!Hybrid!Jin x human!female!oc, JK x female!oc x Jin

[warnings]

Describing of injuries, mentions of suffering, mentions of former abuse, traumatized Jin, angst, crying

[words]

4.4k

[author]

I hope you all have an amazing Sunday today! I am still stuck in my exam period, but fortunately it will be over soon🙏🏼

If you are interested in a Jimin!Hybrid Story, I can highly recommend you to read Inferiority complex written by the cutest author ever @starlightauroras-main! Please, check out her profile and leave her a lot of likes and motivating comments. She deserves it so much!

Also, check out the the other profiles that inspired me to write my own story. You will find the links to their profiles below this chapter.

If you have an other recommendations or criticism for me, I am always open for it!

Stay healthy and safe!

Mꨄ

[chapter 5 ||| chapter 7]

“Now, if you press this button the camera will snap a photo.” She explained to Jungkook, who was staring at the smart phone in her hand.

“A photo.” He just whispered to himself, before he carefully took the small piece of metal out of the girl’s hand.

He turned the phone in all direction, slide his fingers over it and even lifted it up towards his nose to sniff it. His eyebrows cocked up, before he let it sink down again. Carefully, he tipped his finger right in the middle of the touchscreen. When nothing happened, he looked confused and turned it again, before he suddenly began to shake it up and down wildly in his hands.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The girl laughed, as she tried to stop his moving arm. “Be careful, Jungkook. It’s really breakable. If you want to take a picture, you have to press here. Look.”

The girl took the phone back and stood up from the couch. She kneeled herself in front of the bunny Hybrid, who was once again looking at her with wide eyes.

“Say cheeeessseeee.” She said in hight voice, hoping that he would smile for her.

Of course he didn’t smile. In fact, his confused eyes flickered to his right side, trying to get an answer from his brother, who was sitting at the very end of the couch to Jungkook’s right side. He was looking up from the book he had asked for permission to read earlier, his face showed the same confusedness as Jungkook’s face.

When Jungkook had showed him the girl’s book shelf earlier, his eyes had caught the colourful cover of the big cookbook which she got from her mom when she moved into her very first apartment. He hadn’t exactly asked her to read it, but the girl had seen the way his eyes had moved over towards the bookshelf from time to time, like he was bursting with curiousness.

When she had told him, that he was free to read the book whenever he would like to, he first had shaken his head, but eventually he had shyly asked her again while the three of them were sitting on the couch. Since then, he had been sitting accurately at the end of the sofa, completely absorbed in the pages of the book.

“Jungkook!” She tried to get the boy’s attention back. “Just smile at the camera.”

Jungkook ripped his eyes away from his brother. When his eyes met with the girl’s phone, he didn’t smile, though. He just kept looking confused, but really adorable at the camera.

When she was done taking some more pictures, she quickly saved it to her album, before she sat back next to the bunny, showing him the photo she had taken.

“And where do they come out?” He asked curiously, as he tried to look for something on the phone that would print out the taken picture.

The girl just laughed again. He was so innocent and adorable when he tried to understand the world around him. His curious personality seemed to suck up as much information as it could get, like he was a toddler that just needed to explore the world around him.

“My phone can’t print the picture.” She smiled at him, keeping her secret that she would give him his own picture on the wall. “But it is safe and sound on my phone, and every time you want to see it, I can show it to you.”

Jungkook didn’t look convinced at all, but after a few seconds of just staring at the girl, he shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to his note book that was still laying in his lap.

Hope shook her head. The whole day he had clued to his note book, sketching and scribbling wildly over the white pages until they were filled with thousands of lines. He didn’t even tried to play the guitar or read in his favourite book, which he did every day.

She sighed. Maybe he just had to process the previous days and that’s why he tried to organize his thought in his very own special way. She would let him.

“I will prepare dinner for us.” She said and stood, smoothing her leggings. “But first I would like to take a look at you injures, Jin. I think it is time to change the bandages. O – Of course only if you let me.”

The leopard was once again looking up from his book. The girl could see the discomfort in his eyes, as his eyes flicked to Jungkook for a moment and then back at her, before he nodded almost unnoticed.

“Okay, I will just get the first aid kit.” She turned around and got the kit from the storage, before returning at the couch.

Jungkook had laid his note book aside and was now sitting next to his brother, who had already removed his shirt. Both of them were holding hands with each other the whole time while she felt over his body.

The smaller scratches at his front were still swollen, but at least they had stopped bleeding over the day, so she could remove the bandage completely. She tossed the used bandages aside, before she carefully applied a healing salve his injures. Jin hissed in pain, as the cold gel touched his sore and sensitive skin.

“I am sorry.” The girl whispered when she saw Jin squeezing Jungkook’s hand harder. “But it will help your injures healing faster.”

After another few minutes, she was done with his front side and slowly moved towards his back, that looked much worse. Though the big scratch on his back was still covered by the bandage, the girl could make out the red stain of blood that had soaked the white material. She carefully removed it, trying hard to not hurt the poor boy more.

“This looks bad.” She whispered to herself, as she looked at his back.

“Will he be okay?” Jungkook was looking worried between his brother and the girl.

“Don’t worry, Kookie. It looks bad, but nothing we can’t fix.” She tried to give him a bit of optimism, as she weakly smile at the bunny. “It will be better from now on.”

This scratch there was the worst of all. Even if she wasn’t a doctor, she could clearly see that it was infected from all the dirt and dust that had come in contact with the open wound. Hope took the wet clothe that she had placed next to her and began to whip of the dry blood, before she applied a small amount of salve as well and wrapped it up with a new, clean bandage.

“All done.” She pulled of the used hand clothes and tossed them into the bin as well.

Jungkook helped Jin to put on a new shirt, while the girl cleaned up all the supplies she had used. When she was done, she made her way over into the kitchen, starting to prepare dinner for the three of them.

While she waited for the water to boil, her gaze fell once again onto the two Hybrids cuddling at the couch. When she had found Jungkook, she had thought that his injured wrists and knees were bad, but it was nothing in comparison to Jin’s.

She wanted so bad to believe that it was okay now, because both Hybrids were safe here, with her, but she knew that such a kind if misuse was not a single case. There were thousands of Hybrids, that weren’t as lucky as Jin and Jungkook. Hybrids, that suffered every day and absolutely no one cared about them, until it was too late.

How could she ever change something in such a cruel world?

The dinner went over the same way as the breakfast. Jin hesitated at first to eat his food, always looking at the girl to ask for permission, but eventually Jungkook managed to convince him, so he ate least at half of his plate. Afterwards, both Hybrids helped her to washed the dishes, before she announced that she would take a shower.

When she was done, she quickly brushed her hair and changed into her pyjama, before returning back into the living room. She stopped in her tracks when she stepped around the corner, while her heart swelled at the scene on the sofa.

Both boys sat on the sofa. Jungkook had laid his head onto his brothers shoulder, cuddling up close to his, while both of their bodies were half covered by the big, fluffy blanket. They had their head turned towards the TV on the wall, watching with wide eyes and open mouths how the yellow figures were running around the screen. They were so fixed on the flickering screen, that they didn’t even noticed how the girl had pulled out her phone, taking the most adorable picture of the two brothers.

She saved the photo into her special album. This would definitely be the picture that will end up at the wall.

“….And then she found me sitting in that alley.” Jin listened to every word Jungkook told him. “She took me in and gave me food and something to drink, like she gave you.”

Night had already taken over the day, and both boys were lying in the double bed in Jungkook’s room. The day had stresses Jin out more than he had ever thought.

Everything about the girl and her life overwhelmed so much, making it really hard for him to process the smallest things. In addition to that, he still felt weak and vulnerable with all the injures covering his body.

He didn’t know what the girl was planning to do with them, and it was hard for him to believe that she acted out of kindness. Humans weren’t nice. They had proven it to him more than enough times. He tried so hard to believe her act, trying to believe it for Jungkook, but he just couldn’t.

This girl…Hope…had bought him from those evil people. She had taken him and Jungkook in, given them some food and a bed to sleep, but when would they have to pay the price?

He sighed lightly and looked over at the bunny, who was still talking like a waterfall. Jungkook looked much better than the last time Jin had seen him. He wasn’t just a pale, skinny boy anymore. His cheeks were plump and full, covered by a natural shade of slight red, the fur on his ear wasn’t greasy and messy, no, it was literally shining and smooth. And when did had he gained those muscles?

He closed his eyes. All those days sitting in this cage in the basement, hoping and praying for Jungkook to be somewhere save had been a torturing for him. His owners adopted him a few years before Jungkook from Korea. They kept in locked in there, alone and scared, only getting him out when they needed him to fight some other Hybrids. But the day they brought Jungkook home, the scared looking, skinny bunny, he knew that he wanted him to have a better life.

Jungkook had been the only reason he kept fighting all those nights. If it wasn’t for him, he would had given up a long time ago.

After Jungkook had escaped that night, the punishments had been worse than before. They looked him up, kicked him or slapped him with that heavy belt. Luckily for him, the inspectors had found the doping liquid in his blood, so they blamed that on his behaviour. If they had found out the real reason he had put up that show, he would be dead by now.

“Jungkook, you know we can’t stay forever, don’t you?” He eventually whispered when the room felt silence.

It broke his heart to see Jungkook’s ears dropping, as he mentioned their parting, but he would never allowed someone to hurt his younger brother again. They had to leave before the situation would turn into a bad one, and they once again would be caught into a nightmare.

“B – But Hyung.” The bunny’s voice cracked, and Jin saw a tear forming in the corner of his eyes. “I don’t want to leave. I like it here and – “

“Jungkook.” Jin’s voice wasn’t angry or loud, as he interrupted him. “You know we can’t. She did more than enough for us. She saved you, and that’s more than I could ever ask for. But she won’t let us stay forever. Why would she? We’re nothing but a burden to her live.”

Jungkook thought for a moment. He fiddled his fingers over the soft duvet, wiggling himself deeper into the soft fabric and next to his brother.

“But she said that – that she liked having me around.” He whispered again, still staring at his fiddling fingers. “And she saved you, too. Maybe if we would ask nicely, she would allow us to stay.”

“I don’t think so, Kook.” The older one sighed slightly, pulling his brother closer into his arms, burring his nose in his hair. “She will soon start to work. She will find herself a boyfriend and then there won’t be enough space for us anymore. I am so sorry.”

Jungkook’s eyes went even wider when he mentioned the word ‘boyfriend’. Jin hadn’t missed the way the younger one talked about the girl. Jungkook saw her as his saviour.

“But – But I thought that maybe – “ He tried again, but Jin knew what he wanted to say.

“Forget it, Kook.” He stopped him in his mid-sentence. “It’s impossible. You will never be more to her than a Hybrid. And even if, what would the people think of her? They will laugh about her. Do you want the people to laugh about her?”

“No! But she wants to defend Hybrids in front of the judge.” Jungkook was desperately trying to make up a reason to not leave the girl. “She likes Hybrids.”

“But she also said that she will not earn much money.” She whispered into Jungkook’s hair. “She will struggle to have enough money for herself, how should she provide us? She will give us away at some point, Kook. It will happen, sooner or later.”

He lifted his and whipped the tear away, that had slide down the bunny’s cheek.

“But Hyung.” Jungkook seemed to accept the fact that they had to leave soon. “Can I take my book with me? It is my favourite and I want to read it again.”

“You can’t, Kook.” Jin whispered back. “There is no room for us to carry a book all the time, beside, it is her book. She will not give it away like that.”

“O – Okay Hyung.” He sniffed and buried his head into the blanket. “But when will we leave?”

“We will wait until my injures are not infected anymore. So I guess a few more days are left.” A gasp left Jungkook’s mouth, but Jin kept talking. “I met a fox Hybrid at the last fight. He told me about the circus a little bit outside the city. He is staying there, too. They are getting foot and a place to sleep. We will try to get a place to stay there.”

“But I don’t want to leave, Jin-Hyung.” Jungkook cried harder, breaking Jin’s heart with every word.

“It will be better like this.”

Jin had stayed with her and Jungkook for a few days now. He and Jungkook seemed to get closer and closer with every hour they would spend together, which is actually a good sign to see, but something has been going on with Jungkook since the day Jin had arrived.

He wasn’t the bubbly, happy boy anymore, who would be lying on the couch upside down, reading his book, or helping her preparing dinner for the three of them, like he did before. He even barely spoke to her at the dining table, which got her worried the most, because usually, he could talk like a waterfall. She barely ever say him again, because he stayed in his room with Jin, and if he was out, he sketched in his note book like crazy.

Hope didn’t say something though. Maybe he had just a bad phase right now, or it was still strange to him that he has his brother around, who also had a difficult past. She had told him several time before, that he could came to her whenever he had problem, so she hoped that he would really come to her when something bad was bothering him.

Jin was another case. He was very polite when she saw him. He would answer her questions with few words, or help her to set and reset the table, before he and Jungkook would disappear in their room. But nothing more.

She sighed. She really missed the times she and Jungkook sat on the couch together, watching the Simpsons all night long, of how they played the guitar together. She had hoped so hard the she would find such a good connection with Jin as well, but with every passing day, this wish seemed to fade away.

It was almost 5 pm, when she decided to stop working. She closed her laptop and leaned herself back in the chair she sat in. Normally, Jungkook and her would be sitting on the couch, talking about random things. She smiled at the memory, when both of them had debated for hours who the best Simpsons character was. She didn’t know that the boy could be so stubborn.

The appointment at the authority was also coming closer and closer, and she still hadn’t talked to the boys about the adoption. Maybe it would cheer Jungkook when he would hear that she wanted to adopt him and his brother. After all, he felt comfortable in her apartment.

She stood up from her chair, bundling all her braveness to talk to the boy, when she heard a door opening.

“Oh, perfect timing you both.” She said happily, as she saw Jin walking out of the room, followed by Jungkook. “I wanted to talk to you. Can you take a – Jungkook? Are you crying?”

The bunny didn’t reply. He just kept his head down and tried to hide behind his older brother. The sound of his whimpers filled the room. What was going on here? First, he started behaving strangely, and now he was crying heavily, something bad was going on here, and she didn’t like the way it went.

“Jungkook, what happened?” Are you okay?” She tried to take a step forward, wanting to comfort the boy, but Jin stopped her.

“We are very thankful for everything you did for me and my brother, Ms. Hope.” He politely bowed his head, before he turned around, nudging Jungkook’s arm slightly. “Come on.”

Jungkook hesitated for a moment, before he dropped his ears. Her heart broke when his swollen eyes looked up at hers. He had clutched his favourite book tightly to his chest, before he turned his head around, looking at Jin. Jin just nodded sadly.

“What is going on? You are scaring me guys.” She tried to make a joke, hoping that this situation wasn’t as bad as it seemed.

Jungkook, however, sniffed again, before he stretched his arms out, holding the book out towards her. He didn’t looked into her eyes.

“Oh Kookie.” She sighed. “If it’s about the book, you can keep it. I don’t want it back.”

The bunny just shook his hand and pushed the book more forward, until she finally took it from.

“Okay, we will leave now. Thank you again for anything.” Jin suddenly said, laying a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder and pushing him towards the front door.

It took the girl a while to finally process the situation. This situation wasn’t just bad, this was a farewell. The two Hybrids wanted to leave her…forever. Her mind was racing with questions. Why would they want to leave all the sudden? Did she make them feel uncomfortable in some way?

“Wait, wait, wait, wait!” She pushed her feet into the ground, running over to the door and blocking it, before Jin could grab the handle. “You can’t just leave. Why would you leave all the sudden? Did I make you feel uncomfortable? Where you want to go? It’s not safe for you to be out there alone.”

Panic filled her voice and her heart began to beat faster. This was not liked she had planned to the day to end. She felt her eyes swelling up with tears, as she realized that they were serious.

“We don’t want to pull you down, that’s why we are leaving.” Jin said calmly, before he bowed gain. “We are very thankful for all your efforts, though.”

“Okay guys, let’s not rush this, okay?” Her eyes flicked between Jungkook, who was still sniffing and not looking up at her, and Jin, who locked at the girl confused. “First of all, you have never been a burden to me in any kind. Neither you Jin, nor Jungkook. I know that you are scared that I will hurt you at some point, and I know that those people threatened you badly, but I am not like this. How could I ever hurt you? I know that haven’t known each other for long, especially not the both of us, Jin. But I want you to know that those 4 week were one of the most happiest weeks I have had in a very long time. Since I can think, all the people I care about left me. My father, my mother, my friends. They all left me without a reason, not even saying goodbye. I thought that I was meant to be alone, but since I took Jungkook in that night, my live became happy again. He made me happy. And I didn’t save you, Jin, because I had to, I saved you because I care about you and Jungkook. I just – I can’t force you to stay with me, and – and if you really want to leave I won’t be the one to stop you, but I am begging you to think about it again. Please.”

The room was left in silence after she had stopped speaking. No on, especially not the two Hybrids knew what to say or what to do.

“I don’t want to leave.” Jungkook suddenly cried.

He made a few steps forward and just threw himself into the girl’s arms. He buried his face into her neck, with his arms wrapped tightly around her slim waist. The girl wrapped her arms around the bunny, softly driving her hands through his deep brown hair, whispering sweet words into his ear.

They stayed like this for several minutes, until Jungkook pulled away from the girl. She took his face in her hands and softly whipped the tears away from his wet cheeks, before pressing a short kiss onto the top of his nose.

“Do you really care for us?” She moved her eyes away from Jungkook in front of her. “You really care for us enough that you let us stay with you without any conditions? What will the people think about you when – “

“I never cared about other people’s opinion about me.” She quickly interrupted him. “They can think about me whatever they want to think. Only I know what is true and what is false about my life, and only I decide who I want to have in my life or not. You and Jungkook, you deserve so much more than to be treatened like animals. I know that I can’t offer you much, but I want to try to give you the life you deserve, a life love and safety. I am begging you to give me another chance. Give me a chance, and if you want to leave after that again, I won’t stop you.”

Jin’s gaze dropped to the ground, his ears sinking down. Hope knew what for a hard decision he had to make, and she knew that he didn’t decide whether it was good for him or not, but if it was good for Jungkook or not.

“I – “ She coughed, not knowing if her idea would make the situation better or worse. “I actually wanted to ask you something earlier. When I bought you, Jin, from those people, I had to sign some adoption papers, so I can legally take you with me, but I still haven’t changed your owner status at the authority, wanting to let the choice to you, whether you want to stay or not. I also wanted to ask Jungkook, if he would be okay with me adopting him, once I am at the authority.”

Both Hybrids were staring at the small girl with their eyes open.

“Are you really serious?” Jungkook eye’s seemed to pop out of his head, sparkling brightly.

He hugged the girl again, while Jin just looked with wide and teary eyes at the girl.

“Can you promise us, that you will never hurt us in any way?” Jin had the tears standing in his eyes.

“I – no I can’t.” She whispered, knowing that any other answer would be a lie. “I can’t promise you that everything is going to be perfect, and I can’t promise you that I will always make the right decision. But I can promise you that I will never leave you, and that you will always find a friend in me, don’t matter what will happen in the future.”

Jin kept looking at the girl, not saying anything.

“Hyung.” Jungkook turned back towards his brother, taking his hand in his. “Please, let us stay with Hope. Please. I don’t want to live on the streets again, not knowing what will happen next. I am so scared.”

Jin’s eyes flicked between the girl and his brother. Anything he ever wanted was for his brother to be safe. The girl made him happy, he saw it too. But the fear, that at some point she will change her mind and break his heart was still sitting in his bones. Never again, he would let anyone hurt Jungkook again.

But then, she had never showed any hints that she wanted to hurt them. Should they really take the risk and stay with this human for the rest of their lives? He had no clue.

“We will – “ He looked into the begging eyes of his brother. “Okay. We will stay.”

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Ner naak (My peace)

Pairing: Din Djarin x earthling!reader

Warnings: none

Summarize: Din Djarin meets you, an earthling, who has no idea of the existence of an outer space. 

Words count: 677

A/n: I don’t count the months I’ve spent trying to write this chapter. But good news is, it’s finally here!!!! I’m sorry it’s a short one, but to explain a bit more on what happens, I had a lot of struggle to find what I wanted to tell in that part and how I wanted to write it, I must have started it all over again at least 10 times! And you add to that, well, life in general, it ends up with months of not writing. Inspiration was not on my side too but the new episode happened and it stroke back! This part is also short because I wanted to end it quickly so that I could start with a chapter 8 on new basis. On something fresh. But, hey! I’m talking too much, enjoy your reading!

Masterlist. // Ner naak Masterlist. // The Mandalorian Masterlist. 

When you think about it, life wasn't that strange. You had spent the day teaching, answering students' questions, chatting with your colleagues before heading home. 

And what millions of people went through every day on their way home from work was right in front of you when you walked through your front door: 

Mando was slumped on the couch, obviously asleep, the child in the hollow of his arm, also asleep, and your dog, lying at his feet, his tail wagging calmly on the floor when he saw you coming. 

As much as you weren't a fan of all those people who wanted to capture every moment of life with their phone, you couldn't miss this lovely scene. 

Looking at the picture, you almost wish to get used to it. The idea that someone could be there. Right there. It was a nice feeling. But a fleeting one.

You didn't want to bother Mando immediately. The mandalorian seemed to be deeply asleep and from what you could understand, life in the universe left little opportunity to catch a break. 

So you set to work on the pieces you had brought back for the ship. Your garage was flooded with steel and scrap metal. It was almost disheartening. Making room to prepare the plans that would guide you in repairing the Crest was essential. 

It was only after an hour of tidying up that you were able to set large drawing papers up. And drawing wasn't really your thing. Dismantling an engine with your eyes closed was a walk in the park, next to making sketches to get an overview of the engine. 

You tapped the old pencil that hadn't been used for months on the work surface, trying to visualise how your hand would be able to draw the lines and curves that made up the Razor Crest engine. 

A line here, another one there, an arc of a circle to connect the whole and it felt strangely similar to the doodle of yesterday on your wall. 

You sighed, putting both hands on the worktop when Mando appeared.

"I won't be able to repair your ship if I can't even draw its pieces." You said without looking up from your paper. 

"Why?" Mando asked. 

"Look at that," you turned around to open a cupboard on your right. "Here are the plans of all the cars and planes my father had to repair." You paused and saw Mando taking a close interest in the sketches. "He never started a repair until he had a complete picture of the mechanical parts. Just so he wouldn't make mistakes. «  You explained. 

"You said that the Crest looked like the planes from here. Why not use these plans?"  Mando suggested. 

You gave it a second thought. There were similarities, yes, but the technology of the ship was still more advanced for the good reason that, unlike a plane, the ship flew in space. In other words, the vacuum. 

"It's... almost impossible." You felt desperate. 

A bug had certainly bitten you. You felt hopeless before you even tried. It wasn't really typical of you and you didn't know if it was your day at work that had brought you back down to earth or if it was a flash of realization that made you feel that way, but it was true that you had jumped into something bigger than yourself. Even bigger than everything.

"Since I made Star Trek real, I thought that nothing was impossible?" 

Mando tilted his head slightly in a challenging mood. Had he just pinched your ego? You raised an eyebrow. 

"Do you know about Star Trek now?" 

"I had some time to spare." 

You didn't see it, but you knew it, oh yes, you knew it, you knew he had a smirk on his face. In one sentence, he had just boosted your spirits. And you gave in with no hesitation. 

"Okay, maybe there is a way."  

And you pull out the plan of a fighter plane. One thing was sure, the evening was going to be busy.

[miracle-sham]

Stitch Your Ragged Wings and Hope to Soar.

| {Jasonette July 2021, Week 1, Day 5: Fairytales} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] | | [Spotify Playlist Link] |

| The folk tales always speak of those destined for greatness. Heroes alongside their faithful dragons, fighting the ever turning tides against evil. But they're just that, folk tales. After all, what are the chances a border-town apprentice seamstress like Marinette, would ever be offered a different vocation by the recruitment guild. |

| Word Count: 3,428. |

| Warnings/Tags: Kingdom/Fantasy/No Miraculous/Dragon Riders Au, Minor Lila & Adrien salt, Canon Typical lies and manipulation from Lila, Explicit Language/Swearing, and Some Fluff. |

———

| A/N: First things first, the word 'Dragoon' will be used multiple times in this piece and it is spelled that way on purpose (see end notes for further explanation). Secondly, yep! It's a dragon riding/academy au. This is the first piece of the series, which I'm really excited for because I've spent ages worldbuilding for! And for anyone worried about salt mention, it is addressed in this piece but the tag is there because of canon-typical Lila manipulation and lies, plus no Miraculous means no reason for Adrien with his sheltered upbringing to realise she's lying. |

| Also side note, Don’t Like? Don’t Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

———

It's been a few days of tense stagecoach travel. And to be fair to Marinette, even she hadn't expected to be declared in the middle of the town square as showing aptitude for a position within the Justice League's armée volante—specifically the dragoon squadrons—thanks to the recruitment guild no less.

Unfortunately, Adrien and Lila had also shown an aptitude. Which, seeing as they all come from the same border-town of Paris, meant they were all trapped inside the same cramped coach space for the excruciating four days journey to reach Gotham Town; the place where they are being sent to attend the dragoon academy, which is technically outside the bounds of the town proper. Seeing as the Gotham Dragoon Academy and Somerset Dragon Range are on the opposite shores of the Gotham river to the town itself.

There's only another half-day until they reach the Mooney bridge and then the Somerset

Dragon Ranges. And luckily, Adrien and Lila have taken to sitting on the same bench, the one facing forwards. Leaving the opposite bench all for Marinette.

Not that having a whole bench to myself for this time will help with whether I can continue to survive as a captive audience for Lila. Marinette thinks to herself, rather disgruntled about this whole situation she's unwillingly ended up in. She was perfectly happily remaining an apprentice seamstress, sewing commissions for Jagged Stone, Clara Nightingale, and the rest of her famous or otherwise clientele, not that fate seemed to care though. Of course, a part of her stipulation she fought the recruiters for, is that along with her studies she can continue her commissions for current and prior clientele alone. Which is to say, better than being completely unable to continue her main hobby and form of stress relief.

The recruiters had also said that baking and cooking would be no problem to practice, as apparently there'll be free reign to "student kitchens" alongside cooking classes so any use of either skill will be "undoubtedly encouraged". Dangerous words, Marinette muses to herself once more, because if I get claimed by a dragon the first thing I'm doing is baking all the dragon dietary-safe treats I can!

“Marinette! What do you think?” Lila asks, voice as cloying as ever.

Marinette startles and half-heartedly smiles awkwardly across at her, “ah, I'm really sorry Lila! I got distracted wondering what kind all of our dragons might end up being and how they might look!” Not, I'm going to love mine regardless of appearance unlike you.

Smiling faux-sweetly, Lila shakes her head. “Don't worry Marinette, I was only saying how we're just like those local fairytales of your town! Three close-knit friends who become powerful and famous dragoon guardians and save the world from the evil destruction of Hawkmoth and his army of shadow dragons! Out of the three of us, I would be our leader, obviously. Since I'm the only one here descended from a dragoon guardian! My grandmother even gave me a token that once belonged to my dragoon guardian ancestor!”

“Wow, you've said it before but I still can't believe how incredible you are Lila! It's going to be amazing training besides you at the academy!” Adrien gushes, gazing at Lila with adoration.

Lila preens at his words. “Thank you, Adrien! But Marinette, since you mentioned what our dragons will be, did you know my ancestor's dragon was said to be the most beautiful of all the dragons in the Justice League squadrons! My ancestor's dragon had orange scales that glimmered red and yellow like flames, and pearlescent white scales along the underbelly. Oh, and the horns were pearlescent white too! Obviously, the dragon I'll get is sure to be a descendant of that dragon and just as beautiful.”

“Wow, no wonder your ancestor's dragon was the most beautiful, they sound absolutely gorgeous! What kind of dragon do you think I'll get, Lila?” Adrien asks, eyes shining with awe and curiosity.

She puts on a show of holding her chin and humming. “Hmm, probably a golden dragon, with shiny scales as bright as the sun!”

“I hope you're right!” Adrien chuckles, “the fairy tales really would be coming true if we both get the dragons you think we will! One with scales of fire, another with scales of gold!”

“It really would.” Marinette echoes weakly, not really believing in her own words.

Lila laughs, “awww don't sound so worried Marinette, your dragon will probably be a plain and drab dragon with some sort of shade of brown, or maybe even grey. But at least it won't be attention-grabbing. So you won't need to worry about people staring and judging or dragons-forbid trying to hurt you for having a prettier dragon than any nobles!”

Marinette smiles, though it turns out far more grimace-like than intended, whoops. “Yeah… that'd be awful. Haha, I'd be really lucky to get a dragon like you described for me, Lila.”

“Oh, I'm so glad you understand, Marinette! Then again, all three of us are besties so of course you'd understand!” Lila titters, crossing her fingers, “we're just like this!”

Screaming internally, Marinette nods and keeps smiling. Dragons-almighty, I'm at the end of my thread here. Hopefully, I'll be able to leave Lila's "friendship" behind at the academy without fear of mine and my parent's reputations being ruined by Lila's mother.

Her attention is briefly taken by the rolling view outside the stagecoach, unable to help herself she mumbles to herself, “the landscape here is so pretty.”

“It is pretty I guess, but not as pretty as my home country!” Lila pipes up, jumping on the new conversation—like a shadow dragon on a sheep.

Marinette shuts her eyes for a second and breathes deeply, chanting internally. The academy will be my fresh start.

———

The academy is not in fact Marinette's fresh start.

It is well past evenfall by the time their stagecoach passes through the gates of the imposing academy. It rounds a large fountain in the centre of the courtyard with a statue of a person encircled by a large dragon. However, due to the darkness and the movements of the stagecoach, any attempts at recognising whom the statue was dedicated after are thoroughly hampered. They roll to a stop before the great stone staircase—where a figure with a smaller giant rat-like creature beside them, is waiting at the top—which clearly leads to the grand front doors of the academy.

Even with the darkness obscuring the view, it's obvious that the academy is a repurposed castle. High stone walls with crenellations and littered towers, a main keep with a multitude of buildings surrounding the inner courtyard. And the most eye-catching of all, the shadowy draconic gargoyles that seem to cling and lurk upon every building.

It's impressive to say the least, certainly the most well-fortified building Marinette has ever stepped foot in her life. Impressive enough that it has her practically clawing to pull out a sketching journal and start creating. However, she's not stupid enough to do that within Lila's presence. No, that'd undoubtedly lead to honey-coated lies and being forced to listen to her prattle on about her wondrous skills and connections to the most prestigious fashion guild in the country.

Marinette startles as the stagecoach door is opened by a footman. She doesn't fuss as Lila exits first, followed by Adrien. As she steps outside last, she nods and smiles at the footman. Whispering as audibly as she can without the other two hearing, she adds, “thank you, sir.”

The footman simply glances at her attire and nods back stiffly.

In the time it's taken to all leave the stagecoach, the figure from the stairs has walked over—a woman with long blonde hair dressed in a casual black leather riding coat, and a not-dog following behind loyally. “Good evening, you must be the potential students from the town of Paris?”

Marinette hesitates for a second before nodding along with Adrien and Lila.

Lila takes a step forwards, towards the woman. “Yes, we are! I'm Lila Rossi.”

The woman nods slowly, “and the other two must be Adrien Agreste and Marinette Dupain-Cheng, correct?”

“That's correct!” Adrien responds with a bright smile.

Marinette nods and makes an affirmative squeak instead.

“Great.” The woman says, clapping her hands. “I'm Dinah Lance and I'll be one of your instructors during your attendance here. And this,” She pauses to point to the weird giant not-rat with its yellow flecked greyish-brown fur, “is Drake, he's my Ichneumon. You'll learn all about Ichneumon and why they're used within the dragoon squadron during your time here, so don't worry if you've never heard or seen of them before.”

Drake makes a high pitched trill and takes a few steps forward, sniffing the air in front of the three of them. Before scampering in a circle around Dinah Lance.

She smiles fondly at Drake before continuing. “Unfortunately it's a little late to give you the tour of the grounds now, so we'll cover that tomorrow. Tonight we'll guide you to the dining hall for a late night's meal since it's been a long journey for you three or so I've heard, and you must be starving. Then we'll discuss the main details of your attendance, and afterwards, we will show you to the temporary rooms you will be staying in, to begin with. Any questions?”

Lila rocks on the heels of her boots before shaking her head, “no, we've got no questions!”

Adrien copies with a shake of his head too.

Marinette opens her mouth to protest, were you waiting out in the cold for us long? Will the tour teach us about the different places within the academy? Will it take long? What do you mean by the main details? Why are we staying in temporary rooms to begin with? When do our lessons start? Do we need to purchase any uniforms or schooling supplies? When will we meet our dragons? Questions bubbling in her mind like a kettle over the fire, but closes her mouth just as quickly, as she catches a glare from Lila out of the corner of her eye. With that, she also briefly and nervously shakes her head. “N–no, no questions here either, Mlle Lance.”

Internally, Marinette hopes that display is enough to tide over Lila's irritation for now.

Mlle Lance glances over the three of them, seeming to stare at Marinette a little longer than the other two. “Well then, since there are no questions, let us head to the dining hall. And don't worry about your belongings, the footman will bring them to your lodgings.”

“Oh, Mlle Lance, I'd–uh… I'd rather not hassle the staff here, I can manage bringing my belongings up on my own.” Marinette admits, wringing her hands slightly.

Mlle Lance shakes her head, “that's very polite of you but I'm afraid, as you'll be having dinner and we'll be discussing details, it'll be a little while before you head to your temporary rooms. So it'll be far easier on both you and the staff here, if you allow them to do their job.”

“Okay…” Marinette relents easily, trying to ignore Lila rolling her eyes at her.

“If there are no more further questions, then follow after me please, the academy can be rather labyrinthine for those unfamiliar with its halls.” Mlle Lance instructs, already turning around and walking back towards the great stone staircase, Drake on her heels.

———

The journey through the hallways and various anterooms of the academy takes far longer than Marinette could have anticipated. On more than one occasion, she ends up falling behind due to getting distracted by the sheer amount of luxury, art, and finery everywhere. Forcing her to frantically scurry after Mlle Lance, Lila, and Adrien—all three who seem completely at home and unperturbed or uninterested by the décor, unlike her.

By the time they reach the large and ornately carved wooden doors leading to the dining hall, Marinette is flushed bright red from the embarrassment of having fallen behind so many times.

The heavy doors creak loudly as they slowly swing open at Mlle Lance's push, revealing a large dining hall—far larger than any Marinette has seen—with seemingly hundreds of wooden tables and benches. Startlingly enough, there's a boy already seated at one of the nearer benches—eating away at a trencher of hunter's stew.

No Ichneumon in sight, Marinette notes, a fellow student perhaps?

“Good evening, Jason, I wasn't expecting anyone else to be in here at the moment.” Mlle Lance greeted, nodding her head to him.

Jason squints at Mlle Lance and hunches his shoulders defensively. “B said I could grab food from here whenever I wanted.”

Mlle Lance smiles, “and that's perfectly fine. These are new arrivals, so I was just hoping to let them have some dinner without the usual chaos before going over the main details they'll need to know about attending here.” She paused for a moment. “You don't have to stay and listen if you don't want to, since you've heard this spiel many times now. But equally, feel free to stay, I'm sure it'd be nice for you and the new arrivals to get to know each other before meeting the rest of the class tomorrow.”

Jason slowly eyes Lila, Adrien, and Marinette. He places an arm in front of his trencher. “Might as well stay then I guess.”

Mlle Lance nods at him again before guiding the three of them over to the back of the dining hall where the kitchen was connected to. A few cooks were tending to various meals and pots of hunter's stew, as well as prepping trenchers or cleaning wooden bowls, and wood or horn spoons.

Marinette is still half processing everything so receiving a trencher full of hunter's stew from the cooks barely registers in her mind. And next thing she knows, she is seated next to Lila on the end of the bench and table next to Jason, with Mlle Lance sitting opposite her, Lila, and Adrien. The other two have already started tucking into the food, so cautiously Marinette takes a few sips of the stew broth with a horn spoon.

Mlle Lance clasps her hands together and rests them on the table. “Let's start with what you three already know regarding the dragoon squadrons and this academy.”

Pausing in his eating, Adrien grins. “This is the longest standing dragoon academy, and we'll be taught everything from dragon history, to the language of the dragons, to what is known of Hawkmoth and his shadow dragon army!”

“And,” Lila pipes up, “we'll pick our dragons that we'll train alongside and eventually become fully-fledged Dragoon Guardians with.”

Jason snorts, “sorry to break it you two but this isn't some fucking fairytale.”

Before Lila or Adrien could respond, Mlle Lance cleared her throat. “Right well firstly, Dragoon Guardians is somewhat of an archaic term I'm afraid. But you're not too far off with what you know.”

Rolling his eyes, Jason pretends to be suddenly interested in his trencher of stew.

Though, Marinette does catch him briefly glancing up at her with a curious but also disbelieving look in his eyes. She can't help but instinctively curl her shoulders in and make herself as small as possible.

“And Marinette, what do you know about the academy?” Mlle Lance adds.

Marinette hesitates, trembling slightly and licks her lips. “Uh, well I know roughly the same as Lila and Adrien, so nothing that hasn't been said already…”

She catches Jason squinting at her, and she curls up even more.

Mlle Lance nods thoughtfully, “to start with, Adrien, you are correct in that this is the longest standing dragoon academy. You're also correct that we teach our students dragon history—including the history of the dragoons—as well as teaching the language of the dragon. We also do teach regarding Hawkmoth and his shadow dragon army. However, that will be taught across multiple different subjects as it isn't quite as simple as it may currently seem to you.”

Adrien beams at having been mostly correct. “My father hoped I would be chosen to attend a dragoon academy so he made sure I was taught a general overview.”

“And that's more than most know to begin with, so well done.” Mlle Lance praises, before continuing. “However, Lila, here students do not pick their dragons. The process of meeting the dragon who will be raised and trained beside you, is not what most people think of when they first hear about dragoon human and dragon pairs meeting.”

Lila's lips twitch downwards in dissatisfaction and narrows her eyes slightly at Mlle Lance.

Before anything else can be said, Mlle Lance furrows her brows, “one moment students, a matter has just arisen that I need to quickly take care of.”

With that, she rises from the bench and strides out of the dining hall, shutting the door behind her as she exits.

As soon as the door shuts, Jason, with a concerned look on his face, gets up as well and walks the few steps over to Marinette's bench. Quietly, he asks, “Hey, you okay?”

Marinette swallows a breath of air thickly, and still visibly trembling, laughs nervously. “W-well I'm a little over-overwhelmed, I suppose… What with every—”

Only to slam her mouth shut as Lila wraps her arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close to her side.

“She's fine thank you,” Lila coos, “just not used to all the displays of wealth in the castle, here, isn't that right, Marinette.”

Marinette pales, eyes widening with panic and frantically nods her head. “Y-yep!”

Jason raises an eyebrow at Lila, unable to keep the slight sneer off his face as he turns ever so slightly to stare at her, “and you are?”

Lila perks up at his attention, flipping her hair back over her shoulder with one hand. “Didn't you hear Mlle Lance there, I'm Lila.” She smiles cloyingly at him and flutters her eyelashes. “I'm the daughter of a very important diplomat and one of my ancestors was an incredibly powerful Dragoon Guardian.”

Jason snorts, and rolls his eyes once more. “Right. Whatever.” He turns his attention back to Marinette and gives her a sharp nod. “What shit has the rich brat got hanging over your head?”

It clearly takes all of Lila's self-control to not immediately switch from her faux sweetness to fury. Her smile turns wooden and her gaze sharpens at Jason. “Excuse me?”

“You're excused,” Jason responds smugly.

“W-what do you mean?” Marinette asks, struggling to process the conversation after the slight cannonball that Jason just casually asked her.

He tilts his head at her, not unlike a bird. “She looks, sounds, and acts exactly like the kinda rich bastards that hold shit above kids who aren't rich, and you're clearly fucking petrified of her. So is she blackmailing you or something?”

Marinette mouths yes at him whilst shaking her head.

Jason raises an eyebrow at her for a second before shrugging with one shoulder, “alright.” He turns on his heel and heads back to his table and bench where his trencher of stew is waiting.

Lila gapes at him.

Adrien rises from his seat and stares at Jason, flabbergasted. “Aren't you going to apologise to Lila, now? You were wrong.”

Lifting his chin, Jason gives Adrien an unimpressed look then flips the bird at him. A few seconds pass before he shrugs and makes a non-committal noise of disinterest, then he starts spooning stew into his mouth.

Lila huffs and scowls at Jason. She turns to glare at Marinette, faux concern practically dripping from her words despite the evident fury on her face. “You should avoid him from now on, wouldn't want the teachers to think you're a delinquent and get kicked out before you even get to meet your dragon.”

Marinette nods slowly and keeps her attention very carefully on her food.

Her patience is rewarded as a few dozen seconds later, Lila loses interest in her and starts eating her trencher of stew whilst starting a new conversation with just Adrien.

Taking her chances, Marinette sneaks a glance up at Jason with a small smile on her lips.

To her surprise, he also happens to be looking over at her. He flashes her a cheeky grin, winks, before going back to eating.

Maybe, she muses to herself as her grin turns giddy, I was wrong about the academy not being my fresh start. Because this definitely feels like a fresh start now, it almost feels like I'm in a fairytale.

———

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little fic! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| The dragon riders are called Dragoons in reference to the mounted cavalry called Dragoons who used guns/firearms known as Dragons hence the name. And so I decided it only makes sense for these dragon riders to also be called Dragoons. Armée volante means flying army and was what the historical dragoons were sometimes known as, because of how mobile they were. |

| Ichneumon, also known as Echinemon in Medieval Zoology are enemies of dragons (and snakes and crocodiles in some accounts) and defeated them by covering themselves in armour made from mud before attacking. They are also one the only creatures (the other being weasels) that are immune to the Cockatrices' petrifying sight. |

| Fun fact: Trenchers are flat round (often stale) bread "plates" used during the medieval era. They are cut in half and sometimes the fluffy bread innards are scooped out (like pumpkins) so that the loaf's crust forms a bowl instead. Usually the bowls are used to hold stews or soups, though they were also used for non-liquid based food (which is why they later evolved into our modern day plates and cheese boards). |

| Also feel free to send me any comments with any questions you have regarding this fic, I'll be more than happy to answer! |

| @jasonette-july-event |

[phantom-curve]

For your prompts: 5. trepverter for Willex, please?

this one kind of got away from me, but hopefully it still mostly captures the essence of the prompt! and if not, it's at least a cute little fluffy Willex moment that I thoroughly enjoyed writing. set in an AU where the boys are alive, here is some flustered Alex ft. supportive Reggie and Luke.

trepverter - a witty response or comeback you think of only after it's too late to use (Rated T for swearing with a Trigger Warning for mentions of homophobic parents)

They say hindsight is 20/20 but Alex never really paid much attention to that until the day he found himself knocked flat on his back, elbows scratched and head pounding as if he had been hit by a freight train instead of an irresponsible skateboarder. It probably didn’t help that he had been in the middle of trying to calm himself down, all the signs of an impending anxiety attack mounting within his system until he had finally just put his feet to the pavement and started walking to get some of the overwhelming energy worked out of his system. He probably could have been more attentive, more aware of exactly where he was going and who was headed his direction, but he figured it would be fine on a random Wednesday morning in October when the tourists weren’t really around and most kids his age were in school.

Alex wasn’t in school because his parents had withdrawn tuition payments after he had finally worked up the courage to tell them he wouldn’t be bringing a nice girl home because he didn’t want to date any girls, in fact he would much prefer to date some boys, but the pressure of keeping his identity a secret hadn’t made that possible either so he was done hiding and he hoped they could accept that. Turns out they couldn’t accept that, or him, once he made it obvious he wasn’t going to go back in the closet or give any girl the chance to “change his mind”. As if that was even possible.

It hadn’t been a big blowout, more of a silent retreat, his parents completely withdrawing any and all support from his life over the course of the last few months. And apparently that included tuition, as Alex had discovered that morning when the school called to inform him they had finished completing his withdrawal forms, and they would be sad to see him go. Which had led him to the boardwalk, and then directly into the path of whatever hooligan that had crashed into him. Maybe if he had just been able to keep his mouth shut for 3 more years he wouldn’t be lying here, breathless and bruised, and still on the cusp of absolutely losing it.

Hindsight, Alex thought to himself as he stared up at the clear blue LA sky, can absolutely kiss my ass.

“Awh, man!” A voice above him whined. “You dinged my board!”

Alex toppled off of the anxiety ledge and straight into an ocean of lost control.

“Dinged your board? Dinged your board!? Dude, you ran me over!”

He punctuated his statement by leaping to his feet, which would have probably been a lot more threatening if he didn’t immediately stagger, hand held to his head as the world spun and his stomach rolled.

“Oh shit.”

The voice cursed quietly, and then Alex felt warm hands against his biceps, steadying him until everything slowly came back into focus. There was a boy standing in front of him, black cracked helmet perched on his head, soft brown eyes staring at him with a tinge of concern and remorse. When it was clear Alex was steady once more, he released his grip and offered an easy-going smile.

“You’re right, man, I totally pancaked you. My bad, are you okay?”

There was a weird feeling in Alex’s gut. Not the kind of sickening wave of nausea he had experienced when he first stood, but more of a fluttery feeling. His brain had quieted somewhat, and he forced himself to take a deep breath.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just look where you’re going next time.”

His voice came out soft and almost breathy, not at all the warning tone he had meant to use, and Alex could feel his cheeks warming slightly in embarrassment. The other boy’s smile grew. He reached up and unclipped his helmet, lifting it off and then tossing his head back as a cascade of long brown hair tumbled out. A few stray pieces fell to rest alongside his face and Alex felt his mouth fall open slightly. His stomach swooped and then dropped completely, like he had just plummeted from a rollercoaster and his mind went blissfully blank. Everything narrowed down to the absolutely beautiful boy standing in front of him, face awash in golden morning light, cheeks flushed from his exertions, dimples and white teeth on full display as he grinned yet again. Alex wasn’t sure he had ever met someone so blindingly attractive in his entire life, and then the boy winked, winked!, and lifted a hand out towards him.

“I’m Willie.”

It was the best name Alex had ever heard of. When their palms met, a spark shot up his arm and straight to his heart.

“Alex.”

Thank God he remembered how to talk, because he truly hadn’t known what to expect when he opened his mouth. Willie released his grip and Alex left his hand suspended for just a second before he pulled it back and shoved it into the pocket of his jean jacket.

“Nice to meet you, Alex. Listen, I really am sorry about knocking you over. Any chance I can make it up to you?”

It took Alex an uncomfortably long amount of time to process what Willie was asking. Long enough for him to panic and wonder if it was like a date or if it was like a pity thing or oh God what if Willie wasn’t even into guys and Alex was about to make this whole thing super weird and –

A chirping sound came from Willie’s pocket. His eyes flitted away from Alex’s to pull a phone out and check the screen. Alex felt a strange twist in his heart as he watched Willie’s easy smile fall only to be replaced by an annoyed grimace and eyeroll as he silenced the phone. Without skipping a beat, he thrust it back into his pocket and pulled out a sharpie instead. Alex barely had time to register how much he liked the way Willie’s hand felt on his forearm before the other boy was suddenly bent over it and there was a cool sensation sending goosebumps up his arm as the tip of the marker scratched across his skin. When Willie pulled back, that brilliant smile was back in place and his eyebrows were dancing so merrily Alex wanted nothing more than to watch them forever.

“I gotta go, but that’s my number. Text me sometime.”

And then, before Alex could work up the nerve to say anything, Willie was tossing his skateboard to the ground only to chase after it with a few bouncy steps before jumping onto the deck and quickly making his way down the boardwalk, away from Alex. He watched for longer than it was probably acceptable until Willie was nothing more than a speck in the distance. Only then did he look down to see the numbers sketched onto his forearm in orange ink.

(213) 555-3276 Willie<3

It was the heart that did him in. That heart had to mean something, right? It was intentional. Willie had written his name with a heart. Alex wasn’t making that up, it was inked onto his own arm! He studied it as he sat on the beach, mind silently replaying every single second of his short interaction with Willie over and over again while different groups of people came and went around him. There had to be a reason for the heart. Alex fiddled with the braided rainbow bracelet on his wrist, the motion familiar and soothing. Had Willie noticed it when he grabbed Alex’s arm to write his number on? Was the heart some kind of sign?

Alex let out a groan and fell back against the sand, the texture scratchy against the back of his head where a slight throbbing still persisted. Another silent reminder of his morning encounter. He wished he had thought to say something when Willie had asked him about making it up to him. Wished he hadn’t panicked or let his stupid brain go into overdrive worrying about what might happen for so long that nothing ended up happening. If he could go back, he would have told Willie, yeah, he could make it up to him. Maybe take him out to coffee or dinner and a movie or ya know, just any kind of date in general? But Alex wasn’t that smooth, and he wasn’t quite that confident yet. And now all he had was a number in orange ink and a name with a heart and absolutely no answers to the millions of questions crowding his brain.

He let out a deep sigh and sat up again, before finally climbing to his feet. It wouldn’t do to sit and worry, even if that was kind of his specialty. Luke had a girlfriend now. And Julie was incredible, and Luke was a disaster, so obviously the guy had to have some kind of game. Alex couldn’t quite believe it, but maybe he could give him an idea of what to do in this situation. Alex turned his feet towards the apartment the boys had been sharing since Luke turned 18 and left his parents’ house for good and started the long walk back to their shared home.

Luckily, both Luke and Reggie were home, which meant Alex had two sounding boards for his word vomit as he paced in front of where they were sat on the couch. Reggie was kind of like a puppy in the sense that all he had to do was exist and people flocked to him, so he also had more experience than Alex did when it came to figuring out someone’s true intentions after a first meeting. By the time he had finished giving the boys the run down, he was feeling like they might be able to put their collective braincell to use and figure out exactly what the best course of action would be here.

“Yeah, man, I got nothing.”

Alex groaned and Luke held up his hands defensively.

“Look, dude, just cause I’m dating Julie doesn’t mean I know how I pulled it off! I’m just hoping my luck holds out until I can convince her to marry me, okay?”

Reggie was nodding thoughtfully, so Alex held out hope that maybe he would have some words of wisdom.

“I mean, he sounds like he wanted to at least like...talk to you some more, right? Otherwise, he wouldn’t have given you his number. And the heart is promising!”

Alex let it soak in for a second. An idea struck him out of nowhere.

“What if I just text him and tell him he can make it up to me by going on a date?”

“Bold moves, dude. I like it”

Of course, Luke liked it. It was a very Luke-inspired move. But Alex didn’t quite have the same guts as Luke. He didn’t think he could really pull it off.

“Ugh, no. My anxiety would skyrocket the second I sent the text. I just wanna know what the heart means!”

“Why don’t you ask him that then?”

Alex didn’t like how Reggie was the voice of reason here. That was supposed to be his job.

“Because if I ask him that he’ll know I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“You have been thinking about it all day.”

Alex finally reached his physical limit and stopped his pacing to fling his body onto the couch between Luke and Reggie, both boys catching different limbs and silently shifting to accompany his sudden presence.

“I don’t want him to know I’ve been thinking about it all day! That’s pathetic. Ugh, why didn’t I just say something in the moment!”

Reggie’s fingers were gentle against Alex’s scalp as he carded a hand through his hair reassuringly.

“It’s okay, Lex. You’ll think of something to say when the time is right. Release your worries to the wind and all that other junk, ya know? Just breathe.”

So, Alex breathed and tried to surrender his obsession into the ether. Reggie had been on a bit of a self-help kick lately, but honestly, it did help Alex more often than not, so he resolved to try and follow his best friend’s advice, even as his anxiety raged against the idea.

Turns out, the right time was exactly 11:43 pm when Alex suddenly awoke from a dead sleep where his dreams had been invaded by none other than Willie himself. He looked down at the number, the hastily scribbled name, and the accompanying heart bright against his pale skin even in the darkness of night and typed the message into his phone before he could think twice about it.

To: Willie<3 Considering you pancaked me, I think it’s only fair you make it up to me with a pancake breakfast. 9 am at Sandy’s Diner?

The responding message was almost instantaneous.

You’ve got yourself a date. Catch ya in the morning, pancake ;)

And for the second time that day, Willie wiped Alex’s mind completely blank, the word date playing on repeat until he fell asleep with his lips still curved into a smile, visions of a certain long-haired pretty boy dancing through his head.

[ivory-sunflower]

Arty Art Things ✨

Hellooo!

I've decided to post some of the arty things I've done either recently or in the last few years, well the pieces I'm somewhat proud of at least. All my posts tend to be a lot more wordy than they need to be but hey it's what I do here!

Conchúr White

Anyone one who's been on this blog for a bit will have probably have seen me talk about this lovely Irish fella. The pencil drawing is actually a year old as of yesterday, I only know that because screenshots of me flipping out about Conchúr following me on twitter popped up in my memories yesterday. I think I'd sent it to him at about 3 in the morning (I was not in a good head space at that point in time), so probably not what he was expecting to see when he opened his phone in the morning aha

The biro version is much more recent: I got bored while sat at my desk and doing research about university courses, saw a biro, saw my old drawing of Conchúr, had an idea. I revisited my GCSE art techniques and here we are. Again, I put this up on Twitter and now (at the the time I'm writing this) when you google "Conchúr White" it's the third top image of him which is a bit mad really. I think I spent all of about 20 minutes on Conchúr but another 45 minutes on the words behind him. The words are the names of the songs on his EP 'Bikini Crops', he doesn't just really love the idea of Channing Tatum driving him around at night in a daisy print bikini... Well maybe he does but what he does in his spare time is none of my business...

TechDif

So I mentioned that the pencil drawing of Conchúr came from a rough patch in my mental health and this one is no different! In fact this one came from an even worse circumstance so we love to see it. I had a bad, bad time in July and this started as a way of distracting myself from what was going on in my head. Without it, I can't honestly say I'd still be here so even if the final product of this had been a terrible mess I would still love it for keeping me alive. However, it did not turn out to be a terrible mess!

Now that the origin of this is out the way, where do I start with TechDif? Unlike Conchúr, I haven't really talked about them on here (unless you count one brief post about Citation Needed) before so I guess I'll do it here. The Technical Difficulties are a wonderful group of 4 British fellas who have had their fair share of fun online and even before. They did a radio show at university together, which went on to become their Reverse Trivia Podcast, later moving on to a panel show called 'Citation Needed': and a game called 'Two of These People Are Lying'. All of which I would thoroughly reccomend, they're one of my go to things when I'm having a rough time. All 4 of them are excellent! Tom Scott (red top, blue jeans on the picture) has his own YouTube channel which does content aside from TechDif. If you're quite nerdy and like science, linguistics, computers, or any number of other things you may enjoy Tom's channel. He is probably best described as "The Moderator" of the group, much like a tired teacher he tries desperately to keep everyone on track with what they're meant to be doing, but usually it does not end well for him. Then we have Matt Gray (space top, holding an ice cream) who also has a channel away from TechDif stuff, he does techy electronic things and has a series called 'Will it Soft Serve?' where he puts all kinds of strange things through a soft serve machine. Matt brings a very specific energy to TechDif and I can't fully describe what that vibe is but I love it. Matt and Tom also share a YouTube channel where TOTPAL is posted and they had a series called 'The Park Bench'. Moving on to everybody's favourite Gary Brannan: Gary Brannan (SATIRE hoodie, glasses) and can I just say, what a fella he is! He's just excellent! He is the one that will argue and rip into Tom the most (not in a malicious way) and hilarity ensues. There are some episodes where he is absolutely on it, getting all the points and others where he very clearly has no idea and that's where some of his funniest quotes come from. Given how badly I was doing at the time I made this, his response to it on Twitter was so so lovely. I specifically remember one tweet where he said I'd made him happy and although it was probably a flippant comment, it just made feel alright for a bit. Yeah I might be feeling awful right now, but I've made someone else happy so that's a nice feeling. Then last but certainly not least, we have Chris Joel (buffalo check shirt, beard)! I would be lying if I said he isn’t my favourite... His sense of humor is the one I vibe with most, he can get rather dramatic in parts and can chat bollocks like a champion. He has absolutely no online presence away from TechDif and, like Rens from Temples, I fully believe he’s a cryptid and lives off in a tree somewhere. 

The picture took me about 4 days to complete, well 4 nights because I did most of it between the hours of 12 a.m. and 7a.m. - I remember watching the sun come through my window each morning. It’s made up of lots of little pieces, all cut out and stuck on; even the sky and hills are made of separate pieces of paper. Nothing was actually drawn on the piece of paper it’s all stuck on, it’s not how I usually do things but if I messed up one little but I could just redraw it rather than ruining the whole thing. The most tedious parts to make were Chris’ shirt because I had to draw each square individually and then join the as well, and cutting out the ban-hammer in the bottom right was surprisingly hard. Every single detail of the picture is a reference to the podcast/shows, I still have the plan sketch and reference list knocking about somewhere. I listened to a lot of true crime videos while making it to the point that certain parts remind me of different cases: the brandy now reminds me of Peter Tobin, and the big spiral thing reminds me of Tim McLean (very harrowing case) - sorry that fact is a bit morbid but interesting nonetheless. 

I did post this for a little bit back in July, but I received some rather awful messages so I took it down. Generally, Tom Scott/TechDif fans are lovely but there’s been a few that have taken a disliking to me for some reason so I’m hoping they don’t resurface again. I’m in a better head space now though, so even if they do I’m more equipped to deal with it this time.

Hozier

This was a quick sketch I did in April, I was getting bored with lockdown and decided to summon the bog man himself. There’s not really much more backstory than that, no poor mental health story, no fun twitter story - he’s just here. He’s vibing. I will say I’m particularly proud of his nose, I just think it’s one of the best noses I’ve ever drawn. His hand is okay, but I think that the hands on my Conchúr drawings are better. So there is the Hozi-Boi...

The Corpse Bry

I’ve talked about Bry on here before as well, I love him, he’s excellent, top lad. He is a living Tim Burton character, he’s 6′6, very skinny, and his legs are longer than my will to live. I was watching ‘The Corpse Bride’ a few weeks ago and suddenly had an idea and so ‘The Corpse Bry’ came to be. I gave him a little panda friend because the panda has always been his animal - he used to wear a panda beanie all the time and his album had a panda on the cover. Again, there’s not really a fun story behind this one, I guess it’s somewhat fun because it’s the first art I made after finishing my psychology exams in October so it was nice to actually have the time to draw.

James Bagshaw

Ginger talking about Temples for the third post in a row? it’s more likely than you think! I did this one last week, I’d had a bit of a wobbly day and had group therapy on Teams in the evening and I just couldn’t concentrate on what was going on and I ended up doodling Mr James E. Bagshaw, the glitter crying fraggle man himself. It’s a bare-bones drawing that I could definitely work into more but I’m happy with it as it is to be honest. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit and add the individual bits of fringe to his jacket, just thinking about doing that makes me tired. Maybe I’ll get around to drawing the whole band at some point...

Alice in “Wonderland”

This one is from about 5(?) years ago, it’s not my typical style and was a “study” based on another artists work (basically i just had to copy this fellas work). I’ll be honest, this one has a sketchy backstory that I won’t go in to because it’s not exactly a nice one, and because of that I also won’t say who the artist is that it’s based on. Despite this, I’m still really proud of this one and I’m so sad that I never got this piece back after I got taken out the class. I’ve considered trying this style again, I’ve even joked about doing another Conchúr drawing in this style as a nod to my progression through GCSE art, eventually leading to Conchúr drawn in ink on music manuscript and stained with neon paint and dyes - it would be quite the project!

So this has been quite a lengthy post so apologies about that but life goes on. Similar to the vinyl post, I’ll probably add to this as and when I make more art. Even if no one is reading these posts, I’m enjoying making them so that’s the main thing. It’s just nice to document things and the feelings that go with them. 💕

~ Love Ginger xx 

29/11/2020

[thegodshavehorns]

Capture the Wind (3/5)

Chapter 3: Kriegspiel 

 At her next visit, the Seer doesn’t mention posters or Sylphs. You don’t bring it up. Why bother? She must already know. She has to know. She knows when you think about it. You’re thinking about it. Stop thinking about it!

“John,” she says, snapping you out of your distraction and back to your lesson. "Look at the board."

You sigh and roll your eyes. "What, am I in checkmate again?” you drawl sarcastically. And then, you stop, mouth open. Because you're not in checkmate.

She's in checkmate.

You don't understand. How is this possible? You hadn't even been thinking about it. “No way,” you say.

The Seer is all grins and teeth. “Yes, way. It's not that hard, is it, to beat a blind woman at chess?"

"But, you're not..."

There is no fanfare. She simply resets the board, into a new setup. “Again.”

This time, you lose again, as you try to somehow do what you did before without fully remembering what it was that you did. As she wins, she flicks the white king off the board like she would one of her ever-present coins. Rude. You sigh, and get ready to reset the board.

“John. It’s your move.”

You blink at her. “You took my king.”

She smiles. “The white king. When the white king dies, the game doesn’t end. It begins.”

And she takes a set of blue pieces out of that nowhere space where she keeps everything. They don’t look like any chess pieces you’ve ever seen, and she sets them up in an unfamiliar configuration.

“John. Move.”

Your new pieces move strangely. They teleport, they revive, they control the opponent’s pieces. You are not even sure you’re controlling them completely. “What is this?”

The Seer just keeps grinning. “Nyrblish 5th dimensional psion-chess. Much more fun than the human version.”

The board changes. It becomes three dimensional, spins into odd shapes, tesseracts, and you can’t quite make sense of what’s happening. “I don’t think I can play this.”

“Try.”

You try, but the board looks like something Escher would sketch in his spare time. Your head hurts, looking at it. “I can’t.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Look, Lady Justice, maybe you can do this kind of thing, but I’m only- I’m a kid! I’m a human, I can’t play chess in five dimensions!”

“Are you sure, John Egbert?”

“Yes, I’m sure I can’t-”

“Are you sure that you’re human?”

You stop at that. Your mouth goes dry.

“Well… well yeah, I-”

“You might want to think, John, about what is holding you back.” And the Seer packs up her chess, all five dimensions of it. And she leaves.

----------------------------- 

Your dad ruins everything.

Why did he have to clean your room? Make your bed? You can do that yourself, you’re fourteen for godssakes!

When you return home from coding summer camp, your poster, your poster signed by the goddess of Space, is lying on the kitchen counter, open for the whole world to see. There is a post-it note attached.

Son,

When I get home, we will Talk.

Shit shit SHIT. He found the poster. He found the poster

You are so dead. Should you destroy the evidence? No, it’s too late for that.

Maybe you should run away. No, that’s stupid, where would you go? Anna’s? The Church? That idea is stupid, so stupid, squawking-like-an-imbecile-and-shitting-on-your-desk-level stupid, and you are not going to do that.

You pace back and forth, trying to think what you are going to say. You don’t know what to do or who to confide in.

Anna can’t help you. The Seer probably won’t, since even though YOU didn’t write the name or ever speak it aloud, you’re pretty sure keeping the autograph of another god in the house breaks her rules.

But… she never got mad about it. And she must have known, right?

You decide to risk it. You sit on the floor in a meditative position, take a deep breath, and say aloud: “…Hey, Seer of Mind? I know I don’t usually ask you for anything, but… my dad found a poster with the name of the S- the Godmother on it. Do you have any advice?”

You wait for a while. Nothing. The house is empty and silent.

Then, your computer, from upstairs, makes the faint beep can only mean you’re being IM’d.

Anna?

You go upstairs and look at the screen. The chum-handle is unfamiliar.

-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] began pestering ghostlyTrickster [GT]at 17:43 --

GC: JOHN, YOU H4V3 TO T4K3 R3SPONS1B1L1TY FOR YOUR OWN 4CT1ONS.

GC: TRY TO T4K3 TH1S 4S 4NOTH3R L3SSON.

GC: JUST L1K3 4LL TH3 OTH3RS.

GT: wait

GT: are you the seer?

GT: you use pesterchum?

GT: weird

GC: 1 US3 WH4T3V3R 1 N33D TO US3

GC: 1T’S T1M3 TO ST4ND UP FOR YOURS3LF, JOHN.

GC: YOUR F4TH3R 1S HOM3.

GC: DO YOU HAV3 WH4T IT T4K3S TO F4C3 H1M?

You can’t believe this. You can hear your dad’s car pull into the driveway.

This is what, another test for you to fail? Another opportunity to get beaten up? Did she ignore the poster just so that your dad would find it later?

Another lesson, just like all the others. Sure, another lesson in pain and bullshit.

You are sick of this. You are so, so sick of this.

You hear the door downstairs open, then close. You don’t want to do this, so you delay the inevitable by straightening your bookshelf and re-sorting your DVD collection.

It’s six-thirty by the time you head downstairs, every step feeling like you’re ascending a gallows.

Gods, you really don’t want to do this.

Your dad is sitting at the table, next to the incriminating poster, reading a newspaper and smoking his pipe. You know it has to be bad, when he’s smoking.

“Son,” he says, not looking up from the paper. “Have a seat.”

You sit, and he slowly, methodically folds up the newspaper, still puffing on the pipe. The sitting and waiting is like torture. Like that Chinese torture thing where they drip water on your head. You stare fixedly at your knees.

“Son,” he says again. “I know it can be hard, to be different from the other kids. And it can feel like no one understands.”

That was not what you expected your dad to say. You expected him to berate you about the poster.

“I know that there are some kids who will pick out anything that makes a person different from the crowd,” your dad continues. “And atheism makes you very different.” He sighs. “I wish you had come to me about this.”

You realize that your dad is giving you a very convenient excuse.

Your dad leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I do not want you to be pressured into being something that you're not.”

You decide to take the proffered ‘out.’

“Oh,” you grunt. “Okay. Sure.”

Your dad taps the poster with his index finger. “Son,” he says, but you interrupt him.

“I didn’t ask for the poster, Dad! It was a gift. I didn’t ask for it.”

Your dad smiles thinly. “At least now I’m getting more out of you than monosyllables.”

You lapse back into a sullen silence.

“It’s not the poster, John. It’s the letter that was with it.”

You blanch. Shit. You didn’t even think of that.

“It seems to be implying that you’ve gone to church, and that you are grounded. Which is not, currently, the case.”

You try to breathe deeply. Calm your thoughts, and lie through your buck teeth.

“I didn't go to church, but she wanted me to go to church... I mean, I might have gone once or something, but I had to make an excuse not to. I had to not go, so I said I was grounded.” You try to look your dad in the eye as you speak.

“Son, you just gave me two different stories about church in as many seconds.”

Wow, you’re just digging this hole deeper for yourself, aren’t you?

Your dad shrugs. “She sounds like a good friend. If she really is, then she will understand that you simply don't worship any gods, and it won't matter.” There is a pause, during which time you say nothing. “You should tell her the truth. If she cares, then I don't think that she is really such a good friend.”

You try to think of a good excuse, before you respond. “She is a good friend, Dad. I did not ask for the poster. She... she went to this event and I guess she thought it would be a nice thing to do, that's all.”

“Be that as it may. I think that you should tell her, but that is your decision to make.” Your dad takes a long drag on his pipe. “But there is something else we need to talk about. They did not stop beating you up, did they? The bullies from school?”

“No,” you mumble. “School was fine.”

“Your old man isn't blind, Son. I know what a bruise looks like.”

You sink into your chair. “I can handle it.”

Your dad fixes you with a very Stern Fatherly Look, and you sink down even lower, trying to disappear.

“How many months has it been? I should have spoken to you sooner.” He reaches across the table to put a Solid Patriarchal Hand on your shoulder. “Son, it is okay to admit that you need help. Real men know when the situation is too big to handle. It is not a sign of weakness. Do you understand me?”

Your dad still has no clue. But you don’t want him to think that you’re being beaten up, when you’re not, not really. You suddenly have an idea.

“It’s not like that,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s not bullying. It’s like, you know Fight Club? It's kind of like that. Only without the anti-government conspiracy and the multiple personality stuff. And I don't have a Brad Pitt. I'm just learning how to defend myself and stuff. I am getting tougher! It's not too big to handle. I am fine. I don't need help.”

Your dad gives you a Stern Fatherly Look, and you realize that he doesn’t buy it.

“Son, we are not leaving this table until you tell me the truth. I have already left this alone for too long.”

The truth? Well… what if you tell a partial truth? "Okay so there's this... girl. And she is really religious, and she thinks that she will help me find the gods if she teaches me how to fight and stuff. Martial arts."

Your dad sighs. “Do not tell me that my son thinks that he has to be beaten up to catch a girl's eye.”

What? Does he think you feel that way about the Seer? “No,” you state emphatically. “I don’t like, like her! And I do not think she likes me, either. At all, really.”

Your dad raises an eyebrow. “Well, at least I understand why you went to church, now.” Your dad sighs. “I don’t even want to know which gods this girl favors. If my son likes a girl that beats him up and calls it devotion, then... well, I may have to live with it. But you, Son, should not have to pretend that you are something that you’re not.”

“What? No, I’m not talking about Anna! Two different people.” This whole conversation is a mess. “And anyway, I don’t like them! I mean, I like Anna, but as a friend!”

“I see,” says your dad. “There is this one girl that you like enough to go to church for, and then there is this other, completely different, girl who you are willing to get beaten up by.”

“Yes, that is what is happening!” You are getting angry, now.

Your dad sighs and closes his eyes. “I am unsure whether to be proud or annoyed that my son is such a poor liar.” He leans forward, and takes another puff on his pipe. “You need to come clean with this girl, whether there is one of her or two. You are an atheist. If they really care about you then they will accept that.”

You count back the weeks. It’s been exactly four months and one week and two days since you first spoke to the Seer. Is your dad going to find out? You don’t want him to find out. You want deeply to prove that the Seer can be wrong, that you’re not as pathetically bad at keeping secrets as she thinks.

But it's been exactly 4 months, one week, two days. And, you realize that you have a choice. The Seer could be right… but it’s in your control.

You could say, “Yes, okay Dad.” And that would be that, for now. But it would just delay the inevitable: your dad would find out about the Seer tomorrow.

Or… you could make sure the Seer was wrong, for once.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, and say, very quietly, “I’m not.”

Your dad pauses mid-puff. “Excuse me?”

You have to be brave. You have to do this. You twist your fingers into the fabric of your shirt, and say more clearly; “I’m not an atheist.”

Your dad takes his pipe out of his mouth, and lays it on the table. He looks grave. “You do not know what the gods are like, John. I am trying to protect you. Religion is dangerous, and you should stay away from it. I do not want to see you get hurt.”

This isn’t making any sense. “But Dad, it's not like pretending that the gods are not important makes them not exist. If they're dangerous, shouldn't we pay them respect? I mean, not make them mad, but just... you know, be normal about it? I mean, a lot of people are religious, Dad! Like, everyone! The only atheist I know is you!”

Very suddenly, your dad slams his fist into the table, making you jump. “We are not like other people!” Then, he abruptly slumps, and seems to try and compose himself. “I am sorry. I am not angry with you, John. I am scared.”

That takes you by surprise. You did not expect him to say that. “Dad? What are you talking about?”

Your dad looks haunted. “John, when you were an infant…” He swallows. “When you were an infant, I received a visit from the Flaming-Eyed God.”

And your dad tells you. About the warning, the threat, the gods made on your life. About how they told him not to pray, just like the Seer told you.

“John, the Mage told me that the other gods would do anything to keep you from doing… whatever it was they did not want to see happen. Do you understand what ‘anything’ means?”

You don’t want to hear this. “Yeah, but... I mean, what if some of the gods are protecting me from the others? Like the Flaming-Eyed God, and the Calibrator of the Gallows? I mean, I... I didn't know about any of this. But if I have this destiny or whatever, shouldn't I do what I can to like, fulfill it?”

“John.” Your dad sounds incredulous. “We are talking about the living gods. If they wanted to kill you, you would be dead before you could blink.”

You roll your eyes, but he continues. “The gods don’t mind atheists. We don’t draw their attention. They only hear you when—John, if you have been praying…”

You don’t say anything, but you know your guilt is written all over your face. You stare at the table, but can feel your dad’s eyes boring into you.

“John,” he says. “What have you said while you were praying?” You look up at your dad. He looks pained, like someone just stomped on his foot.

“Not much,” you say. “I usually couldn’t think of anything to pray about, really…”

He sighs. “Thank goodness.”

“But Dad…” Too late to go back now. “You’re wrong, kind of. About gods and atheists.”

“What do you mean?”

You interlock your fingers and look back at the table. “The gods do pay attention to atheists.”

You see your dad’s eyes widen. “John, have they spoken to you?”

Your stupid dad. You don’t look at him. “Yeah.” And then, because that doesn’t feel like enough: “I’m sorry. She told me not to tell you.”

“She…” Your dad’s voice is hollow, his expression fearful. You hate it. You hate seeing your dad looking so frightened.

“Lady Justice,” you clarify. “She said she’d be training me for some kind of destiny, or something.”

Your dad closes his eyes, and rests his forehead in one of his hands. When he speaks, his voice is breaking. You hate the sound of it. “I am sorry, John. I am so sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

Several long moments pass in silence. This is so uncomfortable. That the Seer’s prophecy is off by one day is a cold comfort. “Dad…”

Then, your dad looks up, and gets to his feet. There is something steely in his expression, something that wasn’t there before. “Son. Pack your things. We’re leaving.”

“What?”

“No questions, John.” His tone books no room for disobedience. “Do it.”

You don’t want to do this; this is crazy! But you've never seen your dad talk like that before. It’s kind of scary.

So, you get up, and pack your things. You don’t know how much to pack, but you figure a few days’ worth of clothes is probably fine. By the time you finish and come back downstairs, your dad has already packed his own possessions into the car.

“How long will we be gone for?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers, and you worry a little that you didn’t pack enough.

Before you both drive off, you check the pesterlogs on your desktop. You don’t have any new ones from the Seer, but you do leave one for Anna:

GT: i’m leaving town for a few days

GT: so i will be afk

GT: but i will be online again soon.

GT: i have a lot to tell you.

And who knows? Now that the proverbial cat is out of its bag, maybe you can even tell her the truth.

[pocketfulofrogers]

Color Me Yours

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Request:  hey babe, I was wondering if you would write a steve x reader one where she asks him if he would paint in her body just to pass the time, not in a smutty way and with some fluffy conversation between them.

Summary: You hate stakeouts almost as much as Steve does.

“Is this guy ever going to show his face? ” Steve asks for the- well you’re not exactly sure how many times he had asked the same question with varying levels of disdain and annoyance.  It was most likely around lunch that you had lost count and, at this rate, you’ll kill him before dinner.

Recon missions had always been his least favorite. Actually, he quite vocally despised them. The sitting, the waiting, the almost non-existent control over the situation. Small spaces made him antsy- put him on edge.

It’s hard to not feel for him, but then again you had both been locked up for days in a tiny, decrepit apartment with Hill as your only form of outside contact. The fact you had made it this far was something to be marveled.

He glares at the binoculars, and then you. “Let’s just storm the place and go home.”

When you roll your eyes, he pouts. “Steve, honey, there is nothing for us to do. There’s intel we still need, including the confirmation that we’re even in the same country as him, let alone on the same street.”

“Y/N.” He groans. “I let you take down that mercenary in Brazil so you could make it back for girl’s night. I don’t see why-“

“You know what- just-“ Your bag makes a loud thud as you pull it from the couch and drop it onto the table. Steve watches curiously as you begin to rummage around and is only momentarily caught off guard by the small bag you throw at him.

His curiosity turns to confusion as his picks through its contents. “What am I supposed to do with this?” He asks holding up a small jar of orange paint.

You lay his sketch book down on the table. “I don’t know, paint something for me. It’s supposed to be cathartic or whatever.”

He eyes you, notices the tightness in your jaw, your knuckles white from griping the back of the chair too tight. Results from being in close quarters for far too long, no doubt. Perhaps he had overlooked how much it was also affecting you.

“For me or for you?”

“Steve, I love you but you have got to do something before you drive me insane.”

“Fine.” He says, but his grin makes you nervous. “I have one condition.”

**

You hug the pillow beneath your head a little tighter. “What are you painting?” He’s quiet, lost in the task at his hands, so you decide to be patient- listening to the sounds of the busy street outside.

Something wet glides up the center of your spine leaving a cool trail and you shiver.

“Stop squirming.” Steve lightly scolds with a chuckle. “The best canvases are still.”

“It’s cold.” You mumble. “What are you painting?” This time a little louder.

“The day we met.”

He scolds you again when you try to turn and look at him, confusion creasing your brow. “Why would you put that day on my body? Not exactly my best moment.” You can hear the shrug in his laugh. “I was covered in blood, Steve.” He hums an acknowledgment. “I was literally on death’s door.”

“I wouldn’t say literally. You did make it into the lobby of the compound very much alive.”

You laugh again. “Yes, and then you had to carry me when I passed out.”

“Ruined my favorite dress shirt.” He chuckles.

“Exactly! So why that day? Why not that early morning in Venice the next month, or even that night in Ireland?”

“With the castle you broke into?”

“Such a good night.”

His laugh fades out into comfortable silence and you allow him to stay there. The gentle breeze cools the paint on your back and the warmth his body brings against your side is welcomed. Of course, you had rigged your computer to display the feed from the binoculars so Fury couldn’t say you had completely abandoned your post, but you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t an afterthought in the back of your mind.

“Do you remember what happened after you woke up?” He asks. “After they fished the bullets out and the transfusion.”

You try to think back, but honestly, it’s all fuzzy. There was pain, a very good pain killer, and then, if you’re not mistaken, tacos. “Not really, bits and pieces. I definitely remember the Natasha laying into me.”

“Well,” Steve starts. “This is about to get a whole lot more embarrassing for you.” Your obnoxious groan only motivates him to embellish some truths. “Yes, you did come in looking like you were quickly approaching death’s door, but somehow, you remained extremely defiant up until you were no longer conscious.”

Another stroke between your shoulder blades. This time you manage to remain still.

“I stayed by your side while you were evaluated and treated. Mostly so security would calm down. Your claims to knowing Nat weren’t enough for, well, any of us really.”

“Mostly?” You question. Another line down your side.

“A force of a woman comes bursting through the front doors, having passed all security measures despite losing several pints of blood, and I’m not supposed to be intrigued?”

“Touché. Continue.”

“You were just a few hours into recovery when I stepped away to update Stark. When I came back, you had already pulled your IV and were trying to put your clothes back on- I want to emphasize ‘trying’- muttering something about needing air.”

“I do despise anything that resembles a hospital.”

“Something you mentioned a few times that night. I took you to an upper level, let you sit under the stars. You told me a few stories that didn’t quite make sense about Nat, one involving a donkey, and then threatened to push me over the ledge if I didn’t get you tacos.”

“Well, I do really like tacos.”

He laughs. “I used them to bribe you back into your bed.”

You had been trying to track the movements of his brushes, but had been unable to discern the image on your back.

“So, what part of that story are you recreating? because if it’s me stuffing my face with tacos, Steve, so help me…”

“Maybe another day.” He teases. “It’s the sky from the balcony that night. You watching the stars wrapped in my jacket during one of the few moments you weren’t rambling.” He chuckles before falling into a more serious tone. “The moment I knew you’d become someone very important to me.”

He doesn’t chastise you for the shiver his admission sends through your body.

“I think I do remember something.” You start slowly. “It was early morning. You were adjusting the blinds when a SHIELD agent came in to hand you some folder, told you that you had been requested for something. I can’t remember what you said to me, but I asked you to stay. You did. I had felt so grateful for this unknown stranger showing me so much kindness. That’s when I knew I couldn’t turn down Natasha’s offers to come to SHIELD any longer.”

“I’m why you stayed?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, my love.” You laugh.

Glancing back at the laptop beside you, you notice the briefest flicker of movement on the screen. Facial recognition pops up and, suddenly, the romantic atmosphere is gone.

“We have confirmation.” Steve can’t tell if it’s disappointment he senses in your voice.

“Let’s get a move on, then. Sooner we get him, sooner we can go home.” He’s fully dressed, shield in hand before you’ve even gotten up.

You gawk at him. “I am covered in wet paint.”

His grimace is only slight. “Just put your suit over it, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He tosses your gear to you as you shake you head amused. “Stark is going to kill me.”

“Tell him to add it to my bill.” Steve smirks.  

[henrikvanderswoon]

Double the Kill: A Nancy Drew Play Written by 12-year-old Yours Truly - Readthrough Reactions

Okay, guys, I went through two cups of super strong coffee reading through this thing and I think I can hear colors now so… Have fun reading this!

I sincerely haven’t read this thing in probably ten years and I legitimately forgot almost everything about this play I wrote for myself and my twin/two best friends to perform. We used to write plays for each other all the time, as well as play Nancy Drew games together, so… this was all very fitting.

Anyway, this is a super long one and I APOLOGIZE but also I hope you enjoy reading this thing as much as I enjoyed writing it 😂

Okay, for starters, this story is titled: “Double the Kill” for two reasons that I can remember: (1) someone actually gets murdered, and (2) someone beheaded the Lincoln Memorial statue. 

…

You know when you’re in middle school and you’re assigned some topic to research for a project and suddenly you have this stupid amount of knowledge about something you don’t know what to do with? 

That’s what happened here. 

Anyway.

So, apparently I didn’t know what the word “pervert” was when I was 12 (poor, sheltered creature) so I legitimately named a character Blake Pervey and I’m gonna fling myself into the sun. 

Oh my gosh, I wrote up a case profile for this, complete with character roles and everything. Incredible.  

Let’s provide that for you guys:

The Case: Billionaire Erving Nickels is holding a benefit concert at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C., where the band “One Love” will be performing. Erv senses trouble, so he calls Nancy Drew and her best friend Bess Marvin to watch out for anything “suspicious.” But about an hour before the concert’s about to start, One Love’s lead singer Terri James is found dead near the Lincoln statue and the head of the statue is gone!

Contact: Erving Nickels - a billionaire who’d arranged the benefit concert. He asked Nancy to come and watch for anything “suspicious.” 

Suspects: 

Erving Nickels: Goes by Erv, for short. As it turns out, this man has actually gone bankrupt recently. Could he go to desperate measures to gain back his wealth?

Blake Pervey (I still want to die): One Love’s back-up singer. Terri had broken up with him recently because he’d attempted to cheat on her (huh, maybe he really is a pervert after all). Did he murder her to get revenge and take her place as the lead singer? 

Lyza Benton: The make-up artist. Lyza is always on the prowl for the next juicy gossip to spill to the press and gain publicity. Could she have killed Terri to create the ultimate story?

Myra “Ryan” Williams: One Love’s guitarist. She was the person Blake had attempted to cheat with, but she’d refused. Terri didn’t believe Ryan’s story and blamed her for everything, which caused the two women to hate each other.

Victim: Terry James

Okay. Already this is a little better than “Murder at Turquoise Inn,” because there are actual suspects with actual motives??? aMAZING. 

Wow, Nancy’s a bitch. She didn’t even tell Erving that Bess was coming along. 

Erv keeps saying that he thinks something bad is going to happen tonight, and Nancy and Bess are both like,“Can you please explain why?” And he’s like, “I just have a feeling.” Like boi, that’s sketch. 

Bess: “Sorry to change the subject, Mr. Nickels.” 

Erv: “Please, just call me Erv.” 

Bess: “No thank you.” 

Bess…I know Erv is a weird name, but…why? 

Mr. Nickels is taking Nancy and Bess on a tour, right? And I keep peppering in random facts about the Lincoln Memorial I learned for school and it’s SENDING ME. 

“I’ll watch and wait for our groovy band to arrive, while you girls split up and watch for suspicious activity. Now, let’s boogie!”

Asfbadka Erv, no one talks liKE That! 

I would just like to take a moment to preface the rest of this post with the fact that I wrote this for me and my friends, and we were always writing the stupidest dialogue for each other because we thought it was hilarious. Um…which hopefully explains lines like these: 

(1) No one calls Erv Nickels, the handsome billionaire, “Darling.” Except his mother.

(2) [We’re going to change.] No, don’t change. We like you guys just the way you are. *laughs obnoxiously* 

…

I hate myself. 

So Blake and Terri arrive in the limo and let me tell ya’ll Blake is definitely flirting with Erv right now and I’m so fucking confused. 

Terri: That man’s got problems. I guess money does that to people. 

Blake: But we have money and we don’t have problems. 

Terri: Maybe it only happens to men.” 

Blake: But… I am a man. 

Terri: Exactly.

Okay, you can tell my love for writing banter was here from the fuckin get-go. 

Oh god, now Blake is flirting with Nancy. Fuckin hell. I may not have known what the word “pervert” was when I was 12, but this man was aptly named. 

Suspicious, suspicious.*Mocking* ‘Can you girls watch for anything suspicious?’ Something suspicious, yeah right. Oh look! A BUG. Oh, soooo suspicious.

Bess…. I love you. 

Okay, as dumb as everything is in this thing, some of this dialogue is fucking cracking me up so hard.

Bess: No! Honestly. I swear, it’s almost like he’s trying to keep us busy so something bad can happen.

*A faraway scream cuts in from offstage*

*Nancy and Bess look off in the direction it came from, way too casual*

Bess: What was that?

Nancy: I dunno. 

*They pause, then their eyes widen in realization* 

Nancy: Oh crap.

Listen, I know I’m a comedic genius, but this is getting out of hand. Dsbfsjkdsjfbk

Bess: Mr. Nickels! What woman was screaming so high like that?

Erv: That was me. 

I CAN’T BREATHE. 

I saw Terri lying there on the floor, apparently dead. 

Erving… the woman is DEAD. What do you mean “apparently?” 

Nancy and Bess find a letter Terri was going to give to Erving to tell him she can’t do the concert because she also felt like something terrible was going to happen to her, and all Bess can do is repeatedly laugh at the word, “Flee.” 

Hey, too bad “Honest Abe” is missing his head, otherwise he could tell us whodunnit.

Wow, yall. Bess is my favorite. 

You know, the funniest thing about this is that you can definitely tell how many of the games I played between writing my horrible novel at the age of ten and writing this. If this thing had better dialogue and more fleshed out story/characterization, I could picture this as an actual game, not gonna lie. 

And… maybe if it didn’t involve removing the whole-ass head of the Lincoln statue…

Yanno, tiny details like that.

Lyza: *laughing* Scared you, didn’t I? 

Bess: Oh, “scared’"is such a strong word. I’d say more… "severely startled.”

So Erving reveals to Nancy that he’s actually not dumb as bricks, but puts up the facade because he’s broke and doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s not still super rich and air-headed. I’m crying. 

You sensed something bad was going to happen. You should have called the police to stand guard! Not some amatuer teenager who calls herself a detective and her little friend!

…. The pervert has a point. 

So Lyza likes to meddle in people’s business. Ryan had written about Blake’s advances in her journal and Lyza blackmailed her about it, Terri blamed Ryan for Blake’s attempted cheating. Blake tried to bribe Ryan into going out with him by telling her he’d discovered a way to get his hands on a fabulous collection of priceless jewels, and Terri broke it off with him. He’s upset, Ryan’s pissed that Terri thinks she went along with Blake, Erving borrowed money to organize the benefit concert (in order to benefit himself) and now he’s in even deeper debt because the concert has been cancelled and Lyza is having a fuckin field day. 

BOY AM I ON BOARD FOR THIS SHIT.

Before he came into wealth, Erving worked in a museum in Chicago, and Bess finds a piece of paper on the floor of Ryan’s trailer with the phone number to this exact museum. Nancy calls to see if there is any connection between that museum and the Lincoln Memorial and apparently there’s a theory that the head of the Lincoln statue contains jewels that the museum talks about in a part of their exhibit. 

*kronk’s face* Oh yeah. It’s all coming together.

Nancy: For all I know, you could be the murderer. 

Erv: Why would I do that? I needed the money from the concert!

Nancy: No you didn’t. You could’ve just–I dunno–stolen the head of Abe over there in search for the ALLEGED JEWELS INSIDE.

Ya’ll… please don’t ask me how the FUCK one person would get tools to remove that head without anyone noticing. Please. 

Blake: Hey, guys, have you seen Ryan anywhere? 

Nancy: Why? You gonna ask her out again?

Kjdbfisfdosidnf FUCKIN’ SAVAGE, NANCE. 

oH MY GOD THE CULPRIT SLIPPED UP SO EASILY I’M SCREAMING. 

oH my god, Nancy told Erving they needed something to pick the lock on one of the trailers and he’s all: “Like a bobby pin?” And just takes off his hat, removes a bobby pin, and “lets his long hair cascade down and over his shoulders like a waterfall” and I’m crying. I can’t fuckin’ breathe.

Oh shit, wait… the first culprit was actually covering for the real culprit all along I’m losing my mind. My twelve-year-old brain was so advanced I just threw a curveball at myself sjdbfshdbfagh

Okay, so I’m not gonna spoil anything because I think it’s hilarious to keep you all wondering what the fuck is going on and who the hell did it and why, but I would just like you all to know that this play literally ends with one of the characters singing Hannah Montana’s “The Best of Both Worlds” completely off key because I thought it would be hilarious and I think that really tells you a lot about who I am as a person.

[tiredandineffable]

Things They Need

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have spent millennia searching for love, skipping from one human to another but never quite satisfied with any one of them. Maybe they’ve been looking for something only the other can provide. 

AKA Crowley and Aziraphale’s failed loves told in a series of vignettes but its never quite about the person they’re in love with so much as it is about how different they are from the person they truly love. 

Lets be real: this is an excuse to write gender things for both of them and different time periods.

………………

They've both had their fair share of love, whether or not they'd like to admit it. At most points it was unrequited, as if the powers at be had intervened, as if the object of their affection had subconsciously realized that the person looking back at them, wanting them, was barely a person at all. They so frequently found each other after moments like these that it was almost laughable. It was as if they could sense each other's heartbreak and find each other without actively looking. This was how many drunk nights began over the millennia. Crowley would offer Aziraphale a glass of wine and they would spend the night on the couch, lamenting the loss of that which they craved most.

Heaven was a sterile place. Love abounded, sure, but in a way that was so pure that it may as well have been clinical. Aziraphale craved the messy, disastrous love that humans felt. It was the sort of love that brought people to irrational decisions, to taking risks they need not take. Love felt in stolen kisses and hugs so tight they hurt. The sort of love one wrote about in letters to a lover one had not seen in weeks when the ghost of their touch became so overwhelming that one put it on paper in the hopes of reliving it. He'd seen it before, in the shadowy corners of balconies after balls, pulling each other in by ones lapels with barely more than a sigh between each other's lips. He wants someone to love him so desperately, to crave his touch so fully, that they'd take the risks that came with their love. He understands that any relationship he seeks will be overshadowed by the fear of being caught, but oh how it would be worth the anxiety just to be kissed every morning and to be held every night.

Crowley, meanwhile, had once drunkenly outlined his exact intentions and needs when it came to relationships, although he'd deny it if asked. He wanted to be known and understood. He wanted someone who cared so deeply for him that they would take the time to unpack the layers of hurt and dismantle the multitude of walls he'd built between himself and others, brick by brick. Someone who would put up with his shifting moods and ever changing physical form. Someone who would pry his insecurities from his cold heart and stitch him back together, lighter this time. He craved being wanted by someone who knew his mistakes, who had seen him at his worst, who knew his true nature and stayed. Someone who knew they were dating a demonic entity but loved him all the same. To be loved unconditionally, graciously, in a way She had never loved him.

………………

“Did you love him?” The angel asks as he looks over the contours of a jawline, brushing along it with only the most reverent touch, too scared to ruin something already so precious and one of a kind. There was a certain intimacy that came with seeing a sketch, a certain power coupled with the ability to hungrily take in every tentative line, see every rushed brush of charcoal, every erased or faded drawing. It was like seeing the inner workings of one’s mind. Somewhere, in the space between them both, that feeling has settled over Crowley and Aziraphale. On the aged ash flooring of a quiet back storage room in a lavish but closed London bookstore sit a myriad of sketches on faded yellowing paper.

Small notes litter the corners of them. Aziraphale picks out the elegant curves of Crowley’s handwriting, fading words forming both exclamations of appreciation for the artworks they reference or for the artist himself.

What an honor to be seen this way through your eyes.

He picks out the teasing and self deprecating scratch of the artist’s replies.

What a shame I will never be able to fully portray your beauty on canvas and, thus, another shame these will never be finalized.

“I did,” comes the reply to a question since forgotten. Aziraphale looks up then, takes in the very real, sharp lines of the demon before him and he knows. He knows the intimate inner feelings of the artist then, understands almost spiritually what his words mean. I will never be able to fully portray your beauty. A bittersweet smile forms on Aziraphale’s lips and he wonders which of the many thoughts running through his mind are its source.

“Did you tell him?”

He wonders why he asked this. He doesn’t want to know what could have been between the demon before him and the artist who has long since been buried. His eyes refocus on the sharp fingers tinged with sepia tones. He wonders if Leonardo ever truly understood to whom those fingers belonged. Did he know what they were made of, what they had done, what they were capable of? Did he know that they could manipulate the very fires of Hell, could bring down entire empires with a single touch? Did he know they were capable of saving an angel more times than either of them could count? Did he know that they had once comforted shaking stowaways on an ark, carried children even God had condemned and brushed away their tears?

“No.”

Aziraphale took in the impossible fondness of amber eyes on fading paper and wondered how one could be on the receiving end of such a gaze, how one could record it so perfectly on paper, and not understand its meaning.

“Couldn’t. Hell really wanted the whole Leonardeschi. Biggest and brightest minds of the 15th century or some shit like that. Couldn’t really hoard him. Besides, he already had a little demon in his life by the time things picked up between us, a beauty he could finally portray on canvas, I guess. Modelled John the Baptist and Bacchus.”

Aziraphale picks up the bile in Crowley’s tone. All that’s left is a small folder of sketches and the worry that something could have been.

“I think…” Aziraphale starts, but everything he wants to say feels completely inadequate. “Even if it had been possible and you had not been on a job, would it have been everything you wanted it to be? Would he understand you, Crowley, really? Between his inventions and his publications and his artwork, I doubt he would ever have had the time to truly come to know someone or love them.”

Crowley takes in the sketches and remembers, for the first time since they were made, how much he wished the artist would regard him with as much fondness as he did his likeness.

………………

"I've never seen it, actually," Crowley says. They're wandering about the halls of Papal treasures, holding polite conversation now that the discussions regarding their agreement had long since ended. Crowley had done his part and confirmed that the next Pope functioned in a space somewhere between wishy-washy and completely incompetent. He'd sign whatever Crowley or Aziraphale pressured him into signing as needed, and that would be that. A happy sort of medium that they would eventually come to regret.

But, for now, a soft sort of satisfaction settled over them both and something about soon having a seemingly easily swayed Pope in power reassured them both.

The artwork was nice, too.

"Seen what?" Aziraphale asks as they walk and it would take a miracle (perhaps it’s multiple miracles, Crowley hasn’t been counting) to keep him from tripping on the artifacts littering the floor as his eyes focus solely on the intricate tapestries on the wall. He’s always loved the beauty of these pieces. They were never quite right (creation took more trial and error than God would have liked to admit, and the ark contained quite a few more stowaways courtesy of Crowley than any Bible would have you believe) but he loved them for their interpretations of memories he had come to cherish so deeply.

“The ceiling your artist is working on. Heard him bragging to mine that his work is almost done.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flush. “How much did...my artist tell your artist?”

Crowley grins, all teeth and mirth like he’s cornered Aziraphale without the angel even noticing. But the angel knows, all too well, that this is a game. Crowley will take any excuse to see him embarrassed and Aziraphale will get an excuse to tease him back.

“Leo says your piccolo Michelangelo told him that you posed for him. Albeit in an unconventional context. Is it true?”

Aziraphale fiddles with his collar and wonders, suddenly, if this is the indulgence that finally gets him expelled from the priesthood. And to think that he was finally making progress on the Papal corruption... “Is what true?”

“C’mon, Aziraphale, you know. We’ve both had fun with this job,” he teases, stopping in the middle of the treasure-filled hall to rock onto the balls of his feet. “So tell me: did you, or has Michelangelo been lying to half of Rome about getting himself a literal angel?

Aziraphale looks down at his hands, mouth opening as if to speak before losing his nerve and twisting his fingers. His heart, being the nuisance that it is, feels like it’s attempting to lodge itself in his throat. If he were drunk, confessing to these sorts of things would have come easily and quickly. Besides, Crowley pays enough attention to the art-world gossip to likely know the answer to every question he plans on asking tonight. He’s likely just being nosy. It’s a game to him. Always is with these topics. He sighs, closes his eyes, and finally speaks. “Yes. But I’ll have you know that he’s been nothing but lovely and we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now.”

The smirk on the demon’s face goes impossibly wider, a fact Aziraphale only registers a few seconds later when he hears it in his tone and opens his eyes to confirm its presence. “Wait, I’m talking about the fact that you posed for the Sistine. What are y-”

Wider still, somehow, as realization settles. “Oh, angel, this is so much better.” He grabs his arm and pulls him away, and Aziraphale makes to protest but the sound comes out as an unconvincingly disgruntled splutter. “We’re going somewhere we can actually talk and get drunk. Christ, Aziraphale, bet it was sappy too. Under his ceiling? Seeing the way he sees you?”

“Are you implying that I, a man of the cloth, committed a serious act of sacrilege on consecrated ground?” The argument is half-hearted, and they both know it, but it’s better than Aziraphale admitting that dripping paint was one of the major contributors to their deciding to move. “There’s a garden with a little secluded corner and he always finishes painting so awfully late and we were nearly a bottle in which I know doesn’t sound like much but the man is a bit of a lightweight so the bottle was mostly mine.” He takes a breath and bites back a fond little smile. “He said he wanted to see what I’d look like amongst the stars. He always was a romantic.”

Crowley, always the jealous realist, wonders if this romance doesn’t mean more to Aziraphale than it does to the aforementioned artist. The local artists with powerful names will smother you in thick layers of poetry and butter you up with handsome sketches and consume you until they find another, newer treat. But Aziraphale deserves to be happy and who is Crowley to determine how that happens? He maintains his smirk by sheer willpower. Aziraphale is a being of love, he’s probably right about this relationship.

But then he looks up to meet pale blue eyes, brimming with fondness as they swim through a memory that does not involve Crowley and he aches and he aches and he aches... He would trade in every fancy word and pretty sketch to have what Michelangelo has somehow gotten.

I have also wanted to know what you would look like amongst my stars.

………………

Crowley was nearly curled in on herself, leaning against the side of the couch with her eyes shut tight. It hadn’t been the worst rejection she’d ever handled, not really. But it was definitely right up there on the list of shittiest rejections she’d ever had. She didn’t know if it was better or worse that she’d looked hot when it had happened. She still did look hot, if she were honest, just with slightly smeared makeup from a rather self indulgent cry.

In her defense, she hadn’t started crying until she’d gotten to the hotel.

Aziraphale had seen a good amount of what had happened. She hadn’t intended to, honestly! She just happened to have picked the same day to go to the opera, and the same opera to see. It was a matter of taste, really. Some operas were just better than others. She had not, in any way shape or form, gone to spy on Crowley’s new love interest. But if she were to be honest (which she has been, this whole time!) she didn’t really see why Crowley had an interest in the lead actor. He was a touch short and his blond hair was a little blinding under the theatre lights. Furthermore, he was rather plain.

What Aziraphale didn’t see was the passion the otherwise common man was capable of demonstrating. They had discussed music and society. They had gotten drunk together at an afterparty for the opening night of one of his shows years prior and had spent the better part of the night avidly tearing apart the characterization of the love interest. Crowley didn’t take to people easily but this was different. The actor understood her interests and was just as deeply invested in every conversation Crowley had introduced. They’d built a rather firm friendship, even if there was something rather unorthodox about an actor and a lady of Crowley’s standing spending so much time together.

Alone.

The past few months had seen the rise of their names in the tabloids. He was the golden boy of the Viennese theatre community. She was a mysterious aristocrat without a husband who seemed to show up at all the right parties. They were sensational, the picture of a modern European love affair. Their names were whispered between members of Austria’s upper echelons, stirring cold jealousy in the hearts of partygoers and magazine readers alike. Some wanted their beauty, their money, their fame. Upper class women wanted a man who looked at them the way he looked at her, who held them the way he held her. Upper class men always had a thing for untouchable women. The headlines all but begged him to propose.

It should have worked.

He should have loved her.

He knew her, for Satan’s sake.

"Can you believe him, Aziraphale?" she says finally. Bitterness was seeping into her voice now that the hurt was gone. She didn't care. He was just human. He'd be dead in a matter of decades. He wasn’t even that pretty anyways (he was, dear lord how he was pretty) and she wasn’t sure why she was still crying. "'This has been fun.' Who does he think he is?"

"I’m sorry, dear,” Aziraphale says, feeling woefully inadequate in her words but mildly adequate in her choice of drink for the night. It didn’t quite feel like a wine night, so she’d ordered the strongest aged whiskey the hotel bar had on hand. She didn’t even bother with the crystal glassware the hotel had so diligently stocked in Crowley’s room. No sense giving Crowley something more to throw. She takes a long drink before handing the bottle to Crowley.

Crowley gulps the whiskey down, already a little drunk from the wine she’d shared with him earlier that night, but this is exactly what she needed. The burn to remind her that she’s still here, to take away any last taste of him on her lips. “I trusted him, Aziraphale, he knew. The first human I’ve ever been interested in who I told. Everything. He knows about us, who we are. All of it. Fucking hell, Aziraphale, both sides would murder me if they knew just how much I told him.”

Aziraphale wasn’t even angry. She knew it would eventually come to this. Crowley ached for someone who knew her in a way that, frankly, humans never would be able to. Because it extended beyond just knowing who or what she was. It required a certain understanding of what she’d seen and what she’d done that only someone with a similar experience would have. Someone like you, Aziraphale thinks, but such thoughts are unproductive and yearning for something she can’t have is a perfectly useless endeavor. She won’t. She can’t. They can’t, even if they both wanted. Which Crowley clearly didn’t, anyways. Seems we both want what we can’t have.

“Was that what did it? Him knowing what we are?” Aziraphale hears herself ask.

Crowley sighs, still holding the bottle and letting her head fall back on the arm of the couch. “Not at all. Makes it worse, doesn’t it? He accepted all the rest of it, knew for months and acted as if it changed nothing. But suddenly he realizes ‘oh, my co-star is pretty’ and everything he and I had goes out the window.”

She took another long drink, staring up at the ceiling and sighing. The tears are gone and in their place is a bubbling and deeply held hurt. “Stupid of me to think that I could be enough for him.”

Aziraphale takes the bottle and sighs before taking a sip, letting the alcohol loosen her tongue. “Stupid of him to think he was worthy of you, Crowley.”

………………

They've both had lovers before and it's never been a secret between them. If drunk enough they'll discuss their most recent ones, compare their merits, as Aziraphale blushingly calls them. There's a comfortable companionship in these discussions, most of the time. There's always a comedic edge to it that balances it out, a defense mechanism naturally built into the conversation that keeps it from becoming too serious too quickly.

But Aziraphale is quite drunk. Even more than usual.

"He's lovely, Crowley," Aziraphale sighs, wine sloshing onto the pale blue carpet, staining it a deep red as he lounges clumsily on the chaise. "He pulled me aside at the party after his new play's first performance, kissed me quite senseless. And the way he held me - oh lord. It was as if I was the single most important person in the universe, to be kissed as if his life depended on it. He takes things so achingly slow at first and then, as if realizing how precious little time he has, he's a flurry of desperation. Oh and he's so tall, dear."

Aziraphale sighs. Crowley is really fighting the urge to go find this man and pull just the wrong strings. Make him fall in love with a man he can't have, see how he feels about it.

Aziraphale's expression softens then, cheeks flushed and oh how Crowley wouldn't kill to have Aziraphale look like that as he thought of him.

"He writes to me," Aziraphale finally continues. "And I to him, but with nothing nearly as beautiful as his letters."

Crowley closes his eyes, laying sideways on his chair with the hopes that he can shut out the lovesick look on Aziraphale's face. There's the sound of the glass being set on Aziraphale's end table with a tinge too much clumsy force. It's followed by a ruffle of papers.

"'It is a marvel that those rose leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing'," Aziraphale reads aloud. His voice has become soft, the tone awfully fond, and Crowley feels the jealousy clogging every crevice of his heart. Aziraphale, however one to be obsessed with love and romance, has never been one to keep a lover for so long. But he shares mutual interests with this one and he always has been weak for poetry. The mortal has Aziraphale wrapped around his little finger and it's sickening that anyone would take advantage of Aziraphale's need for affection.

(If he were playing fair, Crowley would admit that Aziraphale likely has this...person wrapped around his finger instead of the other way around. But he's never been one for playing fair.)

"I do…" Aziraphale starts, wetting his lips as he tries to think of what to say, how best to express to Crowley how much this newfound romance has come to affect him. Crowley dreads Aziraphale's next words. "I do believe he loves me, Crowley."

"That's impossible," Crowley says coldly, catching himself by surprise but not missing a beat. He's not feeling forgiving today. Hearing Aziraphale wax poetic about this new, handsome, successful stranger has left Crowley feeling less than obliging to his fantasies.

Aziraphale sits suddenly, brows furrowed and accidentally knocking his glass to the ground. If he's noticed, he doesn't pay it any mind. The angel looks utterly incensed. "Might I ask why someone harboring affection for me is so incredible to you?"

Because I'm the only one who will ever understand you.

"He's in love with the other chap. The blond boy, fifteen years his junior. You know the one." He's being cruel, he knows. But Aziraphale is also, describing in detail every merit his lover possesses as if Crowley weren't right there.

Aziraphale rises then, and Crowley tries to swallow down his regret as he takes notice of the way his angel's hands shake.

"Why can I not have one good thing without you coming to take it from me, Crowley? Can you not refrain from reflecting your own insecurities on me? What is it, your own fear that you will never be loved?"

He storms out the door and Crowley feels like he's been punched in the gut.

He’s right.

………………

Crowley did a rather good job in the 80's. Things were a lot more lax when it came to indulgences. If you had the money for it, you could have anything your heart desired, from cocaine to a harem. You could own mansions and islands and have the net worth of entire countries. If you were good enough, you could have fans that numbered in the millions and could perform for hundreds of thousands of people worldwide at the click of a button. There was an excitement, an understanding that the world had changed irreversibly and, with it, had brought a myriad of new and exciting possibilities.  

And the parties. Oh how they’d changed. The music was louder and the dancing less rigid with each passing year. It had all become more raw over time until it was more about the feeling it gave you than its inherent meaning and, with that, the lyrics had become more daring as if begging you to object. Crowley never did. This exciting debauchery was absolutely his element.

But it had isolated Aziraphale.

Aziraphale had liked dance halls and had even accompanied Crowley to them on multiple occasions. They would get drunk and push the other into dancing with a local until, towards the end of the night, they would sort of fall into step together and finish off a song by dancing a tinge too close, just the angel and the demon. It was...nice, easy. It followed conventions Aziraphale was accustomed to while still being new enough to entice Crowley. Somehow, the dance hall scene had become a perfect place to meet where they could just be themselves for a few hours a week, press the boundaries of what they were meant to be without shattering them completely.

Their decline came with the advent of more modern clubs and, with it, the expectation of more forward behaviours. While Aziraphale was capable of adjusting to some facets of the new music scene, he had difficulty adjusting to social interactions not governed by certain...rules of engagement.

Besides, the music was loud. They couldn’t talk in clubs and really Aziraphale worried he couldn’t keep Crowley properly entertained otherwise.

So Crowley had spent his nights out for the better part of the last decade on his own.

Which was fine.

He could pick up rock stars, famous actors, the inconceivably rich for a night. He didn't have to worry about whether Aziraphale got home alright or if Aziraphale approved or if Aziraphale had gone home with someone worth his time. He didn't have to worry about Aziraphale's disapproval when he got too drunk or high (or both). He most certainly didn't have to worry about accidentally telling Aziraphale about all the feelings he's been repressing since the dawn of time itself.

(Because sometimes, just sometimes, he hears a song that reminds him of Aziraphale and wonders what it would be like to gather him up then, dance and drink the night away with him until they both had enough of an excuse to lean in for a taste of the alcohol on each other’s lips. They had done so before on a rare handful of occasions during the dance hall scene when they both thought that they wouldn’t remember in the morning. But they always did. Crowley always awoke to a ghost-like memory of Aziraphale’s lips on his and a longing in his chest that hadn’t quit since Eden. He always woke to the hope that maybe, for once, he hadn’t gone too fast for Aziraphale.)

He quickly downs another shot before leaning back into the couch to take in the sight of Britain’s most famous, eyes skimming over the crowd in the search for someone of interest.

(Is that what his relationships have always been? Finding someone interesting to take the edge off a constant ache?)

He spots someone with the same soft touch, the same decadence. He’s wrong in every other way but Crowley will gladly cling to what little he has. He knows this person, too. He knows his dreams and aspirations, knew of him since he was barely a performer, since before Hell had decided it had to have him. He gets to his feet and saunters over in a way that betrays just how many shots he’s had. The way he falls into his lap, haphazard and a little desperate, grabbing the open bottle in his hand to take a sip before kissing him like his life depends on it, doesn't help his case.

The man’s lips part a touch too quickly, too eagerly, like he’s lovestruck for someone just out of reach but taking what he can get. If Aziraphale can sense love, Crowley, it seems, can sense heartbreak. They both want someone they cannot have and, at least in this, perhaps Crowley can finally be understood by someone other than Aziraphale.

………………

Aziraphale has decided, genuinely this time, that there is nothing he despises more than researchers touching his books. There is nothing wrong in the way they do it. They are reverent, all feather-light touches masked with soft white gloves, prying open older books with patience so as not to damage their already cracking spines. They touch the book only when they must. Only to open it, to close it, to flip a page, to set it back in its place. They appreciate it fully in a way Aziraphale understands well. The way the scent of their age settles on you, reminds you that it is a product of a time so different from yours that you are here to study it. You are seeing, albeit briefly and only in part, the intricacies of someone else’s life with every page that you flip. They inhale it, its scent, its meaning, every single time they come to the small SoHo shop to do research.

They are respectful. Aziraphale doesn’t hate them.

The man he hates is the head researcher, a man in his mid 40s who sometimes comes in looking like he’s survived the very topic of study he came in to ask Aziraphale about. He’s just as kind with the books. He knows some of them nearly as well as Aziraphale does. Unlike his students, he comes and goes when he pleases, knocks on Aziraphale’s door at ungodly times of night and asks to flip through first edition Bibles Aziraphale has never let anyone see.

He always says yes.

He sits next to him now, watches the way his fingers ghost over the words that he seems to understand almost as deeply as Aziraphale does. And Aziraphale watches and wonders how it must feel to be so swept off one’s feet as the researcher has been by this book.

Oh how he wants and wants and wants. He wants the ghost of those fingers on his face, in his hair. He wants to be revered, to be studied, to be found valuable in this man’s eyes. But they’ve settled into something too comfortable and the wisps of the professor's want have long since been tucked away. Aziraphale frequently forgets what it feels like to be wanted in return.

"Exquisite copy. The lettering is truly phenomenal and the very history these pages carry with them? Intoxicating."

The man understands his passion, shares it even, in a way no one ever has before. He somehow steals the very words from Aziraphale's lips before Aziraphale has even managed to formulate them.

But he will never quite love the angel in the way Aziraphale so desperately needs.

………………

Crowley, Aziraphale has found, does not fully understand him. Crowley listens to Aziraphale talk about books he will never comprehend, with a fervor he will never share, tied to memories he does not possess. He sees the carefully maintained Victorian outfits but will never quite comprehend the beauty Aziraphale sees in them. He teases Aziraphale for his sweet tooth, his decadences, his near-obsession with fine wine. He will never fully understand him in the way that some of his past partners have.

But he doesn’t need that. Aziraphale needs someone who will listen despite the confusion, who will compliment outfits they would never wear, who will tempt him with the things he craves. Not because he himself loves these things or wants them or shares in his interest, but because he wants and loves to see Aziraphale happy through them. How desperately has he wanted to be wooed in this way? For how long? This much, he still doesn’t know. But had he been more attentive, he may have noticed that Crowley had smiled during every single literature-induced rant Aziraphale has gone on, has instigated every indulgence, and has called him show-stopping at every opportunity. Crowley has swept him right off his feet and Aziraphale has been perfectly blind to it until now.

“Angel?”

His breath still catches in his throat with every pet name, as it has for millennia, but now even more so with the promises they bring.

“Yes dear?”

The head on his lap shifts a bit, looking up with such adoration that Aziraphale wonders how on earth he managed to miss this. How on earth did he think that anyone else over the last six thousand years could love him as thoroughly as the demon currently lounging in his lap?

He trails his fingers through auburn curls and watches Crowley’s eyes flutter shut and a small smile curl onto his lips. Beautiful.

“Run away with me?”

Crowley has loved before. He has loved over and over and over and each time one love ended, he worried he might never love again. But each time he was never quite loved back. He was loved in a most superficial way: a muse, a distraction, a source of entertainment. He could be worshipped and revered but never wanted, at least not sufficiently to warrant any attempt at understanding him, connecting with him. The humans could never satisfy this need. Even those that came closest and learned the most. Because it was so much more than a matter of knowing.

It was Aziraphale skipping over old scars when they touched because he knew they carried with them more emotional pain than physical. It was Aziraphale enveloping him in a tight embrace because he hadn’t picked up the angel’s calls all day and something had to be wrong. It was Aziraphale offering to read aloud to him because Crowley had shown interest in the story the angel had rambled on about one day, but struggled to focus on the words on the pages. It was Aziraphale in every little touch and every little gesture and every little word over six millennia, all coming together now in the softest scrape of nails against Crowley’s scalp, leaving him breathless with the sheer adoration of it.

It was Aziraphale, in every slow-forming crack in the walls Crowley had so diligently built since his fall, like water grinding stones into sand.

Pale blue eyes crinkle in the corners. The soft sound of laughter leaves Crowley feeling lost for words.

“Where to, my dear? Alpha centauri?”

Crowley comes up to kiss him, slowly, living for the pressure of rose-leaf lips against his own and savouring the wine-sweetened taste. They commit every press of lips to memory. Reverent, self indulgent. Soft fingers paint along a sharp jawline and tangle their way into the hair at the base of Crowley’s neck. He pulls back and all but sighs into the breath between their lips.

“I have always wanted to know what you would look like amongst my stars.”

[ashes-and-ashes]

Birthday Part 1

A bit of backstory to this fic:

So tomorrow (July 15th) happens to be the amazing Aly’s birthday! Seeing as she is one of the most incredible people ever, I decided that I was going to write her a birthday fic.

Of course I had intended for it to be pure fluff, but my evil brain doesn’t work like that. After an hour, I seemed to have 2808 words of angst, with very little fluff. And (despite Aly being the Princess of Angst) I was not sure if she wanted such depression on her birthday.

So, I split the story up! Here is the first bit of angst, and I’ll post the fluffy bit tomorrow. The fluffy bit is purely dedicated to Aly, and I’ll write an incredibly long and gushy post about her tomorrow. However, here’s the first angst and depressing bit - hope it’s okay!

@withrewings

~

Sirius was going to explode.

It was March 4th, a mere 6 days before Remus’ birthday and Sirius still hadn’t managed to produce anything suitable for his present. He had started drawing in January, convinced that three months was enough for him to create something good enough to give to Remus, but the days had rolled by and suddenly Sirius was left with a sketchbook of half-finished drawings and a looming sense of dread.

He winced, bending back over the page, ignoring the shiny charcoal film covering the side of his hand. His fingers ached from grabbing onto the stub, his back sore from being hunched over the paper for hours, but Sirius didn’t really care. He bit his lip idly, tracing the curls of Remus’ hair, the tilt of his chin, the hollows carved into his back and arms -

“Goddamn it!” With a snarl, Sirius stood, interrupting Marlene’s rant about the Slytherin Girls. He hurled the sketchbook to the ground; the back cover bent with a slight crunch as it hit the floor, the pages flipping open to reveal the sketch he had just been working on. “God-fucking-damn it!”

The others barely looked his way - Sirius’ outbursts were common enough now that everyone had gotten used to the swearing and yelling. It was late at night - they were the only ones in the common room. James bent down, scooping up the book with one hand, eyes still fixed on Marlene. “Go on Marls. What did you say to her?”

“More like what did you do to her,” Dorcas muttered. “No way that girl made it out in one piece.”

Marlene flashed a quicksilver grin. “I hexed her nose off. Completely. Transfigured it into the tiniest mushroom attached to her ugly face. God, they were so mad.”

James let out a laugh, throwing his head back; in the background Sirius noticed one of the twins (Either Fabian or Gideon - the light from the fireplace was dim, and he couldn’t quite pick out the details on their faces) hand a galleon to Benjy, who was sitting on the mantle. “Priceless.”

Peter leaned forward, eyes wide. “How long do you have detention for?”

Marlene shrugged. “Detention will last 3 months. But the tales will last forever. I’ll be a goddamn Hogwarts legend.”

“You’re already one,” Lily assured her. She tapped James on the shoulder. “Prongs. Want to give Sirius his book back?”

With a smirk, James held the book out to Sirius, the covers still open to reveal the half-finished drawing. “Oh right. I forgot.”

Sirius snatched the sketchbook back, flipping him off. “Oh, shut up.”

They were all meant to be discussing Remus’ party (Remus having gone to bed ages ago) but the hours had ticked away and they had planned absolutely nothing. Sirius wasn’t surprised - nothing ever seemed to work when everyone got together, except for a whole heap of snogging between Marlene and Dorcas, and James and Lily.

He scowled down at the sketch in his lap, the half-finished outline of Remus, silhouetted against a huge moon, the curve of his spine mirroring the constellations twinkling above him. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. “I’m so screwed.”

Lily looked surprised. “Why? That one is beautiful, Sirius. He’d love that.”

Sirius shook his head, violently flipping to another page. “No! This one is...is…”

Dorcas raised an eyebrow. She was sprawled in a huge chair, legs dangling over the side; Marlene gave her bare legs a long look before winking at Sirius. “I think this one is pretty.”

“God.” Sirius groaned, slamming the book shut. “It’s romantic. It looks like we’re dating or something.”

Benjy snorted, swinging his feet from where he was perched on the mantle. “Aren’t you already?”

Sirius flipped him off; he could feel blood rising to his cheeks. “I’m pretty sure Remus is straight, Benj.”

“Only one way to find out,” Kingsley muttered; the room erupted in laughter.

“I say,” mused Marlene, “That you should draw him in an intimate position.”

“Maybe with a collar,” Fabian called, “And chains, black leather and fishnets - “

Dorcas laughed. “A gag!”

“You should draw me in that!” Benjy yelled over the laughter. “I’d love to be drawn in collars and chains and black leather fishnet stockings.”

“Oh shut up,” Sirius said. He scowled, staring down at his hands; there was a scar shaking across his index finger where his mother had broken it once. “You guys are absolutely useless.”

“Says the guy without a present,” Lily muttered. Sirius stuck his tongue out at her.

Gideon rolled his eyes. “Look,” he began, “Remus is...Remus. He’d love anything you drew him. Stop over complicating it.”

Sirius spread his arms out wide. “Over complicating is what I do, darling.”

Benjy snorted. “I’d prefer that you do Remus.”

He was definitely blushing now, Sirius could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, spreading over the back of his neck like a flood. He scowled again, running a hand through his hair; it was already wild and tangled, paint and God knew what else caught in the dark locks. “You know what?” he said, then paused. “I was going to say ‘Screw you all’ but I reconsidered because I knew you would turn it into something about screwing Remus. So go eat a bowtruckle.”

He could hear Benny’s voice carry, even as he turned the corner and started up the stairs. “Why don’t you eat Remus?”

Sirius scowled. “Fuck off Benjy!”

~

Sirius glares down at the paper.

He knew he wasn’t going to give this one to Remus anyways. It wasn’t even the drawing that screwed it up - the paper was crinkled from where he had grasped it, the lines smudged and faded, too intense and too bold. It turned everything into hard lines, points instead of curves, edges instead of sweeps. He knew he was wasting time, drawing something that he would never, could never show Remus but it lessened the tightness in his chest, made it easier to breathe.

He had 2 sketchbooks. The first one had a red cover, and he used it for all his doodles. Pages of simple things: wand tips and goblets, candles and flowers, spellbooks and cauldrons and hundreds of unicorns. He brought that one everywhere, kept it in his school bag, was always doodling in it until the book was finished.

The second book was black, the cover heavy and Sirius always kept this one under his bed, because who wouldn’t know? This book contained everything - a boy on his knees, broken fingers, a single burning piano key. Scars, hundreds of them, rendered in perfect detail, all torn flesh and blood and bones, the lashes seared into his brain. He drew fingers with scar marks and backs with claw marks and even the broken, bleeding figure of an angel with its wings sawed off.

And Remus. This book was filled with Remus as well, all the shattered, beautiful parts of him, all the scars and cuts and marks. He drew Remus crying, and Remus screaming and sometimes he drew Remus kissing him.

He stared down at the drawing now, splayed on the page in front of him. He had hesitated when he drew him and Remus, but once he started he couldn’t stop. The charcoal spilled out of him, bleeding onto the paper, and everything was the same. Two boys kissing, the desperation clear in the clenching of their fingers or the arch of their spine, mused curls and closed eyes and scars like brushstrokes on their skin and Sirius couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried.

He wondered, sometimes, what Remus would say if he saw him, if he peeked into that black sketchbook, saw every dark crack in Sirius’ heart laid bare. Everyone had their secrets, he supposed. His were just more open than most.

There was a rustling sound from behind him; Sirius quickly flipped the page. It was late at night, the room filled with the sounds of people breathing, dreams spiraling into the air. The nightmare had woken Sirius up, the fractured visions of his parents and Death Eaters, and he had spent the rest of the night drawing, filling up even more pages in the sketchbook. He glanced down and started; the lines he had made were so dark that the colour had bled through the page, leaving smudges and streaks and the delicate tracery of lines carved into the page in front of him. He hastily closed the sketchbook, pulling the red one onto his lap, opening it to a random part in the book. Damn. This one was of Remus too, a idle study of him sleeping, his curls framing his face with gold.

He was about to turn the page again when the curtains on his bed flew open. It was as if his drawing had come to life; Remus stood there, golden curls forming a messy halo around his face, his eyes half lidded from exhaustion. He yawned, running his hands through his hair. “You okay?”

Sirius shrugged. “Sure.”

Remus frowned. “You’re always so closed off. It’s like you’re hiding something. Keeping something locked away.”

Yeah, my love for you, Sirius thought, but he didn’t say anything. He shifted, pulling the covers up around him, focusing on his breathing. Remus shot hi a concerned look.“Nightmares?”

“Yeah.” Sirius’ hands tightened around the blankets. “I’ve been up for awhile.”

Remus regarded him thoughtfully, then pulled the curtains wider. He slid into bed next to Sirius, gently rearranging the blankets until his warm legs tangled with Sirius’ cold ones. “It’s like lying in bed next to an ice sculpture.”

Sirius forced a laugh. Remus was too close right now; he was certain that he could feel his heart pounding. “It’s like lying in bed next to a furnace.”

Remus laughed, the sound warm and rich. God, Sirius could drown in that sound. He shifted over, giving Remus some more room, twisting until his head was tucked under Remus’ shoulder. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, the air smelling of wool and pine and clean cotton -

“Shit,” Remus said. “Is that me?”

With a jolt, Sirius opened his eyes; the book on his lap had fallen, the pages splayed open to reveal the sketch of Remus sleeping. He swallowed, hard, fighting to keep his voice steady. “No. It’s the fucking Duke of Alytown.”

Remus punched his shoulder. “Shut up.” With a shaking hand he reached over, picking the book up carefully, tilting it so the light fell on the pages and illuminated the drawing. “Did you...did you draw this?”

Sirius resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His heart was hammering triple-time in his chest, like a huge drum - he was certain Remus could hear it. “Nope. I just fall asleep with drawings of you on my lap all the time. I actually commissioned Snape to draw this, you see - he would creep into our room at night and - “

“Jesus.” Remus’ mouth hung open, his eyes wide as he turned the drawing back and forth. This close Sirius could see his eyelashes, golden against his skin, so fine that it looked as if they were spun from spider silk. “God. This is beautiful, Sirius.”

“You’re beautiful,” Sirius said, then quickly snapped his mouth shut. Smooth, Sirius. Real smooth you fucktard.

Remus laughed, more in shock then anything. “Me? I’m not...I’m not…”

“Beautiful?”

Remus looked down at his hand. “Yeah.” He pauses, clearly struggling with something; his mouth twisted into a bitter smirk before he continued. “Just look at me. I’m...I’m ruined. I’m scarred all over.”

Sirius bit his lip, hard. In his mind he saw his back, the lashes standing out like lines of silver, raised and thick and livid. He swallowed, hard. “Sometimes the cracks are the most interesting part of a sculpture.”

The barest edge of a smile ghosted over Remus’ face. “But it’s still ruined all the same.”

If only you could see, Sirius thought, If only you could see how beautiful you are, how perfect you’ve become. If only I could draw you the way I see you.

He coughed; with a steady hand he tore the sketch out of his book, handing it to Remus. “Keep it,” he said, then shook his head at the shocked expression on Remus’ face. “It’s yours now. I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but I’ll just whip up another drawing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Sirius said, and a beautiful, dazzling smile raced across Remus’s face, making it look like the sun had coated him in strands of liquid gold. Beautiful, Sirius thought, and his heart gave a painful twist in his chest.

“Thanks Sirius. But I don’t…I don’t need this, you know. All I want is...is you, I guess. Your heart. I want your heart, Sirius. That’s all.”

Sirius looked down. “Anything for you, Re.”

~

He couldn’t stop himself from drawing Remus.

The black sketchbook was open on his lap again, a fresh page blank and empty. His hands were dark, coated in the shiny-grey of graphite, his clothes covered in the stuff. He had been drawing for ages without taking a break, his eyes dropping from exhaustion and yet he allowed the sketch to bleed out of him, splattering across the page.

He was almost done the black sketchbook, had only a few pages left. Usually a book would last him 6 months, but he had filled half the book in less then 3 weeks. It was like he was an addict, thirsting for something he could never have, lightning and thunder and rain echoing through his veins. He couldn’t stop himself now, even as he continued filling the pages, Remus staring up at him from every angle.

Sirius took a shaking breath. It felt like he was underwater, drowning in his feelings for Remus, threatening to blow him apart with every gasping inhale of air. He set the pencil to the paper, letting his mind take over, the curve of Remus’ eyes gradually starting to fill the page.

He remembered the first time he had seen Remus, 5 years ago, standing in the compartment of a train as the sun went down over the hills. He was with James, wild and rebellious because for the first time ever he was free, when the door had opened and Remus had stepped into the compartment.

There was something different about him, even back then, some ethereal way that Remus moved. He remembered how the light had hit Remus’ face in just the right way, casting his features into shadow, making him look like some beautiful bronze statue and all Sirius could do was stare.

There was always some part of him that had loved Remus, but it really hit him in 4th year. He had been playing Quidditch, backlog against the setting sun, and he had looked down and seen Remus in the stands and his heart swelled up and he couldn’t breathe. He knew it then, while hurtling through the sky on his broom, knew he would have given up anything to make Remus happy.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by a sharp crack; he had pressed down so hard on the pencil that it had shattered, pieces skidding all over his sheet. Sirius scowled, glaring down at the page - there was a boy on a broom and a boy on the ground, the light hitting them until it looked like a spotlight, wind whipping their hair around them. He swore, staring down at his hands - it was so obvious. All it would take was for someone to look at his book to know what he felt towards Remus. He couldn’t burden Remus with that, the unrequited feelings of a shattered boy. Remus had already been through far too much - Sirius couldn’t heap another load onto his shoulders.

But what if he did? The thought rose up unbidden. What if he did like you?

His mind flickered back, sorting through the memories of the year - the Train, Remus’ hands tight around his neck. The Christmas Feast, sitting together under the cold half moon. January, grasping onto Remus’ fingers, the desperation in his eyes as he began to change. Valentine’s Day, a single chocolate, a whispered conversation. Sirius, I…

“I what?” Sirius had said.

Remus shook his head. “Never mind.”

So many moments, so many hidden touches, and Sirius’ heart was pounding because what if? What if there was a chance?

He was gripping the sketchbook tightly, so hard that the cover was digging into his palms, scoring lines across his palm. Remus had told him what he wanted that night, didn’t he? I want your heart, Sirius. That’s all.

“My heart,” Sirius said, out loud to the wind. Slowly, his hands tightened around the sketchbook.

He knew exactly what to give to Remus tomorrow.

[erekiosuncreativeideas]

Reliving An Old Nightmare - Chapter 13

<= Chapter 12

Summary : Snatcher finally gets some "me-time" and everything goes perfectly well! Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337299/chapters/56310040

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Sorry for posting late, but I promise I had a reason to wait. I'm keeping it secret for now, but believe me, it's worth it ! In the meantime, I had the time to finish two future drawings AND the next chapter (which has been SUPER HARD TO WRITE, UUUGH), so I used my time well !

The two drawings you'll see are mine. Sorry if the second one is only a sketch, I didn't have the inspiration or motivation to finish it. I hope you'll still like it nonetheless !

A big thanks to Krekka01 for the correction on this chapter !

Anyway, I hope everyone is fine and safe. Happy reading !

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Chapter 13

Being human was all about feeling things again, Snatcher knew this very well at this point. However, he has mostly experienced bad sensations, such as pain, discomfort, the strange taste and texture of food in his mouth, and having to go to the toilet again. Compared to this, actual good things seemed much less significant. It was a shame, since the ghost couldn’t deny that some experience had been enjoyable with that old body of his: sleeping was enjoyable, just lying down on his bed had been, too. Feeling the wind caressing his face, not feeling cold all the time anymore, being able to feel warm after hundreds of years, smelling food or flowers once again, and experiencing the sense of touch for the first time in centuries. Being human had its pros and cons, even if the cons were more noticeable. Furthermore, the situation he was in didn’t let him appreciate those little things since his mind was focused on something very important: leaving this place as soon as possible.

So, when the shade opened the door of the bathroom, he felt like he had just hit his head against an invisible wall made of many scents. All of Snatcher’s senses were sharp and entering a room with so many toiletries, so many soaps or creams. The ghost’s acute sense of smell was instantly attacked by all the perfumes floating around in that cramped space. He squinted, feeling a headache coming by just how strong the scents where.

-“Oh, this is going to be awful, isn’t it…” he murmured to himself, forcing his legs to move forward. Warmness and humidity floated in the room along with the smells. The bathroom wasn’t very big, despite having been made for the royalty. A big bathtub was in front of him, adjacent to the wall, full of steaming water. The bathtub, just like the bathroom itself, had brown and dark green as the main colour scheme. The walls were beautifully textured and, at some places, had a wooden inlay. Just like he remembered.

Snatcher jumped when something moved in the corner of his vision. He almost facepalmed when it turned out to be his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. He stopped for a few seconds, looking at himself: apparently, humans could look even deader than actual ghosts, good to know. His face was pale, and he had dark rings around his eyes. He had slept plenty the night before, though the day had been quite gruelling, both physically and emotionally speaking. The shade ran his hand through his hair as he sighed longly. Yeah, maybe a bath could be good for him, right now. He threw a last glance at his reflection before turning away. He didn’t want to undress while facing it. Being inside a human body was already disgusting as it was, he didn’t need to see himself naked even more than what he was forced to!

As he turned away, he noticed a pile of clean and elegant clothes on a small table near the sink. They were carefully folded, probably by Simeon. The thought made him anxious again. He didn’t know why, however, he couldn’t help but have a very bad feeling about the “butler”. What he had just seen earlier was quite revealing on the dangerous nature of this new opponent: the latter had been able to scare Vanessa so easily, and Snatcher was sure that it wasn’t an empty threat. Whoever was that guy, he was powerful enough to threaten Vanessa and powerful enough to create a whole dimension himself. This was quite discouraging, to say the least. In this body, Snatcher clearly had no chance.

The ghost shook his head. He needed to think about a plan, not about how risky his situation was. Plus, he hated to think about it, but… he couldn’t forget the fact that he wasn’t alone: the kid was still on her spaceship. She was safer there than where he was, so, for now, the ghost only had to worry about himself.

Turning his back to the mirror, he started to undress. In the right pocket of his pants was the remote given by the hat-wearing brat. It was a bright yellow device with a huge red button in its centre. According to her, if he ever needed to flee or to come onto her spaceship, he would only need to press the button, and it would teleport him to her living room. Snatcher didn’t need to use it right now; however, this was a device he absolutely couldn’t allow himself to lose. He hid it in his used pile of clothes while reminding himself that he would have to take the remote with him before giving said clothes to the servants.

He put the pile on the ground and faced a shelf on which were stocked several soaps, shower gels, shampoos and creams. The ghost frowned, as he tried to remember which was which. Some were missing any label to tell the shade what was what, and he ended up using his memory to pick the good products. He wasn’t really sure but, hey, smelling good was the most important part, right? Plus, it’s not like he would be using this poor excuse of a body more than a few days, so having a wash was just a formality at this point.

He put the products on one of the edges of the bathtub and, slowly and cautiously, entered the bath, starting with the left leg. The instant the warm water touched his skin, Snatcher couldn’t help but get his leg out quickly. The hot temperature associated with his acute sense of touch… it was almost too much.

The ghost hesitated. Should he wait for the water to cool down? The idea of taking a cold bath didn’t tempt him very much, even less than a warm bath. After a few seconds debating with himself, Snatcher rolled his eyes: he had seen much worse than hot water! He was a ghost who had killed many people, for God’s sake!

Still unsure, the shade tried entering the bath again. The hardest part was to ignore his brain screaming at him to get out. The water wasn’t burning, the problem was completely different: Snatcher had forgotten what water felt around his skin, and the new sensation made him extremely uneasy. Plus, the pain in his legs was still there. However, he managed to stay calm and let his body sink under the water, slowly. He gradually let his muscles relax one after the other. With time, he was soon lying down in the bathtub, his head on the headrest behind him.

“Now what?” he wondered, ill-at-ease. He knew what he had to do in theory, yes, but actually doing it was quite… awkward. Not only was he terribly uncomfortable at the idea of touching his own body meticulously, but the action felt so foreign to him as well. Even if he was able to stand up or move his arms without too much difficulty, doing precise gestures was… a little more complicated.

Snatcher carefully took one of the bottles of shower gels and poured some on his other hand, clumsily. A small portion of it fell in the water and the ghost sighed, irritated by his own heavy-handedness. He absolutely couldn’t wait to be back in his spectral form! At least, this one was easy to move around.

Washing himself after so many years without doing so was definitely an experience to Snatcher. His movements were gauche, and he almost let the shampoo bottle fall in the water. Other than that, the feeling of warmness around him was… not bad, if he had to be completely honest. Yes, it had made him uneasy at first, but now that several minutes had passed, the shade felt truly relaxed for the first time in days.

He rinsed his head and skin underwater, and eventually settled in the bathtub, letting his mind wandering around. The first thought that came to him was the “Simeon” problem. The shade had absolutely no idea about who that guy could be. But what was even harder to figure out was the stranger’s motives. What did he want? In what way could all of this benefit him at all? Snatcher didn’t know. He felt like there was some missing piece in his mind, and that he wouldn’t be able to understand anything without it.

The ghost was getting nowhere; he didn’t have enough information to try and guess who that “Simeon” could be. Though, he was certain of one thing: “Simeon” was only a disguise. There was no way the real Simeon could have helped Vanessa build this dimension, as the butler was dead in the present. So… it was only a mask, used to fool him and possibly Vanessa. From what he had heard before, he couldn’t be completely sure if she was aware of the stranger’s disguise or not. However, it was probable, as she wouldn’t have been scared of her own butler otherwise.

Snatcher let his head sink underwater as his mind was trying to come up with hypothesises, in vain. Maybe the kid would know more about what was going on? He supposed that she probably looked up for clues as well, along with fixing her spaceship.

When the ghost felt the need to breathe again, he got his head out of the water and sat down in the bathtub. How long had he been in the bathroom? There was no clock in the room, so there was no real way to know. However, judging from the wrinkles on the tip of his fingers, long enough to get out now.

Grabbing one of the nearby towels, the shade stood up and started wiping his wet body. The action was uncomfortable; not only getting out of the warm water made him feel cold suddenly, but the towel wasn’t really soft and scratched his skin. He quickly dried the rest of his body, wanting nothing more than for it to be over with.

The shade then grabbed the clean clothes and put them on, not without the usual clumsiness associated with his human body. He was now wearing an elegant dark purple shirt, decorated with golden embroidery on the collar. The shoulder pads were golden as well, from which were sewed many strings in the same colour. A long and graceful yellow cape came with it, and Snatcher put it on as well. He was also wearing dark brown skin-tight pants and black and golden boots.

Once fully dressed, the shade made sure to take the remote from his old clothes, this time hiding it in his left boot, against his calf. It was not a pleasant sensation, but it was the best hiding spot with this kind of apparel. He just hoped he wouldn’t press on the button by accident.

He came back to the mirror to do his head, and couldn’t help but be surprised at how much a bath could do to his face. He still looked tired, but at least it was less obvious. He looked so much better- less pale now. He supposed he really did need this bath, after all. And, even if he didn’t like to admit anything relatively positive on his human body, he couldn’t deny the fact that he was more handsome than usual, which was… a good thing? He didn’t know what to think of it, and most of his emotions were mixed feelings: pride, and irritation. In the end, it was hard for him to really think of this body as his. Sure, he recognized his reflection! But the whole situation was extremely weird and uncomfortable for him.

He was about to look away when, suddenly, the surface of the mirror turned completely black. It happened in a blink, and it instantly caught back Snatcher’s attention on it. The ghost’s knitted his brows, examining the surface with caution. What was that? The kid had never talked about that kind of thing!

The shade lifted his hand and, with hesitation, slowly put a finger against the cold surface. He was almost surprised to see that nothing seemed very much different, apart from the sudden non-reflective nature of the mirror. It didn’t reflect anything, as if someone had painted it black entirely. The texture was yet just as smooth as before, which was strange.

Snatcher stepped back, trying to find any explanation regarding that weird phenomenon. Yet, everything looked just as normal. Or, well, almost everything. When his eyes fell on the bath, still full of water, he noticed something very peculiar: the foam of the shower gel was not above the water like it should have been, floating on the surface. Instead, it was floating underneath the water level. This sight made the ghost pause, as if his brain was trying to decode something which was wrong in the first place... as if he was trying to explain an optical illusion. He simply couldn’t. All he knew was that it wasn’t supposed to happen.

-“What the…?” He turned around, trying to find new evidence of weirdness in his surroundings. Something else felt wrong, but, at first, nothing looked out of the ordinary. It took him a while to figure out what was bothering him, and yet it was so obvious: his shadow on the ground didn’t correspond to his human one. It was his spectral one, which had no legs.

The realization made him lose his balance, and he had to hold onto the sink not to fall down. What was happening? Was the rift already collapsing? The kid had told him they had several days left, not a few hours!

Snatcher’s breathing quickened, just like his heartbeat, while he looked all around himself, trying to look for any sign of danger. His eyes moved and examined every suspicious object. However, a few seconds passed without anything new happening. The ghost waited for a bit, trying to find anything unusual. He blinked and looked around, only to realize that things went back to normal.

Snatcher didn’t know how to react. His first reaction was to check on his shadow, in order to see if it was still his spectral one. It wasn’t anymore. Just the regular human one with legs. Behind him, the mirror was back to its previous state, showing the reflection of the room just like his.

The spirit looked just like he had seen a ghost. The thought made him laugh grudgingly as he ran his hand through his hair. It took him a moment to calm down. Okay. So the rift was doing unexpected things, just like the white cracks he had seen the day before, though these were apparently the brat’s doing. Was what just happened caused by the kid’s actions, too? He really hoped so, as the contrary could only mean one thing: the dimension was collapsing much quicker than what they had anticipated, and, in that case, they really needed to leave right now. The guy associated with Vanessa seemed to want him to stay there, though. Was he aware of the instability of the rift? If so, what was he trying to do? There were many faster ways to permanently make a ghost disappear! So why bother with a plot like this? It didn’t make any sense, but that wasn’t really new to Snatcher. Nothing made sense in that dimension.

He had to find that Time Piece and bring it to the hat-wearing child.

Once he got his breathing under control again, he straightened up, looking at his reflection once more. Well, at least he looked more presentable now. His surroundings seemed to stay normal. Maybe it was just a false alarm? He hated to say it... even think about it, but… the ghost couldn’t help but wish for the kid to reassure him, as she was the only person able to explain what was going on to him. He quickly pushed away that thought from his mind. Ha, good one, him wishing the child was there with him, pshhh. Damn human brain and human thoughts.

After a few minutes, the shade shook his head and pulled himself together. Now was not the time; he had things to do, especially that doctor appointment in his room. The sooner he would be able to walk without wincing, the better! And, in the middle of the night, he would try and look for the Time Piece in the manor.

He opened the bathroom door and left the room. He definitely had a lot in his plate.

The spirit walked back to his bedroom and, just to be sure, stick his ear on the door. However, no voices could be heard. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

A man was standing near the windows, looking at the outside with interest. He seemed to be in his late forties and had salt-and-pepper hair. He was wearing a long black coat and was holding a leather satchel. Said man turned towards Snatcher as he heard the door opening behind him.

-“Oh, Prince Alistel!” exclaimed the man, bowing with respect before continuing. “Excuse me for the intrusion. My name is Walter Gyfford. I’m the doctor you asked for.”

Snatcher suddenly realized he had a role to play and put a fake smile on his lips as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. He stepped forward to meet the doctor:

-“Oh, of course!” the shade replied with an insincere joy. He then pointed at himself. “Hum, do I need to undress?” What was the use of letting him new clothes if he had to take them off a few minutes later? The man smiled and shook his head as he let out a small laugh.

-“No, no, you don’t have to, I can heal your legs through your clothes.” The doctor then pointed to the   bed with his hand. “Please sit on the bed, if that’s alright with you, your majesty.”

Snatcher hated those names. He had nothing to do with royalty anymore, and really didn’t want to, anyway. Yet, he said nothing and kept his polite expression on his face, reluctantly sitting down on the mattress. He carefully took his boots off, doing his best not to press the button on the remote still hidden in his shoes. Snatcher had to stop himself from letting out a sigh of relief as he put the shoes aside.

The doctor kneeled in front of him, opening his satchel and taking out very different items, such as plants and crystals. It took him a while for him to settle everything down as he wanted, but eventually rose his head to meet Snatcher’s stare.

-“I’m sorry, it might hurt a bit, since it’s a serious injury. Tell me when you’re ready.”

Snatcher couldn’t help but laugh at the doctor’s attempt to reassure him. He had been left to die in a cellar! What could be more painful than that? No matter how painful something could be, he could take it at this point!

-“Don’t worry about me, I’m ready,” he flippantly replied, shaking his head, this time with a sincere smile painted on his lips. The doctor seemed hesitant at his answer, but simply nodded as he began to use his magic.

Snatcher didn’t think it would be that painful. Maybe it only lasted a few minutes, but it lasted far, far more to the ghost. Healing magic wasn’t so painful usually, though his situation wasn’t really usual in itself. He could feel things moving in his legs as the doctor was trying to fix what was broken or just injured in general. Staying motionless was extremely hard, and he had to stop his body from crying from how intense it was for him. It was utterly humiliating. The pain was so strong and made him want nothing more than just rip the guy’s throat open. Fortunately for the latter, the pain started to fade the moment Snatcher seriously considered that option.

The doctor stepped back, his forehead sweating. His face clearly showed how uncomfortable he was at the moment.

-“Are you alright, my Prince?” asked the doctor, continuing in a more reassuring tone. “It’s over now. It won’t hurt anymore.”

Snatcher felt like he was being spoken to like a child, and he loathed that. Though he had to push his pride aside to stay in character. God, he hated having to act like the dumb prince he used to be.

-“Thank you,” he still managed to say, gritting his teeth to gulp down all the threats that might come out of his mouth. He wanted to kill that man so bad now. Luckily for the doctor, Snatcher was in no condition to do so, especially since he also needed to keep a low profile. But that didn’t prevent him from imagining himself doing so. It was deeply enjoyable.

Well, at least, his legs felt good for once, so he supposed that it was worth it. The doctor eventually stood up and bowed once again to him.

-“I’m sorry it was painful. Make sure to limit the physical efforts, and you’ll be perfectly fine!”

The spirit simply replied by a nod, as the doctor turned towards the door. No physical efforts? Well, this was going to be difficult with what he had in mind for the night, but he obviously kept that part for himself.

Just as the doctor was about to leave, he turned to Snatcher and spoke once again:

-“Oh, I almost forgot!” he said, raising his eyebrows as he continued. “Your butler tasked me to tell you that dinner will be ready soon.”

Snatcher’s heart sank in his chest as he suddenly realized that having his legs healed meant that he would have to eat outside of his bedroom. In the dining room. With Vanessa.

This day was never going to end, was it?

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_ 

Sorry if this chapter was a little calm compared to the others, but it was needed for the story. The next chapter is going to be wild, don't worry :) I hope you still liked that chapter despite the lack of action !

As for when the next chapter will come out... It'll depend on the surprise, so if I'm not posting as fast as usual, please assume that I'm working on the fanfic in the meantime and/or on another AHIT fanfiction that I may or may not currently write. We'll see :)

And if you want to support me in the meantime, you can watch an ad on Utip. Thank you!

Please stay safe everyone !

=> Chapter 14

[wavesmp3]

let’s make a trade: the sun for the stars; platonic jihoon x reader artist!jihoon, nude model!reader (so warning: mentions of nudity) wc. 2.1k

a/n: this fic is just a complete mess of a piece, absolutely no plot and was meant to be part text fic, just mainly a lot of random dialogue that came to me at 2 am tbh, also basically an ‘i’ll give you the sun’ fanfic because i love jandy nelson’s writing a/n 2: really read at your own risk, this isn’t even a fic this is like a half-baked outline at best

— 

Jihoon thinks there’s something profoundly odd with nude art. What’s the purpose of nude drawings and painting and sculptures anyways? He knows of course what he’s been told the purpose is, in fact the instructor is rattling on about the purpose of nude drawings right now. It’s to capture the emotion, the stress, the lines, and the contours that would normally be hidden behind layers and layers of polyester and cotton clothes. It’s to capture beauty; take the fascination humans have with each other and mark them down forever. It’s to showcase the skill of the artist. Of course, today, with the nude model in the center of the classroom, the exercise is meant to bring out the latter purpose. But jihoon thinks there’s something more to drawing someone nude. There’s a vulnerability in it. It’s a vulnerable place for you, the model to be in. Because it’s more than just being naked. It’s subjecting yourself to be picked apart, piece by piece. It’s letting yourself be seen by a million different lenses. It’s letting the artists convey the little things, like the way you sit, or the way your bones come together, or how you have that one vein in your neck and forehead that sticks out a little more than the others. It’s putting on display the birthmark in between your collarbone and shoulder, the tattoo under the curve of your hip and the other one on your wrist. Jihoon knows he’s supposed to draw you as you’re seen, work from the inside out, bone blood then skin. But then why is it that he takes his pencil and sketches your vulnerability. (Portrait: The Naked Model Wearing Vulnerability As Clothes). 

—

“Smoking kills,” Jihoon scowls exiting from the art building a little earlier than normal, “you know that right?” 

You squint up at him. Sitting on the doorstep of the classroom and taking an extra long drag. Just in spite. 

“Yeah,” you mumble, driving the cigarette straight to the earth's core, “I know.” You stomp your foot against the bud, and the entire world shakes a little when you do. You stand up and look at Jihoon. You look angry. You didn’t hold this emotion in between your brows before. Maybe it’s new. Or maybe you’re just good at hiding it. Jihoon isn’t good at that. He wears his emotions on his sleeve and in his knees.

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “Is class over then?” You ask pointing towards the closed double doors. 

He shakes his head. “No, I got kicked out.” 

“For what?” You chuckle, but it comes out like a scoff. 

Jihoon shrugs. “Not completing the assignment.” 

You suck in your bottom lip. “Let’s see it then.” He blinks at you. You nod towards the sketch book he has tucked under his arm. Jihoon mutters a silent ‘oh’ before opening the book and flipping to the page where he drew you. You take it from him wordlessly. 

He supposes he should be scared by this. But he isn’t. It feels more like returning a favor. Because now he’s the one in a vulnerable position. But you take a long time to look at the drawing. You take years to dissect each line and shading. You burn over every inch of paper until the entire book is bursting into flames in your hands. He lets you take your time. You look up at him, something indescribable in your eyes. Something like fear or awe or wonder. You look at him like you would running into an ex-friend. Jihoon feels more than just vulnerable now. He feels like you’ve ripped behind his skin straight to the muscle and bones. (Portrait: A Bundle Of Muscles In The Outline of Person). He feels naked. He wants to feel no more. 

“So—“ 

You shush him immediately. Accidentally silencing the entire world. And after another lifetime of you staring at the one page, the one singular drawing, you’re finally done. 

“It’s really good.” You breathe. Jihoon senses a but. “But it isn’t me.” 

He says it plainly. “It’s a version of you to me.” (Portrait: The Way You See Yourself Looking In A Mirror; The Way He Sees You Looking Out). “Don’t most models leave after the modeling?” 

“I’m waiting for my boyfriend.” You hand him back the sketchbook. “Well, see you around I guess.” You turn back towards the double doors of the art building. And right before you’re swallowed whole by the red brick and air conditioning, you lift up your hand in a silent goodbye without looking back. And you do it in an almost cocky manner as if you know he’s watching you go. In your defense, he is. 

—

The next time he sees you is in the same class later that week. Apparently, nude sketching is a week long lesson. Your pose is a little different this time. Hands covering certain parts, head turned away. Today, the instructor wants them to focus on conveying emotion through the body alone, no face. He does as he’s told. He draws you as you are, as others would see. He draws something that won’t get him kicked out of class. And on the next page, he draws you the way he wants. Something more abstract. Focusing on the strain in your neck and arch in your back. He highlights the insecurities you’ve dropped by your feet and creates a shadow around the confidence you wear around your head. 

 —

[unknown number, 17:12]: hey it’s the nude model [unknown number, 17:12]: lol that’s probably not a normal greeting [unknown number, 17:13]: but anyways, this might be weird but I was kinda wondering if i could see what you drew in class today, you didn’t get kicked out so im curious. [unknown number, 17:15]: oh alos i got your number from mingyu lol hope thats not creepy [unknown number, 17:15]: *also

[jihoon, 22:37]: oh mingyu is your bf, yeah i’ve heard about you [jihoon, 22:38]: i can’t say it’s not creepy but here [jihoon, 22:40]: image.0315

[you, 23:04]: only good things i hope, also i can see why you didn’t get kicked out this time it’s nice [you, 23:04]: but [you, 23:04]: from what i can tell, it doesn’t really seem like your style

[jihoon, 23:54]: image.0316 

[you, 23:57]: yeah that’s more like it

—

The third time he sees you is at the end of the semester party. In truth, Jihoon is partly avoiding you. You text him a lot. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t getting mildly annoying. 

He’s talking to Jeonghan and Soonyoung when a tipsy you and an even tipsier Mingyu make your way over to the couch and fall into the cushions. And something about the way you look at each other as if you’re kissing with your eyes. Something about the way you whisper something in his ear and he laughs. Something about the way he whispers something back, taking your hand in his and playing absentmindedly with your fingers. Makes Jihoon think that the two of you are so caught up with each other. Too focused on swallowing each other whole. That the walls could fall and the sky could come bursting into the room and neither of you would bat an eye. 

(Portrait: You And Mingyu Tearing Down The Walls And The Clouds)

Jihoon’s taking out his sketchbook and a pencil before he realizes it himself. 

—

“Hey let’s play a game,” you say while you and Jihoon are waiting for the movie to start playing in the movie theater. “where we each claim pieces of the universe for ourselves.” 

(Portrait: You And Jihoon Each Holding Half The Universe In Your Palms) 

“Sure.” Jihoon waits a moment, thinking which part of the universe he’d like to claim first. “I call the stars.” 

“Fuck,” you whisper into the popcorn, “I want the stars.” 

“You snooze you loose.” 

“It’s my game.” 

“Okay and?” 

You roll your eyes dramatically. “Anyways I call the sun.”

Jihoon: “Moon.” 

You: “Earth.” 

He takes a sip of his cola. “And everything in it?” 

“No just the planet.” 

“Okay… I call the other planets.” 

“That’s a lot at once but I’ll let it slide as long as I get to have Pluto.” 

Jihoon shakes his head in a laugh. “Plutos barely a planet but yeah, go crazy.”

“Bet. And next…” you tap on your chin in thought, “next I want the asteroid belt.” 

“I want the Hubble Telescope.” 

You squint at him. “You’re weird.” 

“Says the one who just called the asteroid belt.” 

You press a finger to your lips. “The movies about to start.” 

—

[you, 9:23]: btw I call all bodies of water [jihoon, 9:32]: that is such a catch all [you, 9:33]: hey you can have rain [jihoon, 9:33]: bruh [jihoon, 9:33]: fine i’ll take rain but i call mountains too [you, 9:34]: i want flowers [jihoon, 9:34]: i want trees and beyonce [you, 9:35]: no way you can’t call ppl [jihoon, 9:35]: so you can call ALL bodies of water but i can’t call beyonce [you, 9:35]: my game my rules [jihoon, 9:36]: it was worth a try [you, 9:38]: oh i got a good one [you, 9:39]: i call music [jihoon, 9:40]: N O [you, 9:40]: we can stop here for today [jihoon, 9:41]: this game is so biased [jihoon, 9:41]: I WANT MUSICCC!!!!!! [you, 9:41]: whine about it more and i’ll call art too [jihoon, 941]: icallarticallarticallart [you, 9:41]: ur welcome [jihoon, 9:42]: u suck

—

“Hey,” you greet coming into jihoon’s apartment, with a frantic text about needing to escape for a bit. Luckily, you explain so jihoon doesn’t have to ask. “We broke up. Mingyu and I.”

“Oh.” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine though. Really.” (Portrait: You and a Lie Detector Flashing Red)

Jihoon opens and closes his mouth trying to figure out the best way to comfort you without coddling you. He settles for, “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

You inhale sharply. “No. Not really.” You sit on his couch and turn on the tv. After a moment, jihoon joins you. 

And it’s 20 minutes into whatever program you’ve chosen to watch that Jihoon finally knows what to say. “Hey,” he whispers, you turn your head towards him, “you wanted the stars right?” you raise a single eyebrow. “Take them.” 

“Really?” you say suspicious. 

“Yeah,” he nods, then with a smile adds, “but it’s gonna cost you.” you roll your eyes knowingly. “I want the sun.” 

You purse your lips in thought. Then after a minute, agree. And so a trade is made: the sun for the stars. 

—

[a/n: undeveloped bit of dialogue that would have gone somewhere] Reader: Are we about to kiss Jihoon: What ew no Reader: Ew? I mean I agree but ew? That’s harsh Jihoon: don’t make it personal Reader: Okay you know I have a bf right Jihoon: Oh my god I’m not into you Reader: Not even a little bit Jihoon: No Reader: Not even like last two people on earth into me Jihoon: No Reader: Ouch Jihoon: You’re the one who asked Reader: Still hurts to hear

—

[a/n: for context before this reader was supposed to give jihoon music] “Do you know how to play?” you ask, fingers ghosting the keys of the piano in jihoon’s apartment. 

“Of course. Why would I have one if I didn't?”

You shrug. “Play me something.” 

He sits down on the bench and plays a tune he memorized years ago. One that starts happy and shifts key into something almost unrecognizable. Not sad, not angry, but a fireball of emotions. Or at least, that’s how Jihoon’s old teacher described the piece.

“Hey, jihoon,” you say as he holds out on the last note of the song. 

“Yeah”

“I’m glad I gave you music.” 

“Oh,” he says, voice turning mischievous, “me too.” He starts playing a new song. 

“Is that-” you sit up slightly “Is that the Wii theme music?” Jihoon hums along. “I take it back.”

—

[h-styles-babes]

THIRTEEN

“Thanks for givin’ us the Friday off, boss,” Sia snickered, resting her head back against her towel. They were out on the lawn, going through a more intense yoga routine than they had at the beginning of the week. Sia had requested a bit of a leisurely stretch before they got started, since it was such a nice day. She just wanted to enjoy the sun in peace for a few moments.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry laughed, shoving lightly at her shoulder, jostling her side to side gently.

Sia laughed. “Oh, don’t pretend like yeh don’t like the title. Besides, I do actually appreciate the extra day off. Feel like I’ve been working for three weeks straight.”

“Best three weeks of your life, though,” Mitch piped up from his place under the shade of the awning attached to the back of the house. He had his feet kicked up on the wicker coffee table, a crime novel in hand, glasses perched on his nose. They had tried to entice him into joining their yoga session, but he had vehemently disagreed and plopped down in the chair with his book.

“That’s neither here nor there,” Sia argued. Really, for her career, the three weeks had been amazing. It was nearly unheard of that a twenty-three year old had a producer credit on an album by such a big name artist, so she would be eternally grateful to Jeff for including her on this project. For her personal life, however, it had been a bit of a rollercoaster. Hopefully all the lows were behind her, though.

It had been a few days since her and Harry had had their little heart-to-heart on the beach, and it had been a pretty smooth, comfortable few days. It was sort of humourous how easily they had fallen back into being friends. Sia had thought, at best, it would have taken them another week or so to whisk away all the awkwardness that had plagued their relationship before. However, she was pleasantly surprised when she’d woken up the following morning, and Harry was greeting her in the kitchen with a friendly greeting, an already-prepared cuppa, and a bowl of his overnight oats that she’d always loved. They’d taken their breakfast out into the backyard and chatted in the pale morning light. It looked like it was going to rain that day, and they reminisced on the stormy mornings in that they had shared back in England.

Much of the rest of the week had gone the same way, with Harry and Sia in much better moods and actually joking around together. Jeff Azoff had shot them a slightly concerned yet amused look in the studio the next day when Sia had piped in over the speaker into the booth to tease Harry about the note he’d horribly missed, and they’d both cackled about it for a few moments before Harry did another take. Mitch did all he could to hide his pleased smiles whenever the two of them did something that made the other laugh. He was sure this is what their dynamic had been like before everything had fallen apart between them.

Harry and Sia did a bit more of a rigourous yoga session that morning, seeing as they had the whole day off and nothing else planned. Mitch watched on, with a little trepidation and worry, as they twisted their bodies into some shapes he was sure were not supposed to be possible. They even did a thing where Harry hoisted Sia into the air, balanced by her lower back on the flats of his feet and his hands cupping her shoulders and she stretched back, her hands planting on the floor besides Harry’s head. Mitch barely held back a grimace.

After they’d done a few cool down stretches, they each went and took a shower to get prepared for the day. They didn’t have any official plans, but they’d decided earlier that morning that it was a good day to get some sightseeing in while the weather was nice. There were some beaches that Mitch had wanted to visit, and Sia knew there had to be some cool little coves around the island where they could all get some privacy. Maybe even do some cliff jumping if the water permitted. It was going to be a weekend of relaxation, and everyone was really looking forward to it.

After her shower, Sia braided her hair and put on a simple white bathing costume under a pair of denim cutoff shorts and an old Van Halen t-shirt she’d had for way too long. It had been so whole riddled at one point that she had to cut at the hem and make it a crop top to make it functional again. That was one thing her and Harry had always had in common: they’d wear their favourite pieces of clothing until they were worn and falling apart just because they loved them so much. She’d actually been the reason for quite a few of the holes worn into Harry’s shirts over the years, and she wasn’t sorry. The clothes were well loved.

When she was ready, she met the boys in the kitchen. Mitch and Harry were laughing while chatting over a bowl of shared grapes at the kitchen counter. She was happy to see that the two were getting along so swimmingly. She could tell even early on that Harry had wanted to create a close bond with Mitch. Rowland was the exact type of person that Harry wanted and needed in his life because he was steady and grounded and a completely normal person that liked Harry for the person he was and not the opportunities he provided from his fame. And she had been really afraid that her quick friendship with Mitch amidst her unspoken feud with Harry would really hinder the development of any possible relationship between the two. She was glad to see everything was going great despite her interference.

“You lot ready?” she asked, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

Both the boys’ heads popped up and they both grinned at her, Harry giving her that toothy one she couldn’t help but love, and Mitch flashing her a closed mouth smile. They were both sort of adorable for grown men, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes at herself.

~*~*~*~

About an hour after they’d left the house, the trio had found a little alcove on the island, about two miles down the beach, nestled in between big palm trees and other tropical plants. The water was crystal clear and the eyelet shape made it so the waves just barely lapped at the shore. It was calm and beautiful and Sia had wasted no time in laying out her towel and plopping herself down onto it.

In true Harry fashion, however, he’d demanded that everyone put suncream on before they got too comfortable and didn’t want to do it. Sia wanted to be annoyed, but she knew she’d end up getting sunburnt and she’d be really upset looking like a lobster for the next few days. So, she’d complied and happily took the bottle Harry passed her. She shed her outer layers to properly apply the lotion. She didn’t realise until she’d gotten to her stomach after moving on from her legs that Harry was sort of staring at her.

“What?” she questioned when he didn’t avert his gaze.

Harry furrowed his brows before answering her. “When’d yeh get that?”

Sia was confused about what he meant, looking down at where his eyes were apparently trained on her lower torso. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to her, as she gazed down at the ring threaded through her bellybutton and the line of Beatles lyrics that curved the underside of her right breast. However, when her eyes landed on the little sketched bird that just peeked over the edge of her swimsuit at her left hip. Harry hadn’t been there for that one, unlike the other ones littered in random places on her body. Her first had been the crescent moon on the inside of her left wrist when she was seventeen. The second had been the dainty sunflower on her right ankle when she was eighteen. Then there was The Beatles lyrics, aforementioned, and the music notes behind her right ear, her maternal grandmother’s name, Hazel, written in the crease of her right elbow. Her work wasn’t as extensive as Harry’s but he’d been there for every one of them. Except for the little bird.

“Uh…” Sia responded dimly. “January.”

Harry could tell that whatever the bird symbolised for Sia was touchy, so he wasn’t going to push.

“It’s beautiful,” he told her, deciding to leave it be. If she didn’t want him to know, he wouldn’t dig around for information.

Sia let her shoulders drop when she realised he let it go, letting herself relax. She’d tell him about it eventually, just like everything else that she had yet to relay to Harry, but she wasn’t ready just yet. She’d made a lot of progress in the past few weeks, but she wasn’t quite there yet. She still had to have a conversation with her therapist, and after that, maybe she’d be ready.

They all finished applying their suncream and settled onto the towels to let it sink into their skin. Sia hated just applying the lotion and then stepping into the water, just to see the oils seeping into the space around her. It made her feel like she was doing some not so great things to the water, as well as just washing off all the hard work she had just put in to protect her against the sun. She figured letting it sit for about twenty minutes or so was for the best.

As they were all lying there, sunglasses shielding their eyes from the bright rays, Harry began humming a tune that Sia didn’t recognise. It was rare that there was a song Sia hadn’t heard at least once or twice, so hearing the sultry tune vibrating in Harry’s chest made her guess it was a song he was in the process of writing.

“What’s that you’re hummin’?” she asked him, not opening her eyes.

Harry finished humming what was most likely the chorus before answering her. “A song Mitch and I have been workin’ on. From that bass beat Mitch was playin’ that first day we were in the studio. Comin’ along nicely. Might start recording tracks next week.”

“We’ve gotta finish this one first, H,” she reminded him. They’d been working on a more upbeat song that reminded her of something that would have been popular in the early 90s. It was catchy and something that would be easy for his fans to learn and sing along to at concerts. Not that Sia thought he’d really have any problem with people learning his lyrics. His fans were dedicated to a point of being obsessive. She’d seen it first hand on all those tours and just general outings. Not all of them were hardcore, but they were all dedicated, for sure.

“I know, but it should be done by Tuesday at the latest,” he reasoned. “After this, I wanna get started on this song.”

“Have yeh taken it up with Alex?”

While Jeff was still back in America, Alex was the lead on this project, making sure everything was going well and on a sort of schedule. He was also Sia’s mentor for the time being, and most big decisions she deferred to him when they came up. While he trusted her to make decisions, too, she felt more comfortable taking his lead for situations that could make or break the album-making process.

“Suggested it. Said as long as we can get ‘Anna’ done by Tuesday, it’s a go.”

“Sounds good,” Sia agreed. She peered over at Harry and lowered her sunnies to get a better look at him. The blue shade of the lenses sort of distorted everything. “Really liked what Mitch did with it before. Kinda excited to hear where it goes.”

“You’re gonna love it,” Mitch assured, reaching over to pat Sia twice on the ankle.

Sia watched as Harry flashed Mitch a look she’d seen herself and been on the receiving end of a million times before. It was a look she’d received when she’d giggled Harry’s embarrassing stories to his sister at Christmas, and when she’ gave Nick the idea to make Harry call his stylist and demand he wanted tights to wear under his jeans. It was his affronted look, and it was very clear that Mitch had said something that Harry didn’t want him to, probably especially to Sia.

She would find that Mitch would be getting a lot of those looks in the weeks to come.