#maybe tucking flowers behind the cows ears

[defiledtomb]

A view from Y's office:

[theskywaslookingback]

hands

“Somehow I thought the place would have been smaller,” Martin says, bag slung over his shoulder as he looks up at the cottage. “It’s nicer than I would have given Daisy credit for.”

Jon hums, pulling his bag out of the boot of the car they’d borrowed from Basira and letting the lid fall shut with a heavy thunk. The cottage sits nestled at the base of a large hill, surrounded by lush green grass and the last vestiges of summer flowers. Far off in the distance a couple of cows graze lazily, just small dark shapes in the dying sunlight. Bugs hum in the air around them. It’s small and quiet, just the kind of place Jon thinks Daisy might have liked, actually.

The cottage itself is stone painted a stark white, with dark blue, peeling shutters closed tight to the windows. One of the shutters lies broken on the ground, and the glass it had been protecting is spider-webbed with cracks. Two terra cotta flower pots sit on either side of the front door, both empty. There was no evidence that a welcome mat had ever been laid between them. To the left of the door was a box filled with what had once been firewood but was now damp with mist and rot. Jon shuddered to think about creatures they might find lurking in the bottom of that box.

“Charming,” Jon says, the corner of his mouth turned down in distaste. He finds the key in a false rock on the right side of the cottage, just where Basira had said it would be, and lets them inside.

It’s clear from the moment they step inside that Daisy had not visited this particular safe house in quite some time. The air inside the cottage is thick and unpleasantly cold, smelling of dust and age. Dust motes catch in the dim light of the bulb as Jon turns on the light, and he’s displeased to see cobwebs sitting stubbornly in the corners of the room. The wood floor looks old and worn, scratchy looking area rugs dotted along like haphazard patchwork quilt. Jon loathes to take his shoes off.

“Well,” Martin says from behind him, crowding in close, “at least the electric is working.”

Jon shoots a withering glare over his shoulder and steps inside, letting Martin close the door behind them. He drops his bag next to the uncomfortable mound of fabric that someone generous might have once called a settee and goes to check on the rest of the place.

Jon checks the taps in the kitchen and is relieved to find the water running. There’s an expired  box of Tetley’s in the pantry that will have to make do until they can make their way down to the village to do a proper bit of shopping, and a couple cans of peaches that might be passable as dinner or breakfast if he can convince Martin to eat them.

He can hear Martin moving about in the sitting room, the creak of the windows and shutters as Martin pushes them open to get the place aired out a bit. “Might be a bit chilly with the windows open,” Jon says.

“There’s a radiator,” Martin replies, “I’ll see about getting it on.”

“Right.”

The hall light flickers when he turns it on, but it gives him enough light to see by. The cottage itself has only four rooms - kitchen, sitting room, one bedroom, and one bath - and Jon can’t bring himself to be surprised that the only bed appears to be a full size. He checks the dresser drawers and finds them empty, thankfully, no nesting mice or other visitors.

The bed is a utilitarian thing. One pillow, though he’s frankly surprised it even has that, white sheets with tight tucked corners, and a navy blue duvet. Jon pulls it off the bed to shake off the dust and sneezes, his eyes watering. He opens the single window with a little difficulty, having to stand on his tip-toes to get it all the way open, and unlocks the shutters. Night has settled quickly over the little valley, but the moon is bright and nearly full, pouring silver light into the room.

When Jon makes his way back into the sitting room Martin is crouched in front of the radiator and frowning, the sleeves of his button down shirt rolled up to show the light brown skin of his forearm. He has a birthmark on his left arm, nestled next to the crease where his arm bends, a dark spot like a smudge of dirt that Jon wants to press his mouth to.

Jon clears his throat, the tips of his ears burning a little. “Any luck?”

Martin jerks a little, swinging his head up to look at him. Jon feels his mouth go a little dry at the sight if he’s honest. Martin’s dark hair sweeping over his forehead, those sleeves rolled back on those thick arms. He likes the look of Martin at work, those calm dark eyes fixed on a problem that Jon knows he’ll find a solution for. Martin sweeps his eyes over Jon, head to toe, before looking back at the radiator. “I don’t know what Daisy did to this thing, but I think it’s well and truly dead.”

“Did you try plugging it in?”

Martin gives Jon a glare worthy of one of his own and Jon feels his lips turn up into a grin without his permission. “It’s a gas radiator, Jon.” He sighs, “Hopefully the gas is just turned off and it’ll be an easy fix, but we’ll be stuck without it tonight.”

“That’s...not ideal.”

Martin hums in agreement.

Silence settles between them, a not unwelcome weight that Jon’s been getting used to the last few days. “Tea?” Jon asks after a moment for lack of anything more helpful to do.

“That would be lovely, actually. Did you find some?”

“Daisy had some in the pantry, it’s likely ancient, but--”

“Tea is tea.”

Jon wrinkles his nose but doesn’t outwardly disagree.

“I’ll just get some things put away then,” Martin says, picking his bag back up off the floor. “Do you want me to take yours?”

“Leave it. I’ll get it later.”

“Alright.”

Jon finds Daisy’s kettle under the sink and starts to wash it out when he hears Martin say something from down the hall. He turns off the water. “What?”

Martin appears in the entry, biting his lip. “There’s er, there’s only one bed.”

Jon furrows his eyebrows. “I’m aware. I saw the bedroom, Martin.”

“Yeah it’s just--“ Martin trails off, his cheeks flushing. “How are...how are we going to sleep?”

Jon remembers the two days they’d spent in his flat, sleeping in the same bed, their hands tangled together even when sleeping because the thought of being separated was too much to bear. But that had been right after Jon had walked Martin out of the Lonely, so he supposes those were extenuating circumstances, Martin needing an anchor to find himself again. It should be a relief that Martin feels safe enough to want a little distance again, but mostly it just sets off a dull ache in his chest.

Jon feels a sharp pain in his jaw and realizes he’s been clenching his teeth and makes an effort to relax, though his shoulders feel pinned next to his ears. Jon goes back to washing out the kettle, filling it with cool water to boil. He avoids Martin’s eyes and says, “I think there might be some spare linens in the closet. I can take the couch.”

Martin shifts, the old wood floor creaking under his foot. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look very comfortable.”

Jon shrugs. “I’ve slept on worse, when I do manage to sleep. It’ll be fine Martin.”

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Jon says with a finality he doesn’t feel.

He finds a couple of mugs in the cupboard that he rinses out before filling with water and letting the tea bags steep. He brings the mugs back into the sitting room and sets Martin’s down on the table. He takes a sip of his own and grimaces. It’s vile, but far from the worst tea he’s ever had so he makes himself drink it.

Martin appears a minute later from the bedroom  and takes his tea with a grateful little thanks before taking a sip and making a face.

“Tea is tea.” Jon mumbles.

“I’m not sure this still qualifies.” Martin says but drinks it anyway.

They drink the rest of their tea in silence. Martin volunteers to do the washing up while Jon gets his own things put away.

Martin has left him half the dresser for his clothes and made a space for him on the bathroom counter. It feels almost too intimate, their toothbrushes resting side by side, their clothes in the same drawer. Jon tries desperately not to think about it as he changes his clothes for bed and rifles through the little linen closet for a set of sheets.

He finds a set of dark gray sheets and a threadbare red throw blanket that he drags back out into the sitting room. The settee is as uncomfortable as it is ugly, hardly more than a couple of boulders masquerading as a sofa; Although, Jon has spent many a night sleeping on the floor or bent over his desk at the Archives, so maybe he has no real right to complain.

Martin turns off the kitchen light and waits awkwardly for him to finish, hovering around the edges like he wants to say something but doesn’t have the words. “Are you going to be warm enough?” He finally asks, eyes locked onto the throw blanket. The fabric is almost sheer in spots from wear and dotted with holes along one edge.

The chill is almost impossible to ignore, but Jon just shrugs, a jerky up and down motion of his shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, if you’re--“ Martin bites his lip, “Okay. Good night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

Martin disappears into the bedroom, turning the hall light off, and Jon lets out a shaky breath when he shuts the door behind him with an audible click.

*

Moonlight seeps in through the open windows, the chirp of crickets ringing along the countryside, a chill settling across the fields as if to prove winter will be along soon. Even in his long sleeve and trackie bottoms, two pairs of socks pulled up over his feet, Jon shivers. He keeps staring at the ceiling, tracing along crisscrossing cracks with his eyes. He kicks his feet and wraps the blanket further up his shoulder and tries to relax. The walls creak and shudder, old pipes groaning and settling inside the wall. Jon throws an arm over his eyes and tries not to think about it. He’s almost asleep when he hears the floorboards start to creak, the soft padding of footsteps coming from the hall.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice is soft, a little strained and raspy like he’s anxious, “Are you still awake?”

Jon sits up, rubbing a hand down the side of his face. “Yes, I’m still awake.”

“Oh,” Martin says. Jon can’t quite see him, can just make out the shape of him, long legs and broad shoulders. His arms wrapped around himself like he can’t keep warm. “It’s...it’s cold, isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“Might--” Martin clears his throat, “Might be easier if we slept together, yeah? Until we get the heating back up.”

“Are you--” Jon pauses, picking at a loose thread on the blanket, “Would you be okay with that?”

“Would I?” Martin blurts, “I, uh, would you? Be okay with that?”

“Of course. We shared before.”

“Yeah we…” Martin takes a step further into the room. The edges of him blur just a bit, and what Jon can make out of his face looks exhausted. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t, it--” Jon chokes on his own honestly, the lump of it hard and solid in his throat, “It’s okay when it’s you.”

Martin’s mouth drops open into a little ‘o’, a shocked exhale of breath coming from him.

Jon immediately wants to take it back. It’s too much, Jon knows, he’s always been too much at exactly the wrong time. He curls his fists into the blanket pooled at his waist, fighting back the sharp wave of panic that ‘this is it, this time he’s ruined it for good’.

“Okay,” Martin says softly, his lips turning up into a small smile that’s both soft and a little sad, “come on then, maybe we can still get a few hours in before sunrise.”

Jon swallows hard. The panic sits there in his chest, silent and waiting. “Okay,” He chokes out, “alright, let me just--” He gets up and takes the blanket with him, just to have something to do with his hands and follows Martin into the bedroom.

It’s just as cold in here as the rest of the house, but the way Jon’s fingers are trembling has nothing to do with the cold. He picks the side closer to the window, if only so he has something to stare at when he can’t sleep. Martin curls up next to him. The bed is so much smaller than his own back in London. Martin has to draw his legs up just to fit on the mattress, too tall and wide for the little bed. Jon fits just fine, but he’s a little worried about rolling off the mattress during the night. They’re perched precariously, sharing the same pillow, Martin’s warm breath at the back of Jon’s neck.

Eventually Martin sighs. “Here,” He says, shuffling a little behind Jon, “Can I--?” He hovers his hand over Jon’s waist.

It doesn’t-- it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that the bed is too small for two grown men, despite one being below average height, and it’s cold besides. That doesn’t stop Jon’s heart from beating hard and loud in his chest though, as he slowly nods.

Martin’s hands are large and strong and lovely. Jon’s breath catches when Martin’s arm curls around his waist and he’s pulled back against Martin’s chest. He can feel Martin’s heart beating against his back, thudding almost as loud and hard as his own. Martin’s fingers settle over his stomach, splaying out. Jon thinks his hand could almost cover it completely and it sets off another round of shivering in him that has nothing at all to do with the cold.

“Alright?” Martin whispers.

“Yes.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m-- it’s cold, Martin.”

Martin hums thoughtfully and lets go of Jon for just a moment, long enough to pull the duvet up higher around them before settling his hand back against Jon’s stomach. Jon curls his own hands in front of his face and grabs the blanket so hard his knuckles ache.

“Night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

Jon is sure there’s no way he could fall asleep like that, pressed so close to Martin that he can feel the warmth of him all along his body, but eventually he does.

[READ THE REST ON AO3]

[chilling-seavey]

Seasons Change (d.s.) - ONE

↳  A/N This one already holds a special place in my heart and it has barely even begun! Might be a bit slower on updates because I want to make sure it’s perfect for us all. Thank you to @stuffofseaveyy for your unwavering help with plotting this storyline out, @randomlimelightxxx for your excitement and help, and of course, @jonahlovescoffee​ for being my hype girl and the best mayor’s wife anyone could ask for ;)

↳ Summary: Everyone knows everything about everyone in this small rural town in east Connecticut and the handsome single father who owns the farm down the main street seems to always be the talk of the town. Balancing the care of his acreage, raising his school-age son, and coaching the local boys’ hockey team keeps Daniel busy; but his mind never strays far from the expansive and vibrant flower gardens planted outside his farmhouse.

↳ Word Count: 2520

↳ Warnings: This story touches on topics such as loss of loved ones and grief. Nothing too detailed but read at your own discretion x

If you weren’t looking, you would miss it. An hour-and-a-half drive east of Hartford, Connecticut rested a small town that barely occupied more than an intersection of space in time. On your way east towards state lines, a rectangular green sign half covered by an oak tree would welcome you to Lincoln – Population: 200. You’d leave the town before you even realized you were in it if you weren’t paying attention but maybe that’s how the locals liked it.

People moved to Lincoln to get away from the bustle of the city…it was full of those people who had ‘let’s ditch this town’ mindsets and set down roots in a section of the world where they wouldn’t be bothered. It was the type of town that lived in the lyrics of a country song: picture perfect homegrown peace where everyone knew everyone and everyone had a place. It was easy to know everyone in a town like Lincoln. Driving in from the city you would pass a white paneled church, a few small single storey houses with lengthy driveways, the red trimmed general store, a brick sided restaurant, a run down and rusted mechanic’s shop, and catch a glimpse of the small community center just past the park before being enveloped by the nothingness that middle-of-nowhere Connecticut was known for.

Not much happened in Lincoln – at least nothing that was worth noting. Sometimes a car would break down and a city dweller in a designer suit would find his way to the general store to ask for assistance or, more often, a coyote would be rumoured to be roaming at night but that was the extent of the excitement. The most exciting thing to do outside of day to day work was play hockey and it seemed to be the town’s pride and joy of a pastime. There was no such thing as ‘hockey season’ as hockey season was year round in the small town of Lincoln, Connecticut. The community center housed an ice rink that could be melted down to a basketball court but everyone stayed for the hockey. The Lincoln Lighting Junior and Senior leagues were usually the talk of the town. The school-aged boys (ages 7-13) played for the juniors and the later teens and most of the fathers played for the senior league. The captain of the senior league was the coach of the juniors and he owned one of the few farms a few paces north of the main intersection.

A father of one and the best hockey player Lincoln had ever seen, Daniel Seavey was more than one could expect from a small town man.

He wasn’t your everyday potato farmer with uneven tan lines or a body that housed more beer than muscle and, in fact, he was the talk and the eye candy of the town. At only twenty-nine, Daniel was the best of the best in Lincoln: best hockey player, best coach, best farmer, best guitarist, best father; and he had the sandy brown hair and sky blue eyes of a heartbreaker to top it all. At six feet tall, Daniel was slim and handsome, and yet had the muscles capable of running a farm and shooting slapshots like you wouldn’t believe. Daniel was quiet and polite and he innocently humoured the wives of the town as they flirted with him in front of their unimpressed husbands.

But no one could be mad at Daniel. Not when he was the first and only widow Lincoln had ever seen.

Marigold Seavey was twenty-six when she died in her bed at their farmhouse in the early hours of the morning. Her passing was the first major event to ever shake the town of Lincoln. Everyone knew everyone in this town and, that being said, everyone knew what a sunshiny soul Marigold was. Daniel, especially, seemed to have his light burnt out once she was buried behind the church at the corner of town. Some of the folks in town will tell you that the saddest sight they had ever seen was Daniel standing at the foot of his wife’s grave after the funeral with his six-year-old son holding his hand and the two of them crying silent tears into the fresh fall soil.

Despite Daniel’s quiet persona, he was strong and he knew he had to be for the sake of his young son. He couldn’t wallow in his grief for long since he had a son to raise and a farm to tend to and the generosity of the townsfolk certainly helped him to stay on his feet after his wife passed.

It had been a year-and-a-half since Marigold died. Daniel had just turned twenty-nine as March moulded into April and the winter chill was starting to fade into spring and the second birthday without her wasn’t any easier. The birthday cake baked by his neighbour wasn’t as delicious as Marigold’s classic lemon cake she would make him every year but he politely thanked the woman and dared not complain. Daniel would never complain over the niceties of the townsfolk.

That’s what came with living in such a small town; everyone had everyone’s back.

It was the first Sunday of April and the first truly nice spring day of the year. With a crisp breeze in the air, it was only just warm enough to discard the winter jackets and most of the town was gathered in the large backyard of the mayor’s house for the usual after-church brunch. On the colder Sundays, brunch was held in the main restaurant but everyone preferred to gather in the fresh air and over the crisp green grass of the mayor’s house as soon as the weather permitted.

The mayor’s house was the largest and had the most land outside of the farms that were just north of the main intersection in town. Jonah – known by the locals as such since he didn’t like the formality that came with the title of ‘Mayor Frantzich’ – and his wife Jocelyn kept a pretty house on the edge of the little town. They could be what you call the ideal small town family with two kids, a dog, and white picket fence – enough backyard space for it to be the perfect spot for weekly brunch.

The town children had space to play and stretch their legs after sitting for an hour in church and the yard was filled with the shouts from their games. The adults lingered around the yard in various little circles, nursing freshly squeezed orange juice in spring-themed clear plastic cups and talking amongst themselves.

Daniel did a lot of listening during Sunday brunches, standing amidst one of the groups of parents as they talked about school, clubs, and work. Marigold was always the chatty one of the two of them…without her, Daniel felt out of place.

“What about you, Daniel? Think the frost will be gone to break ground this week?”

Jack spoke first, a shorter man with unruly brown hair and enough tattoos to surprise anyone with the fact that he raised an apple orchard. He owned the farm beside Daniel’s and was one of his closest friends in the town.

Daniel thought for a moment and scuffed the toe of his dress shoe against the grass. The cold ground was still pretty solid and the chill in the air still had them all wearing blazers over their Sunday button-ups.

“Only if this cold front lets up.” Daniel answered. “I’m hoping to plough by next week at the latest.”

“Everything’s been going well with the farm and your boy?” Jonah asked, his hand tucked around his wife’s waist and he raised his opposite hand to his mouth to sip his juice.

Daniel shifted on his feet and gave a shrug, his eyes drifting past the group of parents to easily pick out his shaggy haired brunette son across the yard with the rest of the kids. At almost eight-years-old, Lennox was the light of Daniel’s life; his little hockey star, helping hand, and the one whom his late wife’s smile and spirit lived on in. It had been a hard year-and-a-half for the two Seavey boys but Daniel was relived that he could hear his son laugh again, his audible glee reaching to the far edges of the mayor’s property and to his father’s ears.  

“It’s been…fine.” Daniel sighed, his eyes lingering on his son as he answered Jonah’s question, “Lennox has been doing well…his grades are better this year which I’m relieved about. I just…I already sold the sheep and half the chickens and the second cow last spring to try and tame some of the workload but it’s still a lot.”

“Running a farm on your own isn’t easy.” Jack said, “I know how much work it takes for two owners let alone one.”

“We’re here to help with whatever you need.” Corbyn assured him. “I can give you deals on whatever you need from the shop as often as I can.”

Corbyn owned the general store in the center of town and was the bachelor of Lincoln. It wasn’t like there were any women to date in such a small place full of cookie cutter rural families but Corbyn was very happy as he was: running the store and being the eyes and ears of the town.

Daniel shut down his generous offer politely as he looked back to his friends, “No, no. I don’t want that…thank you though. I’m just worried the garden will suffer. With so much to do with ploughing and planting and coaching…I don’t know how much time I’ll have for the flowers.” Daniel let his gaze drift back to his son playing across the grass, “Lennox is too young to tend to them himself but he loves the gardens so much so I don’t want yet another thing to disappoint him.”

“Have you thought of hiring someone?” Jonah asked.

“Like a gardener?” Daniel hummed, “I dunno.”

Corbyn sipped his drink, “Is it in the budget?”

“I think so.” Daniel shrugged, swirling his orange juice in his hand. “Never thought about it. Mari always took care of the flowers so…”

“I have a family friend who’s pretty good with gardens…I’m sure she’d be more than happy to help out.” Jocelyn offered.

Daniel chuckled under his breath, “That’s…a nice offer but I’m not looking to put anyone out of their way. They’re just flowers after all.”

But everyone knew that they weren’t just flowers to Daniel. They were Marigold’s flowers.

Jack tisked at Daniel’s hesitation, “Well if it’s in your budget to hire a gardener and you know the gardens are important to Lennox and yourself, then why not give it a try? You don’t have anything to lose.”

Jonah only added onto the argument, “She’s been wanting to come visit Lincoln for a while now. Why don’t we invite her to town and she can stay with us and you can give her a look over…if you think you want to hire her then you can.”

Daniel thought about it for a moment, taking a sip of his juice as his eyes found his son again. It was habit. Lennox was already running for him at top speed across the grass and Daniel set his cup down on the table just in time to welcome his seven-year-old’s energetic jump at him. He scooped him up with one arm and a tired grunt as he hiked him up onto his waist and Lennox held onto him around his neck, giggling as the other kids ran over after him.

“Daddy’s safe. You can’t get me.” Lennox told them matter-of-factly.

Daniel smiled proudly and linked his hands under his son’s bum to hold him up securely. At almost eight, Lennox was a bit heavy to hold but after nine years of farm work and working out for hockey, it wasn’t much of an issue for Daniel to hold him. He’d never complain regardless.

The other kids found their parents, gladly taking sips of juice or pieces of cut up fruit after a tiring chase around the yard. Jonah and Jocelyn’s seven-year-old twins found their way between them and helped themselves to the few snacks on the table. They were the closest to Lennox’s age – although a few months younger – and the boy of the set of fraternal twins was on the junior hockey team with him.

With the parents busy for a moment with their children – Jack was helping to fasten his daughter’s curly hair back in her headband – Daniel pondered the previous offer. His son rested his head against his with his small arms slung around his neck and Daniel could feel each of his gentle breaths rising and falling his chest. Everything Daniel did was for Lennox. He bit his lip.

“No rush.” Jocelyn said to him, reassuring their offer as if she could see his hesitation, “Just let us know.”

“Thank you.” Daniel said honestly.

“The Herron’s are coming over.” Corbyn whispered to the group and right away they shifted awkwardly as the family approached. Daniel let out an anticipatory sigh.

If you ever thought of jealousy, you would think of Zach Herron; father of two boys who weren’t very good at hockey and husband to a wife whose eyes liked to linger on Daniel’s biceps a little too much. Zach envied a lot of Daniel…maybe even envied him that his wife was dead. He would never admit that out loud though.

“Seavey.” Zach greeted as his family approached the group with his petite platinum blonde wife on his arm. He glanced around to the others, “And friends.”

There was a dull chorus of replies.

Zach continued, “I’m still willing to buy your horses off you. You know I have a generous price to offer.” 

Daniel chuckled lightly, “Yes, I know. But the horses are not for sale and they never will be.”

“Daniel would sell his house before he sells those horses.” Jack said. The group laughed lightly at the truth behind that. 

Lennox wiggled from Daniel’s arms and he set him down to join up with the two Herron boys who had just come over. The children gathered together at the other side of the table and chatted excitedly. Daniel picked up his orange juice.

“Daniel,” Zach’s wife set a hand on his bicep, her face filled with nothing but dramatic concern, “how are you holding up?”

“I’m doing fine, Katie, thank you.” Daniel replied politely.

She sighed, “It would just be a terrible shame to see your beautiful gardens go to waste; I overheard you talking about it from over there. Please let me know if I can help in any way.”

Zach’s annoyed scoff had Jack smirking into his orange juice. Corbyn and Jonah exchanged amused glances between themselves. Daniel offered Zach’s wife a small polite smile.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, but Jonah and Jocelyn already offered a family friend who’s in the business.” Daniel looked over at the couple again, with slight thankfulness in his eyes, “And I think I will gladly take them up on that recommendation.”

Seasons Change Taglist: @stuffofseaveyy @randomlimelightxxx @jonahlovescoffee @hiya-its-amber @hopinglimelight @midnightpsychic @sbrewer21 @bessonsbxtch @viamiasoncrack @the-girl-who-cried-wolf

Please click the link in my bio to be added to the taglist!

[sloppykyuu]

whos got the cow gf ??

Ushijima!!! Maybe it’s his farm boy roots but he loves a cute little cow who loves frolicking in his fields in long dresses and flowers in your hair or tucked behind your ear. Picnics in flower fields. Pink cheeks and toothy smiles. Cute snorts for a laugh and soft squishy skin in the palm of his big calloused hands. A light in his one tracked mind.

[fragileizywriting]

cooking together (part one)

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chat Noir hasn’t spoken to her since she’s woken up.

To be fair, she doesn’t blame him. She doesn’t blame him in the slightest. How stupid of her to fall asleep on top of one of the most famous, most deadliest demons in the world— sleeping on top of him like he’s nothing more than a pillow. The great Chat Noir reduced to nothing but a cuddle buddy— oh how stupid of her. She’d cried in front of him— she’s done it before to the point where there is nothing of guilt left within her whenever it happens, and he’s never said anything before but comfort her. But sleep on top of him, oh, Tikki— what should she do now? Where does she begin?

They had sat there on either side of their couch, completely silent, each with their faces hidden behind their hands within moments of her scrambling to get off of him. No doubt Chat Noir was absolutely groaning to himself internally about how unlucky he is for getting stuck with a summoner that is absolutely desperate for affection like she is— to the point where she even latches onto him even during her sleep— oh, embarrassing! So embarrassing!

He must hate her, or find her absolutely weird— hell, maybe even find her to be the most incredibly annoying human he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting— oh, Tikki— guide her in what to do next!

He’d slipped away from the couch after a moment or two of silence, changed out of his clothes for something more fitting of the chores to do around their farm life, and had washed up in the washroom— leaving the house while muttering something under his breath about going to go check up on the hens.

She’s only now just gotten ready herself. It’s been a year or so since she’s gotten regular help with lacing her stays— it’s definitely doable by herself, of course, since she’s done it her whole life on her own— but Chat Noir usually helps her, claiming it's his job as a familiar to help her.

It’s always so much easier to do with an extra pair of hands, and no matter how much or how well she ties her hair to the side, she always ends up catching part of her hair in the loops whenever she does it by herself— so she’s been accustomed to being helped in that way. But by herself, goodness— the sensation of lacing herself and tucking the spare bits of string under the stomacher is almost foreign nowadays.

She’s put on her petticoat, too— it’s almost in the shape of a full-body apron, it too snagged at some parts of her hair.

She forgets how easy things in her life are, now that Chat Noir is there to help.

At least putting on her actual dress is a breeze. She’s picked her favorite wine-colored one, the one with the front closures this time, knowing that Chat has made no signs of wanting to return into the house and help her close it in the back. She can dress herself— she doesn’t need a powerful demon for help getting dressed— he’s not a maid. Besides, it’s not as if she’s gotten used to the domesticity.

She sighs to herself in the kitchen, trying not to peek through the window as she hears him corralling the hens outside the coup so he can bring in eggs. Oh, he’s gentle with their chickens, even if it seems he’s out of his element when he does so— he’s learned to behave around them over the year and months they’ve known each other, which is definitely good news. It’s almost as if he wants to be loved by the hens. The thought shouldn’t warm her this much, but it does— oh goodness— she tries beating down the feeling with a little slap to her cheeks, whining pitifully behind her palms.

Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid!

She needs to stop thinking about the concept of domesticity with him— oh, goodness, how she needs to stop— he’s a demon— and demons do not live in little, tiny cottages with their summoning witch. Demons do not live happily tending to hens and working on fencing a perimeter out the back of their land so that they can have horses and cows and sheep accessible as the years go on. Demons do not dream of coming home and placing kisses on their summoner’s cheeks and nuzzle with a purr. And demons definitely do not wish to talk about all the latest catch he and Luka got during their fishing escapades, bringing home barrels of fish hoisted onto a carriage so that they can sell and store!

Demons certainly do not entertain any notion of falling in love with a witch— goodness, of course they don’t— she’s certain that Chat Noir would be more excited to be doing actual demon work— whatever that may be— than to stay here and build up the posts for the fence. There is simply no way in hell that Chat Noir would rather be here.

She can stupidly dream and she can stupidly wish all she wants, but the moment that she brings back Adrien, Chat Noir will swallow her soul and disappear. She’s almost positive. After all, Ladybug she may be, but she’s nothing more than a witch that needs his help. A friend, sure— but— this is all just a transaction to him, is it not?

And yet, throughout all of this, she can’t stop herself from wishing. Wishing to wake up every morning in the same manner that she had today— pressed up against him, warm and safe, close enough to him that she could steal a kiss off of him— oh, she’s so silly, fantasizing about what she can’t have!

Maybe she can start with an apology gift— maybe he’ll talk to her then— he did say last night he wanted to try lover-honey cookies, after all.

It’s been years since she’s helped with the recipe, but she’s memorized it— even as she’d learned spells from her textbooks she’d bought off of traveling bookwagons, she also made sure to pay attention to her parents when they baked, just so that she knew how to make it in case they didn’t have any and she wanted to bring some for Adrien.

She’ll have to go into town to find a couple of things, they might be low on sugar— but it’ll be good for her to get out of the house— the more and more she stays inside the cottage, the more she’s bound to get cabin-fever from the amount of thinking that’s going on in her head.

Oh, but…

She leans on her elbows on the counter as she looks at the fire lily in the little vase she’s procured from the cabinets, sighing wistfully. The vase doesn’t do it justice, since it’s been such a long time since she’s decided to cut any flowers outside and bring some indoors— it is a little dusty and a little chipped, but that’s alright. The vase is far too wide to house just a single flower— it almost looks out of place without any surrounding foliage. Maybe she should go out in the backwoods and search for shrubbery or moss to accompany it, after making the cookies— something dark green, so it won’t take away from the flower.

It’s a beautiful lily— she’s never seen such a beautiful blossom before. Usually the lilies she’s seen and planted over the years have been spotted and freckled along the petals— very reminiscent of the freckles along her face— but this one is completely and totally unblemished, favoring instead just a beautiful gradient from orange to dark red at the tips.

It’s nothing like the trumpet-bell-shaped lilies she’s known to grow— this lily isn’t shy in the slightest in its bloom. It curls open, unafraid, desperate to attract bees and other pollinators to the honey-like smell of nectar— she sighs to herself as she continues to admire it.

It is lovely. So lovely.

She’s never received a flower before.

Oh, sure. She’s received many gifts before. Alix with her pocket watches that tick and tock so delicately they must simply be works of magic— Alya with her many books that she lends to her whenever she needs to learn new spells— Nino always buying their lunch or dinner whenever the two of them decide to get food together in town and Chat is off with another competition against Luka.

Oh, and sweet Luka, of course, with his snake oil bottles— with the pearl earrings he’s made for her, even if she can’t wear them because of the demonic seals tattooed onto her ears— the countless of songs he sings and writes for her when he’s finally on land.

But a flower?

How had Chat Noir known to give her one of her favorite flowers? A gorgeous fire lily— oh— if only she could keep it in this vase forever. Nothing compares to the honey scent that the fire lily produces— she smells it softly, bending down more onto the counter to smell the aromatics, taking note of the buds of pollen that are ripe to explode.

“Princess!”

She straightens her spine with a squeak, almost knocking over the vase in an attempt to stand up straight, looking out to the front door. “Yes? W-what’s wrong, kitty-cat?”

She takes to patting down her apron that lays flat across the slim boning of her stays, just to have something to do with her hands, trying not to look as nervous as she feels.

Chat Noir shoulders through the front door, a clucking brown ball under his arm, grinning like a fool. There are black smudges against his feet and pants already, as always, somehow finding a way to succeed every expectation and find a way to stain his clothes. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong— in fact— look! I found her with the other ladies— look— she’s even letting me hold her!”

Henrietta.

“My goodness, you’re right—” She pushes her braid back over her shoulder, making her way over to him and their hen. Henrietta is absolutely tame in his hands for a bird that is notorious for scampering the other way the moment Chat looks at her. Goodness, she’s so small— easily could fit through any crevice of any tree she’d found during the storm— no wonder she’d been impossible to spot during the storm last night after she’d slipped out of the coup.

Marinette takes Henrietta out of his arms once she’s close enough to reach for her, checking her over for signs of injury— but there’s absolutely nothing, sans the slight complaining she gives when transferring into another person’s arms. No feathers missing at the back of her neck, there’s no bleeding, there doesn’t even seem to be any scuffling on her feet or claws— her eyes look healthy and clean. Miraculously, the hen is perfectly fine— even clucking softly as she turns her over to check her undercarriage.

She could cry. “Oh, Chat, this is wonderful! She’s completely unharmed! Blessed be this little hen.”

“I told you she’d be okay,” Chat Noir’s ears twitch as he leans up against the doorframe.

She tucks Henrietta into her side just to have somewhere secure enough to place her. “Where did you find her?”

“She was on the other side of the fence, actually. She was trying to get back in but couldn’t figure out on how to jump the fence or get through the gap.” His smile comes out a little lopsided, diamond green eyes filled with joy.

“I’m so grateful that you found her, Chat. Oh thank Tikki she’s safe and sound,” She wipes at her cheek, trying to wipe away any tears that are threatening to form. Goodness, Henrietta is alright. What a miracle this is— she’d been so hard on herself the night before, wondering why she’d left the gate open— she’ll never do that again for sure. Definitely not, and definitely not during an active rainstorm no less. She’s learned her lesson.

“Oh.” He blinks slowly at her.

“What is it?”

“You—” Chat’s lips twitch on the side with a widening smile. He reaches to her to pet at her cheek with a clawed thumb, and she can’t help but follow his hand down to her cheek with widening eyes, biting her lip. “You have a stain on your cheek.”

“I do?”

He laughs. “Is it from the flower? You know, I’ve been told that it’s good fortune to be blemished by a lily.”

“I—” She can feel her cheeks heat. Oh, Tikki! “I— uh— I never knew that—”

He pauses, and something about his ears as they twitch downwards gives him the appearance of being apprehensive, but she can barely look away as she feels the heat of his hand up against her cheek— she’s so desperate to stop thinking about this being their new normal. What she would give to have mornings filled with loving touches— loving glances— loving moments such as this.

“Do you… not want me to touch you anymore?”

She blanches, feeling her heart sink into her socks. “What?”

“You’re kind of shying away—”

“No— please— I mean— I don’t mind you touching me— my— face. At all. Please.” Oh, Tikki. What did she do to deserve this? How does she make herself stop rambling? “Please continue— I—”

“Are you sure?” His lips thin, his voice quieting. “You… don’t look comfortable.”

“No, I promise, I’m very comfortable. So very comfortable.” She nods as well as she can without accidentally poking her eye out on the thumb that rests at her temple. It would just be her luck to be that careless. Her voice sounds almost weak as she continues to speak. “Extremely comfortable.”

“Are you lying? I don’t ever want to make you feel uncomfortable with me, Marinette.”

She squeaks when Henrietta decides to complain about being in her arms, trying to flap out of her grasp and try to fly onto the floor. “You don’t make me uncomfortable at all, Chat! Please don’t think that— I— you could never make me uncomfortable.”

“Here, let me—” He takes Henrietta out of her arms, tucking the little hen close to him.

“Oh, I—” She snaps her jaw shut. “You know, I have to leave.”

His eyes widen. She takes in the snap of his tail as he stands up straighter, his ears going ramrod straight, looking at her with such alarm that it almost shocks her herself— the tattoos on her ears start to burn as his magic flares. It flares more wide than tall, stretching to its limit, encompassing nearly everything around them, leaving her looking at him in awe at the actual expanse of his magic. Just how big of a reach does it actually have? Just how much of a range does Chat Noir’s magic go to? “Leave? Wait, where are you going?”

Oh, stupid! “I mean— I have to leave to go to the market to get more flowers. No— I mean— flour—”

“You’re leaving to get flowers?” He winces.

His magic continues to surge against hers, wider and wider, forcing hers to open up just as much in order to match his correctly. She can feel her magic stretch further than ever possible, trying to meet his from border to border, trying to push up against his in a perfect mirror. Is he… afraid? What is that feeling? She can’t place it at all. Why does her magic continue to try intertwining and swirling with his, trying to soothe him without her even directing it to?

“D-did you not like the lily?”

Oh, stupid little witch!

She takes a step back, noticing the way his eyes shine with sorrow she can’t place, and reaches for his arm. She can’t pull on it, not as he holds Henrietta, but she gives him a squeeze. “Oh, no, Chat, that’s not true at all. I loved the lily. My goodness, I’m in love— er, I mean, with the flower, of course— I’ve never gotten a flower before and I’m just so amazed that you ended up giving me my favorite flower— I just— please, Chat, it’s okay. Please don’t worry. It’s okay, kitty-cat. I love the gift too much to bear, almost.”

His ears flatten against his head. “Please don���t go.”

Sweet Tikki. At what point had her demon been convinced that she was taking back their demon seal agreements? After a full year of preparing for his help— why does Chat Noir believe that she doesn’t want him around for help anymore?

“I promise I’m not leaving, Chat, not permanently. I meant to say that I just need to go to the market to get flowder powder.” She scrunches her face, trying her hardest not to give herself another silly pat to the cheeks. “No— I mean— plowder flour. Oh, sweet Tikki. I need ingredients for the lover-honey cookie.”

“Powder flour,” His face relaxes, finally registering what she’s meant. She watches his relief spread across his entire body, starting from the way his ears sag slightly in a more comfortable position— his shoulders drop a smidge— his tail stops flicking— she can’t help but watch with a slack jaw as his magic starts to curl and coil its way back into shape, tugging at hers in a way that feels like he’s pulling her closer for a hug. She feels warm all over, giddy at having her magic being unfolded, matching his perfectly. She never knew she had so much of a range to her magic— what else is there about their connection that she doesn’t know about? “Do you mean a bag of flour?”

“Yes, flour,” She viciously nods her head, ignoring the curls in their magic as they push and pull against one another. “Do you— do you want to come with, so that you don’t feel like I’m leaving you?”

He perks up. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“Of course I do.” She wants him to stay with her forever.

“Ah. Actually, you know, it’s best if I finish up the post I was working on.” He looks upset at having to take it back, at least, giving Henrietta a loving brush with his claws from her neck down. “We don’t want the girls to keep escaping ever again, right?”

“Right. Yes. You’re completely right.” Oh, she could weep. How in the world did she manage this? “I’m going to go get our coin pouch, but I’ll be back from the market before you know it.”

“Right,” His ears twitch as he tries for a smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

-*-

“Stupid stupid stupid.” She tries not to kick up any of the dirt around her with her boots as she continues to walk down the path towards town. Oh, she’s miserable. Absolutely miserable. She never meant to hurt Chat Noir’s feelings in any way— her day dreams have made their interactions completely and totally awkward.

What is with her?

She needs to get her act together.

She has to.

Chat Noir doesn’t deserve her freaking out at every little touch and glance.

Oh, the way he looked at her, as if she were the one capable of burning him into a crisp, just by the way she had spoken about leaving. How could she ever do that to her Chat Noir? She wouldn’t dare even dream of it. Her earlobes burn at the sensation of having to pull away from Chat Noir’s magic— a curse, unfortunately, of having her soul bonded to the demon. It’s painful like a phantom pain— it’ll go away for a while just to come back and remind her that she’s too far away for their magic to reach and intermingle.

Although, now that she knows that his range can go much further, she’s tempted to believe that it must be psychosomatic. Maybe it’s her own worries being projected onto her own tattoos, but she’s not certain of it.

She stops to wipe at her eyes. Miserable. Absolutely miserable. She’s going to end up losing her friend this way, just because she couldn’t find it in herself to stop behaving like a lovesick girl batting and fanning her eyelashes at the first pretty boy she sees.

It doesn’t help that he’s pretty, either. With beautiful lashes and such a boyish smile that makes her heart rate go up and golden honey-colored hair and perfect green eyes— oh, Tikki! What should she do now?

She turns around, checking to see if she’s far away from the cottage to try to gauge if she can start screaming into her aprons without him hearing, only to see a black cat following along the dirt path with his tiny little paws. He meows at her, blinking slowly at her with green eyes, tilting his head just enough to imply that he’s asking a question.

She stares at him just a smidge.

“Oh. Did you decide you want to come with me?” She steps closer, infinitely grateful that she hadn’t started her desire to bury her face into the fabric of her dress.

Her magic curls against his on sheer instinct, but she registers something odd about it the moment their magic try to interlock. Usually it is nothing short of a perfect shape against each other, like their combined magic were made to fit together— but this feels like there are gaps. Where her magic should be filling in the gaps, instead, she finds her magic hesitating in some spots and areas, as if it is too shy to intermingle. She can’t find the edges to his magic at all, even as she tries stretching hers out manually and she wonders if he’s followed her because he’s afraid again.

Chat purrs when she picks him up. He’s a soft little thing, perfectly sweet and pliable in her arms as she turns him and pets along his chest, letting her hug him tight to her stays. She sighs into his forehead. The poor dear follows her to the market, truly concerned that she’s leaving… how can she ever allow herself to not tell him the truth, since the perfect moment is being presented to her now? “You know, I’ve never been considered a bold person, but I’m always willing to try if it’s for you.”

Chat’s tail flickers, giving her an indication that he’s listening.

“I’m sorry for hurting you today— it was never my intention to make you look so sad. Never in my life did I imagine that you would be upset at me leaving the house— I never want to see that face on you ever again, if we can avoid it.”

Her tattoos on her ears start to prickle at the words I want. After all, part of the rules of being her contracted demon is to take into account her wishes— however, she doesn’t want him to think she’s commanding him. Ever. He is always free to choose on what to do when she accidentally uses those words.

“I need to be honest with you.” She starts, desperate not to look down and attempt to gauge his reaction. “I do not want anything about our relationship to change, even after I say this— I understand. I really do. Please do not think you have to answer, or even give a response, I’d like for you to just listen for a little bit. It’s easier when you’re in this form for sure.”

Chat Noir chirps in her arms.

“I don’t want you to ever think that you make me uncomfortable, because that simply isn’t true. I understand that you want nothing to do with me in the same manner that I do with you— you will always be my familiar and my friend.” She feels giddy, being able to finally say it out loud. “My feelings for you are very strong. You’re my most valuable companion— and— and I— I thank Tikki every day for all the moments I can share with you.”

He butts her on her collarbone, nuzzling into her shoulder.

“The face you had made just moments before I’d left the house— your magic swelling up like a cloud, like it does now— I do not want that to ever happen again. You will never make me uncomfortable— and you never have. I value you so much. Too much. I care about you too deeply. I don’t need to cookies to know that I have feelings for you.”

Chat Noir stops moving.

And that says all.

She steels herself. “Do you think I’m playing a prank on you? Do you truly not believe me?”

He’s almost like stone in her arms.

“I— I would never do that to you. Please, don’t assume things like that. My words are pure.” She sighs to herself when his only response is to flick his tail. “Why don’t we go shopping for the bag of flower so I can make the cookies and prove to you my feelings?”

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[vistarya]

Memory of a Cool Evening, in 1941

I decided I’m going to post some of my writing here after all! ✨

Luiza remembers an evening at home in Latvia, before she died. [MCGA OCS]

“Luiza!”

The voice rings out across the field to reach her, and Luiza remembers this.

The dusk is clear and cool. The tall grass is dry and brushes against the fabric of her dress with a light whooshing sound. Insects spring up into the air around her, just visible in the growing darkness. Distantly, the cows are lowing their goodnights. Ahead of her, the wall of the forest rises into the sky, the flashing eyes of a passing animal winking from the gloom.

She turns.

Māmiņa is bustling towards her, the hems of her casual skirts bunched in each hand. Her round face is red from an afternoon spent toiling in the kitchen. Her graying hair floats around her face where it’s escaped her bun. Behind her, the family sheepdog watches dutifully from the porch, wagging his tail enthusiastically, unable to decide if he should follow.

“Dinner’s ready,” Māmiņa says when she reaches her.

“I know,” Luiza says. “You didn’t have to come all this way to tell me.”

Maybe the way she says it is rude. People tell her that – that the way she speaks is too blunt sometimes, or that she doesn’t always say the right thing at the right time.

Māmiņa doesn’t seem to think so. She laughs, because she understands that Luiza is trying to be considerate. “Yes, but you looked so peaceful out here I thought I would come see for myself!” She shivers. “It’s much colder out here, though. We’ll have to start preparing for the winter soon.”

Luiza falls into step beside her. She has no interest in the weather, so she doesn’t say anything. Māmiņa knows this and doesn’t wait for a response. “Māte is going into town tomorrow for a delivery. She says you’re welcome to go with her if you want.”

Luiza nods. “I’ll go,” she says. Māte can handle herself, but Luiza likes to make sure. It’s been a long time since she was under any delusions regarding how the people in town view her family, and there’s always the chance that one of them gets too confident if they spot one of her mothers alone.

Māmiņa smiles. “I knew you’d say that! It’s good for you to get out every once in a while. I know it can be a little overwhelming sometimes, but you have to admit there are interesting things to see.”

Luiza can’t disagree with her. For as much comfort as Luiza finds in her routine, she also yearns to be the type of person who enjoys adventure. (Wanting to be that kind of person and being that person are awfully close to the same thing, she thinks. She imagines making the jump is just a matter of time.)

They make it back to the house. The dog wags his tail and follows them inside.

It’s warm in the kitchen. The room is flooded with yellow light. The tablecloth is a nice texture, elegantly embroidered with summer flowers. The rich smell of the stew Māmiņa had been cooking reminds Luiza that she hasn’t eaten since that morning, and she joins Māte and Mama at the table. The dog settles eagerly at her feet.

Luiza remembers the rest too: the way her spoon reflected Mama’s face when she was asking about Luiza’s day. The gradual procession of darkness arriving in full outside as Māte hashed out the plan to wake up early in the morning. The pleasant buzz of the electric lights overhead as Māmiņa leaned over to clear her empty bowl, kissing Luiza on the crown of her head as she did. Luiza remembers helping with the dishes and saying goodnight and taking the dog with her to bed, all of it so vivid that, for a moment, she allows herself to indulge in the fantasy of it being real.

The dream parts slowly like the curtain at the town’s theater, and Luiza opens her eyes on the still-dark of her bedroom in Valhalla.

It’s fashioned to take after her bedroom in the farmhouse. It’s not something she finds comforting, just then.

She rolls out of bed (the one with no dog) and into her slippers, and she marches decisively out of her room.

The hall is dimly lit, but the lights brighten gradually as she crosses to Angora’s door. She knocks twice, wincing internally at how loud it sounds in her ears.

A minute later, the door opens (are hinges supposed to be that loud?), and Angora appears, rubbing sleep from her eye.

“Luiza?” she wonders, still waking up. “What’s wrong?”

“Vai es varu palikt?” she blurts, and she doesn’t mean to say it in Latvian, but she’s still somewhere halfway between the past and the present and the words are out of her mouth before she has time to think about it.

Angora takes a second to translate, mouthing the words to herself until understanding dawns on her face. Her expression shifts to something more serious and she lets Luiza in, and only once the door closes behind her does she say, “Tu raudi.”

Luiza had forgotten that. “I’m sorry,” she says, reaching up to wipe at the wetness on her face.

“What? No, no,” Angora soothes her. “I’m just worried. Did something happen?”

Luiza feels a little silly, talking about it out loud. “A dream. I just… didn’t want to sleep alone.”

Angora’s face softens. She takes Luiza’s hand slowly and leads the way over to her own bed, the same as Luiza’s but decorated with scratchy old throws and a colorful patchwork quilt.

She removes the blankets she knows Luiza can’t stand to touch and sits her down on the left side of the bed, crawling onto her own side and switching off the light. In the dark, Luiza feels a bit braver, and she lays down, pulling the quilt up to her chin.

The smell is nice. It’s nothing like home, so it’s nice.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Angora’s voice cuts into the silence after a moment.

Luiza thinks she should. It might honor them, to be remembered aloud forever, like a daina passed between generations. (Except there are no generations in Valhalla – only immortals, burdened with the remembering until the end of time.)

She’s not sure she can find the words though, so she settles for, “I dreamed of my mothers,” and allows the I miss them to hang heavy and unsaid in the air between them.

Angora rests a calloused hand over Luiza’s bicep and shifts closer. Luiza follows the pull on her arm until her face is tucked into Angora’s clavicle, the top of her head fitting just under Angora’s chin. Angora smells like her blankets (or, more likely, they smell like her), and that’s nice too.

Luiza doesn’t have the energy to tell her the full story just then. It would feel strange, trying to impart the memory in a room defined by things so foreign. Maybe tomorrow, or later that week. The next time they’re hanging out in Luiza’s room, perhaps, and she can try to show Angora what it was like to be her, back then.

But Angora doesn’t demand anything, and she’s happy to let Luiza stay. She runs her fingers through Luiza’s unwound hair until the two of them drop off into sleep, and for the moment the sharp scent of cinnamon and clove is enough to keep Luiza’s dreams rooted in the present.

[kannra21]

Daisuzu shopping 💗

I thought about Daisuke's night at Kato's place and wondered if he'd ever consider repeating "the same mistake" again. Living a life of a commoner is strange for a millionaire, but he'll get the hang of it.

~o0o~

It was yet another busy day at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The crew managed to catch the criminals responsible for the robbery of the "Space Jewelry" shop in Ginza, the Tokyo's most famous upmarket shopping district. After he filled the report and got himself patched from a fight with one of the resisters, Daisuke returned to his mansion with bandages and sterile gauze wrapped around his upper arm. It wasn't that deep but the cut on his maroon dress shirt wouldn't be fixed so easily.

Suzue had enough of constantly throwing away beautiful garments of clothes and Daisuke's closet was becoming emptier by each day. Therefore, she decided to do him a favor and buy the suits by herself. She got dressed in her beige trenchcoat after their meal and before she left the residence, Daisuke stopped her and asked if he could join her in whatever she needed help with. This surprised Suzue because he was never interested in these kinds of things, she was usually in charge of the purchases. Daisuke insisted because, after he spent his time at Haru’s place, he realized just how important it was for him to get involved in the everyday life of a simple man and learn how things around him work. And Suzue was never happier to comply.

Daisuke felt a little odd that he had to blend in with the large crowd of simple commoners, the busy traffic, and the constant commotion. Does Suzue really have to deal with this every single day? He suddenly felt self-aware and didn't know where to put his hands. He saw a couple holding hands and felt a little awkward because he didn’t know how Suzue would react if he performed the same thing. Therefore he extended his elbow in a gentleman-like fashion and offered her to take it. She smiled the sweetest smile and accepted it, he didn't even know what he found so compelling in this situation but it made him content as well.

They arrived at Aoyama boutique in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods around. And although it has a great reputation in fashion industry, they offered casual designs with hight quality and inexpensive prices. The moment they walked in, Daisuke was instantly drawn to the expensive section of the shop but Suzue needed to drag him away to the part they were looking for.

"But Suzue, these suits aren't as good as the ones on display."

"That's because every store has a simple costumer tactic they're using for psychological reasons. For them, it is important that they have strong in-store visuals and display their best products in front of the complex. Our current task is to buy a bunch of suits with high quality and lower price. Remember, we're buying you work clothes which are easily expendable but made of quality materials to make them last longer. Besides, you already have suits for special occasions at home."

"I know but.." Daisuke felt discouraged.

Suzue could see his uneasiness and eyes averting in thought "What's wrong?"

"The day I bought Abura Emirate's seventh prince's car-"

"You did what?"

"It's true. We needed the car to catch two young people responsible for the robbery of the chocolate store."

Suzue laughed softly "This is silly."

"I know. And the prince was looking down on my clothes for some reason. I lost my nerve and made a quick purchase."

"You were rough again?"

"Yes I was."

Suzue approached him and put her hand on his cheek "Maybe the prince was boisterous but you are old money, Daisuke-sama, and a person like him won't survive long enough in the royal district. You're the real deal, so I advise you not to bother with such people if that's what you really want."

Daisuke looked surprised and somewhat flustered. Suzue panicked a little when she realized what she just did and nervously told them to continue looking for his clothes.

After they finished with the shopping, Suzue couldn't help it but to head towards the Aoyama Farmer's Market with fresh homemade products.

"I thought we were going home?"

"I know but these products are healthier than those from the supermarket. I'm only thinking about your health, you'll thank me later."

Daisuke just watched her walking enthusiastically towards one of the stands and he was shaking his head while smiling. He found it cute when she gets so carried away. Suzue spotted the jam of her choice stacked on a high shelf, she tried to reach it but even her high heels couldn't help her. In vain attempts to get it, she didn't notice Daisuke standing next to her and taking what she wanted. Their hands barely brushed against each other and they nervously looked at different directions. He handed it to her and she thanked him.

Noticing her tension, Daisuke wanted to relax her so they wouldn’t find themselves in similar situations and not to make her nervous anymore. He could only guess why this was happening but, being clumsy the way he was, he couldn't fully establish the reason of her behavior. However, he tried and proposed to take her to Cheery Blossoms at Aoyama Cemetery. Suzue instead, became so flustered upon hearing his suggestion that he got worried and asked her if he should take her somewhere else which she refused because she didn't want to disappoint him if he really wanted to go there.

And that's where they were, sitting on a bench and watching the peaceful sight of the beautiful cherry blossoms. Suzue was so thrilled to be there that she took pictures of the place and made selfies. She looked at them and commented how she couldn't wait to show them to Mrs. Kikuko. Now that she mentoned her, she wondered whether they should buy something for her as well and she went through all the possibilities of what they could bring her once they arrive home. Daisuke watched her with a soft smile on his face.

"Suzue is really amazing.. wait what am I thinking?"

Well, it's not true that Suzue wasn't amazing. of course she is. God she's incredible even, for the way she always took care of everything. Being surrounded by cherry trees just added to her unquestionable beauty. Her cheerful spirit and curious nature reminded him of someone close to his heart. Someone he loved dearly, a woman who left him a long time ago and not by her own fault. But looking at Suzue now, he realized that he wasn't unfortunate because he had her and that was everything he could ever ask for.

God was he in love with her? He couldn't tell. It's not that he didn't know, he was more worried about Suzue's reaction. How will she take it? Is it too risky to start off this soon? Is she still nervous being by his side? Why did she act this way? Why is she nervous when there's no reason for her to be nervous in the first place? They lived in the same mansion for so long. Why is he nervous upon thinking about her and her feelings? Oh. He thought he got his answers but he needed to check them first. He just hoped that he won't mess everything up.

While Suzue watched her photos and talked about plans for the dinner, Daisuke carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek. They looked at each other and what Daisuke wasn't expecting was Suzue taking his cheeks in both of her hands and locking his lips with hers. Daisuke was still somewhat hazy and Suzue smiled a little.

"Cherry flowers are really doing it for you, aren't they?"

"This doesn't minimize the fact that you’re beautiful the way you are."

Daisuke realized what he just said and he blushed. Suzue gave him a peck on the lips and stroked the back of his neck which sent shivers through his back. They looked at each other so lovingly that they didn't notice other people's presence until recently and not to attract too much attention, they decided to visit Pierre Herme's café where they shared ispahan- a delightful mélange of lychee, rose and raspberry. Daisuke insisted on feeding her with the excuse that she always spoiled him and that he needed to make up for it in a way, to which she let him. They had a great time together and they took a cake for grandma as well.

When they arrived home, Daisuke opened her the doors like a gentleman he was. Suzue took a couple of his bags to help him carrying them and grandma Kikuko saw them in the hallway.

"Hello children, how was your date?"

Suzue just blushed in embarrassment "W-what do you mean?"

"Haven't you spent half a day outside? Sounds like a date to me."

Suzue just took her things, excused herself and headed to the room to put Daisuke's suits in the closet.

Grandma smiled and Daisuke averted his eyes in amusement.

"How do you notice such this?"

"I had a hunch. So, how did it go?"

"It was fine. Without any complications or embarrassments for that matter. I.. needed some time to figure things out but in the end everything sat in its rightful place."

Grandma looked relieved and said "Sayuri was always shy about expressing her feelings but when she did, she showed it in the most genuine of ways. And every day you keep resembling her more. I'm glad you turned out the way you did, even if we have our own disagreements."

He smiled a little "Thank you, grandma."

And went upstairs to help Suzue with the stuff they bought. Maybe he couldn't see his mother again, but Suzue brought a positive change in his life. A change he'd always be grateful for and cherish.

@daisuzuship @innovativestruggles @narcopharmacist @unholysoggytea @riaymei @ieatcrumbs @cow-goes-oof @matchabucks @bluegleeful @levi-is-heicho @kakooshi @kokorokai @darknessrxse @fluffyyagiza @geniusmeemee @sungmnnnn @koalarin @alstroemerie @petiamaximoff38 @hellohellokookie @marialenikiforov

Here ya go, hope you like it! 💞 Like I mentioned before, if you don't want me to tag you in this post you can tell me and I'll remove the tag. 👍

[lareinenoir]

∆ The Unwanted Marriage ∆

Loki × Reader

Request:Hey dear! I loved your fic Monster. Could you please do some Loki x reader where they are in arranged marriage and Loki doesn't like her. But one day she got hurt by someone and he got in his super protective mode. And then some fluff. Please!!!!

Authors Note; HAD A BLAST writing this!!! Hope you all enjoy this Loki fluff! 💛

*****

"You don't have to kiss me when he says, 'you may now kiss the bride'. I don't want you to think you have to do that." Said Y/N

"Your attempting to make it sound like it was a requirement to begin with." He scoffs looking up from his pedistol. "I never planned on kissing you..."

Y/N continued to look straight ahead as the servants continued to hem and fix her dress. Her eyes watered a bit and her heart beat a little faster. He was angry with Y/N. Always had been. She never knew why, though. Their were rumors around the palace that he was broken. Still broken after the loss of his first love, two years ago.

Then his mother to the dark elves.

Loki made it clear that her (his former lover) name was to never be spoken. He was left to father their son, alone. The fact that she was forced to marry Loki, but now forced to be a mother as well. She hoped that for however long the marriage lasted, which was forever, that they could overcome their differences and practice raising his son together.

So, the day came to where Y/N and Loki, arm in arm walked down the isle. Y/N looked ahead because if she dare looked back she'd run. And when they stood hands held, she gave him a gentle smile. Maybe hoping he'd return it and give her a reason to look forward to this marriage. He did smile, but it was a forced one. His lips parted as he said, "I do." and Y/N did the same. "I do."

"You may now kiss the bride."

Everyone was cheering and Loki looked to Odin with a sly grin. "I think we'll save that for the consumation."

"Now introducing Lady, Y/N and Prince Loki of Asgard!" Shouted Odin.

And so it was. Or, so to speak. Loki and Y/N were walked to the room, maids, servants, ladies in waiting, lined up at their door with flowers and gifts for "after."

Y/N and Loki separated to opposite sides of the room. She sat at the vanity and he stood near the bay window staring outside with his hand behind his back. Y/N began to take down her hair, all the hair pins and needles.

"So, what do they expect us to do." She asked quietly, finger combing her hair.

"Wrong question." He stated "You," he habe her a sideways glance with emphasis on 'you' "want to know what were going to do. Because outside those doors they want to hear lavish moaning and witness me take your virginity. Usually their are people in the room to see it for themselves, but I convinced my father to give us our 'alone' time." He said bitterly

"What does the consumation symbolize? I've heard of it and I was promised my virginity to be taken when I was to be wed. My sister went on and on"

"Get to the point." He said coldy as he continued to stare outside down below.

"I mean...if it means nothing to you then...what does it mean, Loki?" Y/N asked

"To them, we are married. Under the Gods name we are married. The consumation means, that to us, we are one. When we consumate a marriage it means we are truly in love and in it for the long run..." He said. The his eye snap towarda her and a little smirk appeara on his face as he scoffs. "I will not be sleeping with you, sharing a bed with you, because I do not love you. I have no love for you and I will never have love for you."

"You don't have to be so cruel. I see how you are with your son and I know how much he means to you. I see the way you look at him, you love him-"

"And because of him I chose to marry you! I agreed to this ridiculous marriage because of him! Because every boy...every boy deserves a mother. Every boy needs a mother. So that is your job. Be a mother to him." He said with a glare, his fingers pointed directly at her and she swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Nothing." She nodded "That's what we do, nothing? And what do we tell those people outside our doors?"

"Our marriage is none of their business." Loki said "If you find any opportunity to take on a lover then I may remind you to help discreet. Whispers around the palace about how my wife decided to be an idiot and-"

"I know the rules, Loki." Y/N spoke up rolling her eyes. She was getting a bit fed up with his attitude. "If the sides were swapped and you took on a lover...a mistress, you'd be commemorated. In the last thousand years Asgard has been a place where men can do as they please in regards to marriage." Y/N made clear standing to her feet and pushing her hair to the otherside of her shoulder. "You'd think they'd change that law for the many of women who were forced to give everything they have into a relationship that clearly wasn't wanted."

"You think I wanted this?" Loki scoffed walking closer to her and she sfiffed her neck and stood taller as he peered down at her with a scoff.

"We both don't want this!" She exclaimed her jaw tightening. "You...you clearly didn't have any hopes or dreams of the day you were to be wed. I was promised a life of love and happiness with someone who respects me-"

"You know nothing of what I dreamed!" Loki says between his teeth. "You don't know me at all." His finger now at her chest as she backed into the vanity with her hands on the counter.

"Don't hate me. That's all I ask." Y/N protested softly. Her lip began to quiver and her voice getting tighter as she held in her tears.

And so, that night they did nothing. They went to their respective corners and didn't speak for the rest of the night. Y/N and Loki didn't have a relationship really. At least in her opinion. Three months into their marriage, Loki would bid her a "good morning" followed by a "How did you sleep."

In which Y/N would reply, "Well. And you?"

"Same as it is every night."

Occasionally Loki would ask, "What brought you joy, today" And that was every once and a while when he was feeling friendly. Y/N didn't mind it. She sort of liked it. Loki was beginning to feel it too a bit.

They slept in separate rooms and sometimes on occasion Y/N would fall asleep in her new son's bed with a book on her chest and him in her arms. Loki would walk in to bid his son a goodnight and catch her asleep. He would smile to himself and then tuck them both in. Gently placing the covers over them and walking out the room.

****

"I won't be here for bed time." Y/N explains as she sipped her tea.

"And why do you feel the need to express that in my direction?" He asked sarcastically as they continued to eat breakfast.

"For once Loki, at least attempt to listen before opening your mouth to speak." Y/N challenged making Loki clear his throat and set his fork down, giving her his full attention.

"Pardon me...I'm all ears." He grinned with a roll of his eyes.

"I won't be here because a few of the ladies and I are going out." She says appearing from behind the little divider. Loki gulped and stared at her. His wife was wearing a very revealing outfit.

"You look like one of the women at the Brothel." He commented taking his eyes off Y/N and looking to the side.

"For one night I am going to enjoy myself. You aren't going to take my joy, Loki." Y/N stated taking off the little crown and grabbing her cloak. "Read a story to him tonight and warm Goats milk. He likes it better than the cow." She giggled

He rolled his eyes and sighed as she walked out. "Just...just be careful. The dance festivals can get out of hand. I wouldn't...um- well- I just want you to safe." He warned.

As if he cared and Y/N sort of loved that. In his bitter way, Loki had been issuing sweet and concerned little comments here and there. The kind that would make a girl blush and her eyes dart to the deck so she didn't have to look him in the eye. And sometimes she'd catch a little smile on the corner of his mouth, so Y/N didn't hate him as much. There was still a warm spot in his heart no matter how much he tried to push it down.

Last week, Y/N put her hair in a different style. A nice half up half down with gold beads and it grabbed his attention. "The hair jewelry suits you, Y/N."

Then a couple more times later on in the week, Loki told Y/N "Thank you for telling my son stories. He has sweet dreams when he sleeps."

Loki laid his son to sleep and decided since he wasn't tired, he'd stay awake with a book of his own. It was only reading...reading the history of Asgard. The thickest book in the library, besides his mothers spell books. He knew the history. Page to page, but maybe just once more. At least that's what he told himself. Loki was waiting for Y/N to return home. He sat in her bedroom on the chair near the fire place waiting to hear those lovely footsteps enter the door.

"What are you doing in my room?" Y/N asked, stumbling across Loki's head resting in his hand as he blinked his eyes open.

"Y/N!" He exclaimed trying to get the sleep out of his eyes. The book is shut and he rushed to his feet. "You're back."

"I am." She said with the hood of her cloak on her head. She spoke in a low voice and faced somewhat in the opposite direction. "Could you leave? I'd really like to get some rest. It's rather late...or early in the morning." She said walking to the door as if to lead him out.

He narrowed his brow at Y/N and reached out to touch her face. "Y/N...your face..." He was referring to the bit of red near her lip and cheek as it began to turn purple.

Y/N grabbed onto his hand to stop him, revealing scratches and burns on her knuckles and palms. "Stop!" She said still attempting to kick him out.

"Y/N, what the hell-"

"Please...get out." She says walking away from him hiding her hands a bit. "I'm fine, please just go."

"Who hurt you?" He asked, jaw clenching tight as she continued to ignore him. "I said, who. Hurt. You."

Y/N was too tired to explain. She really did just want to rest. The constant nagging about what happened during the festival, by Loki, was driving her crazy. "It was an accident." She almost shouts spinning on her heel to give him an aggravated glare.

He rushed at her, his hand, yet again, reaching to touch her bruises. "What kind of accident!" He roars, looking at her injuries with dismay. Y/N saw the fire in his eyes and he began to shutter.

"It was my fault. OK? I wasn't watching where I was going and I ran into his cart. I fell and that's it"

"Name! I want his name!" Loki said pacing back and forth. "What's his name"

"I don't know." She said with a little giggle. Y/N was more amused at how upset he was than anything. "Calm down"

"No! If you don't know his name, then I'll find him myself. I'll search-"

"Don't you think you're being a wee bit dramatic?" Asks Y/N with a sarcastic smile, still in disbelief. "I said it was an accident. Why all if a sudden-"

"Because!" He shouted and she tensed up a bit as her eyes widens. Loki finally took in a few breaths and closed his eyes to try and find the right words. "Because, I need you."

It echoed through her ears rapidly. Why? She wanted to ask, but she sort of knew. Y/N just wanted to hear him say it. Her legs shifted position and Loki bit his lip.

"I need you because I have no one." He shook his head. "I have no one left, Y/N. Besides my brother...you are all I have left."

She waltzed toward him with a bit of a gentle smile on her lips. She felt his pain and reached out to touch him as if to take some of it away. Y/N felt his arms creep around her waist, pulling her close and Loki bit his lip. He knew she understood.

"I'm not going anywhere." She whispers as their noses touch and her eyes close as she put her hands on either side of his face. Loki felt his grin radiating off him and nodded.

"I'll be forgiving this time." he said to her, eyes staring at her bruises and he brought Y/N hand to his lips, kissing her palm gently with his eyes still fixated on her. She got goosebumps and looked down. "Don't let anyone else hurt you, for as next time, I won't be so forgiving."

The End

@hookedinto-fictionalworlds @heartislubbingdubbing @unicorniorosacomefrutillas @nayr9e @kybaeza @multifacetedscorpio @naega-ooooooolf @schizonephilim @thatweirdwalangpake @grahoundart @kybaeza @nayrael @multifacetedscorpio @naega-ooooooolf @nirvanaslovechild @hisparadox @naughtybaroness30 @empressoftheundergroundsun @inlovewith3 @smartiedork @gerli49 @spookytyphoonbouquetsblog @angelicvixenn @wtfcantfindusernam

[alloftheimagines]

billy hargrove | heaven-sent | part six

masterlist | series | part five

words: 2k+

warnings: mentions of death, abuse, fighting, swearing, drinking, aggression, non-consensual kiss

disclaimer: i in no way support the actions of billy. i just find his character interesting and want to explore it more with my oc. takes place from season 2. OC is hopper’s daughter.

summary:  she’s an angel. he may as well be the devil. one would not exist without the other.

The gentle hum of the engine is peaceful as the Camaro cruises through Hawkins. Billy doesn’t try to cover it with his music the way he usually would. After the night he’s had, he’s grateful for the quiet. He’s unable to forget the way his father’s fist collided with his face earlier, his cheek still throbbing painfully. His jaw aches, too, and he realises he’s been clenching it for hours. He relaxes it now as best he can, his attention drawn away from it entirely when they pass a bunch of wilted flowers placed randomly on the side of the road. There are unlit candles, too, the wax melted into the concrete.

“Someone die there or somethin’?” he asks without thinking.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Frances flinch and regrets asking. “Yeah. Her name was Barb.”

“Did you know her?” He glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him, her head turned away as she gazes out of the window.

“She was my best friend.”

Jesus. I’m—” He sucks in a breath, his grip tightening on the steering wheel sub-consciously. Sorry, he wants to say, but somehow the word doesn’t do it justice. “What happened to her?”

“She was killed.” She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear, her eyes hardening as she turns them back on the road ahead. She still won’t look at him.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Did they catch ‘em?”

“No.” She shakes her head, her voice cracking. Her chest is heaving as though she’s suppressing a sob or is struggling to breathe. He shuffles in his seat, unsure what to do or say. He doesn’t need to force anything out: she continues before the right words come. “I should have been there that night. She begged and begged for me to come to this stupid party with her at Steve Harrington’s house. Nancy was forcing her. She wasn’t really part of that crowd and she didn’t wanna be alone, always said it was easier for her when I was there. She died alone.”

“It’s not your fault,” Billy replies softly. It’s easier for him to be soft in the dark; easier to allow himself to sound as though he gives a damn. “You couldn’t have known.”

“But I did,” she hits back, looking at him now. Her eyes are shiny with tears, her hands clinging to her camera desperately. “I had this awful feeling in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe, all fucking night—only I thought it was because Jonathan’s brother was missing. I was so busy looking for him with my dad that I wasn’t there for Barb. Now she’s gone. And I knew.”

Her face is illuminated in the pale headlights passing on the other side of the road, and for a moment her eyes seem to flicker, blaze, change. Her irises, once a green that reminded Billy of the Californian sea on a rare, grey day, are now golden. He does a double take, almost swerving the car in the process, but when he looks again they look as they always did: murky ocean eyes half-hiding behind dark lashes and unruly bangs.

“Shit,” he curses, forcing his eyes back on the road. “Your eyes.”

She frowns, paling and pulling down the overhead mirror with enough force that Billy is worried she might break his damn car. “What?”

“Nothin’, I—” he stutters, blinking and looking at her again. Had he imagined it? Was it the light off the other car? “I thought you had something in your eye. It was nothin’.”

He pulls into the clearing where the trailer stands, lonely and grey against the black lake. The tyres roll against the gravel unevenly, the engine cutting out and replaced with silence.

“Your dad home?” he asks, just as he had the previous night. The trailer’s windows are dark, the house empty and solitary where it stands. He can’t imagine calling this place a home, even with his own circumstances.

“No,” she replies, unfastening her seat-belt slowly. “You wanna come in for a while? I could use that drink, now.”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips as he takes the keys out of the ignition and grabs the bottle of whisky from beside him. “Sure. Why not?”

* * *

The trailer isn’t as small as it looks from the outside. It’s cosy, earthy, and he can imagine Frances pottering about on it on a Saturday, drinking coffee with the patterned curtains closed to block out the low winter sun. Still, he can’t imagine sleeping in this thing alone. They’re basically in the middle of nowhere. He can’t even smell cow shit out here, and the lake is eerily still even in the wind.

“Your dad work a lot?” He places the whiskey on the kitchen counter and she pulls out two glasses from the oak cupboards, standing on her tip-toes and arching her back to reach.

“Yeah. I’m used to it now.”

“You don’t get scared out here alone?” he teases, leaning against the counter.

She pours the whiskey carefully and slides his tumbler towards him, taking a sip of her own. If the burn fazes her, she doesn’t show it. “I’m always scared. Doesn’t make a difference if I’m out here or in the middle of town.”

“Because of Barb?”

She shrugs. Her cheeks are flushed from the short walk between the car and the trailer, making the small cut on her cheek appear redder than it did before. “Because of a lot of things. You need ice for that bruise?”

He had forgotten about it for the first time tonight. He touches it now as if to remind himself, trying to hide his wince as he realises how tender it is. “I’m good,” he says despite himself.

She rolls her eyes, kneeling down to rifle through the freezer. When she comes up, she’s holding frozen peas. She chucks them at him, and he catches reluctantly, pressing them gently to his face. “Thanks.”

“So, where did you move from?” she questions, leading him to the couch and sitting down, whiskey in hand. He follows, sitting beside her, perhaps a little closer than he had meant to. He doesn’t make an effort to budge down.

“California.”

“Yeah?” Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s a little different than Hawkins. What was it like?”

“It was …,” he sighs, unable to find the right words. Nobody had asked him that yet, really. Nobody in Hawkins cared about Billy’s old life. Sometimes, it no longer feels as though it exists at all. “It was home. I basically lived on the beach. Had bonfires most nights, spent my days out in the sun. There was always something happening, too. Carnivals, fairs, gigs. You’d love it. You'd get some amazing photographs.”

“Yeah,” she smiles, hanging on his every word. He can’t help but look at her again, at her eyes that he’d been sure had changed. They were still green, still the closest he could get to his favourite place. “I bet. You must miss it like crazy.”

“More than anything,” he admits, sipping his drink to distract himself from the sudden attention. “What about you, you lived here your whole life?”

“Actually, I lived in New York for a while when I was a kid. My mom still lives there with her new husband.”

“Did you like it?”

She shakes her head, leaning back into the couch as her eyes glaze over for a moment, remembering. “I did. Now, it just reminds me of things I’d rather forget.”

“Like?”

“I think I’ve told you enough of my little sob story tonight,” she laughs, but Billy can tell it isn’t genuine. He can’t help but wonder if they’re more alike than he thought, looking at the cut on her cheek again. Did the chief do that? He seems to walk around town in an eternally foul mood: it wouldn’t necessarily surprise him if he took it out on her.

He finds himself inching closer to her, so close that their foreheads are almost touching. “I like talking to you. You’re the only person in this shitty town I can stand to be around, even if you are all gloom and doom.”

“Gee, thanks.” Sarcasm drips from her words without conviction. He can hear her breath coming out quicker as he looks down at her soft, pink lips longingly. She doesn’t close the distance, so he takes it upon himself.

Their lips press together for only a moment before her hands are on his stomach, pushing him away. She stands up, crossing her arms over her chest as though she’s naked rather than fully clothed with layers of knitwear. Her face is bright red, her eyes blazing. “What the fuck, Billy?”

“What?” he replies cluelessly, raking his hand through his hair and pretending as though his cheeks aren’t heating up in embarrassment. He can’t remember the last time he was rejected.

“What?” Frances repeats in disbelief. “God, what was this? Were you just trying to get into my pants the entire fucking time? Driving me home, getting back my camera, listening to me when I talk about my dead friend and my cheating boyfriend because I’m a fucking idiot who thought that maybe you weren’t so bad, that maybe you actually gave a shit?”

He’s speechless, licking his dry lips as he tries to figure out what to say. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Why would I ever want that? I just ended a two-year relationship with my best fucking friend.”

“And I’m great at rebound sex,” he answers as though it’s obvious. He can feel anger beginning to bubble in him, not because he’s mad at her words, but because she’s yelling—and he still doesn’t know why. “Why else am I hear, Fran? You wanna talk about feelings all night while you braid my damn hair? Cuddle by the fuckin’ fire with a mug of hot cocoa, marshmallows on top? You’re not stupid. You know I’m not that guy.”

Tears are pricking her eyes again, and this time she doesn’t blink them back. He’s not sure she even knows she’s crying in her own, blind rage. “So all of this was just for sex? All of it?”

Billy softens at the sadness in her voice, his elbows digging painfully into his thighs as he puts his head in his hands and takes a breath. “No, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan all this just to screw you. I just … When you invited me in, I thought—”

“Thought you’d shoot your shot,” she finished bitterly. “Of course you did; of course opening my door to you automatically meant opening my legs, too. You’re a fucking asshole, Billy. I don’t know why I let you in. I don’t know why I let any of this happen. Just get out.”

“Fran—” he says desperately, standing up from the couch and walking around the coffee table to meet her.

“Get out, Billy!” Frances shouts. “Get the fuck out!”

She pushes him backwards with more force than he’d been expecting, sending him flying straight into the door. It falls open against his weight, and he falls with it, landing on the porch. His defeated, shocked body is illuminated by the white porch light.

Frances stands in the doorway, speechless. Clearly, she had been expecting this as much as he had.

“Jesus!” he yells when he’s able to find the words. It hurts him, being treated this way. He could take it from his father, his friends, the shitheads he beats up at school and parties, but he hadn’t been expecting her to touch him like that—and it’s clear she hadn’t meant to by the way she looks at him as though he’s broken, as though she’s broken him, though she can’t know what this means to him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re a crazy bitch, you know that?”

“Fuck you,” she whispers weakly as he pulls himself up, using the fence as support. “Leave me alone, Hargrove.”

“Gladly,” he responds, his upper lip curling in contempt. His hands are balled into fists as he marches away, barely sparing her a glance as he slams the door of the Camaro shut after sliding into the driver’s seat. His tyres struggle against the gravel, spitting out dust and dirt as he speeds away, watching her retreating figure standing in the threshold of the trailer in the rear-view mirror.

part seven

[dracoqueen22]

[CR] Up the River

Universe: Critical Role Campaign Two, Alternate Reality Characters: Caduceus Clay, Fjord Rated: K+ Enticements: Fairy Tale AU, The Hermit and the Kappa Description: Caduceus thinks Calliope must have been teasing when she said to be wary of kappas. Fjord, after all, seems to be as pleasant as they come. For FjorClay Week, Day Three, Prompt: Myths and/or Fairy Tales It's a sticky, humid day when Caduceus throws the two corked clay jars over his shoulders and heads for the river. He picks his way through the garden of haphazardly ordered plots of vegetables and fruits and herbs and flowers singing their sweet song into the air. A few bees buzz noisily, but leave him be. True, he could always ask the Wildmother to create water for him, but there's a simple pleasure in fetching it for himself. It's only a few minutes walk, and perhaps while he's there, he'll indulge in a quick dip as a break from the day's sticky heat.

As it is, Caduceus has stripped down to a loose pair of linen trousers, snipped off at the knee. His bare skin is slick with a sheen of sweat. He's piled his hair on top of his head, in deference to the heat, and the sun warms the back of his neck where it peeks through the tree canopy above. "Is there any chance we might see a break in this heat soon?" Caduceus asks of the wind. It doesn't answer, but then, that's an answer in itself. "I thought not," Caduceus sighs. Summer is not his favorite season. The river quietly burbles in its banks, low for the season. It's been a dry year, not as many rains as Caduceus is used to counting. His bare feet sink into the mud as he crouches on the bank and sets to filling his jars. Insects buzz around him. Leaves rustle. A couple frogs croak their displeasure of the heat. And the water in front of him abruptly bubbles as a head emerges from beneath, dark green and slick and accompanied by a pair of vivid gold eyes. Caduceus shouts and flings himself backward, not out of fear, but out of surprise. His bottle goes flying, fumbling out of his hands to land in the water and start bobbing downstream, caught on the current. The creature burbles a curse and vanishes beneath the surface. What in Melora's name was that? Caduceus rights himself, indulging in a flicker of calm emotions to get his heartbeat back to normal. One water jug rests in the mud, but the other -- yeah, it's rapidly floating downstream. He's going to have to go after it. He peers into the water, looking for any sign of the creature he'd seen. "Uh, hello there. Didn't mean to shout like that, you just startled me," he says. Nothing. There is, however, a further splash. Caduceus' ears twitch, and he follows the sound to where his water jug is merrily bobbing in the current. A webbed hand emerges from beneath the surface, snagging the jug's rope, before it vanishes underwater -- the hand, not the jug. Then it bobs in Caduceus' direction, the rope taut as though it's being towed. Caduceus blinks. "Um, thank you?" he says as the jug comes closer and closer, into the shallows, and with it, the creature belonging to the hand. It's humanoid, shorter in stature than Caduceus himself but broader and thicker, with webbed hands and feet, and a glossy, amphibian skin. It's green, but its face is humanoid, handsome if Caduceus had to apply a descriptor to it. Short-black hair caps its head, but the rest of it is smooth and gently scaled. It holds out the jug. Caduceus accepts it with a little bow, popping the cork into place as he does so. "Thanks. That would have taken me a while to retrieve. These waters have some, uh, strong undertows. Though I guess you'd know that if you... do you live here?" "I do... live here," the creature says, and it's voice is deep and bassy, the words stilted as though this is the first time it has spoken. "I live here." It makes a broad gesture to the area around them. Caduceus nods. "I live there." He turns and points over his shoulder, in the direction of his hut. "I've never seen you before though." He pauses and gives the creature another look -- something about it is familiar but he can't place why. "What are you, if I may ask?" "I am Fjord." It touches its own chest. "You are... ?" It tilts its head to the side and looks up. "Tall cow man." Caduceus chuckles. "Kind of. I'm a firbolg. We don't live around here usually. The name's Caduceus. What's yours?" "Name is Fjord," it says, and its lips peel into a smile, revealing a mouth of dangerous looking teeth, two on the bottom far more prominent. "I am a kappa." "Ohhh. See, I got that backward." Caduceus tries to remember. He vaguely recalls Calliope telling him to be wary of kappas, but he can't remember why. "Nice to meet you. Is there, uh, something I can do for you? Is that why you decided to introduce yourself?" Fjord shakes its -- his? Caduceus is going to go with his -- head. "Curious," he says. "Never seen one like you before. You're not like the others, so I thought maybe you'd be a..." He gropes for a word before suggesting, "...friend?" "Sure!" Caduceus breaks into a wide grin. "I mean, I don't see why not." He looks around, skimming the underbrush and the river. "Are you alone out here, Fjord?" The kappa's shoulders hunch, and he takes a step back into the water until he’s knee-deep again. "I am the only one, yes." "I didn't mean that to sound as scary as it did." Caduceus takes a step back so he doesn't look like a threat. "I'm alone out here, too. My family lives on the other side of the mountain." He gestures to the far east. "I'm here because I'm looking for something." Fjord points to the water jug. "That?" Caduceus chuckles. "No, it's not a physical thing. It's more of... a purpose? A plan? My destiny?" He scratches at his chin, struggling to find the right words. "I'm not sure. I'm waiting for her to tell me." "Her?" "The Wildmother. Melora." He goes to point to the symbol on his chestplate, and then he remembers he's not wearing anything but a pair of linen shorts. "I serve her." Fjord blinks, and it's a weird thing, because he blinks first one way and then another way, like Caduceus has never seen before. "I don't know Melora. Only the serpent. Many eyes." He shudders, and hunches again, like he's afraid. "Many, many eyes." Caduceus frowns. A serpent with many eyes? He doesn't know anything about that, but perhaps he can commune with the Wildmother later and she'll illuminate him. "This serpent... is it your god or your leader?" Caduceus asks. A shiver runs over Fjord's body, flicking his scales. "He’s the Serpent," Fjord says, in a tone that applies proper noun usage and everything. "He’s... Master?" Fjord cocks his head like he's not sure that's the right word before he shrugs. "We do what the Serpent says, and we’re rewarded. We don't, and we’re punished." He pauses and shakes his head. "I don’t like bein’ punished." "Few do," Caduceus murmurs. He bends down, picks up his water jugs, and slings them back over his shoulder. "I was going to make some tea. It's why I came for water. Do you want to join me?" "What is tea?" Fjord asks. He takes a step forward only to hesitate at the edge of the water. "It's a drink." Caduceus peers at the kappa, who's now nibbling on his bottom lip and looking nervously up and down the riverbank. "I mean, can you leave the water? Are you tied to it or...?" Fjord touches his hair as though checking something. "I can leave," he says, and takes a deep breath before stepping one foot out of the water, onto the muddy bank. "It's dangerous, but I can leave." "Will you get in trouble with the Serpent?" "No." Fjord pats his hair again before standing up straight, squaring his shoulders and everything. He’s not wearing any clothing, but if he has any delicate bits, they must be tucked away. "I’m not a coward. I’ll try the tea." Caduceus blinks. "There's nothing cowardly about -- well, all right. Come with me. I can show you my house." He starts walking, the water jugs bouncing against his hip. "I warn you, my house is small, but it's cozy. Maybe too cozy, because it's pretty hot." "It’s very hot," Fjord agrees, and Caduceus hears feet squelching through mud before Fjord's heavier tread echoes behind him. "The river is better." "It probably is." Caduceus laughs. "I was going to wade in for a second. I completely forgot." "Just wade? Not swim?" Fjord asks. Caduceus looks over his shoulder and unconsciously slows his pace to match Fjord's, who walks more deliberately, cautious before he puts each foot down. "I'm not much of a swimmer." "That's bad." Fjord's luminous eyes look at him with something like disappointment. Maybe pity? "Swimming is important. I'll teach you." "I didn't say I couldn't do it, just that I-- well, never mind." It's another one of those distinctions so minor as to be non-important. "I appreciate that. I might just take you up on the offer." Fjord looks up at him. "If you're going to live here, you must swim," he says. "The Serpent is Master here. He may not like you." "So it's for my safety then?" "Yes." Hmm. Maybe Caduceus should research this Serpent sooner rather than later. Of course, the kappa could be lying to him, but he can't think of a reason why. There are better things to lie about. "I didn't warn the other one," Fjord says, and he looks at the ground, his shoulders slumping. "She was cruel, so I didn't warn her, and the Serpent took her." His webbed fingers tangle together, though they seem a lot drier now, some of the scales starting to flake. "It takes all of us eventually." "You seem to have come out all right," Caduceus says. But the kappa laughs, a strange gurgling sound which seems as though it's meant to be heard from underwater. "This is after," he says, slapping his palm against his chest, making a wet-sticky sound. "This is punishment. I wasn’t always like this." "What were you like?" Caduceus asks as his hut comes into view, a small curl of smoke rising from the chimney, where he'd left embers to burn themselves out. Fjord drops his hand, and it curls into a fist before loosening. "I wasn't this," he says, and shakes his head. "I wasn't this." "You can't leave?" Caduceus asks. "Can't go far from home." Fjord touches the crown of his head again, his fingers coming away moist. He rubs them together and frowns. "Can't go far from Serpent." "I see," Caduceus says, though he really doesn't. This Serpent sounds like a jailer. Maybe it's one of the betrayer gods? It's certainly someone the Wildmother would not like. Caduceus pushes open his door and ducks into the cool dim of his small hut. He leaves the door open for Fjord and sets the water jugs on the open shelf. A flick of his hand coaxes the fire back into full bloom to heat the kettle hanging above him. "You can sit anywhere you like," Caduceus says. He ponders his tea collection before selecting a few he guesses Fjord might like -- sweet and fragrant blooms, he thinks. Fjord pokes around the hut, taking great interest in the things Caduceus has on the walls and hanging from the roof. He seems particularly taken by the broken sword Caduceus has on display. He’s had the old thing for many, many seasons, and carried it with him from home. "It's a conversation piece really," Caduceus says as he prepares two mugs. "I keep thinking I might find someone who can repair it some day, but until then, I can't bear to part with it. Something tells me it's important." One of Fjord's fingers lightly touches the hilt. "Important," he echoes, though it's barely louder than a murmur. "I had a sword once. Before the punishment. It was important, too." He makes an odd sound, like a gurgle, before he turns away from the sword. The kettle whistles, and Caduceus sets about pouring the tea, adding a plate of biscuits to the tray because a good afternoon tea is always properly served with biscuits. "Do you like honey?" he asks as he sits on the floor and Fjord flops down next to him, a bit awkward, as though unused to the physics outside the water. "Honey?" Fjord says. "I think I remember honey. I don't remember if I liked it." He gives the offered tea a sniff before holding it back out to Caduceus. He chuckles and adds a few dollops to the steaming cup. "Be careful. It's hot." His warning comes too late, as Fjord takes a long sip, only to immediately hiss and yank the cup away, his tongue lolling out in desperate pants to cool the singed skin. "Sorry, I should've said something sooner." Caduceus winces and holds out a hand. "May I?" Fjord tilts his head, but he leans in toward Caduceus with permission. Caduceus brushes his fingers over Fjord's forehead, whispering a prayer to the Wildmother for a little bit of comfort, and watches Fjord's expression shift from pained to relieved. "Better?" "Yes." Fjord smacks his lips a few times before he nods. "Hot." He touches his forehead where Caduceus' fingers had brushed him and asks, "What was that?" "A blessing from the Wildmother. She's... kinder than your Serpent," Caduceus says. He blows on his own tea to cool it before he sips. "Would you like to know more about her?" Fjord cups his mug, fingers rubbing the textures of the outside of it. "Could she help me?" "Maybe. If you asked her to. If you really wanted it." Caduceus chooses his words carefully. He doesn't want to make promises in Melora's place, but he swears he feels her attention on him, however slight, and he's moving in the right direction. Her direction. Fjord takes in a deep breath and nods, lifting those luminous eyes back to Caduceus. "I want to know." "Sip your tea, friend," Caduceus says as he lets himself get comfortable, "And I will tell you a story." "Friend," Fjord repeats the word as if tasting it before he beams, like ten years of tragedy have been briefly lifted from his shoulders. "Yes. We're friends." ***

a/n: Feel free to comment and reblog and talk in the tags if you like! I’d love to know what you think!

[bluewatsons]

Joseph A. Harriss, The Elusive Marc Chagall, Smithsonian Magazine (December 2003)

With his wild and whimsical imagery, the Russian-born artist bucked the trends of 20th-century art

David McNeil fondly remembers the day in the early 1960s his father took him to a little bistro on Paris’ Île St. Louis, the kind of place where they scrawl the menu in white letters on the mirror behind the bar, and masons, house painters, plumbers and other workingmen down hearty lunches along with vin ordinaire. Wearing a beret, a battered jacket and a coarse, checkered shirt, his father— then in his mid-70s—fit in perfectly. With conversation flowing easily among the close-set tables, one of the patrons looked over at the muscular, paint-splotched hands of the man in the beret. “Working on a place around here?” he asked companionably. “Yeah,” replied McNeil’s father, the artist Marc Chagall, as he tucked into his appetizer of hard-boiled egg and mayonnaise. “I’m redoing a ceiling over at the Opéra.”

Chagall, the Russian-born painter who went against the current of 20th-century art with his fanciful images of blue cows, flying lovers, biblical prophets and green-faced fiddlers on roofs, had a firm idea of who he was and what he wanted to accomplish. But when it came to guarding his privacy, he was a master of deflection. Sometimes when people approached to ask if he was that famous painter Marc Chagall, he would answer, “No,” or more absurdly, “I don’t think so,” or point to someone else and say slyly, “Maybe that’s him.” With his slanting, pale-blue eyes, his unruly hair and the mobile face of a mischievous faun, Chagall gave one biographer the impression that he was “always slightly hallucinating.” One of those who knew him best, Virginia Haggard McNeil, David’s mother and Chagall’s companion for seven years, characterized him as “full of contradictions—generous and guarded, naïve and shrewd, explosive and secret, humorous and sad, vulnerable and strong.”

Chagall himself said he was a dreamer who never woke up. “Some art historians have sought to decrypt his symbols,” says Jean-Michel Foray, director of the Marc Chagall Biblical Message Museum in Nice, “but there’s no consensus on what they mean. We cannot interpret them because they are simply part of his world, like figures from a dream.” Pablo Picasso, his sometime friend and rival (“What a genius, that Picasso,” Chagall once joked. “It’s a pity he doesn’t paint”), marveled at the Russian’s feeling for light and the originality of his imagery. “I don’t know where he gets those images. . . . ” said Picasso. “He must have an angel in his head.”

Throughout his 75-year career, during which he produced an astounding 10,000 works, Chagall continued to incorporate figurative and narrative elements (however enigmatic) into his paintings. His warm, human pictorial universe, full of personal metaphor, set him apart from much of 20th-century art, with its intellectual deconstruction of objects and arid abstraction. As a result, the public has generally loved his work, while the critics were often dismissive, complaining of sentimentality, repetition and the use of stock figures.

A major retrospective of Chagall’s unique, often puzzling images was recently on view at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, following a highly acclaimed run at the Grand Palais in Paris. The first comprehensive exhibition of Chagall’s paintings since 1985 brought together more than 150 works from all periods of his career, many never before seen in the United States, including cloth-and-paper collages from the private collection of his granddaughter Meret Meyer Graber. The exhibition, says Foray, the chief organizer of the show, “offered a fresh opportunity to appreciate Chagall as the painter who restored to art the elements that modern artists rejected, such as allegory and narrative—art as a comment on life. Today he is coming back strong after a period of neglect, even in his home country.” Retrospectives are planned for 2005 at the Museum of Russian Art in St. Petersburg and at the State Tretiakov Gallery in Moscow.

Movcha (Moses) Chagal was, as he put it, “born dead” on July 7, 1887, in the Belorussian town of Vitebsk, near the Polish border. His distraught family pricked the limp body of their firstborn with needles to try to stimulate a response. Desperate, they then took the infant outside and put him in a stone trough of cold water. Suddenly the baby boy began to whimper. With that rude introduction to life, it’s no wonder that Marc Chagall, as he later chose to be known in Paris, stuttered as a boy and was subject to fainting. “I was scared of growing up,” he told Virginia McNeil. “Even in my twenties I preferred dreaming about love and painting it in my pictures.”

Chagall’s talent for drawing hardly cheered his poor and numerous family, which he, as the eldest of nine children, was expected to help support. His father, Khatskel-Mordechai Chagal, worked in a herring warehouse; his mother, Feiga- Ita Chernina, ran a small grocery store. Both nominally adhered to Hasidic Jewish religious beliefs, which forbade graphic representation of anything created by God. Thus Chagall grew up in a home devoid of images. Still, he pestered his mother until she took him to an art school run by a local portraitist. Chagall, in his late teens, was the only student who used the vivid color violet.Apious uncle refused to shake his hand after he began painting figures.

For all his subsequent pictorial reminiscing about Vitebsk, Chagall found it stifling and provincial—“a strange town, an unhappy town, a boring town,” he called it in his memoirs. In 1906, at age 19, he wangled a small sum of money from his father and left for St. Petersburg, where he enrolled in the drawing school of the Imperial Society for the Protection of Fine Arts. But he hated classical art training. “I, poor country lad, was obliged to acquaint myself thoroughly with the wretched nostrils of Alexander of Macedonia or some other plaster imbecile,” he recalled. The meager money soon ran out, and although he made a few kopecks retouching photographs and painting signs, he sometimes collapsed from hunger. His world broadened in 1909 when he signed up for an art class in St. Petersburg taught by Leon Bakst, who, having been to Paris, carried an aura of sophistication. Bakst indulged Chagall’s expressive, unconventional approach to painting and dropped names, exotic to the young man’s ears, such as Manet, Cézanne and Matisse. He spoke of painting cubes and squares, of an artist who cut off his ear.

“Paris!” Chagall wrote in his autobiography. “No word sounded sweeter to me!” By 1911, at age 24, he was there, thanks to a stipend of 40 rubles a month from a supportive member of the Duma, Russia’s elective assembly, who had taken a liking to the young artist. When he arrived, he went directly to the Louvre to look at the famous works of art there. In time he found a room at an artists’ commune in a circular, three-story building near Montparnasse called La Ruche (The Beehive). He lived frugally. Often he’d cut a herring in half, the head for one day, the tail for the next. Friends who came to his door had to wait while he put on his clothes; he painted in the nude to avoid staining his only outfit. At La Ruche, Chagall rubbed shoulders with painters like Fernand Léger, Chaim Soutine, Amedeo Modigliani and Robert Delaunay. True to his nature as a storyteller, however, he seemed to have more in common with such writers as French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, who described Chagall’s work as “supernatural.” Another friend, Blaise Cendrars, a restless, knockabout writer, penned a short poem about Chagall: “Suddenly he paints / He grabs a church and paints with a church / He grabs a cow and paints with a cow.”

Many consider Chagall’s work during his four-year stay in Paris his most boldly creative. Reconnoitering the then-prevalent trends of Cubism and Fauvism, he absorbed aspects of each into his own work. There was his Cubist-influenced Temptation (Adam and Eve); the disconcerting Introduction, with a seven-fingered man holding his head under his arm; and the parti-colored Acrobat, showing Chagall’s fondness for circus scenes. At La Ruche he also painted his explosive Dedicated to My Fiancée, which he tossed off in a single night’s feverish work and later submitted to a major Paris exhibition. It took some artful persuasion on his part to convince the show’s organizers that the topsy-turvy mix of hands, legs and a leering bull’s head was not, as they contended, pornographic.

Returning to Vitebsk in 1914 with the intention of staying only briefly, Chagall was trapped by the outbreak of World War I. At least that meant spending time with his fiancée, Bella Rosenfeld, the beautiful, cultivated daughter of one of the town’s wealthiest families. Bella had won a gold medal as one of Russia’s top high-school students, had studied in Moscow and had ambitions to be an actress. But she had fallen for Chagall’s strange, almond-shaped eyes and often knocked on his window to bring him cakes and milk. “I had only to open the window of my room and blue air, love and flowers entered with her,” Chagall later wrote. Despite her family’s worries that she would starve as the wife of an artist, the pair married in 1915; Chagall was 28, Bella, 23. In his 1914- 18 Above the Town (one of his many paintings of flying lovers), he and Bella soar blissfully above Vitebsk.

In 1917 Chagall embraced the Bolshevik Revolution. He liked that the new regime gave Jews full citizenship and no longer required them to carry passports to leave their designated region. And he was pleased to be appointed commissar for art in Vitebsk, where he started an art school and brought in avant-garde teachers. But it soon became clear that the revolutionaries preferred abstract art and Socialist Realism— and how, they wondered, did the comrade’s blue cows and floating lovers support Marxism-Leninism? Giving up his job as commissar in 1920, Chagall moved to Moscow, where he painted decorative panels for the State Jewish Chamber Theater. But ultimately unhappy with Soviet life, he left for Berlin in 1922 and settled in Paris a year and a half later along with Bella and their 6-year-old daughter, Ida.

In Paris, a new door opened for Chagall when he met the influential art dealer Ambroise Vollard, who commissioned him to illustrate an edition of the poetic classic the Fables of La Fontaine. Chauvinistic French officials cried scandal over the choice of a Russian Jew, a mere “Vitebsk sign painter,” to illustrate a masterpiece of French letters. But that blew over, and Chagall went on to do a series of resonant illustrations of the Bible for Vollard.

Increasingly alarmed by Nazi persecution of the Jews, Chagall made a strong political statement on canvas in 1938 with his White Crucifixion. Then 51 and in his artistic prime, he por- trayed the crucified Christ, his loins covered with a prayer shawl, as a symbol of the suffering of all Jews. In the painting, a synagogue and houses are in flames, a fleeing Jew clutches a Torah to his breast, and emigrants try to escape in a rudimentary boat. Not long after, in June 1941, Chagall and his wife boarded a ship for the United States, settling in New York City. The six years Chagall spent in America were not his happiest. He never got used to the pace of New York life, never learned English. “It took me thirty years to learn bad French,” he said, “why should I try to learn English?” One of the things he did enjoy was strolling through Lower Manhattan, buying strudel and gefilte fish, and reading Yiddish newspapers. His palette during these years often darkened to a tragic tone, with depictions of a burning Vitebsk and fleeing rabbis. When Bella, his muse, confidante and best critic, died suddenly in 1944 of a viral infection at age 52, “everything turned black,” Chagall wrote.

After weeks of sitting in his apartment on Riverside Drive immersed in grief, tended to by his daughter, Ida, then 28 and married, he began to work again. Ida found a French-speaking English woman, Virginia McNeil, to be his housekeeper. A diplomat’s daughter, and bright, rebellious and cosmopolitan, McNeil had been born in Paris and raised in Bolivia and Cuba, but had recently fallen on hard times. She was married to John McNeil, a Scottish painter who suffered from depression, and she had a 5-year-old daughter, Jean, to support. She was 30 and Chagall 57 when they met, and before long the two were talking painting, then dining together. Afew months later Virginia left her husband and went with Chagall to live in High Falls, New York, a village in the Catskills. They bought a simple wooden house with an adjoining cottage for him to use as a studio.

Though Chagall would do several important public works in the United States—sets and costumes for a 1942 American Ballet Theatre production of Tchaikovsky’sAleko and a 1945 version of Stravinsky’s Firebird, and later large murals for Lincoln Center and stained-glass windows for the United Nations headquarters and the Art Institute of Chicago—he remained ambivalent about America. “I know I must live in France, but I don’t want to cut myself off from America,” he once said. “France is a picture already painted. America still has to be painted. Maybe that’s why I feel freer there. But when I work in America, it’s like shouting in a forest. There’s no echo.” In 1948 he returned to France with Virginia, their son, David, born in 1946, and Virginia’s daughter. They eventually settled in Provence, in the hilltop town of Vence. But Virginia chafed in her role, as she saw it, of “the wife of the Famous Artist, the charming hostess to Important People,” and abruptly left Chagall in 1951, taking the two children with her. Once again the resourceful Ida found her father a housekeeper— this time in the person of Valentina Brodsky, a 40- year-old Russian living in London. Chagall, then 65, and Vava, as she was known, soon married.

The new Mrs. Chagall managed her husband’s affairs with an iron hand. “She tended to cut him off from the world,” says David McNeil, 57, an author and songwriter who lives in Paris. “But he didn’t really mind because what he needed most was a manager to give him peace and quiet so he could get on with his work. I never saw him answer a telephone himself. After Vava took over, I don’t think he ever saw his bank statements and didn’t realize how wealthy he was. He taught me to visit the Louvre on Sunday, when it was free, and he always picked up all the sugar cubes on the table before leaving a restaurant.” McNeil and his half sister, Ida, who died in 1994 at age 78, gradually found themselves seeing less of their father. But to all appearances Chagall’s married life was a contented one, and images of Vava appear in many of his paintings.

In addition to canvases, Chagall produced lithographs, etchings, sculptures, ceramics, mosaics and tapestries. He also took on such demanding projects as designing stainedglass windows for the synagogue of the Hadassah-HebrewUniversityMedicalCenter in Jerusalem. His ceiling for the Paris Opéra, painted in 1963-64 and peopled with Chagall angels, lovers, animals and Parisian monuments, provided a dramatic contrast to the pompous, academic painting and decoration in the rest of the Opéra.

“He prepared his charcoal pencils, holding them in his hand like a little bouquet,” McNeil wrote of his father’s working methods in a memoir that was published in France last spring. “Then he would sit in a large straw chair and look at the blank canvas or cardboard or sheet of paper, waiting for the idea to come. Suddenly he would raise the charcoal with his thumb and, very fast, start tracing straight lines, ovals, lozenges, finding an aesthetic structure in the incoherence. Aclown would appear, a juggler, a horse, a violinist, spectators, as if by magic. When the outline was in place, he would back off and sit down, exhausted like a boxer at the end of a round.”

Some critics said he drew badly. “Of course I draw badly,” Chagall once said. “I like drawing badly.” Perhaps worse, from the critics’ point of view, he did not fit easily into the accepted canon of modernity. “Impressionism and Cubism are foreign to me,” he wrote. “Art seems to me to be above all a state of soul. . . . Let them eat their fill of their square pears on their triangular tables!”

Notes veteran art critic Pierre Schneider, “Chagall absorbed Cubism, Fauvism, Surrealism, Expressionism and other modern art trends incredibly fast when he was starting out. But he used them only to suit his own aesthetic purposes. That makes it hard for art critics and historians to label him. He can’t be pigeonholed.”

When he died in Saint Paul de Vence on March 28, 1985, at 97, Chagall was still working, still the avant-garde artist who refused to be modern. That was the way he said he wanted it: “To stay wild, untamed . . . to shout, weep, pray.”

[monstersandmaw]

Male tiefling x male reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Here, for your delight and delectation, is Killygren the tiefling, another character from Starfall Springs! See this dashing rogue’s character art and bio info here in case you missed it.

His story has been up on Patreon for a little while, and now it’s time to put it up on here. There’s another Starfall Springs story that’s been up on there too, but you’ll have to wait for that one, featuring an orc.

Halfway through one of the hottest summers on record, you bought a bus ticket and rode it to the end of the line.  

Unconventional, unpredictable, and possibly unwise though the decision may have been, you simply snapped and needed a break.  

The city was stifling, the traffic overwhelming, and you needed green fields, perhaps some cool, breezy woodland, or the soft caress of an ocean breeze. Starfall Springs, you knew from an advertisement you’d seen on the Underground, had all three. And a huge number of non-human residents as well, which, you had to admit, made you curious.  

Your travelling companion on the bus was a very elderly harpy lady who saw that you were travelling alone and proceeded to talk your ear off about the local area as you drew near to the town. In fact you didn’t mind because she was actually quite interesting and very sweet.  

“That’s Jaime’s farm,” she said, nodding out of the dusty window at an old farmhouse in the distance, surrounded by open pasture. There was a round-pen for training horses, and a number of horses were standing in the shade of some huge beech trees beside a field of sheep and goats and another with a small herd of russet red cows. “He’s a sweetheart,” she said, but you had begun to tune the rest of it out by then. The lilting movements of the bus, and the warmth in the air, made you feel slightly sleepy, and it was hard to focus on her voice.  

Eventually, you helped her off the bus and inhaled deeply. Already the air was different here; fresher, sharper despite the haze of pollen in the air. She thanked you for being “Such a polite young man,” and made her way off along the banks of the fast-flowing river which carved through the centre of the old collection of buildings.

Alone once again, you decided to head off towards the wide, paved market square in front of you. Stall holders yelled and called jovially, selling everything from fresh fish and meat to summer produce, cakes, handmade goods, knives, and even little witchy charms. You caught sight of a palomino centaur selling cider and apple juice, apple jelly, apple compote, and even dried apple crisps, and beside her was an orc wearing an apron which bore the logo of a local dairy. His stall had the most amazing array of different cheeses, and you paused long enough to be offered a free sample.  

“Visitor?” he asked jovially.  

You nodded. “Yeah, just thought I’d make an escape from the city for the day. Maybe even for the weekend…”

“Well, if you need a place to stay, Killy’s inn - the Inglenook over there - is great,” he said, pointing towards an old timber-framed building on the far side of the market square. 

“Thanks,” you grinned.  

The orc smiled back at you, and you marvelled at how open and friendly everyone seemed here, unlike the city where the majority of inhabitants were human, and they seemed singularly morose and unfriendly.  

You wandered through the market for a while, your rucksack bashing uncomfortably against your back, until you came to the far side of the open plaza. Down the length of the main road out of the small town of Starfall Springs, you glimpsed the rolling countryside beyond. Gods, but it was idyllic.

The hills in the furthest distance were raked with lines of grapevines, the terracotta roofs of the vineyard buildings glowing in the heat of the summer sunshine, and a few miles away there looked to be a vast fruit orchard. Heat haze marred any real details, so you turned away and made your way back into the town, winding your way down cool, narrow, ancient streets where any number of little shops were tucked away, from antique stores to craft shops, some with pottery and ceramics made locally, to small greengrocers.  

You emerged at the other end of town near the duck pond and you paused a moment in the cool shade of the poplar trees and gazed into the murky depths. A bubbling near the far edge drew your attention, and you stared, astonished, as a horse’s head surfaced from the murky water. The horse heaved itself out of the water at the opposite edge of the pond, duckweed and little water flowers clinging to its greenish-black coat and studding its flowing black mane. It shook itself and you continued to stare openly as it trotted off towards the temple which stood not far away from this end of town, in the middle of an open meadow.  

“What the…?” you breathed, realising it must be some kind of water spirit, probably a kelpie. That just wasn’t the kind of thing you saw everyday in the city though; there were very few places left which were pure and unpolluted enough for creatures like that to survive. As if to drive home the point, a tiny, glowing fairy zipped past your face, laughing and trailing a wake of sparkling dust behind them that made you sneeze and take a step back. Wherever the dust hit, the plants turned a violent pink for a few seconds before fading and returning to their usual hues.  

As enchanting as the whole place was, eventually your stomach started to rumble, and you looked about for somewhere to eat. Perhaps you might even get a cheeky lunchtime pint while you were at it. It was a weekend after all.  

Back in the central marketplace, you saw the old, traditional pub sign of the Inglenook swinging slightly as a breeze sighed around the square. The orc’s recommendation from earlier floated back into your mind, and you decided that you’d pop in and see what it looked like at least. You didn’t have to commit yourself to staying there if you didn’t want to.  

The inside was tastefully decorated, with both traditional and modern features, though the bar at the far end was a very old fashioned, high pub bar, with a huge number of beers and ales on tap, and a vast array of spirits displayed on the wall behind.  

Tables dotted the bar area, and the place was packed. You sighed, thinking it’d take ages for you to be served, and were on the verge of turning round and finding a quiet cafe somewhere else when the shattering of a glass made you halt.

You glanced around, drawn by the noise, and saw a beautiful tiefling standing beside the bar, as if he’d been about to come around the end of it and go to a table with a drink. At his dark blue, cloven hooves lay the scattered remnants of a glass tankard, foam and beer spreading in a wide pool around him. And, improbably, his eyes were locked on you.  

Well, one eye was locked on you. The other was covered by an elegant sash of cloth. His long hair was a very dark blue-black, tied back in a low ponytail, and his skin - flawless save for a pale scar that bisected his mouth from upper lip to chin - was a dusty, cornflower blue. There was no white sclera to the visible eye, and the iris was an intense, fiery gold, with a slit, catlike pupil, while his left eye was covered by a sash of Tyrian purple silk with gold thread here and there, as if to accentuate the colour of his right eye.

After a second or two of staring dumbly at you as if you were some long-lost friend, the tall, slender tiefling shook his horned head, and seemed to come to his senses. A faun appeared from behind the bar with a cloth and a dustpan and brush and told him to step back while they swept up the mess.  

You turned to go, not wanting to linger, despite feeling there was something going on that you’d missed. A few patrons were looking from the tiefling to you and back again, but most had either ignored the incident or returned to their lunchtime chatter.  

You’d barely made it to the door before you felt a soft tap on your bicep and you glanced around to see that the tiefling had come over to you. This close up, you took in the beautiful horns that curled first backwards over his thin, tapering ears and then up towards his forehead again. The left horn ended in a gold tip and you saw tiny gold hoops flashing at his earlobes too. He was a bit taller than you, and you swallowed nervously. He was stunningly handsome, and apart from the fact that you’d never been with a non-human before, he was exactly your type.  

He smiled, showing sharp, white canines and a warm smile with little dimples in his chiselled cheeks. “Hi,” he said in a warm baritone. “I’m sorry about all that just now,” he went on, waving a hand and you caught the sparkle of silver on his fingers too. “Listen, to make up for being such an ass, how about I let you have some lunch and a drink on the house?” He had an airy, lyrical, lilting accent that reminded you, for absolutely no reason at all, of summer evenings and mayflies dancing over still water.  

“Really, you don’t have to do that,” you said, perplexed. “I mean…”

He smiled again and stretched out his hand in a more formal greeting. His were those beautiful kind of hands with everything in the right proportion, the dusky blue skin flecked with intriguing scars here and there, and the sight of it suddenly, strangely, made you ache to feel his touch. Things had become a bit lonely in the city, and you raised your own hand and shook his.  

The skin of his palm was smooth and callused, but warm, and he held you firmly for a moment and then grinned, “My name’s Killy. Well, Killygren, no one except my mother calls me that, and I’d thank you not to use it…” he chuckled. “It’s hot out there today - let’s get you a drink at the very least…”

“I don’t understand,” you murmured.  

He laughed again, a free, musical sound, and winked. “I was so struck by the sight of you, I dropped that one and made a fool of myself. We don’t get a lot of humans passing through Starfall Springs you know, and I know all of the regulars.” He jutted his sharp chin at a distant corner where an orc and a young woman were deep in conversation, their hands linked. “She was the last one to arrive. Inherited a run-down old farm not too far from town.”

“The way you speak makes it seem like the humans who do come tend to stay…”

He winked again and turned back towards the bar. He had a tail, you noted, and it hung elegantly behind him like a panther’s as he walked, hips swaying slightly, hooves clonking lightly on the wooden floorboards of the old pub. It was only then that you remembered the name that the orc had said, and realised that this must be his pub.  

Emboldened, you followed him to the bar and set your rucksack down at the foot of one of the worn old bar-stools, and clambered up onto it.  

“Will you let me guess your favourite?” he grinned from behind the bar.  

You frowned slightly, but then allowed a slow smile to creep across your lips. “Alright.”

The faun, who had finished clearing up the shattered glass, looked up and giggled. He had a nest of golden curls and the brightest blue eyes you’d ever seen, his cheekbones smattered with a myriad freckles. “Don’t encourage him,” he said, shaking his head and making his wavy hair toss this way and that. “He’s incorrigible, and he rarely gets it wrong… Must be that tiefling magic…”

Killy did not look away from your face for a while, and you thought you saw a faintly glowing light through the fabric of the sash covering his eye, but it was gone in a heartbeat, and you chalked it up to mild heat-stroke or dehydration or something.  

As if he’d read your mind, Killy said, “Well, first things first, a pint of water for the gentleman, but after that…” he made a show of stroking his chin with his long fingers.  

“Like you don’t already know,” the faun snickered. “Just serve it to him and stop flirting.”

Your cheeks heated slightly, but the reaction was welcome enough, as was the attention.

Killy clutched his heart and shook his head. “I’m hurt, Dizzy. I’m hurt.”

The faun, presumably named ‘Dizzy’, thwapped him round the backside with a damp tea towel and retreated to take another customer’s order.  

When Killy turned his attention back to you a few moments later, with, yes, what just so happened to be your favourite drink in his hand, he was still laughing softly. “I'm sorry about him,” he said, sliding your glass across the bar. “So, how’d I do?”

“The hype is well-founded, it seems.”

He fist-pumped playfully and turned back to the faun, sticking his tongue out at him - it was dark blue, you were surprised to see - and then turning back to you. “So, what brings you to Starfall Springs?”

“You can’t work that out as well?” you asked, somewhat acerbically, sipping the drink and trying not to show just how much you liked it.  

He made a slightly odd expression, somewhere between strained and embarrassed, and said, “I could, I’m sure, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

You snorted, but soon found yourself telling the tiefling everything. You felt stuck in your job, your social and sex life was stagnating, you’d not had a decent boyfriend in years, and that morning you’d felt like a change of scene would be a good thing. “So I bought a bus ticket, and here I am.”

“And here you are,” he murmured softly. Killy listened to the whole thing. He’d sunk quietly onto a stool on his side of the bar, leaned his elbows on the counter top, and had listened; really listened. You’d not had anyone do this for you since… well… not even your brief stint at the therapist had been this cathartic. You found your hand resting on the ancient, beer-stained wood of the bar, tracing idle circles with your fingertip, and you noticed how close his fingers were to yours.  

“Tell me something?” you asked bluntly after your third or fourth drink.  

“Anything for you, handsome,” he grinned back. Coming from anyone else, that line would have been nauseating, but the way he said it, with that flippant, light-heartedness just made it seem somehow astonishingly sincere.

“How’d you know this was my favourite?” you said. “And how’d you get so good at listening?”

“I know things,” he said with melodrama in his one visible eye.  

“No,” you countered, “No, that’s not…”

He chuckled and gripped your hand. The touch was so sudden, so unexpected that you let out a little moan that was way more sexual than you’d intended.  

Killy only smiled and reached both hands up to undo the sash around his face. His long, blue-black hair was tied back off his stupidly handsome face in a low ponytail, and as he dislodged it to untie the covering, you felt the urge to touch it and run your hands through it, maybe even grip it and tug it. Your fingers twitched, but you remained still as he revealed the other half of his face.  

“I don’t show just anyone this,” he said conspiratorially. “This eye was a special gift from someone who shall remain nameless at the moment, but it lets me see all sorts of things.”

You snorted, but then you looked at him anew.  

He just laughed and you stared openly at his now-revealed left eye. A perfect, black pentagram hung in the middle of a glowing, ice blue iris, ringed with two black outer circles. It was unusual to say the least.  

You leaned closer, fascinated. “That’s… kind of…”

“Gross?” he said. “Unnerving?”

“I was just gonna go with ‘cool’…” you finished rather lamely. “Why do you keep it covered?”

He shrugged and wrapped it up again. “I don’t always want to be poking into people’s business, you know? That way it helps reduce the ‘unexpected visions’ factor. Though when you walked in, I got an eyeful - quite literally - of you and me.”

“Wait… like…” you gestured vaguely and he laughed.  

Killy leaned across the bar and whispered right in your ear, his breath tingling, “I mean, I can give you specifics.”

“Go on then,” you said, feeling oddly bold.  

Without preamble, he murmured, “I saw me with my mouth around your cock…”

“Holy shit…”

He shrugged and drew back. “I’ve never had that with anyone, by the way. Must be something special about you.”

“You sure you don’t say that to all the boys?” you sneered.  

Something softened in his face and he leaned back. “It’s not set in stone, you know? You can still say no. But something must be keeping you here. You’ve been here all afternoon. It’s getting late, and the last bus back to the city leaves in half an hour.”

“Shit.”

“You can still catch it if you leave now.”

The moment hung heavily between you, but one look at the way his sharp Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed got you thinking about him swallowing your release, and you felt heat pool between your legs. “What the hell,” you said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said with open bitterness in his voice, turning away from the bar. “You’ll have to wait til I’m done working though.”

“Fuck, that’s not what I meant,” you hastened to add. “Look, you know my whole life’s story now. You know this was a spur of the moment trip - something I’d never normally have done. It feels… I don’t know… right?”

The corner of Killy’s mouth, near the vertical scar, twitched, and he smiled. “Drink some water. I’ll be done in an hour.”

You watched him work from a quiet corner of the bar, and you definitely sobered up a fair bit in that time. Not that you’d been necessarily drunk, but something about the atmosphere had gone a long way to helping you release your inhibitions. With the water in your system, you started to note the way Killy behaved a bit more closely. He was attentive with his customers, quiet and patient, and you couldn’t help noticing from your new vantage point that he rested one hock slightly against the other whenever he paused to hear someone speak. His eyes constantly darted around, and he had a nervous habit of playing with his right earring when someone lingered too long or got too close.  

His trousers were loose linen, cuffed tight around his elegant, almost cervine ankles, and but from what you could see, his legs were hairless. He was not built like a faun, despite having the hooves.  

Eventually he washed his hands and swapped shifts with a huge minotaur who came in and high-fived him as he left. Killy glanced around the bar and then spotted where you had parked yourself, and he smiled.  

“You’re still here,” he said when he had drawn level with your table.  

Your mouth was still dry from watching the way he had dropped his shoulders in relief and the elegant way in which he had walked over to you, hips swaying softly as though he wore heels. You croaked. “Yeah.”

“Look, just because I saw one future possibility… I really mean it. You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“No strings attached, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ok.”

“Just like that?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I’ve had a couple of pints of water and an hour to think it over. Why can’t I have something that’s still meaningful with a complete stranger?”

His lips twitched again. “Right. C’mon.”

He led you upstairs, his hooves clunking softly on the bare wooden tread of the staircase, and into a very humble bedroom at the top of the old pub. A double bed occupied one wall but the sloping ceiling took out practically half of the other side of the room. A little free-standing wardrobe stood against the far end, and a pair of low bookcases stood on either side of the bed, doubling as beside tables with little lamps. It was surprisingly spartan for such an apparently flashy tiefling.  

As you dumped your bag in the corner, you looked at him in surprise and he smiled softly, standing so close you could smell the soft scent of jasmine on his long hair. He had a freckle on his cheekbone. Your eyes drifted to the scars on his lip, and you wondered where he’d got them from. Before you could ask, he was kissing you. He began slowly, hesitantly, but something about the way he treated you made you ache for more.  

Blood pooled in your groin and you felt your cock stir as his hands took hold of your jaw and he groaned. He had a slight shadow along his own jaw and you relished the rasp of it against your skin. He pressed his body close, his hips rearing against yours, and you grunted softly as you felt the hardening line of his cock against your hips.  

Killy backed you against the closed door and as the air left your lungs with another softly articulated grunt, his fingers found their way to your waistband. He glanced at you and saw the acceptance in your face before continuing. He let your jeans fall to the floor and he freed your cock, stroking it slowly, apparently enjoying the feeling of wrapping his hand around it, getting to know the way you felt in his hand.  

He stroked you, working you slowly, luxuriantly, while your knees felt like they were going to turn to water. “Killy,” you hissed, and he caught your meaning.  

You stepped out of your jeans and abandoned them, allowing him to pull you over towards the bed and push you down onto it. The tent in his own soft trousers was obvious now, and you reached your hand for it, intending to palm him briefly and tease him, but he grabbed your wrist and placed it back on the bed as he tipped you expertly down onto your back.  

He took your shirt off and let his palms play over your torso. As much as you may have been underwhelmed by your own body, he seemed to relish the chance to touch it. He lingered on your collarbones and on your nipples, even lowering his lips to them and kissing you over and over while his hands painted slow circles over your lower torso and hips, down towards your thighs.  

“Fuck, Killy… please!” you grunted as your cock pulsed again, printing pre-come onto your skin. You felt like your skin was a size too small all over as he trailed a fingertip down the line between thigh and hips, dangerously close to your sensitive balls. “Fuck! Stop teasing me!”

He laughed and took you by surprise by lapping the tip of his dark tongue against the head of your cock, tasting you. His one visible eye rolled closed at the taste of you, and in one swift motion he licked his lips and took you all the way to the back of his throat.  

As your tip hit the silky soft flesh of his throat, you gasped and cursed.  

He closed his fingers around the base of your cock as he withdrew, keeping his cheeks hollowed, and he began to suck. The heat and slide of his mouth over your hard cock was incredible, and he clearly enjoyed the feeling too.  

He was as clever with his hands as he was with his lips and tongue. Killy worked your cock with his mouth, alternating between long, regular strokes and teasing sucks and licks around the head of your cock, just sliding you in and out of his lips before dipping his head and letting you hit the back of his throat again. Time slid by, but all too soon you were shuddering on the edge of release.  

“Killy…” you hissed. “I’m…”

White heat built rapidly and you knew you were very close.  

He sucked just a little harder, his fingertips tracing just behind your balls, and you came hard into his mouth. He swallowed you down without breaking eye contact with you.  

The intensity of your release had taken you somewhat by surprise.  

Sure, it had been a while since someone had blown you, but still, the way he’d lavished attention on you had been something else. He stayed there while your cock throbbed and leaked the last drops of your release onto his tongue, only drawing back and licking his lips when you had completely finished.  

“Did the vision live up to reality?” you finally rasped as you lay back, slightly dazed.  

He smiled. “You don’t want to know what else I just saw…”

“Something tells me I might enjoy it?” you hedged. “Just… gimme a minute…”

Killy lay down on his back, still fully clothed, and smiled, glancing sideways at you. “I’m yours for the night.”

************************************

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[chilling-seavey]

Seasons Change (d.s.) - TWO

↳  A/N This one’s a little long but will give you a good insight into daily farm life at the Seavey residence! 

↳ Summary: Everyone knows everything about everyone in this small rural town in east Connecticut and the handsome single father who owns the farm down the main street seems to always be the talk of the town. Balancing the care of his acreage, raising his school-age son, and coaching the local boys’ hockey team keeps Daniel busy; but his mind never strays far from the expansive and vibrant flower gardens planted outside his farmhouse.

↳ Word Count: 2901

↳ Warnings: This story touches on topics such as loss of loved ones and grief. Nothing too detailed but read at your own discretion x

Every morning at 5:30, Daniel’s alarm rang loudly from his bedside table. It was routine now to pull himself out of his far too empty queen size bed and get dressed by the light of the bathroom sconces alone. The sun was rarely over the horizon this early but he opened the curtains in his bedroom and headed downstairs in jeans and a t-shirt, opening up the rest of the house in preparation for sunup. Lennox was still fast asleep in his bed when Daniel stepped out of the front door and trekked down the front porch steps, along the foot path, and across the gravel drive towards the barn.

The first hour of every morning was spent there; milking the cow as well as tending to the horses and the feed troughs. This used to be his favourite time – sitting on one stool with Marigold on the other, each tending to a cow as she quietly sang them into the morning. No one was more of a morning person than Marigold. She always made waking up early easy. But Daniel now milked the sole cow in silence, sometimes letting a small whistle come to his lips in the process as he worked, a tune that would follow him back down the path to the farmhouse.

On the opposite side of the house from the gravel drive was a small hallway that held the laundry room and mud room and in there was where the two buckets of milk went first thing. Daniel would pour the fresh milk into glass jugs and bring them right into the kitchen, leaving them in the freezer to cool with a timer set for one hour. All his work was precise to the minute.

By then, the sun would be rising and his hands would be scrubbed and it would be just about 6:30 when Daniel would take the stairs back up to the second floor to wake Lennox. This morning was no different and, like usual, the small Jack Russel Terrier greeted him with a wagging tail when he opened the door. Daniel bent down to give him a quick scratch behind the ears before stepping into the blue-painted room and he pulled open the curtains.

“Morning, Spud.” Daniel called to his son who was waking from the light that had suddenly been let into his room.

Lennox rolled sleepily onto his back and rubbed his eye with his fist, the small dog jumping up to join him on his single bed like he hadn’t been by the boy’s side all night. Daniel stopped by the side of his son’s bed and pet a hand over his hair, watching his same blue eyes flutter open to look up at him.

“Morning, Daddy.” Lennox yawned.

Daniel smiled at his sweet son and nudged his cheek with his finger, “Up and at ‘em, buddy. The chickens are waiting for you.”

Lennox giggled lightly and sat himself up, watching as Daniel pulled out an outfit for his son and draped the pants and shirt onto the end of the bed.

“I’m going to shower. Eggs on the kitchen counter, okay?” Daniel reminded the seven-year-old like he did every morning.

Lennox only replied with, “Yes, Daddy.” and watched his father leave.

While Daniel hurried to shower in the masted bedroom ensuite, Lennox got himself dressed and hurried down the stairs to tend to his morning chore. The dog ran at his heels out the front door and around to the side of the house on the edge of the fence just before the barn where the chicken coop was built. He wished the chickens good morning and gathered the eggs from the nesting boxes in the small basket he carried with him.

By the time Lennox had collected the eggs and returned inside, Daniel had just finished his shower and was prepping breakfast in the kitchen with wet hair and fresh clothes to start the day. The two of them had a good routine down between farm work and getting ready for the day, and while Daniel cooked up the eggs, Lennox brushed his hair and washed his face and brushed his teeth for school. They ate together in the breakfast nook just off the kitchen with windows on three sides of them directed right to the rising sun and glasses of perfectly fresh milk to pair with their eggs, bacon, and fruit.

The school bus came for 7:45 and Daniel always walked Lennox down the long driveway of their property to wait with him at the road for the bus to come. When it stopped at the end of their driveway, Daniel hugged and kissed his son goodbye and watched him get on the bus with Jack’s daughter from the next farm over.

Daniel spent his days alone on the farm, tending to the animals and testing to see if the ground was ready to be ploughed. After lunch, he drove down to the general store to pick up a few things, greeting Corbyn behind the counter with a friendly hello.

“What can I get you?” Corbyn asked.

Daniel took off his hat and set it on the counter, “Bag of chicken feed and the order that I put in the other day, please.”

“Of course.” Corbyn disappeared into the back of the store to gather the order and Daniel waited at the counter. He scanned the ice cream freezer near by but stopped himself from ordering a cone.

“Daniel!”

He turned at the sound of his name being called above the ring of the bell above the door to face an older woman rushing down the soup aisle towards him.

“Thank goodness! I was hoping I wouldn’t have to come knocking on your door.” she said, slightly breathless in her rush and he held out a hand for her to hold onto as she calmed herself down. “My front step is broken again. My husband walks far too heavily and it snapped right down the center. Would it be too much trouble for you to come take a look?”

“Not at all, Lydia.” Daniel chuckled politely. “I’ll have Corbyn grab me a piece of plywood with my order and I’ll stop by.”

“Oh, you are an angel, Daniel.” the older woman sighed, clutching onto his hand thankfully. “I don’t want to trip myself up those blasted steps.”

“Of course not.” Daniel agreed.

“I’ll pay you for it this time-”

“Oh, no, that’s-”

“I insist, Daniel.”

“Lydia, you don’t need to pay me.” Daniel said strongly. “Maybe just bring another one of your delicious cherry cobblers to next weeks brunch, alright?”

“Oh,” she flushed bashfully, “I suppose.”

“Alright.” Daniel smiled, giving her hand a pat. “I’ll be over in as soon as I pay for this order.”

Daniel seemed to be known as the handyman of Lincoln as well as the best hockey coach; he had built the chicken coop in his backyard himself and fixed up their farmhouse porch within the first month they had moved to town. Now everyone seemed to appreciate his attention to detail and his generous offers to help fix a broken step or a leaky roof…and he never once accepted payment. Daniel’s days were filled with helping out around the town and tending to his land until Lennox would come home from school around 3:00. Lennox would tell Daniel about his day while Daniel finished up the day’s work and then they would head inside together to start dinner. While dinner was being made, Lennox did his homework with the dog sleeping under his chair, and once they ate – always at the dining room table like Marigold always insisted – it was time to get changed for hockey for 6:00.

Both hockey bags were stored in the laundry room and once they were changed into sweats and t-shirts, the boys each grabbed their own bag on the way out the door. They made sure they had filled water bottles and all their equipment in a hurry as they rushed down the path to Daniel’s old forest green pickup truck. It wasn’t a long drive to the community centre – Lincoln was a very tiny town after all – and once parked, they headed inside together. Daniel always made sure he was early since he was the coach. Lennox led the way down the single hallway of the community centre, hockey bag over his shoulder (and almost the same size has he was) with his good luck t-shirt he always wore tucked proudly over his small body.

‘Love and luck from my Mommy in heaven’ was printed in black font over the back and although it was originally made for him when he was six, Lennox insisted they made a new one for each season as he grew. It truly was his good luck charm and nothing made Daniel prouder than seeing his son still wanting to wear that shirt to every game.

“Hurry up, Dad!” Lennox called from the doorway of the change rooms, his young voice echoing down the near empty hallway.

The team room seemed to always have a lingering smell of sweat and ice that had accumulated over the last few decades but it smelt like home to the boys. Daniel and Lennox got changed into their jerseys and equipment and Daniel helped him lace up his skates and took off the skate guards from the blades before they were ready to go. By the time they were changed, the other junior boys had started to arrive to get changed and Daniel headed out to the rink with his keys to greet the few parents and set up for practice.

Lincoln Lightning uniforms consisted of white pants and jerseys with dark blue stripes and light blue accents and although the boys had to wear full padding and gear for practice, Daniel usually just wore skates and socks, pants, and his jersey. He helped himself to the supply room with his set of keys and grabbed a few extra sticks and the crate of pucks to bring over to the bench. A few parents always stayed back to watch the practice – mostly the mothers honestly – but Daniel never minded. Marigold always liked to watch her boy play too.

Once it hit 6:30, Daniel draped his whistle around his neck and called the boys onto the ice. Living in Lincoln for their whole lives, the boys were already very good on skates so weekly practices were just for game technique. With the whistle balanced between his lips, Daniel let his skates glide him backwards as he greeted his team,

“We’re practicing slapshots today. Or…shots in general. I know a few of you need a bit more practice with this.”

Daniel turned towards the one net set up at the end of the rink, showing off the dark blue print along the back of his jersey that read Seavey 99, and he pushed off towards the few pucks scattered over the ice. He moved gracefully and pulled his stick back to slap a perfect shot right into the goal net, the sharp sound of the stick hitting the ice echoing through the arena. The boys ‘wow’ed.

“We’re going to get you there, okay?” Daniel said as he skated back over to his team. “Do we all have our mouthguards in?”

There was a chorus of, “Yes, coach!”

“Lemmy see.”

The lineup of boys gave him big grins so he could see the thin curves of soft plastic between their teeth.

“Alright, good. Let’s see what you got. Get in two rows.”

Practice lasted an hour and by 7:30 the boys were huddled up for their last little pep talk before they were ushered back into the change rooms. Daniel stayed back on the ice to get a bit of his own practice in that was up to his skill level and by the time the few parents had left and complimented Daniel on his work, it was just Lennox and Daniel and Jonah’s boy left at the rink.

Daniel changed back into his sweats and t-shirt and packed his bag while the two boys waited on the bleachers and ran up and down the aisles together, playing. Daniel locked up the supply room and turned off the arena lights and herded the boys out into the cool spring evening air.

“So sorry I’m late.”

“No problem.” Daniel said honestly as Jocelyn hurried over from the parking lot. “I was just going to drive him home for you.”

“You’re far too kind.” Jocelyn chuckled, taking her son’s bag for him and then his hand. She looked back up to Daniel, “I called my family friend…she’s going to come down by the end of the week and she’ll stay with us for a few days…longer if you want to hire her of course.”

“Oh.” Daniel almost forgot about the offer for a gardener and he hiked his bag higher over his shoulder, “That’s great. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’m sure Jonah will shoot you a text when she’s settled and we can drop by.”

“Yeah, for sure.” Daniel agreed.

They said their good nights and Daniel watched them walk off to their car before looking back down to his son. With messy sweaty post-helmet hair, Lennox looked up at him through the dim light of the parking lot.

“Who’s she talking about?”

Daniel led him back to the truck and tossed their bags in the bed of the truck before helping him into the front seat, “I’m thinking of hiring someone to help around the farm.”

Lennox pondered his father’s statement as he waited for him to get in behind the wheel. When they started off towards home, the young boy answered, “Why?”

“It’s hard to take care of everything just me.” Daniel said.

“You already sold Spot and the sheeps and most of the chickens.” Lennox argued. “And you have me. I can help.”

“But you’re also in school…and you’re seven.”

“Almost eight, Dad.”

“Almost eight.” Daniel corrected himself. “But I need someone to help me take care of Mommy’s flowers.”

There was a silence that fell over the truck as they drove down the dark two laned road out of the main intersection and towards their farm. Lennox turned and looked out the window.

“What do you think?” Daniel asked after a moment.

“I don’t want someone to touch Mommy’s flowers.” Lennox answered softly.

“I know, Spud. I’m not crazy about the idea either…but we’ll lose the garden completely if we don’t have someone tending to it. That’ll be even worse.”

“I guess.” Lennox mumbled.

“I’m just going to meet her later this week and see…she’s a friend of Jocelyn and Jonah’s…she might not be a good fit anyway…I don’t know.”

“How do you know if it’s a good fit?” Lennox asked as they turned into their long driveway and up the dirt drive past the few trees lining the way.

Daniel took a deep breath as their farmhouse came into view, the porch light illuminating a few of the flowers that were starting to bud with the incoming spring, “I don’t know.”

He parked the truck and the boys got out and carried their bags right to the laundry room – a habit Marigold instilled in them to prevent the main house from stinking up. Daniel started the laundry while Lennox went up to bathe, leaving his sweats and his lucky shirt with his father to wash for their next practice. When laundry was started and the cat and dog were fed and Daniel got himself showered free of hockey sweat, the two Seavey boys cuddled up on the living room couch to watch some TV before bed. Lennox had a glass of milk and two cookies like every night and Daniel had his arm around him the whole time, feet kicked up on the coffee table and cat asleep on his lap.

When it was bedtime, Daniel made sure the dog was settled on his bed – with a snap of his fingers and a stern ‘lay down’ – and then he tucked in his boy under his quilt and brushed his damp hair from his face.

“Comfy?” Daniel asked quietly.

Lennox nodded up at him. Daniel leaned down to kiss his forehead and then switched off the bedside lamp.

Through the dark, Lennox spoke softly, “Daddy?”

“Yeah, Spud?”

“I want only Mommy to take care of her flowers.”

Daniel paused a moment, ignoring the pain that clutched his heart as he bent down to kiss his little boy again, “I know. So do I. But we’re going to keep her garden looking nice for her…so when she’s watching down on us, she can see that you and me are very good at keeping a nice house, right?”

“Right.” Lennox sniffled.

“Okay.” Daniel tucked him in snugly. “Sweet dreams. I love you, Spud.”

“Love you, Daddy.”

With his son put to bed, Daniel helped himself to the back porch, lingering by the railing by the light of the outdoor LEDs and overlooked the garden of green that turned into a blossoming overwhelming forest of colour every summer. It had been a little forgotten about the last year with Marigold having just passed so the garden was now in desperate need for some TLC. Daniel sighed and headed back inside to head to bed himself soon, only hoping everything would work out. He hoped Marigold was watching out for him.

 Seasons Change Taglist: @stuffofseaveyy @randomlimelightxxx @jonahlovescoffee @hiya-its-amber @hopinglimelight @midnightpsychic @sbrewer21 @bessonsbxtch @viamiasoncrack @the-girl-who-cried-wolf​ @bessonbae​

Please click the link in my bio to be added to the taglist!

[fleurbastien]

✧･ﾟ(   persephone + jordan fisher + demiguy   ) 𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒂 !!  have you seen Bastien Lalande around ? they/he have/has been in kaos for fourteen months. the twenty-six year old is a botanist from martinique. people say they can be detached but maybe that’s not too bad ‘cause they can also be amicable. whenever i think of them, i can’t help but think of ((   a sunlit greenhouse, sand underfoot on a temperate beach, a streak of dirt smudged across the cheek    )).  ･ﾟ✧ 

Bio

Bastien Lalande was born and raised on the island of Martinique to Danielle and Henri Lalande. Their plan was to have a flock of children. Family was what they prized most in this world. They could imagine no happier future than peering out the window of their sizable family home and see kinds running through the grass, kicking back and forth a football. Their plans were abruptly thwarted. Between their first and third years of life, Bastien was too young to understand or remember the complications that Danielle experienced with having another child. How close she came to passing away after the third surgery. It was this near-death experience which prompted the couple to mutually agree on focusing raising Bastien, and to spare Danielle anymore physical and emotional pain. Despite their agreement, a fragment of Henri and Danielle died; their dreams shattered as though a rock had been thrown squarely into a mirror. Because of this, a seed was planted deep within their minds that, just maybe, if they hadn’t had Bastien, they would still have some semblance of future aspiration.

Life on Martinique was personal. Communal. Familial. Everyone said hello to one another as they passed. Honking was a sign of neighborly greeting, not irritation at the traffic. You can imagine that, growing up in this culture, Bastien became quite the socialite. They were charming, active, knowledgeable, and sportive. People loved seeing him skipping down the road on his way to school, and cheered him on as captain of the Yole Sailing team. He was the picture of stability, as his parents’ world was on the decline. Running a cafe was difficult with a staff of three, and even harder when you had to run operations at the age of thirteen. There were days when he was in charge of opening and closing procedures, and some days more during which he would have to miss school in order to help out at the shop. Bastien was growing to resent the positions into which he was thrust. He was convinced that he should be out enjoying his life, not toiling under responsibilities which should not be his own. A heavy weight began to oppress his shoulders. His personality began to dampen, despite his best efforts. What was worse, he didn’t let on to the community that he was struggling. He felt that, for the sake of dignity (or some other noble reason), he had to keep private the fact that his parents were no longer fit to care for him.

After several years, a poetic path appeared. A divergence of destiny. Bastien could travel halfway across the world and attend the University of Hawaii at Manoa, or they could continue looking after their parents, who severely needed their help. The decision sent the youngling into a depressive state. He knew his dreams lay at the other side of that graduation stage in Hawaii, but he also knew that there was no real choice; he had to stay for his parents, despite their contentious relationship. Danielle was fatigued more often than not, and if Bastien couldn’t anticipate her needs, she would find it in her energy to berate him (putting it kindly). At that point, Henri had enough of a reason to despise Bastien. Not only did his son take away three more children from him, but contributed to the heartbreak and physical condition of his beloved as well. It was at this important crossroads that Bastien’s behavior altered radically, deviating from his usual sunny disposition. As it happened, nothing went unnoticed by his extended family for long. By and by, upon discovering his dilemma, they practically made the decision for him. They would take care of his parents and send him off to college.

Sparing unnecessary details of Bastien’s college life, he obtained an undergraduate degree in biology, and went on to get his Master’s degree in Botany from the very same school. His intelligence and charisma had his professor’s hooked, and it was easy for him to be admitted to the PhD program there. His advising professor won a grant from the NSF and was further funded by the university to conduct a field school on the island of Kaos in Greece. Before applications even opened, the professor had made his decision, for the only name that jumped into his mind for a field assistant was none other than Bastien Lalande.

The two, along with four undergraduates, have been on the island for just over a year, doing extensive research on Mediterranean vegetation. Bastien is using this opportunity to develop his doctoral research, simultaneously writing his dissertation. Weekdays, Bastien can be found in the field and in the lab, running soil samples, or peering into microscopes. On the weekends, he clacks away at his keyboard, synthesizing as much information as possible. When he finds free-time, or needs to clear his head, he loves swimming, or sailing if he can find a boat.

Running into Bastien, one would encounter a shining smile, a charming accent, and hospitality that would make you feel as though you knew him for an eternity. He might invite you on a hike, or show you a greenhouse. It is rare to catch him without a flower tucked behind the ear. However, if one truly tried to dig deeper beneath the surface than the charisma that he emanates, they might find that there isn’t much they actual know about Bastien, as if all information on his deep, honest thoughts have been entombed far beneath the ground.

Although they miss the Caribbean islands, they feel something deep in the pit of their stomach which anchors them to Kaos. A lifetime’s worth of knowledge sits at their feet in Greece. It would take all of their willpower to turn away from it.

Headcanons

very much “gerry durrell” from the durrels in corfu vibes

if you havent seen it i recommend

but instead of being obsessed with animals hes obsessed with plants

very smiley, outgoing, charismatic, loves chatting with strangers as long as the questions dont get too personal

A-1 athlete, can swim until the cows come home

flower aesthetics galore. he likes to draw flowers, wear flowers (prints and real flowers, ofc), and grow flowers in his window sills and from hanging pots

are u french ? he will speak french to u if so

underneath, hes a lil moody. his parents began to blame him for his mother’s health complications. they wanted a family so badly that they kinda alienated their only child

he loves loves loves martinique but dreads going back to that life that was hard, tortuous even

writes to his family to make sure everyone is okay, but doesnt talk to anyone on kaos about it

kinda wonders if he should blame himself for complications ?

can be found lying in the dirt contemplating his woes. or singing. or singing because of his woes.

you honestly cant be a fan of botany without developing a relationship with bugs. in this case, bastien l o v e s them. even the scary ones

Insp

click the link !

Playlist

orange trees  -  marina 

le monarque des indes  -  pierre lapointe

be my baby  -  the ronettes

harvest moon  -  neil young

sweet creature  -  harry styles 

at last  -  etta james

buttercup  -  hippo campus

semaphore  -  requin chagrin

home again  -  first aid kit

motivation  -  normani

dream a little dream of me  -  doris day

[sugarpolis]

Unspoken Rules

Summary: Flirting with Princess Lucy Heartfilia from the Magnolia Kingdom was strictly prohibited, but Prince Dan from Zentopia didn’t seem to get the clue. Princess and Dragon AU NaLu.

Sneak Peek:

Prince Dan inhaled deeply, smelling freshly baked cakes from the oven and faint flower scents around the small, crowded Magnolia town. Small shops of foods, merchandises, clothings, and a lot more were built alongside a big canal. People were talking and laughing gleefully, as if there were no problems in their lives.

Prince Dan snorted. Sure, Zentopia, his dearly hometown, was a lot smaller than this town but at least his hometown didn't have any lurking elemental dragons.

Yes, Magnolia was famous for its strong military and politics, but some said it was strengthened due to elemental dragons living in the forests. Rumors also said those dragons had been terrorizing the townspeople for years, but no one had been able to stop them. Not even Fairy Tailㅡthe strongest magic guild there.

So here he was, the strongest knight in history (at least that was what he thought); he was so gonna wipe those shitty dragons so he could make Zentopia.. a lot more noticeable. Which was why he left his hometown a week ago.

Anyway, he had read many literatures about those dragons despite hating the smell of inks, books and the idea of reading itself. So far, the most dangerous one was the Fire Dragon. Still, that wouldn't stop his determination; why would he get afraid of those big, overgrown lizards?

And of course, his main goal was to woo and marry Princess Lucy Heartfilia! Her beauty was the talk of many people whenever Magnolia was brought as a topic. Her long golden tresses, her creamy skin, her perfect curvaceous body; it was no wonder that every prince at least tried to propose to her but strangely, she had never accepted any.

As he walked along the canal, Dan didn't care about the looks he received because of his appearance or the clinking sounds his armor made whenever he walked, maybe he was just that charming. He smirked at his own thought.

Now that he was here.. actually he didn't know where to start. He gotta find some informations first, it seemed. And the best place for that was undeniably a bar.

Dan's train of thoughts was disturbed by an angelic laugh from his left side. Instinctively, his head snapped towards the sound. The next thing he knew, the world stopped for a second.

The blonde girl that stood several meters from him was drop dead gorgeous. She was truly a catchㅡshe was no ordinary girl. Oh, who would not know who she was? Dan could tell right away since he had memorized her features very well from every newspaper. The fact that she wore a fancy-looking dress alone could give anyone ideas, though. Of course, she was the one and only Princess Lucy.

Holy cow, Dan sure was lucky to find his Lu-Lu this fast. The universe must had destined them together.

Seeing her in person was a lot better than photos! Dan's eyes turned into hearts before his feet dragged him closer to the love of his live.

"LU-LU~!"

Lucy, who was just chatting with several girls in front of a building that seemed to be a bar, turned around with curious eyes. "Yes?" she replied softly, tucking some strands of her hair behind her ear.

Dan immediately clutched his armored heart. "Oh holy Lu-Lu, I have finally found you!"

She frowned, "excuse me?"

Dan didn't hesitate to hold her right hand which had a strange pink tattoo on it, but he proceeded to kiss the back of her hand lightly.

Well, not until Lucy pulled her hand so fast that his lips didn't manage to make any contact.

"Who are you and why are you calling me Lu-Lu?" Lucy glared at him, clearly uncomfortable with his act. Dan, however, paid no mind. He didn't even realize that Lucy exchanged glances with the girls she was talking to earlier.

"Princess Lu-Lu, I am Prince Dan from Zentopia Kingdom," he bowed formally with a smile.

"Where the hell is that?" a bikini-clad brunette beside Lucy muttered. The other one, a blue haired petite girl with a bandana, snickered.

"The Prince before him is more famous though," she said.

"Juvia doesn't quite remember," another blue haired girl commented.

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, he was from Crocus," a red haired girl answered.

"Guys, enough," Lucy giggled, somewhat amusedly. "I'll handle him on my own. You guys can go ahead."

"Sure, Lu," the petite girl replied. The girls, which Dan assumed were Lucy's friends, entered the bar shortly after, leaving him and Lucy alone outside.

"So you are Prince Dan. I'm sorry for my informalities. What have brought you here?" Lucy smiled, intertwining her fingers behind her back.

Dan smiled smugly. "There is no need to be so formal with me, Princess. And of course, I came here to annihilate-"

"Luceeee!" a shout from the distance interrupted whatever Dan was about to say. Upon hearing that voice, Lucy crossed her arms under her chest.

"Natsu, don't yell so loud, you're scaring my guest here," Lucy scolded him. Dan was going to retort something about being brave if only a pink haired guy wearing a one sleeved vest didn't catch up so quickly. Seriously, he was one hell of a fast runner.

"Sorry, when I woke up you weren't on the bed so I was freaking out. Then your oldman told me you had a meeting with him, what's with that?!" he literally ranted his whole heart out to the streets, not caring if anyone heard him. Dan expected Lucy to scold him once more, but to his surprise, she didn't.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you. I'll make it up to you later, okay?" she said gently.

"Alright, don't ya want to change your clothes though? Looks too fancy," Natsu suggested, earning a confused stare from Dan. Princess Lucy was a princess, fancy dresses were normal!

"I'll change later," the princess replied. Natsu nodded, before entering the bar.

Dan actually found some things a little bit fishy. This Natsu guy's rant gave him an impression that he and Lucy had some kind of special relationship, but he was sure they were not bethroted. He didn't look like a prince, either. So Dan dismissed the thought. It was impossible.

But firstly, since Lucy had asked him one important question, they couldn't just talk outside, now could they?

"Princess Lu-Lu, as much as I want to talk outside, I think it is better for us to sit inside the bar," he proposed.

Lucy hummed in agreement, "great! Let's just go inside." She wasted no time to push the big mahogany door open, earning some heads to turn towards them.

Read the full version here:

[wintersxsoul]

Ancient Love (2)

Summary: Loki never thought he would fall in love with a mortal, but much less that he would lose you as fast as he did. But…did he really lose you?

Pairing: Loki x Female Viking!Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Dirty talking, mentions of sex and all that stuff.

A/N: Finally I get to finish this chapter. It’s been almost done for almost a week, I’m a mess ugh ily. Please, give feedback, a reblog never hurt no one and it really keeps me motivated to keep writing.

As always, Masterlist and Taglist are on my blog bio!

As weeks went by, you spent less and less time on the village and more in the woods, with the company of your foreigner friend. You were stubborn so you were struggling to admit your feelings to yourself, knowing what that could bring you. You discovered new things about the world you lived in thanks to Loki, his extent knowledge always taking you aback. He was soft and caring but something in his demeanor denoted a strong feeling of loneliness, you never asked him about it though, maybe with time he would open up to you. Loki, on the other hand, was falling for your beauty and strength of spirit, a warrior indeed. You moved around the woods like you belonged there, swaying around like leaves on the wind.

The day Loki knew he loved you was the day you were sparring with him, you achieved to pin him on the soft grass your sword threatening to cut his throat open if he moved. Your faces were mere inches apart and you could feel his hot breath on your cold lips, for a brief moment you thought it was finally going to happen but the bubble burst when you heard a loud caw coming from a crow that was sitting on a branch, staring at you.

“Let’s go, it’s getting late.” You stood up and reached out to help him get up, a shiver ran down your spine when your hands made contact for the first time, something blooming warmly in your heart.

You walked slowly through the woods admiring how the moon lit the top of the trees, the dark green shades appearing to be silver. Loki was silently admiring you, how your hair flowed with the wind and the moonlight making your skin glow. A true goddess of the woods, he thought. He would have never thought he was capable of loving someone, but there you were, making his heart ache.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You stopped dead in your tracks when you realized he had a weird expression on his face, maybe thinking that you did something to upset him. Loki’s eyes widened when you looked at him, confused and you also seemed to be scared, your eyes betraying you.

“I...uhm I think I...you have something in your hair.” He reached out to get it off your hair, a fake leaf he created to hide his true thoughts.

“Oh...okay, thank you.” You placed a strand of hair behind your ear and started walking, leaving Loki behind. He ran to you after he scolded himself, totally missing how you sighed heavily, longing for him. You were walking besides him really close, your hands brushing lightly, until you gathered the strength to intertwine your fingers with his. You heard his breath hitch but said nothing, smiling to yourself. Small victories, you thought.

Loki was hard to approach at first, you were sure he had secluded himself so deeply he forgot how to interact with someone, but as the first days went by, his actions changed, leading you to that exact moment.

Most of the nights, you slept at his hut but that night, something felt different. You could feel he was nervous and that made you aware that something you didn’t know was going on.

He stopped in front of his door and looked at you, his green eyes piercing yours. You instantly saw what was troubling him but you wanted, needed, to hear it from his own mouth.

“I’ve always thought I was incapable of bearing this kind of feelings in my chest, but you’ve set a fire inside that I’m not able to extinguish. And I do not have the will or power to do so.” He had his hand pressed on his left side of the chest, on top of his heart. Your eyes widened at his honesty and you were now able to see the love and adoration in his gaze. You placed your hand on top of his while you moved the other one to cup his cheek.

“Loki, my heart and soul are yours.” That’s all it took for him to close the space between you, his lips softly colliding against yours. Your eyes fluttered closed, your whole self melting into his arms. Loki let out a soft whimper and you moaned into his mouth, deepening the kiss, trying to pour all the love, adoration, passion and total surrender of your barriers.

Loki felt he was about to burst into flames, your breath filling his lungs with your sweet scent. He moved his hands to your waist, pulling you closer to him, your chest colliding to his, both of your hearts beating rapidly, pounding with lust. You ran your hands through his raven locks and pulled, making Loki’s breath hitch and you bit his bottom lip after tracing it with your tongue. He pulled apart trying to catch his breath and pressed his forehead against yours.

He slowly opened his eyes and watched you adoringly, both of your gazes full of desire.

“If we continue, I won’t be able to stop.” You said out of breath still right before Loki leaned in to kiss you again, this time more needy and intense.

“Then don’t.” He added, his voice low and hoarse.

-

“Do we really have to get out?” You whined at him, the coldness of the morning hitting your bare skin. Loki gave your dry lips a soft peck and got out of bed, in all his naked glory.

“We’ve been rolling on the bed for two days, Y/n. We really have to get out. We barely have food and water left.” You let out a sigh and grabbed his wrist before he could move further from the bed.

“I can think of a few very nutritional meals.” He looked at you amused by your insatiable thirst, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted by your offer, after all, he had the stamina of a god.

“Ástin mín (my love), just stay in bed and I’ll go find us something to eat.” You pouted but nodded, pulling the furs up to cover your body, watching him get dressed.

“Óst min, kyss mik (my love, kiss me.)” You tried to sound demanding but your voice trembled in anticipation, your lips longing for his, your body already missing his heat. He leaned in and pressed a kiss on top of your head, his hand cupping your cheek.

“I’ll be back before dawn, warm the bed for me.” You smiled at him lovingly and snuggled up in the bed, smelling Loki’s scent in the huge blanket.

Loki knew it would take him a few hours to hunt a big prey, so he started collecting fruits to eat and flowers to give you, knowing he could later find some meat on the village.

After a few hours he went back to the hut, some fresh stolen meat, a basket full of wild berries and daisies. He tried not to startle you so he opened the door slowly his heart swelling at the view in front of his eyes. You were sprawled on the bed, back facing the ceiling and arms tucked under the pillow, your breath blowing a few strands of hair back and forth from your face. He casted a fire, the woods from the fireplace lighting immediately and he also lit the candles, since it was already dark outside.

He approached the bed and sat besides you, leaning forward and trailing kisses up and down your naked back. You moaned half asleep and turned around, your eyes glancing at Loki half-lidded due to your sleepy state. You sat down and pressed your forehead to his chest, your hair covering your face. Loki hugged you and stroke your hair, rocking both of your bodies slowly.

“Are you okay?” You nodded, face still buried in his chest. You finally moved to look at him and smiled, reaching out to kiss him on the throat, a small and sweet peck.

“I’m starving. Can we please eat and then get back to bed?” He nodded smiling at your petition, standing up to cook the meat and prepare some herbal tea.

Months had passed since the first night you spent together, both of your new lives already established. You moved to Loki’s house since it was way bigger than yours, the spot where it was marvelous. You bought a few chickens, a cow and two horses, so you would always have food, milk and a way of transport. You never knew where Loki had gained all that money and when you asked, he always said it was from his father’s fortune.

You woke up one morning to an empty bed, thinking that maybe your lover went to gather some fruits or flowers as he usually did and as the morning went by, you tried to ignore the burning feeling that was settled on your chest, the feeling that something bad was going to happen. You were preparing some herbal tea when rain started to fall heavily on the roof of the hut, frowning, you went outside to check if it was really raining. It was very rare that it rained at this time of year, maybe the gods listened to someone’s prayers like they did with yours, it was the only logical explanation, for you at least. Loki on the other hand hurried through the woods to get to you knowing that you weren’t safe.

Just when the wooden house was in his field vision, he heard a scream, your scream, and it wasn’t coming from the house, so he ran, he ran so fast he thought his lungs were bleeding and oh god, how much he wanted that to be true because it wouldn’t be as painful as seeing what was in front of him.