#really falling in love with rendering my colors instead of shading

[doodlesdreaming]

Someone said SMT V and Ultrakill in the same sentence and my brain cooked.

[dreemurr-skelememer]

Hello :D

I have been following you for the last year or so (a few days after I got my Tumblr lmao) and I absolutely love your art!

I have been wanting to study your art style for a while but don't really know where to start,,,

Could you please show me a small portion of your art process, if it isn't too much trouble of course. Thank you and have a nice day!

hello. oh my god. this took forever to find.

im sorry it took 2 WHOLE FUCKING MONTHS for me to respond to this but i wanted to put it off until i felt happy with my art process again, so here it is

my fall 2024 rendering tutorial!

(this will be very very long)

FLATS AND WHATEVER YOU WANNA DO WITH LINES GIRL. then make sure to recolor the lineart to better match your base. trust me it helps, bold dark lines are Not your best friend when rendering. wait for that post-rendering

i start off with a doodle or a sketch, and then filling it in with flats and other details such as blush

FIGURE OUT YOUR LIGHT SOURCE. FIGURE IT OUT GIRL YOU CAN DO IT you can make it as simple as possible, make it as big as possible, dont even THINK about the details.........just make it really fucking big so you at least know where the shadows and the light goes THEN add smaller shading details LISTEN TO ME. LISTEN TO ME OKAY!!!!!!!!

my key point with this is for you to learn lighting fundamentals.

it's SOOO ANNOYING but alas......they are all correct. it helps a lot.

one thing i also really want to point out is that i like creating a big shadow shape first before fixing up the little details (such as folds and whatever) because it helps me focus on the way the lighting actually works instead of tunnel vision-ing into making the shading make sense on the clothing.

contact shadows (i dont remember if thats what theyre called okay) theyre fucking ugly because im not actually thinking sorry 💔

okay so basically:

contact shadows (if that's what they're called) are the spots in shading and lighting where light will NEVER hit.

shadows are still influenced by the colors and lights around it (it's why a blue shadow and a yellow shadow feel completely different, despite both being shadows) so it's not always COMPLETELY dark.

BUT! there are small points in shadows where light never hits, and they're almost always super dark or pitch black.

it's hard to explain shadow and light so briefly for a tutorial, but you'll notice it when watching fundamental studies and when trying it out for yourself

YES i unclipped the multiply layer YES its ugly and terrifying but it makes coloring the multiply layer easier okay the colors merged w multiply so now it looks cool and has depth overlaying colors that actually make sense

so basically what i did was color the multiply layer that i used to shade the overall drawing

adding a band of red/orange/yellow around where the light hits, and blue where the shadows get big and wide, gives it a fake ambient occlusion effect in the way that a person would get if they stood under the sun with a clear blue sky

the colors don't have to make sense, especially because i never draw backgrounds, but coloring the shadows really help it give a sense of depth and extra subtle detail and effect that just helps make the painting look nicer

around the end, i also put in colors (in an overlay layer with a low opacity brush) that actually make sense in context of the drawing, which is the lit cigarette and the yellow eyelights

mostly because none of the colors were making sense and i needed to actually make use of the lighting that DOES exist in the drawing lol

adding a muddy golden yellow pin light layer (opacity turned down to like 40-50%) to make the light colors less ugly lol

i SWEAR by the fucking pin light layer style. it's so useful and so so underrated.

i used an almost brown-ish gold color on stop of all the layers, and with the pin light layer, it helped make the bright (almost blue-ish) white colors more warm and more yellow. it just helps make things more warm (something i prefer)

i could probably show what it looks like without adjusting the layer opacity to truly show off what i mean (like in the coming section) but i sadly forgot to do that lol

make a layer on top of your drawing with this color in these ranges YES the drawing is fully merged NO don't be afraid, the base was fucking ugly anyway 💔 make this layer into an exclude/exclusion layer style TRUST turn down your exclusion layer opacity from a range of 10% to 40% literally until you're happy with the contrast and the way the color over the drawing. use your eyeballs. i know you can do it im so proud of you

this is pretty self-explanatory instruction-wise, so i'll go into why i do this instead

i really like art that seems like it has low contrast, with almost mid-gray shading and lines. i don't personally use dark and bold lines and shading, unless i find it necessary for the tone of the piece, so using this method helps lower the contrast of the art and make it look "pleasantly muddy" in the way that it's easier and softer on the eyes.

the inverted blue color also helps makes things warmer!

the exclusion layer style is still a bit of a mystery to me but i really like the effect it gives, even if i don't completely get how it works lol

if you want an alternative method to this, and if you have access to it (because i primarily use sai and sai only),

i absolutely encourage you to play around and experiment with gradient maps.

there are so many out there you can make yourself or even get from others that just give the painting an extra amount of depth and color variation. they're SO fun.

personally, if sai2 gets a gradient map update, it's over for y'all it will literally be so over no one will be able to stop me

then i merged everything and actually adjusted the contrast back up because it was looking too muddy for me 💔 but the color adjustments are still there so all hope is not lost here's a comparison of the adjusted contrast in black and white (adjusted on the left) (newly merged layer without adjusting the contrast on the right)

as you can see, i actually turned the contrast back up (despite talking all about how i liked things with less contrast lol)

i wanted to demonstrate that doing adjustments should be done in moderation, and is why i adjust layer opacity often when making color effects

you are free to play around with colors to help your style, but don't lose your initial idea and colors along the way.

you still need to trust your own colors and intuition!

along with that, i just want to say that it's completely okay to change your mind mid-painting, and it's okay to make somewhat drastic changes.

don't be afraid to change things you don't like or change your mind about certain aspects way later on

that's basically the whole thing of this!!! don't be scared!!!

now im gonna hold your hand when i say this..........but you need to learn how to render by yourself. it seems like i can teach you but i literally can't, because rendering is different on every piece and depending on how clean your base is. i have to render A LOT because of how fucking ugly my sketches are LMAO to simplify it, think of it as obsessively cleaning up every detail you can see, but with a color picker and a clean, hard edged brush. if you have shit lineart, you don't have to redraw it cleanly over and over, just paint over it. that's basically what rendering is

THIS especially is where you need to be brave and stop being scared.

like i said, i can't teach you how to render, and it's something you have to discover yourself because rendering is something that will always be personal to every single piece you make. the way you render on every piece is different.

on one piece, you will barely need to render, and on another, rendering is more than half of your ENTIRE process.

don't be afraid to paint over your old art.

rendering is a process that's both very perfectionist yet also very careless.

find your balance and just go for it.

and then that's it……..u did it………..now yuo know how to paint and render. it's literally just layering shading and lighting knowledge until you think it makes sense and looks okay lol additional note: since i render in only one layer (you don't HAVE to do this, but it'll be harder for you…), i also made slight adjustments with the transform (and liquify, if you have it) tool to make things more proportionate. (i drew the head too big lol)

if you compare the finished piece to the final unrendered base, you can see that a LOT changed, including a bit of subtle proportion adjustment.

particularly, the sleeves changed A LOT (because i really didn't like them)

but it's also over all cleaner and more coherent, instead of having haphazard colors and shading just thrown about.

rendering is when you finally use all 100% of your brain to finalize and figure out where the shading should go, where to clean up your lines, where to ERASE or ADD BACK in lines, and make sure all your colors look coherent.

it's not as intimidating as it seems, i only use a hard edged brush with a little bit of color mixing and my color picker.

it's like dragging and dropping colors to cover up mistakes, it's really quite fun when you get used to it

i wish i could explain it clearer but it's hard to describe without visuals!

i hope this helped, and i hope all my yapping isn't annoying (art as a special interest beloved)

have fun studying and trying to render in my art style!

[toasterkoi]

I I I I how colour you brush program pretty what translates to "ARGHHHDUDGAIUS I LOVE YOUR ART ITA SO PRETTY TEACH ME YOUR WAYS OF RENDERING"

AAAAAAH I'm actually so flattered rn like, I don't think I have been asked this before??! I'm just going to take your ask literally, and attempt to explain how I render! Okay okay bear with me, I'm going to try my best to go over what happens behind the scenes🗣🗣Putting my teacher hat on, I hope this makes sense and is helpful!

Okay... we are gonna go ahead and spoil one of the art pieces I'm working on! The first part of it, at least!

First: My idea! This usually happens if I hear a really good song or have a scenario in my head that just needs to be drawn so I don't forget, and then I just throw up a sketch! Doesn't have to be perfect or pretty, just my ideas on where characters should be, or what pose, what facial expressions I'm going for, etc.!

(Facial expressions aside for this one because Sonic looks so goofy on the top left right there lololol)

Next would be finding out what color scheme I want to use for the drawing. So, I throw together some colors and decide if that's the feel I'm looking for! Color can convey alot about a certain mood/tone you're going for in an art piece, so I kinda go with what I think looks good and what will reach the vibe I felt when imagining it! I find myself using warmer colors more often because those colors give me that folk-like, forest fall tone I love! Once you have certain colors you like, just throw them together until it looks good to you and gets you closer to that vibe you want!

Like here, I'm going for a warm, yet tragic, "melancholy" feel? I heard the song "Little Pistol" by Mother Mother again recently, and the whole song felt tragic, yet powerful and meaningful (such a good song, check it out if you would like!). I wanted to convey sonadow like that too! A scenario where Sonic found Shadow instead of Eggman after he fell to earth, where Shadow is surrounded by old trees and long grass; the environment kind of grew around him and embraced him in a gentle kind of way. (I also just really like nature environments with big trees so I tend to project that in my art herherh☝️)

Usually, I do a sketch, then a cleaner lineart sketch above that layer, and then I color. But here, I switched it around and did color under the sketch layer before I cleaned it up. I wanted to make sure the colors were what I wanted them to be! It's really up to the beholder: what colors do you like? Where would they be good in your eyes? And the pen you use to color/draw definitely has a role to play in it too! I use very grainy brushes; brushes that are not too harsh on each other so they mesh nicely. Example! vv

I find it easier to draw when my pens are messier; I feel less restricted and can be more expressive! So, once you have pens you like and colors you enjoy adding, then it's time to start chipping away and molding the art to your vision! A lot of trial and error, that's for sure,,

When I render, it's done using either the brush I used for the grainy lineart, or it's another brush meant for color blending/texture. In this case, it was another brush that blends/creates color! For example, if I put red on orange, it makes brown (sometimes, lol) It doesn't make just one color when I use it, as I aim for all sorts of colors in my art! I go over the sketches and fix anything that looks weird and clean up using colors I already planned out on top of the sketch layer. Like here, I removed the guidelines for Shadow's big head and cleaned up his white fur! I also decided that the grass needed to be more defined, so I went to work there. I also added some blue to his muzzle to create a very faint greenish shading, deciding that it needed something more!

I also don't really have a structure for creating new layers. If I feel like starting a new layer to add more rendering, I do! Some drawings have 5 layers, some have 47!)

So really, it's all about what you like as an artist! More shading, go for it! Some blue here? Yes please! Not enough red here? Let's add some!

Here is the almost finished final product, I changed his ear tuft to make it look neater, added more blue to the orange grass to add depth, some small sketchy lineart for definition, and alot of other colors in different spots to give it that messy, painting-like vibe! I made Shadow's nose smaller, and colored over the Sonic scetch using both the lineart pen I use and color blending brushes!

And that's usually how I render! By going layer by layer on what I feel like I need to add to the drawing, and alot of it is trusting the process! Hopefully all that made some sense, and you can find really good Ibispaintx brush QR codes out there if you aren't vibing with the default pens! I also found drawing to be much more fun when I bought a stylus! Sometimes changing your method/approach makes it more fun and engaging, at least for me!

Here's one more example of what my process may look like:

And booyah!! My guide to rendering! A lot of it is messing around and finding out, so hopefully, there's a few takeaways from this essay that was able to show you how I render and do my thing! Thanks so much for the ask, I had tons of fun actually thinking about and writing down my process! 🥺

[novantinuum]

Ohhhh gosh... okay, so it's very, very hard to limit this to just one thing because I engage in so many different artforms. So I'm gonna select one (or maybe even a few, idk ahahah we'll see what I find) piece of work from each of my lil hobbies.

Writing

If I was pressed to make a list of the writing work I'm most proud of for any variety of reasons, then... in no particular order, here are my four picks:

Contact

This is one of the largest plotty multi-chapter fics I've actually finished- usually, if I finish a multi-chapter, it's like a series of vignettes or short one-shot like scenes. But with THIS one, I had a very specific story I set out to tell, re: Steven getting cracked and his family coming down to the wire when it comes to getting him healed, and I finished said story!

I still stand by the character work in this one to this day, and quite like what I did with the dialogue.

A Memoir of the Marks Unseen

I've already mentioned this fic recently, and that's for a damn good reason- it's intensely personal to me, and I spent the good part of a year intensively pouring over it.

I believe this fic contains some of my best descriptive prose to date.

Advocate (CW: Fic deals very frankly with the topic of attempted suicide.)

This fic isn't perfect in my mind, but I will always be super glad that I finished it up years later, because I've had it in my drafts since 2020. It was just... always the sort of story that was almost too close to home for me, ahah. I overtly had to switch the POV from Steven to Lars between outlining and actually writing this to make working on it possible. In the end, I think that was absolutely the right choice.

Also, I'm always a sucker for writing Lars POV anyways, it's actually really fun.

knowing, loving, being (CW: Fic is rated Explicit. Mind the tags.)

Specifically, I'm thinking about One scene in chapter 2 of this story. (The snippit shared here is Not explicit, no worries.)

There's one scene that was SUCH a bitch to write, and let me tell you why...

It's because I had Steven split in two during it, but made the executive decision that I did not want to give names to either component, because I don't think they'd canonically want to name themselves. I still stand by that headcanon when it comes to canon adjacent stuff. But holy SHIT is that hard to execute, especially when the scene in question involves a lot of physical blocking later on, and you have no ability to signal who is Who without constantly using epithets.

Well, I eventually came to the genius idea that I could simply lean in to this confusion and write from "both" of their POVs at once in one weird mixed up smoothie, to sort of... give that impression of the two of them seeing from each other's eyes, but in a written form. And I genuinely think I nailed it in a really creative way. I don't think I'll ever write something this technically intricate ever again, tbh.

Artwork

Objectively, I believe these are my best executed pieces. I selected one from each fandom I've been an active part of over the years.

The Gravity Falls one was for the annual Stanuary event, with the prompt "Con." The piece is titled "The Thirty Year Con" to represent Stan's journey living under his brother's name all that time.

I enjoyed playing with textures and light for that Trollhunters piece- if I were to do this piece now I think I would try to entirely paint it instead of just stopping short at colored line art, but it still looks quite vivid and striking when compared to my art today, and I still quite like the way I rendered the crystals in the back.

The Doctor Who piece is one of the few times I've genuinely taken a stab at realism, and while it's not perfect I still think it did a pretty good job at capturing Capaldi's likeness.

If I could redo a part of this piece for Steven Universe I would change how I shaded/lined the falling rose petals, but beyond that this is still my thematic magnum opus for this fandom when it comes to art. I had the concept blast into my mind like a freight train one day, and I'm so glad I managed to bring it into full fruition. I love how much metaphor I managed to pack into this one, ahah.

And then finally, I still really, really love this Legend of Zelda piece I did- I'm SO happy how the split down the center between present and past came out, and also the fire detailing.

Video Editing

So, my top four favorite edits have to be (links go to their tumblr posts):

Oh, No!

So, this is that SUF edit I did that blew up in the fandom a bit.

There's very few times where I am capable of banging out a video so goddamn fast, and this was One of those times. I envisioned the broad bones of this edit in my head while listening to the song in the car over and over, and slammed the bulk of it out over a 24 hour period. I really like how I managed to make so many clips so thoroughly relevant to the lyrics of this song, and also think I pushed iMovie to its absolute LIMITS on making this video work, LOL. iMovie really doesn't like letting you do fast slam cuts, but I formulated a fairly reliable method for doing just that while editing this, and it's one I've put to great use elsewhere in the years since.

Strawberry Swing

This is one of my first big SU edits, and probably my best stylistically, since I was still using Adobe Premiere for this and could edit out audio background noise a lot better than I can now, ahah. I think this edit sums up all of my feelings on what keeps bringing me back to this show.

I love that I got time to give pretty much every major character a moment to shine in this one, a moment to showcase their growth over the course of the show.

(love you 'till the) end of the earth

I still ADORE the beginning of this edit, and how I framed things there... If you'll notice, for every single couple I start with a very specific location shot and then a key early moment in that couple's relationship- well, those locations correspond with WHERE those early moments took place. It's their "meet-cute," of sorts.

And then also, the video begins and ends with a shot of Earth. I think that's a fun parallel too.

Dear lord, you don't want to know how hard it was to edit a relationship video like this with so few shots of Rose and Greg, though. I had to budget their shots out to make it work.

in all the universe, there’s no one else who can know what you’re going through…

This was a very interesting edit to make because it was one of the rare times that I had no lyrics to lead me- it's just an instrumental! With that in mind, I had to formulate my own "story" for the video to follow, which is harder said than done, very often.

I love what I ultimately came up with here, re: this edit basically being a chronological summary of the major sources of trauma Steven lived through over the course of his childhood. The audio voice lines are kinda rough at parts because I no longer have the tech to splice out the background noise, but I did my best, ahahah.

Cosplay

My favorite two pieces I've made myself for cosplay are these:

My 3D printed royal bow, which I literally had to set down for a good year or so because I got so frustrated while painting the details on it, LOL-

And then this cape, which is entirely hand made, with all the details machine embroidered on. All of those edges you see? I had to run every single edge through my sewing machine with a silk stitch. It took fucking forever, but god did it turn out really nice. I did this as a beginning sewer and I still am quite proud of it.

_

Think of my StrawPage kinda like a tumblr anon askbox- feel free to send me comments, questions, silly doodles, song recs, whatever! This is a replacement for the tumblr askbox because I was getting too much spam on here.

[olliev3r]

random but can i say how much i genuinely love your ninjago art? actual peak designs and your artstyle's super pretty!

along with that, do you mayhaps possess any art tips you'd be willing to share?

thank you! I’m glad that you enjoy my art!

as for tips, I have a few.

you have to be having fun. Art is not fun when you force yourself to do it. I sometimes get demotivated and do not want to draw. THAT IS OK!! You don’t have to draw constantly. It is true the more you draw, the better you will get, but if you aren’t having fun and end up rushing things, take a break!

Take inspiration from artists you like. If you like a certain artist’s colors, or lineart, or whatever, then reference from it. An art style is not always just something you naturally fall into, it can be brute forced. You can teach yourself an art style you like.

Try not to use too many colors. For example, if you use 2 different blues that are similar shades, try and use the same shade for both! It simplifies the color palette and ties everything together.

alpha lock and clipping masks are your friends! They make coloring details so much easier

for procreate users, if you create a grouping, you can use transformation on the grouping instead of collapsing all the layers together. This way you can move, stretch, etc. drawings without having to condense them into one layer. (I don’t know if this applies to other programs sorry ;-;)

use references!!! They help massively, especially when studying anatomy. Here is how I use them:

I pick a photo I like. I’m going to use this one

I then lower the opacity of the photo and trace over it to get a feel for the shapes. THIS IS NOT THE FINAL STEP, I only really trace if I’m studying the pose, I try to use my eye most of the time

I then take the traced pose and use it as a reference for my own poses. The traced pose is only used for shape reference, I never use it in a final product.

4. Color and rendering is more important than lineart most of the time. You do not need to be spending massive amounts of time on lineart, that only serves to stress you out. Here are more examples:

this is a Nya sketch I did a bit ago. The lineart is not great, it is scuffed in a couple of places.

Then I color the drawing. I color the lineart too. (I do the lineart by duplicating the layer and coloring it the same as the base colors in each area. I set the duplicated layer to overlay and adjust the opacity as needed)

here’s a comparison:

One color lineart

Multicolored lineart

the difference is subtle, but nice

these tips do not work for everyone or every art style, but they work for me. This is just the way I do things, do not take my advice as gospel. In any case, I hope these help!

[giddlygoat]

how do you render your colors so nicely they're very pleasant to look at

thank you, that means a lot! :’D

honestly, i haven’t done many studies of actual lighting from life, i just try to learn from whatever i see around me. if i like a piece by another artist or a pretty photo, i try to figure out why it appeals to me, and i play around until i can replicate the look in my own art.

as a disclaimer, non of this is scientific or realistic by any means, and it’s not a good reference if you’re trying to create really accurate lighting effects - this is just a stylized suggestion of light that i like to paint.

first i choose my base colors. for characters i draw often, i make fixed color pallets for them that i like to think of as their “absolute” or “true” colors - basically what they would look like without any outside influence from environments and lighting. just the flat colors.

then i take the true color of their skin tone for instance, saturate and darken it slightly, and add a neighboring hue to it. in this case, jack’s skin is a pinkish color, so i add more red into it to make the shadow appear richer and more lifelike [it’s hard to explain, so if you need a more detailed guide on that, i can make a visual one]. i take that darker tone and “sketch” out where the shadows fall on the face. these particular shadows are pretty contrasted and dramatic, but these techniques can apply to softer shading as well.

now here’s the fun part: darken, saturate, and shift the hue of your shadow color again. it looks wild, but outline the edge of your shadow with this darker color, and it creates a sort of burning effect. it looks like warm, harsh light on the skin.

then blend out the outline into the shadow a bit. i really love this effect and while it’s not appropriate for every kind of lighting, sometimes i use it anyway just because it adds a shiny quality to the painting.

now highlights! for lighter colors, i take the true tone of jack’s skin, then lighten and desaturate it. i also shift it’s hue as well, but instead of adding a red tint, i lean more into the orange side of the sliding scale. this sets it apart nicely from the shadows and creates a sense of depth.

finally, i sometimes like to add a bluish, more desaturated tone in the deeper parts of the shadows as if there’s another light behind him. there can be many different light sources in your character’s environment and i like to consider what best sets the mood of the painting and makes it feel more immersive. jack has a soft blue light behind him, and it reflects on the shadowed part of his face.

then i like to add a quick filter over the art to see how it would look in different environments. light can change the true colors of your character to extreme degrees, and depending on how you paint it all to interact and work together, you can create the illusion of something that we know is a pinkish color, even if it appears dark auburn or greyish green due to the lighting, for example. this is just one short [and admittedly rushed] example of lighting, as there’s infinite possibilities and variations in what you can do. but this is my personal favorite technique and the moment and it’s really satisfying to paint.

also, i forgot to do it here rip, but often i will take a blush color and blend around the character’s cheeks, nose, ears, lips etc to add some inherent variation in the skin and keep them from looking like a creepy porcelain doll lol.

i hope this was useful, thanks for asking!

[otomegema]

title: Convergence Theory pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader summary: You are a lesser family member of the Gojo clan, so far removed you don't even carry the name, but you carry the Limitless ability and thus the potential to be a bride to the future head of the clan— a fact you patently reject at fifteen. Twelve years later you are a second grade sorcerer struggling to obtain first grade status when the object of your deepest objections offers you a deal. rating: Mature for now, explicit later most likely because WHY NOT tropes: fake dating/engagement, rivals to lovers, slow romance Link: Archive of Our Own

August, 2005.

That summer had been oppressively warm, a layer of heat trapped beneath a layer of moisture that made even the light fabric of your yukata stick to your sides. It was the kind of weather that made your body beg for relief, to lay shivering and sweltering under the barest breath of cool air.

Your mother had opened the outside screens in the room, letting you sit on the porch overlooking the small garden at the center of the expansive, traditional home. The view was lovely, overlooking a manicured garden, a small koi pond bubbling pleasantly even as the night air chirped with the sounds of insects.

The main house was equipped with air conditioners in some of the rooms— just like your parent’s own home, only a short distance away, but somehow so far removed from the atmosphere of this place it felt miles away. Centuries. The clock on the wall seemed suspended in time, halted too by the weight that fell over this place.

There was nothing to be done. When the head of the Gojo family called, even the smallest vine, hanging from the tiniest branch, curled in. Your great grandmother had bore the Gojo name before she married, a detail of minor significance that had not effected your own family until your birth. You had often heard your parents discussing the main family in hushed voices when they thought you were not listening. First with excitement and eagerness and then with worry.

There had been a phone call, an order disguised as invitation.

Gojo Satoru, heir to the name, barer of the Six Eyes, was turning sixteen in December, a scant four months away.

Six Eyes. Two words that managed to leave the bitterest taste of bile in your throat.

It had been thought the next Six Eyes would be born in your generation, your parents hopeful at one point that you were the one so blessed. A hundred years of waiting ended by the birth of another child, honored above all other sorcerers. Your had been born with the Limitless, that much was certain and an extra unnaturally keen ability of foresight… the signs were there. The possibility that the the massive potential of the Limitless was within your grasp if you could only prove to possess the fabled Six Eyes…

You were hailed for a short time as possibly a true child of the Gojo blood, a blessing. A boon. And then not even a short year later that boy was tested. No two Six Eyes could exist and it was him, not you, who was truly blessed.

You ran your hands up the back of your neck, dislodging the hair stuck your heated skin.

And worse yet, now you would suffer the indignity of being paraded around with every other eligible girl with a single drop of Gojo blood diluted enough to be proper for marriage.

Gojo Satoru needed a betrothed and only the best would do, naturally.

You were to be polite, courteous and docile. Laugh at his jokes, bat your eyes. Play the role of the pursued for the pursuer.

Did you even want to be selected? Once hailed as the promised child, now degraded to probable broodmare ?

You sucked your teeth, holding back a feral shriek somewhere deep in your throat. There was a knock on the wooden frame of the room, lazy and slow. The door slid open before your mother could get you to return inside to the low tables and too hot tea laid out.

You were all but deaf to the sounds of stilted, forced polite conversation, but could not ignore the sudden presence of a young man who came to sit down hard at your side.

Gojo Satoru was not an unattractive young man. He had the signature Gojo coloring, his eyelashes even as pale as driven snow. You yourself had even inherited two streaks of white in your hair, framed near your face and standing in contrast against the rest.

But that handsomeness was hard to enjoy when his expression was one of such utter indifference. He did not even bother to remove the dark glasses that shaded over his eyes, but you hardly were offended. It would have been all the worse to have to look at the very thing you coveted most in this world. Taunting you. Dismissing you.

How many girls had he been forced to sit with today? Judging by his bored expression, too many.

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” He said, voice amused, yet slightly condescending. Behind you both, his parents spoke with your own, but that too was part of the charade. All eyes were on you. All ears tuned to your words.

“You know my name.” You said with a thinly veiled sigh. His attention shifted just a fraction and you noticed with an indignant flush he was wearing his school uniform. Shirt untucked, jacket unbuttoned. You had been forced to spend hours getting ready for this meet-up.

He tilted down his glasses to give you a halfway appraising look and you turned away.

“Goin’ for the aloof angle then? Some other girls tried it too. As if you pretend hard enough that you aren’t interested somehow I will be.”

How fucking arrogant.

Your fists clenched in your lap.

“It won’t work.”

“I’m not working any ‘angle’.” You grumbled, “I was told to be here so I’m here. That’s all.”

“You expect me to believe that, huh?”

“I don’t care what you believe.” You spat back, turning to shoot him a piercing glare.

There was silence then, even the voices behind you seeming to falter and lower as if worried they were missing out on some secret hushed conversation.

“Ohhh, wait. I remember now! I do know your name.” Gojo continued, taking off his sunglasses and wiping off some smudge or dust from the lens, “Aren’t you that girl they thought was gonna have the Six Eyes in her?”

Your fist clenched tighter.

“I get it now. Sour grapes and all. Tell ya what…” he spoke softer and leaned in until you felt his breath against your ear, “If you ask me really nicely, for one night, you still could."

The only sound that came after that was the harsh strike of skin against skin. The contact of your palm connecting to his cheek stunned not just the adults inside, but you.

No self respecting sorcerer with the Limitless ability would have been taken by surprise and yet here you sat, having successfully struck the heir to the Gojo name right across his smug face.

You drew your hand back. His pale cheek had turned a throbbing red so quickly, his smirk raised as his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose and revealed how his blue eyes danced with open amusement.

***

September, 2017.

The uproar that followed that moment twelve years ago had been profound. Your parents had spent the remainder of the visit profusely apologizing and demanding explanations… and the entire time Gojo had stared only at you. Blue eyes wide and engulfing, a smirk etched in the corner of his mouth even as he got up and strode out without another word.

You remembered he had whistled as he went. As if it were all according to plan.

No betrothal was agreed to that night nor any night since. You were never summoned to the main house again.

It had been the most freeing moment of your young life, opening the world from the one pinpointed hope you’d be born with the Six Eyes or wed to the one who had it into a kaleidoscope of possibility.

You attended Jujutsu Tech’s Kyoto branch, keeping far out of the way of the rising star of the Gojo clan.

Well.

Sorta.

So the problem with having an inherited technique that allowed you to “see” curses and cursed energy users from great distances? Gojo Satoru. The man was such an expansive supernova of energy that when you opened your mind and utilized your gift of telemetry to try and pinpoint targets you had to navigate around his massive, dominating aura.

It was like counting stars against a sunlit sky. The ability, that should have been astronomically useful, rendered inert if Gojo Satoru was on the field.

You tried not to have your own missions line up with his. Which meant keeping tabs on him. Which meant having to live with this gnat, this buzzing fly of cursed bullshit constantly humming in the background when you used your gifts.

You wished everyday you had swatted him harder.

Missions in Tokyo were the worst, but you accepted them without complaint. The fact you’d even managed to rise to second grade despite your public humiliation of the main family’s golden child was a miracle in itself and not one you would squander.

The task was simply. There was a cursed entity that was utilizing the signal within electric devices of all things to move from device to device, rapid as an electrical pulse. It had already killed five non-sorcerers in surge related house-fires in two days. The risk of it causing a massive firestorm in any district rising.

The air had begun to cool in Tokyo, the heat of the summer giving way to fall. You sat on a bench, wireless com already clipped to your ear, the only sound so far the faint static of the open radio and the sound of your breath. The air had that crispness already, the bare cusp of autumn. You steadied your thoughts and began to shut down your senses.

The cursed energy of the young sorcerer students around you began to glow in your mind’s eye, the rest of the world fading into shades of imperceptible grey. Blurring. Distorting.

If you had the Six Eyes, you would be able to see it all. But instead, you blinded yourself to everything but the cursed when you utilized your skill.

You shut your eyes and with a soft breath you whispered, “Cursed technique— Limitless Telemetry: Grey.”

The city revealed itself to your five senses like a massive overflowing of information. Had you not taken the time to adjust, quickly shutting down your hearing, sight, taste, smell and touch in order to compensate, the mental load would have stunned you into a comatose state for several hours. Another thing a Six Eyes user would never need to do. You mentally chastised yourself for allowing the distraction of a deprecating thought, and focused instead upon your sixth sense. The one that tracked beyond the physical.

You were effectively helpless in this state, but within your mind you breezed through the city like a thumb pressed over the pages of a book. Flipping at your leisure as you focused in upon the fastest moving pulse of cursed energy.

In your “peripheral vision” or what acted like a sort of peripheral vision, you could sense the constant presence of Gojo. It was far away, diluted. You wondered if perhaps he was overseas for the barest moment until your senses snapped together and fell upon your target.

You spoke. Your words falling on your own deaf ears as you gave the location into the com. You perceived the movement of the three students. Good kids, fast learners. One boy was even a scion of another great house and the one girl among them possessed a cursed technique of extreme value. The other boy, the pink haired one, you had yet to understand, but his cursed energy output was impressive.

The entity moved. You adjusted, giving new instructions. The curse had not yet caught on to the fact it was being tracked, a fact you would use to your advantage as long as possible. If the curse sensed you, it could easily close the distance and attempt to seek you out… which was why sitting in a park, far from any electrical devices other than your battery powered radio was the safest place you could be.

And if worse came to worse, at least it would be drawn out in the open.

The entity jumped again, following the planned route the three had decided upon to box it further and further into a section of the city that they had already prepared to shut down. Without power, the curse would have to break free of its hiding place within the electric current.

How did a curse even get into the power grid? Too many lost football games on TV? You chuckled a bit to yourself without thinking, providing the newest coordinates as you watched, like an omnipresent spectator as the energies of the curse and the students moved.

This is why I score the highest at Pac-Man…

Everything was going according to plan. You had begun to even let your thoughts wonder, your focus softening just the barest fraction as the students rounded the final corner and blocked the curse into the chosen spot.

And now here comes the switch…

You braced for the surge of cursed energy you expected to feel from it’s ejection…but the power stayed on. You had to stifle the sensation of panic that sparked through your heart, your cursed energy rising a fraction.

And there it was. You felt the shift, the sudden adjusting of the entity. The students flared bright, attacking to try and ward off its escape, but without the power shut off they were waiting for, the curse easily vanished, pulsing through the city and heading now straight ahead… to you.

It’s fine. Fine. Nothing electric by me, so no fast travel.

It couldn’t pass through the coms. It would need to branch off into another grounded circuit and then physically come out to face you in the empty park.

You could hold unto the technique a little longer. Guide the students a little longer. You snapped information in quick short terms. Watching the cursed energy approach closer and closer until it reached the last building at the far end of the park.

And then, inexplicably, it jumped again.

The force in which you were propelled did not immediately register to your mind as your senses flickered and began to come back on line one by one.

The first was touch.

And thus pain.

Your muscles contracted, shot full with an electrical pulse. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, the strike coming indirectly as if someone had forced the curse away. Something blinding and bright exploding over the far-reaching vision of your Limitless technique before your ability snapped off like a cut thread.

Your hearing came back first from sheer force of will. Sight returning in blurry, slowly filling shapes. You forced yourself up from the ground, feeling scrapes biting along your palms.

“You fucking dick.” You managed to hiss, your vision returning just in time to witness the exorcism of the curse by none other than Gojo Satoru.

***

“You used me as bait!”

Your voice reverberated off the hallway walls, your mild injuries tended to but your grievances still in desperate need of airing.

You were only comforted by the fact his students had not been involved in the deception, having also thought Gojo was away while they worked under her guidance in the meanwhile. You were no teacher, but you had taken enough students through missions to be adequate at “babysitting”.

Gojo grinned easily, eyes hidden behind his blind fold as he ran a hand up his neck, feigning a bashfulness you knew had not an ounce of genuineness to it.

The bastard had quietly set up a god damn daisy chain of extension cables into the park, ending plugged into a cheap TV set… right next to you. And he’d done it only after you’d entered your Limitless, taking advantage of your lack of senses to literally bait you like a god damn fish hook and then swoop in to destroy the curse.

His students had been a distraction. A means to force the curse into seeking you out and getting into the open where it could not easily run again. It was the most convoluted, infuriatingly, ridiculous brilliant bullshit you had heard in a long while.

“Pretty clever, yeah? I’ve been practicing my multi-layer tactics.”

“That wasn’t a tactic, it was a gamble and a shitty one at that!”

“Yeah, yeah, but did you die?” Gojo asked, tilting his head to the side. His voice was tinged with amusement and you wondered for a moment if he even remembered you and this was some elaborate “gotcha” twelve years in the making… or if this kind of backhanded backstabbing was common place for him.

“It was interesting to see your technique in action. I could probably give you some tips on how to make it more effective, but they’d be pretty useless to— well. You. So I figure I’ll just make the tweaks and practice it myself!”

You stayed silent.

“What did ya call it? Limitless Telemetry?”

You turned and walked in the opposite direction.

“Whoa— hold on.”

Your exit was cut off, the grinning face you wanted nothing more than to connect your fist into coming back into view.

“I’m kidding. Don’t run off and cry now, we got some other business I wanna discuss.”

“If you’re planning on pitching another mission to me, I pass.”

“Nope. Well— yes. But not like this one.”

You sighed, side stepped, and continued around him again.

“I’ll buy you lunch!”

You stopped.

“And maybe even some kakigōriiiiiiii—“ he continued, his voice lifting to a sing-song tone as he stretched out the word. Your stomach twisted and grumbled in response. Using your Limitless always took so much out of you… a side effect you wondered if he experienced to.

You turned to look back at the man who hadn’t so much as glanced your way in years and wondered again if he was so stupid he didn’t remember who you were or if he was hatching some new plot.

He smiled in what you assumed he thought was a disarming and charming way.

“Fine.”

***

You had settled for a sweet plum flavor, dipping your small wooden spoon into the shaved ice and enjoying the way it melted across your tongue. Flavors always felt more pronounced after you used your Limitless, smells more intense. The sights sharper. It was probably just a placebo effect from being without them, even for a short amount of time, but regardless you enjoyed the sweet flavor and the fruity smell of the different syrups… most of which were coming from Gojo’s own cup.

He had gotten every flavor. The shaved ice in his cup a rainbow of color and tastes as he scooped several together at a time.

The lunch he promised had yet to come, but the treat was enough for now as the sugar helped give a little more pep to your body and your mood. The amount of calories you expended using your gifts was another thing entirely.

The two of you walked a ways in silence, giving you time to observe him for the first time in over a decade.

He had changed, that much you could tell. There was something less harsh in his general demeanor and he had grown considerably since he was fifteen. The boyishness of his face had sharpened, the man overtaking his features. He was broader, less lanky than his teenage self and while his easygoing and devil-may-care attitude was still present, there was something less— edged about it. Less angry.

“Your hair is shorter now,” Gojo said suddenly, “And your chest is bigger.”

You immediately frowned. A look of open disgust flashing over your face. Gojo laughed.

“Thought I forgot about ya, didn’t you?” He slid a thumb over his cheek, the gesture making you flush at the memory of what it felt like to slap the smirk off his face.

“Honestly? Yes.” you answered shortly, taking another bite of your ice.

“Nah. I remember, just figured there was no point in makin’ nice. You seem to be doing fine on your own these days. Second grade, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“As short worded as ever.”

He strode off, forcing you to match his pace. He found a park bench and sat down, sprawling out lazily. You sat next to him at his insistence, knocking your knee into his own until he closed his thighs a bit more with a chuckle.

“Thought you’d be a first grade by now.”

“I have not been recommended.”

He snorted, “Bet you know why.”

You clenched your teeth, holding back a sharp word and an even sharper desire to toss your kakigōri right in his face. Arrogant as ever. Some things, you guessed, did not get better with age.

“The great and fabled Six Eyes holding a grudge over a love tap? How trite.” you said, trying to keep your words indifferent.

“Is that what it was? I had a bruise ya know.”

“You could have stopped my hand before it ever even touched you. You wanted me to slap you so you could get out of having to do anymore meetings.”

His laugh was all the confirmation you needed.

“Is that what you’ve thought all this time?”

“It’s what I know.”

Gojo turned his attention back to his shaved ice, the two of you sitting in silence long enough for the weight of it to become uncomfortable for you. Finally you shifted and scrapped your spoon down the ice, leaving trails of melting syrup.

“What is it that you want?” Because that was what this was about wasn’t it? He wanted something. The main family never disdained to speak to the lower members without a need and Gojo Satoru was not about to be the exception.

“I’m going to recommend you for first-grade sorcerer status.”

You scrapped your spoon through so harshly a chunk of colored ice fumbled down the side of the paper cup and down your hand. You dodged just in time to avoid it landing with a wet smack on your pants.

You gaped openly at him, but Gojo kept his attention fixed on his ice, happily stirring it up into a soupy, syrupy mess.

“… and yet again I ask, what is that you want?”

Gojo leaned back, tilting his face towards you with an easy grin. You wondered if he saw the world the way you did with your Limitless with his eyes shaded. Seeing only the impressions of energy and sensation. Could he see your expression? The confusion in the downturn of your mouth or the suspicion in the narrowness of your eyes?

“Nothing too crazy! Just need a fiancée.”

The breath punched out of your lungs.

***

You waited outside the small convenience store across the street, feeling your cheeks beginning to lessen in redness from both anger and embarrassment at your sudden outburst.

When Gojo returned from inside, his hair was still wet… and there was still some redness from the syrup stuck to the strands. You hadn’t been able to control the impulse to throw your kakigōri at him, the breaking of your composure having flowed directly down your arm. It could have been worse, you supposed. You could have punched him.

He had needed to rinse off his blindfold, the fabric now folded and tucked into his back pocket. He had replaced it with the dark glasses you recognized from his youth, giving you a glimpse of the bright blueness of his eyes every once and awhile.

Gojo sighed and tossed a damp paper towel into a bin and turned to you expectantly. You gingerly handed him back his own dessert, having minded it for him while he went into the men’s room to clean up. It was practically soup now and you winced when he lifted it to his lips and drank it.

“As I was saying—“ he began with a smack of his lips.

“No—”

“—it’s a pretend engagement.”

Your mouth hung open, half ready to utter another refusal, which you swallowed back in as he waited expectantly for you to cease interrupting him.

“You let me take you on a few dates, we put on a show of my courting a potential betrothed and in exchange I green light your promotion.”

You narrowed your eyes, biting the corner of your lip into your mouth in obvious consideration.

“For how long?”

Your directness didn’t seem to offend him. Quite the opposite actually. Every time you curtly dropped a single or few word sentence he seemed to only smile brighter.

Gojo shrugged, “A few months. Maybe more. Until I figure out a permanent solution.”

“Your parents want you to get married?”

“The whole clan wants me to get married, sweetheart. I am the strongest.”

And now came the obvious question.

“Why me?”

Gojo shrugged, “You were one of their first picks to start with, so they’ll approve. And there isn’t a risk of you falling for me…”

His lips upturned into a sly grin, “… too quickly.”

You scoffed.

“Family will back off. I get a bit of peace until I have to kick you to the curb, and you get to be a first-class sorcerer. Everyone wins.”

“I’m not going to fall for you.”

Gojo gave a sad little nod, like he was agreeing with a deluded person in order to keep them calm and reasonable.

Granted, you did just effectively hurl a slushy at him a few minutes prior.

“This seems a bit extreme, even for you. Why do you think I’d even say yes? You know exactly why you got slapped. Can I expect that same level of charm from our future ‘dates’?” you asked, kicking yourself for having implied in your words you knew him well enough to even know what was extreme for him. The comment did not go unnoticed, even with his half expression hidden you could tell his interest was piqued. The last thing you wanted to do was to explain to this insufferable man how his very presence was as constant as the sun. Always nagging in the back of your mind and in your abilities.

You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“That was awhile ago. Most girls find me pretty charming these days. As to why you’d say yes— given it is probably your best chance at getting to first grade sorcerer status, I can’t think of a reason you wouldn’t.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Fifteen year old you would be outraged, furious. She would not have considered this offer for a second. She would have stamped her foot and told him exactly where he could stick his offer.

But twenty-eight year old you had learned that very often principles were made to be damned.

“And the fact I can tell you are just dying to say yes.”

There was that arrogance again.

“You still buying me lunch?” you countered and the smile he gave you was a bit different than the ones before.

“Wow. No one will even question how I could have been charmed by such a talented freeloader.”

“I am exceedingly charming.”

“And what an arm. You play softball or you just start a lot of food fights as a kid?”

“I want sushi.” You said, the finality of your voice inarguable. You thought he might have rolled his eyes, but nevertheless you got your lunch and even managed to bargain a single day to think about the offer.

[sneezefiction]

attention

Miya Osamu x Reader

desc: you’re spending too much time fawning over a very fictional captain Levi and not enough time doting on your real boyfriend, Osamu. 

a/n: @starrysamu dearest remy, this is for you. i only just found out that it’s your birthday and i felt like i needed to show my appreciation for you in a tangible way. this isn’t the best, but i laughed a lot while writing it, so i hope it’ll make you smile. so much love to you and happiest of birthdays!! you’re such a joy to speak with <33

warnings: mentions attack on titan (fictional deaths), language, suggestive towards the end

wc: 1.5k

---

“I bet you haven’t moved in hours.”

“Mm,” you hum absentmindedly.

Osamu stays silent for a moment, squinting judgmentally at you from the corner of the living room. He’s been standing there for ten minutes and you’ve not so much as acknowledged his existence. Granted, you already spent the entire morning with him, but you could at least greet him with your usual, “hey, babe.” 

He’d even settle for a “what’s up, ugly” at this point.

However, your eyes are glued to the TV screen. Blue light and flashing colors reflect off of your skin while the blood-curdling screams of various animated characters fill the room. You gasp and a hand flies to your mouth. That’s the fourth time you’ve done that since he’d walked in the room.

Whatever it is you’re watching, your reaction seems reasonable. The show looks and sounds disgusting. Or at least to Osamu it does.

“You really should move around a little.” He coaxes, “You’re gonna cut off all your circulation.”

Osamu approaches the couch, but you continue to ignore him.

“Yeah, and?” you respond, eyes still fixed on the screen, “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

You reach for the remote and turn up the volume a couple of notches. His brows furrow in contempt. Now, this is just plain rude.

“Well, if you lose a limb, don’t come cryin’ to me.” He says flatly.

“I won’t…” you start, “but-“

You point to the screen, singling out a few characters being hunted by hideous and… very naked titans. Gross, Osamu thinks.

“-they might.”

If you were known to watch shows for the plot, he wouldn’t mind your series marathons all that much. But he knows you too well.

Osamu flickers his gaze to the TV and steps in front of the screen, intentionally blocking your view. It’s an attempt to steal your attention away from all of these fictional characters you claim to keep “falling in love with.”

You whine and tell him to “get his ass out of the way,” while craning around his broad shoulders to see. It’d be a shame to miss out on Levi Ackerman’s hella sculpted jawline, even just for a second.

But your efforts are to no avail. ‘Samu (his ass included) refuses to move away from the screen.

You breathe out a white flag of a sigh, slumping back into the couch in defeat. Though you’d planned on this being a solo watch party, you know that the only way to get what you want out of this situation (Levi screen time) is by appeasing your actual boyfriend.

“Whatever ‘Samu. Just join me already.” You huff out.

Tossing open your blanket for him, you pat the empty space expectantly. If you’re going to give him any attention at all, he’s obligated to at least keep you warm.

And he won’t lie, you look very comfortable.

Seeing you cozied up in his apartment and lazily splayed out on his couch has always made him melt a little. Osamu is just a bit domestic like that.

But if you’re just going to use his Netflix account to fawn over fake (albeit incredibly sexy) men, then he’s less than thrilled to have you sitting there alone. Any good boyfriend would be at least a little agitated… right?

So for the sake of reining you and your wandering mind in, he decides to plop down next to you. The whole couch sinks when he sits and you tilt into him like a planet gravitating toward the sun. A really obnoxious, show-interrupting sun.

Osamu snakes an arm around your back, pulling you into his chest, and turns his head toward the TV. All is calm as you get comfortable and adjust yourself against him... until suddenly the screen splatters red. His arm tenses against your waist and a frown forms on his face. Apparently, something or someone just bit the dust. 

“What exactly are ya watchin’?” He asks, tone drenched in disgust.

You whip your head toward him, an eyebrow cocked and lips parted. You’re looking at him as though he’d just gone and grown a third eye or called your mom a hoe. In terms of drama, Osamu is beginning to think you might actually rival Atsumu.

“You seriously don’t know?” 

“Do I look like someone who keeps up with anime?” 

“Well… no,” you admit slowly, “but that’s got nothing to do with you not knowing about Attack on Titan. I bet even Kita has heard of it.”

You wait for recognition to flicker in his grey eyes at the mention of the anime’s name. Instead, he gives you his signature blank stare. Should you be shocked or disappointed? Which emotion would bother him more?

“Yeah, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Have you been living under a rock?” You scoff, mouth still agape.

“No, but I basically live with you and that’s difficult enough.” He jests, poking you in the side.

His warm hands gives you a quick squeeze and you almost jump out of his hold. For someone who runs a restaurant, he’s got some well-toned arms. It’s unlikely you’ll be able to escape his grasp anytime soon.

“No! None of that shit!” You hiss as he tries to tickle you. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

Your back curls like a cat and you bat at his hands to abate any further pokes or prods. He only chuckles, smirking at your feeble attempts to stop him. You were the one provoking him in the first place, but he’ll let it slide just this once.

When Osamu no longer seems like a threat to your ticklish sides, you nestle back into him. Your hand rests lightly on his chest and your head finds a soft-ish spot on his shoulder.

Feigning a pout, you mutter, “Captain Levi wouldn’t treat me like this.”

He’s quick to respond.

“Well, Levi-” the name sounds uncharacteristically bitter as it leaves his lips, “-wouldn’t treat you like anything, sweetheart. Sorry, but he ain’t real.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Osamu beats you to it.

“And judging by the rate these people are dyin’, he probably won’t last long enough for you to even mentally date him.”

“Don’t underestimate me and my mental dating abilities, ‘Samu.”  You warn, “Or Levi. He could totally beat your ass.”

With perfect timing, Levi makes an appearance, striking a lethal blow to another one of the babbling giants. Two giants. Now four of them. Okay, he might’ve spoken too soon.

“Mm… maybe. But he probably couldn’t put up with all of your bullshit. This Levi kid seems like a bit of a hardass,” Osamu responds after a few minutes of transfixed silence.

You jut your lip out, sinking further into the couch, “Crush my dreams, why don’t you?”

He rolls his eyes in response.

“But,” you continue, “you’ve gotta admit, he is attractive. I mean, just look at those eyes. That body, too…” you breathe.

You swoon and tease and clutch at your heart, but it’s all an act to get under ‘Samu’s skin. He is your number one, after all. Teasing is just a part of your relationship and you would try to milk it whenever you could.

However, you don’t get a verbal response from him this time. He just tightens his hold around you and buries his nose in your hair. Warm breath tickles your scalp and trails across your skin.

Is he pouting? Or is he finally watching the show without adding commentary to it? You can’t tell the difference.

Osamu stays like that for a moment and you revert your attention back to the screen, intent on catching the last couple minutes of this episode. 

Though you hardly have a chance to re-invest yourself before Osamu is speaking again.

“Well, I’m just glad he’s behind a TV screen,” he sighs against your head, “and-”

A smirk works its way onto his lips and Osamu begins circling a thumb on your exposed thigh. Your breath hitches and you turn to face him. His fingers press against your skin and play at the hem of your shorts.

The warmth of his hand sinks deeply into you like poison. In a matter of seconds, you’re at a loss for words, rendered unfit for battle… even if that battle is just teasing the ever-living shit out of him.

Thoughts of the show, of Levi, of other fictional men, are long gone from your mind. 

Damn him for still having this effect on you after all this time.

“-judging by the way you can’t keep your hands off of me-“

He glances at your hand, which is resting delicately on his abdomen. You’re pressed up tightly against him, tucked into his side and looking up at his face which seems dangerously close to your own. Then his eyes, heavy-lidded and a shade of grey far prettier than Levi’s, flicker down to your lips. 

Your skin flushes hot and you grip the fabric of his shirt.

“-I’d say you’ve gotta be at least half as into me as you’re into general Levi or whatever the hell his name is,” Osamu murmurs, his breath fanning gently on your lips.

He leans in, planting a slow kiss at the corner of your mouth, effectively teasing the delicate skin.

With one calloused hand on your face and the other still stroking your thigh, you feel your mind going fuzzy. This was escalating much faster than you’d expected it to and you haven’t even had the chance to pause your show. 

You glance over to the TV...  and heaven seems to be shining down upon you. It’s the blessed Netflix “are you still watching” screen; your show is perfectly paused. Now you can focus on what’s right in front of you.

Osamu finally has your full, undivided attention. Just as he should.

“Just for the record, it’s captain Levi.” You whisper to him.

“Oh, shut up.” He says before crashing his lips into yours.

You do, in fact, shut up.

[purplealmonds]

They didn’t go to the Ritz every Sunday, after the Apocawasn’t. That was how Crowley referred to the world not ending. Personally, Aziraphale preferred Notmageddon, but he kept that preference to himself, because Crowley had begun taking more than a few bites of his food at each meal so he was inclined to be more indulgent than usual. He’d also begun to acquiesce more frequently when Aziraphale insisted on feeding him a taste of this or a morsel of that.

Aziraphale sometimes forgot about his own food, as hard as that would be to imagine. Instead, he kept finding himself entranced in the play of expressions across Crowley’s face as the demon analyzed each bite, rolling it around in his mouth to hit the different parts of his tongue. Whatever they called the great intervention really didn’t matter, not one bit—not when Crowley displayed this newfound enthusiasm for Aziraphale’s most favorite passion. Sometimes he let his human guise slip just the tiniest bit and Aziraphale would catch a glimpse of a fork in that tongue, as the demon lost himself in the flavors and textures of the various dishes Aziraphale placed before him. He’d always been indulgent where the demon was concerned, but now? Now he was finding that attempting to spoil Crowley was more fun than spoiling himself.

– Chapter 7 - Menu Surprise - All You Need is Love…and Food by TheWightKnight

Links to the fic and other related artwork are in the masterpost.

Artist commentary under the cut!

Finished this piece a little less than 5 hours before the chapter’s set to be published, phew! I did a couple of things to speed up the painting process:

Eliminated the background altogether in favor of focusing on props in the foreground.

Simplified the rendering technique to be more cel-shaded. Save for the subtle gradient in the background, I don’t think I used any soft brushes.

Stuck to a simple color palette, without falling to my knee-jerk instinct to do color adjustments all throughout. The colors looked a bit drab at first, but I trusted that it would come together in the end. And with the help of some color correction layers and textures, it did!

Because of these time-saving methods, I finished this in record time: two days to nail the layout, and a little more than half a day to color it in! Though I could do without the sleep deprivation, I learned how to further streamline my process this hectic weekend!

And now for a bit of miscellaneous trivia:

All the dishes here were referenced from the Ritz London’s afternoon tea spread, though at the actual restaurant they’d never clutter the table like that! But hey, artistic license! 

Speaking of artistic license, I did tweak little statue at the base of the rose bowl. The angel tempting the serpent with an apple - symbolism and all that! 

Funnily enough, the rose petals were added as an afterthought. There were spots in the table that were empty, so I needed something to fill in the space. It certainly added to the romantic atmosphere! 

[myelocin]

blue curtains and red roses | sakusa kiyoomi

synopsis: it’s supposed to be simple. the author made the curtains blue because he liked the color blue, so sakusa’s more confused than anything when you come into his life and challenge that thought.

characters: sakusa kiyoomi, you

genre/warnings: tw: character death, hurt/slight comfort, angst lol, head empty just a bunch of talking n metaphors i think

wc: 1.7k+

a/n: xave this is all ur fault; i’m supposed to be in my pajamas now watching henry cavil interviews yet here we are with an angst,,,i kid, ily too much ;w;

-

“Why does the author color the curtains blue?”

The answer can be as simple as it could be complex. But really, it’s all subjective.

In one perspective, blue could depict the author’s use of imagery to further emphasize and convey the atmosphere of sadness—if the story was, well, sad. A somber shade of blue—like the color the world associated with sadness, or even a deep midnight blue, like the void the author must have felt when he spiraled down after the story’s climax.

Then again, in another point of view—blue could mean that it was simply just the color of the curtain. Blue could have meant the subtle blend from the window to the skies outside and maybe even flesh out a metaphor from that. Something along the lines of how easily the things crafted by man could still find a way to blend back into the roots of nature.  

Bits of poetry always settled between the lines, Sakusa likes to think.

Rather, he prefers to settle on the thought that the author colored the curtains blue because he just liked the color blue. Nothing more, nothing less.

He just liked blue, that’s all; there wasn’t a metaphor hidden in that, either.

-

You came into his life, constantly revising the answer to that same question and unnervingly boggling his mind every time.

“You’re exaggerating,” he recalls telling you, but would sigh then relent when you pinched him on the arm to get him to focus again.

“It’s just a curtain,” he explains, before you sighed and would restart your explanation from the beginning. Sakusa would never admit it—but he liked to listen to you talk, that’s why his interruptions and counter arguments were a frequent presence in between your explanations.

“It is,” you huffed (a memory Sakusa always smiles at), as you crossed your hands over your chest. “—but it tells as much as we allow it to.”

“When we read, we always have the ability and choice to set the scene the way we want to look at it. I mean, the story’s there and the dialogue sets the pace, but I could always decide whether I wanted to be the protagonist or antagonist in the story that day,” you said.

“Whatever day it is, the lines I love you stays constant on the page, but some days it could mean a happily ever after, while others, it could mean a love lost to a rival. When I’ll read that the curtain’s blue, I could think that it’s empathizing with my sadness one day and how it’s there to sway with the dip of my thoughts, or I could think that it’s blue to remind me how the blue skies outside speak of opportunities and tomorrows.”

“But what if the author just liked the color blue?” Sakusa challenges, and you’d perk up at his sudden interest in the conversation and would be quick to retort.

“Then blue becomes that constant in the background that reminds you that whether the world is ending or beginning—there will always be those things that remain despite the turmoil in your head. The blue curtain becomes that. Just a spectator in the rollercoaster. It’s hard to find simplicity because everything just feels that connected, Omi.”

You finish your spill, smiling. Radiant, he thinks; intoxication from passion had always been the look that suit you the most.

“You’re not changing your mind are you?” Sakusa laughs out, and you shake your head no, laughing along with him.

It’s fine, Sakusa thinks, he prefers you that way.

He remembers you that way; inquisitive and abstract in a world that was anything but.

He remembers you in the metaphors you’ve entangled your words in—that he listened to over and over again and would nod his head, expression pondering, like it was the first time he’d heard of such thoughts.

In the photographs he’s kept in even stacks inside a box he hasn’t touched in a little over a year now. Collecting dust, probably. Something Sakusa itches to dust off—but backs out the second he sees the familiar scrawl of your handwriting sitting on the flap that’s folded close.

He looks to the right, to the window of an emptied bedroom, the curtains a dull gray instead of blue—and he thinks it’s rather fitting. At the moment Sakusa supposes he does feel a little gray.

“There’s poetry in every moment,” he hears the voice in his head say—your voice.

So like the pull of the sun as the earth falls in orbit, Sakusa gravitates towards pandora’s box where he knows with one push of a flap it’d be enough to tangle him in thoughts of you.

He laughs, a little dryly; not a day goes by where he doesn’t connect metaphors to the world for the sake of adding a couple sentences to the memoir he writes for you.

He holds his breath as he opens the box and smiles as the first color he sees just so happens to be red. He drags the box to the other side of the room—the side facing right across the window and takes a seat as he dives.

The first thing he sees is a photo of you. The photo that followed him for a little over a year now. He remembered he took that photo maybe two or three years ago, in the garden by the park a few blocks away from home. Your dress was white—fitting, he thinks. A literal angel, really. He knows you’d snort at the joke, so he lets out a small chuckle instead; Sakusa knows you appreciate crumbs of happiness sprinkled over clouds of grief, so he hopes that wherever you are, you’re listening and happy.

It’s the photo he stared at when he read your eulogy in a room where the silence thundered over cries, and where the midnight blue curtains in the lobby empathized with the void he felt suffocated in.

Next he sees a sketchbook with red. The same kind of roses you painted over and over again, the stems and petals in vines and overlapping one another, looking like a crown. The stems were smooth, he noticed, void of thorns and cracked petals. He thinks it makes the pages look alive—you’ve always seen the world a little differently, a little more beautifully.

Sakusa smiles when he realizes that it was because of you that he gave the world another shot at beauty too.

“Why do you paint the roses red?” he wants to ask you, so he poses the question into a silent room again. A listening world, you’d chide, so he smiles.

“Because you liked red roses the best,” he says because that would be the most obvious answer. And in a way it’s true—he knows that red roses to you meant the memory of home and love.

But after a moment passes, Sakusa sighs because when he thinks of the roses you drew again—he sees the thorns sprout this time.

His chest tightens when petals of red—bloody red, line his vision and fill his lungs when the veins, thorns and all dig into the skin of his shoulders and render him trapped.

He inhales—and Sakusa feels like he can’t let it out.

“Why must the roses always be red?” he asks again, and this time, he answers that it is because red is the color of blood.

The color that stained the sheets of white when you left, a goodbye the last thing on your mind as the world decided to return you back to the earth.

Red, the color of your lipstick that you kissed and imprinted on his cheeks as a joke an hour before the world took you. The roses are red, because red is the color that symbolized his grief and anger when he stared at the mirror not wanting to wash his face and erase the last of your traces.

It’s red, Sakusa cries, because it’s the color of the blood that’s pumping in his veins.

Like the one that trickled from yours. Where just like that, it danced between the space of life and death.

Pumping.

Seeping.

Pooling.

Staining.

The color of the roses you painted were always in some shade of red, because red was the color you painted the beginning and end of your life with.

-

Sakusa stands in the middle of the room, the opened box collecting dust a mere foot away from him and he continues to stare at the blue sky past the gray of the curtains. It’s a cloudless day; so he smiles.

Because you love blue skies like that—Sakusa inhales—shaky—then exhales. Then he allows himself to cry: soft and silent, like it’s a secret he’s murmuring into the listening ears of a kind world.

“It sort of is,” he can practically hear you say, and Sakusa wishes you were actually present so that he could hear more explanations of the metaphors you must have unearthed by now.

“(Y/n),” he calls out, his voice broken. This must be heartbreak, he thinks. It’s slow and a little suffocating, but he can exhale now, so Sakusa supposes it’s a necessary step to take.  

“The sky’s blue for you today,” he whispers again, like talking to you is still some sort of secret, though he knows he’ll only receive silence as a reply.

“A blue sky means there’s tomorrow right?”

The grey curtain rustles with the breeze and Sakusa closes his eyes, thinking of your words from before. How you can decide to set the scene in any way you’d like, so he sets it as this:

Even though the curtain’s colored grey, and the thorns on the roses you painted served as the constant in the story, he’d look at the blue sky instead—and think that it’s your way of telling him to seek for tomorrow.

Then for the first time, Sakusa Kiyoomi supposes you’re right.       

-                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

[invisibleinorange]

Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington,  Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties),  Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton,  Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington,  Benedict Bridgerton,  Portia Featherington, Violet Bridgerton, Genevieve Delacroix Additional Tags:  Bridgerton, Polin Summary:  Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes".

It took nearly a week for the tensions to calm down after what posthumously was dubbed ‘the night of the burnt dresses’.  Anthony for his part had attempted to make things right by purchasing a series of new dresses for Penelope.  He knew that he took things a bit too far but he’d only wanted to protect her like he would any of his sisters.  At the end of the day, he wouldn’t change a thing about the actions he’d taken.

He wouldn’t come right out and say it but he also felt a bit like he’d done the poor girl a favor.  Her mother had clearly been dressing her in poor fitting dresses in the poorest excuse of fabric colors for years.  Dressed in decent clothing, it was abundantly clear that had she had her new wardrobe in the last season, things might have played a little differently for her.

He knew better than to put that out into the universe though since he’d barely escaped unscathed from the daily glares, silence and intermittent tongue lashings from the family.

Benedict hadn’t exactly been forgiven either.  Whenever he came into the room, people got up and walked out all together.  Eloise and Benedict had hardly went a day since Eloise was born without talking to each other and even she was keeping her distance.

It was enough to drive anyone mad.  There was only so long that Benedict could avoid being home by drinking and making art.  As much as he needed his outlets, he also did enjoy the comfort of family around him.

He needed to take action but he didn’t know what to do.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t have to do anything.

He was alone the study when he heard the door open.  He was busy working away with a sketch with his charcoals and he didn’t bother to look up. In his mind it was either going to be a servant or someone who would walk right back out.

He was surprised when it wasn’t.

“Benedict,” he heard after a long moment.

He looked up and there was a strange sense of déjà vu that hit him.  Just like she’d sought him out before on the swings and things had seemed to be working themselves out, she was there again.

She cleared her throat.  There was something quiet, unsure about her voice which reminded him of how she’d always been instead of the confident girl that he’d been watching her grow into.

“Can we speak?”  she asked.

“I’ve been trying to speak to a week,” he said knowing there was some edge to his voice and he softened it once he caught himself. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or deceive you.  I was just caught off guard and -  I would have told you I didn’t send the dress.”

“This isn’t about the dress,” she told after a moment, lips pursing into a tight line.  “I know that none of you would intentionally hurt me. It was my thought for jumping to conclusions and thinking that you were trying to romance me. I’ve never actually had anyone attempt to romance me so I was too blinded by it to think logically and Eloise didn’t help.”

“I didn’t know that you wanted me to romance you,” Benedict said after a long moment raising an eyebrow.   It was uncanny really that even now the thought of actually romancing her was foreign, weird.  Even after all these weeks, he still thought of her like another sister. If he set his mind to it, he could do this properly.  “I mean, I thought that you hadn’t set your mind to accepting my proposal so I was honestly giving you the space you required.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Penelope confessed after a long moment.  That didn’t seem an accurate depiction of how she felt though since she knew precisely what she wanted and it was something that she could never have.  All the time in the world could pass and she’d still wonder about how differently her life might have been had Colin not been lost at sea.  “I won’t begrudge you secrets because I have plenty of my own – I can’t marry someone that I can’t trust and I wouldn’t want that for someone else.  You can’t grow to love someone if you can’t trust them.”

It was that point that he realized she was still wearing the ring he’d given her and everything seemed to fall into place. She was actually considering going forward with this after everything.  An even bigger alarm went off in his head at the fact she thought she could have some secret so big that he might have a problem with it. He cocked his head gazing at her as if trying to read through it all to figure it out.  There was literally nothing there.

“I won’t lie to you any more then,” he said after a long moment. “And while I can’t think of anything more than a white lie that you are burdened by, I suppose you can do the same.”

Penelope visibly winced at that.  There was something about the expression on her face that made it clear that she was holding back something big and he was at a loss so he just listened and waited, prepared for her secret to be something absolutely innocent.

“Then I must tell you something now,” she started. “You must promise to never tell anyone.”

“I promise,” he told her. He nodded, anticipating building and a chuckle already threatening at his lips for whatever would come out of her mouth.

“I’m Lady Whistledown,” she confessed.

Confusion flooded his feature and that chuckle did escape though almost waiting for her to laugh as well. Surely, this was a joke!  There was absolutely no way.

“Did Eloise put you up to this?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“But – that’s impossible!” he found himself arguing knowing that there was no way that the awkward little wallflower who hung around his little sister was that the proprietor of that wretched gossip column. “There is no way that you’d have nearly ruined yourself and the whole Marina Thompson thing easily could have –“

“Colin,”  she said after a long moment as if to justify it. “I couldn’t let Colin go through with it.  I tried to talk him out of it and he wasn’t listening so I used the only tool that I had that would stop him.  I’d rather be a spinster than someone who lets. I regret the hurt that it caused but I don’t regret – well, I do actually.  If I’d not done it, he’d still be here now and you wouldn’t be trying to ruin your life by marrying me.”

That was enough to render his speechless and he rose from where he’d been sitting, pacing for a moment to try and gather his thoughts.  His family had been absolutely obsessed with that woman, trying to figure out who she was every time they delighted in what she said or were angered.  He didn’t know whether to be upset or proud that Penelope was capable of such a stir.

The truth of the matter was that she’d never said anything that was false (as far as he was aware) about their family or other families. She merely speculated, stated what she observed and candid.  He couldn’t hold that against her, especially when more times than not she’d saved them.

The fact that she blamed herself for saving Colin from a loveless marriage built upon a lie hit him like a ton of bricks and the heaviness of it reminded him of the grief that he’d locked down. He wasn’t happy that his brother was gone but he didn’t blame Penelope or anyone else for the death.  He could have just as easily blamed Anthony for the fact he’d felt like he needed to see more of the world.

Benedict let out a long breath of air that he didn’t know he’d been holding before crossing the room,  decisively taking her hands as if to show that this information didn’t bother her.  He wasn’t going to go and tell the Ton this information.

“You’re not the reason he’s dead,” he said after a long minute.  She wasn’t quite looking at him though so he reached down to force her to look up at him.  “Besides, Colin would be furious if he knew you were blaming yourself for that.”

She was clearly going to dismiss the words but it was essential that he knew as much.

“Well he at least wasn’t furious enough to come back and haunt me,”  she said quietly after a minute. She’d honestly begged him to do it and he hadn’t.

“Well you’re just not looking in the right place. He’d haunt the kitchens. Even in death he’d be a bottomless pit,”  Benedict added, with a sad, wiry smile. Even if it was painful to talk about him, it did feel nice to have Colin’s name not be avoided.

“I can’t argue that,” she said after a long moment.  “Are you really sure though?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he insisted.  “You’re just crazy enough to survive our family.  We might as well make it official.  I suppose, I could put one condition on it.”

“And what might that condition be?”

“Our first born son,” Benedict said after a long moment pausing to try and make the words feel less weird. “He’d have to be named Colin.”

Something about that touched Penelope to the core and she felt tears forming in her eyes. She wasn’t quite sure how much of that was still grief and how much was the moment.  Her words didn’t form for a long moment.

“What if we only have daughters?” she finally asked.

“Colleen clearly,” Benedict added with mirth.

--

Beloved Readers it appears that the mourning black of recent days is about to transform to new, exciting shades. It  thrills me to announce that the confirmed bachelorette Penelope Featherington will not be forced to spend season as a wallflower.

As previously reported, she took up residence with the Bridgerton Family some time ago. While there was speculation around the Ton to what this might mean,  we can now confirm that from grief new beginnings have formed.

Benedict Bridgerton, the second eldest son of the family, has allegedly proposed and said proposal has been accepted.  The news has brought joy where in recent weeks there has been little positive news to report…

LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 OCTOBER 1813

[scoundrels-in-love]

If I go (if you ask me to), I'm goin' crazy (Let my darlin' take me there)

On the cusp between spring and summer, Jaime and Brienne say goodbye to a house that was never home.

In Winterfell, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

--

Angst | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Pining & Yearning | Hopeful Ending Runaways  | Implied abuse in the past | Implied J/C in the past

Also on AO3.

There are two long knocks, a pause and two knocks again on the door.

Jaime bolts upright from where he's been lying on the lumpy mattress, the Knights of Westeros book falling to the side. (He had been flipping through it, half mindlessly, trying to not think of Tyrion as much as he tried to recall his brother's smile. It's faded, like the picture of Goldenhand the Just that peers up at him. Like the value in the Lannister name.)

There are three knocks now, a brief pause that drags out and boils down to one heartbeat all at once, and four more rapid knocks. That's when the mad scramble begins.

It shouldn't be as haphazard as it is - the little he owns (and even less he is going to take with him) is all carefully stowed away and arranged just for this, but as his knees hit the floor with an impact that sends pain through the limbs, it feels frantic.

Jaime removes the floorboard beneath the bed with too much fervor and it creaks, breaking the silence like whiny thunder and he freezes, wondering if lightning won't strike after, this time. Listens and hopes he won't hear any footsteps, fears Brienne's scream spearing through him if she's been caught.

It never comes and he pulls out the bundle wrapped in rags, peels them away to peer into the contents of the plastic bag beneath, just to double check. Spare, clean clothes to shove in his backpack, some non-perishable foods he has squirreled away from the store he works at part time. (Brienne would disapprove, if he told her. But silence let's her look away from that and also from things Jaime wishes she'd at least steal a glance at. Then he could hope.)

Finally, he dives as deep as he can beneath the bed and fishes for the tin can in the hole. Cuts his shaking hand a little on the sharp edge when he pulls plastic-wrapped money out of it, but instead of that pain, there's a sting in his heart.

To think he has to keep few paper dragons and stags like this, when Lannisters used to...

He stops midthought, reels his attention to more important things. There have been many things that had been true once. There have been even more things that he had thought to be the truth. He thinks it's what you make it, these days. And he has to make his now.

Jaime puts the rags and board back in place, stuffs everything in his bag and moves to take a step, before he backpedals toward the bed and the nightstand beside it, the one that is always leaning away, as if the state of the bed disgusts it and it is any less dingy itself.

He picks up the book (also stolen, from the local library, but no one has even noticed it missing, he's sure) and forces it in the backpack that now won't zip up and hesitates, again. There is a matchbox in the back of the bottom drawer and Jaime knows it'll fizzle in the back of his mind if he leaves it. And it will smolder in his bag if he takes it.

He does it anyway, squishes it in one of the side pockets so it won't get ash and remnants of the photograph all over his stuff, just in case. His twin - them - have left enough marks on him as it is. (And he never did, for her.)

Just a year ago, he would've climbed out through the window, but now there is only searing pain in his right hand that cannot hold his weight and the inevitable loud crash in that direction, so Jaime takes the long road, through the corridor and down the stairs where every floorboard creaks, even when he steps close to the wall where they are less worn, for so many foster kids have used the exact same trick for years now.

But Roose Bolton has not been home for two days, and his wretched son seems to be gone as well. Jaime tries not to think of what Ramsay might be up to or what the Brave lot might attempt to out-trump him in cruelty. He isn't afraid, because he knows the slick warmth of wretched blood already and even the hand they tried to take from him is still strong enough to protect himself or Brienne, but he fears a delay might unravel their plans. (The look she gave him when he asked her to go ahead if he doesn't come to the oak within forty minutes of the signal had branded itself on his heart. Hers, hers not to abandon.)

In the end, he exits the house unnoticed. Still, the tension leaves sharper indents in his shoulders than the straps of his backpack as Jaime slips into the garden that has not known maintenance other than some furious and undiscriminate weeding of anything that grows as punishment for the foster kids.

He sees her peer around the oak tree and suddenly, there's no weight to him at all as he runs toward Brienne and then they are sinking to the ground, half to hide behind the bushes and half in relief that vibrates sharply around the edges. (It's just one step, one step that feels like a mile and hums of all the miles taken before it.)

Brienne's face is lit with bright determination, but even it casts shadows and he almosts asks, but later, later. Instead, he nods to her unspoken question and stands up.

There is just one good bye to say.

Jaime looks at the evenstar carved into the bark and smiles. This house doesn't get to keep anything more of them, only an indent left by hope they made themselves and then made real. His hand had hurt for days afterward, but each line had been a mark of his angry determination, a reminder that they can want more than they've picked up from carelessly thrown, often rotten scraps.

He had tried to add a lion instead of hearts or their initials next to it, but it had been far too complex and so Jaime had scratched the attempt out, furiously. (He tries not to look at it and think how symbolic it really is. Fails.)

Jaime places his palm over the star, asks for guidance one last time, though he's lucky enough to take his guiding star out of here and follow it into the unknown. (Fear of the unknown has nothing on walking the same patterns within your cage until your feet bleed, until the bone scrapes the dirt.)

Brienne's hand comes cover his own, large and warm, and callused, and he has never felt more grounded than in this moment. He tries to memorize this feeling as he meets her eyes, sees it reflected in the blue that has become the criteria to match up all other shades to in the last year.

And then they're off, weaving their way through the edge of the garden and onto the dirt road leading away. He doesn't look back. Everything he wants is walking right next to him, or ahead of her.

---

As they travel toward Winterfell, the cusp between spring and summer trickles through their fingers, leaving hot days and balmy afternoons in its wake.

It's not easy, getting by with less money than all the suspicious stares they earn along the way, though they become less frequent once the school year is over.

He half expects Brienne to eventually explain why that evening, why then and not a month later when high school diplomas, as unalike in their grades as the two of them are, would've been crumpled up at bottoms of their bags. But she never does. After all, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

In unspoken agreement, they don't call Catelyn Stark the first week or the next, or any afterward. As if having the Starks coming to pick them up from anywhere else than their front door could make them change their minds.

He had thought it to be anger, red hot and tight around his ribcage, when she had told him Catelyn had recognized her as Selwyn's daughter and offered to help. That she had thanked and accepted the number, without jumping on the chance immediately. For coming back to this house for more than her bag.

And it had been that, in a way. Anger and desperation, and ache. To know she is safe and happy, even if on the other side of the country. Especially then, maybe. Because it had scared him, the campfires growing wild on the barren, littered beach inside of him, though even distraught, the oceans of her eyes could put them out.

It was that night that he had realized. Love meant the difference between anger contained and welts on someone's skin. And he had never been loved.

There is more to discover about love, still, and he has done almost every day since then. But never more than on this trip.

Some days, they both go more hungry than full. (He gives up on convincing her to take his share after the third time, but offers nonetheless.) Some nights, he whistles her lullaby under the open sky and curls up next to her, unable to steal minutes dipped in this peaceful warmth away from himself with sleep.

And yet, Brienne is often bright with cautious happiness these days and sometimes, it blows to this pure joy that he would never grow tired of watching, even if it would render him blind like the sun.

He does almost sneak away to call the number he has memorized as well as she has, in Moat Caitlin, ready to preserve that light even if it means their parting will be colored red with her angry blush. They're hungry and tired, and no one seems to want to give them a chance to haul some boxes around for a few stags. Their post-graduation adventure story isn't holding up much anymore, just like his shoes.

(He craves a smoke more than he’s craved it since the first month of quitting, but one implied promise broken is bad enough, so he grits his teeth and bears it.)

But when he enters a small family shop, in hopes to borrow a telephone, a different opportunity presents itself in the shape of Pia. His shaggy appearance doesn't deter her from flirting repeatedly, not even when Brienne follows him in and freezes in the doorway before approaching, and in half an hour, they've got an invite to stay for a while at her place, while her parents are visiting her grandmother.

The implication where he's sleeping are quite clear and he hopes his smile doesn't look as acidic as it burns across his lips. There are worse ways his body has been used in the name of love.

And yet, he cannot look at Brienne through the nice (he thinks, he can hardly taste it) dinner, there is sluggishness in him that spreads breath by breath.

Afterward, the hot water of shower feels too much, too much (like it had been over a year ago, when he had been just out of hospital and almost drowning in the bathtub before Brienne hauled him into her arms and back into life) and when doors of Pia's bedroom close behind him, he is numb and logy like his limbs aren't entirely his own. There may be a smile on his lips, Cersei liked when he smiled through everything she gave him, even when there was blood on his teeth.

She gives him one look and frowns. "No, Jaime, no. This... isn't whatever you think it is. I just thought we could have a bit of fun." Pia pushes him out of the room and into the living room, before hurrying off to bring him a blanket and an extra pillow and he just lets it happen, no witty quip in reach where he's hiding away.

"Does she even know?" Pia asks, lingering in the doorway after she's turned out the lights, and his silence in the darkness is an answer. "Well, she should."

"It's better if she doesn't, she won't get as hurt," He won't be as hurt if he doesn't know. The yes or the no and the very sweet, crushing uncertainty in between, or the softness of her lips and the glimpse of the ocean's taste in the sweatdrops on her neck.

"I doubt it protected her tonight," she says before walking upstairs and Jaime stays, sitting in the middle of the couch, buried neck deep in a blanket cozier than any he has known in years. That's where Brienne finds him the next morning.

"Jaime," she calls him as she kneels in front of him and he guesses, by her drawn expression and hand on his shoulder, not for the first time and he tries pull up a smile from the well reserved just for her, but the bucket falls off the hook, and he cannot do anything but lean forward and rest forehead against her shoulder.

"What happened, Jaime? Are you hurt? Did Pia..." she trails off, but he's already shaking his head. "No, nothing happened," he croaks and it grates on his tongue like the lie it is. But there's nothing that he can define or explain. Yet, she understands somehow and takes him to the kitchen, makes sure he drinks the tea and eats the food that he cannot remember later. And then she brings him to her bed and he thinks it to be so warm from her, though it must've been an hour since she got up, and that's where the rest of the day melts away.

When he wakes the next morning, he is crowded in the wall. She's facing him, her hand holding his in the small space between their bodies on the pillow. Jaime lays there watching her and the sun rises in him as it does beyond the windowpane.

He doesn't think he will ever be completely free of the void placed in him, emptiness that Cersei nurtured for it was endless space that sung in echo of all her desires, but in this moment, he knows he wants to build a fence around it, plant trees and little flowers that look brighter for the darkness that lays beyond them.

And that desire, he thinks, is the start to something that may shrink the void some day.

Maybe then, he can tell Brienne that she threw a falling star in the dark and when it wasn't extinguished, he realized there was an edge to it. Maybe then, he can build a home for her laughter, instead of fearing it'll finally break through the sky and escape him. Maybe then...

A million wishes hum softly when Brienne blinks sleepily at him, smiles faintly. He shifts his hand, to free hers, but her fingers tighten just so and he gives up immediately. (It's not like how he used to know it; she doesn't demand him to and the surrender is only for his own indulgence.)

"Looks like sleep did you some good," she says softly and brushes a few curls away from his face and he has to swallow thickly, not from desire for anything more, but the way the warmth and tenderness of her brings a flood of tears pressing against the dams he's determined to uphold.

"Oh Jaime," she murmurs and scoots closer and there are no more dams, just the ocean of her eyes that blur and overflow, in him and through him.

He buries his face in her neck, shakes apart until he's coughing and heaving and is only held together by her arms wrapped around him. Grieves all that could've been, all that has been broken, all that he will never touch with untainted hands, worships regret and guilt and then casts them out.

In their place, he anchors the weight of her hands on his back, the tickle of her hair against his forehead, the soft tremble of her inhale when he pulls back, breathing still uneven.

There's a tear streak on her cheek that he reaches to wipe away, because of course, she's hurting too and he-- But no, he cannot, will not take a new guilt on immediately. (He does, anyway.)

Brienne releases him then, gets up and brings some paper towels from the bathroom for him, because they're saving the tissues in their bags, and he blows his nose again and again. The silence between them should be uncomfortable, somehow, but instead of being embarrassed, he just feels dull and tired, but better for it.

"Fuck, my head hurts," he finally says.

"I'll bring some painkillers and water," she says, already halfway to the doorway and part of Jaime wants her to stay, wants to sink in sleep with her hand in his again, but instead he goes to the bathroom to wash his face.

"What are you going to do?" he asks the reflection that is familiar and unknown all at once, fingers tight around the sink. "What are you going to do?"

And finds the answer.

They leave Moat Caitlin almost a week later, truly rested and with almost-honestly earned food and necessities in their bags, thankful enough to actually plan to keep the promise to let Pia know how everything pans out in Winterfell when they get there. He knows Brienne will want to repay the money Pia has invested in them, if nothing else. Before they depart, their kind host tucks another "tell her" behind his ear, "because otherwise it's really not fair to the rest of us".

This, he cannot promise still, so he only smiles.

When they reach White Harbor, there is a stone in Jaime's chest, all the more heavy and jagged for the knowledge he will try to toss it out soon. He finds them a cheap trashcan of a motel and leaves Brienne to settle in, moves through the streets like the hounded, as if hesitating could mean he never goes through with it, or he just can't wait to get it done. (It's somewhere in the middle)

He stops only on a bridge over White Knife river, the nearest that he could find. The matchbox trembles briefly in his hand, like a flame about to be blown out, but then he presses close to the railing, and the quiver is gone.

Jaime opens it and dumps the content into the river below. He knows that the frail ash will probably never even reach water, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that he's given them burial in the water and the wind. That maybe with time the photograph in his mind will fade, too. That maybe he'll stop asking if it is his fault there's not a shadow of those two smiling children left.

He stays on the bridge for a while longer, thinking about their childhood (because he still can't think of that part of life in singular), about her smile and Tyrion's laughter, about games - the ones that didn't hurt anyone. The good things you're supposed to speak of at funerals. There hadn't been much good said at Tywin's, but he's seen the proper sort on TV.

When the sun sets and he comes back to the hotel, Brienne greets him almost wary, looking him over as if looking for injury. "Are you okay?" she asks, offering him a sandwich as Jaime plops down on the bed next to her. (They'll be sharing again and he doesn't mind in the slightest. Brienne had not complained either, not that she was one to do so.)

"Yeah, I am," he tells her, honestly, and realizes that there had been no splash when that stone had fallen into the river along with the ash, but it's gone nonetheless. There is empty space now, saved for a smile, and he does so, luring one from Brienne in response.

(When they're falling asleep, he presses the kiss to her forehead that has been aching on his lips.)

---

Winterfell is not as cold and miserable in late summer as he imagined, but it's no dream destination. Still, Jaime tells himself he's glad he won't have to make a home here, because even colorful ads don't bring much life to Wintertown. (What kind of name is that, even?)

It's not a lie that holds up when they're standing in front of a phone booth. They stare at the chipping paint on the door like it holds all answers to questions they don't even know, before Brienne turns to look at him, grabs his hand and pulls him inside.

The booth would barely hold her and the backpack, but with him, quite literally folded into it as well, it becomes absolutely cramped. Still, she finds a way to grab his hand somehow, after she's paid the fee.

"Hello Mrs. Stark? This is Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth. Last year, you extended an offer - I was wondering if it was still open?" She listens and it's her grip that betrays her emotions, not her steady voice. They had discussed what to say, beforehand, but it had not been revibrating around them in a tiny phone booth then, so real and with the possibility to change their lives.

She looks at him, eyes wide and stormy and nods to not keep him in suspense, before continuing: "Thank you, Mrs. Stark. I am currently on the corner between Builderstreet and Ravenroad in Wintertown. And I have brought a friend with me. This is non-negotiable, though I understand if it changes your mind."

Brienne squeezes his hand, jaw set in challenge that rings clear in her voice and he is felled by it, frozen though he should grab the receiver and shout "no, no, I don't matter, forget about me, just please take her in". But he wouldn't even be able to locate it, he can only see her face and think that it almost glows somehow. He is no match for her in this moment, no one is.

"We will stay there, yes. Thank you again." And just like that, the time resumes, but he is still swept up in the river of her determination, not its flow.

"Breathe, Jaime," she tells him, smiling so brightly that he is suckerpunched by the reality of the sun's gravity and the almost tangible heat of her power, and he thaws, inhales deeply and shakily.

It would be so easy to tangle himself further into her and press a kiss to her mouth, a thank you and worship in one, to brand his lips with hers just so he could always remember I was hers, briefly, brilliantly. Here, in this space still bobbing along independent of everything beyond it.

And it would be the most unfair thing of all. To ask even more of her, to hurt her if Stark kindness runs thin when they learn just who is her companion, to give her only something so brief and not him whole as she deserves. (But will there ever be more of him?)

So, he pulls them back into the sunlight.

They are holding hands still as they wait for the Starks, strings of tension humming the same tune in both of them, but there is fierceness in Brienne's smile. It runs hot enough to light a kindling in him, not the destructive sort he's grown accustomed to, but a more dangerous one. Because like this, she looks like a knight that will champion for him, no matter the odds. And win.

He still wants to kiss her, like a favor given and taken before the battle, and the way she's looking at him right now, defiance melting into reassurance and warmth, something sparkling he can't define within, when their eyes meet, he can almost believe she wouldn't mind. But there is a world between not minding and melting into his touch like it's home. And no time to find out.

So he presses kiss to her forehead instead, breathes her in and swears it's not the last time, knows more than ever he can't let her go, and then they are ready to face the future.

Together.

[weirdponytail]

Eragon: Book vs Movie. Set & Scene 1

SCENE 1, SET

Brom flipped through the thick packet, one leg crossed over the other. He was sitting in a folding actors chair, a troubled expression on his face.

“Wait, so you just want me to read this?” The old man turned to the Shadow behind him. “Just, read this out loud while things happen around me?”

“Correct.”

Brom sighed. “Alright then,” he opened his mouth to begin but then closed it. One of the other lines had caught his attention. “Oh dear. She isn’t going to like that. Um, might I suggest-”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” Out of nowhere, a burlap skirt came flying at high speed to promptly smack the Shadow right in region it’s face should have been. Brom sighed again and covered his face with his hands. “AND YOU CAN KEEP THIS SHIT, TOO! WHAT ARE THESE, MOULDED LEATHER TITS?!” A hard leather…shirt…thing…followed the skirt and struck with considerably more force, two rocks falling out of the moulded…breast region.

The elder Dragon Rider followed the trajectory of the clothing to see Arya fuming on set, wearing her usual leathers instead of the movie getup their employers had insisted on. Durza was a few strides behind her, howling with laughter at the ‘torture’ the directors were putting the elf through. He was practically crying, braced on his knees. Every time he seemed to be close to stopping, the shade would glance at the script of the first scene and start up again.

“Arya, come on.” Brom started. “I know it’s demeaning, and your mother will probably kill all of us involved if you don’t get to us first, but it’s only a few minutes for this scene. Then you can get back in your clothes and, as a bonus, your contract says you can kick Durza in his nether regions after every take.”

Durza stopped laughing.

Arya crossed her arms and glared at the Shadow. “Make it twice.”

“I have no objection to that.” The Shadow threw the elf the clothes.

The woman turned to change and came face to face with the shade, stopping her. “I swear, little elf, if you even think about doing that, I’ll change the script back to the way it really happened.”

Arya smirked. It was hard to take Durza seriously when he was wearing such ridiculous amounts of makeup and color changing contacts. She leaned in until their noses were almost touching and hissed, “You probably like it, masochist.” Then slipped around him and sauntered off. She could feel his eyes on her back and threw a one fingered salute over her shoulder. “And stop staring at my ass!” 

Durza coughed, caught in the act, and turned back to the Shadow. “I also have an issue with my…wardrobe.”

“Your contract renders all your complaints moot.”

“But does it really have to be covered in glitter glue?” Durza lifted his armored shirt in dismay. “And why must I wear this padding? I’m not chubby, why do you insist on making it look like I am?”

Brom stifled a sarcastic chuckle. “I know you think you’re a vampire with the new costume, Durza, but you really need to look in a mirror.”

Durza scowled at the Rider before growling “I’ll be at my starting point.” And whipped around with a swirl of his new cape. He passed by the trailer just as Arya was walking out, trying to tug the hem of her skirt further down her legs to cover as much skin as possible. “Nice legs, elf.” He casually remarked and quickly took off in a sprint before she could wind up and punch him all the way to Daret.

The ground began to shake as Nar Garzvog lumbered up to the Shadow, his clan of Urgals in tow. “Misty One, where do you wish us to stand for our part?”

The Shadow waved the Kull off. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you, we won’t be needing you. We’ll be using these men.” It pointed towards the group of six-foot chub monsters with blue sharpie on their faces. “Much cheaper, and less stench. Go on, get out.” It snapped its fingers and the clan disappeared in a poof of sulfur smelling smoke.

“Now, Arya, please take your place. We need to begin. Brom, if you would please?”

Brom cleared his throat and picked up his script as Arya hopped onto the horse provided. “Remember, Arya, just grin and bear it.”

“Yeah, that’s what politics is all about. I’m going to kill Nasuada for suggesting this to raise war funds.”

“Ready? ACTION!” 

SCENE 1 FOREST CHASE 

Brom cleared his throat again and began in his best ‘Badass Storyteller’ voice.

“There was a time when the fierce and beautiful land of Alagaesia, was ruled by men astride mighty dragons…

“To protect and serve was their mission. And for thousands of years, the people prospered. But the Riders grew arrogant, and began to-” He stopped, flabbergasted. “Now wait just a minute, this isn’t correct at all! We never fought each other, Galbatorix went bloody insane for the Stars sakes!” He twisted around the glare at the Shadow. “What kind of hack is this? You’re ruining an already fragile history!”

“Keep reading.” The Shadow snapped. “History doesn’t make money, drama makes money. I own you until this film is complete, so keep. Reading.”

Brom sank into his chair, grumbling. “This is so beyond my pay grade. Achhem, But the Riders grew arrogant, and began to fight among themselves for power.

“Sensing their weakness, a young Rider named” Brom paused, and took a moment to slowly and carefully pronounce the tyrant’s name, “Gal-buh-tor-ix betrayed them. And in a single bloody battle, believed he had killed them all. Riders, and dragons alike.

“Well, you got something right.” Brom griped, but turned back to reading when the Shadow mouthed ‘own you.’ “Since then, our land has been ruled by Gal-buh-tor-ix. He crushed all rebellion including the freedom fighters known…as the Varden.

“Those that survived fled to the mountains. There, they hoped for a miracle that might even their odds against the king.”

Brom threw the script down. “Now that I’m done with this mediocre pile of shit, let me tell you something! The Varden has never openly had an army verses army war with dear old Galby until Farthen Dur, you illiterate fool!”

The Shadow opened its mouth to reply but a whoop from out in the forest cut it off. “Oooo, Brom is getting maaaaaad!”

“ARYA, BE QUIET!” The Shadow yelled. “You aren’t done yet, Brom! CUE THE CHASE SCENE!”

“Wait, what?” Arya raised an eyebrow then let out a startled yelp as three of the new ‘Urgals’ lunged from the bushes and slapped the three horses on the rump, sending them off at a breakneck gallop. “OH FUCK YOU!”

“Read!” The Shadow snapped.

“Fine! Our story begins one night, as Arya, an ally of the Varden, rides for her life. Carrying a stone, stolen from the king himself.” Brom looked up with a sour expression. “I STOLE THAT, BY THE WAY! NOT YOU!”

“I’m not arguing!” Arya yelled back, trying to reign in the very spooked horse catapulting through the woods with one hand while frantically flipping through the script with another

“CUE DURZA CLOSE UP!”

Durza glanced down at his script and raised his eyebrows, then jerked back as a camera suddenly shot up inches from his face. “Oh! Um…HSSSSSS-“ He managed a few seconds before shoving the camera away. “THAT WAS NOT MANLY OR SHADELY AT ALL!” Laughter from the direction of his elfin companion could be heard. “I WILL HAVE YOU TORN TO PIECES FOR LAUGHING, ELF!”

She ignored him, finally reaching the correct page of the script. “Ah! Human stand ins get shot-”

Two of the new Urgals popped up, holding loaded crossbows level with the two stuntmen currently taking the place of Glenwing and Faolin.

“We’re sorry.” The larger one said sincerely. “It’s nothing personal, really! But they said they wouldn’t wash the sharpie off unless we do what they say.” They both fired.

Two very shocked and very dead stuntmen hit the ground. Arya stepped her now calmer horse around the bodies and settled her chin on her fist, scanning the script again. “And then…then what, Urgals, Urgals, uh…oh here. I get tackled off and throw down a hill.” After a moment of silence, the woman straightened, a deadpan expression on her face. “I should have read this before hand.”

She could hear the thudding footsteps of the Urgal running towards her and quickly clambered to a crouch on top of the saddle. “Fuck it, I’m jumping.” With that, Arya dove off the horse to the drop at the side. Moments later the Urgal landed on the poor animal. “PETA’s gonna sue yo-OW FUCK SHIT OW, SON OF A BITCH WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU WAIT FOR A VALUABLE PRISONER OW TO BE AT THE TOP OF A HILL WITH ROCKS AT THE BOTTOM TO TACKLE THEM?!”

Brom turned to the Shadow. “I’d like to know that as well.”

The Shadow waved it off. “Semantics. Don’t need it.”

“Oh for the love of- This isn’t even the Ancient Language!” Both looked up to see Durza standing on his ‘cliff,’ about to set the woods on fire. “I can’t summon a flame with this!”

“Light the forest on fire.” The Shadow commanded. “You must use the words provided.”

“But that won’t even work!”

“Then set it on fire using the Ancient language in your head.” The Shadow snarled. “I don’t have time for this!”

“That is incredibly dangerous, and my contract-”

“Says you’re a total pussy and that you enjoy romantic comedies and light bondage in the fine print, now SET THE FUCKING FOREST ON FIRE!”

Durza complied, but only while shooting the Shadow the bird.

Right on time Arya cleared the permitted ‘fire circle of doom’ area and skidded to a stop before she ran into the opposing wall of flames. “So, what, we doing this again?”

“Unfortunately.” Durza strode through the fire. Well, not exactly strode. He had to wave his hands in front of his face to prevent the heat from melting his makeup. He cleared his throat and put on his best ‘rape face’ as the script asked. “Give it to me!”

“D-” Arya paused, her previously prepared dirty joke flying out the window as she saw the blocked text. “Wait, this thing says I have my sword out. Why the hell don’t I just stab you in the chest?”

“SEMANTICS!” Came the yell from off scene.

“Riiiggghht.” Arya shoved the script into the leather bracer on her arm. “Achhem, well. Time to be a bitch.”

“There’s a time when you aren’t a bitch?” Durza remarked, appearing sincerely puzzled.

“Shut up.” The elf shifted into a fighting stance. “Durza!”

Durza switched back into his movie persona. “And I’ll let you live.”

“Is there anyone who trusts the words of a shade?” Arya scoffed. “Oh, that’s very true. Hey, do I really have to teleport this?”

“CONTRACT!”

Arya huffed and pulled the ‘stone’ out of her bag. “Fine. This is going to hurt like a bitch.” Seconds later she was on the ground, blinking stars out of her eyes. “Ooowwww…”

Durza chuckled, “Where did you send it?”’

The elf notice where his eyes were. “What, would you like me to hitch my skirt up a bit more for you?”

“What can I say? I like the hot, sweaty leather look.” He grinned. “The light bondage part of the contract wasn’t lying.”

She scowled. “Poor Durza…How will you tell the king…you’re a total freak? Ahhem, I mean, you failed.”

The two then paused, pulling out their scripts. They spent a few moments reading before Durza started laughing and Arya started swearing.

“What the hell is this?!” She yelled. “[ACT LIKE YOU’RE HAVING AN INTENSE BUT PAINFUL ORGASM]?!?! This is TORTURE?!”

The Shadow materialized in the fire circle. “We just need you to act in pain. The orgasm part is afterwards.”

“Excuse me,” Durza raised his hand. “what is a ‘force choke?’”

“Pretend you’re choking her with your fingers but don’t touch her.” The Shadow made a ‘get on with it’ gesture.

The two looked at each other.

“I’m totally okay with this.” Durza shrugged.

“Yeah, well I’m not!” Arya snapped. “No way am I going to roll around in pain then pretend to bask in post orgasmic bliss in front of YOU of all people!”

“Well, we can do something about that first one.” Durza suddenly stomped on the elf’s stomach. 

“OW!!” She reflexively curled into a ball. “YOU BASTARD!”

Durza looked over his shoulder at the Shadow. “We have the rolling around in pain part down, but I’m not the guy to call to get that second part. You’re going to need this guy, Faolin, he lives-” Arya managed to roll up and land a particularly damaging punch on the shade’s crotch. “OW!! YOU BITCH!” He collapsed and began rolling around in pain, clutching his wounded merchandise.

The Shadow sighed. “Alright. That’s a wrap. SOMEONE TELL ERAGON WE’RE HEADING HIS WAY!”

“Someone warn the poor boy.” Brom rubbed his temples before packing up his chair and helping Arya up. “Tell him we already have wounded. It’ll be a miracle if nobody dies before this is over.” They stepped over the dead stuntmen and made their way towards Carvahall, Durza crawling behind them.

~~~~~~

(Set & Scene 2)

[cas-kingdom]

A submission by @thorin-is-a-cuddler --- The Secret

A/N: The Tommy Shelby sister!reader treasure horde that is your tumblr has been my shelter from the ongoing surreal storm disaster that is the year 2020. I love your fanfictions so much that I wish I could become one of them myself. Instead of tricking biology and the internet into making that wish come true, I’ve spent my evening writing something for you in return. :) 

word count: 2120

reader is the second youngest Shelby (age 17), setting is the first season bc I haven’t watched more than that :D

„Tommy?… Tommy!…“ You dropped the hand you had previously used to snap in front of your brother’s thoughtful expression, realizing it was useless. He was so deep in thought he didn’t even react to you gently pushing his arm. „Tommy, are you being serious right now?“ 

You raised a brow when you realized he hadn’t blinked just once during your attention-craving ordeal. He was seated at his table completely motionless, as if he were catatonic. The cigarette between his fingers was burning down all by itself. Drastic situations, drastic measures. You positioned your thumb underneath his fingers and flicked the cigarette out of his grip, sending it flying over the surface of his table. Ash was scattered over Tommy’s suit as he eventually blinked in confusion, looked down on his arm and started brushing off the dirt with a curse. „Fucking hell!!“ Still confused and sort of absent his gaze focused on you, a disapproving crease between his brows. „(Y/N), what the hell do you think you’re doing?“ 

„Me??“ You took a step back from the table, hands on hips. A feeling of worry about your brother mixed with the slight anger about his dismissive tone. „You’re one to talk big, sitting there like you’re sleeping with your eyes open. I could have stolen your books right out from underneath your nose.“

Tommy sighed and rubbed at his face with his hands, frustration evident on his features. Not with you, though, no, with himself. Frustration over you seeing him like that, over you being right about the stealing part. You tilted your head as the feelig of worry won over the anger you had felt riling up in your stomach. It appeared to you possible that you had accidentally said the truth. Tommy had been sleeping with his eyes wide open. 

You watched him as he tried to regain some kind of control over himself, grabbing for the crystal bottle at the end of the table and pouring himself a glass of Scotch. Your eyes flickered from his hand to his face, trying to see through his ever-tough, ever-inaccessible Peaky Blinder mode. Tommy hadn’t always been this way. 

Before the war, he had laughed more, had been more fun to fool around with. He had been more careless and less quiet than he was now. Day to day, he gave you more reason to worry about him now. Sometimes you caught yourself losing track of what he was saying during family meetings, because you were focusing too much on the tired, pale look on his face. 

„So,“ Tommy said in his deep voice, blue eyes the color of water locking with your own, „what have you come to me for?“

You took a deep breath and straightened your back. You were wearing a smiliar outfit as he was, your black tie one of Arthur’s, your grey vest one of Tommy’s old ones. Your hair was falling long over your shoulders. „It’s actually not that important. Arthur wanted to know if he should fetch you some cigarettes. He’ll be off buying a bunch later. I’m supposed to tell him before.“ You took a chair and settled down on it on the other side of Tommy’s table. 

It was hard to read in his face what he was thinking of that. His eyes stayed on your face intently. 

„Until then, tell me.“ You put your elbows on your knees, leaning over the table, a little closer to him.

He cocked his head to the side slightly, fumbling around with his pocket to get out a cigarette. There was the slightest twitch in the corners of his lips, as he tiredly leaned forward to light the thing. „Tell you,“ he repeated calmly, fire glinting in front his lips, „tell you what, (Y/N)?“ 

You raised your eye-brows expectantly, a soft look on your face. „How ’bout you tell me why you sittin’ here like a corpse, starin’ your cigarette to death and freaking me out?“ 

The tiredness on his features intensified. He sighed quietly and drew on his cigarette, eyes darting around the room. „Was I, eh?“ 

You bit your bottom-lip and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed in front your chest. „Tommy, you know I’m only asking this because I’m hella worried about you.“ 

At that, he actually frowned. Tommy Shelby fucking frowned. Rendered speechless, he slightly squinted his eyes at you. You rolled your eyes with a sigh and reached over the table to take a sip from his Scotch, before putting it back in front of him. „If this was your last glass of Scotch,“ you tried, wiping at your lips, „your last one ever. What would you say to me? What would you want to get off your chest?“ 

Tommy actually released a tiny smile at your antics, softness spreading on his face. He put out his cigarette and grabbed the glass, holding it high enough to let a few rays of late afternoon sunshine reflect in the brown liquid. „My last glass.“ He saluted to you and downed the contents in one go. You looked at him patiently, waiting for his next words. His smile got a tad bit wider. „I just finished my last glass and what I really want to tell you, (Y/N), is this.“ He folded his hands in front of him, elbows on the table, leaning in closer to you. He took a deep breath, locking his eyes on you. Then he waved his hand in a sign for you to come closer. „Come here. It’s a secret.“

Your first instinct was to scoff, show him the finger and leave, at best kick something on your way out. On a normal day you might have done it. Your brothers could be ruthless when it came to teasing you and you had grown pretty accustomed to it.

But this wasn’t a normal day. You had caught Tommy sleeping wide-eyed over his treasured books, looking like a ghost. And for once, you two were alone and could use the time, no interruptions to be feared since everyone else was busy. 

So instead of acting like the seventeen years old sister who was used to her brothers’ tricks, the ten year old girl from your past took over, a glow in your eyes as you got out of your chair to lean over the table and listen to Tommy whispering a secret into your ear. 

„Don’t hit me though.“ You couldn’t help but mumble warily as he waved for you to get closer and closer. You were delighted to see him shake his head with a huffed laugh at your words. 

„No. You’re too old for that, I fear.“ 

You were close enough for him to headbutt you now, which was also not a very nice experience, but since that was usually Arthur’s way to mess with you, you didn’t expect Tommy to do it. 

„No, I will tell you a secret.“ He added quietly and bent his body forward slightly, his face coming closer to your ear. You realized you were tensing up. Brothers would be brother. Was that a mischievous glint in his eyes? „The secret is,“ you instinctively moved your shoulder closer to your neck, as his breath went so close to your sensitive skin, „it’s that you’ll never be too old for this.“ 

Before you had the chance to realize what he was doing, his head shot forward and he blew a ticklish reaspberry on your neck, his left hand keeping your head close with gentle force. You squealed, literally squealed and tried to pull away immediately, hitting aimlessly in Tommy’s general direction. He held your head close well enough, making your neck explode with the tingly tune he was playing on it. „NONONO NOOHOHO!! TOMMY STOOOOP!!“ You screeched as he repeated the mean attack time and time again, only stopping to take a breath, before managing to hit an even more ticklish part of your neck. You couldn’t help the mad giggles that were pouring out of you and were very close to crumbling into a tiny ball on your side of the table, just out of his reach, so he changed tactics. „Oh no,“ he growled, „you stay right here.“ 

With what could be called a high-pitched squeal you were lifted off the ground as Tommy’s hands grabbed you under your arms which already set off all the ticklish alarms in that general area to pull you over the table right into his arms. He easily gained control over your flopping, hitting, flailing form with his strong hands, as you tried to twist out of his lap and escape your ticklish fate. With your back pressed against his chest, he wrapped his arms around your upperbody, one hand slipping into the space under your left arm as the other one was quick to meander down to your right side, squeezing ’til you were wheezing. You were laughing so hard, your cheeks were turning a dark shade of red. With your head thrown back against his shoulder you were cursing his name, barely able to spit out a coherent word. „T-TOMMY!! YOUHOU’LL GO TO HEHHEHHELL!!!“ 

His chuckles vibrated against your back, as he managed to lift your left arm a little, getting better access to the highly ticklish spot just underneath. 

„That is true.“ He sounded delighted, as if he were actually enjoyig himself. You tried to escape with a sudden bolt and he easily pulled you right back into the danger zone, even more of that low laughter flowing out of him - short and yet so effective. Honestly, you would have suffered through worse ordeals to hear just one of these short laughs he breathed out when he was happy. Helplessly you continued to shake in his embrace as his fingers scooted over your stomach, following your reactions to make out the spots that needed special attention. That was until you madly held on to his fingers and tried your best to keep them at a distance from your body. „Plehehhease!“ You cackled, the effort it cost you to keep his fingers where they were audible in your squeaky voice. „Stahahp, Tommy. No more tickling!“ 

„No?“ 

„NohohOHO!!“ Panicked laughter escaped you when he almost freed his hands from your grip - it wasn’t like he couldn’t do just that, but he was resisting the urge. „PleheASE Tommy! Pleeease!“ 

Another short laugh rumbled through his chest and down your back, making you feel safe and happy and comfortable, despite your nerve endings being on edge after that tickle attack. „Alright. Alright. I’m through with you. For now.“ 

You slumped against him, when he peacefully put his arms around you again, this time for holding you close on his leg, not for better access to your ticklish spots. Both of your were silently smiling for a while, you catching your breath, him rocking you back and forth. Then you bit your lip and pinched the skin on one of his arms, making him pull that arm back with a playful hiss. 

„Ow.“ He sounded almost reproachful there, making you bark out a laugh again. 

„You got nerve going ow after what you just put me through!“ He ducked his head with a grin when you tried to hit him over the back of it. You crossed your arms over your chest with a huff and he interpreted that as his cue to wrap his arms back around you comfortably, smoothing your temper with his warmth. „What was that for anyway?“ You comortably lay back, wrapping yourself up more in his hug.  

Tommy smiled gently, tiredly. You saw his eye-lids fluttering dangerously often. „You want to know the real secret, little sister?“ 

Intently you watched his face over your shoulder, trying not to move too much in Tommy’s lap to keep from jostling him out of his sleepy haze. Fondly you watched as he was slowly, but securely falling asleep on your shoulder. 

„Tell me the secret.“ You whispered, moving a hand up to caress his head. 

„Cheering you up is cheering me up.“ He answered as he closed his eyes and nuzzled your shoulder, head too heavy to hold up anymore. „And I can sleep best, when…“ 

You turned your head when he stopped speaking. His face was peaceful, his breath was going smoothly and his eyes were closed. He didn’t have to finish the sentence for you to know what he had meant to say. 

You, too, slept best when someone you loved was close and content. 

And if Arthur entered Tommy’s bureau an hour later to ask for you and found both his siblings entangled on the chair, peacefully sleeping, he never said so out loud to either of you.

-

CK’s notes: you are the sweetest. im so unbelievably happy my stories make you feel that way; i write them for the exact same feeling. thank you for this. <3

[fireblaze5555]

Fire Away: Chapter 8

Also on Ao3: Fire Away: Chapter 8

Frank was so fucked. He watched Karen dozing on his completely numb arm as the morning light streamed through the balcony doors and he couldn't tear his eyes from her. Last night kept playing over and over in his head. The expanse of her beautiful pale skin, perfectly shaped breasts, the noises she made when he had his hands on her. The way she looked at him, like he mattered. Like he wasn't a monster. Like she loved him.

He watched her face as she took in the long slow breaths of someone in deep restful sleep, his eyes scanning her features and memorizing every line, as if he hadn't already. Her bruises had almost completely faded, leaving just a light discoloration at her temple and he wanted to press his lips to that spot and kiss away the last of the damage. For a moment he nearly forgot why he shouldn't be doing this, he just reveled in holding this incredible, beautiful woman in his arms.

Frank was unable to stop the flash of pride in his chest, he was one lucky bastard. Her words, I never regret you , echoed in his head over and over and each time he felt a little piece of his soul repairing itself. His demons never retreated for long though, rendering what Karen had managed to rebuild back to rubble. Suddenly it hurt to look at her, flashes of the family he couldn't protect filling his vision only this time her face was there too, covered in blood and unblinking.

He could no longer lie still, so to keep from waking her, Frank stood and threw his sweats on before stepping out on the balcony. She couldn't love him. He doesn't get to have that anymore. Karen was smart, beautiful, strong and resilient. She could have anyone she wanted. She fought for justice and saw the best in people while still accepting the darkness in them. There was no universe where he deserved her love.

It was that moment, with sickening clarity, thinking about her bravery, her smile, her kindness and her wicked sense of humor, that Frank realized he loved her. Most people felt light with a realization like that but all he could feel was a mix of guilt and disdain for himself. That's what she fucking needs, your psycho ass adding your bullshit to hers . A small childish part of him had hoped maybe it was just sexual tension and once they got that out of the way, they could walk away from each other. He knew how ridiculous that was when his heart wrenched painfully at the thought of being done with Karen when this was all over.

Frank was lost in his thoughts, not acknowledging the chill of the morning until a warm pair of arms wrapped around his torso and Karen pressed herself flush to his back.

Her voice was light but he could hear tension and worry there as well, "I could hear you thinking in my sleep." He felt her lips moving against his skin as she spoke, "Wanna talk?"

Frank turned in her arms so they rested chest to chest against the balcony railing. Her hair was mussed from sleep and she was squinting against the morning sun. Frank shifted a bit to shade her eyes with his body and the smile she gave him was so radiant he was nearly blinded himself. Her eyes were so blue Frank felt like he could drown in them and for a moment all he could do was stare in wonderment, his hand coming up to rest against the side of her face.

She leaned into his hand and stared at him expectantly and it took him a minute to remember she had asked him a question. Looking to the side to try and break the spell she had put over him, Frank took a deep breath, steadying himself for what he needed to do. He kept his voice low as he dropped the hand from her face to rest at her hip, "This," He looked at her hand that had come to rest on his chest over his heart, "is not a good idea."

Karen's beryl eyes turned to flint, pinning him to the spot even as she took a step back. Frank instantly felt the warmth she had brought retreat with her. He tried not to let it affect him. He tried not to feel the loss as acutely as he did. Tried but didn't succeed.

Frank wanted so badly to say something, anything to make her smile again or something to make her see how right he was but they had been through all of this before. So instead, he braced his arms on the railing behind him and regarded her carefully with narrowed eyes.

"Honestly, Frank, you give me whiplash." Her eyes were still hard but the gentleness with which she addressed him did far more damage, "You think that you being around is what gets me hurt. The truth is, it's watching you leave that hurts me more than anything. Seeing the way you look at me, the way you touch me, only for you to turn it off a second later and disappear." She gives a humorless laugh and his lungs constrict when he sees her eyes swimming. If only she knew how much he couldn't turn it off.

His throat is tight but he forces the words out anyway, "I can't be responsible for getting you killed Karen, I just can't. That's why this is a bad idea, 'cause when you're around I forget why I'm supposed to push you away."

She wiped a stray tear away quickly and took a step closer to him. Frank gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white, trying so hard not to reach for her. He was busy watching her rose colored lips as she pulled them between her teeth so when she spoke again it took him a moment to process her question.

"Then why are you here?" She asks, raising an eyebrow at his frustrated confusion, "I know you don't want anything to happen to me, but Frank, my job is dangerous. I deal with dangerous people almost every day. I mean, for God's sake, I work with the devil of Hell's Kitchen. If you think you shouldn't be around me, you didn't have to track me down, you could have left it up to Matt to help me." He hopes she doesn't notice the flash of contempt he feels cross his face but she doesn't miss anything with him. She huffs out a humorless laugh before fixing him with a hard stare, "You don't get to make me walk away only to pop back up when it's convenient for you. It's not fair. To either of us. Either you are in my life or you aren't, you can't have both."

Logically he knew she was right, he's sure he has told himself that before, but hearing it fall from her lips caused his chest to spasm painfully. He felt panicked, like he had to make the call right now which caused anger to spike since he thought he had already made that call. He's the fucking Punisher, he didn't need anyone, everything he needed died at that carousel but facing her now, last night playing over in his head in startling detail, he realized he hadn't been as sure as he thought. His chest and throat hurt, everything he was trying to say blocked his airways and made him choke, a small distressed sound the only thing he managed. Frank was shaking his head, trying to jostle some coherent thought loose and his eyes were wild, like a trapped animal.

Karen saw him struggling and like the angel she was brought his attention back to her and away from his spiraling thoughts, her voice was solid as she said, "Back in that hospital room, I told you to make it mean something, me being there. What were you going to say? Before the kid walked in."

The vortex of his thoughts came to a sudden, disorienting halt, focused solely on that memory. Clicking his tongue, Frank turned to glare into the distance. He really didn't want to relive that day. He regretted so much about it.

"I don't know." he said.

"That's bullshit." she spat.

He turned to look at her, her cheeks were slightly pink, her eyes glinting in the early morning light and she was so damn beautiful. Calm and steady to his anxious, agitated uncertainty. He wanted to tell her there was nothing he wanted to say, that he had already said it. He wanted her to believe that he was pushing her away because he genuinely didn't want her. But they never lied to each other.

His voice was rough, almost resigned. "I had no idea how to tell you everything I wanted to in the time I had left to do it. I wasn't lying, Karen, I don't want to give up the war. I don't know if that will ever change, it is something that is a part of me now. It may have always been a part of me. I thought if I could push you away you would be safe." He gave her a pointed look. "That was obviously a bit naive of me, knowing you. I couldn't stand the thought of you getting hurt because of me. Still can't. The idea was I would distance myself, then I could just focus on fightin', cleanin' up the city without worrying it would reach you. But I can't stop thinkin’ about you. Thing is, you don't know when to quit, even when you're just in my head."

Karen gave a little sniff, stepping back into his space and placing her hand back over his heart. The smallest touch, one she had perfected, one that could dismantle his armor in seconds. He wondered if she knew how much it affected him. How he could feel that small touch in every atom of his being. She stared at her hand where it rested for a moment while he stared at her and tried to control his breathing.

"In that hospital room, when I said you could love someone else, instead of another war, I didn't mean you had to give up the war. I just meant you could love someone else, not just the war. I do wish you could leave it behind but I understand why you can't." She looked up at him, eyes like blue fire as she flexed her fingers on his chest, voice vehement, "I know who you are Frank Castle. I know what you are capable of. Hell, I've seen what you are capable of, first hand. I know you can kill a man with your bare hands. Take down entire cartels in a matter of a week. I also know that you nearly gave your own life to give David Lieberman his back. That you would have given everything to keep Amy safe, both people you barely knew. That you used your own body to shelter me from a spray of bullets, from a fucking bomb. I know that this mission you have means dangerous people will be after you. Most importantly, I know, I would rather face that danger with you than live safely without you. What you do with that is your call."

Frank could feel his heart beating harshly against his ribs. It almost felt as though it were trying to break out of his chest to rest in her capable hand, God knows she already had his heart metaphorically, she might as well have it literally. He watched in fascination as her other hand loosened his death grip on the railing to place it on her hips once more and his other hand followed suit without a second thought from him.

"I'm not asking you for forever right now Frank. I am just asking that, once we are back in the city and this whole mess is over, you give this a chance. I can't promise that shit won't go sideways but I want us to try. Okay?"

It was a bad idea. He knew it was but that voice that always urged him to deny her couldn't be heard over her soft breathing as she is watching him expectantly. With no shortage of hope and anxiety. Everything swirling around in his chest made it difficult to form words but finally, he said, "Okay."

The smile that tilted her lips would have knocked him off his feet if her hands hadn't come up to wrap around the back of his head, pulling him to her so she could ghost a quiet, "Okay" over his lips before she was kissing him fully, running her tongue over his and holding on to him like he may fade away in her grasp.

Finally Frank pulled back, giving her a light kiss on the cheek before turning her back towards the door and nudging her into the condo. "Let's get our stuff together, we've already stayed too long, we need to get moving." He tried to sound rough and in control but it came out soft and more of an entreaty than he had intended. Judging by the little smirk Karen threw over her shoulder she wasn't impressed but she dressed quickly and started to gather her things.

They ate a quick breakfast with what was left in the fridge and in less than an hour they had all of their things together and loaded up, surveying the condo to ensure they didn't leave anything behind. Frank glanced over and felt a pang of sadness when he saw the open longing in Karen's face. Maybe, if they get through this and actually get their shit together, maybe they could come back. Actually explore and relax and just...be. But they had things to take care of first so he turned, watching her carefully as she turned as well, giving him a small smile before she stepped out of the door.

Mountains rolled by as they hit the interstate headed East and they settled in for the long drive back. It was a quiet comfortable silence in the cab as both were lost in thought, whether it was about their earlier conversation or what was to come. It had been nearly two hours when Frank glanced over to see Karen sifting through her bag. She held up the burner phone they had purchased for her triumphantly and began to punch in a number.

Karen didn't even look over to respond, she knew Frank was dividing his attention between the road and her. "Watch the road soldier, I'm just calling Foggy. I want to check in and let him know that we are headed back. I won't give him any details yet, maybe once we are back in the city we can get everyone together to finalize a plan." She looked over to him, he wouldn't say it was to ask permission, more of a chance for him to protest and her to probably do it anyway.

When he glanced over again he gave a small nod. If it were up to him he would storm the place, give the lady no other option but to leave Karen alone and then find a way into Rikers to kill Fisk. Simple. But this was Karen's plan, her situation. As much as he wanted to take care of it for her and remove all the danger, he knew she would resent him for taking it out of her hands. That being said, if it looked at all like shit was going sideways he was taking over, she could be as resentful as much as she wanted, as long as she was alive when it was over.

Frank focused on his driving, occasionally checking the rear view to ensure there was no one following them. When he tuned back in it was to Karen laughing quietly into the phone. He had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road instead of putting his full attention on her. It was novel, witnessing Karen just...being. No bad guys, no immediate danger, no bombs or hospital rooms. Just Karen talking to her friend.

"Yeah Foggy, I'm fine, I promise. We are headed back now. What?" A startled laugh. "Sorry I forgot to get you a souvenir, will a gas station shot glass be okay? Sunglasses for Matt? What an original idea you have." She giggled a little bit more before he heard her sober up. "Yeah, we know who is behind it, I-" He looked over just in time to see her roll her eyes. "Tell Matt eavesdropping is rude, even if it is a superpower." He couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped, Karen turned to him with a smirk and a wink. "I'll fill you both in once we are back in the city and I've got all of the information. I want to be sure we aren't being followed and there is a safe place for us to meet, I don't want to put you in danger." Her voice gave a little tremor but before he even had a chance to reach for her, she gave another laugh, "You're right, Marci would probably scare off anyone threatening her Foggy Bear."

Frank's eyes went wide, storing that information for future ammo in case he needed it. Judging by the loud groan he heard over the line, Nelson had not wanted that said out loud. A couple more reassurances and pleasantries and Karen was hanging up the phone, tucking it back into her bag.

Clearing his throat, Frank gave her a mischievous look, "So...Foggy Bear, huh?"

Karen bit her lip, laughter in her voice, "He's never going to forgive me for saying that in front of you. Try not to torture him too much with it."

A loud ping came from Frank's front pocket before he could make any promises he couldn't keep. He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Karen to read the message.

"It's from David." She said, quickly scanning the text. "He got the information all together and has sent it. Once we get somewhere with internet I'll download it and work on it more. He also says your safe house is clear, there hasn't been any activity there since before you left."

Frank scowled. He never gave David any indication of where his safe house was located. They were going to have to have a serious talk about boundaries, that may include Frank punching him at some point.

He glanced over quickly when he heard Karen snort, she was looking at him, "You never told him where it was did you? He just used creepy hacker skills to find it didn't he?"

With a resigned sigh, Frank just nodded.

"God, he is terrifying." she said, a mix of admiration and a healthy dose of wariness in her voice.

"He can be but he's also an annoying idiot so I guess it balances out." He gave her a sideways grin when she let out a surprised laugh, tucking the phone into the center console and settling herself back in the seat.

Despite the shit storm they were driving back into, Frank felt at ease. They bantered about music, both settling on an old rock station for the trip. He outlined why The Boss was one of the best musicians out there and she nodded along in a placating manner. Her preferences were all over the place, some he could agree with others that just had him shaking his head.

It took them nearly two days, Frank insisted they take their time so they could arrive back in the city when it was dark. Karen would take over driving when Frank got tired and he would crash on the cot in the back or just lay the passenger seat back. The easy conversation slowed as they entered the city and their situation came back into focus. Frank took them in convoluted loops through the city until he was confident they wouldn't be followed before he finally pulled into a small abandoned warehouse.

Despite David's reassurance, Frank did a quick sweep of the premises before letting Karen out of the van, insisting she stay in the back where he had her hiding for most of their trip through the city streets. When he gave the all clear and she stepped out, Karen turned slowly taking in her surroundings, from the mini-fridge next to the table that held his burner for cooking to his sparse cot and neatly stacked clothes. Of course there were also stacks of weapons  lining the walls and a computer set up he had gotten from David. Frank cringed inwardly when she leveled her gaze back on him, he fully expected her to give him the third degree for living like this.

Before she could comment he spoke up, "I have an apartment. I stay here when I need to lay low or if I need to do some recon." Karen gave him a small knowing smile and he felt the tips of his ears turning red. Here he was, a grown man, feeling as though he needed to explain his living situation to a pretty girl like he was a teenager who didn't clean his room. Admittedly, it had been awhile since he had been to his apartment and it wasn't much more furnished than this but she didn't need to know that.

Turning back to the van, Frank busied himself with unloading the rest of their supplies before he could say anything else embarrassing. The first thing he brought out was Karen's laptop, he set it up with the password for the wifi and pulled up the most comfortable chair he had to the workstation for her. He was a bit distressed, these kinds of conditions were okay when it was just him but he hated the idea of Karen living with so little comforts, even if it was only temporary. It couldn't be helped though, so he tried to make it as comfortable as he could.

Karen sat down at the laptop giving him a grateful smile and began digging through the files that David sent over. He knew she would be at it for awhile so he went about checking his ammo and supplies, grimaced at the very empty mini-fridge, and then made up the cot with the procured hotel comforter.

It wasn't long before he had everything in order so he stepped over to where Karen was jotting down notes and furiously scrolling through files. He gripped the back of her chair, reading a bit over her shoulder, "Finding anything you can use?"

She made a somewhat noncommittal noise and continued to scroll for a few more seconds before she answered distractedly. "There is a ton of suspicious activity here, a lot of it corresponding with her communication with Fisk and that is just the phone calls I see on her calendar, there are probably more. If it were anyone else, I would say yes, we should be able to take them down with what we have here." Pausing for a second to bury her hands in her hair, Karen let out a disgusted huff. "But this is Fisk we are talking about. This is the second time we have sent him to prison and he still has just as much freedom as he did before. It's infuriating."

Frank moved his hands to her shoulders, rubbing them soothingly but when he spoke his voice was hard and unforgiving, "He needs to be put down."

Karen's shoulders tensed for a moment before she lowered her arms with a resigned sigh. "I really want to disagree with you Frank. I really want to say that the justice system will prevail and he will be held responsible but we both know that sometimes the justice system doesn't work, don't we?" She looked over her shoulder to give him a sad smile and Frank wished the world was good enough to deserve Karen Page.

There was really nothing he could say to that so he brushed his lips over her forehead in a light kiss before pulling back and heading to his own computer. "I'm going to go over the blueprints for the house, look at security details and schedules and put together a tactical plan. Do wanna meet with the lawyers tomorrow, run what we got by 'em?" He turned enough to see that she had already gone full steam back into her research, giving him a distracted 'Mhm' as she made a couple more notes.

Shaking his head with a smirk, she was an investigator through and through, Frank sat in his own chair and began booting everything up. While he waited he pulled out his phone and sent David another request.

The house, well mansion really, that Vanessa Fisk was residing in was a pretty basic floor plan and Frank had outlined an infiltration plan in a couple of hours, leaving room for adjustments if they got any additional information from Nelson or Murdock. All said and done he figured he could have Karen and himself in and out of the house within 30 minutes, more than enough time to say what needs to be said and get out. His email pinged, David getting him the earlier requested information just in time for Frank to shift his attention to his next objective.

A few more hours passed and vaguely acknowledged Karen moving behind him before he heard the bathroom door shut. There were many moving pieces with this objective and he didn't want to miss any details so he poured over it again and again.

"What is this?" He had been aware of Karen exiting the bathroom but it still startled him a bit to hear her just over his shoulder. She could be damn quiet when she wanted to be, noted.

"It's the blueprints for Rikers, personnel list and where the high profile inmates are kept." Frank felt Karen go completely still.

"No." she said. Her voice was sharp and when he turned to look at her, her eyes never left the screen.

"What do you mean 'no'?" His own tone was sharper than he meant.

"I mean, no, Frank. You're not breaking into Rikers to kill Fisk." She finally tore her eyes from the screen to glare at him. "Are you crazy? Do you want me to wrap you up in a pretty bow for them? Go ahead and put you in an orange jumpsuit to save them the trouble so all they have to do is throw you in your cell, lock you up and throw away the key?"

Frank felt his own anger rising, "You just agreed that he needed to be put down." He stood and took a few steps toward her when she turned, tugging at her hair and cursing quietly.

She whipped around so fast her hair came undone from the loose bun she had it in, hissing at him like a feral cat, "I said the justice system fails sometimes. How the hell did you get, 'Break into a maximum security prison to murder the biggest kingpin in New York' out of that?" She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest and stared him down.

Frank advanced, stopping just in front of her, his voice dark and echoing around the room. "He's a threat Karen. He's already had too many chances at you and I'm not gonna let him have another one. He signed his own death warrant when he signed that letter to you. Besides, I've got unfinished business with him." He started to turn but Karen gripped his arm, spinning him back around.

"You are NOT breaking into Rikers, Frank. Whether or not he deserves it, I'm not letting you put yourself in that situation for me! So fucking forget it!" She was shouting, her cheeks were red and her chest heaved with her anger, it would have been a beautiful sight if he wasn't so pissed off, his own breath coming in angry bursts.

Placing a hand by her head, Frank leaned in, his voice going deadly soft, "Fisk is a dead man, Karen. There's nothing that is going to change that." He saw a shiver run through her as she looked away but when she brought her eyes back to his, his lungs seized. The fire in her blue eyes burned hotter than anger and he had to place his other hand on the wall as well to steady himself when she slid her hands under his shirt to skim up his sides.

It was his turn to shiver when she ran her nails down his sides to hook in the waist of his jeans, her voice was quiet as well when she leaned in. "I'm not asking you to let him live, Frank. I'm asking you to not throw your life away to kill him.” Her breath tickled the sensitive skin behind his ear and Frank was dizzy with the sudden shift. He wanted to still be angry but the way she was running her fingers along his waistband he found that his anger was bleeding into arousal, the adrenaline fueling something else entirely. His body was reacting to her without much input from his brain.

She pulled back to look at him and the mischief in her eyes made him step closer until they were chest to chest. Karen’s back was pressed against the wall and Frank leaned his forearm above her head, his lips ghosting over her temple, “Are you trying to distract me from the discussion, ma’am?”

Karen turned just enough to nip his jaw, one of her hands ghosting down the front of his jeans, making him clench his teeth, her voice was low as she alternated between laying dragging kisses over his jaw and sucking at his pulse-point, “That depends, is it working?”

It definitely was. Between the residual anger and adrenaline from their fight and her wicked hands running patterns over his stomach, occasionally dipping into the waist of his jeans, he was rock hard. With the hand braced above Karen’s head, he buried his fingers in her hair and lightly jerked her head around to devour her mouth. Frank felt his cock twitch when she let out a breathy moan. It seemed Karen liked a little rough handling and that was knowledge that nearly had Frank weak in the knees with need. Once he had ravaged her mouth to the point they were both panting, he started to push away from the wall  and guide them over to the cot but Karen dug in her heels and kept him in place by holding on to the front of his waistband, her long fingers tucked against his skin while her thumb circled over the button.

Frank was distracted by the sight for a moment, staring down to where her hand was so close but not nearly close enough, he wanted so badly to guide her hand further but didn’t want to push too hard. However, when he looked back up to Karen, she had a determined devilish smirk on her lips and he felt the silky strands of her hair still tangled in his fingers slip free as Karen slowly slid down the wall until she was looking up at him from her knees, her eyes wide and the darkest blue he had ever seen them.

The image made Frank blink rapidly to ensure he wasn’t dreaming because if he woke up from this it damn well may kill him. When Karen leaned forward until she was directly in front of the bulge in his jeans, he held his breath. She studied him for a moment before she brought one of her hands up to cup him firmly, drawing that damned bottom lip between her teeth and suddenly the breath he had been holding left him raggedly as he watched in fascination when she dragged her teeth gently over the head of his dick through the fabric of his pants.

“Holy shit .” His voice was broken and he was surprised he hadn’t been able to say anything considering he still hadn’t been able to refill his lungs.

Karen drew back just enough to allow her nimble fingers access to the button and zipper of his jeans, making short work of them before hooking her fingers into his pants and underwear alike and slowly tugging them down. She hummed appreciatively as he sprung free and Frank had to bite back a groan when she turned hungry eyes up to him. If there had ever been any question of the power Karen Page had over him it evaporated when she slid her hands up his thighs so she could dig strong fingers into his hips and run her tongue from base to tip of his cock, never breaking eye contact with him.

He let out a growl, burying the hand not braced against the wall into her hair, “God Dammit Karen, you’re so fuckin’ sexy.” She didn’t reply but he saw the shiver run through her body, instead she ran the flat of her tongue up him again this time wrapping her lips around the tip bobbing her head shallowly over him. Frank rested his forehead against his arm on the wall for a second, clenching that fist tightly, closing his eyes and just focusing on the sensation. Her lips felt so fucking good on him, he felt lightheaded.

His eyes snapped open and another curse escaped him when he felt one of Karen’s hands wrap around the base of his cock, her mouth sinking to where her hand was squeezing before he rocked back in time to see her full lips slowly dragging back up. Her pace was torturous but he fought to keep his hips still, letting Karen take her time. As torture goes, this was more than acceptable and Frank would endure it happily.

Having  Karen Page, a woman so fierce and strong, on her knees in front of him was a humbling experience for Frank and he extricated his fingers from her hair only to reverently push them back through the silken strands, pulling it out of her face and gripping it loosely at the crown of her head. Her lips leave him with a soft pop and she looks up at him with hooded eyes when she strokes him firmly with expert hands. Frank lowered his hand from the wall to run a calloused thumb over her bottom lip, smearing a bit of saliva across the swollen skin. She catches his digit between those sinful lips and swirls her tongue over it before sucking lewdly, rolling her palm over the head of his cock at the same time. Frank has to remove his hand from her hair to lean against the wall once more when his knees threaten to give out.

Releasing his thumb, Karen gives him an innocent smile which, considering the proficient way she was building him towards release, was far from innocent. He gives her smirk of his own, burying his other hand in her hair this time and slowly, giving her a chance to protest, guides her back to his straining dick. She purrs, parting her lips slightly, just enough to drag them down one side of him and back up the other before she opens again and takes as much of him as she can. Frank growls at the sensation, he’s too big for her to take him completely in her mouth, but she doesn’t flinch when he feels himself bump against the back of her throat. Goddamn . As if he didn’t already worship this woman enough. She moved fluidly back and forth over him, her hands alternately gripping and pumping him to groping at his hips and thighs.

The telltale coiling of pressure at the base of his spine had Frank tightening his fingers in Karen’s hair urging her to move faster. She didn’t need much encouragement, bobbing her head quickly, her hands moving in tandem with her talented mouth. He was on fire, he felt sweat dripping down his spine and every muscle in his body was straining to reach his release.

Frank never tore his eyes from her face as he ground out a warning, “I’m coming, fuck , Karen-” She hummed against him and snapped her eyes open to watch him, never slowing her pace. It only took a couple more pumps from her and Frank was letting out a low gravely shout, leaning heavily into the wall as his orgasm tore through him. A deep moan escaped him as Karen continued to work him over, drawing every last bit of his release from him. When he had the strength to open his eyes again he watched as Karen sat back from him, holding his gaze as she swallowed, giving him a knowing smirk when he growled lowly at the sight.

He tugged gently at the hair he still had fisted in his hand and helped her back to her feet. Before she could say anything, Frank had her pressed against the wall once more, kissing her with all the gratitude and adoration he was feeling. When he pulled back he shook his head, smirking at her smug expression. His voice was rough, still recovering, as he attempted to reprimand her, “You don’t fight fair, Ms. Page.”

She smiled coyly at him, “Yeah, well, all’s fair in love and war and all that.”

Frank gave a huffing laugh, pressing his lips over hers in a quick kiss. “The discussion isn’t over, just to be clear.”

Karen’s smile grew before it turned into a yawn. Taking her hand, Frank pushed away from the wall and moved them toward the cot.

“What are you doing? I still have stuff I want to go over.” She asked even as she stifled another yawn.

“It’s been a long couple o’ days, we need to get some sleep. We can sort out the rest tomorrow.” Truth be told, if it were just him, he would stay up all night until he had everything planned to his liking but he didn’t just have his own health and safety to look after at the moment so Frank climbed into the cot first before pulling her down and tucking her between him and the wall and tugging the blanket over both of them. Despite her protests, Karen tucked into his side, burying her face in his neck with an arm thrown over his chest and was breathing deeply in a matter of moments. He wasn’t far behind, turning just enough to be able to drape an arm over her waist, Frank breathed her in, honeysuckle and vanilla, and drifted off as well.

[spork-guitar]

Lucky Lady Chapter 21

@sapphicsovereign @gingerdaile @catsssmeow

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Based on a prompt by @gale-of-the-nomads

Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, and 20.

After several rounds of heavy editing, I’ve come to the conclusion that this chapter is the best it can be without giving too much away. I hope it doesn’t feel too forced or anticlimactic, but at this point in the story, there wasn’t much more to be said.

Adrien had spent his entire life knowing how things would go. He had a schedule every day that conveniently made sure he was kept busy, he even had a wife waiting in the wings until he was old enough to marry her. But for the past weeks, he found he wasn’t sure of anything. 

Ladybug showed up, and all of a sudden, things were different. She would make little changes to his schedule so he could have a break between activities, she would stand on the sidelines during a photoshoot and give him a thumbs up or make faces at him, and most recently, took him ice skating specifically to cheer him up after their conversation with Fu.

Adrien knew he didn’t love Lila. He just didn’t know how much love he could feel for someone until Ladybug. He didn’t know it was possible to have a conversation with someone and not be afraid of the consequences if he said one little thing they didn’t want to hear. He didn’t know what it was about her that made him trust her instantly, but he was willing to tell her anything, to make himself vulnerable, and he hated feeling vulnerable. 

But his wedding was inevitable, so he suppressed all of it, pushed away the new feelings he was suddenly capable of, and restrained himself from getting too close lest he ruin it all.

As she trailed behind him through the foyer and into the dining room with the faintest of blushes on her cheeks, he knew he could never act on his feelings. But, at the same time, he couldn’t lie, couldn’t even think about living his life without her in it anymore. Sure, acting so nonchalant about it wasn’t as easy as he hoped he made it look, but losing his mother taught him the importance of taking action before time runs out.

He opened his mouth to greet her, but her sparkling eyes rendered him speechless. He struggled for some semblance of coherency, but, “I need you to know that I’m falling in love with you.” came out of his mouth instead. 

The smile fell from her face and she stared at him, just stared, lips parted in shock, then laughed uncomfortably. She wasn’t laughing at him, just laughing to fill the gap of silence that stretched on for a few painfully long seconds. “What are you talking about?”

Yeah, what was he talking about? It was true, sure, but it wasn’t at all how he planned on telling her. Truthfully, he never planned on telling her, but it was a little too late to take it back. “I’ve been feeling it for a while now, I guess. It’s the first time I ever noticed a connection like the one I have with you. Being with you just feels natural, like I’ve known you forever.”

“That-” She sighed, looking at the ground. “I just- I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”

Because I took one look at you and fell in love, because everything you do is new  to me, because I’m stupid and don’t think about the words coming out of my mouth until they do and I’ve made a mess of the one good thing I had. “Because it’ll be too late soon, and because… I know I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“What about you?” Oh, good. As long as he was ruining his friendship, he might as well make sure he didn’t have a chance to begin with.

“You mean, am I…?” She gestured to him and he nodded. “I don’t think we should be talking about this.” She couldn’t even finish her sentence. ‘In love with you’ wasn’t something she could say to him. Obviously. Why couldn’t friendship be enough? Why did he have to make a big deal out of it?

“What if I wasn’t in a relationship? Would that make a difference?” One last desperate grab for her affection was all he needed to seal the deal.

“I can’t answer that question, Adrien.”

Of course. That was exactly why he didn’t want to tell her. He knew she would let him down easily. She would never tease him about something so serious. So, he did the only thing he could do - smile.

“That’s okay.” No, it wasn’t. But how could he tell her anything else? She would just blame herself, and that wouldn’t do. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Her eyes were his favorite shade of blue, a color he didn’t even know he liked until he met her. It was painful, really, but unsurprising. Good things didn’t just happen to him; they were always too good to be true.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Hey, it’s fine.” He couldn’t let her finish that sentence. With a gentle hand on her shoulder, he assured her not to worry as she spluttered embarrassed apologies. “I’m not mad at you, Ladybug,” he said softly. That much was true. He would never be able to find it in him to blame her for his own feelings. It was his fault for getting so attached.

A quiet melody adorned with chiming bells began to play, and Ladybug checked her tablet. “It’s…” she tried, blushing as their eyes met for a fraction of a second. “Uh, piano.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll call you when it’s time for lunch?” 

He squeezed her shoulder, then released it, fingers brushing down her arm as he forced himself to let go. “Absolutely.” And for the first time in months, he actually sat down and played the piano instead of a recording, hearing the majors, the minors, the crescendos and diminuendos, and letting the music flow through him and fill the room.