#shoes exhibition catalogue

[fashionbooksmilano]

Manolo Blahnik

The Art of Shoes. La ricerca della perfezione

Cristina Carrillo de Albornoz

Skira, Milano 2017, 128 pagine,  21 x 30cm, 100 ill.colori, cartonato, ISBN  9788857234991

euro 42,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Eleganza raffinata, genio architettonico, stile inconfondibile: le scarpe di Manolo Blahník sono considerate capolavori del design contemporaneo. Sono oggetti al tempo stesso femminili e forti, d’avanguardia e senza tempo, e attingono a una vasta gamma di forme, colori e materiali.A cosa si ispirano le visioni creative apparentemente illimitate di Manolo Blahník? Pubblicato in occasione di una grande mostra internazionale, questo libro esplora attraverso una serie di voci in ordine alfabetico le fonti d’ispirazione e le passioni che si celano dietro le celebri creazioni di Manolo Blahník. Il volume offre uno sguardo inedito sull’arte e l’artigianalità delle scarpe di Blahník, ma anche sulle relazioni e le esperienze che influenzano il suo lavoro: dall’amata famiglia e dai preziosi ricordi dell’infanzia trascorsa alle isole Canarie, fino alle sue muse – Anna Piaggi, Diana Vreeland, Julie Christie, Paloma Picasso – e alla passione per l’architettura, la letteratura e il cinema. Aneddoti molto personali, tratti dalle conversazioni con l’autrice Cristina Carrillo de Albornoz, curatrice della mostra, offrono al lettore la rara opportunità di scoprire dalle parole di una leggenda della moda la visione che sta dietro un paio di calzature.

Milano, Palazzo Morando 26 gennaio – 9 aprile 2017 San Pietroburgo, Museo dell’Ermitage 28 aprile – 21 luglio 2017

14/04/23

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[crow-stars]

❝JUST A FEW MINUTES❞

❦ summary; taking a break is always needed, even if for a little bit.

♪the characters in this story; riddle rosehearts, gn!reader

✎word count; 1,056

☛the author's notes; wow this is longer than vil's aha i wonder what happened there. i also hope to publish the next work maybe sometime today in the afternoon or maybe the evening. i'm on a bit of a writing spree this weekend it seems.

☪look at the catalogue?

It had been... a very, very, very, long day for the Heartslaybul housewarden. 

The Adeuce duo seemed to think that today, the day before Heartslaybul’s monthly tea party, to test out a recipe that the Prefect had recommended. Apparently, though, they thought they could do it without a recipe or the Prefect’s help and it resulted in a catastrophic mess in the kitchen. It was off with their heads for that one, but it didn’t stop there, oh no!

There was also Floyd, ever the troublemaker, deciding that he would ‘grace’ Riddle’s presence for the day. Hanging off his shoulder, constantly making little jabs at the second year that were sure to make Riddle’s face blossom red in anger, and repeatedly throwing Riddle off track of whatever task he aimed to do. It lasted for the better part of the day until Jade had to pry his brother away for his shift at the Mostro Lounge. It couldn’t have come sooner enough, as Riddle was ready to chop that eel’s head off.

Those were the biggest instances, with smaller, but still considerate, events happening that made the stress pile on and on. An alchemy mess that got Riddle in the crossfire, students exhibiting horrid behavior, Sam’s shop running out of his desired drink, it all made Riddle want to scream. Even now, even as Riddle was trying to complete some homework, he couldn’t help the feeling of wanting to snap his pen in two.

A knock at his door pulls Riddle from his thoughts, head lifting up to face the door. He calls out, demanding to know who’s knocking on his door, disturbing him during his studying time. He’s almost ready to hurl some fire towards this person, wanting to sulk about his day in isolation.

But, in response to his demand, he hears your voice and his irritation melts, if only for a little.

Your head peeks into the room soon enough, lips curling in a sympathetic smile as you enter the room. The door closes behind you silently, shoes making small sounds against the floor and soon enough Riddle feels your chin rest on top of his head. Your arms wrap around his midsection from behind, an action that makes something flutter in the housewarden’s chest. It makes warmth that isn’t rage spread through his body and it makes him feel just a bit better.

“I heard about what happened.”

Riddle felt his shoulders slump at those words, gripping his pen tighter as memories of the day rushed through his head. He only lets out an annoyed huff.

“Oh yes, my whole miserable day.”

Riddle feels your chest rumble with laughter, perhaps if only to fill the tense silence.

“Sorry you had a bad day.” Your chin moves from his head to his shoulder, voice closer than it was when you rested on his head. Riddle’s hand moves up, moving to reach your head and sort of hug your head. He could feel an amused huff of air tickle his neck and Riddle sighed happily.

This moment only lasts for a few more seconds before Riddle mentally declares that he’s strayed from his work long enough. His hand falls, ready to return to his work, but it seems you have other plans.

You grab his hand and raise your head. “Ah, ah, ah! What do you think you’re doing?” 

There’s a temptation to question you, to ask why you’re preventing him from doing his work, but Riddle resolves to just raise an eyebrow, not having the energy to lecture you. Though he doesn’t think he’d ever have the heart to, with how your hand is so gentle with holding his, gently squeezing his palm just a bit tighter. 

“‘What do I think I’m doing?’ I’m trying to finish what needs to be done.”

You sigh, shaking your head just a bit. While admiring the Heartslaybul housewarden’s dedication to his work, after hearing the day that Riddle had, he deserved at least some semblance of relaxation. 

“You need a break, Riddle. At least rest for a few minutes.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “I refuse to. Just because I had a bad day, that doesn’t warrant me slacking off in my studies.”

Another sigh at such stubbornness, but this is a battle that won’t be won if both sides refuse to compromise. So, instead, Riddle’s hand gets freed and you step back.

“Fine. I’ll let you work. At least let me fix your hair a bit.” Riddle’s hand flies up to his rose colored locks, wondering what was amiss with his hair. The chuckle that slips from your lips can’t be helped, with Riddle having a subtly panicked look at the thought of looking disheveled in any way. His hair was only a bit messy, but it was still amusing regardless. 

“I-” Riddle pressed his lips together before he sighed. “Alright.” Turning back to his desk, Riddle picked up his pen, feeling your hands move to his head and into his hair. 

You let Riddle begin working for a few seconds before beginning. Slowly, Riddle feels your hands run through his hair, fingertips brushing against his neck occasionally. All the way down and then back to the top of his head to massage his scalp. It was a repeated motion, done over and over again at a comfortably slow pace.

It was hard to resist the urge to close his eyes, to lean back in his chair and enjoy the feeling of your hands in his hair. It was almost mind-numbing, wanting to let all the thoughts in his head slip away and only focus on the touch he’s receiving, it almost makes him want to fall asleep, but Riddle tries to resist. His work must come first, it must.

Unfortunately for the young student, after his day, he doesn’t have much strength to resist as he soon falls victim to your touches and his pen is promptly placed on the desk with a small clack. Riddle leans back, eyes closing and a stuttered breath leaving his lips. The feeling of your hands, rubbing gentle circles on his head was so soothing, so relaxing.

Perhaps just a few more minutes without work will be nice. He’s had a long day, as you said before. If it’s you, he doesn’t mind at all.

[gravehags]

was inspired by @wisteria-lodge’s questions to get to know your character and wanted to answer them for curator reader

1. What is the character’s go-to drink order?

Has become mildly addicted to the sweet cream cold brew they serve in the dining hall of the Ministry but loves any kind of large iced beverage. For alcohol she won’t turn down anything but she loves gin and her favorite cocktail is a French 75 or an Aviation.

2. What is their grooming routine?

Showers at night in order to get the grime of the day off her before she crawls into bed. Is very low maintenance with her hair simply because she has no patience for it. Washes hair every two days.

3. What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go?

ART BOOKS. She’s an avid collector, particularly of exhibition catalogues. Her penchant for buying them has only gotten worse now that she has access to the Ministry’s resources.

4. Do they have any scars or tattoos?

Small scars everywhere from various mishaps, a big one on her knee from a bicycling accident as a kid, and a large tattoo on her left thigh of Judith with the head of Holofernes.

5. What was the last time they cried, and under what circumstances?

Cries a lot. Like…a lot. Very emotional and while she might hate crying in front of people, it happens more often than she would like. Copia is the only person she doesn’t feel embarrassed to be emotional in front of.

6. Are they an oldest, middle, youngest, or only child?

Only child though she desperately wishes she had a sister, she doesn’t care older or younger. Was a surprise pregnancy for her parents.

7. Describe the shoes they’re wearing

Her go-to shoes to wear every day while she works are her black leather lace up ankle boots with a short heel. She fondly refers to them as her “witch boots” and also has a pair in brown.

8. Describe the place where they sleep

Her room is her safe haven - queen bed with lots of soft covers in different shades of blue. Definitely owns a Blåhaj. When she moved in at the abbey her room was painfully bare and she immediately started collecting artwork to decorate every inch of wall space. Found some great pieces in abbey storerooms and asked Sister Imperator if she could steal them - Imperator agreed.

9. What is their favorite holiday?

If you had asked her pre-events of Satan Baby she would have said Halloween but now? She adores Yule. Least favorite holiday is St. Patrick’s Day and it’s definitely not because she made a drunken fool of herself at a parade one year 👀

10. What objects do they always carry around with them?

Keys to her quarters and office on a lanyard around her neck, phone, the ring her parents gave her when she graduated college, a deep unspeakable yearning.

[phrynefishersfrocks]

The third ensemble of "Dead Air" (Season 2, Episode 11), contains a beautiful green and gold travel coat over a white blouse and pants, complemented by matching green cloche, shoes and white gloves.

The coat is made of green silk with gold metallic checkerboard pattern with accents of gold diamonds. The fabric was originally from a silk sari and was recut into the 1920's style long coat. The collar stands up in the back with green silk notched lapels and a silk back belt to complement it.

Underneath, Phryne wears a long-sleeved white blouse with close set of four buttons at the top, and a series of pintucks on either side of the button placket. It also has fitted barrel cuffs and long ties falling from the collar. She pairs it with her classic white silk faille pants and straw shoes that were hand-painted green and gold to match.

While the coat was displayed at the Costume Exhibition with matching green gloves, Miss Fisher dons white leather gloves while investigating in the morgue, and accessorizes with a pair of emerald jewels, each one made of connected circles.

Costume designer Marion Boyce discussed her thoughts behind this bold look:

"Radio personalities were film stars of 1920s and going undercover in the radio station, Phryne needed panache and attitude for this episode. The coat was made from a silk sari and had to be visually arresting to fit in within the confines of the radio station.

The rattan work on the shoes was hand painted with a checkerboard pattern to match the jacket. The hat design was taken from an original 1920s navy hat that first appeared in Series 1." - Marion Boyce, Costume Exhibition Catalogue

Phryne's signature matching cloche is a dark green velvet hood with green silk organza lining and accompanying tassel. If the style of the hat looks familiar, it's because the authentic 1920's hood this one is based on can be seen in 1x03 and 1x07.

Season 2, Episode 11 - "Dead Air"

Screencaps from here, hat photo from the official Pinterest, exhibition photos from Paramatta Sun and the official costume exhibition catalogue.

[itsloriel]

Shoe: Manolo Blahnik, 1997; Black pointed toe court shoes with studded ankle strap, leather, and metal (stylist's own)

SHOWstudio Exhibition Catalogue

[yoshiyakiryu-archive]

oh my god. joshneku 10, 30, 31, 60. please.

10: Describe their first date.

First date that they both understand to be a date. Joshua asks Neku out "as a joke," only to have Neku take him up on it.

"Okay," he says, "name your terms."

Joshua is suspicious but intrigued. This sounds like a game. Joshua likes games. He asks if there's a prize. Neku turns a little warm around the cheeks and says there can be. Immediately, he can see he has Joshua's full attention.

Neku scrambles to keep this in hand before homicide becomes involved. Prizes need a win condition, he reasons. Joshua wants to go back to what the prize entails. Neku tells him to shut up and help him pick a way to win their date. Joshua immediately vetos truth or dare, suspicious again. Fine. No probing questions. No UG involvement either. Neku shuts down the mention of a timer before suggesting a scavenger hunt. He'll name an item for Joshua to locate, and then they switch once he's found it. They'll go for a walk, and then for dinner while they play. Joshua frowns. This doesn't sound that interesting, but it doesn't sound like a trap either. He again wants to know about the prize.

Neku hasn't thought of one yet.

Scratch that, not entirely true. He hasn't thought of one he's comfortable suggesting at the moment. Neku says they can work that out when they get to it. Joshua looks annoyed by this point, but agrees, arms crossed and pouting.

Neku can salvage this. Neku can salvage this fast.

"First challenge," he announces, feeling bold, smiling nervously, and sure he's warm enough to be radiating clear across the road. Joshua will get the hint. "Find my tongue."

30: Your OTP gets to pick out each other's outfits; what is each wearing?

The problem here starts with Joshua believing that people, and moreso people who are exhibiting a behaviour in his direction, are more likely than not going to try to get one over on him. His options, to his mind, are a) to open his soft, fluttery heart to Neku, putting him in something both handsome and comfortable, betraying all the care and attention he's carefully catalogued about Neku's preferences right down to fabric texture, cut, and colour coordination, and risk being made a fool of in return (likely, as even well-meaning, Neku has no compatible fashion sense), or b) put Neku in something mildly embarrassing and leave him self-conscious about it, enjoying the show with no risk of being alone in his predicament.

Which is all to say: Neku doesn't end up in much of anything at all.

Joshua knows Neku's hot, and he's showing it off. He'll have the relevant assets showcased, brightly framed, accessorised, and vacuum fitted. Maybe some short heels to emphasise the legs without tripping him or making Joshua look too small at his side. People are going to stare. Joshua wants them to stare, which is why the outfit is exclusively neons. If nothing else, people won't be looking at whatever Neku has *him* in. Neku is expecting this. He knows Joshua knows he's expecting this. Joshua knows Neku knows he knows Neku is expecting this. Neku's resigned to it, even if he doesn't really get it. He knows Joshua, and knows he can either prove Joshua's misgivings right by dressing him in something he'd find humiliating, or let himself be solely embarrassed in an overt gesture of spite, trust, and excruciatingly forced but ultimately tenacious naivety.

Which is how Joshua ends up in Neku's comfiest, most appalling faux sportswear, complete with the headphones collaring his neck. Neku'd sign his name, but that might be going too far. The combination means Joshua is thoroughly doomed to losing this round of wits.

31: Can they sit side by side without touching the other or are they handsy? (lacing fingers, touching knees, etc.)

Yes, they can sit without touching. Up to a point. Whoever is more jittery will find something to fuss over on the other eventually, or start knocking their shoes together "accidentally."

60: Who pulls the other closer when they’re sleeping?

Both sleeping? Neku. Joshua either sprawls or sleeps like a pretzel, neither of these with any regard for who's next to him. Neku lays half-curled on his side and cuddles in his sleep, and will attach himself to whatever of Joshua is in grabbing distance. So if Joshua is awake, which is usually, he makes sure he's within arm's reach and gets his snuggles in while Neku is 100% not going to be conscious they're happening.

[maddiecopesblog]

The Rational Dress Society was an organisation founded in 1881 in London, part of the movement for Victorian dress reform. It described its purpose thus:

The Rational Dress Society protests against the introduction of any fashion in dress that either deforms the figure, impedes the movements of the body, or in any way tends to injure the health. It protests against the wearing of tightly-fitting corsets; of high-heeled shoes; of heavily-weighted skirts, as rendering healthy exercise almost impossible; and of all tie down cloaks or other garments impeding on the movements of the arms. It protests against crinolines or crinolettes of any kind as ugly and deforming... [It] requires all to be dressed healthily, comfortably, and beautifully, to seek what conduces to birth, comfort and beauty in our dress as a duty to ourselves and each other.[1]

In the catalogue of its inaugural exhibition, it listed the attributes of "perfect" dress as:

1. Freedom of Movement. 2. Absence of pressure over any part of the body. 3. Not more weight than is necessary for warmth, and both weight and warmth evenly distributed.  4. Grace and beauty combined with comfort and convenience.  5. Not departing too conspicuously from the ordinary dress of the time.[2]

[rumblelibrary]

Hello, it's me again, your friendly neighborhood... Hungarian?!...👀❤️

Can I request a Sebastian Zöllner fic, where he is a coworker of Reader, and there's an obvious sexual tension, attraction in the office, they sit opposite each other, legs touching sometimes, hands touching... Idunno... Things like this 👀🔥 but nothing happened... Yet...🔥🔥

Never an Enemy [Sebastian Zöllner x Fem!Reader]

Word count: 5k

Warnings: A bad mouthed journalist with strong opinions about art and performance that might offend

Author’s note: Did I let this idea simmer in me for ages? Yes. Did I ever stopped thinking about it? NO.

You hummed softly while the music blasted in your headphones as you made your way up the stairs to the headquarters of the Art Tribune, the art focused magazine you worked for since over a year.

You liked the job even if to deal with artists was hard and the pay check could really deserve an improvement, it was stimulating and surely kept you on the edge. That morning in particular you needed to revise some background stories and just loads of reading to do to work on a new article for an upcoming exhibition. Just the usual fact checking, but you just couldn’t do it at home the day before so you decided to come early and enjoy some peace and quiet at the office.

You arrived at the top of the stairs of the fourth floor with a groan, you told yourself you had to do the stairs because you spent 70% of your life sitting in front of a computer, kind of self care, but brutal. You groaned lightly going straight toward the little kitchen installed for the team when you noticed something in the empty shared room full of desks. It was actually a really nice place with big industrial style windows that let lots of light inside, a very smart environment to work in, with areas where you could relax, free Wifi and loads of facilities. Usually people were put in big desks together, facing each other, trying to push a sort of ‘community feeling’.

Inevitably most of the people created barricades with books, and pictures of their dogs or even empty coffee cups. Yes, all cute and artistic, but do not talk to me.

That’s what also the attitude of the man you shared your desk with on your first day. He whined like a child for twenty minutes, complained he was happy to work alone, followed the assistant of the editor around the office and created a barricade of catalogues between the two of you so thick that you wondered if it was also bulletproof, only to rest his elbows over it half an hour asking if you had the change for the vending machine. Yes, that random man was you colleague and friend, Sebastian Zöllner.

The same that you are witnessing now asleep on the desk, head resting on his crossed arms while a stand of saliva went down on his shirt, wild hair and shoes taken off.

He could be considered an attractive man if he wasn’t a bloody nightmare of a person. You actually worked a lot with him and enjoyed his presence most of the days, your characters folded nicely and you would bounce off his attitude. He was strong on biographies and annoying the shit out of others, so he was always nagging at someone, you included.

You smirked slowly tracing his hair with your fingers, he never looked so innocent and you were always surprised to learn how those messy hair were so soft. It wasn’t the first time you did that gesture, sometimes he did lean his head like this only to be touched like an annoying mewling cat that needs attentions. “Kaffee” He mumbled making you chuckle, such a an annoying brat and he didn’t even open his eyes.

You carried on walking to the little kitchen room to prepare some coffee for you and your desk partner. You shook your head aimlessly as you started wondering why the man is here at this hour and if it was really a good idea to wake him up. To have him awake means to be able to do little to zero.

You watched the coffee get ready, the comforting tune of your morning playlist getting you still on the good side of your mood as you poured the coffee in your mug.

Then you saw it, an arm sneaking in front of you and taking the mug from your hand, you jump scared in a second almost pouring the rest of the coffee on the whole kitchen counter only to encounter Sebastian sleepy figure behind you bringing the mug close to his nose and inhaling deeply the aroma before having a gulp, you stared at him as his jaw clenched, his eyes got a bit teary. “Fucking hot” he whined making you chuckle, he deserved it for stealing it, luckily you were already doing some more for him so he stole your favourite mug but you had some coffee for you left.

You pulled off your headphones leaning them on your neck “No idea you’d be sleeping at the office, weren’t you off on some interview ?”

He shrugged “yeah, well me neither, but interviewing sculptors is always annoying as shit and those are always supersensitive” he said opening the freezer and pulling out some ice cubes from their box and putting them in the coffee mug. “Scheiße!” He cursed as the ice cube landing in the mug caused the coffee to spill onto his white shirt. You pressed your lips tight against each other not to laugh into his face, but he was already pissed off and it wasn’t even proper work time. You watched him lean over the sink trying to wash it off somehow without even bothering to take it off, just adding chaos on chaos.

“Y/N! Do not laugh and try to help me! Beside, the heck are you doing here at this hour?” You rolled your eyes at that comment, but you didn’t indulge him in that request.

“I was just looking for silence”

He nodded like he didn’t believe a single word of it, he was just an asshole and you had to deal with it like it or not. You almost hated how he was so freaking good at writing and that’s probably why many people indulged him. Even you knew his pieces on the magazine and didn’t expect to find out he was so…so Sebastian.

You let out a breathy chuckle taking your mug and making your way to your joined desk letting him wrestle his balance over the kitchen sink trying to get the stain wet and not shower himself in the meanwhile.

You sat down at your spot leaning the mug on side, hands covering your face trying to keep a clear mind letting out a big breath “okay, let’s do this”

You turned on the lamplight on your desk pulling out your laptop from your backpack. As the computer was ‘waking up’ you stared at Sebastian side of the desk compared to yours.

You had like a little citadel of books around you, but it was pretty neat, a little succulent gifted by your friend for your first day at work with the name tag ‘Danny’ on it sitting beside the lamp, lots of pencils and pens of different colours and notebooks to no end. If you had something in common with that beast of a man was that you both still relied on paper for sketching ideas and write down impressions in the moment, then onto the typing.

His side, however, was like a contemporary artwork in itself. Half empty cigarettes packages everywhere, the ashtray filled up, paper inside books and books filled with more papers. Notes everywhere, the damn king of neon yellow post-its, stains of coffee and crumbles of food invert corner, his red laptop showing off like a punch in the eye and his satchel bag always hang or thrown around.

You often wondered if the cleaning stuff just gave up on him. Your lucky guess was that he would probably throw a fit if anything was moved, so everyone just played the blind eye.

He was good at throwing fits.

You watched him come back sitting in front of you, half of his shirt soaked in the attempt to clean it up, he licked his lips picking one empty package of cigarettes looking in it and throwing it away until he found one with still something in it and he lighted his cigarette as he turned on his laptop. You sighed opening the window to let the fresh air not getting you intoxicated.

You went back to sip your coffee and stare at the screen quietly, every now and then your eyes falling onto the little cloud of smoke in front of you.

Sebastian was an attractive man, that was undeniable and you were sure that made him also a successful interviewer even though he was so random and chaotic, when he was silent and collected in thoughts he was indeed a sight to be seen. The dark hair framing his face like he was some cherub, his deep eyes staring into the void of his own words as he typed. He had a sort of decadent look on him.

Slowly the office begun to get filled, people coming here and there to tease Seb about coming early and he just waving his cigarette around asking for silence.

“Zöllner””

The chief editor shouted getting into his office without even turning around. Seb rolled his eyes looking at you as he pushed the cigarette in the ashtray waving his hand around to dissipate the smoke around him before standing up.

“I wonder how he managed to survive few days without shouting my name” he smirked.

You looked at him and mimicked his smirk.

What a chaotic man.

You had finished your reading by then and started to make a first draft of the article you were meant to work on.

“Y/N!!!” Sebastian voice rang through the office making you jump on your seat and he gestured at you to go with him with a big wave of his arm.

You looked at your screen with an helpless sigh, it seems like you will not write that article anytime soon, you’d better just have slept an hour more.

You stood up following that incessant wave as Seb put his hand on your back to get you in a bit quicker.

“Good morning”

You said as the chief editor nodded quietly “Look Y/N, it is a big favour I have to ask you” he begun frankly as you were beginning to get worried “you did your time with silly articles, so I thought it could be interesting to pair you up with Sebastian to go to tonight’s exhibition of Evita Schnecke”

Your eyes went wide as you looked at Sebastian shrug his shoulders.

“I need somebody to keep the horse with tight rains” Mr Megelbach continued gesturing with his pen at Sebastian and then at you “and you will dip your toes in those big time artists environment, but we really need to make sure Sebastian won’t hurt anyone’s sensibility, her interview has been obtained with lots of hard work”

“Yeah, we all know that hard work” Sebastian whispered in your ear earning a glare from Mr Megelbach who handed you a couple of catalogues from that artist and the invitation.

“So, put on hold your current article for today, make a plan with this train wreck and please make sure he doesn’t show up dressed like that”

“That was unneeded”

“All precautions are always needed with you, and now get out of my office the both of you”

You nodded moving out of the office, you were a bit anxious. Those artists were unpredictable just as Sebastian.

You made your way back to your desk with him as you sat down looking at the invitation. “So, it begins at 9 pm” you said almost understanding why Sebastian shouldn’t be allowed to go unescorted because the invitation on the dress code had: Wear something that talks about your soul. Only that could bring Sebastian to have an aneurism.

“I hate that bitch”

“Seb, that’s not a good start for an article”

He smirked as you said so but shrugged

“I mean it, this woman was born into privilege, she portrayed herself to be this underground rebel, but her simple black dress was a Chanel and her everyday boot Balenciaga, so I don’t trust her for a reason”

You smirked as you could agree with that and showed him the two catalogues the boss gave you

“Choose your fighter”

He groaned so loud he could have stabbed his toe and he leaned over his side of the desk picking one from your hand giving a light pinch on your side “teacher’s pet”. You chuckled softly as he always said that.

“Tell me if you read something that it is not about the performer’s way of life” he mumbled opening it in front of him.

You begun your reading and it was indeed the hell pit of a vey spoiled kid who was told to be the greatest since the first day of life, you picked your notebook and opened it taking notes on things that you could ask about.

Sebastian in the meanwhile lighted up another cigarette rolling it between his fingers mindlessly, his eyes looking above the paper at you every now and then among the little curses in German about the stupid things written there.

After some time it was becoming really a torture to read and you leaned your back on your chair stretching your legs forward for Seb to catch one of them among his.

You smirked as you often joked to him he was like some bear trap with those legs always catching yours.

He put his hand under the table bringing your leg up onto his thigh as you shifted even lower on your seat, his hand touching your ankle mindlessly as he had a talent for little massages like that. He did it the first time a while aback, a summer day where it was so hot and humid that you couldn’t feel your own legs.

So it became a little ritual among the two of you. You had many of those rituals, it was like an unspoken collection of attentions. Like you making the coffee in the morning because he was a grumpy ass. Or him always buying you some chewing gum or little treat when he went to buy cigarettes.

“I guess I am not the only one that needs a restyle”

He said bringing you away by the tenderness those little actions brought to you when he pushed his finger in your Vans shoe deepening a hole that you were trying to ignore from months.

“Seb, don’t do it, I wanted to make them last another season”

“Another season? These can’t last the end of the month, no doubt why your sex life is a train wreck”

You frowned at him taking your ankle off his hand to push on his chair making him roll back thanks to the little wheels underneath it, but he held on the desk and pulled himself closer again.

“What do you even know about it”

He looked at you, eyebrows raising up on his forehead

“Y/N, if I was your boyfriend I wouldn’t allow you to leave the bed that early in the morning to go to the office and that’s a fact”

“Oh, and how on heaven could you detain my passion for this job?” “Well, I can write you a list about it, you can consider it a to do list on your next date” His smirk was so wide, he enjoyed to tease you like that, the bastard, he knew to be an hottie and he always acted like half of the world was up to fuck with him.

“Oh please, do it, I want to see”

You teased him and he leaned in elbows on the table staring at you.

Oh the sexual tension with him was too much, you always went down on this hurricane of remarks, always him mentioning how you need more orgasms or implying it, or even implying how good he is at giving them.

“But be careful, because any act should be performed and not only lived”

You said quoting the artist you were reading about and he whined so hard like you really stomped your foot on his balls.

“Horrid witch”

“Me?” “No, that one”

He huffed and puffed picking another cigarette. Sometimes cigarettes just died on his fingers as he forgot to actually enjoy them more than waving them around.

The artist herself wasn’t remarkable, she used themes seen over and over before, she had a background as performer/dancer and she added painting to that, but more than talent she had an amazing marketing squad. You read her story and her commentaries about living like in a poem, which always sounds pretty easy with a big bank account.

You did all you could to stay neutral even if Seb was going down to massacre the woman, you two shared a bundle of two sandwiches (or better say, your brought a package of two and he was skipping his lunch so you just handed it to him) until you decided to get parted and go get ready at home.

That evening you were waiting for him in front of your apartment, when a taxi stopped in front of you and his figure appeared waving at you to come in on the back. His eyes widened in surprise “Well, well, well, look who got all fancy here”

He smirked as his eyes travelled on you shamelessly, the dress was actually one of those you brought ages ago and never used, also to wear heels felt like new, last time you went to a fancy event almost hard to recollect.

“Just move and let me in”

You said chuckling as you looked at him being so elegant when you noticed it, the price tag on his shirt.

“Seb, did you just buy this shirt?”

“Yes, and I am going to take it back tomorrow”

You looked at him puzzled

“What?” He groaned “I suck at ironing stuff”

You looked at him as a little laugh escaped your lips as he told you not to, but it was too late for that, you shifted closer to him anyway helping him to hide that price tag better behind his neck. Nevertheless the white shirt was really fancy and fitted him perfectly.

As you arrived in front of the gallery you sighed and made your way inside.

The place wasn’t crowded but few eyes turned as you got in.

“Would you like some champagne?” A waiter asked and Seb picked two flutes immediately downing one in a gulp on his own as the other was still in his other hand, he put the empty glass on the tray and then picked a third one handing it to you.

“Drink Y/N or you won’t make it to the end of the evening”

You smirked as he was always over dramatic, but indeed the evening seemed to be made for posh people to show off how cool they are.

You spotted the artist pretty quickly wearing a Valentino bright red dress, she surely had the dancer figure and gestures which gave her some kind of an edge.

"She is all yours"

You looked at Sebastian already half way through his drink, giving you that cheshire cat smirk.

"Are you sure?"

"You know I will insult her in a second if she names her dancing background one more time, I saw the videos, she looked like a three ready to collapse on the ground" he chuckled as you smirked shaking your head at his metaphor, but he is probably right, he is too much biased.

"I didn't notice the open back before" he said referring to your dress as he caressed over your skin with his fingertips making goosebumps raise up your spine.

"What? Am I too sexy for your own good?"

"Probably" he commented not losing a beat to answer you. You were taken aback from a moment, his eyes still down on his hand touching your back before raising up to find yours.

Then he took his hand away and pressed the cold champagne glass against it making you hiss "Now go, I'll check this bourgeois art"

You frowned but you just moved away from him. He always did it, he teased you and then made it a joke. You gave it back to him too, it was your relationship, that's how you balanced it.

"Good evening " you said to her with a smile holding your glass in your left hand before offering your right hand to her "I am Y/N, from the Art Tribune"

She went from neutral to smiling in a second

"Oh, I was waiting to meet you" she said leaning to kiss your cheek, surely she was a woman with charm, with a degree of boldness that made her charming and also, you noticed, extremely touchy-feely with everyone.

"We can define this a sort of retrospective of your previous works, I liked to see the evolution of it" you lied, because you just saw the catalogue.

But that was fair enough to have her go on about her, guess what? Past as a dancer, about how she needed to express herself, how she was her own muse and all the stuff you already read.

"What is next for you then?"

"I want to follow my dream, I have always wanted to found a space with my name where people could rent the rooms to perform dances and arts"

You stared at her. For real? Like there weren't other hundreds in the whole city?

"What will keep you apart from all the others that did this before you?"

"Nobody is me" she smirked like it was clear and obvious.

You asked few more questions, but you were sad to admit Sebastian was right. There wasn't art there, there was just profit, selling a name, a brand.

This saddened you because you met many artists that had less than a chance to make it but double the talent of Miss Valentino Dress.

"Y/N" Sebastian warm hand was on your back as you were downing the last bit of champagne "Come, come ,come quick" he said pushing you away as the artist clearly recognised him but he dismissed her with some insult or whatever he just mumbled.

"Seb, I was working, what the hell?"

"Elke is here"

You still didn't understand, you were puzzled as the reason of that anxiety was still unknown to you.

"Like your girlfriend Elke?"

"Put an ex in front of it" he said looking around frantically

"Oh, I am sorry, I didn't know"

"No, me neither, I thought she was just bashing around, she always did" his arm sneaked around your waist pulling you closer "please, act sexy for once"

You were one second from hitting his guts with your elbow when Elke herself approached.

"Oh, I didn't expect to see you here" she said waving her glass around

"Yeah, well I work for an important Art journal if you remember"

"How could I forget?" she groaned looking at you then as Sebastian's hand rested onto your hip. Really? Was he acting like you were his date?

"Hi, I am Y/N"

You said politely to her and she chuckled "Run when you can, this man is a leech and you don't even know it"

She mentioned it almost casually, but you could feel all the poison implied on your skin, Sebastian's hand giving you a soft squeeze, you had never seen him like this before. He looked like a dog that just got kicked, his back hunched over you lightly both trying to protect you and for protection.

"Well, thank you for your advice, I must be a real torment too because we actually have lot of fun together, I like his unpredictability"

You said it from your heart, you didn't want to insult her or anything, but you felt bad for him. Even if he probably deserved it, to be humiliated like this must be hard in any circumstance, in particular in a place where he is supposed to work and being known.

He looked at you a bit surprised, he leaned slowly pressing a kiss on your temple and you smiled because of that gesture so enveloped in that feeling of tenderness.

"Your shot" Elke said clearly a bit annoyed that you as she just moved along followed by a man that must be her date.

"Lets go out"

You suggested as Seb nodded and just followed for once, he held your hand as you guided him and for once he wasn't talking or commenting anything.

As you went out he sat down on the sidewalk pulling out his package of cigarettes taking out one immediately.

"Hey stand up" you said to him as he looked up at you and you snatched that cigarette off his lips "let's go away"

"Where? Don't we have to stay until she gets naked to dance?"

You smirked "No, we have all the material we need"

You took his cigarette away offering him your hand as he picked it and you guided him.

He was silent, which is rare, when he was silent it meant he was upset in some way, he always had a nice comeback line for everything usually.

His head leaned on side like a scolded child as he slowly laced your fingers together.

You walked across few streets, your heels clicking on the cement until you made it to your final location pulling him inside.

"Constatinopole?"

Seb asked looking at the sign, it was a kebab place, your favourite by the way.

"I am hungry" you just said making him lower his head and smile like a kid with cue breathy chuckles.

You ordered for the two of you as he went to sat down putting another cigarette between his lips when the man behind the counter glared at him and he just put it back in the package.

He sat down slouching as you did some small talks with the guys there, you clearly knew them. The soft music from the radio holding the place into a sort of magical aura as his eyes travelled over your naked back once more, the need for a cigarette becoming even more urgent.

You two dressed so elegantly really were so noticeable in the bright lightend place, he smiled to himself thinking it could be a nice painting by Hopper.

You came back offering him his kebab with a soft drink, very thoughtful because he was indeed already a bit high on champagne.

You ate quietly together, it wasn't uncomfortable, your silences were happening often at work and always filled with a sense of common understanding, you leaned your leg up like you always did at the office and rested it on his thigh as you sat sideways beside him. His hand flying naturally on your ankle to give his usual massage, his thumb tracing your skin with imaginary patterns as his other hand held the kebab close to his mouth.

The speaker at the radio announcing next song as Rocket Man by Elton John filled the room with a melancholic vibe. You couldn't help but think the song suited perfectly Sebastian, his being out of this word, out of control.

"Thank you" he said at some point as he tried his best not to ruin his shirt, you looked up at him as he was staring, his eyes telling you something on their own "You have been the best girlfriend I have ever had"

He added with a bitter smile diverting once more his gaze, you smiled back at him, he looked so resigned. Maybe it was the alcohol, but you have never seen him so fragile before.

"I could be"

His eyes darted up to you, his surprise evident as he put down the kebab, the soothing voice of the British singer still giving a dream edge to the moment as he moved closer. You slowly shifted your leg to give him room of movement as his right arm sneaked to rest on the back of your chair closing the space between the two of you.

His lips tasted still a bit of champagne as he pressed them against yours, you kissed him back slowly as his left hand travelled on your thigh pulling you closer to him probably staining your dress because of his greasy hand.

He pulled back almost immediately before leaning onto you again titling his head on the other side. This second time the kiss was more deep, more intense. Your hands slowly cradling his face before pulling back yourself.

He smiled against your lips and you smiled back.

Maybe tomorrow you will regret it like Elke said, maybe not.

Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief@thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved@fictionlandslanddreams@charistory @greeneyedblondie44@apparrio @hb8301@whatawildone @rhymerhymerhyme  @thehuiabird @lilith-blackrose @unbeatablecurlgirl@obsidianlaszlo@alindeluce@zemosimp05 @baronesszemo-blackwood @nocapesdahlingLet me know if you want to get tagged to my publications too <3

[sweetwritertanya]

Nothing To Be Jealous About (Taehyung)

Summary: Your friend has a gallery exhibition for which you and your boyfriend, Taehyung, were invited. But once you see the painting you were looking for the most, Taehyung starts to act weird and you don’t understand why.

Warnings: soft SMUT by the end! This was going to be just a fluffy one, but I couldn’t control myself! Mainly, there will be: erotic body touching, fingering, just the tiniest bit of dirty talk but barely.

Word Count: 3208

Laughs and random chatter fill the large room as you and your boyfriend walk into the gallery. It was a bright space, with tall white walls and lot of artificial lighting even though the large glass windows provided more than enough natural sunshine. Your heart skipped at the sight of so many people already in, walking around and conversing amongst themselves as they appreciated the beautiful art exposed on the walls. It was a warm sunny morning and people were clothed in light fresh garments, between casual and formal wear for the occasion.

You were wearing a cool blue and white strapped knee-length dress with bishop sleeves down to your elbows, a pattern of reddish and pink pastel flowers overlaying the stripes, pink pastel heels to match it. The tie at the smallest part of your waist complimented your large figure and the warm weather was no invitation for you to bring a jacket. As much as you believed you put some thought into your outfit, your partner’s seemed a lot more fitting. Taehyung was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, made of a fresh material, painted as if a work of abstract art itself, with tones of blue, grey and brown. It was tucked into very well-fitted dark jeans that complimented his tall silhouette and shiny designer shoes. Dark wavy hair styled beautifully, you found yourself thinking that he was the one who deserved to be displayed in a museum somewhere.

Out of the two of you, at first you assumed you would be the one jumping with excitement and fidgeting in place due to nervousness, eager to see how your friend’s first art exposition would go. Turns out Taehyung seemed to be even more giddy than you were, particularly interested in seeing one particular piece of work from your friend’s catalogue.

“Where is it? Where is it?” he asks in an almost childish way, contradicting his deep tone of voice in your ear.

You smile and shake your head, taking hold of his arm and guiding him through the space as you talked, eyes out in search of the artist himself.

“C’mon, we need to find my friend first! We can’t just browse around without saying hi to him first and ask how the exposition is doing” you admonish, to which Taehyung pouts disappointed.

“There’s a bunch of people, it’s obviously going great, right? Can’t we just see him after?”

“Nope. And there he is, let’s go!”

After meeting with your friend and congratulating him on the apparent success of his art exposition, Taehyung’s impatience wins him over and he asks about the painting he has been dying to see. You roll you eyes and advise your friend to just lead the way before your boyfriend explodes with curiosity. The man laughs and gladly takes you to the wall where that particular piece was proudly exposed.

“Oh my God, Andre, it’s so beautiful!” You exclaim as you approach it, breathless at the beautiful colors and detail. “I had no idea it would turn out this good, well done!”

“Thanks, Y/N. It’s one of my proudest works and the second most expensive of all the ones in this gallery” he informs, with a wink and moving eyebrows.

“No way, really!” you gasp, unbelieving. “The second most expensive?”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Y/N. Thanks again.”

As you assure Andre that it was entirely welcome, nothing for him to be thankful for, one arm comes around your shoulders and Taehyung’s hand grasps your shoulder just a bit more tightly than it needed to be, staying unusually quiet, when this was the painting he had been so anxious to see.

“All good, Tae-Tae? What do you think? Isn’t it pretty?” you ask as you look up at him.

He smiles and agrees, nodding with his head, suddenly changing the conversation and asking if your friend could show his favorite piece’s around the gallery. You frown, knowing perfectly well how to distinguish Taehyung’s natural smile from his fake ones, and that was a fake smile if you ever saw one. He kept his arm around your shoulders all the way around the gallery, never getting more than a few inches away from your side, his steps always in sync with yours as you went. It was just the tiniest bit uncomfortable, but you let it go since you didn’t really understand what was going on.

Near the end of the improvised tour around, with just a few more works to show, Taehyung actually excuses himself claiming he had a work-related phone call to make. You found it just a bit weird since he never told you anything about that and warning bells ring around in your brain when he kisses your lips strongly before leaving the building, leaving you a bit dumbfounded next to your friend. He had never been one to display these kinds of affections before in public.

Embarrassed, you keep the goodbyes with Andre short and hurry out of the gallery room, searching for your boyfriend. He was already next to a cab, phone against ear until he sees you and hangs up soon before you come closer.

“Now, what was that about?” you demand to know as you stand next to him, eyebrows knitted together and lips tugging down in frustration.

“Got us a ride, baby. What do you say we go out for lunch? At that place you’ve been wanting to go?” he suggests, ignoring your question and confused stare.

“You have practice this afternoon, it would take too long. And don’t ignore me!”

“Oh, right… How about we just go home and order something delicious, hum? My treat!” he smiles, this time a more truthful smile that shows his gums and reaches his rounded eyes.

Before you can answer it, he guides you to the backseat of the taxi and kisses your cheek before going around and entering, giving the driver the address to his house. You sigh in defeat and go along with it, Tae stretching his arm again around your shoulders once again, pulling you both more to the middle of the back seat than to each other’s sides. And yet he keeps looking out the window, a bit of tension in his sharp jawline.

Once he opened the door to his modern house, in which you got dressed this morning and gathered quite a volume of your wardrobe in his closet rather than yours back at the apartment, you took off your heels while he slipped out of his shoes quickly and tapped on his phone, asking you about what you wanted to eat. In the time it took for you to put on your slippers, place your heels in the proper place and meet him in the kitchen, it was decided to order sushi from a delicious restaurant you had eaten at before.

“It says they’ll be here in less than thirty minutes. I’ll get the table ready” he offers, something you usually had to ask of him.

Placing a hand on his arm, you stop him from reaching for the cupboard where he kept the plates. Your hands travel down the soft fabric of his shirt over his arms and enclose his hands in yours, interlacing his long fingers with your chubby ones. You lean in and peer at his hesitant eyes with nothing but love and worry.

“Tae, what’s wrong? You were fine this morning but now you’re acting weird. What happened?”

The boy closes his eyes and exhales a deep breath, changing his stance and leaning with his waist against the lower cupboard, fingers wrapping sturdily with yours as if to give him courage. He presses his wide lips together so tightly they almost disappear, those broad and expressive eyebrows knitting together.

“You didn’t tell me it was a nude” he murmurs in a deep voice, a bit of frustration coming through the barely annunciated words.

“What?” You had a hard time understanding what he was saying.

“The painting! You never said you were going to pose for your friend naked!” he finally yells, anger and bitterness released from the mask of indifference he had been wearing.

It all seems so clear now, you actually wonder how you didn’t realize it sooner.

“Tae-Tae, it was just of my back! I was wearing pants under the sheet and my chest was covered the whole time” you assured, trying to put any doubt he may have had to rest. “And I told you about it the same day he asked me to model for him. Remember? How I said he would be very professional and if I felt too uncomfortable, I would just give up? You were the one who convinced me to go ahead and do it!”

“Well, I must have not heard the part where you said it was a nude painting!” he defended, huffing through his enlarges nostrils.

“It was not a nude! Again, I was wearing clothes, he just painted it to seem like I wasn’t it” you reinforce.

“Your back was bare for him to see for days while he was painting. I’m not sure I’m okay with another man seeing you like that” he pressed, eyes set on the ground.

“It only took him three days and what do you mean ‘seeing you like that’? You can’t possibly be jealous, right? Of Andre?” you question, baffled by his reactions.

“How couldn’t I? The bastard likes your painting so much he marks it as the second most expensive on his catalogue! The way he keeps smiling at you, and winking at you, in no time he will be asking for a full body nude and I am not okay with that!”

You can’t help it, you actually chuckle at that, the notion being so ridiculous in your mind that it only originated disbelieving giggles. Even the serious not-amused look Taehyung gives you doesn’t stop your smile, even if it does keep you from laughing further. You clear your throat, step closer to him and squeeze at his hands, still tangled in yours, until he looks back at you.

“You have nothing to be jealous about. Andre is very happily and very seriously engaged. And may I add, he is engaged to a very beautiful, exotic and thin lady, so I am quite sure I am not his style.” You enlighten, shrugging your shoulders. “Did you notice? I think he even got rid of one or two of my back rolls in that painting. So, can you really say that is a painting of me when he changed it a bit?”

You see those big coffee-colored eyes blink a few times, long eyelashes making them stand out so much, first in surprise and then in embarrassment, resorting to pulling you closer into a hug where he can hide his face in your shoulder.

“Nonsense. That was your back, I have it memorized by heart.” He whispers against your hair, arms wrapped around your middle and holding you close against his chest.

You smile and throw your arms across his back, hands resting at his shoulder blades, head leaning and resting against his.

“By heart, you say?”

“Hum” is all the response you get, feeling the man’s smile against the skin of your neck as he starts leaving a trace of pecks all around.

You close your eyes and crook your neck to the side for better access, a familiar heat filling you from head to toes with his affections. Taehyung has always been one to shower you with attention and love, that feeling of being genuinely appreciated never failing to amaze you. Your lips part and you let out a sigh, an odd flutter in your stomach making you search for his mouth with yours.

As you move your head to encounter his, lips meet and your head spins at the lovely feeling of his hands exploring your skin over your clothes, embers crackling silently bellow his touch. A thrill runs up your spine and something in your belly churns as his lips engage fervently with yours, soon his tongue darting out just enough to dance with yours, and you taste honeyed spice.

The body gives in to his touch and caresses without even asking for you permission, your tubby frame leaning into his slender one as your knees rattle. The hands that were so innocently brushing your back had turned greedy and naughty, Taehyung’s big hands descending down to your squishy hips and cupping your succulent ass, adoring the way he could barely hold on to all of the well-padded curves.

Kiss growing hungrier, he moves his head to the other side and deepens the kiss, mouth ravishing on yours sensuously, the vertigo feeling taking over your brain and you have to hold on to his sides in order to not fall. But he has you powerfully in his hands, darting now to your luscious thighs, digits sinking in to the dimples in the flesh and squeezing it before soothing it with smooth strokes.

Suddenly, Taehyung turns you both around so that you are the one leaning against the lower cupboard, hands grasping at the top to keep you steady at the abrupt change, while he presses his body close to yours and dips his head into your neck again, determined to taint the skin there.

“I have all of you memorized by heart, love. All this heavenly body of yours, made for me and only me to appreciate. Better than any poor attempt of portraying it” he assures.

Your breathing is more than erratic now, fervent blood rushing to your puffy cheeks, waves of arousal pouring down your spine. Those hands that have proved time and time again to be both your curse and your salvation are finding their way into your inner thighs and there is no denying how stirred you were. The itch that had formed between your legs was becoming more and more uncontrollable, the stain on your lace panties a clear indication of that.

The index finger pulls the fabric to the side while the middle finger dives between your swollen folds, immediately drenched in the gathering of your juices. Taehyung hisses at your ear and then grunts, teeth catching your earlobe before whispering in a low erotic voice.

“So wet for me, already, darling? You know I can’t control myself when you get like this.”

“A-and you k-know… I always get like this when it’s you, Tae” you counter back, shamefully aware of how little could get you going when it came to this man right here, with one hand under your dress, between your legs, and another crawling up your body.

“A match made in heaven” he sniggers, finding your lips again.

You whimper into his mouth when his hand cups your breast, thumb moving up and down the fabric just above where he knew was your hardening nipple, making your body shudder at the stings of pleasure shooting to your core. The digits placed at your womanhood start moving too, middle and ring finger sliding back and forth on the silky center, mercilessly teasing your throbbing hole and rapidly finding your puckered pearl.

Impatient, Taehyung pulls the neckline of your dress down your tits, immediately doing the same to the cups of your bra, exposing your breasts to him. His head dives in, mouth wrapping around one nipple and suckling on it until he hears you scream out, his free hand tweaking and twisting the other one before he switched places. In the meantime, his digits frustratingly start slipping in and out of your hole, just in little thrusts that don’t dive all the way in, while his thumb draws circles around your clit slowly driving you insane.

“Taaeee….! Please!” you plead in a whimper, moisture starting to slide down your legs and an excruciating tightness in your abdominal area demanding satisfaction.

Your hands are fisting at the fabric of his shirt on top of his biceps and you have half a mind to worry about ripping it, knowing the shirt was expensive as all hell. But at this rhythm you would pop off every single button of his shirt, rip his pants out and ride him until the next century in order to find your release.

Sensing your urgency, Taehyung smiles with one nipple still in his mouth and finally, finally entered his two long fingers inside your tight hole, sliding them in to the knuckles and providing the most heavenly stretch as he scissors them inside, your walls clinging to him like a vice. Your face scrunches up in pure delectation, the subsiding movement that follows dragging moans from the depth of your soul as you claw this man’s arms and threw you head back with eyes closed.

He twists his wrist and in a nice pace starts plunging his fingers in and out, the pad of his digits rubbing deliciously against your walls and curling just at the right place inside, effortlessly reaching for that spot inside that strikes your whole body with an overpowering current of pleasure. You were already so close to the edge, so eager to jump, and when his thumb starts jiggling your fleshy button in little circles, at the same time he speeds up his fingers, rather than jumping you are pushed into your edge and explode into a blinding infinity, crying out Taehyung’s name and body convulsing, your pliant inner muscles fluttering in hyper-sensitivity around his still moving fingers.

Toes curled and body contorted, your slowly breathe with relief at the waves of pleasure slowly undulating through your body, your body slowly but surely coming down its high and your eyes capable of opening and not just seeing dots of white and gold. Instead you see this magnificent man standing proudly in front of you, hand removed from your core and cleaning his dripping fingers with his mouth, the other hand rearranging your clothes back in place, pulling the cups of your bra back up as well as the neckline of your dress.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get that” he says, and you are still a little bit too numb to really understand.

“What?” you say, confusion mixing with your post-orgasmic serenity.

As if answering your question, you realize the doorbell is ringing, meaning someone is at the door. Taehyung shrugs and locks down at himself. Following his eyes, you realize that on the front of his tight black pants, there is a clear outline of his very erect cock, almost bursting out of the fabric.

“Can’t answer the door like this. Here, have my card and pay for the meal.” He takes his wallet from his back pocket and hands you his card. You nod and make way for the door, but he grabs you by the elbow just enough to whisper lowly in your ear, creating goosebumps at the back of your neck. “And hurry, we don’t have much time before I have to leave for practice.”

And you know he wasn’t referring to the amount of time he had left to lunch with you. Paying the delivery man, you find yourself thinking how convenient it was you ordered sushi, for any other dish would have grown cold by the time you two were done.

[leadersguilt]

                this is a subversion of self,     the hollowness of your breath,     the dampness of your hair,    the mess of mud and torrent in your own shoes.  you’re the sort of restlessness that calmes with dissonance,   thorning your words with a cynical honesty,    turning sharp from your own memories.    (    i think it’s crystal clear.    humanity    ...    doesn’t stand a chance against the titans    /    but they are not the only foe settled in your midst.    )    exhibit letter a,    arrogant boy lead astray:     it’s the sudden morose that rings you out of your melancholy deposition,     whistle-thin emotion pulling you across the dark in a rampant mockery of what you believed for,     what you wished for,     what you realised would never completely happen to you.

                “                   oi!     ”           it’s not your call but you make it regardless,    such farce too unbearable to witness:    you know that you too have your own,   falsehoods sweet as a smile when paraded.    (    your secrets,    your confessions,     your catalogue of mistakes.     )      boy caught in his own wrongdoings attune to the red flags mirrored before him.   “      that was pretty dirty,    you bastard!    just what the hell were you thinking back there?     ”    /  @teufelme​ .

[minstrophywife]

DeMasqued

⇢Pairing: Art thief!Taehyung x Museum curator!Reader ⇢Genre: Thief!AU ↳[PWP] [Smuuuuut] ⇢Word Count: 5,383 ⇢Warnings: PWP - fingering, bondage, Oral, male receiving: face fucking, deep-throating, cum play, cum marking, videotaping, objectification kink, sensory deprivation (blindfold), breathplay, hair pulling  !!! Seriously if those warnings trigger anything, please don’t continue. This is just a smutty fic and is not worth your anxiety. !!!   ⇢Part Two of the Masqued Universe. [Part One] ⇢Masterlist

⇢Summary: It seems as if the memory of you isn’t enough, and so Vante decides he needs something more concrete to remember you by.

⇢A/N: I want to thank everyone for the overwhelming support that I received with Masque, and so I made sure that I got this done as soon as I could. I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations! It’s a bit shorter than the other one, but it’s full of smut. 

Okay but for real, don’t treat national art like this Vante. It was preserved in a temperature and humidity controlled room for a reason. 

DEMASQUED.

- Live with Action 7 News - 

It’s time to have an open discussion about the missing jade set which was reported stolen by the Seoul National Museum of Fine Art and Craft.

Min Yoongi: As we all know by now, the famous jade from the ‘Rare Treasures of the Dynasty Royalty’ has been reported stolen, as of this morning.

Kim Seokjin: While the museum hasn’t officially declared the set was stolen by the world infamous art thief Vante…

Min Yoongi: There is no other person who could have stolen it.

Kim Seokjin: Especially when he left his calling card of intent behind the day before.

Min Yoongi: Action 7 News has tried to come in contact with Park Se Hoon for another interview- however the museum staff and owner have declined any further media requests until further notice. 

Kim Seokjin: It must be damage control- I suppose the response is more tense this time because the government was involved with this exhibit this time around.

Min Yoongi: It could be seen as an embarrassment for the government officials, as I believe they were the ones to provide ample security to the museum.

Kim Seokjin: What I am more interested in is the fact that- even after managing to evade security, and not leave any evidence behind to indicate who Vante is, the master thief only decided to take one item.

Min Yoongi: *eyebrows knit together in thought* Yes, it seems like when he leaves his calling card, he only has one piece in mind to steal. This correlates with the other, previous instances of theft.

Kim Seokjin: Either way, notorious art thief Vante has been successful yet again- and I believe that he is gaining more confidence every time he sets his target. 

Min Yoongi: *nodding his head* It seems like it, He only let the hair pin set be viewed by the public for one day, before stealing the whole set. He must have especially wanted this specific piece.

Kim Seokjin: I wonder why? I mean, I went to the exhibit on opening day, with Action 7 News, and yes, the piece is visually striking and beautiful, but it seems like an interesting thing to choose to steal.

Min Yoongi: What do you mean exactly?

Kim Seokjin: I guess what I am trying to say is that, in terms of displaying purposes, don’t you think one of the many beautiful celadon pieces would be apt to steal? 

Min Yoongi: I think you are assuming exactly -how- Vante chooses to display his victories. 

Kim Seokjin: We all know that Vante doesn’t resell the items that are stolen- which means he must display them or keep them somewhere, probably in his own home. Maybe like trophies?

Min Yoongi: I’m re-emphasizing my point here… how do we know how Vante wants to display his collection?

Kim Seokjin: … I suppose you are right. We won’t know either. Because I have a feeling Vante is going to continue to be successful in stealing his next target. 

Min Yoongi: I agree. We are running out of time, so we’ll discuss this further after we are able to have an interview with Park Se Hoon once again.

Kim Seokjin: To commercials.

What were you going to do with your day off?

You decided to turn off your phone, throwing it on your bedside table, face down. You decided to avoid your TV as well- with the TV came the possibilities of seeing the news.

Anything to avoid the inevitable chaos that you knew was occurring this very minute. Was it a bit irresponsible? Perhaps. 

So you pace around your apartment, grabbing whatever random food in your fridge, and that book that you’ve been meaning to read since your birthday- a gift from your mother. You curl up on your couch, cocooning yourself in blankets as your own shelter. 

When you are reading you try not to pay any attention to the band of mottled purple and blue hues that lay across your wrists, hiding under the oversized sleeves of your hoodie. When your thumb brushes against it, you shudder. 

My perfect masterpiece.

Your book drops to the floor with a thud.

After that you fumble to put on some music- anything really- just to prevent the haunting of lips by your ear, and the low baritone of a chuckle the settles deep under your skin.

You are mine to ruin.

But nothing can quiet the amount of anxiety and guilt that slowly builds throughout the day, and soon enough your phone ends up in your lap- your face staring back at you blankly at the dark screen.

Your thumb hesitates over the power button of your phone.

You are mine to create.

Your thumb presses down harshly on the power button.

99+ Missed calls

25 Voice mails

120+ Text messages 

Voicemail 1 of 25: Y/N - this is Se Hoon. This is an emergency. I know that it is your day off however this is urgent.

Voicemail 5 of 25: You probably are sleeping in huh? Well when you wake up, you need to come straight to work.

Voicemail 19 of 25: *frantic* He stole the Jade set!

Voicemail 25 of 25: Hey, so Se Hoon flew me immediately from my consulting job in Japan. Text me before you head in.

Your eyes warily travel up to the clock on the wall of your office, and you groan outwardly when you see the time. It looks like another late night tonight. The first night you braved the museum and the shouts of Se Hoon, you accidentally fell asleep on the couch in your office to rest your eyes, and the resulting cold and aching muscles prompted you to bring a blanket and a pillow the next day, and honestly, you do not regret your decision one bit. It has been a trend the last couple of days, and the hour or two of rest in between more work helps immensely.

The chaos that ensued at the museum over the preceding few days was surreal. The exhibit seems to have drawn in a far more larger crowd that even on opening day- you suspect everyone wants to see for themselves if, in fact, Vante did take the jade set.

Art displayed upon art.

In fact- a nap sounds really good.

But, if you can push through, tonight should be the last night you need to stay late at the museum- after numerous (long, drawn out and almost unnecessary) meetings with the board of trustees, the conclusion that was reached  that some sort of replacement for the exhibit needed to be selected. It would be the quickest way to divert the public’s attention from the missing jade set (no it won’t), the officials concluded.

Which, of course, that responsibility landed on you. So after more meetings, and more discussions and countless hours of pouring through the museum and the government’s own personal collection, a decision was finally reached- one of the beautiful hanbok’s worn by Joseon dynasty elite.  Tonight you needed to select which one, before handing it off to be displayed properly the tomorrow.

Which means you have to search the large warehouse basement of the museum. 

You really don’t want to get up from your desk, but the promise of sleep in your own bed rather than the office sofa is what finally motivates you to rise, and you grab the catalogue before you head downstairs to the basement.

As you are in the elevator, you shiver- perhaps its the pull of sleep or your body weary from long nights- either way you wish you wore something a bit warmer to work today, instead of your silken dress shirt. It was the comfiest thing you had while still looking formal. 

Curse the meetings with the officials. You should have brought pajamas to change into you think bitterly.

The elevator door opens with a soft -ding- and you walk out in a daze. It’s eerily quiet in the basement- you hear the slight hum from the fluorescents above your head, your shoes clack almost too loudly down the hallway.

You arrive at the door soon enough.

Waving your ID card in front of the door, as well as using the consistently rotating key code that Se Hoon provided to you for this evening, you walk into the room. The basement storage is cool and dark when you step into it- you blink your eyes as you attempt to adjust to the darkness. The museum storage room is temperature and humidity controlled- as invaluable pieces of art need to be handled with the most care. 

Where is that light switch? You fumble along the wall, and another shiver passes through you- this time starting at the base of your spine, but it doesn’t fade- it lingers, almost like a sneeze that wants to escape but fails to in agitation- and this feeling is putting you on edge- your shoulders tense.

Just as you touch the edge of the switch casing, a trace of fingers encage your eyes, and a long arm encages you around your waist. You feel the heat of his palm through your blouse, against your ribcage. Your surprised gasp is caught in your throat. 

It can only be him.

Your heart quickens, body blooming in heat with anticipation.

“Hello my dear, did you miss me?” His low whispers are teasing the shell of your ear, his lips hovering but not touching just yet. Your eyelashes tickle his fingers as you close your eyes, your breath quickens as you struggle to respond- his deep baritone effecting you much more than the haunting of it. 

He must think you are shy.

“Because I most certainly missed you.” 

A soft cry leaves your lips. “Vante.” It’s all the confidence you can gather at the moment, your body too overwhelmed by the memory of his hands, lips, tongue and the very real presence of him behind you- and your trembles in anticipation.

Your reply stirs him, and you feel his hand leaving your eyes. There is a quiet ruffle of clothes, coat brushing against your arms. 

The way he presses you against the wall, along with his arm that still encircles your waist does not suggest escape, and you vaguely wonder what it means that you don’t want to move from him at all. Instead you lean further back into his space. 

You think smell a subtle floral scent- lavender maybe? Tease your nose, but you don’t get a chance to ponder the scent- silken fabric brushes over your eyes- and soon enough you feel the ends being tied together behind your head, the warmth of Vante’s arm leaving your stomach. 

You suddenly are hyper-aware of the heat from his fingers as they grasp lightly around the base of your neck. And then- 

Then, he’s pushing you softly from behind, but honestly you feel as if you are floating in space, Vante as your tether, your lifeline. 

You then vaguely realize he’s removing the clipboard of the catalogue from your fingers, and he’s twisting away slightly and your fingers clumsily try to grasp his hands- afraid that he’s going to leave you alone. But the presence amongst your throat never leaves, and he returns to settle behind you once again and you realize how foolish you are. 

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. He must feel your flush on his fingertips, see the red blossom- because you feel the hand that had removed the clipboard return to your collarbone, dipping lower and lower to tease the edge of your bra. He lazily traces the lace trimming there, in no rush, his cheek rests against your hair.

“My beautiful masterpiece…” His voice sounds strained, a whisper as if he’s afraid you are an apparition. He slowly begins to unbutton your blouse, each syllable that rolls off his tongue is punctuated by each button freed. The blouse flutters down to the floor. 

He them teases the hemline of your skirt, fingernails scratch lightly on your thighs as your skirt begins to bunch around your waist as he brings the fabric upwards. And upwards still, along the curve of your ass, until he finds your zipper, and the skirt falls, the loud sound of your zipper a jarring sound against your heavy breaths. And then the skirt slips down your legs to join the blouse.

“The fleeting memory of my beautiful creation behind my eyelids whenever I closed my eyes was not nearly enough…” And upwards again, a finger runs itself against your spine, and you find yourself arching forward, your head resting back against his chest. You bring your lower lip between your teeth, not trusting yourself to let a moan escape your lips just yet.

Your bra quickly joins your discarded clothes, and you can already feel your nipples swell- from the cold, from seeking attention- you aren’t sure. He continues even further to the final article of clothing, your panties a cover that masks the most beautiful part of you in all. He hooks his fingers at the waist band, and drags the fabric down, ever so slowly. You feel a string of your anticipation follow, your panties already sopping wet, it breaks when it dangles uselessly by your knees until you assist- you shimmy it down, stepping out when you feel it by your ankles. Vante traces the inside of your thighs, too far away and yet close enough to drag a finger through the mess you’ve made. 

 “…not when I had finally created perfection and I just let it slip away.” There is bitterness in his voice, and his arms encircle you once again, pulling you closer still. 

You feel enveloped by him, ensnared by his long arms that keep you flush against his body. And then his lips are on your shoulder, you can feel new daubs of purple and red being added to the canvas of your skin. 

“Purple suits you the most.” 

You feel your body go limp, his mouth your weakness- you feel your weight held up by his arms. But then he’s lowering you, letting you fall to your knees your hands rest in your lap, a sudden act of modesty. The floor feels cold and you immediately feel the loss of heat from behind you. Another rustle of fabric, this time it brushes between your shoulder blades. But his hands never leave you, reassuring fingers thread through your hair to softly massage your scalp. Soon enough he’s spreading your legs outwards, and he grabs one of your wrists from your lap, long fingers enclose around it fully to slowly guide your wrist backwards, so that it meets the corresponding ankle. He guides your fingers to wrap around your ankle. You hold your breath when you realize what he is doing.

The sculptor is placing you where he wants. 

And you are his pliable clay, molded to whatever he wants you to become. 

Because you are his masterpiece. 

A shaky exhale.

And then he is binding the two together, slipping the fabric between the natural space that he has created, deftly tying them to keep you in the perfect position, And when he deems one wrist complete, he follows with the other. 

The ties- you imagine they are black, perhaps maybe the same silk ribbon from the first night. You grip your ankles experimentally, and the ties feel perfect and right and you feel complete-  you want to paint over the fading stripe of purple that has turned into yellow over the past couple of days. You don’t want the memory of Vante to fade away.

“I thought I would be satisfied with creating art, but it was not enough. I want more.” He’s standing above you now, in front of you. 

“Something is missing though,” he sounds contemplative, looking at you to try and determine what would look best, “this arrangement would look far more if we just had… I’ll be right back my dear.” 

And he steps away, this time no hand to remind you of his presence. Your breath quickens the longer he is gone- time stretches until you feel uncomfortable- what if he leaves you here? You begin to shake, your confidence wavers.

You jump when you feel fabric hit your shoulders. You hadn’t notice him return.

“Waiting so patiently for me.” He coos, soothing your tension. You aren’t sure what he has draped over your shoulder, but it seems to be jacket of some sorts, but it doesn’t matter because he caressing your cheek, and then a hand at your chin pointing it upward. 

And then you feel something nudge against the seam of your lips. He’s waiting for you its hot, and when you peek your tongue out to swipe at the wetness of your lip you taste bitterness. 

“Its time to paint you in the most beautiful luster.”

You realize its the head of his cock that playfully prods your lips. His hand grips the sides of your jaw, tempting it open. Your lips open wider to receive. Your tongue stretches outward, and you feel the underside of his cock land on your tongue. It’s warm, all too warm. You feel the thick vein that runs underneath, and saliva begins to pool in your mouth. He’s pushing forward now, and his other hand tangles back into your hair. Before it was soft and comforting, but now he grips at the strands harshly- easing you forward. He’s sliding in just a bit too quickly, your mouth has little time to adjust. You try to push back a little bit, but the grip in your hair tightens, your scalp begins to sting. 

You knew he was large, you remember when he pounded into you relentlessly. But now, as your face is pulled closer to the bed of his pubic hair, your throat protests at the invasion, and your gag reflex begins to flare. He must feel the constriction of your throat, because he pauses, and he’s wiping away the tears that have fallen down your cheeks. 

“Breathe.” 

You want to shake your head, but instead all that is said is a muffled and strained groan from your lips. You take a few deep breaths through your nose, the tension of your throat easing around his cock, and one final push. He’s buried to the hilt in you- and you feel his hands full of tension. He’s still holding back to the best of his ability. When he pulls back, his speed is slow but steady, and when just the head of his cock is caught between the cushion of your lips, you feel the saliva flow over, dribbling down your chin, down your neck. You barely have a second to grip you ankles in preparation. Even though you have a blindfold on, you screw your eyes shut.

He’s pushing forward again, his hands in your hair keep you at the pace he wants, as if you had control to begin with. The slip of his cock into the wet cavern of your mouth is easier this time, and when he’s fully in once again, you moan, deep from the pit of your belly that aches with want. It seems to spur him on- because his controlled pace becomes faster each time he pulls back and pushes forward again.

And then he’s fucking into your face, and you are trying to take breaths through your nose every time he pulls back. But he’s brutal, the lewd slick sounds of his cock that slides in and out of your mouth not slowing, and the amount of spit that has spilled out of your mouth is surely a mess. But you are encouraging him still, with moans as he’s using you, prepping you, molding you into the perfect masterpiece. Because you cannot see him, you realize you want to hear Vante coming undone. 

Behind your blindfold, you want to imagine his face, twisted in desire from your undoing. You feel frustrated- You want to see Vante’s skin, shiny with sweat, you want to see him fall apart. 

He’s becoming loader, his groans fall towards you, panting with need and want.

 Your jaw is on fire, an ache that blooms.

After a particularly rough pull, like an answer to your frustrations- you feel something loosen, something slip off your nose. Blinking away the tears that have settled on your eyelashes, you realize your blindfold has fallen off.  His hands grip tighter on your hair, the sting of your scalp makes you realize he’s close. You wonder if he notices that your blindfold fell off, it’s still bunched in his hands, tangled amongst the tresses of your hair. 

The strangled moan that tumbles forth, down, down, down from his lips to your ears makes you feel brave. 

As you look up, blinking as your eyesight adjusts to the light- and you see your own masterpiece. 

Because he blindfolded you, you do not see a mask this time. Instead you see a sculpture- perfection chiseled from marble to create a face crafted from Bernini himself. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline frame the handsome high nose, and perfectly shaped eyebrows, knit together in ecstasy. While you saw his lips from your previous encounter, you were not privileged to see his face in full. You are still not sure if you should be privy to his mistake- and yet you stare at him- awestruck.

You are shocked. Your hands slip from around your ankles, you barely register the bindings tighten when your hands press against he floor.  

You let him continue his brutal pace as he fucks into your face- momentarily distracted from his cock in your mouth because you are attempting to commit every detail of him into memory.

His head is thrown back, his mouth open. You see his jaw clenched, his neck bulging with tension. You moan once more around his cock, and he fucks into your throat harder, shallow but deep. And then-

His eyes are opened once again, and he stares back down at you- eyes widen slightly in acknowledgement that the silken blindfold is off your tear-ridden eyes, your own eyes not leaving his. 

So suddenly, you get whiplash-

He yanks away, and you find your lips almost searching for his cock in a trained fashion with how fast he pulls out-

The first string of warmth hits the bridge of your nose and arcs upwards towards your eyebrow, preceding spurts hits your cheek, and you then taste the bitter saltiness of him when it lands on your lips, and in your mouth. 

He does not let anything be spoiled- the cum that was not strong enough to reach your face he wipes on your collarbone, pooling in the small divot. 

You realize he’s placing his cum exactly where he wants it. Painting you with a sheen of milky white. 

His cum begins to drip down your face, joining your saliva in a mess and you feel like you want to brush it out of the way, especially when some threatens to fall into your eyes. And then you remember the other silken ties that bind your wrists and your ankles together. You whine softly in inconvenience. 

You see Vante grip the silk that had been your blindfold in his hand, a small contemplation of what he should do next. 

Instead he tilts head to the side, and while still looking down at you from his seated position, he grins. 

“Well it seems like the masterpiece can finally see its creator.” He has a slight hesitance in his voice, hesitant and unsure. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice sound like that, and you take a moment to understand. He uses his hand to trail down your neck, fingers pressing until he finds your pulse. He rests it there, as if your steady heartbeat is an answer in on of its self. 

“A masterpiece huh?” You croak, your throat dry and itchy from his relentless pounding. “Art can only be so great when it reflects its artist.” 

His lips begin to quirk upwards.

“You’re handsome, Art thief Vante.” You continue to mumble, words now tumbling out in a garbled mess- you are beginning to feel unsure if he understood. 

His chuckle is raspy, and you feel accomplishment. Your feel yourself clamp around nothing. Your needs feel heavy inside your stomach. You suddenly acknowledge the sticky mess of your own juices, coating your thighs and the floor.

“You should be a model, not a thief.” You still do not dare remove your eyes from his, even if you can begin to feel an ache in your abused knees. It’s almost like you are afraid he’s going to leave- now that you know his face.

“Always for sharing- aren’t you, my dear.” And you shiver, as he conjures up memories of your first encounter. His hand leaves your cheek to trail down your neck, dragging through his cum that is beginning to fall down your chin. 

“Don’t you want to be selfish - just this once? You’re one of the select few who has been privileged enough to see my face.” 

His fingers press lightly on your forehead and he’s kneeling down to your eye level, and you feel lost in his eyes because he’s still not looking away, and so are you. You have to twist your arms around a bit, the bindings on your ankles and wrist bite into your skin further. But you are soon on your back, legs spread wide for him to see the mess you’ve made. 

Because of him, only for him.

You vaguely feel the fabric that he had put on your shoulders underneath your back, as there is no shock of the fold floor on your skin. He’s leaning over you now, resting between your thighs, his knees drag through the slick on the floor. A hand lays by your ear, another grips your thigh.  

“Now that you’ve seen my face my dear, I’m afraid I really can’t let you go.”

His voice is everywhere, deep and low, teasing your ear, reverberating against your body. It almost sounds sad, twinged with longing. His fingers take no time tease, your cunt swallows three fingers greedily. There is no protest, and he pumps with fervor. The loud squelching sounds that your pussy makes echos in the room.  You cry out, but its strained against your abused throat.

“Vante!” 

And then three fingers are replaced by his cock, already hard and throbbing with desire for you once again. The squelching noise is replaced by the wet sound of his skin against yours, his balls slap against you each time he pistons into you.

You both are a mess, a flurry of broken words between guttural moans. But you repeat Vante, inside your head and out loud, you aren’t sure anymore- a broken chant because that’s all you are thinking about, that’s what you are filled by. Him.

Vante

As he chases his second orgasm of the night, he kisses you, he tastes himself on his tongue as he sucks on your lip- and all you hear is the sound of your bodies connecting in a brutal pace. And the coil in the pit of your stomach is starting to unfurl, ready to snap. He detaches from you quickly, a hand grabbing your throat.

At the restriction of your throat, your world turns blank, your senses too overwhelmed too acknowledge anything else but the intensity of your orgasm.

 A needy moan keens from you, distantly you imagine belonging to him forever. 

And its not much longer then, because you feel him pull away to paint you once more.

The last thing you remember is the deep growl of-

Mine.

This time when you reawaken, you are surprised to see yourself curled up on the couch of your office, your coat turned into a makeshift pillow, and the blanket from your many overtime nights from this week tucked all around you. 

You curse when you see the time. It’s already 8 am in the morning, and you jolt out of the couch. You attempt to stand, but your knees buckle under you, and you blindly have to grab at the couch to break your fall. 

You see the rumpled state of your blouse, your skirt in no better shape. You wearily scramble to the bathroom, wondering what sorry state you are in.

When you reach the bathroom and turn to the mirror, you are greeted by tear stained cheeks and red eyes. Your throat is saturated with purple and blue swatches, deep bite marks littered here and there. 

But what causes you to cry out in alarm Is his dried cum still on your face, which he had clearly left for you to find when you came to. 

Mine.

You spent a good thirty minutes washing away the evidence of your late night tryst to the best of your abilities, but nothing can hide the sorry state of your neck, your wrists, your ankles. 

You sit in your office, until you hear a light knock.

“Y/N. Pulled another all nighter? You look a mess.” Its Se Hoon, and honestly his voice is grating to your ears. 

“I saw the Hanbok you decided to choose- thank you for placing it safely in my office. Interesting choice- you chose the rare purple silk.” 

“What?” You blanch, eyes blinking back in confusion to Se Hoon. 

That’s right. That’s why you needed to go to the museum basement to begin with last night. To choose a Hanbok for the exhibit. You never remembered choosing one last night unless… 

“Follow me to my office- we’ll need to receive approval from the committee and then you can go home.” You follow him mindlessly to his office, barely registering what he’s saying.

“You need to take a couple days off- we all do.” You nod woodenly.

And then you see the purple Hanbok, surrounded by white tissue, presented gently. 

Purple suits you the most.

The silk of the jeogori is slightly rumpled.

He wouldn’t dare.

But he would.

There is a brief knock on the door, two clear raps that echo into the office. In comes your fellow curator, Namjoon. 

He nods towards you, flashing a quick smile, dimples appearing and disappearing quickly, with an eyebrow raised. He’s probably deciphering your current state. You hide your wrists behind your back. The pink that dusts his cheeks means Namjoon has an inkling of what happened to you last night.

 “All pieces in storage are accounted for.” He says, addressing Se Hoon. “The audit took a couple of days. However nothing has been stolen.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, and now it’s Se Hoon’s turn to Blanche in response. 

He doesn’t have much time to react further, his mouth opens to speak, but before he a syllable can escape, he is interrupted by another knock at the door, this time the knock is a lot more frantic and loud against the wood. 

Se Hoon grumbles in response, annoyed at the interruption. 

The knocking continues, impatient. You can feel the worry through the door. 

“Yes?” Se Hoon huffs, a mumbled “this better be important” does not escape your ears. 

In pops in head of security. Eyes wide and feeling unsure. He has another museum guard cowering behind him. 

“Show him.” He says, stepping aside and nudging the guard forward. 

Your eyes zero in on the black card between his fingers immediately. 

In your peripheral view, you register Se Hoon’s eyes bulging out of his sockets. He’s really had a shitty two weeks, you think. 

“T-this was on my desk sir, when I went to relieve the night Officer from duty this morning.” 

Se Hoon is quiet. 

The head of security then begins to speak. “I reviewed the last night’s video footage, as per policy and routine.” 

Namjoon speaks up in place of Se Hoon. 

“I’m guessing the footage was missing?”

The head of security startles a bit, not so much that is obvious, but obvious to you. 

“That is correct.” He nods in the direction of Namjoon. His eyebrows are knitted together in confusion, an eyebrow raised in a silent question. 

Namjoon just smiles softly. 

“Now why would he want to steal security footage I wonder?”

© minstrophywife.

[bananonymity]

oh dear a hetalia university au

THE PROFESSORS

Alfred Jones - Film Studies

-Specializes in genre film, especially film comedy

-Class participation points is if you livetweet your observations and thoughts on a film that you watch in class with the hashtag #JonesJokes1100 (1100 is the course number)

-If you go to him for office hours he will spend half of the time recommending cult films to you

-Will find any excuse to screen at least one (1) Fast and Furious film in any of his class

-Hides snack food in the (public) classrooms he teaches in, will share with the class if a student finds it first

-thinks jean-luc godard is a punk bitch who weighs 20 pounds soaking wet

Arthur Kirkland -  Literature

-Children’s Literature and Fantasy specialization

-that one professor who bumbles into class in sweater vests and an entire teapot 

-”Hi everyone, class is canceled today. I couldn’t find a fucking parking spot.”

-Bring up in his class that Lord of the Rings is an allegory of WWII. I dare you.

-YouTube autoplay defeats him every time

-”IT’S. IN. THE. BLOODY. SYLLABUS.”

Ludwig Beilschmidt - Advisor

-Poor man is responsible for arranging the schedules and eventual graduation of 18,000 students who eat spaghetti out of a shoe when they run out of plates

-Takes every panicked and not necessarily sober student’s frantic emails about a major change with weary stride

-Definitely drinks in the office

-Brings his dogs to campus for therapy dog Thursdays. Then proceeds to pet the dogs himself for two hours

Francis Bonnefoy- Studio Art (all credit for characterization goes to @thedisappointedidealist12 )

-A tortured contemporary artist who needs to teach millennials/gen Z students to appreciate and critique modern art

-makes it a goal in life to baffle and infuriate his students, but once in a blue moon would make a really good point in his lessons that blows everyone’s minds

-Forces students to go to gallery openings and art exhibits with him for extra credit so that he can talk to death about what he thinks about every piece to them

-will fail anyone who said ‘I could have painted that.”

-bonus: argues with Alfred all the time about the merits of French new wave cinema

Gilbert Beilschmidt - Political Science/History

-Leadership class to study famous leaders in history, how they exercised and spread their influence to the people.(is it just me or does Frederick the Great take up a lot more of the syllabus than the other topics?)

-Seemingly easy-going and a human disaster but once add-drop period is over your nose is on the grindstone and you realize that this man actually knows his shit plus some and also you might fail but hey, you’ll have fun doing it

-if his class survives the semester he will take them to the bar and buy them all shots

-”Dear Professor Beilschmidt, This is Xiao Mei from your Political Psychology class. Would it still be okay for me to take the final tomorrow at 12PM? Thank you for your time! Regards, Xiao Mei.” “whatever -- Sent From iPhone”

Elizaveta Hedervary- Gender Studies

-on one hand, she’s the professor who will invite students to her home to spend the holidays if they cannot go home for break

-on the other hand, there is a reason why No Other Faculty dares to take her parking spot

-she and Gilbert use the same class room back to back, which has led to petty territorial rivalries and pranks

-Will publicly drag you and your unfounded opinions in class in the gentlest, most ruthless manner

-You can skip the test if you beat her in arm wrestling in front of the class (spoiler alert: you can’t)

Lovino Vargas- Dining Hall Manager

-Makes it his life goal to change the campus’ perception of the dining hall food by working hard and cooking delicious food

-WILL complain with every breath about budget, quality of groceries, poor pay, and college students who think putting spaghetti-os on a piece of bread is a meal

-on the flip side, very attentive to the students, especially female students, and keeps an eye out for any sign of unhealthy or eating disorder and encourages them to eat wholesome meals. if he catches a student skipping meals because of workload, he will shove a bruschetta in their hands and glare at them until they eat

-a bit too scared to go on strike over pay, although Francis encourages it wholeheartedly

Antonio Carriedo- Librarian

-In the past, he and Arthur were rivals to graduate summa cum laude in their programs. now, Antonio is taking it easy

-Still unironically uses nineties style catalogue cards because it relaxes him, also his computer mysteriously malfunctions every time he tries to use it to locate a book for someone

-if you ask him for a book he will somehow have you sharing your life story right at the help desk for a good fifteen minutes. he WILL forget what book you were asking for

Yao Wang - Business

-Uses memes to stay relevant with the youth (“Don’t forget to YEET”)

-Often invites students to a group lunch after class is over and remembers all his old students’ names

-Don’t even think about trying to leave class early. He may not call you out but expect a threatening Office jpg to airdrop into your phone

-loves it when students bring their children to class, will hold the baby while lecturing

THE STUDENTS

Emil Steilsson - First Year Undecided Student

-Freshman from Iceland, first time leaving his home and struggles to put himself out there to make friends or meet new people

-Raised in a large and close household but because he’s quite a bit younger than his brothers, doesn’t always feels like he belongs

-Also, his first time being away from his brothers, which gives him an anxiety that he will never admit

Leon Wang - First Year Film Studies Student

-Freshman from Hong Kong and Emil’s roommate

-Professor Wang’s kid brother; Yao Wang will bring him tupperware of home cooked Chinese meals every Thursday which Leon will not admit to deeply appreciating

-He will share all his food with you, but he will also eat all your food in return

-A bit of an age gap between him and his brother, and he was raised mostly in boarding schools in England growing up, so he doesn’t get to see his parents often and therefore unconsciously deals with a complex of feeling unwanted or shuffled around

-If he wasn’t such a nice kid Emil would probably have a nervous breakdown having Leon as a roommate (their tidiness levels are Very Different)

Michelle - Second Year Art Student

-Sophomore from Seychelles and fast friends of the boys

-Has a work study job at Professor Bonnefoy’s department

-She has trouble fitting in with the other students and often feels a bit left out from her peer group, despite her friendly efforts

-Because she pursues art, she often worries about her future job prospects, and lacks much confidence in her skills in any other field

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Beyond Broken - Chapter Six

Chapter Summary:  Thor's stalking reaches a new high with the help of a certain former Russian spy. He comes to realise that he's hopelessly addicted to the woman named Jess. Thor gives her a name for himself, and they strike an easy rapport. Weeks on, something suddenly changes and Thor is thrown into a dilemma: kiss the girl or do the honourable thing.

Words:  5.6k

A/N:  Here, Donald Blake is Thor's alter ego. (It's a little nod to the comics.)

Warnings:  Angst, emotional hurt & distress, crying, a really mean argument happens, sexual attraction, soft Thor, first kiss, morale dilemma, guilt, bad language... also Thor is a stalker (but he means well).  Really long chapter - sorry.

New Heights

Thor had accepted that the mystery woman had not wanted his company on her walk back through the park but he did not stay on the promenade.  At a distance he followed her, watching her traverse the foot-worn trails through the brush in the sporadic light of the lampposts.

He watched from the shadows as she met with her fiancé, as he kissed her and they embraced.  With the use of his bionic eye he watched them walk further up the street where they seemed to get into a fight.  He couldn’t make out the words but he could see she was angry, and then terribly sad.  Whatever that man had said or done to her was none of his business but it irritated him nonetheless.

When they both disappeared into an underground parking garage, he thought perhaps they lived there in the building above.   Soon after, a small red Toyota emerged onto the street and disappeared along a side street. Perhaps not then.

There were many things about the woman that he didn’t know, and those were mostly things that he had no right to know, like where she lived or worked for example.  Thor liked to know things, he preferred to be prepared.

The parking garage served the offices and businesses above, of which there was a mixture from legal to health and not surprisingly, an art studio.  It also served as a limited space public parking area.

The art studio is promising.  He thought.

 The next day he went to investigate, disguised as a rich entrepreneur.  He carried a suit very well and had seen enough of Stark’s interactions with people to know how things should be done.  So, wearing the petrol blue three-piece he had worn to the first Avengers press conference and ball, and the large silvery time piece gifted to him by Clint two Christmases ago, he availed himself of the studio’s exhibition.

The paintings were mediocre at best.  In all his years on Asgard, visiting all nine realms, and the years he’d spend here on Midgard, he had never seen anything as unsatisfying as what they produced in this era and called modern art.  The sculptures were better, in particular a twisting metal contraption that spun, creating undulating waves using the motion of each segment.  It looked like a jellyfish propelling itself through the deep ocean.  The kinetic sculpture was powered by a motor inside the gallery but the intent for the piece was for it to be wind powered.

It was beautiful, mesmerising even.

“Good morning, sir.” The smartly dressed assistant approached him.  “Can I show you our video catalogue of kinetic sculptures?”

“What’s the artist like?” He asked aloofly, suddenly disinterested in the motion of the sculpture.

“I don’t quite follow.”

“For me it’s more about the artists journey than the final piece.  The kind of person they are, the things they’ve overcome, their process.  Can you show me some biographicals on your artists instead?  I have a specific need to find a connection.”  Thor could feel himself oozing with charismatic over-confidence and pompousness.

“Certainly, sir.”

The young man scurried away but did not return.  Instead an older lady in a designer pants suit, with a commanding presence approached.

“I understand you wanted to meet the artist.”  She smiled smugly.

“You painted all of these works?”  He spread his arms and gestured largely.

“Save a few.��  She nodded, eyeing him like a snack.

“And the sculptures?”

“Some.”  She drank him in from head to toe.  “I mainly work in clay, like this one.”  She stroked her hand lovingly down a large sculpture shaped like a lady’s forearm, the base was like the roots of a tree and a single leaf sprouted from one of the splayed fingers.  “It’s the tree of life.”  She smiled with pride.

The piece was titled Yggdrasil.

You have no idea what Yggdrasil really is.  He thought.

“Poetic.”  He said, nodding with false appreciation.  “What about the metal-work?”

“My partner.  He works large-scale for public display.”  She flicked her hand dismissively.  “These are the smallest of his works.”

“And it’s just the two of you?”  Thor was starting to despair.

“Yes, we’re a business here, not just a labour of love, Mr…?”

“Blake.”  He supplied languidly.

“Mr Blake?”  She mused over the name.  “British aristocracy?”

“Something like that.” He coughed nervously.  “How could you tell?”

“You have a rarefied air about you.  If I did portraits I’d offer you my services.”  She winked, predatory.

“I’m after something in particular, a connection.  Not a portrait.”

“And what is the budget, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The price is irrelevant, for the right piece.”  He took another look around, trying not to notice her greedy smirk.  “None of your assistants paint?”

“No, neither of them.” She scowled.

“Are you sure?  I had heard there might be a budding artist in hiding up here.”  He winked at her cheekily.

“You’ve met Alasdair, and She’ree has no skill with a brush.  She is wicked with record keeping but isn’t artistic in any way.”

“Sherry?  The brunette?”

“She’ree.  The redhead.”   She was growing impatient.  “It’s obvious that nothing here has caught your eye, Mr Townsend.”

“Yes,” he blinked disappointingly, “it appears this has been nothing but a wild goose chase.  I apologise for wasting your time, madam.”

 What in Odin’s name was he doing?  Stalking a woman he’d seen out walking her dog?  Visiting places in the hopes of seeing her or finding out more about her?

On his way down in the elevator he noticed an older woman staring intensely at him, unashamed.  He looked away but she did not.  Looking at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the doors, his shoes, his fingernails, everywhere but her, he endured the ride to the ground floor in uncomfortable self-conscious silence.  A nervous smile and a quick exit later he was striding out of the communal lobby and onto the street.

“There you are!”  A familiar voice stopped his heart.  He panicked.  Stopped dead outside the doorway and stepped immediately left, hiding behind the pillar.  He mentally blessed the girth and steadfastness of the stone feature.

“Did you see that guy?!”

“What guy?”

“The guy who just got off the elevator.”

“What guy?”

“The hunk in the swanky blue suit.”

“I didn’t see a guy.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Come on, we’ll miss all the good tables.”

She was coming. Heading his way.  She’d see him and the game would be up.  She’d be upset, creeped out, disgusted even. She’d tell him to stay away from her and he’d do what she asked, of course he would, but it’d hurt.  Ever since he’d met her he’d felt different, less angry, less loathsome.  She’d calmed his inner storm without him fully realising, until now, the extent of the effect she was having on him.

“I swear if I was twenty years younger I’d be getting arrested for rape.”  The older woman laughed.  “He was beautiful, Jess, absolutely stunning.  My Charlie would be getting a divorce if someone like that walked into my life.  Hell, I’d probably never walk right ever again.”

“Jesus woman, I can practically hear you squelching as you walk.  Do you need a napkin?”

Both laughing heartily, the two women exited, and as they did so, Thor shuffled himself around the column, slotting himself between the stone and the full-length glass of the lobby frontage.  The girl at the desk frowned at him.

He smiled nervously and moved away.  The two women turned the corner and he was suddenly safe.  And now he had a name.  Jess.  Why hadn’t he looked closer at the woman in the elevator?  He could remember next to nothing about her except that her hair was short and light, that her eyes were brown and made him uncomfortable, and that she wore dark coloured formal attire.  There were no clues at all.

He racked his brain for information.  He hadn’t even seen his mystery woman, only heard her voice.  There was a chance that he had been mistaken, and it hadn’t even been her.

You know in your heart it was her.  He pepped himself up.  Now remember more!

 It was useless.  The more he plundered the memory the fainter it became until he could barely hear his mystery woman’s voice in his head.

This is wrong.  He berated himself.  She’s taken.  You should just let her go.  There’s nothing for you but heartache and a knee to the groin.  If you’re lucky, just heartache.

He couldn’t argue with the facts but it didn’t change the other fact that he’d become different since he’d met her.  The small amount of interaction he’d had with her had lifted him out of the gutter and back on his feet.  Imagine what getting to know her better could achieve.  He was attracted to her, certainly, but sex wasn’t the ultimate goal.  He decided he’d be happy just to have her in his life.  A friend, someone he could share things with, good and bad.

So stop the creeping.

“Ok, fine!”  He huffed aloud.

  That evening, after he watched Jess meet her fiancé at Neptune’s coffee shop, watched him kiss her and hand the dog off to her before dashing away, Thor realised that he had no willpower, couldn’t be trusted and also he decieved himself all too often. Telling himself he’d stop stalking her had been a bare-faced lie.  Well, almost. Instead, he was stalking the fiancé.

Thor tailed him six blocks to a small hotel by the lighthouse, right near where Thor lived. He knew that the man made it back to meet Jess by ten pm, so what could the fiancé of a beautiful woman like her possibly be doing going to a hotel several nights a week?

Thor disliked the man before, but now he was disgusted.

 Jogging back along the promenade he made it to marker twelve later than usual.  Jess was already there, sitting in his seat.

“Stealing my seat now?”

“You snooze, you lose.” Her smile was mischievous.  “I thought for a moment you’d found a better spot.”

“This is definitely the best spot.”

“You sure you’re not holding out on me?”

“Certainly not.”

“Alright.”  She looked at him with suspicion.  “You keep your secrets.”  She gave him a tiny wink.

Talking to her that evening he could only think of the betrayal that was happening at that very moment in a hotel room a little over a mile away.  Where did she think her fiancé went while she was here walking their dog?

 When she left their communal spot to meet back up with her fiancé again Thor followed.  The man looked crumpled, dishevelled, flustered. How could she not notice that?  It wasn’t Thors place to judge.  Maybe she was so in love that she didn’t see, aand discover her fiancé’s treachery would break her heart.

 The next day Thor used the communicator.

“Romanoff,” he rumbled, “It’s Thor.  Yes, yes, I know you know who I am.  Listen, I need a favour.”

He asked the former spy to get him some information on who had been staying at the hotel by the lighthouse the previous night.

“It’s a personal project.” He said vaguely when she questioned him. “I need to find someone.”

“Any thoughts on when you’re coming back?  Steve is worried about you.”

“Tell him I’m fine. Tell him I said hello.”

“I’ll email you what I find.”

“Great, Thank you.”

 Romanoff was thorough and efficient.  There were only four rooms booked at the hotel that night.  One a couple from Canada.  One a lady who had been staying there since Monday and was due to leave on Sunday – promising.  One a conference suite rented by the hour – also promising.  And one an elderly gentleman there for one night.

There were additional notes and photographs attached.  Romanoff had pulled driver’s licences, addresses and a flurry of other information from the SHIELD and law enforcement databases.  The elderly gentleman apparently lived in Florida but visited New London once a year on the anniversary of his wife’s death.  Not him then.  The woman was staying in the hotel for a week while her house was repaired, after all the recent rainfall, her basement had been flooded and needed significant repair. Ooops.  That just left the conference suite.

It had been rented on an ongoing basis by a Mr Charles S. Duffy.  Charles was an investment banker living right here in New London.  Age 58. Married, with one child [DECEASED].  Vehicle:  Silver Ford Explorer.  The plate number was right there too.

Thor sent a reply requesting more info on Duffy’s activities at the hotel, and received CCTV footage of the man entering the hotel and various cameras tracking his movements into the Seaview Suite - as the name on the door said.  A short while after, a tall man looking very much like Jess’s fiancé entered the suite also.  Both men emerge from the suite within minutes of each other shortly before ten pm.

His communicator played a snippet of a tune with tension and drums.  He’d received a message.

[N.R]  Are you P.I. Thor now?

[T.O.]  It’s personal.  What is P.I?

[N.R]  Forget it.

[T.O]  Please don’t tell Stark.

 In the early evening he went to the gym.  They were used to seeing him there now and happy to let him go about his business without interrupting him to find out if he knew how to use each of the machines. There was always the occasional patron who looked on, impressed, to see how much he was bench pressing.   He pushed himself hard, realising he’d missed this aspect of his life.

 It was warmer today than previous days.  The progression into late spring /early summer was apparent now that his month-long brooding session was drawing to a close.  Soon there would be more people staying out later in the evenings due to the nicer weather and the lighter nights.  He decided he might as well enjoy the beach while he could.

Tucking his shoes into his gym bag he crossed the railings and dropped the few feet down onto the sand. It was cold and damp between his toes, not at all as pleasant as he had hoped.  Using his bag as a seat he sat a few metres up from the dark line that marked the most recent tide line and picked out pebbles to throw at the water. If he timed it just right he could throw the pebbles right at the leading edge of the water as it shifted and began to recede.

 The yap of a small dog startled him.  He’d know that bark anywhere but he refused to turn around, that would be… desperate. Soon the clunk of heels along the promenade drew to a stop nearby.  He continued to throw his stones, unable to prevent the small smirk that forced its way onto his lips.

It felt like he sat there for hours waiting for her to notice him, he’d exhausted all pebbles in the reachable vicinity and would be forced to move very soon.  Just when he was about to admit defeat, her voice carried down to him.

“You tired of sharing your spot with me now?”  She said playfully, leaning on her forearms on the railings, as was her preferred position.

Acting as if he hadn’t noticed her approach he turned, looking surprised.

“Oh, hello!”  He waved and stood.  “Not at all.  I’m a very gracious landlord.”  Approaching the raised wooden walkway he came face-to-face with her ankles.  Looking upward, the line of her nylon-sheathed legs disappeared at the knee under that wonderfully shaped skirt she seemed to prefer. “You may squat here at my marker as often as you like.”  He smiled, squinting a little against the light behind her.  “I mean, you said you were a squatter, I didn’t mean that you should squat.  Unless you’d prefer to come down here.  I mean I can help you, if you’d like?”

Oh shut your infernal mouth for once!  His face burned.

“I’m fine thanks.” She laughed, lowering her head until her smirk was smothered by the backs of her hands.  “I’m not exactly dressed for climbing fences.”

“I’ll come up then.” He slung his bag across his back and pulled himself up and over the railings.  Dusting the sand from his feet he put his shoes back on, regarding her furtively while his head was lowered.

“You come here every day?” She asked.

“In one way or another, yes.”

“Oooh, mysterious.” She poked fun.  “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Well,” he rumbled, swallowing dryly, “I come here to use the gym, or run sometimes.  I do live quite close, just over there in fact.” He pointed to the waterfront apartment building a mile up the shoreline.  “Mostly I come here to be at peace.”

You give me peace.  He thought.

Something in her face changed, softened even, if it could possibly get any more appealing.  There was a sadness in her eyes.  He couldn’t look away.

“You lost someone?” She broke eye contact first, staring down at her hands.

“hmm?”  He was baffled for a split second.  “Oh you mean The Infinity War?  D-Day?  Yes, I lost a great many people that day.”  Did his voice just break then?  “But before that even… I’ve seen some terrible things.”

He was aware that he shouldn’t be going down this road, not with her.  He’d hoped to remain anonymous, to leave Thor -The Avenger behind and become Thor - the man instead.  Or possibly even not Thor at all, just a man.

“Were you in the army?”

“Close enough.”  He nodded.  If he wasn’t careful he would give too much away.  “I prefer not to speak of it.”

“I get it.”  She reassured.  “We’re all hurting, it’s just that some of us hide it better than others. A lot of people died.  It’s harder to find people who didn’t lose someone.”

“Life is the only thing that can be stolen and never given back.”  He muttered.  “And time.”

“Profound.”  She praised.

“I have my moments. There’s a lot going on with me, you know.”  He tried to lighten the mood.  “Part-time public-space landlord, rain chaser, and philosopher.  To mention just a few.”

His humour was verging on cringeworthy.  How had he taken it from harrowing inner turmoil to shameless flirtation in one sentence.

“I’m sure you have many talents.”

Had she just flirted back or was that sarcasm?

“I’m Jessica, by the way.” She proffered her hand.

He took it gently, raising it and bowing as if to press it against his forehead in a gesture of utmost respect.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”  Charm oozing from him in waves.  “My name is…”

What should I tell her?  Hello, I’m Thor, God of Thunder!  Out of the question.

He spoke slowly, giving himself a chance to think of a name.  He’d never given it any thought before, if he wasn’t Thor then who was he? The woman in the art studio had thought him British aristocracy, so what was a good British name?  A British King perhaps.  Henry.  Richard. George.  William.  Yes, that one!

Her face dropped, slack jawed and horrified she watched his mouth start forming the name.  Seeing the shock bloom across her face was enough to make him reconsider the whole false name thing.

“W-i-l-l-you excuse me.” He turned and fake sneezed into his hands.

“Bless you.”

“My apologies.  My name is Donald, my friends call me Don.”

Your friends call you Point Break but you’re not telling her that.  He thought.

“Don?”

“I’d offer to shake your hand but, well…”  He grimaced, making a show of wiping his hands on the legs of his jeans.

“Yeah, I’m good.”  She chuckled.  “Good to know you, Don.”

“Lady Jessica.”  He swept himself into a flourishing bow drawing a good-humoured eye roll from her.  “The pleasure is mine.”

“My friend’s call me Jess.”

“If I’m permitted?”

“I don’t mind.  Knock yourself out.”

“Very well, Jess.”

 He might have looked bashful for a moment as she looked him up and down.  He’d gotten more than he had hoped for so why was his chest aching and his gut telling him to escape?  She was beautiful, he really couldn’t think that enough.  Her steely-blue eyes were large and expressive, delicately arching brows and rich dark hair framing her perfect face.  The sweep of long lashes had him holding his breath when she blinked long and slow, a slight blush on her cheeks as they spoke.

“Have I got something on my face again?”  Her brows knitted subtly.

Jerking out of his daze, he searched her visage for anything out of place.

“No, you look perfect, as always.”  He’d totally missed that he’d been staring at her the whole time.

She frowned more deeply, tucking a few carefree strands of hair back behind her ear.

“I should go, it’s already after ten.”  She looked away with a look he could only describe as shame.  “Daisy has been so patient with me.”

Thor wanted to say something.  Apologise. Make light of his inability to read a situation.  Tell her how much he enjoyed her company.  Anything to take the shame from her expression.  Ask her to stay - not that it would help.  Instead he went with:

“She’s a good dog.”

 After they parted, Thor mentally kicked himself.  He always had an uncanny knack of making things awkward.  More often than not it was endearing and usually made him quite likeable, especially to women.  But then again they mostly only wanted into his trousers, more so when they discovered he was a god.  Jess was different, she was guarded.  He felt that he hadn’t overstepped any boundaries but this was Midgard and his ways were foreign here.  He would have to be more careful with his compliments so as not to make her uncomfortable.

 The next day she returned. And the next.  Thor found himself falling in with her routines.  Before long they’d been talking five nights a week for several weeks.  Thor started walking with her while she walked the dog, always keeping a proper distance and never making her feel awkward.  He brought a ball for Daisy Duke which became something they did, he kept it in his gym bag always.  He told Jess it was becoming part of his daily workout so he and Daisy would run and chase each other in the grass while Jess watched on, laughing.

Jess started bringing an extra coffee with her for him.  He’d tried the tiramisu hot chocolate, and while he enjoyed the taste he couldn’t excuse the excessive calories but he didn’t tell her that.

“I like my coffee how I like my men.”  He said flatly.  “Long and black, and bitter on the tongue.”

“Lewd!”  She’d laughed long, feigning disgust, tears running down her cheeks.  “That’s something my mind will never unsee.  Thanks for that.”

That had been one of Thor’s favourite days with her.  The day she laughed so hard she cried.  He’d seen tears in her eyes before, shamefully brushed away, emotions denied. Now they made her eyes sparkle like star-steel.  Wet cheeks or not she was stunning.  Her hand momentarily rested on his bicep and he found her almost too close for comfort. He’d been laughing too, but now he was looking at the play of happiness on her lips and sparkle in her eyes. She’d done the same, eyes flicking down to his mouth as her laughter subsided.  His skin prickled with anticipation and it was like he was frozen in place, seeing her within reach but unable to make the moment real.

Something broke in her and she snorted loudly, falling into a second round of laughter.  It took the awkwardness out of the moment.  Perhaps she hadn’t felt it like he had.  He hoped she hadn’t noticed him hungrily drinking in the sight of her, hanging on her every gesture like a breath exhaled on a still and frozen night, where one slight caress could send him spiralling.

 No matter how he felt, Thor was the perfect gentleman.  Always respectful, always chivalrous, always considerate.  He’d been brought up that way.  He never intruded on Jess’s time with her fiancé, remaining out of the way during drop offs and pick ups but making sure she was safe.  In the beginning the fiancé had walked with her in the park before leaving to ‘meet up with friends’ – those were Jess’s words. But now he left her at Neptune’s in order to dash off for a few hours with his lover.  Thor had done enough digging to see what the man was up to but he didn’t understand how could Jess not see?  She was astute and incredibly smart; she reminded him of Jane a little in that respect.

Sometimes people can’t see what they don’t want to see.  He told himself many times.

Her fiancé was having an affair with another man.  Thor didn’t want to be the one to break the news to her but the longer it went on the harder it was for him to stay silent.  The risk that she would blame Thor for telling her and never speak to him again, however, kept him quiet.  He was torn.

 Spring turned to summer and they still met each other in the park.  Thor had been content with simply sharing her time on the nights she was there. Jess hadn’t offered anything else, nor asked.

Conversation was easy and they talked about a great many things, though never anything too personal. He discovered that she worked at a dental surgery nearby (she had pointed up the street where Neptune’s was on the corner), which then triggered a memory of the day he’d gone to the gallery, and the woman in the elevator.  There had been an astringent smell he had barely even noticed but with the new information his memory returned, richer, and now with aroma-vision. Thor had chuckled out of the blue, drawing questions from her.

“I know that building.” He’d replied.  “I visited an art dealer there once, very disappointing show but the woman there offered to capture my likeness.”

“I bet she did.” Jess’s tone was full of inuendo, but Thor’s look of innocence made her laugh all the harder.

 Thor told her he worked in ‘security solutions’ which she accepted.  It hadn’t been far from the truth, in a scaled down, simplistic way. They shared anecdotes, although Thor held back;  there was much of his life and antics that were well documented in the media here on Midgard, and although Jess didn’t seem to pay any attention to that, there was bound to be something that would make his real identity known to her.

She really seemed to enjoy his company and he watched as she blossomed from the closed off, pained and self-diminished creature into a radiant, vibrant and exuberant woman, full of life.  It was basking in this glory that Thor finally saw that life could be good, even after all of his failings and defeat in The Infinity War.  Good could come out of evil, and that he deserved happiness as much as everyone else, in whatever capacity it presented itself.

  Things changed dramatically one Saturday night.  Jess arrived at Neptune’s as usual, straight from work.  Thor watched from a shaded part of the park as she met with her fiancé. Thor would wait for her until she crossed over and pick up her trail, meeting her a little way down the footpath. Her fiancé had stopped getting her the usual hot chocolate with tiramisu a while back so she and Thor took it in turns to buy drinks for each other.  Today it was Thor’s turn and he had 2 cups in hand ready waiting.

There seemed to be an issue, however.  They were arguing, arms wildly gesticulating, voices raised.  The fiancé was pointing at the park aggressively, his face growing more red.  Jess was crying.  She took the dog leash from him looking up at the sky in supplication.  Suddenly she slapped him across the face and scooped up the dog, striding away from him, heedless of oncoming traffic.  The fiancé left without a backward glance.

Thor’s heart almost stopped as she stepped out onto the road.  He scanned up and down but she was clear.  Her pace quickened, feet skipping as she partly jogged through the park’s gateway from the street.  He didn’t want her to know he’d seen so he moved to intercept her at the joining of their two paths.

“Hey, you.”  He said in the calmest tone he could muster, falling into step beside her.  “Good day?” He prompted, hoping she’d open up.

She didn’t even look at him.

“Jess?”

Her face was streaked with tears, and she stared ahead only as if it was the only way to hold her composure.  A few more strides on he decided to take action.  Getting out in front of her, he transferred both cups to one big hand, base stacked on lid, and stopped her with a hand laid gently on her shoulder.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, “what’s the matter?”

That was all it took for the floodgates to open and she was crying again, shoulders shaking, gasping for breath as she let go of her composure.

Thor put the drinks down beside his feet and stepped forward to pull her into a hug.  It was such a natural gesture, he didn’t even think about the space he promised himself he’d always give her, nor the physical contact he knew he shouldn’t engage in.  She needed him in that moment, and she didn’t shy away.

Jess leant into him, allowing him to wrap her in his arms, and pressed her face into his chest.  She sobbed and sniffled, breathing hot and humid through his t-shirt onto his skin.  They stood like that for a while, with him rubbing her back in the most platonic way he could, and her soaking his chest with her tears.

Daisy started pulling on the leash and it seemed to draw Jess back to the here and now.  She stepped back as Thor’s arms fell away. They felt all wrong with the warmth of her gone and he wasn’t sure what to say, or do.  Without more information about why she was so upset, he could very well say the wrong thing and make everything so much worse.

“Is there anything I can do?”  He spoke softly.

The park had few enough people in it that they were relatively alone, and the quality of the light made it feel like they were secluded in a twilight realm.  He longed to hold her again but to do so would not be proper.

“No.”  She exhaled a heavy, shuddering breath, and wiped her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

When she looked up at him a second later she looked so vulnerable.  His heart ached to see her this way.

Her eyes flicked down to his soaked t-shirt and back up to his face.  Her eyes went wide and gasped a little.

Thor panicked.  She was about to say something about him touching her.

“I’m sorry, I…”  He gestured with his arms.

“I’m not.”

She didn’t miss a beat. Stepping forward quickly, she stood on her tip-toes and pressed her lips to his, freezing him on the spot.

Her lips were soft and a little puffy from crying but they felt divine.  She released the seal of her lips but kept gentle contact, trailing her mouth across his, slowly drawing him into a response, parting his lips with hers until things suddenly clicked.

His response was immediate and thorough.  Catching her waist with one hand and sliding the other into her hair, he cradled her, deepening the kiss.  He delved into her, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweetness of her mouth.  It was everything he’d imagined it would be and he was swept away by the wave of passion that crested and flooded his senses.

Her hands were on his face, in his hair and she was sighing through her nose as their tongues touched and circled in the join between them.  One more little moan from her and he swore to himself that he’d lay her down right there and see what other noises he could coax from her beautiful lips.

This isn’t right.  He thought, mentally kicking himself as he so often did when he thought improper thoughts around her.

 Thor was the first to pull back, breathless and startled.  He felt like he had as a boy getting caught stealing sweet treats from the kitchens.  This thing between them now wasn’t his to have, it was a dream and was destined to remain as such.

“I can’t allow you to do this.”  He beseeched, steadying her with hands on her upper arms, thumbs gently stroking against her blouse.  “Your fiancé might be an unfaithful weasel but you’re better than that.  I could not forgive myself for making an adulterer of you.”

Her furious frown was complete and undeniable.  There was confusion there also, and tears.  Plump beads collecting on her lower lids, making her eyes turn glassy.

Turning on her heel, she fled, tugging the poor dog with her.

“Jessica, wait!”  Thor felt like he’d been punched in the gut by Hulk, breathing was difficult and he ached.

He knew he should not follow, she wanted space or why run?  She’d already cleared the park and it took every ounce of willpower to keep his feet firmly planted where they were because every nerve in his body told him to go to her and his muscles twitched to obey. The fading feeling of her lips on his pulled at something in his chest, making him feel hollow.  What in Odin’s name had he done?

[phrynefishersfrocks]

The seventh ensemble Phryne wears in “Death Comes Knocking” (Season 2, Episode 2), features her sheer chiffon blouse and black pants from earlier, underneath a truly fabulous fur-trimmed embroidered swing coat.

The illusion blouse, created from sheer black chiffon, with only the button band and collar as solid pieces, is worn with a black camisole beneath, and is paired, as usual, with her black silk faille high-waisted pants. We’ve seen this outfit twice before in this episode alone, underneath a different dramatic coat, and when she takes it off at home. It also appears twice in 1x07 “Murder at Montparnasse”, under same dramatic velvet coat, and later at her home.

Named the ‘Cemetery Coat’ by Costume Designer Marion Boyce, she designed the beautiful swing coat specifically for Phryne’s late night cemetery sleuthing in this episode. 

“I wanted her to have a lot of panache - and wanted the silhouette of Phryne jumping off the cemetery wall to look like a big beautiful parachute flying and then collapsing on the ground.” - Marion Boyce, Miss Fisher’s Costume Exhibition Catalogue

The coat is made from original 1920′s black net lace fabric, purchased by an antique dealer, with green, black, and chocolate iridescent sequins added later. To finish the look, black faux-fur was attached to the edge and to the collar. It is held together with a simple clasp made from what look like bits of black shell. 

Although it was designed with this episode in mind, Marion liked it so much that she added it to the ‘fashion’ episode later in the season, “Murder A La Mode” (2x05).

Her headpiece was bought as an existing headband, but they needed to make a copy for the stunt double as well. The assistant designer found shoes at a thrift store with similar beading designs, and made a copy of the original from the shoe detail. 

Season 2, Episode 2 - “Death Comes Knocking”

Promotional photo from Every Cloud Production, headpiece photo from the official Pinterest, Costume Exhibition photos and information from the Costume Exhibition Catalogue and various sources (x, x, x).

[irelise]

the yew tree 3.2/3.4

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier to claim his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…

Featuring mysteries, hidden agendas, a jealous and conflicted Erik, and a whole heap of master/servant tropes.

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required

part one and two now on ao3!

beginning of part 3)

Warnings for this part: Referenced human experimentation, referenced sexual exploitation of children Rating: M Word count: 3984 Notes: the long overdue update is finally here! this is basically the end of the emotional arc of the story - the next update will probably be the last (unless i get impatient and split it into two) and will mainly tie up loose plot threads

It’s a beautiful day out in the grounds, golden sunlight and verdant greenery as far as the eye can see. In the distance, a lark trills as it ascends in flight.

An automobile idles in the driveway. It is sleek and black, its engine rumbling quietly like a great predator at rest.

The window rolls down. A powerful, thick-fingered hand beckons Charles forward.

“You’ll be good,” Uncle says. His face is half-hidden in shadow.

How do you know you’re doing the right thing?

Charles bows his head. “Of course, sir.”

The only way to stop him is to kill him.

“You remember our agreement. Our deal.”

You make it sound so easy.

“Yes, sir.”

It is.

***

Sunset. They’re to stay put until the dark of night, so the two of them are in Charles’ study now, the air so thick with tension that Charles rubs at his temples, resigning himself to a migraine. Not tonight, he prays. If all goes according to plan, everything will end tonight.

The clock ticks, the march of time slow, inexorable. Beside him, Erik stirs, crossing and uncrossing his long legs. There is a book propped open on his lap, but as Charles watches him, Erik’s eyes skim through the text without seeing, gaze flickering across the same line over and over again. His mind is a storm of questions, but it’s tempered by concern; Erik has resolved not to push Charles for answers before he’s ready, and he’s determined to stand by his decision even though curiosity is eating him alive.

Charles loves him very much at that moment.

One hour to go. He can’t delay any longer. Charles has made a promise and he doesn’t intend to go back on his word. Still, it doesn’t change the way his whole chest goes tight, shame and anxiety and fear making it difficult to breathe. His hands tremble as he shuts his book (he hadn’t read a single word these past few hours), and immediately Erik’s attention snaps to him.

Charles musters an unconvincing smile. “Let’s be going, shall we.”

Finally, Erik’s thoughts shout, but all he says is: “You sure you’re ready?”

“I don’t think I ever will be,” Charles tries to joke, but it falls flat, too honest to be funny. He shakes his head. “I’ll do what I must. Let’s go.”

He’s walked the path to the recital hall many, many times before, almost every single day of his life. But never before has he felt this mix of choking fear coupled with quiet, fragile hope.

The last time. Whatever happens, this is the last time he has to walk this path.

Erik’s mind sparks with the keen interest of a hunter as Charles pushes open the door to the hall. His sharp gaze sweeps through the room, cataloguing every detail. The small raised dais, open and exposed.  The rows of benches arranged in a circular pattern, allowing the hungry audience to watch the performance from every direction, every angle.

The bookshelves, each of them stuffed to the brim. Uncle had kept expanding the hall as his collection grew. Now the bookshelves are ordered in neat, dense rows, enough of them for a small library. Display cases of glass break up the monotony, proudly exhibiting intricate scrolls and illustrated texts.

Confusion creases Erik’s brow. “This is…” Just a normal room, his mind supplies.

If only.

And the thing is, Charles can keep up the deception. The trapdoor is right there. He can just lead Erik down to the lab, leaving this whole sorry chapter of his past behind him. Erik never has to know his shame. His weakness. He does not owe Erik this part of the truth; this has nothing to do with the lies he had told concerning Shaw.

But – and Charles doesn’t wholly understand it himself – some part of him wants Erik, someone, anyone to know the truth. The whole truth. He’s lived with the lies and the silence for too long.

He wants – he hopes – for Erik to understand.

But what if he doesn’t? Or, worse, what if every time Erik looks at him from now on, he only sees a victim? Someone weak, someone piti–

“Charles?”

Erik’s voice jolts him from his thoughts. Erik is watching him with a frown. He wants to demand answers, Charles can sense it, but the greater part of his thoughts is preoccupied with concern for Charles.

Charles takes a deep breath, licking dry lips. He can’t look at Erik.

“The bookshelves. Just. See for yourself.”

Erik’s footsteps are soft as he picks his way across the hall. Charles closes his eyes, building up the barriers around his mind. Already he regrets his decision.

Paper rustles.

Then–

Shock. It pierces clean through Charles’ mental defences, and Charles freezes like a child caught eavesdropping. He can hear the turning of pages again, loud and quick, a noise like a panicked bird beating its wings.

Erik tosses the book away. It thumps against the ground. He rips open another book, flicking through the pages so rapidly that Charles can hear it as a snap-snap, snap-snap, the crack of the whip, the breaking of bones.

“Charles. What is this.”

He cannot answer. Charles stares at the ground, waiting for Erik’s scorn. His eyes burn.

“Charles!”

He shakes his head.

From far away, he hears the ragged exhale of Erik’s breath. “You. All this time. Every single time you went to read for him, every single day… I, that time I forced you into that costume…”

All his usual eloquence had deserted Charles. He closes his eyes, mute, and Erik lets out a snarl, fury battering against Charles’ shields.

“How long?” Erik demands. “How long has he– When did this start?”

“I was six,” his voice sounds so quiet, nothing like himself at all, “from memory. It was shortly after I first arrived here. I…”

His voice cracks. He swallows, rubbing at his eyes, a childish habit he can’t seem to break. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t– I didn’t know how to say no. You must think me so–”

Charles jumps as Erik suddenly moves, arm sweeping out to send the row of books tumbling to the floor in a series of sickening thuds. They lie there like dead, broken things, pages bent and crumpled, covers askew. He catches a glimpse of a half-torn ink drawing, the legs ripped apart.

“Erik?”

The whole room trembles. Wood splinters, the nails that hold the bookshelf together rattling and warping. The whole thing comes apart with a clatter, rows and rows of books falling to the floor, the wooden frame tumbling down to crush them. Charles stares uncomprehendingly at their broken-spined forms. He almost feels like he’s one of them, lying helplessly on the ground as Erik pulls the world apart right around his ears.

Silver flashes through the air: metal, responding to Erik’s command. Veins bulge from the back of his hand as he clenches it into a fist, and the metal soars in deadly arcs across the bookshelves, scything across wood and paper alike.

Pages flutter to the ground. Another bookshelf trembles, coming apart with a groan and sending a cascade of books spilling across the floor. Almost in a dream, Charles stoops to pick one of them up, only for Erik to snatch it out of his hands and throws it back onto the pile. “Never again,” he says harshly, but the words seem to slip out of Charles’ dazed mind the instant he hears them. He can only watch, still uncomprehending, as Erik steps contemptuously over the pile, crushing the delicate pages beneath his shoes.

Another crash. Something falls: an inkwell, splattering black stains across the fallen volumes.

Erik is pausing, one of the exposed pages catching his eye: …if anyone desires to use you in any manner whatsoever, he will use you…

Fury. Charles’ mental shields crack.

Erik, on the ground, blades of metal ripping through the pages.

A scattering of red. Ink? Blood? Charles makes a small noise – Erik shouldn’t hurt himself, not over this – but it’s swallowed up by the tearing of parchment as Erik rips apart a stack of papers, trampling them underfoot.

One of the glass cases shatters, its metal frame warping. Crystalline shards slice through the scroll on display. It’s one of Uncle’s favourites, a depiction of a woodland hunt, the baying hounds immortalised in ink, the fleeing boy naked and half-mad with fear.

All gone now. The ragged, ruined edges of the parchment burn in Charles’ mind.

Another shelf topples. The very bones of the house seem to shake with the force of Erik’s rage, a red tide that crashes over Charles’ mind.

Strange. He doesn’t fear it, not like the way he fears Uncle’s red thoughts.

Something hard shifts under Charles’ foot. His heart skips a nervous beat when he realizes he had just stepped on one of Uncle’s books. Instinct takes over and Charles flinches away – he remembers this book, remembers being twelve and sitting on the dais and reading it aloud as every single man in the audience fantasised about raping him – and he jumps at another thunderous crash as Erik takes an armful of books and dashes them all against the ground.

He’s never seen such deadly focus in Erik’s eyes before.

Never again.

Gingerly, his heart pounding, Charles nudges at the book with his foot, pushing it beneath the growing pile of rubble. He’ll never have to see it again. He’ll never see any of this again.

The mad racing of his pulse doesn’t slow, but with that first little act of defiance, some of the fog around his head lifts. Although he still can’t bring himself to speak, Charles scrapes together enough courage to touch Erik lightly on the elbow, guiding him to the back of the room where a discreet false wall swings open to reveal an alcove filled with accoutrements Uncle likes to keep on hand: racks of wood and metal – the sort perfect for tying a small, unwilling body to – and long braided whips, silken ropes and the faceless mannequin Uncle had liked to see him straddle.

Erik destroys all of it. Charles stares at the twisted metal, the shattered wood, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to believe. In a daze he leads Erik to the trapdoor, only dimly aware of the devastation Erik leaves in their wake.

Down the stairs they go, the cold darkness broken by Erik’s churning anger and disbelief. All this time, how could I not have known…

The steel door, heavy and forbidding. Erik wrenches it apart with nothing but a flick of his wrist.

Electricity sparks. The entire bunker rumbles ominously, but Charles feels no fear; a first, considering his usual experiences in this place. He’s curiously calm as he watches Erik plant his feet against the ground and raise his arms.

The humming of Erik’s power grows, rising to a crescendo. Charles’ breath catches in wonder as every single piece of metal in the room shudders, then floats, effortlessly borne aloft by Erik’s power. There must be enough metal there to build a warship, but Erik lifts it all without a hint of strain, the look of focus on his face absolute and intense.

Then, with a defiant shriek that shakes the very foundations of the mansion, all the metal in the room crumples. The cabinets and the machinery, the cruel surgical tools – all rendered harmless in an instant.

The silence that follows is deafening. Standing in the middle of the wreckage, Charles gazes at the remnants of the only life – the only home – he had ever known.

Erik turns to face him. Under the stark white lights of the ruined laboratory, his eyes blaze. “I’ll kill him,” he vows, fierce. “He’ll never hurt you again.”

Charles blinks. The fog blanketing his head stirs sluggishly. “I… I don’t…”

“We’ll wait for him to come back from his trip. Forget Shaw – we’ll deal with this first.”

“Erik.” Charles finds his voice again, the fog around his head burning away. “Stop.”

Erik whirls around to face him, fury and disbelief twisting his face into that of a stranger’s. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to let him go. Marko needs to die.” His hand sweeps out, gesturing at the twisted wreckage of the room. “After everything he’s done – all he’s done to you! You can’t walk away from this, Charles. You need to take revenge.”

It feels like they’ve had this conversation before, arguing in circles. “I don’t want his death and I don’t want revenge. I only want to ensure he never does the same thing to anybody else.”

“Killing him does the same thing.”

“I don’t want revenge!” Charles repeats in a snap, heat flaring in his chest. Some days he thinks he spends his entire life shouting into a void, unheard, all his words futile. “Enough, Erik. Please.”

He’s spent his whole life being bent to serve Uncle’s will. He doesn’t think he can bear it if Erik turns out to be the same.

Perhaps Erik sees some of his thoughts on Charles’ face. Charles doesn’t know; he’s still too much a coward to delve into Erik’s mind again, too fearful of the possibility that he may be faced with Erik’s scorn and pity. Whatever the case, Erik softens, but his eyes lose none of their intensity. “We can’t let him walk free. You know that.”

“Yes, of course.” But what can he do? Restless, Charles begins to pace down the length of the room. Some of that dream-like haze returns, but Charles forcefully shoves it away – no time for that, he can process his shock later, lock it away and toss away the key. Right now, Erik is waiting for him to come up with a plan. Charles can feel his eyes boring into his back as he walks, fingertips trailing against ruined fixtures and crumpled shelving, the physical evidence of Erik’s fierce anger.

Anger. For him. On his behalf. Even now, Charles can feel it brushing against his shields, a thundering roll of righteous fury, and there’s something else–

Protectiveness, Charles realises, with no small amount of awe. Despite everything, Erik still cares about him.

He cannot – will not ­– let Erik down.

Charles takes a deep breath, centering himself. Erik is right; Uncle must be dealt with, but how? Charles’ mind turns to the principles he had clung to all his life, to his belief in knowledge and education and communication, but the thought of talking to Uncle is so ludicrous that he almost laughs. No, Uncle will never listen to him.

Is there truly no other way? Charles refuses to accept that. His eyes scan the room, searching for a solution.

A pile of battered folders lies in his path, Uncle’s notes spilling onto the ground. Picking up one of the files, Charles flicks it open, carefully locking away the revulsion stirred up by memories of all those experiments. Uncle had never shared the results with him before. Now, Charles frowns at the jumble of numbers and graphs, trying to wrestle them into some semblance of sense. There’s so much information here, and this is only one file out of hundreds from the years Uncle had spent studying his telepathy – how much had he discovered that Charles knows nothing about?

Charles closes the file with a decisive snap. He bends, beginning the laborious task of stacking all the remaining folders into a neat pile. “Erik, help me gather all the files you can find.”

Erik’s discontent rubs against his mind like prickling static. “I hope you’re planning to destroy them.”

“No, I’m going to use them.” Charles responds evenly.  “Despite their…origins, by all rights they should belong to me.”

“They’re the product of human experiments. Human cruelties. You don’t need them, Charles.”

How to explain this? Erik is striding up to him, footsteps quick and angry, and Charles meets his eyes without flinching. “You of all people should understand the concept of using the enemy’s own tools against them. The research exists already. Destroying it would be a waste when we can channel it towards something more productive.”

“Such as?”

Charles brushes his fingers across the back of the battered folder, all its crinkles and imperfections rough under his fingertips. “I… If I’m to live away from here, in the outside world, I need to master my telepathy. I’ve been afraid of it for far too long. These files, all the files in this lab, they contain the details of every single experiment my uncle has ever run on me and every other mutant that has passed through these doors. Our powers, our genetics, our biology, our health…” A plan is beginning to coalesce in his mind. He’ll reclaim everything Uncle has ever taken from him; he’ll take all of Uncle’s twisted research and use it for good. “We can use this knowledge to help our people.”

Erik isn’t convinced, that much is clear, but neither does he make any move to stop Charles. “The files will be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Then let’s make sure they stay in ours.”

His plan solidifies. Resolve settling into his bones, Charles takes a moment to savour how good it feels to finally, finally be sure he’s doing the right thing. He’ll gather every single scrap of Uncle’s notes with or without Erik’s help.

Erik must sense his conviction, because he exhales in that quiet way that Charles has come to recognize as Erik conceding a point.

“We’ll try it your way,” Erik says, but what Charles hears in his mind is: I trust you.

***

They don’t have much time left before their rendezvous with Shaw, and there are so many of Uncle’s notes to pack. It’s impossible to take them all; Charles does his best to pick out the important ones, trying to drown out the ticking of the clock, the movement of the wind and cloud-shadows outside his window. It’s already full dark. The gas lamp flickers as Charles pores over the notes and he rubs at his eyes, trying to will away the growing tightness in his chest.

After the third time he unpacks then repacks their luggage under the guise of rearranging the notes, Erik stops him with a light touch against his wrist. “You’re delaying.”

“I’m only being thorough,” Charles protests, although he knows the truth. “Shaw can wait a few minutes, this is too important to rush.”

“Charles. What’s wrong?”

Charles bites his lip, but, as always, he concedes that he owes Erik his honesty. “It’s nothing serious. It’s just, just rather difficult to believe this day has finally comes.”

Erik watches him, steady and intent. “You mean leaving the mansion?”

“I’ve never left, not since the day I first arrived,” Charles confesses. Automatically, his gaze goes to the window, but at that moment, the thought of the outside world is too much. His eyes skitters away, skin prickling hot and uncomfortable. “I thought I never would.”

“You’re afraid,” Erik observes. Charles braces himself for Erik’s judgement, but there’s not a whisper of that in Erik’s mind, just quiet, thoughtful concern.

“I suppose I am.” For all the time he’s spent living in other people’s heads, Charles has no idea what to expect for himself. What if he leaves only to realize he’s incapable of adapting to the outside world? What if he leaves only to realize that Uncle is right, that the only place for him is inside this mansion, inside Uncle’s reading room?

Unconsciously, his breathing quickens. Chest tight with frustration, Charles scrubs at his eyes, forcefully willing away the tell-tale prickle of heat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to delay us. Shall we go?”

He doesn’t get a response immediately. Erik’s mind is a steady hum of activity, picking out words and phrases only to discard them just as quickly; Charles doesn’t pry into the specifics. He stays carefully still as Erik moves closer, but he can’t help the startled exhale that leaves him when Erik’s warm hand cups his cheek, tilting his head so they face each other properly.

Erik’s pale eyes are grave, solemn with the heavy weight of promise. “You don’t have to do this alone, Charles.” His thumb brushes across Charles’ cheekbone, against the curve of his ear, startlingly gentle. “You’re leaving behind everything you’ve ever known. It might take some time for you to find your way, that’s only normal. I won’t abandon you to do it alone.”

“Erik…” It’s too good to be true. Charles blinks rapidly, trying to quell the rising, foolish hope that threatens to overtake him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, my friend. Don’t forget we still have our differences.”

“And we can work through them,” Erik insists. “Together.”

Erik’s mind burns with conviction – not a momentary blaze, but a conviction that entrenches itself into his mind with foundations of solid steel. He means it, Erik really does mean it, he’s going to stay…

Charles can’t help it; the hope and affection rushing through him needs an outlet. He stretches up to kiss Erik, swift and urgent – and just a touch uncertain – but then Erik cradles his face in calloused hands and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. For a long moment, they simply stand there, swaying against each other, Erik cupping Charles’ face and Charles’ arms wrapped around Erik’s shoulders, and the moment is just perfect, so perfect.

The chime of the clock interrupts them. Charles pulls away slowly, his reluctance mirrored in Erik’s eyes, but an unspoken understanding resonates between them. They need to put an end to this. Shaw, Marko – neither can be allowed to continue.

They leave his rooms, moving with purpose. Charles deftly nudges all attention away from them. The mansion is almost eerie in its emptiness as they walk through its lonely halls one last time, their footsteps swallowed by the carpet. All around them, the flickering gas lamps throw strange shadows against the wall as they walk, and Charles picks up the pace, pulse thudding in his chest. Soon.

Erik throws open the heavy front doors. The night air drifts into the mansion, cool and sweet with the first hints of spring.

“Are you ready?” Standing at the threshold, Erik looks ethereal – a spirit bathed in the spill of moonlight, silver threading against the crown of his head.

Icy doubt trickles down the back of Charles’ neck. It’s already far too late for second thoughts, but he can’t help it, all his old fears and insecurities rising in a sudden, crushing tide that constricts his throat and makes it difficult to breathe. “One moment,” he manages. God. Erik looks so untouchable like this.

He jumps as Erik’s hand closes around his, broad and warm and alive, calloused from a life spent working and fighting. Erik laces their fingers together and squeezes his hand.

“Look at me, Charles.”

Charles lifts his gaze. This is real. He’s real.

Erik is looking back at him, and the expression on his face is painfully gentle. Charles swallows down the lump in his throat. He doesn’t deserve this, not any of this, but it’s so hard to protest when he’s surrounded by the candlelit warmth of Erik’s mind, a quiet blanket of safety and acceptance settling around his shoulders.

“I won’t leave you,” Erik vows.

You’re not alone, his mind promises.

And, finally, Charles believes him. He nods. A smile breaks across Erik’s face, fierce and joyous, and he grips Charles’ hand with renewed strength.

They cross the threshold and step into the moonlit grounds. A lively breeze ruffles Charles’ hair, bringing with it the scent of new grass, the fresh growth of spring, the trill of a faraway nightingale.

Erik never once lets go of his hand. Together, side by side, they make their way past the boundary of the estate, leaving behind them the silver-dappled shadow of the yew tree.

(next part)

[dancingsparks]

Proving A Negative

This was written as part of Sapphic September and for the prompt ‘Ocean’ by @rockmarina

Also on Ao3

Mermaids are absolute nonsense. They don’t exist, nothing more than the fantasy of horny sailors, romanticised and idealised in their modern world. There are few little girls who never dreamed of being a mermaid, little boys quite possibly dreaming of something similar before society taught them that it’s wrong. Hermione would have been fine with that, they are children after all, eager for adventure and prone to ignore reality in favour of something more exciting. But grown women, paying immense sums for artificial tails and taking ridiculous pictures, pretending in all seriousness to be a mermaid?

Hermione is only human, and she has her limits. One of them is this wilful ignorance, the blatant disregard of what is real and what is nothing more than wishful thinking. And because there is just no arguing with some people -not that Hermione hadn’t tried- she needs something even more inviolable than their ignorance: cold, hard facts.

People laughed at her when she told them of her holiday plans, teasing and accusing her of being nothing more than an obsessed fan who never quite outgrew her fascination and is now setting out to find the mermaids instead of proving them a myth. But Hermione ignored them, contenting herself with imagining her faces when she returns victorious. It won’t be as easy as it sounds of course. Proving a negative is practically impossible, concerning this as much as Father Christmas, God and Magic. That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth trying, worth investigating, though.

So now here she stands, sand in her shoes, wind in her hair, the equipment more numerable than necessary and heavier than expected, weighting her down.

The ocean is stormier than Hermione anticipated, waves towering and crashing against the shore. It’s far from ideal conditions for her tests, but ultimately nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Hermione would be damned if she lets herself be stopped by something as trifling and inconsequential as this. After dragging everything here, she will get her results, gathering as much data as possible.

Determined, Hermione wanders along the shore, searching for a shielded place to set up. Maybe she should have chosen a different location, some wide and picturesque sandy beach with nothing but sunshine all day; it would certainly be more pleasant than this. But here is where most myths are rooted; a gathering spot for mermaids, if legend is to be believed. It’s the most logical starting point.

Lost in contemplation, Hermione almost misses the cave. It’s set low enough for the ocean to stream in but high enough to be not completely drowned by it, watching out over the water and providing shelter from the increasingly violent wind. With an enthusiastic little noise, Hermione marches over, climbing in through the narrow path. It’s more difficult than expected, water sloshing around her feet and nearly ruining her instruments, walls slick and giving her hardly anything to hold onto. But Hermione came too far to be stopped now, so she clenches her jaw and soldiers on.

She comes to a complete halt when she reaches the end of the path, widening into a spacious room and overwhelming her with the sheer amount of impressions to be photographed, analysed and noted. The walls are oddly polished, the room giving of an atmosphere of being lived in, vibrant pearls and delicate sea shells lining the walls, presented like exhibitions in a museum. It’s unexpected, distracting Hermione from what she came to do and instead pulling her forwards. Fascinated, Hermione steps closer, disregarding everything else and reaching out a hand - only to be brutally slapped away.

Hermione gasps in shock, pulling her hand close to her chest and swirling around to face the new threat.

There are many wonders to be discovered in the cave, but not one of them is as beautiful as the woman sitting before her. She has long blond hair, fine features set in a scowl that make her no less lovely, pale skin flowing into bright blue scales. She is a mermaid; there is absolutely no doubt about that in Hermione’s mind, still stunned by the sight. The marvellous, magnificent, breath-taking sight. The woman is beautiful without the extra attraction of being a mermaid, possessing a timeless elegance and a silent strength that commands awe. Hermione could stare at her forever, cataloguing every detail: the way her hair shines and falls, how her tail curls in - suddenly it shoots forward, lightning fast, slapping Hermione yet again.

“Staring is very rude, didn’t your family teach you? I am Fleur Delacour, respected warrior and sister and you will show me the respect I deserve.” Hermione bristles at her words, rising to her full height and prepared to give her a piece of her mind -mermaid or not, she will not be spoken to like this- when the words die in her throat, the situation fully hitting her.

In her attempt to prove mermaids a myth, Hermione found one, a creature she never believed in, sitting close enough to touch. But Fleur is no simpering little thing, wasting her time on insipid fantasies and yearning for a prince. No, Fleur has spirit, challenges her and presents a whole new mystery.

Hermione never liked being wrong, but she might grow to appreciate this particular instance.