#sketching the kiss pose took longer than anything else -_-

[luveline]

you know, I'm coming right back [Fred Weasley x Reader]

summary: you're a lonely artist and Fred is your adoring model

word count: 2.4k

tags: reader insert, lonely reader, artist reader, seventh year, kids in love, first kiss, getting together, pining, fluff, friends-to-lovers

It was easy for you, usually, to act fine. To feel fine. Any loneliness that clouded your life was pushed firmly into the depths of your thoughts. You tried to focus on the things that mattered, essays and charms and your art.

You loved to draw. You had sketchbooks filled to the brim with sketches, some half finished, others coloured and lined. You drew everything, though you struggled to bring anything from your memory. Everything you drew had to be done right there, right then, with unsuspecting models. You sketched students eating their dinner, scribbled side profiles when you managed a spare minute in class. But you're most impressive artwork was done in the library, where nothing moved. Everyone was silent. You had pages and pages of bored, tired looking students. When exams approached, you hurriedly copied down the expressions of people on the edge of depression and panic.

You had friends, ish. You knew people. You'd had intense friendships that somehow always ended in awkward drifting aparts. Well, you thought. There must be something wrong with me. They liked me before they didn't, so the fault must've been mine.

You huffed out a sigh, pressing your face deep into the textured page of your sketch book, breathing in the smell of charcoal. You were sketching the illusive Fred Weasley, who you'd never truly drawn before. Maybe you had scraps from your second or third year when you'd still attempted to draw moving objects before getting comfortable and accepting that still life was your forte.

He was maddeningly good lucking when his eyebrows puckered in concentration. He seemed to actually be studying for once, sat at a table with his brother, George, and housemates Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet.

You were sat by yourself, and couldn't help listening to his lilting voice as he bantered with his friends. They were talking about Umbridge (the current victim of the Hogwarts' student body hate train), and quidditch, and their recent ban from quidditch. You'd never played.

"Watch out, dolly fell asleep," said one of the girls.

You bit your lip. You'd been nicknamed dolly by the girls in your dorm because of your porcelain doll you'd had since childhood. Even though this year was your last, you still hadn't felt the need to hide her away. She made you feel much less anxious and alone.

The whole school knew, naturally.

"Don't get any funny ideas," said Angelina,  to the twins.

"Come on Angie, you think so little of us?" said George.

"Yesterday I watched you trick a group of forth years into taking puking pastilles." Angelina said.

"It was hardly a trick. We told them they were multi-faceted," said George.

You could hear your heartbeat if you focused. It was in your ears. It bump, bump, bumped.

Bump bump. You flinched, a hand settled on your shoulder quickly moved.

"Wake up, dolly. Library's closing."

You squinted up into Fred's face, head halo'd by candlelight. Lifting your head from the wooden table, you stretched your neck to the left. It clicked.

"Uh..."

"Hmm?" You prompted him, smoothing your hair behind your ears.

"You have - dirt. On your face. Here-" He said, reaching forward. You closed your eyes as he gently wiped the skin above your eyebrow.

"It's charcoal."

"What?"

"It's not dirt," you said, peaking at him through your eyelashes. "It's charcoal."

He looked mildly surprised. You shifted, hoping to cover your sketch before he caught sight of it.

It didn't matter.

"It's me. My gorgeous dolly, you've created quite the masterpiece right there, haven't you? I look vexingly handsome, of course. Thought if that's a consequence of your skill or my handsomeness is anyones guess."

You were lost for words. "Uh, quite."

"Yes, yes, quite. Say, could I keep it?"

"... You want the drawing?"

"I'd love it, if that's okay."

"I," you quickly dug your thumbnail into the paper, tearing carefully at the centre. The paper came away a little ragged and smudged. "Of course. It's yours."

He handled it with care.

The librarian jingled her little bell again.

"Thank you. So, see you?"

"Yep," you agreed.

He nodded his head and bowed out with his friends. You tried not to feel paranoid at their laughter.

-

You were curled up in a hidden alcove, though it was hardly hidden. Most students knew where to seek privacy in the castle. You just so happened to get there first that evening.

You were trying to sketch Fred again. It felt weird to be missing a page from your book, and weirder still that you couldn't remember his face when he wasn't right in front of you. You tried, but it kept going wrong.

When you finally managed one you liked well enough, you had accidentally ruined it with a heavy hand and the wrong shade of brown.

He looked much too brunette.

You carefully rolled your coloured pencils back up, securing the leather ties tightly so as to keep every pencil confined.

Sighing morosely, you flipped to a new page. Things got so complicated sometimes, it made you agitated. You doodled a little sad face in the corner of your page. When the one thing that you enjoyed in life started to go wrong, it set off your whole mood.

Your birthday was coming up. It had been on your mind a lot lately. You'd spend it alone. That's what you figured. Nobody would know it was your birthday, or if they did, you weren't friends now, so...

You began with an arching circle, bisecting the lines appropriately. Feeling out the familiar lines of your own face came easy, the slight upper tilt of your brows, your hair and your pursed mouth. You always looked sad in the mirror, and it showed, dotted here and there when the only thing to draw was your own face.

The rudimentary outline of a birthday cake took form. The candles were unlit.

In a fit of unhappiness, you scratched out your mouth. It was never smiling.

"What did that piece of paper ever do to you?" said a voice.

You jumped. Fred was peering down at you curiously, wringing his hands. You put your pencil between the soft cover and smashed it flat, closed.

"Hi, dolly."

"Weasley."

"Oh, not even a first name?"

"You neglected mine first," you reasoned, rolling the words. He smiled at your joking tone.

"How rude of me. Hi, Y/N," he corrected himself.

"Hi, Weasley."

He smirked.

"Anymore of me in that blessed vessel?"

"Nah. You never stand still."

"If I pose for it?" He asked. You patted the ground in front of you.

He was a lovely model. He stayed infinitely still, more still than you imagined possible for him. He sat at a 3/4ths angle, chin up but not too far, mouth tilted and eyes open.

His eyes were the one thing he couldn't keep still. You tried not to flame in the cheeks everything you'd catch his gaze on you.

You sketched fast, choosing to hatch rather than render, big swooping lines to give the illusion of a depth that wasn't really there. You would've loved to do a full render, maybe even a colour portrait, but he was beginning to look a little antsy.

You set the book on the floor to face him and pushed it into his eyesight softlt. He turned. He looked nice like that, face bent, hair falling into his eyes.

After a moment, he began scrounging through his robe pockets. He set down a box, a lighter, a pair of gloves.

Finally, he set a galleon onto the floor close to your crossed legs.

"For you," he said, smiling at your inquisitive look. "For the drawing."

"Oh, I can't accept that. And I'd like to keep this one, if it's alright."

Fred thought for a moment. "Alright, you keep it. And the galleon, too, for the one you gave me the other day."

You bit back a smile. "I can't take your money, Fred."

"I can't keep having you draw me for free. It's as valuable a service as anything else. Plus, I'm not sure if you know, but I run a lucrative business these days."

You picked up the coin, rubbing your thumb against the engravings thoughtfully. "It's hardly a service."

"A talent, then. A skill. You're very good."

You're neck almost snapped as you looked into his face, wanting to assess his expression for genuineness. He looked earnest, and kind. You blinked away the gathering heat behind your eyes.

"Thank you."

He waved a hand at you. "Think nothing of it."

"Really-" you cleared your throat, "-you're doing me a favour. I'm not good at drawing things that move."

"I'm sure you're better than you think," he said.

You shook your head, smiling smiling smiling.

"What's in the box?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Fred weighed the box in his hands. It was soft at the corners, like a simple jewelry box that you had in your trunk. He offered it to you. You opened it carefully, the lid sliding free with a shhhhh sound. Inside was an evil looking fruit pastille, a match stick and a dried up flower petal.

It felt like a very private thing to see, suddenly. Such an eclectic collection of items couldn't be random.

"The first puking pastille George and I made. Or rather, the second - the first was forcibly fed to Lee Jordan in our third year. The match stick is from my Uncle's matchbox. I never met him. And the flower was from Ginny, when she was 9." He sounded nervous.

"It's a memory box."

"I- yes. It is. Things are sometimes so miserable now, with Umbridge and you-know-who. Scary, even. I look at them when I feel like it won't ever end."

You took them in for a little while longer and then placed the lid onto the box with nimble fingers. You scratched the lid with a fingernail.

"It's nice. You're right. Things are so awful right now, it's good to have reminders of why we keep going."

"Exaclty. Dolly, can I interest you in a fruit pastille?"

"Not on your life."

"They're perfectly edible!"

"Sure, Fred."

-

The honest conversation you'd shared with Fred was a catalyst between you. He often came to find you, each time whining and nagging you to just sit in the library like most people do.

"What, so your housemates can throw paper balls at me?"

"They thought you were sleeping!"

A likely story, you thought. He sometimes asked you to draw him, posing with the elegance of a natural born model. It was great for you personally, you felt that you were really getting a feel for his face. Eventually, you were able to draw his face from memory, the details of his nose coming to your fingers as easily as a first year spell.

It became about capturing emotion. You could capture his likeness now without a second thought, but his emotions were much more complicated. How would you show his veiled frustration the day Umbridge kicked him off the quidditch team? Through the clenching of his jaw? The shy veins in his forehead? How did you showcase the fear when he'd come back to Hogwarts after Christmas break, through his eyes, downturned and squinting just a little?

Today, it was poorly hidden elation. "How come you're so happy?" You asked, pencil between your teeth. He grinned. You measured his face with your thumb in the air, forming an L.

"Is it a prank?"

"You're thinking too small."

"A new product?"

"Still need to go bigger!"

"Hmmm," you hummed. Measure twice, cut once. Or in your case, sketch once.

"George and I, we're gonna open a shop."

"A section at Zonko's isn't enough for you?" You asked, casually, though you were very very happy for him.

"It's going to be amazing. We're going to run it, just the two of us, and you won't catch me in these scrappy long sleeves anymore. The next time you see me, I'll be in a full suit and tie."

"The next time? Is that not tomorrow?"

Fred closed his mouth, realising his mistake. He had revealed something he hadn't intended to. "We're leaving," he confessed. "We were going to wait for our NEWTs but... Well, we won't need them. This is going to work."

"So. You're leaving today?" You asked, crestfallen.

"Hey," Fred said, rubbing a placating hand over the curve of your shoulder. "Tomorrow. During the DADA OWL. We have a plan."

"This is goodbye?"

"No! No. Not if you don't want it to be. Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something, and maybe now isn't the best time, I had this whole letter planned and I didn't want to distract you from your exams and-"

"What do you want to ask me?"

Fred straightened. "I wanted to ask - will you go out with me? Not, you don't have to be my girlfriend if it's too soon, I'd love to take you for food someplace, I was going to ask you to Hogsmeade, but when the shop officially became ours, the plans changed so fast and I didn't know if you'd still want-" you cut off his rambling.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said.

"You will?"

"Sure, if you'll be my boyfriend," you murmured.

Fred moved the arm that had been on your shoulder to the nape of your neck. "That's a dealbreaker," he said, leaning in.

He kissed you chastely on the lips first and then pulled back to look into your face. You chased him, a moment of bravery, and opened your mouth to taste him. He was sweet, like sugar. Your sketch pad crinkled beneath you both as he pressed forward. Your chests touched, heaving.

"You're not gonna be my boyfriend?" You asked against his mouth, breathing hard.

"I'm gonna be much more than that, dolly," he said heatedly.

Your mouth was tingling. "Kiss me again?"

You gasped at the force of him, laughing. He laughed too against your lips, and the sound tickled. He gave you a multitude of short and sweet kisses before pulling away again.

He wiped the wetness from your lip with his pinky finger. "Godric, you're cute. Look how flushed you are! You're insane."

Something churned in your stomach. The butterflies had acquired a trampoline. You felt happier than you had in a very long time. "You're not half-bad yourself, Weasley."

[lazydoodlesandfanfic]

A Little Notebook (13th Doctor X Fem!Reader)

Characters: 13th Doctor X Fem!Reader

Universe: Doctor Who

Warnings: None

Request: ~~What about a thirteen x reader where 13 is low-key really into y/n but tries to ignore her feelings. Y/n is an artist and, unbeknownst to 13, has a whole bunch of sketches of 13 in her notebook. One day Yaz, who has been desperately trying to set the two up, strategically places the book in the console room. 13 finds the notebook, and y/n sees 13 looking at the sketches of her. Cue blushy y/n stuttering her way through some explanation and 13 kisses her and its v fluffy?

Graham and Ryan had been spectating the shenanigans going on around them and had remained silent, wanting to see how things turned out. Yaz had once been a spectator as well, but soon she grew restless and had to step in. 

It all started as soon as the fam met the doctor, and then when they met her companion, you. You had been separated when she had regenerated, managing to stay on the TARDIS, and the TARDIS managed to preserve you until the doctor could find the TARDIS again. They all could recount the look on the doctor’s face when she saw you dazed and confused, but alive on the TARDIS as the time machine broke your incubation. Absolute bliss, like nothing else mattered, pulling you into the tightest hug while you still had no idea she was your doctor. It was Ryan who commented that the doctor was probably in love with you, but no one said anything worried you were either unaware or didn’t feel the same. That was until Yas found your notebook. 

You didn’t hide your notebook, though no one really saw what was in it. They knew you drew in it, and they usually saw you drawing in it, and they knew you had been drawing the sceneries of the places you had gone, sometimes drawing people who you’d gotten to pose for you. You’d even drawn some of them before. However, they never saw into your notebook, until you dropped it on an adventure and Yas saw it and picked it up, and it flipped open. The page it landed on? A bunch of sketches of the doctor. You’d already rushed off as the doctor was trying to show you something, and so she tucked it into her coat to keep it safe for you. Ryan noticed she had your notebook and told Graham who was about ready to tell her off before she explained herself, and then showed what she found, and in the process found even more pages of the doctor, as well as pages of male faces that they realised were the past regenerations of the doctor.

In the end, it was Ryan who gave you the book back after snatching it from the other two who insisted on searching more into it, and you were immediately flustered at their discovery. That was their confirmation that you loved the doctor back. It was also with those older sketches that they realised, this had been going on a lot longer than they expected. A lot, lot, longer, and there was no sign of it ending. Yas took this as a calling for her intervention. 

“I have a plan.” Yas told the two men, and they quickly noticed the book in her hands. 

“Oh no.” Graham mumbled when he saw it, dreading whatever she had planned. 

“I hope you’re not planning to show the doctor those sketches.” Ryan warned. 

“Well no… kind of.” Yas said, putting her hands up in defense. “I just need you two to distract them both, and keep the doctor semi- close to the console room. Then we get the doctor to go back into the console room and find the notebook on a certain page.” She explained her plan. 

“So less directly showing her and more forcefully nudging her to stumble across it.” Ryan commented. 

“Exactly!” Yaz confirmed. “Come on! It won’t be hard!” She begged. The two men looked at each other before sighing and getting up. 

Distracting you both was easy enough. Ryan told you he wanted to see if you two could find the swimming pool the doctor had mentioned once, and Graham told the doctor he forgot where the library was again. Yaz quickly planted the book on the floor of the console, flipping the pages until she got to the perfect page and laid it carefully, before rushing to find Graham. She found the pair quickly before they’d even reached the library. “Doctor, the console made this weird sound, I don’t really know how to explain it.” She stated. 

“Alright, I’ll go see what the problem is. Do you remember the way to the library? Show Graham would you?” She asked of Yasmin before she left for the console. Instead the pair went to go find you and Ryan now. They found you wandering, Ryan keeping you in the general area. 

“What are you looking for?” Graham asked. 

“The swimming pool.” You answered him. 

“What’s the point of finding the swimming pool if we don’t have swimming costumes? Go ask the doctor where there’s any, and we’ll continue looking.” Yas told you. You thought nothing of it and headed to the console room. As soon as you were long gone, the three jumped on the spot and squealed in excitement. Everything had gone to plan. 

You wandered into the console room in a jog, about to ask the doctor where the swimsuits were, when you saw what she was looking at. In her hands was your notebook, and she was looking into it intently. She heard your footsteps and looked up, and you froze for a moment. 

“These are… of me?” She seemed to ask, flipping to another page, tilting her head. “Is that what I look like?” She asked, holding the page up to her face, smiling.  You were far too nervous to respond. She walked close to you. “They’re really good. You’ve even done some of what I used to look like.” She commented. “How come I never saw you doing it?” The doctor looked at you, the smile gone and a look in her eyes telling you she wanted answers. 

“Look, I know it’s weird it’s just that… please don’t hate me, it’s just that I like drawing you, it’s soothing and you’re kind of like my muse- I won’t do it anymore if you don’t want me to-” You rambled, trying desperately to not make the doctor upset with you, but your ramblings were cut off when the doctor grabbed your face and kissed you. You were startled, but didn’t move away from her kiss, though it ended a lot sooner than you would have liked. 

“Why would I want you to stop? They’re beautiful, just like you! I love them, and I love you!” She exclaimed happily, and you felt the rush of relief come over your body, now feeling rather flustered by her compliments, and this time kissing back when she gave you another. 

Hope you like it! If you have any questions, please send them in! 

*Not my gif

TAGS:  @courtneychicken​  @graysonmalfoy​ @bellero​ @originalpottervengerlock​ @supernatural-pan​ @esoltis280​ @lena-stan-xavier​ @lady-of-lies​ @sebstanismylife​ @macbetheliza @mandywholock1980​ @cdwmtjb8​ @caswinchester2000​ @determinedpines​

[letsmellowjello]

The Notebook

Pairings: Anakin Skywalker x Jedi!Reader

Warnings: just fluff and a tiny bit of language

Summary: Anakin doesn’t know that you draw him, but then he finds your notebook.

Notes: I absolutely hate how I wrote their little battle, it just seems so slow and not exciting. Just do me a favor and try and use your imagination a bit, okay? Just an fyi that nobody asked for, I honestly think I’m the funniest person ever and I think that the title that I chose is kinda funny (it really isn’t but still). Feedback is appreciated! The gif isn’t mine

Masterlist ~ Prompts/Requests

Some would call it stalkerish, others would call it infatuation, but you called it pure boredom and a good reference. Ever since you met Anakin Skywalker, you had been drawing him. Every spare moment was spent sketching away in your little notebook the lines of his face and the swoops of his hair. When you first started doing it you saw it as purely a way to kill time and hone your own art skills, but over time it became something of a habit and maybe, just maybe you were falling for him a little bit. Whenever you had a moment, you were always itching to take out your little notebook and pencil.

Of course Anakin never knew anything about it, you didn’t intend for him to. All he knew was that you liked to draw at times and that you had a notebook. You had to admit, it was a little creepy, but what else could you do when the pictures drew themselves? Anakin was absolutely gorgeous and a wonderful model even if he didn’t know it. You would never tell him any of these things, it would only boost his ego. 

“That was absolutely horrible,” You groaned as you and Anakin left the Jedi Council Chamber. You had both just debriefed the council of what had happened during you mission which was a complete and utter mess to say the least. Nobody had died thank goodness, but so many things went wrong and it had just taken so much longer than necessary.

“I can second that,” Anakin agreed. “I have to go see Obi-Wan real quick, but do you want to go grab something to eat later?”

“Sure, I’ll meet you in the banquet hall. See you later.” You turned and walked down the hall in the opposite direction of Anakin. You always loved your little post-mission dates. They weren’t actual dates of course, but it had become something of a ritual since you were padawans to go get something to eat and just talk and wind down after a mission.

You walked into the banquet hall and chose a seat next to one of the towering windows that overlooked the city of Coruscant. There were very few people in the hall as it was an odd time of the afternoon to be getting food, but you were both off for the rest of the day so you didn’t need to worry about missing a training session or meeting. 

As you sat down you sighed tiredly, it felt like you hadn’t gotten the chance to relax in forever, which wasn’t too far from the truth. During the mission, the only time that you had been able to get any amount of relaxation or rest was in between jumps and even then there wasn’t nearly enough time to properly sleep or do a little sketching. All throughout the mission and the debriefing with the council, you had been itching to take out your notebook and start drawing. So now, when you were finally able to sit back, you took out your notebook and began to transfer your creativity to the old and crinkled paper.

As time went on, Anakin’s face began to appear soon followed by his hair, neck, shoulders, and body. You had a really good memory when it came to remembering what things or people looked like so you could draw them later. The boy in your drawing was in a powerful stance with his lightsaber raised above his head to protect against his opposition. It had been when you were on Jedha for just a little bit of reconnaissance. It was supposed to be really easy and just a quick in and out. But Anakin being Anakin and you being you, of course you had gotten into trouble and had drawn some unwanted attention which then caused you to be fending off blasters while trying to escape.

The pages of your notebook were filled with similar sketches; some of him smiling, being angry, sad, thoughtful, you had it all. Anakin was just a very expressive person which made for some very interesting drawings.

Your pencil scratched lightly at the paper to shade in the shadows of his face when you felt a presence approach from behind you.

“Boo!” Whoever it was put their hands on your shoulders to scare you. Even though you knew that someone was there, you still squeaked in surprise. You quickly closed your notebook and turned to see Anakin, but not before he got a glance at your drawing. “Hey, what were you drawing?”

“Anakin! Don’t scare me like that! How did things with Obi-Wan go?” You completely ignored his question and tried to distract him away from your notebook.

“Hey hey hey, don’t change the subject. What were you drawing? Can I see? You’re always doing stuff in that notebook and I never know what it is.” He reached for it but you pulled it away.

“No! It’s none of your business!” You protested, trying to keep it away from him.

“Let me see!” He leaned across the table and tried to pull your arm closer so he could grab the book but you resisted. It soon became an all out battle to try and get the notebook with Anakin basically on top of the table and you leaning very far back in your chair. The few people who were in the hall looked over at the two of you in disdain at the ruckus that you were making. He climbed over the table but you quickly got up and tried to hide the book in your robes but then he was there preventing you from doing such a thing. The two of you fought ruthlessly against each other to obtain the book until you managed to break free of his grip and dart away but he was quick to follow. 

“Y/n get back here! I just want to see your drawing!” You were now jumping over tables and chairs to try and get away. Oh how Obi-Wan would not be pleased. The entire time he was on your heals but then he slowed and extended his arm using the Force to pull you back to him. 

“Hey! That’s cheating!” You protested as you tried to resist him, your feet slipping on the floor helplessly. Once he had pulled you to him, he wrapped his arms around you to try and stop you from struggling.

“Y/n just- argh stop moving! Just let me see!” Even though you were a powerful Jedi, his physical strength was too much. Realizing that there was nothing that you could do and that he would find out your secret sooner or later, you gave up and stopped squirming in his grasp. You let him take the book with a reluctant and frustrated huff.

“Anakin,” you said before he opened the book, “just know that it’s not as creepy as it looks. I promise, okay?”

“Um... okay?” He gave you a funny look and then directed his attention back to the notebook. He opened it up carefully and was absolutely dumbstruck at what he found. Almost all of the pages were filled with sketches of himself in all sorts of poses and expressions. Your face burned with embarrassment and all of the sudden the floor and your shuffling feet became the most interesting thing around. “Y/n... these are amazing...” he breathed.

You mumbled a “thank you” under your breath.

“So this is what you’ve been doing with every spare second?” He turned the notebook towards you. “You’ve been drawing me? You liiiiiiike meeee” his face scrunched up as he teased you.

“Oh shut up! No I don’t!”

“Yes you do! You like me! You like me! Why else would you only ever be drawing me then, huh?”

“Ugh fine! So what if I do? It’s just a couple of drawings! And besides, who would like a colossal ass such as yourself?”

“You would! Obviously.” He grinned at you as you turned away from him crossing your arms and huffed. “Oh come on y/n!” He took you by the shoulders and turned you to face him. “It’s not that big of a deal, and I don’t really blame you, I am quite amazing.” He wore a smug look on his face and subtly flexed his muscles. You rolled your eyes and began to move away but he pulled you right back, not letting go of your shoulders this time. You were now painfully aware of how close you were and the mere centimeters separating the two of you.

“I um, I have to-” You spluttered in any attempt to leave the situation. You didn’t want to meet his eyes because you knew that if you did you’d just fall for him even harder and this time you might not be able to control yourself. 

“Y/n...” Anakin’s voice was soft now and had lost it’s smugness and pride. “It’s okay, you don’t have to be ashamed. Hey, look at me.” He tilted your chin up a little bit and you reluctantly met his gaze. What you saw in his face startled you. You didn’t see that arrogant and prideful boy you knew, there wasn’t even a hint of teasing humor or cockiness in his face. Instead there was something else. Understanding, maybe? Shyness? Care? Who was this boy and what did he do with Anakin?

“It’s not okay though, I’ve broken one of the most prominent rules of the Jedi Code! I’ve fallen for someone, and another Jedi at that!”

“That makes two of us.” His voice came out as almost a whisper. You barely heard it, but when you did it took you a moment to register the gravity of his statement.

“Wait wha-?” And then the centimeters between you disappeared and his lips were on yours. Your eyes widened by then you relaxed and fell into the kiss. It was intoxicating, he was intoxicating. You had never experienced anything like it and weren’t sure you’d ever experience anything like it again. His hands came up to cup your cheeks and yours went to hold the back of his head, pulling him closer. But unfortunately, being human, you needed to breath. You separated reluctantly, but this time the space in between you buzzed with energy.

“So um...”

“Shhh no words. Just enjoy the moment.” 

“But-” Anakin placed a finger on your lips to quiet you.

“Shhh...” You obliged and gently rested your forehead on his.

After a moment of comfortable silence, he broke the quiet. “Do you think anyone saw us? What do you think will happen if the Jedi Council finds out?”

“Oh fuck the Jedi Council, what are they going to do? Get rid of their two best and youngest Jedis?” Your own words surprised you. That position was usually reserved for Anakin.

“I’d like to do that again y/n.”

“Me too...” The space began to close again and your eyes fluttered shut until the door to the banquet hall opened. You and Anakin careened away from each other to the other sides of the room.

“Ok, please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.” Obi-Wan stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and a disapproving but humorous look on his face.

“No nope, not at all Obi-Wan.” Anakin assured him and you nodded in agreement.

“Good, because you both know the repercussions that could follow. Anakin come with me, I need to have a little chat with my young padawan.”

“But I-” He protested.

“No buts! Let's go!” He took a fistful of Anakin’s robes and began dragging him out of the hall. On his way out Anakin gave you a helpless look that you could only laugh at.

Once they left you sank down into the nearest seat hugging the notebook to your chest, still riding out the high that you had gotten from the kiss. You felt like a lovesick little schoolgirl whose crush had just winked at her from across the playground. In all your years of life you never thought you would fall so fast and so hard for anyone, let alone Anakin Skywalker. Yet here you were. And as luck, or the Force, would have it, he felt the same about you. Obviously you couldn’t be together in the conventional way, but just knowing was enough for you. 

You did not know what the future held, but what you did know was that Anakin was in it.

~~~

Taglist: @umpoedameron

[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess

Miss Lake has been spotted on her way to New York, and by the time she gets there, Peggy thinks she has figured out why.

-

Peggy found it very difficult to sleep properly the next few nights.  She would toss and turn, with the bedclothes coming free of the mattress and her curlers coming loose in her hair, as she puzzled over the situation and tried to figure out what it all meant.

Based on Lake’s techniques it seemed clear enough that she had come from the same place as Dottie – a facility that trained women from childhood to be perfect, undetectable spies.  Evidently, it worked, since Peggy had now fallen for it twice. That being the case, it seemed clear enough that Lake’s mission was to locate Dottie and… and do what?  The Soviet government had already denied all knowledge of her and made it clear that they didn’t want her back.  Dottie didn’t seem to want to go back, most likely because she knew she’d be executed at once and nobody would shed a tear for her.

Either way, Dottie would be no longer be the SSR’s problem. That might be a good thing, except for the part where Soviet agents were operating on US soil apparently at will.  People like Masters, and now Governor Strieber in Nevada with the mob breathing down his neck, already thought the SSR was unnecessary in peacetime, or even actively doing more harm than good.  Capturing Dottie would be a way to demonstrate that they weren’t useless and could correct their mistakes.  But to capture Dottie they might first have to capture Lake.

And then, apparently just because all that wasn’t enough of a bloody headache, there were the numbers.

What else could they be, if not the location of the Valkyrie?  There wasn’t much else up in that part of Canada besides the occasional polar bear. The most obvious explanation seemed to be it was some kind of trick or trap, a distraction, a piece of psychological torture – which it definitely was – but what if?  If the Russians did know where Steve’s body was, had they already retrieved it?  During the war other countries had certainly been working on their own super-soldiers. The Geneva Convention had condemned such experiments as inhumane, but that certainly wasn’t enough to stop some people.

She was going to need a strong cup of tea in the morning if she were going to be good for anything.

How had she been so stupid?  The FBI didn’t employ female agents – posing as one had merely played to Peggy’s sympathies.  And she’d already known that Lake was an actress.  She’d been doing MacBeth when Peggy walked in and Rose had even said she wasn’t terrible.  When Daniel had told her Strieber had called in the FBI she should have asked for the agent’s name then and there, but she’d been too annoyed.  If she’d known to expect Nedrick instead of Nadine she could have arrested the woman at once!

Why had she given Peggy the telephone number for a place she actually was staying?  Had she really expected Peggy to get in touch with her?  Was she supposed to have found the envelope and rung her hours earlier?

Not that it mattered now… by now Lake was surely long-gone.  If she’d heard that they’d found the real Agent Russel, she’d probably left the country. The only way they’d find her now was an incredible stroke of luck, and Peggy knew better than to hope for that.

Two days after searching Lake’s apartment, however, Peggy got one.

She arrived at work, and Agent Sato immediately stood up. “Carter!” he called out.  “The Chief wants to see you in his office.”

Brilliant, Peggy thought… absolutely tremendous. What more could be added to this palaver?  “Thank you, Sato, I’ll be right there.”

She set her purse on her desk and her briefcase beside it, and went and knocked on Daniel’s door.

At this point she would have thought nothing could surprise her anymore, but it was a genuine shock when Daniel answered with a smile on his face.  “Good news, Peg,” he said.

“What, really?” she asked.

“We have a sighting!”  He let her in.  “I got a call from the New York office – a man saw the poster of Miss Lake and recognized it.  He says she was a stewardess on his flight from Chicago yesterday.”

It sounded too good to be true but damned if Peggy wouldn’t take it.  “From Chicago to where?”

“New York City,” Daniel said.

Peggy paused.  “Does that mean Dottie’s in New York?”

“That’s what Thompson thinks.  He’s asked for you.”

That was a second surprise.  “Thompson asked for me?” Peggy said, not sure she’d heard right. Jack Thompson considered Peggy a humiliation waiting to happen… whenever he thought he was onto something big his first reaction was to push her out of the way so she couldn’t get involved. That was how she’d ended up in Los Angeles in the first place and she doubted anybody had ever been happier to sign transfer papers than he.  Now he wanted her help?

“He said to tell you that you’re the expert on these Russian girls.  Also that he’s still sore, and his wife doesn’t think he should be back to work at all yet,” said Daniel.  “What he told me is that we know Miss Underwood considers you a personal rival, and…”

“And he wants to use me as bait,” Peggy finished for him.  Now, that sounded more like Thompson.  “Well, you be sure to tell him he can call upon my expertise anytime. Do you have my ticket?”

“It’s waiting for you at the airport,” Daniel replied.

“I’ll pack a bag and be on my way,” she promised.

Daniel nodded.  “When I came in today, I was thinking it had been a while since we had a date and with all that’s going on it might help you relax.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” Peggy promised, and kissed him quickly before hurrying out.  In the door, however, she hesitated.  “Has anyone heard from Agent Russel?”

“No,” said Daniel.  “We assumed he’d been taken off the case.”

“So did he,” Peggy replied.

It had only been a couple of weeks since Peggy’s formal transfer to the West Coast had gone through… she had certainly not expected she’d be heading back to New York so soon after finally clearing her things out of Howard’s house.  Angie would be happy to see her, and perhaps they’d be able to have lunch together…

But mostly what consumed her thoughts as the propellers roared into takeoff was the question of why Lake would have gone to New York.

Of course, the fact that she’d been on the flight didn’t necessarily mean that was her destination.  She could have been on her way to Canada, or Europe, or just about anywhere except Australia, really.  Unless she thought her quarry were there, there wasn’t much reason for her to stop in New York City.  That was clearly Thompson’s theory, but if he were wrong they might ultimate accomplish nothing.

Was there another reason for her to go to New York? What was in New York that the Soviets might be interested in, besides the SSR itself?

The answer came to her, and she sat up straight. “Fenhoff!”

The man in the seat next to her, who’d been snoozing with a newspaper over his head, twitched.  “Gezundheit,” he muttered before settling down again.

Of course, Peggy thought… Fenhoff was the one who’d hired Dottie under false pretenses.  He was a major part of the reason why the Americans even knew the Russian women were operatives.  He’d done irreparable harm to their national security for the sake of a personal grudge.  It was supposed to be a secret where he was being held, but that didn’t mean it actually was.  He was in Sing Sing, just up the Hudson River from New York City.  If anything, they had even more reason to want him dead than they did Dottie.  They would never have lost control of her if not for him.

She checked her watch.  Still over an hour until their next landing, when she’d be able to telephone Daniel and tell him.

Her layover was brief, but she did just barely have time to find a pay phone and pass her theory on to Daniel.  He promised to pass it on to Thompson and she got back on the plane feeling much less antsy.  Not that she felt any great love for Fenhoff himself, but the government wanted to keep him alive, and if it helped her catch Lake and Dottie, well… maybe Thompson had the right idea.  Bait.

When the plane finally landed in New York, the SSR had a car there waiting for Peggy.  She tossed her suitcase in the back and climbed in – Thompson was in the back seat.  Peggy took the place next to him and said, “Fenhoff.”

“Sousa already called me,” Thompson assured her. “We’re arranging to beef up security around the place but we’re not gonna make a show of it.  We don’t want to tip Lake off.”

Peggy nodded – it was nice to be taken seriously, although she had to wonder whether Daniel had mentioned it was Peggy’s idea. As the car pulled away to drive to her hotel, she couldn’t resist a dig.  “Well, Miss Underwood may not be in town, but it’s lucky I’m still the expert.”

“You can think like they do,” said Thompson, as if agreeing with her.  “That’s what we need right now.”

Thompson had never been shy about the belief that women were basically illogical creatures.  He would never even try to get into one’s head.  “You mean I’m… underhanded and duplicitous?” Peggy asked innocently.

“You’ve fooled all of us more than once,” Thompson pointed out.

He did have a point there.  Peggy decided to consider it a compliment.  “How’s your war wound?” she asked, referring to the time Thompson had been shot in a hotel room.

Thompson grimaced.  “Sally’s still treating me like an invalid.  She thinks this would be a great time for me to get an office job. Something where I don’t get shot at.”

“I hope you told her the SSR would be lost without you,” said Peggy.

He gave her a sideways look.  “Was that sarcasm, Carter?”

“Of course not!”  Peggy changed the subject.  “I assume somebody has already called and checked with Sing Sing?”

“Fenhoff’s still in his cell and very much alive,” Thompson replied.  “We also interviewed some of the other passengers and crew from the flight.”

“And?”

“They all agree that the sketch from Russel’s description looks like the stewardess.  The pilot told me one of the girls who was supposed to be working the flight got a call from the police in her hometown to say her husband had been arrested, so this other lady took her shift.  None of them had ever seen her before but they didn’t care as long as she did the job.”

“None of them will ever see her again, I’m sure,” Peggy said.  “Any sightings of Dottie?”

“None that we know of.”

“I see.”  So unless she really were on her way somewhere else, Fenhoff was the only reason Peggy knew of for Lake to be in New York.  The next few nights were going to be a series of long, tired, boring stake-outs, but it wasn’t as if Peggy would have been sleeping anyway.

Once she was settled into her hotel room, Peggy made a couple more telephone calls.  One was to Angie, to let her know she was in town and that the two of them could get together and catch up once she knew her schedule better.  Then she did her best to catch a few hours of sleep, knowing full well she’d be up the entire night.

This went better than she’d expected – rather than rolling around squirming as she thought of the missed opportunities, she nodded off quickly and napped for a couple of hours, waking up groggy but at least having had the rest.  It must be because she felt as if they were getting somewhere, she thought.  The idea that Lake would be after Fenhoff was only a theory at this point, but it was a good theory, one that allowed her to take some action.  She combed her hair and got dressed in practical trousers with her holster under her jacket, and met the car that would be taking her up to Sing Sing.

“You owe me one, Marge,” said Thompson, as Peggy climbed into another car with him.  “The prison’s only got a few girls working for them, mostly nurses and laundry, but they’ve sent them all home until further notice so this Kay can’t slip in among them.  They didn’t even want you there but I convinced them we needed you.”

“I’ll remember that,” Peggy promised.

“We’ll have men at all the exits,” Thompson went on, “but I’m gonna put you right next to Fenhoff’s cell.  Should be no way she can get that far.”

“Should be.”  But if she did, Peggy thought, Miss Lake was going to find herself with quite a bit of explaining to do.  Hopefully before turning her over to the men, Peggy could get an opportunity to ask about those bloody numbers.

[elliestormfound]

If you’re still looking for fic ideas: jaskier poses nude for paintings as a side gig, and Gerald has absolutely no clue until he saw one of the paintings for sale on the street or in some alderman or mayor’s house when he’s trying to negotiate a contract

Thank you so much for this wonderful idea, I had to giggle as I read it, I had to giggle as I thought about what I could write and I giggled the whole way through writing it. I hope I don’t disappoint.

If you, lovely anon, or anybody else have any more ideas/prompts for me, just send me an ask, please! This makes so much fun!

read on ao3

----------

“I saw a statue of you today in the mayor's manor,” Geralt told Jaskier upon returning with a wicked grin on his face. With a small surprised intake of breath Jaskier turned away, “I know I am beloved by the masses, but it would be new to me that they are building statues for me now,” he replied.

Geralt chuckled amused, “it was not really of you, but of the mayor.”

With an indignant huff Jaskier replied, “the mayor is at least 80 years old, Geralt, are you insulting me? Do you want to tell me that I look old?”

Geralt, still grinning, “no, calm down. The mayor has a marble statue standing in the middle of his hall of, as he says, himself in his prime. Butt-naked and with way much muscles than that prick ever had.”

Jaskier turned to the witcher, brows furrowed, “and what made you say it is a statue of me?”

The witcher told him how he had waited in the hall of the mayor’s manor for his payment for ridding the local forest of a fiend. The hall had been decorated with paintings of old men, probably some forefathers of the mayor and there had been a white marble statue in the middle of the room, bathed in sunlight. 

“And there was something about the statue that reminded me of you,” he said.

Jaskier just looked at him, one hand on his hip, head slightly tilted, lifting his eyebrows as to beckon him to continue. And Geralt burst out in laughter, pointing at him.

“The statue had that exact posture!” 

This was the poise Jaskier normally did when he was flirting with someone, or when he was scolding Geralt for something stupid like using plain soap for washing his hair instead of the scented one Jaskier had given him. 

What Geralt did not tell Jaskier was, that not only the posture reminded him of his bard, but the broadness of the marble shoulders, the long beautiful fingers on the hip and the curve of the ass, even how the hair was depicted, the delicate locks at the base of the skull tickling the neck were eerily like Jaskier’s. Geralt had by now seen Jaskier naked often enough. The bard was in no way shy and sharing campsites and small inn-rooms made it hard not to get the occasional glimpse of the other. But of course Geralt had never looked that closely at the naked bard. 

“The only thing remotely looking like the mayor was the face,” the witcher said, “he had probably some young handsome lad pose for the sculptor and made him put his ugly face on the statue.”

Geralt did not notice Jaskier blushing as he turned away.

------------------------------

A few weeks later Geralt had begrudgingly accepted to accompany Jaskier to a feast at some small court. He had instantly forgotten what was celebrated and was regretting his promise to come as he was fumbling with the uncomfortably stiff and tight new doublet Jaskier made him wear. As usual he was to protect the bard in case any cuckolded spouse was to run into them. 

“Oh, there you are,” Geralt heard a sweet voice call after them. With a barely audible sigh Jaskier turned around, his showman smile plastered on his face, “Countess de Stael, as always does your beautiful smile shine brighter than the sun.” He made a low bow and accepted the hand of the woman for a delicate kiss. 

“Julian, the painting is finally done,” she said, beaming widely, “do you wish to see it?” 

Jaskier stole a glance at Geralt and with a gasp the Countess turned to the witcher and said, “oh, forgive me, I was so overcome with joy to see my Julian again, that I forgot all my manners.” She curtsied in Geralt's direction and offered him her hand as well, “Anne-Louise de Stael, Countess and biggest admirer of our Julian here.” She winked at the bard. 

Geralt hadn’t said anything yet, just shot a look over to Jaskier as the countess curtsied and had mouthed “my Julian?” with a raised eyebrow and the hint of a smirk. 

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier said with a side glance at the witcher, “if you don’t mind, I can come by tomorrow and we will have a look at the painting?”

The countess turned to Geralt again, “master witcher, I am sure you are an admirer of the fine arts as well and wish to have a look? Julian must have told you how tedious it was to pose for six days straight. But he did such a good job,” she finished dreamily. 

Geralt looked at Jaskier and registered a slight blush creeping up his neck and with a wicked grin said, “I do indeed enjoy the finer arts. Let’s have a look at this painting of our Julian.” 

The countess linked her arm with Geralt and steered him toward a stairwell with Jaskier in tow. They entered a light filled room and Geralt had to stifle a laugh as he saw the huge painting, higher than he was tall and wider than two times his length. Depicted in the enormous painting was Jaskier. Completely naked. Sprawled on a thick red carpet, propped up on one elbow, being fed grapes by a naked lady, probably the Countess herself. Geralt turned to Jaskier with a huge grin, seeing countless emotions battle on the handsome face, ranging from embarrassment, to appreciation and even pride. 

“That is,” the bard began, but had to cough to steady his voice, “larger than I expected.” 

And after a moment to Geralt he said, “the painter just did sketches when I was here.” 

Geralt still grinned like a lunatic and turned to the Countess, “will you show the painting to the other guests?” 

Jaskier seemed to have overcome the first wave of embarrassment and took a closer look at the artwork, starting to discuss details with the Countess and Geralt found himself also staring at the canvass. The larger than life painted bard looked relaxed and the colour of his skin almost seemed to have a golden glow. The muscled biceps were as accurately depicted as the brown hair dusting his chest. And even though it was a painting, created to be looked at, he was not sure if he should be studying the lower part of the bard’s body that closely. As he felt a blush creeping up his ears, he turned around and fled the room back to the party in search of a glass of wine. Or better a whole bottle. 

Read my (slightly) longer fics on ao3

[upthenorthmountain]

Heartwood - Chapter Eight

Previous Chapters

The penultimate chapter! One more to go. No more smut, I’m sorry (not in the main story anyway) (you all know that I like to add bits in) (especially, here, we’re not seeing any of Kristoff’s POV, some of that might turn up at some point).

Chapter 8

A few days later Anna had a meeting with Mr Owens. She brought her marriage certificate and he congratulated her, then made arrangements for her to access the accounts for the money her parents had left. She also remade her will, and she’d thought she already knew exactly what she was going to do, but there were so many little niggling details that it took a long time. She wanted to leave the jewellery that had been their mother’s to Elsa, she might as well have it; but had to describe each piece. And she wanted to make sure that Kristoff got his grandmother’s ring back, of course. Then she had to decide what would happen if Kristoff pre-deceased her, or if Elsa did, or if she had a baby (and that led to some feelings that Anna quickly sealed in a box and put away. Another thing that would never happen. No point dwelling on it).

Once everything was done, she said to Mr Owens, “I’d like to buy Bennett’s Field. I’m assuming the developer doesn’t want it any more.”

He hesitated. “I believe it has already been sold.”

“Oh…”

“It can’t be used for housing anyway, now, you know.”

“I know. Thank you.”

She walked out to the taxi rank, annoyed. It had only been six weeks or so; someone else must have been waiting. She should have made enquiries earlier, but she’d wanted to be sure of the money. At least it couldn’t be housing. Hopefully someone just wanted to put some cows on there, or something.

----

Anna had, by now, stopped asking Kristoff about his mysterious occupation. Sometimes it had been fun to think of things to ask (“Are you a taxidermist?” “No.” “Are you a spy?” “No.” “Are you Taylor Swift’s bodyguard?” “From an office shed in the woods? No.”), but soon she found she didn’t really care. It genuinely didn’t matter. Some days he would shut himself up and only come out for dinner; once a month or so he would go up to London on the train and often not come back until the next day. The rest of the time he worked in the garden, or took her on long walks through the countryside, or sat in the living room and played his guitar or the piano.

Anna had been surprised to find out that the piano was in perfect tune. The stool was full of odds and ends of sheet music, and half-remembered lessons from fifteen years ago came back when she sat down and tried to play. It was so much more pleasant to play whatever she wanted, without anyone standing over her or expecting her to make actual progress.

She had all the time in the world now, for other hobbies she’d forgotten about or that were alleged to make too much mess. She sketched the cat in every pose, and did watercolour painting of the flowers from the gardens. Lillian taught her how to make bread, and she got pretty good. And she cycled everywhere she felt like. Sometimes Kristoff would put both their bikes in the back of the camper and they’d go off and explore somewhere else - her legs were getting strong enough to keep up with him, now. 

They also took the camper to the beach, sometimes; sometimes at the weekend during the day, when there were crowds of people and children making sandcastles, and they paddled in the sea and ate ice cream and people-watched; but more often in the early evening during the week, to somewhere quieter, where they might be the only people in miles. Once or twice they slept in the camper overnight, within sound of the waves, waking with the dawn.

That summer lasted forever and was over in a second. Anna helped in the garden and ate strawberries straight off the plant and fresh green peas out of the pod. She gathered sweet peas and poppies and daisies and filled vases in the house, but they never lasted long so in the end she started just enjoying them in the garden. Kristoff didn’t own a lawnmower, it was true, but he did hack down the grass occasionally with a scythe while Anna watched from a safe distance.

But mostly they walked. The bridleway behind the house led to a network of footpaths through the countryside, forests and farms and streams. Sometimes they took a packed lunch and stayed out all day. Anna loved it; sometimes she felt like she was living in a John Foster song. It was hard to remember listening to the music and looking longingly towards the woods, those few months ago.

One time when they were walking through a clearing Anna couldn’t help herself. The beams of sunlight hitting the forest floor were just so - she sang the refrain of Thistle Harvest softly, to the trees. Kristoff shot her a look.

“Must you?”

“Yes,” Anna said firmly, and sang it again, a little louder. Kristoff pulled a face.

“You have a lovely voice,” he said, “But surely you know other songs.”

“That song belongs here,” Anna said. “Right here, in this clearing. Okay, okay, I’m done now. But moments like that are what that song was written for - I don’t care what you think about John Foster, it would have been sacrilege not to sing it.”

He rolled his eyes, said “Well, if you’ve got that out of your system,” and walked on down the path.

----

One night that stuck in her memory was after the end of a long, hot week. The temperature had climbed, and the air had grown denser and heavier until all the weather could do was break, which it did just after nightfall on the Friday. The fresh cold air came sweeping through the forest, and Anna - who had just put on her pyjamas - ran outside into the garden. Her feet were bare and she shivered, but it was wonderful, after so many sweaty days and nights, to be shivering.

“It’s about to pour,” Kristoff said from just outside the back door, holding his toothbrush. “Come in before you get soaked.” Thunder rolled.

“I don’t care if I do,” Anna said. She looked up at the sky, and shivered again at another cool breeze. “I love the air before a storm, don’t you? It feels so alive.”

Kristoff ducked back inside, then he walked across the garden to her, his arms folded. She grinned at him, and he leant down and kissed her - just as the rain started, large wet raindrops that drummed on the corrugated plastic roof of the covered path by the back door, that soaked Anna’s hair until they ran down her back and her nose. 

Eventually they had to run back into the house, dripping and laughing. 

“You’re freezing,” Kristoff said as they stood just inside the back door, “You’ll catch your death -” then he froze, just for a second. “I’ll get your towel,” he said, and he was gone.

-----

If there was a point when things changed, that was it. He was still kind, and perfectly nice and friendly, and a pleasure to share a house with. But gradually he withdrew. He would still happily hug her, put a hand on her arm or the small of her back, but he kissed her less and less. The sex dwindled away as well, and Anna didn’t want to push anything. This wasn’t some kind of - slutty make-a-wish programme. 

Not that she thought he hadn’t wanted to, before - he’d obviously had a crush on her, that was all, and over time it had passed. These things burnt out after a while, sometimes, she guessed. It was still a lot nicer living here than at home, and when she made noises about moving out a couple of times he very quickly told her that she was welcome to stay as long as she wanted, he liked having her here, and that Banjo would miss her, and what would he say to Lillian? So she stayed. They both still wore their rings.

I don’t care if he doesn’t love me, she thought. I hope he DOESN’T, I never wanted him to. He likes me well enough to let me live here, and to be nice to me, and try to make me happy; I don’t want him to love me. If he doesn’t love me, then when I die, he’ll just be a little sad to lose a friend. But I never wanted to break his heart. That wouldn’t be fair.

-----

Anna told Kristoff she wanted summer to last forever. “For everything there is a season,” he said. “Autumn can be nice, too.”

That autumn was mild but wet. On dry days Anna still went for walks, alone or with her husband, but on damp ones he worked in his office and she found things to do at home. It was such a small house that it was easy to stay on top of the housework. Her big project for the autumn was knitting a jumper. Lillian had suggested it - Anna had asked her to teach her how to knit, and was expecting to make a scarf, but Lillian insisted that was boring and that a jumper on big needles would be more fun and not take much longer. They’d made a trip together to the wool shop in town and Anna had chosen soft thick yarn in a mustard yellow. She had to redo the back three times and it came out huge and with one sleeve longer than the other but she loved it and wore it constantly. 

She offered to make one for Kristoff but he insisted she not go to the trouble.

She was wearing it one day when he came into the living room and found her scowling at her phone.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing - well - John Foster is doing a gig in London next month, and he hardly ever does live shows, and they released the tickets literally two minutes ago and they’re all gone. I mean, I knew it’d be super-popular. But I did want to go. Not with you, obviously. But Rebecca is a fan as well. Oh, well. Never mind.”

“I’m sorry.”

Kristoff went up to London the next day and got back late; Anna woke when he got into the bed and snuggled up against him, then when she woke in the morning he was already up and out of the bedroom. But when she turned over and put her arm across his pillow, she found something pointy. An envelope. And inside were two tickets to the John Foster gig, paper-clipped together and with a post-it note saying ‘K. Bjorgman’ stuck to them.

“Someone I know helped me out,” was all he would say when she thanked him. “Just please don’t make me go with you.”

-----

Winter was drier and colder. Anna was dreading having to invite Elsa for Christmas - she couldn’t leave her alone, at Christmas - and then got a short text message in mid-December from Elsa telling Anna that she would be visiting a friend over the festive period so would be unable to receive guests. Lillian invited Anna and Kristoff for Christmas dinner, instead, and it was so lovely and cosy that Anna didn’t miss her sister at all.

One day in January it snowed and Anna made a row of snowmen in the orchard. They lasted, melting stumps, long after the rest of the snow had gone, and Anna couldn’t bear to break them down but still hated to see them disappear. “For everything there is a season,” Kristoff said.

He was her best friend. She didn’t think she’d ever had one before. She could say anything to him, and she got the impression he told her things he’d never told anyone else. They were so comfortable together. Anna thought, sometimes, about all the travelling she’d imagined she would do; but why would she want to be anywhere but in front of the fire, reading or chatting or drinking tea, with her favourite person in the world?

He was still free with his hugs, even if he didn’t seem interested in anything else physical. And even without central heating, Anna was never cold at night - Kristoff was like a radiator, and in his sleep he would wrap his arms around her and she would snuggle up close. Anna had never been too fond of winter before, but this one was very bearable. Sometimes, if she woke in the night, she would even deliberately lie there awake for a while, just enjoying how warm and cosy and content she felt.

-----

And then it was spring. And it was Anna’s birthday again.

She’d known, somehow, that she’d see it. She’d always counted on having her full year, even if that would have seemed foolish to say out loud. She told Kristoff she didn’t want any fuss, but he insisted that they at least go for a picnic; so she wore her red dress and brought the sparkly shoes, although she wore trainers to walk to the picnic spot. 

Afterwards, though, she kept the heels on. What did it matter if the mud ruined them? She managed to get over a stile without help, and they were only half a mile away from home when it happened.

Their route took them along the side of a country road, and it crossed the railway line at a level crossing. The lights and alarms were going when they got to it, but the barrier was only just starting to go down, so Kristoff ducked under it and strode across the track. Anna scurried after him  - while mentally tutting at him for not waiting - and nearly wrenched her ankle when her heel got caught in the rail.

“Kristoff!” she called, at first just to let him know that he was leaving her behind. But then she still couldn’t free her foot.

The barriers were all the way down now. Anna put both hands on her ankle and tugged but the heel was caught fast. Then Kristoff was there, and he was trying to turn her foot to free it - Anna was seized with a blinding panic and tried to push him away, the train must be coming - but he wouldn’t go, and her heart was beating so fast that she was certain she was going to die right here one way or another. “Go, go!” she shouted at him - and looked up, and saw the train in the distance.

She couldn’t move. Just for one second, everything froze - and then Kristoff had pushed the strap of her shoe over the heel of her foot and he was pulling her, almost lifting her bodily off the track and into the hedgerow on the other side of the crossing.

The train thundered past, horn blaring. The noise and the wheels were so close and they went on forever, then suddenly stopped.

The road was silent. The birds started singing again. Kristoff stood, and put out his hand to pull Anna to her feet; there was a fallen log lying by the side of the road, and they sat on it.

“Are you alright?” Kristoff said after a couple of minutes.

“Yes.” And oh - how she wished she could have given him a different answer. A shock would kill her, the doctor had said. What could be a bigger shock than what had just happened? But her heartbeat was slowing to normal; she felt a little shaky, but no more than anyone else would, after all that. How could that be? 

“Sure?”

“Yes. Are you -”

“I’m fine.” Kristoff stood and picked up his rucksack from where he’d dropped it, and took out Anna’s trainers. She put them on and handed him the single remaining shoe, the other so pulverised by the train that no sign of it remained. He put the shoe in the rucksack, put it back on his shoulders, and, without a word, turned and walked towards home.

When they got there he shut himself in his office and didn’t come out until after Anna was asleep.

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

Helllooo May i request a fic where the reader is an art student in the university of oxenfurt and Jaskier come in as a model one day. She falls in love with him immidiatally and just cant stop painting pictures about him. Later Jask visits her in her studio and see all the stuff about himself. Then love confession( maybe he's been writing songs about her) and some soft kissing😇

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Jaskier x ReaderWord Count: 2,099Rating: TTaglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mynamesoundslikesherlock @magic-multicolored-miracle @writingstudent @mlleecrivaine @coffee-and-stories @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @astouract @your-not-invisible-to-me @kemmastan a/n: This was a lovely prompt, I hope you like what I did with i!

“Hmm… I don’t think you’ve quite captured me.”

You shook your head and a little smile turned up the corner of your mouth but you kept your eyes focused on your canvas.

“You are supposed to be a model and models don’t speak,” you murmured quietly.

“I’m so bored though.”

You glanced up at the man who posed in front of you. Jaskier was hunched over, chin resting on his fist. He looked more pouting than pensive as he was supposed to be but the moment your eyes met, he perked up a bit.

There was no one else in the art studio since it was after hours, class having ended long ago. You’d been sick one day and Jaskier had graciously volunteered to come by and help you catch up on what you’d missed. You were in week three of the “month long strip tease” as he called it, taking a layer off each time. This week he was down to a loosely untucked chemise, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and pants whose laces were undone but still rested just at the hip. Boots were long gone, leaving him barefoot. Indeed, if anyone who walked by the doors saw him in his attire and you, a bit sweaty with disheveled hair, tired after a long day of classes made longer by this extra work, they would have assumed something unsavory was happening. They would have been tragically mistaken.

“You didn’t have to agree to this. Hell, it was your idea,” you reminded him, extending the handle of your paintbrush to gently position his chin back to where it was supposed to be. He playfully nipped at the brush but then moved back into position dutifully.

“Hmm, yes, and why do you suppose I did that?” he asked. It was the same flirtatious tone he used with everyone and you knew that, but still you felt a little shiver of excitement at the tone. Perhaps one day someone would use that with you and mean it but it wouldn’t be Jaskier, the traveling bard with a thousand muses around the globe. He had no need for a simple art student with barely enough life experiences to count on one hand. That would change when you graduated, though. You were determined. Though as the day came closer you grew more anxious about those barely conceived plans.

“You are a patron of the arts of course,” you replied, mixing the shades of blue together. You’d known the first day he walked into the classroom that those eyes would torment you as you tried to create the right shade to capture them. You knew you’d never feel you truly got it right and so far you’d been correct. You’d made far more paintings than the three you’d done for class. In your personal studio you had what appeared to be a shrine to the bard. You just couldn’t get him out of your head and your fingers itched constantly to paint him again, to try and capture his likeness better, more accurately.

“I suppose that must be it,” Jaskier said in somewhat plaintive tone. Yet when you looked back at him again he gave you a little wink and you stopped worrying, rolling your eyes again and setting to get the portrait done.

You were finished before another hour passed and though he tried to catch a glimpse you successfully hid it from him.

“I offered you a deal,” you said, “You show me the song you’ve been working on and I’ll show you the painting that I’m working on. A fair trade of artistic sampling.”

“Perhaps another time,” he said, “May I walk you home?”

Since meeting in that first class nearly a month ago the pair of you had struck up an easy friendship. In truth you felt much more than that for him but you were happy just for the chance to talk with him, much less anything else. He was brilliant and funny and endlessly encouraging. When you told him of your dreams of traveling he’d insisted that you do it and even offered to introduce you to some nobles who had a keen eye for artists they wanted to support. In all of that time, though, you’d never seen each other away from the sprawling campus of Oxenfurt University.

“Alright,” you said a little reluctantly, nervous but also unwilling to pass up a single opportunity to spend more time with him. He gallantly offered you his arm and the pair of you walked through the streets. It was twilight and lamplighters were roving about to light the lanterns that would keep you safe as you walked, the skies bathed in a soft golden and pink watercolor.

“Are you excited to be finishing classes soon?” Jaskier asked.

“I should be,” you said. He laughed, but not unkindly. It was a laugh of understanding.

“I felt much the same when I approached graduation,” he said, “Sometimes I think that’s why I come back so often to lecture and just visit. I felt safe here.”

“Do you not feel safe out there?” you asked.

“No. But that’s part of the fun of it, right? The uncertainty, the potential for danger which makes it exciting,” he mused.

“I suppose so… But I do wish there was a way to both have adventures and be safe or at least feel safer,” you replied.

“Travelling with a witcher has helped a bit. You’re much harder to kill with one around,” he said.

“You’re also the target of more attacks though,” you countered. You’d heard him tell stories about his adventures to breathless students but you hadn’t joined in on their glee. Instead you’d grown more and more worried about the bard’s safety and whether you’d ever see him again once he’d left the school to join Geralt on his next hunt.

“Well there’s always a tradeoff,” Jaskier said glibly. You walked in silence for a time and when you reached your home you realized that at some point during the walk your hooked elbows had slid down to clasped hands. You both noticed at the same time and laughed a little nervously.

“Would you like some tea?” you offered instinctively, not wanting the moment to end. Jaskier eagerly agreed and followed you into your house. It was a humble place but he praised it as though it were a mansion, and he’d likely seen many in his time. Hell, as a viscount, perhaps he had even been raised in one.

“Make yourself at home,” you called as you walked to the little kitchen to get the fire going. Jaskier didn’t need telling twice, already walking around the room, looking at book titles and little drawings. He smiled at what appeared to be an early art piece of yours that had been lovingly framed by a family member, a drawing scrawled by a child that seemed to be… a dog? An elephant? Some animal. He continued to walk through the little house, glancing into the open door of your bedroom. There was a closed door and though he knew you probably would rather he didn’t, he couldn’t fight back his curiosity and opened the door.

—–

“Jaskier? Tea is ready! Jaskier?” you walked back into the little living area and saw no sign of him. You poked your head down the hall and almost walked back away, thinking he may have left suddenly, and then you saw a sliver of light coming from the door you knew had been closed. Your heart leapt to your throat and you ran towards it as though you could outpace what had already occurred.

There stood Jaskier, staring at a portrait you’d most recently completed, surrounded by sketches. Not all were of his entire face or body but you knew that he knew exactly whose disembodied hands and eyes and mouth and other randomly positioned angles of body they were.

“Fuck, ok, I can explain,” you began, heart beating a mile a minute. Jaskier turned to look at you but you didn’t see fear or disgust, just a soft look of surprise.

“Y/N?” he said.

He was giving you the chance to explain like you said you would but no words came to mind. You just stared at him blankly, panicking, feeling the walls close in around you.

“I think… I may be able to help,” he said. He walked past you and you waited to hear the front door open and close as he left, possibly to get the guards but most likely just to escape you. But then you heard him walk back, holding the leather notebook he drew in often but never showed you. He opened it to a page and handed the book to you, a nervous, expectant look in his pale, blue eyes. You took it with trembling fingers and at first you weren’t sure why he was showing it. Perhaps he thought that he should offer some exchange of art since he’d seen yours. Maybe he somehow didn’t recognize the man in the pictures as himself. Maybe this could all blow over and be nothing.

And then you saw your name.

“Jaskier what is this?” you asked, flipping the pages and finding more descriptions, not with your name specifically, but of a woman who sounded unmistakably like yourself.

“This is the bardic version of what this room shows, I believe,” he said, his voice soft, “They’re pieces dedicated to someone I have fallen very much in love with over the last few weeks.”

Your wide eyes tore away from the journal to meet Jaskier’s. Now he was the one who looked uncertain and scared, waiting for you to run from him.

“You don’t think it’s weird then?” you asked, gesturing to the room as you placed the journal on a shelf nearby, hands trembling too much to keep a secure hold of it.

“Oh no, it’s very weird. But love makes you do weird things. Like fill a journal full of half-formed songs about someone or stay late to pose for paintings or snoop in rooms you know you shouldn’t because you just can’t resist getting every little bit of them you can,” he replied, moving a bit closer and gently brushing his fingers against your cheek. Though he’d thrown on his doublet again the chemise was still unbuttoned and you rested your hands against his chest, fingers twining in the dark hair.

“Whoever said anything about love?” you teased, “I could just be incredibly enamored or perhaps a very artistic murderer.”

“Well I was speaking for myself mostly,” he answered, “But you’re right. I should be concerned. Shall I call Geralt to defend me against you and your wicked brush?”

“Ooh watch out, Jaskier, don’t sass me! You may find yourself having a brush with death,” you said, emphasizing the pun unnecessarily. Jaskier groaned and shook his head.

“Shut up and kiss me before I change my mind.”

You opened your mouth to make some other, terrible joke but he stopped you with a kiss, mouth brushing against yours with the barest touch but you recaptured his lips with yours and felt him card his hand through your hair as yours tightened against his chest. His kisses were soft and tender and nothing like what you’d expected the renowned rogue to offer but then the people who spread those rumors hadn’t known him like you did.

“Come with me,” Jaskier whispered against your lips.

“What?” you breathed back. His eyes found yours and you were struck again by the puzzling color. Was it blue? Or was it grey? Was it even the same thing all the time or did they change on you? You would spend the rest of your life trying to figure it out but oh what a happy quest.

“When you graduate you said you want to travel the world. You’re graduating soon. Come with me when you do. I’ll take you everywhere. I’ll show you the world. I can’t promise to keep you safe, there is always a tradeoff, but I will do everything I can and I promise you it won’t be boring,” he replied, words spoken in a hushed tone like someone offering a fervent prayer. You considered his words, thinking about the risks but more than that, thinking about the things that are worth taking risks for. And the people.

“Ok,” you breathed in response, “Yes. Take me with you. Show me everything.”

“Oh love,” he said, licking his lips which quirked into a wicked grin, “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

[thetriggeredhappy]

if ur still taking them... 28 pyroscout 🥺

pyro tf2 said trans rights and scout tf2 said disaster bi rights and the team said queer rights and that’s what’s up, sis. (warning for discussion of past transphobia and other queer issues)

#28: First kiss.

It wasn’t that Scout was all that surprised to have Pyro end up as basically his best friend. He’d secretly been hoping that he’d get to be friends with a few of his coworkers when he’d taken the job, and Pyro was pretty close to him in age and shared a few of the same interests as him so it wasn’t unreasonable to expect to get along. It was just…

Maybe it would be more accurate to say that it was a little bit of an honor.

They hung out in plenty of places—watching TV or playing card games in the common room, hopping into a car and heading into town to watch the latest movie once or twice (or like eight times if they both really liked it), sometimes out back to start a bonfire or something for the hell of it.

But Pyro’s room tended to be his favorite hangout location of theirs, because that was the only place where they were okay with taking off their mask and suit.

Pyro had tried very hard not to make a big deal out of it the first time they’d unmasked in front of Scout. He’d been confused about what they were doing unclasping the bottom of it, since they didn’t have any food with them or anything and that was the only reason they usually did that—to sneak bites of food beneath. But then they shucked the whole thing up and over their head, shaking their head to re-orient themselves, sending their hair—he’d never thought about what Pyro’s hair had to be like before, how had he never thought of that?—bouncing around their face loosely, half-flattened but clearly very naturally curly. Pyro had to take a moment to fish something else out of their mask, a cap of some kind, probably to hold their hair down, and they clearly were trying very hard to avoid eye contact, nervous.

Scout, for once, was at a loss for words, mouth flapping in a way that was probably pretty similar to a fish for something like thirty seconds straight.

“Hey,” he finally managed, pointing at his own face where assorted freckles dotted his cheeks. “We match.”

Pyro glanced up at him, a little startled, then barked a laugh, and it sounded so much better when it wasn’t muffled. They hesitated a few more moments before they pulled off their gloves as well and set all of the newly-shed pieces of uniform down on their cluttered desk, fidgeting severely. “I guess so,” Pyro confirmed, and Scout had never noticed before that they had a very slight accent, too light for him to pick out what it had to be. “I’d never, I couldn’t tell before. With the…”

They pantomimed something up near their eyes, words stalling on them. It took Scout a few seconds to get what they meant. “With the mask?” he asked for confirmation. They nodded. “Oh. Huh. So it’s kinda like your first time seeing me too, huh?”

Pyro laughed. “I guess so,” they repeated, scratching at their stubble self-consciously, or maybe just because they finally could, and then Scout made an effort to both just move on with the rest of what all they were planning on doing when they hung out and also with not staring too much.

The jump to stripping off their suit as far as the tank top and thick-but-tight sweatpants they wore underneath was done a few weeks later when Scout had demonstrated that he wasn’t planning on saying anything, and he was only a little surprised by the plethora of burn marks and scars dotting their skin. He’d noticed an awful lot of scars all over Pyro, and he figured it was probably from when Pyro had been working as a mercenary before Mann Co., something he was aware had happened but hadn’t been able to coax Pyro into talking about. But it was nothing heinous, nothing that he figured warranted a full-body suit to hide it.

He tried to work out how exactly to ask Pyro why they wore the suit without being weird or rude. Luckily, he didn’t have to.

“I appreciate it, you know,” Pyro said one day unprompted, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. They were sat a foot or so apart on Pyro’s bed and drawing, Scout sketching out a dramatic rendition of a particularly funny pose he’d seen the enemy Sniper land in when he died and Pyro apparently drawing yet another unrealistically bright technicolor landscape.

“What?” Scout asked, glancing over at them, more obviously than he’d been occasionally doing the whole time they’d been drawing together. They tended to do this really adorable thing where they stuck their tongue out a little bit when they were concentrating, and Scout had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling every time he saw it.

“That you don’t…” They hesitated. “…I dunno. That you don’t try and guess, now that you’ve seen me.”

Scout tilted his head. “Huh?”

Pyro’s gaze flickered to him and back down again almost too quickly to see. “You keep… not calling me anything,” they said. “Except for dude sometimes, but, you call everyone that anyways. That you still try and use “pal” or “buddy” instead of “man” or “lady” or whatever.”

Scout blinked.

Admittedly, there had been a good month or two right after he joined the team where he didn’t know how to refer to Pyro, and had just gone with using “he”, figuring it would be the less offensive assumption for someone in a mercenary career. Then at some point Engie finally sat him down and explained things to him, and after about a week of stumbling he finally got in the practice of using “they” and other words that weren’t particularly for a guy or girl. He couldn’t say that he really got it in a lot of ways, but he’d worked hard to learn the rules on how to be polite, because he figured he owed them that at the very minimum, if nothing else.

“What do you mean?” he asked after a second.

Pyro turned the marker in their hand over and over again. “Back before I started wearing the suit,” they started to explain, gesturing loosely at the suit in question, laid down on the chair at their desk like a deflated second Pyro (and admittedly sometimes scaring the shit out of Scout when he forgot it was there and noticed it in his periphery). “I would try and tell people I worked with that I wasn’t a guy or a girl, and they’d say sure, whatever, who cares, as long as you can kill people. But they’d look at me and start referring to me as a guy anyways. Sometimes a girl, but not usually. And only as… as neither, or both, or whatever, when I corrected them and maybe for a little while after.” They scratched at their stubble again. It was getting longer, and they’d probably shave pretty soon, if Scout knew them. “And it’s just… I always wondered what it was. I’d try and go clean-shaven all the time, wax, I wore makeup once or twice even to try and balance it out, but all that did was make them refer to me as a girl more, or look at me weird. I couldn’t seem to find the middle. So eventually I just put on the suit so nobody would… get hints anymore.”

Scout frowned, but didn’t know exactly what to say. “That’s the fuckin’ worst,” he decided on.

“I know, right?!” Pyro gushed, as if the dam had broken and they were finally allowed to feel mad about it. They sighed hard, pushing their hair out of their eyes, even if they just bounced right back into place a moment later. “They always respected me professionally, but what’s it take for a person to get called the right name, y’know!? Did they want me to wear a stupid t-shirt with instructions on it!?” Another sigh, then they looked up at Scout with those deep brown eyes of theirs, the ones that flooded Scout with an inexplicable sense of comfort. “And I guess I just wanted to say thanks. For not… I dunno. Being weird.”

Scout nodded, hesitated. “So I’ve been doin’ that right?” he asked suddenly, unable to stop himself.

Pyro smiled at him warmly. “You’ve been doing great, probably the best job anyone’s ever done,” they assured, and Scout knew his own smile was probably goofy and stupid looking, but he couldn’t bite it back.

“Thanks,” he said, having to look away, and Pyro laughed.

“And, I dunno. There was also this weird thing where I tried to date for a while and people kept not taking me seriously, then one day someone finally gave me a shot but got all weird and just straight up asked me what equipment I had on the second date and it was the worst.”

“I mean, none’a their fuckin’ business is what unless they’re asking if they should pack a condom,” Scout scoffed.

“Right!? It just sucked because most people would say “oh, I’m just into girls” or try and like, swing it as if I’m a guy and therefore it was totally cool, and only twice did I find someone who would go for whoever and one got weird about it and the other one is the person I took on two dates. Only person who ever gave me any real respect about it could only go on one date with me, and she was only cool because she kind of had some special circumstances going on too, then she had a contract abroad and we had to cut things off. And I just—I dunno. I wish people who went either way would… I dunno.”

“Hey, I fit that bill, and I’d totally date you,” Scout said, and then realized what he’d just said out loud.

Pyro was staring at him openly, mouth a little agape. They tried to start talking twice without success before finally managing it on the third attempt. “You’re bisexual?” they asked, a little surprised.

Scout immediately began backtracking. “I mean, I, I dunno,” he said quickly, looking away, face on fire, “I, it isn’t like I’ve ever really even gotten to date any, anyone but a couple girls and stuff, and, I, thinking and doing are kinda two different things, and y’know, labels and, and…”

They raised an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, yeah, I think I’m bi,” he finally admitted. “But you can’t fuckin’ tell anyone, got it? The guys already get all up in my grill about callin’ me gay all the time and, and Medic asking when the coming out party is and, and Sniper going all “what’s with the pride meeting?” and shit like that, I just, I don’t need any more of that fuckin’ nonsense, okay?”

“You know half of them do those jokes because they’re not straight either, right?” Pyro asked flatly.

Scout blinked. “The Doc and Snipes are gay?” he asked, surprised.

Pyro gave him a look.

“…Okay, I guess that’s, that tracks,” he admitted. “But—how many, who all’s…?”

“Far as I know, just Medic, Sniper, Heavy, and Spy, and those last two are also bi or something like that, and I think Demo doesn’t really swing any way,” Pyro said. “You really didn’t know? I thought they were pretty out about it.”

“Nobody tells me anything!” Scout said defensively.

“That’s fair. But… I dunno, I’m obviously not gonna go out and break out the news with confetti and streamers for you, but… I think they wouldn’t really care,” Pyro shrugged. “If anything they’d just try and wingman for you more.”

Scout thought about that for a while. “Man, what are the odds that we’d get a goddamn queer collective out in the middle of a fuckin’ desert?” he asked suddenly.

“Have you maybe considered that the people who’d go out into a desert away from civilization might be queer people trying to be more themselves where they can’t get as much backlash?” Pyro suggested.

“…Shit. That makes a lot of sense actually,” he admitted.

Quiet for a few seconds. “Let’s circle back around to that part where you said you’d totally go for someone like me,” Pyro said suddenly.

Scout pulled his hat down over his face, feeling it go red again. “Shut the fuck up, dude,” he protested, annoyed at how whiny it came out. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“Do you think about making out with me a lot?” Pyro asked, tone clearly teasing now, and Scout groaned.

“Oh my god, shut up,” he muttered. “I come out to you and you just start fuckin’ bullying me? That’s the play?”

“Duh,” Pyro laughed, and pinched his cheek, making him flush further as he batted their hand away.

“I’m just sayin’ that you’re good-looking and funny and anyone would be lucky to date you, okay?” Scout finally said, trying not to let more embarrassment flood through his voice.

That got Pyro to grin sheepishly, picking up their drawing again. “You’re sweet,” was all they managed to reply with, quieter now.

“The sweetest guy on the planet,” Scout agreed, picking up his own drawing as well, and Pyro elbowed him in the ribs, making him squawk.

He ended up coming out to Engie offhandedly during their lunch break about a week later, and he only even managed it because Pyro was sitting and eating next to him, their knee pressing into his own and bringing him enough comfort to broach the topic. Engie was immediately supportive, and ended the conversation with a pat on his shoulder and by saying he was proud of him for having to courage to say something.

That gave Scout a burst of confidence, and he ended up dragging Pyro around for the rest of the day as he came out to other teammates as well, first Demo and Soldier right after battle (Soldier needed an additional few moments of explanation but overall they were both glad to hear the news), then Medic and Heavy where they were sitting playing chess in the common room (once Heavy got past the language barrier, he offered Scout a solemn high-five in solidarity, which he accepted gratefully). Sniper was reserved for the next day, outside where he was setting up the grill to take his turn making the team dinner (he was a little awkward for a moment, clearly a bit confused and not having expected anyone to come talk to him, but once he caught on to what Scout was saying he offered one of his rare smiles and a few supportive words). 

Oddly enough, Spy was the one that made him the most nervous for reasons he couldn’t pin down, maybe partially because he didn’t bring Pyro along, but he probably handled it the most easily, treating it as no big deal at all, simply pausing for a moment before giving a flippant “Alright. Was that all, mon ami?” and shooing him back out of his smoking room shortly after.

“Look at you,” Pyro said appraisingly when he showed up to hang out in their room, clapping him on the shoulder, clearly noticing the fact that he was practically glowing.

“Didn’t even get beat up or shoved in a locker,” he said cheerfully.

Pyro looked at him for another second or two before they finally just swept him up in a hug, squeezing him almost too-tight in their excitement. “I’m so proud of you!” they exclaimed softly, and he returned the hug, burying his face in their hair when he became sure that he wouldn’t get in trouble for it, surprised and delighted by how very nice it smelled. Vanilla-y and a little coconut-y, warm like everything else about them.

It was only through the combination of circumstances—riding the nervous high from being newly-out for the first time in his life, and being all wrapped up in a hug with his best friend, and his nose being greeted by the smell of the very appealing shampoo they apparently used—that he got the exact level of confidence to do what he did next. They pulled away from the hug finally to look up at him with that same proud smile, and he leaned down and kissed them square on the mouth.

It was three or four seconds before he pulled away again with a tiny, almost-inaudible little smeck. He smiled down at them, feeling the wildly spinning combination of euphoria and fear and excitement and apprehension and thrill and terror swirling around in his chest. Their lips were slightly parted, and they stared up at him with wonder. If he ever drew the moment, he would probably draw Pyro’s pupils in the shape of little hearts, the way they were looking at him just then.

“Oh,” they said breathlessly, and laughed a little. “So you were serious when you said you’d go for someone like me, then?”

Scout laughed, couldn’t stifle it, rising up through his chest alongside his heart. “Yeah, duh,” he said, voice tinted a little higher than usual.

“Well shit, then get back down here,” Pyro said, and tugged on his shirt, and he readily obliged.

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (gene/paul, nc-17) (part 23 of 29)

part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6   part 7   part 8   part 9   part 10   part 11   part 12   part 13   part 14   part 15   part 16   part 17   part 18   part 19   part 20   part 21  part 22   part 23   part 24    part 25   part 26   part 27   part 28   part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter:  Paul and Gene watch T.V. and continue to delay the inevitable.

          They went home after that, stopping only to pick up some more takeout for dinner. Paul was bemoaning it a bit, and offering to make them both sandwiches instead, even when he was pulling up to the restaurant.

         “I’ve gained three pounds just this past week.”

         “You’ve been weighing yourself?”

         Paul looked at him weirdly.

         “Well, yeah. Every day.”

         “Even since this happened?” Gene was a little bewildered to think that even getting cursed hadn’t been enough to distract Paul out of that particular concern.

         “Yeah. I think I’m still gaining it all in the abdomen.” Paul took a disgusted glance down at himself, assuming he could even see his stomach past his chest. Gene was beginning to wonder. “We can’t keep eating like we’re on the road.”

         “Can’t we?”

         “Fuck, no.” Paul grimaced, shaking his head as he parked the car and turned off the engine. “I spent the entire break trying to get my weight down.”

         “You look fine. Why are you so worried?”

         “The costume girls’ll have a fit.”

         It was the first time either of them had mentioned anything related to the tour all day. It cut through the Central Park fantasy like an Exacto knife. Gene wasn’t going to have some cute girl—this cute girl—hanging on his arm for much longer. Maybe no more than a few hours.

         Gene rubbed his elbow uncomfortably. Paul, gazing at his own reflection in the car mirror and pushing his hair in front of his shoulders, didn’t seem to notice, so Gene pushed the rest of his thoughts aside. They got out of the car together; Gene paid for the food, and they returned to Paul’s place soon after. Half the takeout was gone before they’d even gotten home with it. They finished off the rest at the kitchen island, then laid around on the couch awhile, T.V. running in the background while Gene read and Paul doodled.

         It was kind of funny, really. Occasionally it felt like nothing had really shifted. Still watching T.V. together like they used to in the hotels, back when getting laid after the show was a distant hope and not an inevitability. Eating out of Styrofoam boxes. Joking around and shooting the shit.

         The rest of the time, Gene was painfully aware of how much had shifted. There was the sex, sure, even if they hadn’t gone all the way, but that wasn’t the whole of it. He’d still have his gloomy spells, sure, but overall, Paul seemed so happy. So open. So—maybe Gene was giving himself too much credit, but Paul seemed—taken with him. He’d never been aware of anything like that out of Paul before. If those big, dark eyes had ever looked Gene’s way with half the warmth and attention he was getting now, then—well, then, Gene hadn’t noticed.

         He’d thought Paul didn’t like him a bit when they’d first met, in fact. He’d been high on his own bravado, and Paul had just hung in the periphery of his circles. Somebody had introduced them, and Gene had popped off immediately, something like oh, you write songs?, and Paul—well, he’d been Stan, and Stanley if you wanted to piss him off, back then; he hadn’t gone by Paul until a year or two later—had snapped right back with an affirmative.

         He remembered asking him to play one for him, and Paul had. The song was a lousy, incoherent mash-up of the Stones, Bowie, and the Beatles at their most soused, and his playing was worse. But somehow after, they’d just… Gene didn’t know. He couldn’t remember a definitive point where they’d clicked. Paul had still been in the process of nearly flunking out of high school, while Gene was a sophomore, or maybe a junior in college. But he remembered starting to call him up after classes, inviting him to parties and jams. He remembered thinking Paul was standoffish and nervous, not cut out at all for the rockstar career he was so desperate for. But he didn’t remember ever getting the feeling Paul dug him. More that he was just lonely.

         He didn’t want to delve into it too deeply. Rethink nearly ten years of interactions. It wouldn’t do any good, and it wouldn’t change any of the way things were right now. He watched Paul kick up his ankles against the arm of the couch, and finally spoke.

         “What did you take us out for, anyway?”

         Paul glanced up from his drawing. It was something weird and abstract, not the eerily-accurate dick sketches Gene was accustomed to out of him. Hatchmarks, parallel lines, and weird, elongated shapes were well on their way to completely covering the sketchpad.

         “To pay you back. I told you.” The pencil resumed its scratch across the page.

         “No, why did you really do it?”

         “Because we’d never get to again.”

         That was all he said for awhile. The words hung like streamers. Gene sort of wanted to argue him down, even though he wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know exactly what Paul meant.

         “You can take me out anytime.”

         “Not like that.”  Paul shifted abruptly. “I’m gonna go shower.”

         Gene raised his head, half at the words, half at the slight thump of Paul’s sketchpad next to him on the couch.

         “Want some company? I hear there’s a water shortage.”

         Paul shook his head. Gene felt guilty at his own weird relief. For whatever reason, Paul wasn’t ready yet. They could keep on pretending for awhile longer.

         “Maybe later tonight.”

         Gene nodded. Paul’s expression seemed a little bit strained, but he turned and headed for the bedroom, not closing the door behind him. A minute or two later, Gene could hear the sound of the water running.

         Then he got up, looking through the living room’s bookshelf as if he hadn’t done it prior. Paul didn’t really read for pleasure. He had stuff like  The Power of Positive Thinking,  Games People Play, I’m OK – You’re OK, and a ragged copy of  How to Win Friends and Influence People, the last of which was highlighted like a book of scripture. Gene had been flipping through it while Paul drew.

         Then he had magazines with his face or KISS’ picture on the front cover. No intellectual reading material at all, though that wasn’t what he was looking for. At the bottom of one shelf were Paul’s junior and senior annuals and a small line of photo albums. Gene pulled one of the older-looking albums out at random.

         It was green and typical, with thick black pages. Probably one Paul’s parents had started of him. The initial contents weren’t surprising. A faded birth announcement. A taped-in lock of baby hair dated August 2, 1952—Paul’s parents hadn’t bothered with upsherin, so maybe it was no wonder he’d never had his bar mitzvah. Sepia infant photos—Gene swallowed a bit when he realized that even in the pictures where Paul was barely able to sit up on his own, the photographer had him posed with his head turned to the right, to hide the microtia. Some pictures from birthdays. A picture of him along with the rest of his second grade class. They were lined up by height, and Paul was standing towards the back, easily recognizable just from the eyes and expression. By that point, he’d apparently figured out the pose on his own; he was almost aggressively facing right, while everyone else was looking the camera head-on.

         All that misery and insecurity over two square inches of missing cartilage.

         Gene shook his head. He flipped past most of the rest of the pictures of Paul as a kid, past even the awkward handful from when he was a teenager, before finally coming up on photos slightly closer to current. He’d apparently kept a few Polaroids from Wicked Lester and the earliest days of KISS, before they’d even had the makeup. Then, as he turned the pages, he found a scattering of random, more recent shots. Paul goofing off in hotel rooms. Paul lounging in swim trunks by the pool. Paul in a tux sucking cake frosting off his fingers at Ace’s wedding.

         He was trying to hammer in his head that this was how Paul really was and really looked. He was trying to figure out if he’d still be attracted to him once he was back to normal. If he’d feel something while he looked at the pictures. Start getting hot under the collar, maybe, the way he did with Playboy centerfolds. But—well, Paul only tried provocative poses when he had on the greasepaint, and most everything in the album was barefaced and fairly candid. Gene wasn’t sure he was feeling anything beyond some fondness while looking over pictures of Paul in front of the Eiffel Tower or eating poi in Hawaii.

         That bothered him. Not that he was planning on jacking off to a stupid picture of Paul sitting shirtless on the hood of his car, but—he’d—he’d wanted something definite out of this. Arousal or repulsion. He needed to know. Whether Paul had wanted him for four days or four years, Gene owed him that much.

         The dull white noise of the shower cut off. Gene put the photo album and the book back on the shelf and waited for Paul’s returning footsteps. Maybe later tonight, he’d said. Maybe later than that.

--

         Paul spent longer than he meant to in there. Cleaned himself up, washed his hair and shaved. He’d gotten into the habit of shaving almost everything but his chest and sometimes his underarms because of the tours. Now that he was basically down to only having to worry about his underarms and legs, the effort took two minutes or less, leaving him just standing useless for awhile under the spray.

         He knew what his next move ought to be, just as well as Gene did. Invite him in, get rid of the whole virginity problem, and get back to normal. There was no reason to keep delaying it. He’d had his time with Gene. More of it than he probably deserved, the way that they’d already wormed themselves out of the curse’s terms of consummation, like wily lawyers with contracts.

         He wasn’t scared. Well. He wasn’t just scared. He knew it was probably going to hurt. He hadn’t tried to penetrate himself since that second night with Gene, and even Gene’s fingering had pretty much been rubbing. If he couldn’t tolerate a finger inside him, a dick would be even worse. Paul was tempted to blame it on Carol, but if one less-sexy Playboy article was anything to go by, it was really just his nerves. He’d have no bulwark against them, either, no drugs or alcohol, when he slept with Gene. When he really slept with Gene.

         That wasn’t his real problem, anyway. His real problem was the same as ever. Knowing it would all be over as soon as he let it happen.

         He skimmed a hand over one newly-smooth thigh, fingers sliding across his wet skin. Up to his stomach, then his breasts, idly pushing them together. Considering. Wondering how it must’ve felt for Pinocchio once he got everything he ever wanted, once he was flesh instead of wood. Funny how that was Gene’s takeaway from that movie. Work hard, get your wish. Input-output. But he wasn’t going to get his wish here. Paul couldn’t be a real girl for him. No part of him ought to have ever wanted to try.

         He’d just have to steel himself up for the end, that was all. Delaying it too long was only going to make it worse. It was—it was abysmal, not having taken care of it already, when he’d been so desperate to do it only the day before. But he couldn’t bring himself to commit just yet. Whether out of cowardice or longing, he didn’t know. He wanted to keep messing around with Gene as long as he could. Have Gene keep looking at him, keep touching him. Keep being with him. 

         He swallowed thickly, stepped out of the shower, and dried his hair off a bit with a towel, pulling on a bathrobe before heading back out to the living room. Gene was still on that same couch,  Hawaii Five-O playing in the background. Jack Lord was really starting to look craggy now.

         “You wanna go to bed?”

         “This early?” Gene looked a little amused, but Paul thought there might be something else there. Something on the border of disappointment.

         “There’s nothing on T.V.”

         “Did I play my cards right?”

         “You didn’t play them wrong. We can fool around some more. I’ll keep my top off.”

         It was a lousy offer for a guy who had girls chomping at the bit to sleep with him, and Paul knew it. But the grin he got in response was enough to make some of his guilt, some of his self-disgust, ease off, if only briefly.

         “C’mon, I’ve got an idea.”

--

         Gene followed him to the bedroom affably, taking off his borrowed t-shirt and tossing it on the floor. He didn’t start on his pants, but Paul did for him, unzipping and tugging them down. Gene’s mouth crooked up, uncertain but pleased.

         “You’ve got an awfully wide berth for fooling around, Paul.”

         “I’ve got an awful lot of practice.” Paul untied his bathrobe but didn’t take it off yet. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing beneath it. His hair was still pretty wet, skin pink from the shower. The musky scent of him was almost gone, rinsed away by the shower and soaps, only readily apparent again when Gene’s hand moved between his thighs. It was kind of a thrill to find that earlier hadn’t been a fluke. Paul just kept getting wet for him easier than even a groupie.

         Kissing down his neck as he kept stroking, getting a couple soft grunts in response, Gene wondered what Paul was up to. He was positioned a little awkwardly, legs spread wide, with Gene kneeling in the space between them. Paul kept shifting on the bed, posture a little stiff. Not like yesterday; he just seemed like he was deliberating, anticipating. Gene didn’t think Paul was comfortable enough to pull out any toys or handcuffs. Even light bondage seemed like a little much. Possibly—

         “Did you want to 69?”

         “Nah, I hate that shit. Give me your hand.”

         “Paul, if you’re going to tie me up, I want a striptease first.”

         Paul shrugged off the bathrobe and tossed it at him with a grin.

         “I’m not gonna tie you up, Jesus. Just give me your hand.”

         Impishly, Gene offered the right one, already soaked in Paul’s fluids. He was surprised when Paul took it, grabbing his wrist and pressing Gene’s palm into his cleavage, guiding it up and down. Gene felt a shiver run up his back, dick stiffening to full attention when Paul let go of his hand. The thin streaks of clear fluid left behind were their own promise, one that only got more definite as Paul lowered himself onto the bed, gesturing for Gene to come forward. He did, straddling him carefully, cock resting between his slightly-slick breasts. Paul squeezed them together experimentally, the brief pressure enough to make Gene twitch. Fuck. He hadn’t even fantasized about this one. Fucking Paul against the wall, eating him out--sure, sure. Paul letting him go for a titfuck had been way too far out of the realm of possibility for him to picture.

         “It’s enough, right?” Paul’s voice was soft, vaguely pleased. Gene grunted an assent. They were definitely enough. Another squeeze, though Gene hadn’t tried to thrust yet, Paul watching for his reaction. “Figured we could put them to some use.”

         “What’re you getting out of this?”

         “The same thing you got out of me getting off on your leg. A good view.” Paul reached a hand up, stroking along Gene’s arm. “Now c’mon, I don’t wanna have to put K-Y on my tits.”

[little-bit-of-cinnamon]

I Just Hid it Better - Javid AU

Anything Javid love confession I’m a sucker for love confessions like either Davey confessing his love to Jack on accident (please) or “hand holding but it’s complicated” 

Javid Modern AU - 2.3k words Jack sketches David as he sleeps 

The sound of the door slamming woke David up from his nap on the couch. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and sat up to see Jack setting his bag down by the door. He could see the guilt on Jack’s face when he realized he woke David up. 

“Sorry,” he said with an apologetic frown. 

“Nah, you’re good.” David repositioned so he was sitting properly. “Tough day?” 

“It’s my stupid drawings class,” Jack started, moving into the living room. “It's already not my favorite because charcoal isn’t my medium-” 

“Because you prefer oil paint.” David nodded. 

“Because I prefer oil paint. And drawing with a group can’t be good for creativity or whatever, I mean how does it make sense to have one model in one pose and it’s just supposed to work for all thirty of us?” Jack sat next to David, kicking his feet onto David’s lap. 

“It’s bad enough that we only do portraits, ya know?” 

“Because you prefer landscapes.” David nodded, again. 

“Because I prefer landscapes. It’s like, I like portraits, but I like drawing people I know, ya know. I feel like I can really get the mood right when I know what they’re like, what’s going on in their head.” At this point David wasn’t convinced Jack could actually hear him over his own rant. 

“I wanna work on charcoal and I wanna work on portraits, it’s just that the class isn’t the best environment for me.” Jack took a slow breath. “I’m sorry, I woke you up. Tough day for you too?” 

“Just tired.” David rested his head on the top of the couch cushion. “Work was long.” 

“I’ll never understand how you get to work at 5:00 in the morning.” 

“People need coffee in the morning and somebody has to serve it.” It was silent for a second before David spoke again. “You can draw me if you want.”

“You hate sitting for my art.” Jack said, surprised. 

“I’m not gonna. But I am gonna take a nap, and if you happen to draw me that’ll be okay with me. We’ll see if you can draw what’s going on in my dream or whatever it is you’re looking to do.” David tapped Jack’s legs on his lap so Jack swung his legs back onto the floor and stood. 

“Geez, Dave. Isn’t that a little intimate?” Jack joked, but he was already walking toward his bag with his sketchbook. “I mean, I didn’t mean it like,” David was relieved Jack had walked away and couldn’t see him blush. 

“I know, Dave. Take your nap, you deserve it.” Jack settled on the floor with his back against their coffee table and his sketchbook in his lap. Surprisingly easily, David drifted off to sleep. 

David woke up to a completed sketch on the coffee table and Jack cooking dinner in the kitchen. With a yawn and a stretch David stood up and wandered into the kitchen, he sat on the counter and kicked his foot out to nudge Jack. “Whatcha making?” 

Jack turned and grabbed David’s head and gave him an exaggerated kiss on the forehead. “Stir fry!” He said with a smile. 

“Damn, you’re excited, must be the one from Trader Joes.” “No, it’s just,” Jack waved a wooden spoon as he spoke. “I’m just really happy with how my sketch came out and I actually feel really good about my drawings class now. I mean, I have to keep up the practicing outside of class so I don’t get stuck in a rut again-” “But you’re feeling better?” David filled in.

“But I’m feeling better!” Jack turned the stove off and took two plates out of the cabinet. He served two plates of the stir fry before joining David on the counter top. “Thanks for letting me sketch you,” “I literally just took a nap on the couch, but I’m glad you got your groove back. Thanks for dinner.” David was always willing to help out, well, he hated sitting for Jack’s art. Just sitting here for as long as it took for Jack to either finish or get bored, hours. But if all he had to do was nap on his couch after his six hour opening shift, well that wasn’t a bad deal. 

The next few days were business as usual until Jack’s next class and David’s next shift. David came home, got changed, and took his place on the couch. He scrolled through Instagram, attempting to stay awake but the fatigue from his early shift and long work day caught up to him. 

This time, he woke up to Jack on the couch beside him and Netflix playing quietly on the TV in front of them. When David stretched his arms out he accidently hit Jack on the chest. “You’re up!” Jack turned the volume of the TV up. 

“I’m up.” David sat up so he was sitting next to Jack, rather than lying with his head by Jack’s lap. “How was class?” 

“A lot better than last time. Obviously it’s still not my favorite but it’s not a drag anymore.” Jack pulled some of David’s blanket over his own legs. 

“That’s great, Jack.” They settled into a comfortable silence for a while, ordering a pizza for dinner and watching Netflix until the evening. Eventually, Jack left to take a shower and David noticed his sketchbook sitting on the coffee table, again. 

He picked it up and began flipping through the pages, Jack never was secretive of his work. There was a mixture of drawings of his friends and models from class and they were all amazing, David would be the first to tell you how talented Jack is, but David could tell the difference. He could see the love and concentration on the sketch Race’s face as he worked out a problem in his notebook. 

The sketches of the models were more technical. Each stroke looked calculated, precise. It looked incredible, but in comparison it just wasn’t the same. David flipped the page and there was the drawing of him from earlier in the week. He looked peaceful, calm. David was surprised by how… nice he looked. He always thought Jack’s art presented David as much more attractive than any photo. It was probably just Jack being nice and not including his imperfections. 

The next page was another model, from class today. Again, beautiful but with less emotion than the ones of David and their friends. David was about to set the book down when he noticed there was another sketch on the next page. 

It was David. Asleep on the couch with his phone resting next to him. Asleep. David didn’t know Jack was going to sketch him again. He wasn’t like, weirded out or anything but he was a little surprised. He figured Jack would prefer a more interesting subject than a sleeping David. But, still, he looked better than David saw himself. It was a beautiful sketch. 

“Sorry, I hope it was cool that I sketched you again.” Jack stood in the doorway of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. 

“No, it’s no problem. I figured you’d want a more interesting subject now that you’re more inspired, or whatever.” Jack walked into his room to get dressed as David spoke. 

“Dave, I got all the inspiration I need sleeping on my couch everyday.” David pretended that his heart didn’t skip a beat. 

“That so?” David managed to squeak out.

“Yeah, Dave.” Jack came back, dressed, using his towel to dry his hair. “I mean I know you so well I feel like I always know what’s going through your head, conscious or not.” 

David could practically feel his heart beating in his ears. He hoped Jack couldn’t tell what was going on in his head at this particular moment. 

“It doesn’t hurt that you got a nice face to draw, too.” Jack wandered into the kitchen, casually looking in the fridge, as if he isn’t making David’s heart go a mile a minute. 

David wanted to smile, to tease Jack as they’ve been doing for years but for some reason he was nervous. He couldn’t get the words out. Something about the compliments, the vulnerability, the emotion in the art. He just felt different than he usually did with Jack. Flirting isn’t uncommon in their friend group but Jack sounded genuine and David could tell he was speaking differently than he usually would with the guys. 

But it was getting late and he was tired, he’ll probably feel differently in the morning. 

“Good night, Jack.” David stood up and stopped in the kitchen for a bottle of water. 

“You alright, Davey?” “Yeah, work in the morning, that’s all.” 

“Good night, then.” David couldn’t see the way Jack watched him walk into his room, a concerned look on his face. 

Work. Home. Change. Nap. 

David got tired of the routine but he needed the money, and he liked his job, really. Good coworkers and regulars he could chat with. It wasn’t all bad. When his classes change next semester he’ll get new shifts and all will be well. 

David had hardly woken up when he saw Jack. “Hey,” David said softly, voice low from his drowsiness. 

“Hey, Dave. Sorry, I thought you’d be out for a little while longer.” Jack started to close his sketchbook. 

“No, it’s okay, I love you.” And suddenly David was awake. 

“I mean, I love it. Your art, I mean.” He lost control of the words coming out of his mouth. 

“Don’t worry about it Davey, you’re tired. I get it.” Jack grinned. 

“Yeah, tired. Sorry if I ruined your process or whatever.” “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure I could draw you with my eyes closed.” Jack continued his sketch. 

He wasn’t making this any easier for David. 

“You want some tea?” David wouldn't be able to get back to sleep now so he would at least need some caffeine in  him. He knows Jack won’t touch coffee. 

“Do we have peach?” Jack called to the kitchen. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if we didn’t.” David turned the coffee pot and the kettle on before taking the tea out of the cabinet. 

He leaned on the counter, looking into the living room. Jack was still sitting on the floor, sketching, even though David had left. He stood and watched him until the kettle began to whistle. He did love Jack, and so what if his feelings might be romantic? He and Jack have been friends forever, this can’t be the thing that brings them apart. Still, that doesn't mean that he should say anything to Jack, or say anything else, really. 

He prepared their drinks and brought them into the living room, he set Jack’s mug beside him on the table, not wanting to disturb him further. As soon as David sat down Jack closed his sketchbook and joined David on the couch. 

“I feel like I haven’t seen you lately, you’ve been working so much.” Jack sat dangerously close to David. 

“The money’s good. I’m hoping if I keep up the hours next semester I could be a manager over the summer.” David sipped his drink slowly, taking in the heat. 

“But I miss you, shouldn’t that be a consideration?” Jack took a sip. “This is good, Dave.”

“That’s the kind of good work that’s gonna land me the promotion. I’m scarily good at putting a tea bag into hot water.” 

“Shut up and take the compliment.” 

David didn’t realize he missed Jack too until they started talking again. Usually they would sit and eat together while watching TV or they would hang out in groups. He and Jack have been friends for years but he still missed him. Suddenly Jack seems far away. He wishes he could be closer to Jack, romantically. He wants to reach out and touch him, kiss him, love him. 

But he doesn’t want to lose what they have. He’s probably worried about nothing, but still. He can’t just look to his best friend and say “hey I think I’m in love with you.” It was bad enough when he accidently let it slip. But maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing? Jack’s been single for a while and it’s not like he’ll be infringing on something. And Jack wouldn’t judge him, would he? 

“Hey, Jack?” Jack hummed in acknowledgment as he sipped his tea. 

“Earlier, when I-” “Don’t worry about it, Davey. You were tired and it’s not like I don’t love you too.” Jack leaned into David, bumping their shoulders together. 

Jack really wasn’t making this easier. 

‘Right, right. It’s just that, recently, I don’t know. I feel like I might be developing some… feelings. For you.” David stared into his mug, afraid to look up at Jack. 

“You feel like you might maybe?” Jack said, cautiously but with a grin. 

“Jack.”

“Right, sorry. You’re sure about this?” Jack looked to David. 

“I felt like it would be better to just tell you, so it doesn’t affect our friendship.” David finally made eye contact with Jack. 

“Actually, that’s not the best idea.” 

David’s heart dropped. 

“I mean,” Jack began, “our friendship is for sure gonna be different.” “Jack, I’m so sorry. I just-” Jack cut him off. “I mean kissing you stupid, that’s gonna affect our friendship. And going on dates and stuff.” 

“Do you mean..?” David couldn’t finish his sentence, couldn’t get his brain all in one place. 

“I mean I would do anything to be your boyfriend, Davey.” “I was so scared that I was gonna ruin everything.” Jack could hear the smile in David’s words. 

“I’ve been scared to say something for years, you’re just braver than me.” Jack grinned back. 

“Maybe changing our relationship up a bit won’t be the worst thing,” David said, leaning into Jack. 

[lechatnoir1918]

Author Interview (/Artist Interview for me)

Right so I’m going to modify this a bit since the majority of my published stuff is art and not writing.

Tagged by: @viikirks

Name: Annika (yes, exactly like the girl from “Pippi Longstocking”, you can have a word to my parents about that)

Fandoms: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries

Where you post: AO3 and Tumblr for the art

Most popular one-shot: I have not published a one-shot yet, however the drawing that has by far been the most popular is this one, where I drew the kiss that should have happened at the end of “Unnatural Habits”.

Most popular multi-chapter story: Inktober Drabbles is not technically multi-chapter, because the chapters don’t form one story, but that one nonetheless as it’s the only fic I’ve posted. 

As for art, my Missed Opportunities series here on Tumblr (though also not connected) is the most popular (also because it’s been the majority of my posts).

Favorite story you wrote: I really do like all of my Inktober drabbles, my favorite would probably be the whump for Day 13 “Ash”.

For the art, it’s hard to pick a favorite because everything I draw is like a baby to me, there are only two that I look back on think “ugh, I really shouldn't have posted it like that”. The second drawing I ever published took me an insane amount of time to draw (because of Phryne’s coat) so that one is probably up there. I also really like this one, which is a kiss at the end of “Game, Set, Murder”. Also the Jack’s forehead kiss one. But now that I’m looking through them again, I really do like everything and I can’t really pick a favorite.

Story you were nervous to post: Hm, the story I was most nervous to post would have to be my first smutty drabble. 

Likewise with the art, the first Phrack kiss I drew and posted cost me a lot of nerves because it was so out of my comfort zone. My comfort zone has since expanded significantly, lol.

How you choose your titles: I need to do more titles. The drawings I seldomly title and if I do it’s something very basic. The drabbles I have prompts for so I avoided that issue there. :D But titles are coming.

Do you outline: No. I probably should. With the drabbles for Inktober I’m just kind of winging it and seeing where the drabble takes me. I think if I were to write a longer fic I would try to outline.

For the art I start off with stick figure sketches, essentially, to figure out if a pose I had in mind will work, then I add another rough sketch, then a finer one, and then I start coloring or whatever else I’m doing with the drawing and add in details etc. I guess that counts as an outline? 

Complete: Nothing on AO3 yet as the Inktober stuff is still going. On Tumblr I have posted 62 posts, many of those with multiple drawings. That’s actually a lot more than I thought I had, ahhhhh.

In-progress: Inktober definitely. Also there is a Whumptober fic that’s chilling on my laptop and waiting to be completed.

Coming soon/not yet started: (okay listen I have PLANS)

I have two ideas for smutty (who would have thought) one-shots that I really want to write

I am starting a new series of drawings inspired by fics, because there are SO many amazing authors and stories in this fandom. It will either be called “Ficspiration” (thank you @omgimsarahtoo ) or “Fic Pics” (thanks to @aurora-australis-tumbles )

I really want to fic my Missed Opportunities art series as well as other drawings. I do always have a clear concept/story in my head when I draw so I don’t know why I haven't written them down so far.

I’m trying to work out a Phrack thanksgiving special and am working on a collab for christmas

I’m also looking into Redbubble/ christmas cards/ coloring pages because all of those ideas have been brought up by people. <3

Do you accept prompts: ALWAYS. LITERALLY. Drop me a fucking prompt and I promise I’ll get it done. Anything. The prompts help me so much because I know someone wants to see what I’m drawing so literally anything you want to see, let me know. Now that I’m branching out into writing, the same goes for that. Please.

Upcoming story you are most excited to write: Probably one of the one-shots, there will be banging of all sorts involved. 

For the art, I’m very excited for the 10th post in my Missed Opportunities series because it’s “animated”. We’ll see how that goes, ha.

Tagging @whopooh , whose fics rank among my very very favorites of all time, and @raven-haired-lady-detective because I love reading what you write.

[stsgyuri]

writing gift exchange thing for @thetravelingdreamer97!! i hope u like it

A lean girl with dark skin and even darker hair sits on a rust ridden park bench. Her sketchbook, a small thing with crinkled pages and dirty edges, sits on her crossed legs; on top of the sketchbook sits her hand, creating sweeping gestures with a granite pencil.

The girl has always enjoyed nature: the organic shapes, the soft greens and heavy browns. It’s real, definitely, positively real. There is no denying nature, and she loves the truth of it. It does not hide behind kind lies, although flowers may deceive from time to time. She prefers to steer clear of people.

People can lie and deceive. People have lied and deceived.

But the girl would rather not think about that right now, so she simply drags her pencil loosely across the page, the lines giving the impression of a tree dancing in the wind. The park is empty at such an early hour. Oranges and reds are still painting houses in their hues. It’s worth the inevitable exhaustion that comes with being up and at it at 6 AM. No one bothers her, and she bothers no one. It’s just her and the dancing trees.

At least, until she hears a click.

Now it’s just her, the dancing trees, and a pretty photographer.

A plump girl with tan skin and sea foam dyed hair stands a few feet away, smiling brilliantly at her camera screen. She’s clad in bleached jeans, a plain white shirt, and a sap green jacket embroidered with white roses. Her hair is braided down the side, falling over her shoulder in a long rope.

A few thoughts string themselves together in the lean and dark girl’s head:

One; she has a beautiful smile.

Two; she looks like a she was a mermaid in her past life.

Three; I need to get the hell out of here before she starts speaking to me.

Attempting to draw minimal to no attention to herself, the sketch artist quietly assembles her pencils and tools, shoves them into her bag, stands up, and is about to make a break for it, until--

“Oh, hey! I didn’t expect anyone to be at the park so early in the morning on a Saturday,” the pretty photographer says from behind her. At the back of her mind, she thinks how the pretty girl has a pretty voice.

She sighs, turns around, and sees that same bright smile still plastered on the pretty girl’s face. She shrugs in response.

The photographer is not deterred. In fact, she seems to be encouraged by the silence. “I usually come here to avoid crowds. In the morning, that is,” she clarifies. “Anyways, I’m Allie,” she sticks out a hand.

The sketch artist stares for a bit. She could’ve sworn this only happens in books and movies. People actually shake hands when they meet? Nonetheless, she takes the pretty girl’s hand and offers her name in exchange: “Salem.”

Somehow, impossibly, Allie’s smile grows brighter. Salem suspects that prolonged exposure will likely cause blindness. Not that’d she mind. It is a beautiful smile. And it looks so real…

“Oh, that’s a pretty name,” Allie says. It’s weird, how it sounds like she’s telling the truth. Salem eyes her a bit warily. Why is she so nice? What’s her motive? Maybe she is genuinely nice, but maybe not.

“Thanks,” Salem responds a bit slowly. She’s not sure what else to say, curse that social anxiety, but Allie beats her to it.

“Hey, want to get some coffee? Or are you a tea person?”

Salem has not met anyone who talks so fast. She has also not met anyone who invited her to coffee twenty seconds after meeting her. She’s about to automatically refuse, but she’s curious, so instead she asks, “Why?”

Allie’s smile falters a bit. “Well, why not? It’s just so early so I thought, you know, coffee? Get to know each other? But if you don’t want to it’s completely fine! I just thought it’d be nice…?” Somehow, she got that out all in one breath.

She’s not sure why she nods and says, sure, I guess. Maybe it’s because she’s never had much of a close friend to go get coffee with. Maybe it’s because the girl is another art student, someone to relate with. Maybe it’s because the girl seems so honest and real, not a common trait among most.

So, they go to get coffee. And maybe a donut, who knows.

-x-

They talked on the way there. Well, Allie was the one who did most of the talking. Salem listened to every word, though she wouldn’t admit to the pretty photographer. In the fifteen minutes it took to reach the coffee shop, Salem learned that Allie adores cats, flowers, and art. They go to the same college, but don’t have the same classes. It’s strange how they haven’t seen each  other before, but Salem tries to avoid people for the most part and Allie is usually too focused on her new assignments to notice anyone.

Allie managed to get a few things out of Salem: she also prefers cats, though she’s not a big fan of flowers she loves trees and other plants. The walk was filled with Allie’s bright smiles and Salem’s contemplative silences.

Salem has never been on a walk with someone before.

Now, they sit at a circular table in a small coffee shop, steam wafting up into the air and tickling their faces. Allie is prattling on about her cats and how they always try to eat her food and is that normal because she’s pretty sure a cat should not be trying to eat potato chips and Salem feels a smile creeping across her lips.

“I’ve never had any pets,” she admits. “But… I’ve always wanted a kitten.” That is likely the most she’s spoken so far. Her social walls are starting to melt a little for this pretty photographer with potato chip eating cats.

Allie swallows her coffee before answering. “We had a lot of stray cats in our neighborhood and they all kept making babies. At one point we had eight cats at once. It was kind of ridiculous.”

“I can’t tell if that would be an awful experience or a cute one,” Salem says, and the pretty photographer gives her a pretty laugh. Salem didn’t know she made a joke, but she smiles anyway. Allie’s laugh is as infectious as her smile.

They talk for a few hours about nothing. Like time is nothing. It’s ten in the morning when Allie says she has to leave for class. She offers to walk Salem back to wherever she needs to go, but Salem waves her on. She’d love to walk with the pretty photographer for as long as possible, but she needs a few minutes to collect her wits.

She’s still staring at her coffee cup when Allie leaves. She whispers to herself, in all the elegance she can muster up, “Holy shit.”

-x-

They text each other. At first, it was mainly Allie keeping up the conversation. But after a few days, Salem started adding to the conversation more and more. She likes how Allie is so honest. Salem is honest in return. Allie’s text messages consist of minimal grammar and an enormous amount of emojis. Salem’s contain more grammar than necessary and, that’s it.

They meet up, occasionally. They’ll walk to the park and Allie will snatch a photo or two of Salem, who discreetly sketches the pretty photographer. They discuss their favorite artists, their favorite type of cat, their favorite anything. Salem snatches glances of Allie whenever she can and ignores the feeling in her chest as best she can.

Two weeks after they’ve met, they’re sitting on the bed in Allie’s dorm. Her roommate is gone for the day, for whatever reason. Salem didn’t pay much attention, too absorbed in looking over Allie’s side of the room.

There’s a few prints hung along the wall, both of paintings and photographs, along with a few of Allie’s own photographs. One of them is of Salem, sitting on a park bench with her sketchbook out and a wistful smile as she stares at some point past the camera. Allie’s desk has a few cat plushes, a mint green laptop, and a scattering of pens and pencils. Her schoolwork is shoved unceremoniously beneath the bed, which has soft green sheets and another cat plush.

She looks back to Allie, who’s wringing her braided her as if she’s nervous. “There’s a lot of cat stuff, I know,” she says, as if she were expecting that kind of comment.

Instead, Salem comments, “I love the green. It’s cute,” like you, she doesn’t add,

That seems to restore Allie’s mood, as she beams immediately like a sun. “Thanks! It’s my favorite color, if you can’t tell,” she adds, gesturing to her hair, her bed, her… well, everything.

“Yeah? Mine too,” Salem admits. She notices for the first time that Allie has brown eyes. Green hair, brown skin, brown eyes… Honest and real… It’s no wonder Salem fell for this pretty photographer.

Allie smiles back. Salem’s heart stutters a little.

Allie hops off the bed towards her camera, eyes twinkling. “Okay, so you’re gonna pose for me, right?” After Salem nods, she smiles. “Great! Just sit right there.” She fiddles with a few things of her camera.

“What do I need to do?” Salem asks. She’s just sitting on the rumpled bed, sketchbook thrown across her lap, hair in a messy knot on her head. Not exactly the epitome of perfection.

As if reading her thoughts, Allie smiles softly. “Nothing. You’re perfect.”

Click.

-x-

“Do you mind if I try something?” Allie asks.

They’re sitting on a park bench, the one Salem had been occupying when they first met. There’s only an inch of space between them, though they both have enough room on either side to move away if they wanted. Neither did.

Salem looks up from her sketch, a dancing tree made of charcoal strokes. Allie looks nervous, but there’s a sort of resolve in her warm brown eyes. Salem thinks that if wood nymphs existed, Allie would be the striking image of one.

It’s been two months since they first met, and in that time, Salem has come to trust Allie. She’s no longer afraid that Allie is being ingenuine, deceiving her like most people are apt to do. She’s more comfortable around the girl, has even opened up to her.

So, she says, “Sure.”

And Allie kisses her.

It’s soft, just like everything about Allie, but it still paints colors behind Salem’s eyelids. Greens and brown mixing with the soft red of passion. Her hand reaches up to tangle itself in Allie’s loose hair. Allie lifts a hand and strokes Salem’s jaw, softly, as if she were about to evaporate at any moment.

It doesn’t last long, and after they’ve caught their breaths, Allie sputters out an apology, speaking at a mile a minute. “I’m sorry, was it too soon? Too much? I didn’t mean to over step anything and I’m really sorry if you’re uncomfortable now and if you don’t want to be friends anymore I completely understa--”

Salem kisses her silent.

-x-

Allie leans over Salem’s shoulder, her arm draped around her girlfriend as she looks at the sketch. It’s a pair of soft and full lips with a small dip in the middle. They’re a little pouty.

“What’s that?” she asks, though she already knows. She just wants to hear her say it.

Salem smiles slightly, eyes flickering from Allie’s lips to the page of charcoal smudges. “Oh, you know.”

She tilts her head up and plants a brief kiss on Allie’s lips. She feels her girlfriend smile against her own mouth. Allie has a tendency to smile when they kiss. Especially when they kiss. Salem finds it a little bit adorable. Okay, a lot adorable.

Salem runs a dark hand across Allie’s still grinning lips. “Just those.”

[thorne93]

Not What You Thought It Was (Part 4)

Prompt: What happens when Victor Frankenstein and an electrician’s assistant meet? History.

Word Count: 2350

Warnings: Spoilers, if you have NOT seen Victor Frankenstein and want to - TURN BACK. Maybe language. gore, etc.

Notes: This took me forever to write, and for that, I’m angry. But thanks to @queendivaofthedark I finally got it. Also, this is based on the 2015 Victor Frankenstein with James McAvoy and Daniel Radcliffe

Tagging: @cocosierra94​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Making lunch, you were in the apartment alone the next day. Igor and Victor had gone off for parts you believed.

 A knock came and you happily answered it.

 “Oh, Inspector Turpin. I’m sorry, Victor is gone.”

 “Gone?”

 “I mean, he won’t be back for quite some time,” you corrected politely.

“That’s quite alright, it’s you I’d like to speak to anyway,” he said, letting himself in. You shut the door as he spun to face you. “Trousers? A woman...in...trousers?” he asked.

 You glanced down to your attired. “Well, yes. It is my home afterall, I’ll dress how I please.”

 “Figures that Frankenstein would court a woman of such...caliber.”

 You shook your head lightly, ignoring the remark. “What is it you needed, Inspector?”

 “Could you tell me a little about Mr. Frankenstein’s hobbies? His...interests?”

 “Why do you care to know about that?” you questioned, wondering where this was going.

 “Merely to know how and where he spends his time.”

 “Oh.” You started to pace around the room, your hands behind your back. “Well, when he’s not at school, he’s typically here, doing research, conducting experiments, reading.”

 “What sorts of experiments?”

 “Oh, you know, he likes to see if he can keep things alive.”

 “Is that so?”

 “Yes, we have a small indoor garden he frequently works with,” you added, trying to keep a wicked smile off your face. You knew you had this inspector going, and it pleased you that he thought you were that dimwitted, only to discover you weren’t so easily fooled.

 “I see. So where is he when he goes out at night?”

 “I’m not entirely sure, Inspector. Our social lives aren’t exactly intertwined.”

 “And why is that? Are you not engaged to be wed?”

 “We are but frankly, we try to socialize with other people, otherwise we would kill each other.” You laughed a little. That was hardly true. What was true was that you were free to party and socialize with whom you wished and Victor was a recluse.

 “Yes and do you help him in these...experiments? I hear you work at a local electrician's shop.”

 You nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I work for an electrician but what does that have to do with anything?”

 “And the experiments?”

 “Yes, I help.”

 “And does it bother your conscience?” he inquired, his cold, dark eyes staring into yours.

 “To practice science, not in the slightest.”

 “To challenge right and wrong, to challenge our Lord and savior.”

 “Look, Inspector, I know you and I probably share different beliefs. Unlike Victor, I can respect that. You’re more conservative and I’m progressive, that’s all. I don’t believe what I’m doing is.”

 “And what about what he’s doing?”

 “I beg your pardon?” you said, confused.

 “I mean, do you think the man who lies with you at night is the same man who you sit next to in the lab?” he asked.

 You blanched. This man had more gall than you imagined.

 “That’s none of your business. I’d like you to leave now,” you said.

 He perched an eyebrow and began to leave, as you held the door open for him. He turned to you and said, “But let me ask you this. Does he love the experiment more than he loves you? Or perhaps he simply loves himself more than he loves you.”

 The tiniest smirk came to his face as he left.

 As soon as the door closed, your heart took a hit from the Inspector’s word. Usually, something like that wouldn’t have bothered you. But the question he posed at you...it was one you had begun to ask yourself lately.

 Victor was changing. He was mad. You had been trying to hold onto hopes and notions that weren’t there. You were holding onto fraying strings. You had tried and tried to pull him from his madness but nothing was availing. You hated the Inspector for forcing you to think of it, see the truth…

 Perhaps he was just trying to get in your head, to divide you, to pit you against each other. At any rate, you weren’t going to listen to a man so deep in his religion he could hardly be rational.

 --------------------------------------

 Some time later, Victor had returned home and begun sketching again while you tidied up the house. You’d offered to look at the sketch and help with building the being but he asked that it be left to him. Igor was out doing God knows what.

 In the meantime, Victor’s drawing and sketching had become manic. He was mumbling to himself frantically, sketching rapidly, sometimes even hitting his head to think straight. You watched on from afar as you dusted, swept, rearranged, picked up. It was almost like you weren’t even in the room. No matter what noise you made or how you stepped around him, he didn’t respond. He was lost in a world all his own.

 You heard some keys jangling at the door and you assumed Igor must be back. That was partially true, but in with Igor came the hulking, tall man that was Victor’s father. You nearly dropped the vase that was in your hand.

 “Where have you been? Not wise to be out on the town when there's a manhunt on,” Victor advised, making you surprised that he even realized someone had entered the flat. You were stricken with fear as he came in, suddenly stepping on the piece that was the creature’s heart. “Get off his heart!” Victor demanded in a harsh tone, pointing at his father’s feet. You could do nothing but stand and watch.

 “Get up,” Mr. Frankenstein demanded in an intimidating tone. This man always sent shivers down your back. You’d met him around ten times since you’d been with Victor. “Leave,” he instructed to you and Igor. You quickly went to Igor and grabbed his arm gently and wheeled him into Igor’s bedroom. You spun and held a finger to your lips as you stood against the doorway to eavesdrop.

 Victor seemed animated however. “Father, I'm so excited that you've come. Your timing is impeccable. I've had such breakthroughs with my--”

 “I don’t care,” Mr. Frankenstein said with frustrated exhaustion. The words made you feel for Victor. His father was the one man he tried desperately to impress, to make happy, to make him proud. But he also loathed him for not seeing how important his research and experiments were. “I don't care about your poorly researched theories or your disastrous experiments.”

You closed your eyes and tried not to focus on the pain you knew this was causing Victor, and even you. His father didn’t understand the research like you did. He didn’t understand how close you all were or how important this all was.

 “Not poorly researched, I've told you--”

 “Victor, silence. Yesterday I received a telegram...informing me that you are to go before the board of directors at the college. They say you neglect your schoolwork. They intend to expel you.”

 Holding in a gasp and a shock to the heart, you kept silent and still. Igor’s eyes were on yours the entire time. You two shared a look of shock and sorrow for Victor. He had really lost it, hadn’t he? He was neglecting schoolwork? How could he do that? What was he doing all day at school then?

 At this, Victor became upset. He always turned...more childlike around his father. Not childish but it was almost as if he lost power or a voice when his father was around.

 “No, they can’t!” he begged.

 “Can’t they?” his father challenged.

 “The work I am doing is far more important than anything they are conducting at that damn school,” Victor spat.

 You shook your head and clutched your chest. What lengths would you have to go through to save him from this madness?

 “You're a fool, Victor. You always have been. If only you could have been more like Henry. But you...You just bring shame to the name Frankenstein.”

 A whimper was caught in your throat as you had to swallow the harsh words of his father.

 Victor responded arrogantly, “I will ensure that the name of Frankenstein is never forgotten!”

 A slap rang out in the apartment and a thud, making you froze. Now, your blood was boiling. No longer were you afraid of this man. You stepped out of the room and ran to Victor and checked his cheek, glancing up to his father.

 “Y/N, you are supposed to keep him from doing such foolish things!” Mr. Frankenstein shouted at you.

 You stood up to face him, Victor still laying on the floor, his hand on his cheek.

 “Sir, I’m doing my best to support Victor, to help him in his endeavors.”

 “And that’s precisely the problem! You should be stopping him from these experiments. Tell him this research isn’t worth his time. For God’s sake woman, can’t you see he’s greedy for something which will never be his? He’s a laughing stock!”

 “He’s made progress,” you countered.

 “Progress in what?”

 “Giving life.”

 “Aren’t you supposed to do that? As a woman you’re supposed to bore his children, make him settle down and be a family man, push him to finish medical school.”

 “No, as his partner in life, I am to support him and help him, and that is what I am trying to do.”

 “I should’ve expected as much from a woman who works at a man’s job and wears improper clothing. You’re just another disappointment of Victor’s in his long list of mistakes. I hope you two make each other very happy, because you’re not making anyone else happy.”

 He spun on his heel and left. You crouched beside Victor as soon as he was gone, wondering if you’d burst into tears. You left to get ice for his mark. When you returned, Victor was sitting up in his chair, still holding the swollen red cheek.

 “Thank you,” he softly said, taking the ice.

 “It’s my job to take care of you,” you said sweetly as you pushed the hair out of his face.

 “According to my father it’s your job to stop me,” he said with a scoff and roll of his eyes.

 “Shh,” you instructed, kissing his forehead. “But your schoolwork, Victor, how could you?”

 “Oh, so now I’m getting it from you, am I?” he questioned, irritated.

 “I’m just trying to understand why you would throw away your work and career away.”

 “Because of what we are doing here!” he nearly shouted. “Because of what we are doing, I don’t need that blasted school and those overrated grades and accolades.”

 You sat a moment, still crouching in front of him, your hands on his knees. “Darling, I love our research, I love you, but I thought that the research was a side project and that your schooling would take precedence.”

 “No. Finnegan needs a man, I’m working to do that.”

 You smiled gently at him. “I know, darling, I know. But perhaps...perhaps you should’ve focused on school a bit more.”

 “Well it’s too late now, hmm? At least if I’m not at school I’ll have more time for our research.”

 Your mouth screwed to the side. He was looking at this entirely wrong. Perhaps...perhaps the inspector and his father were right. Regardless of the ethical side of this experiment, he was entirely obsessed with this endeavor, stopping at nothing, letting all he’s worked for get destroyed for some half-cocked notion.

 You loved the experiment and the research, that was still true. You still wanted to see if it could be done, but it could be done slowly, piece by piece. Not to abandon all else in this journey to the answers. That’s where you and Victor differed. He was all consumed by this, but you were willing to take your whole life to find out. Sure, before Igor you wanted answers immediately, but now that you saw what it was doing to the love of your life, you started to loathe it. It was taking him away from you.

 But you wouldn’t give up on him. Victor was your life, your love, your partner. You’d do everything in your power to support him. And if seeing this….abomination was the key to unlocking his sanity, you would do it.

-------------------

After a few hours, you retrieved Igor, letting him know it was okay to come out. He joined you out in the main area of the flat and asked Victor what he was sketching. Victor answered and then proceeded to hit himself, calling himself stupid, until you ran up and soothed him.

 “He’s not big enough,” Igor suddenly said.

 “Yes--what?” Victor asked as you both came away from the window to see what he was talking about.

 “Gordon was fast and strong, sure, but he couldn't sustain any of that. And towards the end, he was having some real trouble breathing,” he informed.

 “That’s right. He also had some auditory issues. He couldn’t tell where sounds were coming from.”

 After that, the men went back and forth on getting a better charge, with you throwing in your opinion and thoughts. Until they realized that the body, regardless of the charged used, still can’t just accept that. It would need the means to sustain all that power.

 “What if we doubled it?” you suggested.

 “Doubled what, my dear?” Victor asked affectionately.

 “Everything. Two pairs of lungs, hearts, liver...The problem is the 1 shell can’t contain the amount of energy we give it, right? What if we were to create a man that had 2 of everything, then the power would be dispersed.”

 Igor and Victor stared at you in awe.

 “That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Igor agreed.

 “Not a bad idea? My future wife is a genius!” He lunged at you and kissed you excitedly and all over, making you laugh.

 Igor suggested whiskey to celebrate and Victor agreed. You decided to not partake, as you wanted to remain sober for the brainstorming and you had work in the morning.

[writejiminie]

Empty Canvas

Pairing: Art Student!Taehyung ♡ Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Genre: Fluff~ 

Inspired by this prompt

You’ve been sketching me for half an hour now, and just shuffled up to hand me the finished product and it’s TERRIBLE but you just wanted an excuse to talk to me

“Agh! Right?? This project is such a hassle, it’s so difficult to even find a model to draw!” He complained to you as you both conversed down the halls of your university, on the way to your designated classes. 

You giggled as Taehyung roughly tugged against his hair, ranting by each strand. Don’t get it twisted, Taehyung is “usually” a talented artist who can muster the patience and manage the time to make a really good art piece. For this particular project, however, he just seemed exaggerated and tired.

"-and that’s why I’ve decided you’ll be my model!” Instantly you freeze and turn towards him, a grin stretching across his face to your own shocked expression.

"What?? I can’t possibly! I mean, I don’t even know what to do and I don’t stand very still and-” What even is modeling??

"Relax!” He stretches to wrap his arm around your shoulders, waving his hand nonchalantly before you, "My idea was that the model simply just has to sit down and talk with me. I want to represent a unique piece that shows motion only at the mouth, like as if the painting was literally telling you a story.”

You’re doubtful about this, worried that it could be too awkward and long, and try to convince Taehyung that you had another friend in mind to suggest.

"Why don’t you use Yoongi as your model? He’s a guy known to be motionless! Or Taeyeon, she’s gorgeous and you two get along-”

He squints and cocks his head at you, "Eh? But I’ve already drawn all of them at least once…Besides, I only want to paint my best friend! I’ve never gotten the chance to draw you before, so today would be a good start because this may be my best piece yet!” He pokes you desperately, his eyes begging while he slightly pouts for further enhancement.

You sigh and decide to give in, "Very well Taehyung…“

His face lightens up and he grabs onto your hands, his eyes twinkling at you, "Woah!!?? Seriously??”

You looked over his glowing expression and close your eyes, "Just, try not to take too long please. I have to study tonight.” 

He chuckles and murmurs with a smug smile drawn on his face, "Don’t rush an artist Y/n! Don’t you know?” He gives you a wink, erupting an irritated scoff from you. You both decide to meet afterschool, preferably outside for the better lighting, at one of the tables in the court yard.

It’s your first time posing for anything really and you’re nervous, sitting tensely in your seat as your hands grip onto each other making the knuckles white. He frowns at you and gestures for you to chill whining, "You look too stiff, I’ll paint you funny if you look like that…”

You laugh and that seems to relax you a little as you distract yourself in the silence while Taehyung starts sketching you onto the canvas, soft scratching vibrates through the air. A few seconds after, the sound is replaced by the rough erasing that follows. It was a really nice day outside and a feeing of contentment began to wash over you before–

"Ahh, talk to me Y/n, considering this is a piece that sortaaa requires you to!” Taehyung glances at you from above the stilt to encourage you.

You were never very good at initiating conversation and mostly it was him who took care of the topics, but you were determined to try if it was to help your best friend with his art project.

You nervously blew a hair out of your face as you asked the first question you could think of, "Uh…anything happen at lunch today?” It was the question you’d ask him whenever you got to see him, when you two were able to be alone together away from classes and stress, relaxing and talking just like this. He knew you never ate lunch, so he would always tell you about it and what happened around him during the 30 minutes while you sat isolated in the library to do homework.

"Ahh the usual really. A couple of my friends, you remember Jimin and Jungkook, screwed up and ended up making me spill my lunch tray and the staff was there with us…” He groans at the memory and you chuckle in return. His eyes light up, "Ohh that’s a good face! I’ll draw that in…” Lightly, he sketches your bright eyes, trying his best to represent the way they faded into crescents when you laughed. Beautiful.

You bite your lip, not just because you were self-conscious of how the painting would turn out with your lacking modeling skills, but because you couldn’t seem to think of anything else to ask about or comment on. Taehyung notices this and his voice startles you, causing you to jump a little in the chair, as he breaks the lingering silence, "I’ve never wanted to bother you so I haven’t asked, but what do you like about chilling in the library anyways?”

Your eyes widen and immediately you’re happy to share, "Ohh, it’s always quiet in there and everyone is there for basically the same reasons. To catch up on work, study, read, it’s a nice connection even though nobody really talks to each other, we recognize and respect one another.” Your ears turn red when you realized how passionately you were speaking of a library that was full of strangers that you didn’t know what they were truly thinking. 

But Taehyung nods surprisingly understanding, "I see…that’s good. I think I’ll join you next time, I don’t read enough.”

"Was that a joke?” Your eyebrows rose and your smile keen as you teased him, "I've seen those huge art textbooks that you’re given and I could’ve sworn you were smiling like a pedophile looking at all those nude-”

Immediately his eyes flicker to yours, the pencil put down temporarily, "You know I don’t look into art because of those reasons!” He exclaims, disbelief written on his face and you can’t stop smiling. It was fun to tease him.

"Oh? But you were looking at sooo many!” His cheeks had gone red and clearing his throat nervously he picked the pencil up again, not replying to you as he continued to observe your form and sketch.

For a while, the conversation continued to range from many subjects like how your households have been lately, if you both were ready for that cursed calculus test tomorrow (Taehyung forgot and flipped out), and eventually Taehyung was already packing away his paints. The painting was finished.

"May I get up now?” You asked and he briefly nodded his head, his eyes directed and focused clearly on his finished work even as his body was turned to stuff his things in his bag.

You stretch to rid of the stilled muscles from sitting for so long, you look at the clock and shout in amazement, "Wow! You took a long time alright…it’s been 2 hours!” It hadn’t felt that way, you didn’t even notice how numb your bottom was getting from sitting for so long until he placed down his paintbrush.

He smiles at you, "Didn’t feel like it though, right?” You shook your head, now curious to see how it turned out and no longer nervous.

However, he quickly swipes the canvas off the stilt and holds it up and away from you and your mouth is agape. "Wah?! You’re not going to show the model the piece that was inspired by her?” You tried to grab it, but he pulled away just as quick, smirking at you and shaking his head, the brown bangs moving with him.

"You won’t like it…” He sticks his tongue out teasingly, but his eyes move to the painting and they fill with admiration. A chill runs up your spine as you start to assume many possibilities of what he could have done to alter your face, form, or dignity that you already had less confidence in already!

"I won’t show you unless…” Your ears have perked up by now and you look at him desperately, the curiosity and desire to see it painstakingly high that you nod your head ready for anything,  "You promise to talk to me again, forever.” 

A relieved sigh escapes your mouth and you smile, nodding again, that was easy enough. You already talked to him every day so that just seemed normal.

He stares at you for a while longer to ensure that you’ve kept the promise and hands you the canvas, still faced away from you. You turn it around and you could’ve sworn the gasp that ripped out of your lungs would make you lose your voice for an entire century from what was on the canvas before you. 

Absolutely nothing and your face drops in shock. How was that even possible? 

By the time you look up with the intention of giving Taehyung a death stare, he’s already disappeared. At least, that’s what you had thought before he turned you around revealing himself and kissing your lips, slyly peeling the empty canvas from your hands and running away as quickly as he started. He had run faster than you were able to scream, "WHAT A WASTE OF MY TIME YOU-”

Then you stop, and remember. You promised to talk to him again, forever, which meant you had to talk to him tomorrow. The canvas was empty, so he’ll ask you to model again because he needs to draw you for the project. That means you need to question him about the kiss. The kiss! Your eyes widen and the curve of your upper lip starts to twitch.

Now he has left you to question and ponder in your own thoughts until you can talk to him about them tomorrow.

                   Thank you soooo much for reading~ ˙˚ʚ(´◡`)ɞ˚˙