#where i could arrange the furniture however i like and put pictures and paintings and posters on the walls

[tardis--dreams]

I know it's Jammern auf hohem Niveau, but god i wish i had some shelves or any other pieces of furniture where i could put my stuff. Currently everything i don't use at a given moment is on the floor or the bed and it's so frustrating because it makes my apartment look even more untidy than it already is

[shreddedparchment]

A Wife For Thor Pt.01

10/12/2020

Arrivals and Departures

Pairing: King!Thor x Reader          Word Count: 6,990

Warnings: language, talks of death, angst, talks of sex,

A/N: This is seriously...I mean, I don’t even know where this came from. Credits to @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​ because Roo gave me the idea and I kinda ran with it. Like omg, y’all. Blame Roo. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo Dialogue from Thor Ragnarok has been used in the beginning of this story.

Please do not REPOST my stories anywhere. Reblogs are most welcome!

He stands with his arms crossed in what appears to be a small sitting room with a large window that opens to the sublime sight of the black space beyond. Sterling silver, radiant red, and brilliant blue stars twinkle into infinity.

This is a sight that Thor had seen many times before and yet, for the first time in an age, he felt hopeful for the future.

His fight had ended. With Ragnarok, his journey had reached an end. Not the end, but certainly that of a chapter I which his battles might rest.

He imagines that this might be how his father felt when he had taken charge of the nine realms.

However violent that takeover might have been, his father had lied about many things—his sister for one—it had been the beginning of a quieter reign. A new formative time for his father. He may not have been a perfect man, but he’d grown wiser in many ways. Still not the best father, but his father, nonetheless.

Thor can almost picture his life on Earth, a time of peace. A time to rebuild. He will be able to give his people a good life there and he’s certain that his friends will appreciate having him closer. Friends from work they may be, but friends.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to go back to Earth?” Loki asks, standing beside him with his hands held gently at his front.

Thor looks at him, waiting a moment to allow him to finish speaking.

“Yes, of course.” Thor assures him. “The people of Earth love me. I’m very popular.”

Loki takes a breath, looking out the window as he quickly accepts his brother’s reasoning while simultaneously realizing he must word this differently to get his point across.

“Let me rephrase that.” Loki begins, “Do you really think it’s a good idea to bring me back to Earth?”

Thor knows that Loki has a point. His history with Earth is…not perfect. To say the least.

“Probably not, to be honest.” He admits, noting Loki’s apprehension.

Loki smiles, a little knowing.

“I wouldn’t worry, brother.” Thor tells him, both turning back to the void outside. “I feel like everything’s going to work out fine.”

The moment seems endless, the two of them waiting as if the something should or might happen after Thor’s optimistic sentiments.

Then the moment passes and Loki sighs.

“Right, well, I’ll start rounding up the people who will be of the most use once we arrive.”

Thor gives his brother one parting smile but doesn’t watch him leave.

Thor doesn’t know exactly what has changed in him, what makes him so confident in this decision, but he knows it’s the best decision he could have made. And if he’s honest, though he’d never admit it out loud, the possibility of finally being on the same planet as Jane…well, he’d be a fool not to consider the possibilities.

~~~~~~~~~~

Something feels different today.

As you wake, turning onto your side to stare across the small room at the blinking line on the blank word document on your computer screen, you can’t quite put your finger on what is making you nervous.

Your stomach is rolling, making you queasy, despite the fact that you have no reason to be anxious.

Yesterday was like the day before and today will be just like yesterday. Nothing in your life ever changes, and that’s become so much of who you are that whenever you have even a doctor’s appointment your heart begins to race in dreaded anticipation.

With trembling hands you clutch your blanket, trying to find a reason behind this mood. Your breath quickens as your heart panics, your mind scrambling to make sense of these emotions but nothing comes to mind.

So, you get out of bed. You get dressed choosing a simple knee length black dress that fits loose enough to keep you comfortable throughout the day. Then you head into the kitchen and start the coffee pot.

Halfway through the brew you shut the machine off and rush to dump out its contents into the sink.

“Fuck.”

You sigh, realizing you should really invest in decaf coffee for morning just like this.

“Tea. Tea is better.” You rationalize and pull your kettle off the warmer and fill it in the sink.

You replace it in its dock then turn your back to it, hands gripping the edge of the counter as you lean against it.

Your fingers stroke the smooth and unvarnished wooden countertop, suddenly going rigid around the lip as your heart goes frantic again.

The island counter directly in front of you is made of the same unvarnished wood, a slightly mismatched chair on the other side, tucked in beside the open shelving that holds your pots and pans. Along the center of the island sits a small vase with nearly completely withered flowers.

You’re filled with relief as your hands are given new task and you hurry forward and take the clear glass vase, toss the flowers—which crumble as they hit yesterday’s empty cereal box—dump the water in the sink and quickly refill it.

Setting the vase aside, you pull open a drawer and pluck from an array of contents a small packet of flower food, a pair of small pruners, a long piece of twine, and head out the back door to your modest backyard.

There isn’t much in it, and it’s unfenced. A large tree at the back-left corner provides shade and pecans. In the center of the yard sits a set of antique iron work garden furniture. Twisted and shaped into what reminds you of lace. Two smaller chairs and one long bench with curved backs.

You’ve been of a mind to buy cushions for them, but you haven’t found an excuse to justify the expense.

In between the garden set sits an outdoor coffee table made of wood and painted white. It’s fading and will need a new coat soon but again the expense can wait. At least until you sell another story.

Apart from this set and a small wooden shed beside the pecan tree, your yard is mostly overgrown grass and carefully cultivated flowers lining the length of your narrow back porch.

You smile, noticing the length of your grass, grateful for another something to keep you busy today. Something to keep your mind off this mysterious and anxious premonition of something to come.

Quickly you move to a large blooming bush at the end of your porch and cut from it several bunches of pink and blue garden phlox.

You admire the shade of the blue flowers. The color reminds you a pair of blue eyes you’d once seen on a woman who’d come to your school as a child.

She’d been beautiful and kind, but she hadn’t picked you. Still, you’d never forgotten the color of her eyes.

The pink is pastel at the edges of its petals and vibrant magenta at the center.

As you head back in, the kettle only barely beginning to steam, you quickly arrange the bunches you’ve picked and wrap them up with the twine. You set the bushel aside and with the vase pulled close, you tear the packet of flower food with your teeth and pour it in.

Replacing the flowers, you give the kettle one more look before you race back into your bedroom to pick out a more appropriate outfit for cutting the grass.

You decide on a pair of jeans and a plain yellow t-shirt. Pulling them on, you pause with your shirt hooked around your arms as your eyes find your laptop screen, annoyingly black still.

With a groan you pull your shirt on and from the kitchen you hear the whistle.

Breakfast is simple. A store-bought muffin and a cup of breakfast tea do the trick and while you’re still chewing your last bite you head out to cut your grass.

It doesn’t take you too long and you lament the last bit as you cut it, the machine vibrating violently in your nervous grip.

No matter how much you try to distract yourself, this feeling of something terrible coming will not go away and you’re about to go out of your mind when a shout from your back door pulls your mind from it.

Standing there is an older man with an unconventionally handsome face. His lips are thin, cheekbones prominent, brown eyes sunken, and his nose long and defined. His dark hair slicked and parted, neatly kept to match his crisp navy suit.

“Aren’t you a little overdressed?” You shout at him as the whirr of the machine dies into silence.

The man moves towards you, a smile brightening his face.

“I was just at a meeting.” He explains.

“Do you ever stop working?” You wonder, pushing the lawn mower towards the shed as he follows.

“Only when I’m on vacation.” He tells you, amusement in his voice but subdued and you only hear it because you’ve known him for years.

“You don’t take vacations.” You sputter, almost laughing.

“Precisely.” He agrees.

He waits for you to shut the door and when you turn, he greets you with open arms.

“How have you been?” He asks, holding the hug for longer than you’re used to which only adds to the anxiety you’ve been feeling all morning.

What’s going on?!

“Hey, you okay?” You ask him, ignoring his question in favor of satisfying your curiosity.

He doesn’t answer but holds the hug a moment longer before pulling back to look at you.

“We have to talk.” He tells you, making your heart pound.

“Okay. You want some breakfast?” You offer, and swallow hard as your fear mounts.

“Sure.” He says and follows you inside.

You make him a full breakfast. Eggs, bacon, breakfast sausage, and buttered toast with a cup of coffee. Just because you can’t stand the idea of being hyped up on caffeine today doesn’t mean David won’t.

He digs right in while you stand on the other side of the island, sipping on your second cup of tea in hopes that it will ease your frayed nerves.

For a few minutes he gobbles down your food but when you shift on your feet for the fourth time, he clears his throat, takes a drink of his coffee, then puts his fork down.

“It’s not exactly bad news.” He assures you, easing you a little but something tells you that you still won’t like it.

“Just tell me, David.”

“As your lawyer,” He begins, sitting back in your old wobbly chair. “It’s my duty to inform you when there are developments with your family’s estate.”

“Right.” You agree, remembering the day he’d found you when you’d turned eighteen to tell you that you weren’t exactly as poor as you’d thought.

You’re not really rich either. You have a little money that your parents set aside for you. Old money that you hadn’t really touched. You use it mostly for bills when you can’t sell a story fast enough and most of your wealth is in this cottage. A family home that you’d had no idea was yours until David brought you here.

Finally, a home, after living in that school all those years.

“Well, I think it might be time to reveal a little more of that estate’s history.”

“Why?” You put down the floral porcelain cup and wrap your arms around yourself, afraid of what he’ll say.

How did you know that something was coming? What kind of sixth sense do you have?!

“After all this time, why would it matter?” You sigh, moving to pull out the second chair to his right on the shorter end of the island.

“Don’t panic.” He tells you, reaching over to place his hand over yours. “Let’s keep our heads. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“You say that, but why do I feel like that’s not exactly true?” You sigh.

He blinks, gathering his thoughts before he nods.

“I think I’ll tell you all at once. Like ripping a band-aid. Might be the easiest for you.” He realizes.

You don’t disagree.

“Your family comes from a very small people in Europe. Their origins are hard to trace but we know that they travelled between France, Norway, Denmark, Romania, Belgium, Sweden, Austria, Greece, and even spent a large amount of time in hiding in the United Kingdom.”

“I get it, they were nomads.” You sigh, your mood taking a turn from the anticipation of clarity.

“Yes. Nomads.” David agrees, patting your hand in an attempt to calm you. “I only mention it because there are many questions as to where they had originated from. No one seems to know. Unfortunately, I don’t think that question will ever be answered as all records before their stint in France have been lost.

“What we do know is that your ancestors, your bloodline are royalty.” David says, as easily as if he were telling you your age. “Even though the titles have long since been lost, you are technically—though you have no country to rule over—a princess.”

Slowly his words sink in and your face begins to relax. You look down at his hand over yours and without warning you laugh once. Then again, and again, until you’re leaning on your chair, head thrown back as your whole body shakes with it.

“What is so funny?” David asks, unamused but he goes back to eating.

“This is a joke, right? You’re pulling my leg.” You gasp, breath shallow.

“Not one little bit.” He shakes his head. “If we knew what country your ancestors came from, you would very much be in some palace or castle, reigning over your people. Your parents, were they alive, would have been King and Queen.

“You may not think it possible, but that is your legacy, Y/N. You are of royal blood.” David insists which sobers you a little, but you think it’s so silly that this is what you’d been so scared of.

This is what you’d been dreading?

“Okay. Fine. I believe you. But what does it matter? You said that if I still had a country then I would be princess, but clearly, I don’t. So, I’m not. What’s the point of telling me this when it makes absolutely no difference to my life?

“I don’t feel any different and it’s not like that makes me any richer? I’m still sitting on a decently sized fortune to assure that I don’t want for anything at least until my forties. What could this possibly change that you felt it necessary to tell me?”

David wipes his mouth with his napkin, finishing up the last bit of his coffee before he gets up and with his dirty plates moves towards the sink.

“Leave it, David. I’ll clean up later.” You watch him, sitting up a little straighter as that anxious feeling begins to grow again with his extended silence.

He washes the plate and as he does, your nerves begin to fray again. You anxiously pick at a small splinter in your island, waiting for him to speak.

He turns towards you as he finished washing his plate, then meets your eyes.

“You weren’t just revealing my heritage, were you?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I felt I needed to reveal your heritage because someone has reached out with the hopes of setting up a meeting with you.”

“Why would anyone wanna meet with me simply because they know of my lineage?” You wonder, slouched, hands moved to your lap to rest limply as you stare at David, fear increasing with every moment that passes.

“May I ask you a personal question?” He says, moving to stand closer as he dries his hand on your dishtowel.

“David, you know everything about me.” You sigh.

“Why haven’t you ever had a boyfriend? Or girlfriend? I’m not sure I’ve ever asked if you-?”

“To be honest, I don’t know either.” You shrug. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Not even as a child?” He wonders.

“I was too busy wishing for parents as a kid.” You clarify. “I didn’t have time for crushes or any of that stuff.”

“Are you opposed to a relationship?” David asks, dropping the towel then moving around to sit back down in his seat.

“Opposed?” You ask, shaking your head. “Not exactly opposed. I’ve just never known anyone worth caring about like that. I’m mainly here at home. I do go into town when I need to get my packages but there isn’t anyone there that…I don’t draw attention like that.”

“You’re a pretty girl.” David tells you, reaching over to tug on your sleeve. “When you aren’t sweaty and covered in grass clippings.”

You scoff, shaking your head.

“It’s not something I really worry about.” You admit.

“Would you ever want to get married?” David asks, and your heart is suddenly pounding.

The idea of being someone’s wife had crossed your mind once or twice. Mostly when you’d been jotting down ideas or plotlines for your books. In the end, because you didn’t think you had enough insight, you’d opted to remove all romance. You write mysteries.

“I don’t know that I’d be any good at it.” You confess. “I’m not…I can’t exactly picture myself being someone’s wife.”

“Why not?”

“Because I…I don’t even know what I’d be like in a relationship, sharing space and time, much less sharing an entire life?” You shake your head. “I’m not saying that I haven’t thought about it but it’s only ever been in passing.”

David goes silent, tapping his index finger against the island.

“David, please. You know I can’t take the suspense.” You plead.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” He nods then reminds himself, “Band-aid.”

You take a deep breath and turn to face him a little more in your seat.

“Well, you are aware of our planet’s newest inhabitants?”

“Th-The Asgardians in Norway?”

“Yes.” David nods. “Well, as a sign of good faith, to ensure that they will abide by Earth’s laws and to assuage any ideas from panicked world leaders that they might try and overtake the planet and make it their own, they have decided that marriage to someone from Earth might be the best way to do that.

“The Asgardian known as Brunnhilde has reached out to all families of royal blood and asked to meet with any eligible women, preferably—as she so tactfully put it—maidens.” He explains. “Which I take it you are?”

You swallow hard, your lungs rubbed of oxygen and yet you somehow manage to quietly acknowledge, “Yes. I’m a virgin.”

How can you not be after spending your whole life unconcerned with romance?

“You don’t have to do it, Y/N.” David suddenly says; however, you can see the ‘but’ in his eyes. “But if you don’t and the Asgardian king cannot choose from the women he does meet, you will probably be hunted down and forced to meet with him anyway.

“All world leaders are in agreement that this is the correct and only way to ensure the safety of the planet. They will not give up until every woman meeting the Asgardian’s requirements have been given the chance to meet with Thor.”

“Thor?!” You gasp, rising to your feet as hundreds if not thousands of images flash through your mind of the Thunder God and the Avengers fighting side by side.

“Yes.” David affirms, rising to his feet with you. “With the death of his father, he is now King of Asgard.”

Of course, Thor is going to be King. You already knew this. It’s common sense.

For some reason though, the confirmation made out loud, vocally…how the fuck are you supposed to marry Thor? An Avenger? That’s not…this cannot be real life!

“David,” You begin, apprehensive.

“I know. I know it is a lot to ask but as I said, I don’t believe we have much of a choice. He might very well not pick you.” David adds, rushing to comfort you and point out how unlikely you’d be the one Thor chooses to wed. “There are plenty of other women that he’s already met with. Women that are more suited to life in a palace than you are. The Hungarian princess is so eager to be Queen of Asgard that she’s been sending the other women bribes to try and convince them to refuse.

“It won’t make a difference, since they cannot refuse should Thor choose them.” David admits.

“A-all I have to do is meet with him?” You stutter, heart in your throat.

“Just a quick one-hour meeting. He’ll ask you questions. Get to know a bit about you. See if you are suited for life as Asgardian queen and then it’s over.” David assures you.

“I’m…There are lots of other women better for it, right?”

“Loads of them.” David promises.

New fears begin to take hold in your heart and mind.

It conjures up the last time you’d seen Thor, strutting from a massive spaceship docked over the ocean by New Asgard. He’d risen from its depths all wide shoulders and biceps. Heavy steps thudding as he’d stopped at the end of the massive ramp, waving at the cameras as his people had filed out behind him.

His hair cropped short as opposed to the long tresses he’d had when he’d last been on Earth, one eye missing with a sleek black and gold metal patch over it the absence.

You’ve never been threatened by him before. He’s a hero. But the prospect of being his wife and having wifely duties...

Your mind flies into panic as it shifts that large body over you, crawling towards you with his hands prying your legs open. The years of sexual experience radiating off of this fantasy Thor and all of his bulging muscles.

You almost want to throw up at the prospect of having to consummate a marriage. You haven’t exactly been eager to be with anyone since you haven’t met anyone special, but you’d at least imagined something more intimate. More personal.

“David I-they won’t choose me though, right?” You reach out for him because your legs are suddenly weak.

He takes hold of your arms and helps you stand still.

“They won’t.” He tells you, sounding convinced. “There are better candidates. Women with actual titles.”

He’s right. Of course, he’s right. He has to be right.

“It’s just a quick meeting.” He promises. “Then it’ll all be over, and you can come back to your cottage and live just as you have been, with no one to bother you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Leaving your little place is difficult. After spending years without a home to call your own, now that you have your cottage, tearing yourself away from it is like pulling splinters.

You like your little yard. You like your flowers. You love your bed and its white sheets, little pink and yellow flowers printed on the soft fabric.

You’d made it more feminine. You’d brought flowers back and frills and lace. You’d made it everything you thought a cottage at the edge of a wood should look like and as time had gone by you’d brought in more personal touches.

After several years, your home is finally completely you.

This place, this massive Asgardian structure is less gold and more wood, stone, and iron. Silver steel polished so bright it gleams even in moonlight. This place is not you. It’s him. It’s Thor. His home.

Right now, with the day almost over, the palace takes on a warmer tone. The wooden structures and gray stone pillars are bathed in orange light, giving the place a pleasant glow and despite yourself, you can almost picture Thor meandering through these Nordic halls, a long crimson robe around his thick form.

It isn’t an unpleasant image now that you’ve given yourself some time to get used to the idea of him.

When you arrived you were greeted and seated in a large round room, the lower quarter of the sturdy walls made of ornate stone brick, the rest of the wall beautiful dark oak. The floor is also stone, massive carpets underneath several pieces of obviously Norse inspired furniture.

Well actually, the Norse was probably derived from Asgardian styles. There’s a difference in them that you can see but don’t understand. The coffee table in front of you has ornately carved legs, golden embellishments, and a black coat of paint.

The sofa you’re sitting on is mostly wood, painted gold, with plush and soft satin covered cushions in wine red.

There are two other tables around the room, a collection of books on one and an array of fruits, foods, and drinks on the other. There are several different statues and stands. Lamps that look as if they should have flames instead of the electric bulbs they now hold.

Small touches of modern design filter through the room complimenting the more traditional décor.

“Hello there.” Says a lilting voice.

You recognize it and turn to find Loki, slipping through a narrow opening in the large set of doors you’d been escorted through almost half an hour ago.

He’s dressed in a black suit with a plain white t-shirt underneath dressing the look down.

“H-Hi.” You stammer, surprised by his appearance.

You stand, knowing well that he may not be King but for Asgard, Loki is still a prince.

“No, please. Do not get up on my account.” He gestures at your seat and you settle back in as he crosses to the table with all the books. “I forgot some papers in here, I only came to retrieve them. Do not mind me.”

You avert your eyes, afraid to see something you shouldn’t and sit just as stiffly as before, hands fisting the royal purple dress you’d chosen to wear. It’s simple, quarter sleeves, high neckline with a small V at the center. Just above your knees in length, it rises as you grip it.

“Nervous to meet my brother?” Loki asks, stopping by the doors as he eyes your tight grip.

“This whole situation is a little stressful.” You admit. “I’m…I live in a small house in the middle of nowhere. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Ah, you’re the one with the lost lineage.” Loki realizes, moving closer with interest. “A hidden princess. You could have refused to come, you know?”

“I would have been forced eventually.” You point out. “There are a lot of people who want this marriage thing to happen.”

“True.” Loki agrees, “My fault, I’m afraid. I make them nervous.”

“You did very nearly destroy New York.” You point out, remembering the carnage reported that day. The aftermath had taken forever to clean up.

“I did.” Loki agrees. “Do you fear me?”

“No.” You admit. “If you weren’t safe, Thor wouldn’t have brought you back here.”

“He could just be too trusting.”

“Maybe.” You agree. “But with the fate of his entire people tied to the successful acclimation of Asgard and Earth, if you were really a threat, I think he’d have cut you out before coming back.”

Loki’s lips slowly curl up into a smile before breaking apart into a toothy grin.

“What is your name again?” He asks, a sparkle of something in his eyes.

“Y/N.” You tell him. “Why?”

“No reason. This has been very illuminating, Y/N. It was lovely to meet you.” Loki says then with a quick bow of his head, he leaves you to your solitude.

Confused, you sit there completely at a loss for what just happened.

Had you taken too many liberties with Loki? What had that smile meant? You’d been made aware that Loki was also involved in recruiting women of royal blood into marriage meetings for Thor, but you hadn’t expected him to know you by the description of where you live.

Maybe because it’s so unlike anyone else’s?

You sit there stewing for another twenty minutes, wondering if maybe you’re being stood up when the large doors open once again.

You shoot up onto your feet, so damn nervous your body reacts without your permission. Through the door this time comes the man of the hour. The massive Thunder God dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans and a plain gray t-shirt crosses over to the table with food and pours himself a stein of what looks like beer from a sloshing brown pitcher.

“Estrid, is this from the new batch of ale?” He booms loud enough that he can be heard even outside of the room as he takes a quick sniff of the liquid.

His voice is so deep.

Licking your lips, you watch him drink the entire stein without taking a breath or waiting for an answer, and then refill it before grabbing it and taking an apple with his other hand.

He turns, holding the fruit up to his mouth and freezes with it pressed to his lips as he meets your eyes, realizing he isn’t alone.

You’re not exactly sure what to say or what to do, completely taken aback by this strange and sudden exposure to candid Thor. Both of you unprepared to see each other despite the fact that you’ve literally been waiting nearly an hour for him.

His confusion mounts as he lowers the apple, looking around as if expecting an explanation or to see if he’s in the correct room.

“What time is it?” He suddenly asks, meeting your gaze again.

“N-Nearly six.” You tell him, and his one good eye goes slightly wide.

“Oh!” His lips curl up into an easy smile. “I did not think it was that late.”

His smile makes you feel a little more at ease, but you’re still on edge.

“You’re my meeting.” He tells you, as if you don’t already know that. “Y/N? Y/L/N, right?”

“Yes.” You nod, then before you can stop yourself… “You’re late.”

Thor blinks. Startled it seems or maybe just surprised, but then he smiles again. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, you can be as late as you’d like. This is your meeting. Sorry. I didn’t…I don’t know why I said that.” You rush to say.

“No, no.” Thor turns to put down his stein of beer and the apple replaced in its bowl. “You’re right. I am late. We were supposed to meet at five, weren’t we?”

When he turns back to you, you nod.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you have much you could be doing.” Thor says, moving towards you and gesturing at the spot you’d been in before sitting down at the other end of the sofa.

“No.” You confess. “Not really. I’m actually one of the only people that probably doesn’t have much to do. Well, I mean, I could be writing. Or cleaning house.”

“They tell me that you had no knowledge about your lineage before Brunnhilde reached out to your lawyer?”

You nod. “It’s not really important. Or…no. That’s not the right-what I mean to say is that it isn’t significant to my life.”

“Don’t you want to know who your family is?” Thor wonders.

“I know who my family is. I had a mom. And a dad. Both died just after I was born. That’s my family.” You explain. “Apart from getting to meet you, the news that my family was once royalty doesn’t change it in any way. I’m still just as insignificant today as I was before.”

Thor narrows his brow, watching you for a long torturous moment as he considers what you’d just said.

“Tell me about yourself.” He suddenly says, turning to lean back against the arm, his own thrown over the back, right leg bent up onto the sofa.

“There isn’t much to tell.” You admit. “I was born, my parents died in an accident. I was taken to a school for orphans where I grew up and aged out. On the day I had to leave, Mr. Valis found me and gave me my inheritance which is a good amount of money and a small house. I’ve been living there ever since.”

“You didn’t take any additional schooling?” Thor asks, relaxing. “All the other young women I’ve met have made it a point to tell me about the universities and colleges they’ve attended.”

“I took a few correspondence classes.” You tell him, “But I’ve only ever wanted to write, and I didn’t feel that I needed a higher education to do it. I mean, it would probably look better on my resume, but my writing should speak for itself.”

You can’t really tell what he’s thinking with the way he’s watching you, his hand playing with a thread on the back of the sofa.

You take it as a good sign that many of the other women have a degree of some sort. They must want someone respectable with a good education, right?

“How do you feel about political marriages?” He asks, and you’re stunned for a moment.

“Um…”

“Be honest, please.”

“I guess I don’t like the idea?” You admit. “Being forced to marry someone you don’t love because duty demands it? Feels archaic. If you love someone, whether they fit into whatever political standards are being demanded or not should not be a reason to get married.”

Thor sits up, shifting a little closer as he leans towards you.

“If you were asked to go along with a political marriage in every way but the heart, could you?” He wonders, much more interested than before.

“What do you mean?” You ask, confused.

“Well, let’s say for example, you and I were to marry. We’d be expected to have children. You’d be bound to do your duties as Queen of Asgard, but you would not be required to love me. Would you be able to fulfill these requirements?”

“You don’t want to do this, do you?” You realize, seeing the eagerness in his eyes. His shoulders slump. “If you don’t want to get married, why don’t you just say something?”

“I must do what I can to ensure the future of my people.” Thor says, sighing deeply.

“I’m guessing there’s someone else you do love that you can’t marry?”

“Not that I can’t but won’t. She isn’t ready for marriage and I don’t feel right making that kind of demand from her when she clearly has other things she’d like to be doing with her life. And…yes, maybe a little bit can’t. A royal marriage would make the most sense. I need a Queen.” Thor says.

You can’t find the words to tell him how fucked up this all is so instead you sit in silence.

“I know this is not ideal. I’ve tried to find other ways of assuring Earth of my commitment to this planet but nothing I’ve suggested is good enough.”

He needs a Queen. This gives you solace. No one is less of a queen than you are.

“I’m sorry.” You finally tell him. “It’s not fair. But I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone who checks all those boxes for you. I hear the Hungarian princess is pretty eager.”

Thor ignores you, stroking his beard as he watches you. “What do you want from a marriage? Let us say it’s many years from now and you have found someone you love beyond all reason. You two decide to get married. What does that look like?”

You’re a little surprised by the question but you humor him and take a moment to really think about it.

The man you picture has no face. There is no one you care enough about to imagine. So…because he’s the only option, you take Thor’s face and give your imaginary husband a face.

“We’d be partners.” You tell him. “Open about everything important. We would respect each other’s individualities. If something is troubling me, I would like to know that I could turn to him and if he had something on his mind, I’d hope that he could turn to me too.

“We’d be honest about even the unpleasant aspects of our life together. If we disagreed, we would talk about it openly. We wouldn’t hide from each other. We’d spend as much time as we could together and always make time for each other.”

You picture Thor sitting at your island in your comfy cottage. He’s so massive that he’d take up so much space. You’d have to squeeze past him, and he’d turn to wrap his arms around your waist as you pass.

He’d trap you there, not letting you move.

“We’d make breakfast together. Cramped up in my little kitchen, it would turn into play.” You smile. “We’d lounge around the house, reading and listening to music. In the evenings we’d move out to the backyard and watch the sun set then watch the stars until I’d fall asleep on his shoulder.”

As if you’re caught doing something you shouldn’t be, you startle yourself out of your daydream and feel your neck heat up.

You’d crossed from rational marriage into sentimental and you’re a little shocked at the detail in which your mind has gone.

You’re also a little startled by the pleasant feeling that picturing Thor in those situations has given you.

For someone who has never had a crush, you’re startled by the butterflies it gives you.

“But I’ve never been into anyone like that before.” You tell him, looking away from his intense gaze. “So, even if that’s what I picture, it’s not like it’s ever gonna happen.”

“It might.” Thor says, sounding as if he might be trying to comfort you.

“It won’t.” You assure him. “I hope your girl changes her mind.”

There’s a bitter ache in your chest as you say it, and you’re certain it’s only there because of the little fantasy you just allowed yourself to have. You should have picture someone else.

“I hope they relax on the royal blood thing and let you marry someone you love instead.” You hope.

“You say that as if you already know that I won’t pick you.” Thor observes.

You smile wide, laughing even as you bite your lip. “Well, I’m nothing like the girls you’ve met with. I don’t have endless amounts of money. I don’t have a prestigious education or extensive family. I don’t know anything about being royalty. The others have been doing it their entire lives. I’m the least likely candidate. I don’t fit the requirements, except for the bloodline thing.

“I only agreed to meet with you because I knew that the likelihood of you picking me was almost non-existent.”

“Ouch.” Thor says.

“No!” You rush to say. “You’re very…I mean, you’re kind from what I can tell and honorable. You’ve saved Earth a couple times and you’re a little self-centered but only in a superficial way that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a good man.

“I honestly don’t know why your girl won’t marry you but I’m not right for this.” You nod. “I wouldn’t make a good Queen for you.”

Thor nods slowly, thinking for a minute before he straightens up and turns to rise, slapping his hands on his knees before he moves back towards the table of fruit and beer.

“You’re probably right.” He agrees, and for some reason, you’re disappointed.

Not so much that he isn’t picking you, but rather that he sees you aren’t enough. You’re lacking in some way. Which you already knew but…knowing he thinks that makes you feel a little lousy despite that being something you wanted.

“I suppose I’ll just have to pick someone more suitable. Someone who knows better about ruling a people. All the same, thank you for coming.” Thor says, dismissing you.

He picks up his stein again and turns to look at you as you rise.

“It was a pleasure to meet you.”

You nod, “Likewise.”

After a moment of hesitation, you give him a wave and move for the doors, trembling hands reaching out to yank the doors open and make your escape.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been weeks since you met with Thor and you’ve completely forgotten the whole thing. Life has gone back to normal and even though you now know that you’re from royal stock, nothing, as you expected, has changed.

The only plus that has risen from this whole situation is that you can now picture marriage a little better, however inexperienced and cliché it might be, you can make something up now.

Your little fling with the idea of Thor had given you fuel to slip a little romance into your writing and your fingers are flying across the keyboard of your laptop as you type up a new and promising mystery about a set of lovers and the body they discover in the attic of their new home.

You hate to be interrupted during a writing session, but you must have forgotten that about yourself because your phone starts to ring.

Normally you mute it before you even sit down to write.

With a growl you reach over and take a quick look at the number.

David flashes on your screen and quickly you swipe to answer.

“Hey, can I call you back in like an hour? I’m in the middle of a chapter and I’m on a roll.” You plead, fingers still flying across the keys.

“Y/N, Thor chose you.” David’s voice says and your fingers freeze.

There’s a pounding in your chest and your head is full of white fuzz. Your legs are numb, and your stomach is swirling with both flutters and nausea.

You can’t have heard that right.

“What?” You ask, voice shaky.

“Thor. He chose you. I just got off the phone with Brunnhilde and she wanted to let me know so that I could call you and let you know that she’ll be by tomorrow to pick you up.”

This can’t be happening.

“She said to pack only what you absolutely need. Everything else will be provided for you.”

“David…I…I can refuse, right? I don’t have to marry him.” You plead desperately.

“Y/N…” David sighs. “You agreed to this before you went to see him. I’m afraid the time to back out has come and gone.”

“But I can just not do it.” You argue. “They can’t force me to do it.”

“The government will seize your assets if you refuse.” David explains. “They want this done. I’m sorry, Y/N. There’s no backing out of this now.”

“But…But he loves someone else.” You tell him and even though your mind knows that this should be the last thing to concern you, it should not be the first reason you can think of why marrying Thor is a bad idea, it is.

As your eyes focus on the little blinking line of your word doc, your heart gives a painful ache knowing that your husband will be loving someone else.

[giorno-plays-piano]

The Spider's Bride

Pairing: spider!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning: yandere, obsession, stalking, forced marriage, mentions of suicidal thoughts and breeding (but everything is not as dark as it seems).

Words: 3836.

Summary: Whoever your stepmother sold you to, he wasn't as honorable as she claimed.

P.S. Hey guys! Initially it was supposed to be more horror-ish, but then I wrote a lot of sad Bucky, and, ugh, the story became what it is now. Hope you're going to enjoy!

____________

"From now on you have to go alone. We're not allowed to come any further." Your stepmother said and stopped, your stepsisters looking at her with visible discomfort on their faces.

"But we have to ensure her betrothed is waiting for her and pass him her trousseau. This is the tradit-"

"He's not from these lands and cares little for our traditions." She quickly cut one of her daughters off and motioned them to give a few bags they were carrying back to you. "The only thing you have to do is follow the path and you will be alright, girl. Stop being so scared, I'm not sending you to meet your death. Suit yourself, dear Lord! You are going to be married to an honorable man, be grateful I've arranged it for you!"

Funny. If he was truly as honorable as she said, she'd let one of her girls marry him instead. Judging by the place he asked you to come meet him, he was some filthy necromancer or a dark mage in hiding. Regardless of that, he had definitely paid good money for you if your stepmother was willing to let go of the one who was doing most of the housework.

Whatever. Since the death of your father, you hadn't been expecting your miserable life to get any better. She'd force you to marry some revolting man sooner or later, nevertheless.

"Goodbye, sisters." You whispered to them, throwing your rough work-weary hands around their skinny shoulders and kissing their cheeks. "May the Lord be with you."

"May the Lord be with you." They repeated quietly, and you saw their eyes were glistening with tears in the darkness of the cave. They were clinging to you like little kids to their mother, and you smiled. Despite being born to this vulture, your sisters were kind-hearted. They were the only ones to bring you joy in the darkest of days.

"Goodbye, mother."

She turned away from you silently and headed back without acknowledging your words. One of her daughters hissed at her with disdain before she looked back and sent the girl a grim look, pointing to the entrance where the light was piercing through the darkness.

"Move. I don't have all day."

Watching the guilty expression appearing on their faces, you patted both of the girls on the back and silently ushered them to go. They weren't the ones to blame for what had happened to you, and they couldn't do much. No one could.

As all three disappeared from your view, you bit down on your lower lip and gathered your pathetic belongings. You didn't have anything valuable since even the dresses your mother wore were burnt once that woman entered the house of your father. Sometimes you were thinking whether anything would be different if he stayed alive, but you weren't sure of that. Maybe it was better without him, the man who had seen his new wife destroying the one and only portrait of your mother, but doing nothing at all to stop her. Maybe it was better you left the house where you were constantly reminded of how miserable and rotten you were, a girl she hated with all her heart.

Rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand to stop yourself from crying, you moved forward, going deeper into the dungeon or whatever this cold unfriendly place was, the medallion your betrothed given you hanging on your chest. Was it his face you saw inside? It would be surprising if he was as handsome as on the picture. Tired, a bit broken, maybe, and somewhat gloomy, but handsome. Or did your stepmother steal this medallion from someone else, some true soldier she claimed your betrothed to be? Was your fiancee ugly, then? Old? Unhealthy? There was only one way to find out.

The more you walked, the heavier the bags with trousseau became in your hands. At one point you thought to just leave them there, but then you sighed and continued carrying them further. Instead of paying a dowry, your stepmother sold you to your betrothed. He could get mad if you didn't bring him even your trousseau.

It was getting colder, and you stopped for a minute to wrap you woolen shawl around your shoulders, dropping the bags to the ground. Your little journey took you much longer than you expected, and you hoped your fiancee hadn't already been waiting for you. He would be enraged, for sure. Hopefully, you still had a little time.

Bending over to pick up your bags, you suddenly froze on the spot. You heard some odd noises coming from somewhere ahead of you and then raised your head. The burning torches lighting the cave were... shaking?

You jumped to your feet. The noise was becoming louder. You couldn't quite describe it - it felt like indistinct whispers, but very rough, inhuman. The ground trembled beneath your feet as you felt fear rising deep within your chest, leaving you cold. What was that? What was that sound? What creature was whispering... no, tapping... pounding the ground with something...

You left the bags where they were and turned back. It was not the whisper. It was the sound of an enournously huge insect creeping closer to you.

Bats out of hell moved slower than you when you ran towards the exit, barely containing your screams. Was that a giant centipede? A beetle? Something worse than that? You had no desire to figure it out.

You knew this was a bad idea from the start. Your stepmother had never cared for your wellbeing, so it wasn't surprising she truly sent you to your death. Was your fiancee a necromancer who preferred dead women over the living ones? Maybe so.

You fell down to the ground with a loud scream and sobbed, forcing yourself to get up and look at your blooded knee. Pain shot through it once you tried to move, and you bit your tongue. It was even harder to walk now, but you weren't staying there to let whatever creature come and devour your flesh. Gathering yourself, you clenched your teeth and kept running, albeit slower, to the exit of the cave. If you died trying, so be it.

"Please, don't run from me!" Someone said in a desperate voice from behind, yet the only sound you had heard was the one of dozens of steps against the ground. Many metal legs scratched the stone beneath them, making you shudder and cry.

Whatever that creature were, it would be the death of you.

And so you ran and ran until you couldn't feel your legs, but the monster was too close to let you escape. When you fell down the second time on the same knee, undeniably breaking it, you screamed from pain and tried to crawl away still, watching in utter horror how the shadow emerged from the darkness behind you, it's features inhuman, monstrous, revolting. Watching the claws on its eight long legs enveloped in metal glowing in the dark, you yelled at the top of your voice, raising your eyes to the black spider's segmented body.

As you kept looking up, you saw that a horrifying creature wasn't just a gigantic spider. Half of him belonged to a man. Although below the waistline he had that abominable black body, his torso, chest, arms and head were human.

You screamed until your lungs were burning when you saw the face of a man you first had discovered on a little painting inside the medallion. It was your betrothed. Your stepmother had sold you to the arachnid.

Before he advanced further, the light went out, and you were drowning in the dark, finally loosing your consciousness.

____________

There was a distant sound of someone's singing somewhere outside of the house. You could mistake it for Aleana's voice, but hers was lower than this one, melodic, almost magical. This charming singing could put sirens to shame.

You slowly opened your eyes, looking at the high ceiling through the silver threads of the canopy above you. It was odd. Even before your father married for the second time you had never had a canopy bed, especially such a gorgeous one with a cloth looking like it was made by the Queen's best weavers. It almost looked like a silky silver web.

Spiders. Arachnid.

You jumped on the bed, throwing away a warm blanket covering your body, and stared at the large room you woke up in. It seemed as big as half of your house at the very least, the walls coloured in shades of lilac and amethyst, two silver chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. You saw dark-wood furniture lavishly decorated with auspicious motifs, a huge oval mirror... it looked like a room of a princess.

"Are you feeling better?"

You screamed when you heard someone's low voice and clamped your hands over your mouth, quickly moving to the farthest corner of the bed, your back pressed into the cold wall. There was a stranger sitting on the chair near your bed, but for some reason you hadn't seen him before as if he just emerged from the darkness.

You were staring at the face of a man you saw in the cave. Now, however, he looked fully human, his monstrous lower half replaced by long musculed legs. He was dressed in black lether while his left arm glowed in the dark, wrapped in metal, but he couldn't trick you with his charms. You knew his true form.

He was a war veteran, stepmother said, a hero, a soldier. She failed to mention he belonged to arachnid troops, the ones who fought alonside soldiers of your kingdom against Hydra tribes.

Grabbing a pillow and hiding behind it as if it were a shield, you cried, shivering and cursing your stepmother silently. How could she do it to you? How could she give you to an arachnid, this revolting, inhuman creature crawling in the dark? How could she send you here, knowing you were to be wed to this beast and bear his monstrous children? Better death than this. Better ending your life yourself than becoming a whore to this creature, forsaken by the gods.

You didn't know how much time had passed before your tears dried out. The man didn't try to get closer to you. He didn't speak, keeping his head low while you shuddered in the corner.

A bride to the spider. Even thinking of that made you feel like throwing up.

"Are you feeling better?" The man suddenly repeated his question, and you shriveled upon hearing his voice.

You didn't want to talk. Since the time your stepmother had first entered your house, your life was pathetic and worthless. She stripped you of your dowry and all belongings of your mother; she took away your dresses and even ribbons you used to decorate your hair with. You were not the daughter of lady of the house anymore. You were her errands girl, her little servant, the one she had been taking her anger out on. Even when your father was still alive, you knew you wouldn't be allowed to marry a decent man.

You dreamt of running away and living all by yourself in the forest before it was invaded by agressive driads and deadly lamias. After that you quietly accepted that your fate was to suffee in the arms of your offenders. You realized gods didn't want you to be happy, but you couldn't even imagine you would end up being sent to a dungeon right into the arms of this monster who was to breed you. You felt revolt rising deep within you. Even dying was better than this.

"I have healed your knee." The man said, and you blinked, suddenly conscious of your lack of pain. It was true, you had broken it on the run, but now you felt nothing as if you didn't hurt yourself in the first place.

He probably expected some gratitude.

"Thank you." You said in raspy voice, holding the pillow closer to you and hiding your face, your eyes red from tears. You thought it was funny he didn't chain you, but did he need that? With those eight legs of his he could catch anyone without breaking a sweat.

You bit down on your lip and saw he was watching you intently, so you lowered your gaze, looking at your airy silk dress. It softly glowed in the dark like the cloth of the canopy, and you suddenly thought that this revolting creature had undressed you and seen your naked form. Tears started gathering in the corners of your eyes again.

"Please, do not be afraid." The man said tenderly, and you answered him with a sob. His tired expression became worried. "I am sorry for scaring you earlier. I have thought it would be better to show you my true form from the early beginning."

You sniffed and tried covering your shaking feet with the blanket. Why did it have to happen to you? What had you done? Why had he chosen you over other women? You were far from the prettiest ones among your village.

"Why me?" You asked in a little voice, afraid of what you might hear.

The man - the monster in human flesh - smiled at you, his gaze wistful, and you shivered.

"I saw you on the day of the summer solstice. You were dancing barefoot around the fire with your sisters." The man said, and his gloomy face lit up. "You had a flower crown on your head."

Oh, he was there on the day of the festival, then. It was one of the few days when you could break free from the hold your stepmother had over you. Your sisters and you always went to the clearing in the woods and danced till the sunset after giving your prayers to the gods protecting your lands. This year your sister Adana had made you a flower crown to cheer you up.

"You were the most charming woman I have ever seen." His quiet voice made you snap out of your thoughts, and you greeted your teeth. "I've been watching you since then when you were out in the village or doing the house chores in the backyard. I saw... I saw when you didn't let your stepmother kill the spider and put him in the grass instead."

He gulped, and you bit the fabric of the pillow, shutting your eyes for a few seconds. This beast had been secretly watching you for months, and you had no clue about it. Did your stepmother know? Did she let him do it? How much did he pay her to let him follow you around?

"Are we even compatible?" You sniffed again, afraid to look at him. "Humans and..."

"We are compatible if you refer to being able to bear my children."

Your fingers buried into your hair, pulling at the roots in frustration. You bit back a cry knowing it wouldn't make you feel better. Carry little monsters in your womb and give birth to more of those revolting creatures... Were you supposed to lay eggs like spiders did? Would your children grow inside those cocoons? Before you could stop yourself, you were crying loudly and pressing your face into the pillow. When you sensed the man standing up and moving closer, you screamed in horror, pressing yourself further into the walls. He stepped back, an awful, hurt look in his eyes. Before you'd feel guilty, ashamed at yourself, but not now. Not in front of a creature that deserved nothing but death.

He sat back on the chair, watching the shiny wooden floor beneath his feet and allowing you time to calm down again. Why was he quiet? Did he try to persuade you he was civil? That he wouldn't jump at you like spiders did with its prey? The mere comparison made you shudder, and you wiped the tears with the pillow again.

The silence felt heavy, but you had nothing to say while the man was probably afraid to talk to you, knowing you didn't want to hear his voice. Did he know how revolting he was? Did he know you'd never step into the cave if you knew who was waiting for you there? Did he know you wished for nothing but break its disgusting long legs with metal claws on the ends?

You forced yourself to think of something else once you looked at his unbearably sad expression. He must have known a beast like him didn't deserve love. Not a love of a human being, at least. Why did he choose you? Why hadn't he seeked his betrothed among his own kind?

"Why looking for a human?" You asked him, lowering your gaze to your knees. "Why not the one from your own tribe?"

"We don't have many females left." He answered immediately as if he were waiting for you to speak up. "The war with nagas had affected us more than you think."

"But, surely, there are other species willing t-to... mate with you?" No, you didn't truly believe anyone in the whole world would be willing to, except the actual giant spiders of the South.

"There a few like driades of coniferous woods and dark elves living in the caves of Northern Mountains, but their number is decreasing, and they are not as willing to marry our men as before. They are trying to save their own kind."

"Oh, I see. There are too many of us, humans, so we aren't that valuable." You smiled bitterly at his words, and the man's blue eyes widened.

"My apologies, I didn't mean it. I would never say anything like that, apple of my eye."

You cringed at his words: he was still trying to trick you into believing he was some gentleman.

"Please, I know it is hard for you to believe me now, but I swear by my mother's name I'll give you more than any human man can." The creature whispered, his gaze soft and loving. "Whatever you wish for I shall bring to you."

"I don't want any man to give me anything." You sobbed, shaking your head. "I've only ever wanted my mother to come back, nothing else."

There was something that looked like understanding and pity appearing on his face. He could apprehend the loss of the one you loved the most, it seemed.

"Forgive me, but this is the only thing I cannot do for you. We practice necromancy, that's true, yet... you don't want you dear mother to be brought back that way, believe me."

"Than there's nothing you could give me."

You knew you were unreasonable - nothing could bring her back - but you didn't want him to think you were accepting his kind offer. He was a monster, and you didn't deserve to be wed to him.

But then what choice did you have? Surely, you would never leave this place - even if he was kind enough to attempt returning you to your stepmother, that rotten woman would never give him his money back, and he wouldn't let you go otherwise. Despite all your struggle, he would marry you, and you would have to comply.

How soon would you lose your sanity? Would it happen after seeing his true form for the second time? Maybe when he would bed you?

You felt an urge to throw up and clamped your hand against your mouth again.

"Do you have a potion?" You mumbled, forcing yourself to speak.

"A potion?" He repeated and frowned. "What potion do you need, my love?"

"I don't know how you call it... the potion that makes you fall in love with someone. They say it twists your heart and makes you forget whatever you felt before towards the one who gives it to you." Rubbing your tired wet eyes you asked, fixing your gaze on the blanket. You were repulsed by the idea of him even touching you, but if it was unavoidable, maybe being charmed and happy was better than losing your mind completely.

The man sighed, wiping his face with his hand in a black leather glove.

"A potion like this truly exists, and I can make it for you, but it won't help." He said quietly. "The charms don't last long. Of course, they would give us enough time to conceive a child, but is it truly want you want me to do to you?"

Don't say anything, don't say anything, don'tsayanything.

"Then what do you want from me?" More and more tears dropped to the blanket. "Do you expect me to fall in love with you at the first sight? Do you want me to pretend I like being here?"

"No. I don't."

There was a deep desperation to his voice you hadn't heard before, and it made you fall silent despite all the words almost leaping out of your mouth. So, this creature must know how disgusting he was in your eyes. Surely, you weren't the first human female captured by his tribe - they all knew how scary and ugly they looked to the ones of your kind. Why bringing you here, then? Why forcing you marry him? Of utter desperation because there was no one else for him to mate with? Because he liked you?

It wasn't getting any better.

"I know you are still tired. Please rest. No one will enter your chamber unless you ask for anything yourself."

He got up from his seat and slowly went to the other side of the room where those huge wide doors were - they were so big that he could enter in his true form. You hiccuped at the thought. For now he looked perfectly human - you could even call him handsome if you hadn't seen him back then in the cave. If only he was a true man, you'd be the luckiest girl in the world.

You pressed the blanket to your wet face to take away whatever was left on your cheeks and coughed a little. Staying here was frightening, but you were all by yourself, at least. If you got a bit more rest, maybe you'd think of something. Maybe you'd figure it out.

You could still hear the distant sound of singing somewhere outside, and suddenly you found yourself speaking to him again, making him look back at you.

"Who is that?" You asked, staring at his strong beefy figure. "Is it another prisoner?"

A prisoner, that was how you called yourself. You saw creature's gaze falling to your feet as he inhaled deeply and murmured, "No. They are my sisters singing to us." Before you could cry out in horror, asking what magic they casted on you, he continued. "They are sending us their blessings."

When he had disappeared behind the doors, you pulled the blanket over your head, feeling guilty, hurt, and disgusted at both him and yourself.

_______________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin ​@void-hoechlin @abyssaint @navegandoaciegas

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

Home; a place where I belong

Homework, snacks, and comforting the pups after nightmares, all the duties of a pack mum.

For @kirjastorotta

(Read it on AO3 here)

The pack shuffled into the Jeep: Erica calling shotgun and bounding into the front seat, Boyd and Isaac sliding into the back, and Jackson sitting in the rear, the lacrosse gear stacked beside him.

“Do you have any—?” Erica started.

“Glove box,” Stiles answered before she could finish the question.

Erica leant forward and pulled open the glove box, letting out a delighted gasp as she pulled a packet of Oreos out, passing a packet of liquorice to Boyd before tossing a packet of gummy bears back to Jackson.

He caught them and muttered a quiet thank you.

She held the packet of jelly beans over the back of her chair. “Isaac?”

“Not hungry?” he said quietly.

“Okay,” Erica said, setting them back in the glove box. “They’re there if you want them.”

Stiles glanced in his rear view mirror, looking at Isaac.

The young man’s face was set in a dejected expression, his rich sapphire blue eyes full of thought as he stared blankly out the window.

Stiles’ brow furrowed slightly in thought. He reached forward and turned the key, letting the Jeep’s engine come to life. He pulled out of the parking spot and drove towards the outskirts of town; to the Hale House.

Derek had rebuilt his family home bit by bit, the house now standing tall in the clearing.

The outside of the house looked like a patchwork quilt; pale strips of fresh pine stood out against the withered ash-grey wooden panels and the charred black siding. The siding and shutters still had to be painted, but it was coming together.

He’d postponed finishing the outside in favour of doing up the bedrooms.

It seemed that the more he repaired the house, the more Derek came to terms with what happened. He wasn’t living in ruins anymore; he had his home back.

Stiles pulled up before the house and parked the car.

The pack opened their doors, grabbing their bags and bounding into the house. Boyd grabbed Stiles’ backpack from the back seat and took it inside with him.

Stiles waited, watching as it took Isaac a moment to shake himself from his thoughts and sluggishly follow the others.

“Isaac,” Stiles said softly.

Isaac turned to look at him.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Isaac answered, nodding slightly, but there was something about his response—the dismissiveness, the quietness of his voice, something—that made Stiles doubt his answer.

“Okay,” Stiles said, not wanting to push any further.

Isaac grabbed his bag and pushed open the door, making his way inside.

Stiles lingered a second longer before following him inside.

Derek had done a good job at restoring the house. The walls inside were covered in crisp white paint. A few of the support beams that framed the room had been replaced—the large beams weathered, scarred and stained in an effort to match the surviving beans that were burnt, black and distorted like the disfigured body of Atlas bowing beneath an unimaginable weight.

The house smelt of sweet dew and crisp pine trees, tainted by the smell of ash that never seemed to fade.

There were scattered signs of history and new life mingling among the ruins. There were pieces of furniture that had been restores or salvaged, wooden tables with charred legs and warped paint like scars. The walls of the hallways were lined with photos of the Hale family, pictures that Stiles and the pack had helped Derek track down—and new photos; photos of the pack.

It was a home again, for all of them.

They don’t know exactly when or how they’d come to this arrangement, but the five of them lived with Derek on and off. Stiles stayed over on the nights when his dad was working late and Jackson and Boyd stayed over whenever they wanted to or when they felt like they couldn’t be at home.

Erica and Isaac were a different story.

Erica had run away from home – away from her parents – and Derek took her in.

Isaac, however—after his father’s death, Derek had taken him in. He’d spoken to the Sheriff and begged him not to put Isaac through the foster system; he put his name forward to take Isaac in and the Sheriff approved, knowing Isaac would do better with someone he knew and who knew what it was like to lose his family.

Stiles watched from the entryway as Isaac made his way upstairs to his bedroom.

“Hey,” Derek said softly as he stepped out of the dining room and over to Stiles’ side, setting his hand on Stiles’ waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey,” Stiles replied, turning his head slightly to return the kiss, but his eyes were still locked on Isaac’s bedroom door.

Derek followed his gaze. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles replied. “He says he’s fine but something seems off.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Derek asked.

Stiles shook his head. “He might see it as a confrontation and shut down completely.”

Derek let out a measured sigh. “Just give him some time and space. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

Stiles nodded, but the feeling of worry and unease in his stomach didn’t seem to lessen.

He made his way up to his room, nudging open the door with his foot and dropping his bag a the foot of his bed. He pulled out the folders and textbooks, setting them down on the mattress before rummaging around for his pens and highlighters. He grabbed his laptop before shuffling onto the bed, resting his back against the headboard as he balanced his laptop on his legs.  

He flipped open the books to the pages he wanted and tried to block out the sound of Boyd and Jackson bickering downstairs—only for them to be silenced a moment later when Derek stepped in.

There was a quiet knock at the door a moment later. “Stiles?”

He looked up, meeting Erica’s gaze as she peered in through the gap in the door. “Yeah?”

“Could you help me with my homework?” she asked sheepishly.

Stiles offered her a kind smile and nodded to the space on the bed beside him. “Come on.”

She crawled onto the bed and sat down beside him.

He helped her work through English, Math, and History. At some point, Boyd joined them, listening in and taking notes as he worked through his homework.

Before they knew it, there was a quiet knock at the door.

“Dinner’s ready,” Derek told them.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, his mind taking a moment to recognise the smell of pizza the drifted upstairs.

They set aside their homework and made their way downstairs.

Stiles lingered in the doorway, looking back up at Isaac’s door.

“He says he’s going to join us in a minute,” Derek said quietly. “He’s not hungry, but I’ve convinced him to eat at least one slice.”

“If he doesn’t want pizza, he can have my garlic bread,” Stiles offered.

Derek was taken aback; for Stiles, surrendering his garlic bread was the ultimate sacrifice.

Stiles ignored his boyfriend’s shocked expression and made his way into the kitchen, putting a few slices of pizza on a plate before sitting down at the table with the others.

True to his word, Isaac came downstairs a short while later.

Derek was in the kitchen when the teen shuffled in. He spoke quietly to Isaac, offering him the garlic bread that Stiles had oh-so-selflessly offered.

Isaac nodded slightly, putting the few pieces of garlic bread on a plate before sitting down next to Derek at the table, picking apart and nibbling at the bread.

Stiles spared glances at him, taking in the way Isaac’s dark blue eyes swirled with thought, his face void of emotion and his movements slow and lethargic.

As soon as they were finished, Isaac set his plate in the sink with the others and disappeared back upstairs.

Stiles felt his heart ache.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asked when Derek stepped over to his side, drying his hands on a towel as he finished with the last of the dishes.

“He hasn’t said anything to me,” Derek told him, keeping his voice low so that the others wouldn’t hear them from the living room.

“It bugs me that there’s something wrong and he’s not telling us,” Stiles said under his voice, irritation adding an edge to his words.

“He’s been though a lot,” Derek started softly.

“I know,” Stiles said. “I’m not upset that there’s something going on, I’m upset that he thinks he’s alone.”

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him into a warm hug. He pressed a kiss to the top of Stiles head.

He didn’t say anything else; he didn’t know what else to say.

Isaac wasn’t alone; they knew that. They just hoped he knew that.

   ...

   The heart-breaking cry rang out through the house, shattering the silence of the night.

Stiles threw back the blankets, leaping to his feet and sprinting to the door. He ran across the landing and into Isaac’s room.

He leapt across the room, pulling Isaac back against his chest and pinned his slender flailing arms to his side as he held him in his warmth, whispering softly to him.

Isaac fought back for a minute but his heart-breaking wail died down to a soft sob as tears trailed down his pail cheeks. His shoulders shook with broken breaths, his voice almost inaudible as he uttered, “Don’t go.”

Stiles felt his heart break, gently smoothing back the mess of sandy blond curls.

After a while, Isaac stopped shaking, his breathing steady. He brushed away his tears with the back of his hand, gently pulling away from Stiles.

“Are you alright?” Stiles hesitated to ask.

Isaac nodded, still not looking up at him.

“Isaac,” Stiles said softly. “What’s going on?”

“It’s…” He glanced up at Stiles for a second before looking down again. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “It’s ten years since my brother died.”

Stiles felt his heart shatter.

“Isaac,” he said softly, at a loss for words.

“I just keep thinking… what if I could have done something to make him stay? Then, maybe, Camden would still be alive…” His voice broke as another wave of tears welled in his eyes, glistening in the light from the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said quietly. “I wish I had some kind of answer for you, something that would make you feel better. All I know is that your brother was kind and selfless; he was a hero, and he died doing what he thought was the right thing.”

“I know,” Isaac replied, his voice quiet. “I just wish…”

“He wasn’t dead,” Stiles finished.

Isaac nodded.

“I wish I could see him… talk to him…” Isaac blinked back tears. “I wish I could say goodbye.”

Stiles drew in a measured breath and gently patted Isaac’s shoulder. “Get dressed and grab your jacket.”

“What?” Isaac asked. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Stiles said as he rose to his feet and headed back out the door.

He went back to his worm, searching in the dim light from the hallway for his jeans and a thick jacket—not wanting to turn on the light in case he woke Derek.

He heard a quiet moan as Derek rolled over in bed. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles whispered.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Derek asked, his voice slurred by sleep.

“Isaac did,” Stiles answered. He stepped over to the side of the bed, leaning over to kiss Derek. “Go back to sleep; I’ve got this.”

“Okay,” Derek said quietly, rolling over again and letting his eyes drift shut.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile.

He found his jacket and made his way onto the landing, gently closing the door behind himself. He made his way downstairs, grabbing his car keys from where they sat on the small table by the front door and waiting for Isaac.

He didn’t explain where they were going; he just zipped up his jacket and stepped out into the bitter cold night air.

They clambered into the Jeep and Stiles started the engine, driving back down the snaking driveway.

He stopped at the gas station on the outskirts of town, the store lit by bright fluorescent lights. It was the only store in town that was open all night.

When he emerged again, he was carrying two bouquets of flowers—one that was made of oriental lilies that had delicate petals that were white along the edges and purple in the centre, bold purple statice, and baby’s breath; and the other made of white orchids, snowdrops, and white carnations. He passed them to Isaac, asking him to hold them as he climbed back into the car.

They drove on.

Isaac was about to ask Stiles where they were going, but his words died in his throat as they pulled up before the wrought iron gate of the Beacon Hills Cemetery.

“Come on,” Stiles said softly, turning off the engine and pushing open his door.

Isaac followed him through the gates and along the rows until Stiles found he grave he was looking for. The white marble headstone sat among the rest of the veterans—away from their parents’ graves. His name was stamped into the stone, painted gold. LT. CAMDEN LAHEY.

“Pass me the purple ones,” Stiles said softly, gently taking the bouquet of lilies and statice from Isaac. “Take your time.”

“What am I meant to do?” Isaac asked.

“Talk to him,” Stiles said.

Isaac nodded, turning back to his brother’s grave.

Stiles watched him for a second before turning and making his way down the rows until he found a familiar grave.

He set the flowers down before the headstone and lowered himself onto the dew-dampened grass in front of the grave.

His eyes rolled over the engraved headstone.

Claudia Stilinski.

“Hi, mum.”

   ...

   He stayed there for a while, talking to his mother’s headstone. He didn’t know if she could hear him, but he hoped she could.

Eventually, Isaac wandered over to him, standing silently beside him.

Stiles rose to his feet, brushing himself down.

“You ready to go?” he asked Isaac.

Isaac nodded.

Stiles gently patted his shoulder, walking back to the Jeep with him. He clambered into the car and turned on the engine, driving home in silence.

“Hey, Stiles,” Isaac said after a while, his quiet voice startling Stiles.

“Hmm?” Stiles looked across at him, lifting a questioning eyebrow.

“Thank you.”

Stiles offered him a friendly smile.

“You’re not alone,” Stiles said softly. “Never have been; never will be.”

“I know,” Isaac said quietly. “I just forgot.”

“Well, next time you forget, I’ll be here to remind you.”

A small smile turned up the corner of Isaac’s lips. “Thank you.”

[love-killed-the-superstar]

super late but here is day 6!! also: if the cottage was actually destroyed i’m sorry, but i combed through TOTS a LOT and couldn’t seem to find any proof it was actually fully destroyed so... please just suspend your disbelief for this one, lads

CASSUNZEL WEEK DAY 6 - TRUST AND HEALING

Interior decorating is something Rapunzel never figured she and Cass would have in common, but somehow, here they are.

To be perfectly honest, when Rapunzel decided to return to Gothel’s old cottage (or what was left of it, anyway) she wasn’t really sure how Cassandra would take the news. How exactly does one explain that they’re rebuilding your nearly-destroyed childhood home that may or may not hold a boatload of trauma inside its walls? In the end she had taken the coward’s way out and written her to break the news, fully expecting to be met with silence on Cass’s end, as so often happens when she receives news that’s hard to swallow. The fact that she returned to Corona less than a month after the letter had been sent surprised Rapunzel to no end.

(“So, we’ve got our work cut out for us,” she had said nonchalantly, climbing off of Fidella’s back and rolling up her sleeves as Rapunzel stared in shock. “Where should we start?”

“I-I didn’t think you’d actually – well, hang on a moment,” Rapunzel had replied, chickening out of the tough conversation. “Let me just find my clipboard.”)

Cass has been… a little quiet on the matter, to be honest. It’s been easy enough to keep distracted by the house; the foundation and floors have been rebuilt where they’d been torn through by black rocks, and Rapunzel had the roof rethatched several weeks earlier. Cassandra has thrown herself into repairing furniture, refitting the window panes and getting the water mill back up and running again, while Rapunzel has taken to repairing torn curtains, scrubbing mould and mildew and moss from the walls, weeding the cracks where plant life has inevitably sprung up from and filling them in afterwards. The effort to seal up the entrance to Gothel’s strange underground mirror lair takes the both of them, and although neither of them have much to say, it gives Rapunzel a grim satisfaction that the burned, smashed up hideout can’t be reached any longer.

This part of fixing the house takes just over two weeks of dawn-til-dusk of hard work, and each evening they ride back to the castle and fall into Rapunzel’s bed, too tired to really talk about it. Eugene finds the whole thing bizarre and doesn’t shy away from telling them so, but Rapunzel kind of got the feeling that he wouldn’t understand it from the moment she mentioned the idea to him.

(“Why are you dragging this ordeal out?” he had asked her one night, just two days before Cass showed up at the house without warning. “And why bring Cass into it at all? I don’t want to police your process, but isn’t it time to put Gothel behind you both and… learn to let go of the past?”

Rapunzel hadn’t known how to answer him. “It’s just something I want to do,” she had said instead. “And Gothel hurt her too, Eugene. I can’t keep it from her.”)

They don’t need to talk about it; not if they don’t want to. Rapunzel and Cassandra seem to have come to a silent agreement that they won’t push for some big heart-to-heart that ends in tears, or an argument that eventually turns into a greater understanding of each other’s pasts.

When it comes to the house that Gothel built, nothing really needs to be said at all. Right?

…

“I can’t believe we’ve done this, Cass.”

“Tell me about it. What exactly ignited this passion project of yours, anyway?”

“I wanted to breathe new life into this place, I guess.”

The two of them stand back and stare at their surroundings in satisfaction. There’s no more cobwebs or ivy or moss covering the walls, and where there are stains Rapunzel has thrown on a cream wash. The floors and ceiling and roof are repaired, the windows are no longer cracked and smashed, and the creak of the water mill can be heard faintly from outside. The salvaged furniture is stacked up in the centre of the room, and Rapunzel has decided that tomorrow they’ll take a trip to the market to replace the items that were too far gone to be saved.

Today, they’re focusing on the walls.

Rapunzel’s vision is a little… eclectic. Pale, neutral walls might be best, and perhaps they can be accented with floral imagery, or maybe even a mural of the cottage itself. Another part of her, however, dreams in full colour; cerulean walls, or perhaps celadon, with bright sunny yellow flowers and trees with purple leaves – and why stop there? She could paint some horses in a meadow, or birds soaring through the sky. Why not paint fairies, unicorns, dragons? Make this house its own storybook experience?

“I’m so torn on my vision,” she confesses to Cassandra as she stands between buckets upon buckets of paint, an entire rainbow of choice laid out in front of her. “I need a better idea of what to paint before I can even think about washes. Any thoughts?”

“I’m a little creatively stinted, Rapunzel,” Cass deadpans. “I thought you had a clear vision of this place when you started out?”

“I can’t narrow it down. Do I want to go simple, or do I want to completely transform this place?”

Cass shrugs listlessly, sitting down cross-legged by the stacks of furniture. “You just have to listen to your gut.”

Oh, if guts could talk, Rapunzel would be all ears. Her frown deepens as she contemplates her options. Maybe she should find a compromise. Pale walls, vibrant art? Maybe that will work best.

Hesitantly, she reaches for a muted green (the bedroom area can be a forest mural now, she’s decided, or maybe a marsh) and heads over to a wall in need of a fresh coat. Cassandra joins her, a comically large paintbrush in hand, and they paint in a sullen silence.

“So, Cass. I’m… I’m glad you came back to help me out with this,” Rapunzel ventures. “You didn’t have to.”

“You sounded afraid in your letter,” Cass says coolly, with a long sweeping stroke. “Like you thought I would be angry at you for doing this, so I thought I should come back. Besides, I… I wanted to see it for myself.”

Cassandra can be frustratingly hard to read sometimes, and now happens to be one such instance. Rapunzel isn’t sure what she wants right now. It was easy enough not to talk at first, but something about pouring some of her own flair into these walls makes her uneasy – has her overcome with this urge to get everything off their chests before she proceeds. What memories does Cass have of this place? Does it hurt to be here, even if she refuses to show it? Is there some good left in this place, parts that Cassandra might not want to let go of?

“Do you like what you see?” Rapunzel asks quietly.

“...I don’t know yet. I need a fuller picture before I draw any conclusions.”

Rapunzel feels like – hopes – she has some insight into how Cass might be feeling right now. Returning to the tower for the first time since reuniting with her family had given her all sorts to think about, and watching it fall had filled her with a nauseating combination of crisis and catharsis. After all, there were some good memories amongst all the long, drawn out days of agonising boredom and walking on eggshells around Gothel, always so afraid of saying the wrong thing and making everything worse. It wasn’t love, and her world was so small before she left the tower behind.

Even if her time with Gothel was far briefer, Rapunzel can’t help but wonder if Cassandra holds echoes of fond memories somewhere in there, as few and far between as they may have been.

“You know, when I returned to this place, I didn’t think the house would be salvageable,” Rapunzel confesses to the silence. “Given the spike tearing through it, and the way the mountain crumbled inside, I figured it would probably have fallen apart. So seeing that there was still a chance to restore it… I don’t know. I couldn’t really think about anything else, for weeks afterwards. In the end, Eugene just told me to get it all out of my system. He’s not exactly happy about it, but…”

“Well sure, the wedding will suck if you’re too busy thinking about complimentary paint colours to focus on your vows,” Cass points out dryly. Rapunzel laughs.

“Yeah, you have a point.” As she goes to dip her paintbrush again, she glances to the wall adjacent; cream, blank, inviting.

“...Do you have a date in mind yet?”

“Not yet. We’re thinking spring or summer though. We need time to get all the arrangements together, after all.” Rapunzel purses her lip. “You know, I think I’m going to start on some detailing. Mind finishing this off?”

Cass nods, and carries on in that same long silence. Rapunzel moves onto the wall. She envisions a recreation of that cottage. She’s been sketching it a lot, lately, and goes to retrieve her journal.

“You’re making a mural of the cottage?” Cass wrinkles her nose as Rapunzel leans the journal up against a beam at the edge of the wall. “So you step inside, just to see the outside all over again?”

“Well, it’s picturesque!” Rapunzel says. She lingers, paintbrush trailing in the beige she picked out for the base of the house. “Unless you don’t want me to paint it?”

A pause. “No, go ahead. Paint it. It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

Rapunzel begins slowly at first, glancing between the wall in front of her and the woman two metres away, still listlessly dragging the brush. She’s changed a little; her hair is getting longer, scraped back into a slightly lopsided ponytail to keep it out the way. Rapunzel is tempted to drag a comb through and tie it more evenly, but judging from the tension in Cassandra’s shoulders, it would probably be met with resistance.

After a while, however, Rapunzel soon falls into the trance of painting – absorbed into the gentle strokes of the brush, planning the subtle lighting and how to translate the details of the house in simple splotches of paint. She even forgets her original plight to talk things through with Cass, losing her awareness of the world around her until it is simply her and the brush and the wall, coming together to paint this fairytale home, where from now on only good things will happen and happy memories will be made and no child will ever feel abandoned or unwanted or hurt ever again–

“Rapunzel!”

Cass grabs her arm and Rapunzel jerks out of her vision, staring at her in confusion. Her paintbrush, dripping jade, is just inches from the edge of the beam in the corner. The stretch of grass she was in the middle of painting now has an uneven glob that slowly rolls down like a teardrop. Cass grips her arm tight, eyes bright with alarm.

“Cassandra, what’s wrong?”

“I…” Her grip loosens and, brow furrowing, she releases Rapunzel’s arm. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong, you just…”

“I just?” Rapunzel prompts, bewildered.

“The beam. You were – you were going to get paint on the beam.”

“Oh. Uh, good reflexes! I didn’t realise.” She laughs nervously. “Guess I got a little carried away, huh?”

“Yeah, well.” Cass mutters, stepping back. She sets her paintbrush back in its bucket and runs her fingers through her hair, uncaring that she smudges green paint against her scalp in the process. “Just be careful, Rapunzel, all right?”

“Uh, sure.” Rapunzel frowns. “Cass, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Raps.” She turns her back. “Look, I’m going to get some fresh air.”

She heads towards the door without looking back, leaving the door wide open and swinging as she goes. Rapunzel watches after her, thoroughly confused, before turning back to the wall. Maybe Cassandra does hate the mural. Maybe she hates everything Rapunzel is doing right now, and is just here to intervene when things get too much? After all, things have been strange between them since she returned. They’ve barely hugged or kissed or held hands, and Rapunzel knows they’re not in the giddy, starry-eyed closeness stage of their relationship anymore, and Cass has never been huge on big gestures of affection, but still… it’s impossible to ignore this atmosphere any longer.

As she sets her own paint brush aside, dejected, something catches the corner of her eye and she pauses. There’s something on the beam. When Rapunzel looks, she can’t work out at first why it grabbed her attention; it’s just a chip in the wood, a scrape maybe, but it’s fairly deep. She only noticed it from bending over, it’s not too far off the ground… and that’s when she sees more scratches. Some are shallower than others, some more controlled and some extremely wobbly and veering off to one side. But she can make out that they’re more than just someone chipping away at wood when they’re bored. There are… scribbles, wonky bodies, twigs for arms.

The lower part of the beam is covered in a child’s carvings.

The longer Rapunzel stares, the colder she begins to feel inside. This beam isn’t the only one; there are dozens of wooden trimmings, as her feet carry her across the room, and each with the same cast of characters – a tall scribble and a shorter scribble. Mother and daughter.

She needs to find Cass.

Rapunzel doesn’t need to look hard. She barely takes two steps outside before she sees the glint of Cassandra’s sword as it slashes through the air, sparring with herself. If she hears Rapunzel approach, she doesn’t acknowledge her until Rapunzel offers, “I saw the carvings. I’m sorry, Cass.”

“Why be sorry? You didn’t know they were there,” she mutters, swinging again, and again. “Nobody did. Even I didn’t, until we started the wash. Once we were standing there, the memories kind of hit me all at once.”

“They were yours, then.” No response. “...They looked quite advanced, for a four-year-old’s drawings.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do to pass the time, once the floors had been swept and the beds had been made?” Cass snaps. Another swing. “I had nothing but free time with the house to myself, after all.”

“Cass, can we please talk about this without the deadly weapon thrown in?” Rapunzel pleads. Cass ignores her. Another swing.

“I’m just lucky she was never around long enough to really pay attention to them. I mean, can you imagine how she would have scolded me? Or worse?” Another swing.

“Cassandra, please. Put down the sword. Let me near you.”

“I don’t get it, Rapunzel! Why did… why did I just – why did I ever let Zhan Tiri fool me into thinking she might have loved me?”

“Cass, stop!”

Cass raises her sword to strike again when she feels arms wrap around her waist, halting her in her tracks. Rapunzel clings on, pressing her cheek to Cassandra’s back and feeling her erratic breathing as she stands still, finally allowing the sword to lower gently.

“...Why did it have to be this cottage, Rapunzel?” she croaks. “Isn’t it better to leave it all buried?”

“I don’t think so,” Rapunzel whispers. “Darling, I don’t think that will work forever.”

Cass sinks to her knees, taking Rapunzel with her, and they kneel in silence as the breeze rustles the trees around them.

“I feel sick,” Cass says dully, setting her sword down in the grass. Rapunzel presses her forehead to the space between Cassandra’s shoulder blades, breathing in her smell, trying to soothe her somehow.

“This is too weird, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

“Rapunzel, it’s so fucking weird.” Rapunzel winces. Cass does well not to curse in front of her, but, well… maybe now isn’t the best time to comment on it. “You never even lived here. Why do you have this need to mold it to your worldview instead of letting it rot away quietly like everybody else was happy to do?”

“This is a beautiful place,” Rapunzel protests. “Isn’t it beautiful? Why should it have to die because of the terrible things she did? You were born in this cottage, Cassandra, that means something! Gothel was a horrible person and she made both of our lives miserable, but – but that doesn’t mean we can’t still find something beautiful in this place.”

“Not everything has to be beautiful, or even saved. Fixing a house isn’t going to fix us, is it?”

The sharpness of her words cut right through Rapunzel, and pulls away from Cass, stunned. Cass cranes her neck to face her, regret already written all over.

“You’re right. I’m a fool, aren’t I, Cass? Because I – I actually hoped it would.” Rapunzel buries her head in her hands. “Darn it, I… I want to move on, just like you do. I always think I’m over the tower and Gothel, but then when I found this place… I just thought about how good it would feel to take it away from her and make it beautiful and then some new family could live here, a loving family who take care of each other and don’t b-belittle their kids…”

Cass turns around fully, and reaches over to squeeze Rapunzel’s shoulders.

“Don’t, Raps. You’re not foolish for wanting those things, all right? I just… I don’t think painting some walls will bring you any closure. And being here, surrounded by all these things that remind us of her, isn’t helping either.”

“I shouldn’t have written to you. Eugene told me to leave you out of this because he knew this was a bad idea and we’d both get hurt from it, but I didn’t listen, and now-”

“Seriously, stop. Do not give Fitzherbert the satisfaction of being right about something.” Rapunzel peeks up at her, and Cass offers her a small smile. “I didn’t feel like this the whole time. It has been kind of fun, repairing things and putting it all back together, but then I’d remember where we were and wonder why we were doing this, and – and I didn’t know how to even talk to you about it.”

“I thought you just didn’t want to talk, so I didn’t try to push it.” Rapunzel smiles faintly. “Eugene is going out of his mind, trying to understand the logic of the situation.”

“He’s not the only one.” Cass leans forward and kisses Rapunzel softly. “Look, if you truly believe that redecorating will somehow cleanse this house of Gothel forever and give us some catharsis, I’ll trust your judgement. But only if you trust mine when I say that this isn’t the only way to do that.”

Rapunzel nods, leaning over to kiss her back.

“I’m sorry Gothel hurt you,” she murmurs. Cass sighs sadly.

“I’m sorry she hurt you too.”

“I wish Zhan Tiri hadn’t forced you to remember all of this, but… do you regret knowing?” Rapunzel asks, running a thumb across Cassandra’s cheek soothingly. Cass leans into her touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“No. I always knew something was missing, so even though it hurts, at least the pieces are all there. I just – I wish it had gone differently, that’s all. I wish she had been different.”

They sit in silence, neither sure of what else to say, and Rapunzel glances back over at the house. It stands stout and quiet, charming on the outside, but somehow she can't bring herself to go back inside. “...You know, maybe we should leave it for today.”

Cass quirks an eyebrow in confusion. “Really? It’s barely noon, and the walls won’t paint themselves.”

“It’ll still be standing tomorrow! Besides, we’ve been perfect strangers since you came back. I want to take a moment just to be with you.”

She flops back, stretching out on the soft grass and staring up at the cloudless sky above. It truly is beyond beautiful out here. Cassandra’s face hovers over hers, presses a kiss to her brow, and then she lies back beside her.

“You know, when you take Gothel out of the equation, this place is really peaceful,” Cass comments.

“If we have our way, by the time we’re done no one will associate it with her ever again,” Rapunzel agrees. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”

“Paradise,” Cass remarks, and Rapunzel can hear the wry smile in her voice as she speaks. “It would be just paradise.”

When it comes to the house that Gothel built, they’re going to build it back up, better than ever before. Nothing else needs to be said. The clouds drift on and they lie there, hand in hand.

[thetiredbiwrites]

Fabulous, Darling

Requested by @megaduppi​ “Hiya lovely! I was wondering if I could request a Seb x reader where they are stuck together in Sebs apartment because of quarantine and they start doing random things like Seb giving in to the reader and letting her do his make up and him looking completely fabulous? It can be funny and fluffy I am honestly craving it”

A/N: Thank you for the request 💖💖 hope you don’t mind, but I’m not entirely comfortable writing for the actors, nothing against anyone who does. So I made this a Bucky x Reader instead and they’re stuck in their shared apartment. It’s more fluffy than funny.

A/N2: I don’t know a lot about make-up. I can do basic (what is contouring?😂). So it’s pretty vague about what make-up she does and more from Bucky pov

5 weeks. 5 weeks you had been stuck in your apartment.

You were proud of your home. How you’d decorated, the layout and colours- the way you made it your own. But seeing the same crap everyday, the same rooms and nothing else, God, you were sick of it.

The urge to redecorate grew every day. The online shopping and endless scrolling through pinterest in boredom didn’t help.

The first week had been productive, making you feel good and enjoy the time. Time to spend with Bucky and doing everything you put off or didn’t have time for because of work. The two of you had tided and cleaned every room, sorted through all your clothes and shoes and reorganised the kitchen cupboards.

Now there’s nothing left to do.

Meaning whenever you thought of something to do, or came across ideas on various social medias or online shopping, you did it.

Bucky rarely said no to you and he certainly didn’t start now. He was just as bored and desperate for something to do.

This meant that when you asked for his special pancakes at midnight, he made the damn pancakes. You both sat together in your pjs watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine and eating a stack of pancakes covered in syrup and toppings until 2 in the morning.

When you gave into the urge and decided to rearrange the living room, he just smiled and went along with it. Helping you move every piece of furniture and arranging all your photos and nick-nacks. A heated debate about how to order the DVDs broke out.

You won.

He had insisted the two of you stay fit, keep exercising, every day. Especially with all the snacking and pancakes you both ate. So when you declared a Just Dance competition, he danced like he never had before.

Ok, so making the prize sex-related definitely aided his decision and pushed him to beat you.

But even he had to admit, after 5 weeks, sex wasn’t that exciting and most of the time, neither of you were particularly in the mood.

Which is how you ended up feeling like grandparents one day, doing a 1500 piece jigsaw while soft music played in the background.

“Uugh, these pieces are all the same colour!”

“You just have to be patient. We’ll get there.”

“I have been patient, Bucky. I’ve been patient for 5 hours and we’re not even half done. Don’t laugh at me.”

Bucky finished the puzzle as you gave up and baked cookies instead.

More than once, Bucky somehow found himself sitting on the floor with you on the sofa behind him, doing his hair.

You practiced different kind of plaits and other basic styles to trying out more intricate styles. Although you did resist buying flowers and bows to put in his hair.

The day you curled his hair had left you in a fit of laughter until you couldn’t breathe. Plaiting his hair did leave it wavy, which, depending on the type, looked pretty good. But he could still tie it back into a low bun when that happened.

Bucky, however, wasn’t amused. Especially after you took a photo and sent it to the group chat. Bucky had immediately showered, letting his hair go back to normal after that one.

The last couple of days, you had a new idea. One Bucky didn’t agree with.

He drew the line at you doing full make up on him.

It’s not that he thought men shouldn’t wear make-up. You had painted his nails a few days ago and he approved of the sparkly red. He had kept them that way, even when he did the weekly shop.

No-one had commented but at a time like this, who was going to care about a man’s painted nails. But even when it’s normal he wouldn’t have taken it off.

Well, if Sam wasn’t around anyway. He wouldn’t be caught dead with painted nails, especially sparkly red ones, around Sam.

Sam wasn’t against men wearing make-up either. Hell, if Steve or Tony, or any of the guys really, showed up with nails painted, he’d compliment them. Probably in a jokey manner, but compliment none the less.

Bucky, though, would never hear the end of it. It’s just how their relationship went.

He’d do the same back. Bucky could pretend he wouldn’t. But he would.

By day three, Bucky felt his resolve crumbling. He tried thinking of reasons why he didn’t want to do it but couldn’t actually think of any. But the thought of wearing make-up didn’t agree with him.

But those big y/e/c eyes staring up at him and the pout on your lips, akin to that of Puss-in-Boots, was making it hard to say no. Especially when he didn’t have any reasons against it.

He made it through the morning but by 2pm he found himself yet again sat on the living room floor, legs crossed. His fingers tapping against his legs as he contemplates running until you give up on the idea. But where the hell is he going to go? There’s only so long he could stay locked in their only bathroom.

This time you were also sat on the floor, legs crossed and facing him. You were aware of Bucky’s nervousness but you knew, well, you were 95% sure that once it was done, Bucky would realise it’s fine. If he didn’t, he can take it off straight away. It was just the two of you so it shouldn’t be a problem.

You knew his limits. This meant you’d lightly push him into letting you do this, but if he really didn’t agree, if it ended badly, you wouldn’t sent a photo to the group. You wouldn’t even take one. The two of you knew each other well enough to know these limits in various situations and not cross them.

For now, you had collected everything you needed from the bedroom and started laying it out on the floor. You faced the mirror away from Bucky so he couldn’t look until you had finished.

Bucky’s eyes flicked across the products as you laid them out. Noting all the liquids and powders, brushes, some foam egg thing, and… is that a pencil?

“How much stuff do you need? That’s a lot of products. Why are there so many brushes? I know make-up is like art but I thought you were just doing something basic and simple, y/n? Y/N, please, don’t make me do this.”

Bucky’s complaining stayed in his head as he looked up at your bright eyes and kind smile, his mouth closing as the words died, forming a pout instead.

“While you do look so adorable,” you lightly grabbed his chin in one hand, smushing his lips together. “Quit you pouting. It’s gonna be fine.”

Bucky’s eyebrow raised, biting the inside of his lip, his eyes flicked between everything on the floor and your face.

“Bucky, baby. You got nothing to be nervous about. Besides, it’s not like anyone is going to see or know.”

Bucky slightly nodded his head to the side, grunting in agreement but clearly still unsure.

“Specifically Sam, he doesn’t have to know anything. You’re on your own with him. I mean, if anyone else dared to say anything, I would tell them to grow up. It’s 2020. If a guy wants to wear make-up, let him wear the damn make-up. Many of them are better than me, although let’s be honest that’s not too hard, and it’s makes me jealous. Who taught you?! Can you teach me? They look amazing.”

Once Bucky cracked a grin, huffing a laugh, you clapped your hands and picked up the first product. You had rooted through your stock to find foundations that were the closest to his skin tone and found some you had kept after your friend had stayed a few months back.

“Let’s get started” you wiggled your eyebrows and Bucky felt himself relax. Not entirely, but enough to sit still and let you work.

Bucky wished some of his girlfriend’s excitement and enthusiasm would pass to him. As you added more and more to his face, he felt his nerves increasing again.

The feeling of your hand softly resting against his skin, from his neck to his face, as your other gently moved brushes and product across his face was, admittedly, a great feeling. You relaxed him and the touches were light and soothing.

Yet his heart still beat a little too quickly and his head continued overthinking.

He felt guilty for being so worried. He’s watched you do your own and your friend’s make-up many times over the last few years. But he still couldn’t help the image of a clown or a kid who got into mummy’s make-up from being projected in his head.

As you asked him to close his eyes, he tried to think of something else and his mind ran with the image of a little kid covered in make-up. Except it was your kid who had gotten their little hands on all these products.

He could hear your laughter as you came upon the scene. The way your kid would smile, wide and toothy, like their mothers, as you took a photo. Bucky could see you cleaning the little one up before teaching them how to do it properly.

Bucky’s mind couldn’t stray from this path and as he heard you humming a song he didn’t know, another picture developed.

On your face was a beaming smile, love pouring from your eyes and a soft glow surrounding you from the sun through the window as you softly sang to the small bundle in your arms. A little hand reaching out from the material as Bucky approached and wrapping around his finger.

Bucky saw himself chasing after your young son, smiling at the loud and carefree laughter leaving the little boy as he caught him and subjected him to tickles.

Learning all those hairstyles you subjected him to this past month so he could do them for your daughter. Her hair like his but eyes like yours, shining bright and paired with a smile when he’d finish. Her little arms wrapping around his neck and hugging as tight as her little body could.

Bucky focused back on the present when he heard you sigh. Realisation flashing across your face as you shot up and ran towards the bedroom.

“Don’t look!” you yelled across rooms and his hand retreated, holding it close to his chest like he’d touched fire and abandoning the mirror sat inches from him.

The mischievous grin on your face paired with the glint in your eyes had Bucky worrying again. Noting your hands behind your back, hiding something from his view, had his heart rate picking up. Again.

His eyes reluctantly closed when you asked and he tried not to flinch as you touched his face, giggling as you did.

“Ok, all done. You can look now.” You announced, holding up the mirror.

This time it was your heart racing, becoming restless the longer the silence stretched. Bucky’s eyes glued to his reflection, wide eyed and jaw dropped, his entire body frozen.

You began to worry you had pushed him too far.

“You hate it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you-“ “No, no,” he cut you off, large hand resting over yours as he finally took his eyes off his reflection. “No, I don’t hate it, actually. You know, I really like this colour.”

A smile spread across your face, huffing a laugh as Bucky batted his eyes, referring to his eyeshadow.

He looked back at the mirror, moving his head to inspect different angles.

“Glitter’s a bit much though, don’t you think?”

“Nope. You look fabulous, darling!” Bucky laughing at your over-the-top British accent.

“Am I pretty?”

“Oh, baby, you are the prettiest.”

“Well then, I guess I better share.”

You only caught a glimpse of the devious smile before your boyfriend launched at you, knocking you on your back.

Laughter bounced off the walls as Bucky pinned you down and rubbed his beard all over you, covering you in red glitter (matching his nails, of course).

“No, wait stop! I wanted to take a photo first!”

---------

A/N: I have an instagram (@/elberex). I was thinking of posting sneak peaks on there? 🤔🤔

[tatselk]

The Tichy Trident Inn

Description: My entry for the Reddit Bi-Weekly Build Challenge, Week 101: Lodging with Spirits; Haunted Hotels & Spooky Staycation Spots: “Known as the oldest surviving hotel in Windenburg, the historic Tichy Trident Inn offers characterful rooms, hearty meals and a handy location to explore the nearby Ancient Ruins. But just beware of the various, ahem, long term residents of the inn!”

Key Elements of Challenge: • Spooky, dark atmosphere. • Original/vintage furnishings with unique room styles. • Historical property with ghost-lore galore! There should be at least one supernatural presence.

Requirements of Challenge: • One entry per person. • Must have at least 5 bedrooms. • Residential, rental or commercial properties OK (NO apartments!). • No Photoshopping images. • CC allowed.

Gallery Link: The Tichy Trident Inn  

Pictures:

Good evening and welcome to The Tichy Trident Inn Ghost Tour!

This evening, you will learn about the past of Windenburg’s oldest surviving hotel and explore areas of the inn which are generally not accessible to the public.

Perhaps you may even be able to see for yourself whether The Tichy Trident Inn lives up to its reputation as the most severely haunted building in Windenburg.

Now let’s head inside to begin our tour!

Let me begin by telling you a little about the inn’s history.

The first recorded history of there being a building on this site was from about 800 years ago when the Ancient Ruins were mere Ruins and the inn was just a pub.

This is the oldest part of the inn and formed the entirety of the pub which was on this site 800 years ago.

The pub served as the first port of call for many a weary sailor (or smuggler) who arrived in Windenburg.

This extension was added when the pub was converted to an inn around 600 years ago.

Back then, Windenburg was a powerful maritime hub and its port bustled with activity day and night.

The inn was further extended about 400 years ago to cater to the many travellers who passed through Windenburg to reach the newly-opened University of Britechester.

Due to the age of the inn, it was one of the first buildings ever to be granted the Simsonian Heritage Award. You can see the plaque right here in the lobby!

We are now in what was the bar room of the original pub on this site.

It currently serves as the bar/ dining room of the inn.

Back when the inn was a pub, there was a sailor who practically lived here and had to have 10 drinks each night he was here.

The sailor reportedly liked sitting near this window so that he could watch the comings and goings of the street outside as he drank.

One night, before the sailor could finish his 10th drink for the night, he was called away by someone. The sailor was never seen alive again.

Soon after, glasses were seen flying across the bar room, furniture in the pub were smashed to bits and patrons complained of being nudged out of their seats by unseen forces.

These incidents stopped when the then-pub owner decided to leave a drink near where the sailor used to sit and drink.

About a century later, a particularly cost-conscious pub owner decided to stop leaving these free drinks out to cut costs.

Havoc ensued and the pub nearly went out of business.

Since then, every sensible proprietor of the establishment has left a drink here every night.

And returned in the morning to find an empty glass.

Now let’s return to the lobby and head upstairs for the next part of our tour.

The Tichy Trident Inn boasts 5 charming suites.

A single suite.

A family suite.

A twin suite.

A double suite.

And a honeymoon suite.

Each suite offers its own en-suite bathroom, coffee and tea making facilities, complimentary cookies, a writing desk and complimentary use of a slablet.

But for the purposes of our ghost tour, what is key is that paranormal activity has been reported in nearly all the inn’s suites. We will be visiting each of the supposedly haunted rooms in turn.

A previous guest of the inn’s single suite was a promising young violinist, Madelina Martinelli, who came to Windenburg in the hopes of becoming a court musician at Windenburg Castle.

Unfortunately, before Ms Martinelli got the chance to attend the audition for court musicians at Windenburg Castle, she succumbed to the then-fatal Llama Flu which was sweeping through Windenburg.

Ms Martinelli’s violin remains in the suite for the use of current guests.

However, guests are warned that if they play the violin poorly, the violin’s original owner may give them an, uhh, impromptu violin lesson in the middle of the night.

Featuring enough beds to fit 4 Sims (including a bed for toddlers) and a toy chest, the family suite of the inn is very popular with families and nearly always booked throughout the year.

What these guests may not know is that the toy chest was placed here to appease the spirits of some children who perished here in the Great Fire of-

Uhh, that toy wasn’t there just now, was it?

Ok, who put that toy there when my back was turned?

Did anyone put that toy there? Did anyone even touch the toy chest at all???

(faint giggling of children from all 4 corners of the room)

Let’s… Let’s just… move on then, shall we?

Back in the landing, I note that that door leads to the twin suite which is the only suite in the inn that does not have any ghost stories attached to it.

This is supposedly thanks to the model ship of The Tichy Trident beside the door, which is made from wood sanctified by the Venerated Watcher.  

The records of the inn show that this suit of armour was installed after a series of guests’ complaints about the theft of items from their rooms.  

Since then, the inn has not encountered a single incident of theft.

But guests seem to have instead taken to complaining about the sounds of creaking metal in the corners of the corridor...  

Does anyone need a quick bathroom break before we continue with our tour?

Anyone at all? No? Alright, let’s move on then.

We are now in the inn’s library.

It was set up to cater to the many academically-inclined travellers who passed through Windenburg on their way to study or work at the then-newly opened University of Britechester.

No known ghost stories about the library.

Although that computer in the far end there HAS been known to be rather erratic, especially at night…

The inn’s double suite used to be occupied by the bestselling horror novelist, Lady Daphne Rice.

It was in this very room that Lady Daphne produced many of her most well-loved books like “Conversations with the Ghouls”.

Lady Daphne initially came to Windenburg for about a month to seek inspiration at the Ancient Ruins for her upcoming novel. Lady Daphne ended up loving Windenburg so much that she spent the rest of her life here.

Indeed, some say that Lady Daphne never left Windenburg or the inn.

On certain quiet nights, one could almost hear the distinctive clittering and clattering of Lady Daphne’s typewriter in the corner…

In the height of its prosperity about 200 years ago, the inn added a small but excellent picture gallery to its facilities.

In exchange for giving him a far lower rental rate, the then-owner of the inn even managed to get Mr Brian Leighton, the artist who painted the portraits of Lord and Lady Shallot in Von Haunt Estate, to replicate those portraits for the inn.

More on Mr Leighton later…

We will now move downstairs to visit the final suite in the inn.

Mr Leighton, who painted the Shallots’ portraits, once lived in what is now the honeymoon suite.

The honeymoon suite was created to pay homage to Mr Leighton’s, uhh, many romantic exploits.

Guests are welcome to use the easel on which Mr Leighton himself painted.

However, they are discouraged from leaving their unfinished paintings on the easel overnight. Those who have disregarded this have found their work, for lack of a better word, vandalised.

We will now head into the basement to explore a small portion of Windenburg’s famed labyrinthine network of underground tunnels.

Nobody knew who first built these tunnels or how many of these tunnels there are.

Archaeologists estimate that we have only excavated at most 10% of all these underground tunnels.

But in any case, since time immemorial, people have lived, worked and died in these tunnels.

In the basement of The Tichy Trident Inn, we have discovered what appears to be a shrine of some sort.

This mysterious glowing tree appears to be able to grow without any known source of nutrients.

Note the neatly arranged rows of urns surrounding the tree.

It is unclear whose remains are in the urns, who placed the urns here or why the urns were placed here.

But archaeologists note a particularly important point: the remains in the urns are all from different eras ranging from 1,000 years ago to 50 years ago. This suggests that somebody has been collecting them systematically over the years. HMM.

Alright, alright, that’s enough scaring ourselves for one night.

Let’s get out of here.

Nearly there.

Up those stairs and we will be out of here!

Well, not quite. We have one final stop on our tour.

This is the former office of Mrs Bernadette Beecham who ran the inn like clockwork for over 50 years.

When the current owners of the inn took over the management of the inn, they attempted to remove this office in order to create a bathroom for the staff on the ground floor.

However, after numerous… incidents occurred during the renovation, the current owners gave up on their plan and roped off Mrs Beecham’s former office to prevent anyone from touching the desk.

No incidents have been reported since then.  

This is a portrait of Mrs Beecham.

Strangely, there have been reports of a staff member who looks just like her wandering around the inn and tidying things up in the middle of the night…

And now we are back at the lobby where we started the tour.

Before you leave, do check out the books that we have on sale in the inn.

“The Tichy Trident Inn: Its Ghosts and Roasts” is an especially popular read!

We have come to the end of The Tichy Trident Inn Ghost Tour.

Thank you for joining us, and good night!

[shadowslackinglight]

#2 - The Interview

This is Victoria Winters. Friends and family had warned me prior to my fateful interview with the Collins family that they had a reputation of being eccentric. Of course, with the excitement of the opportunity coursing through my veins, I dismissed the concerns out of hand. I quickly came to realize, however, that this particular family was shrouded in dark secrets and motives. No person residing at the Collinwood Estate was without an internal struggle hiding just under the surface.

From the diary of Victoria Winters.

Vicky winters stood slightly damp from the rain in the foyer of the new Collinwood Estate. Although citizens of Collinsport referred to the current residence of the family as the “new” house, it was hardly a modern construction. The house was originally built during the Spring and Summer of 1860, just over two hundred years after the original house was built. It appeared to Vicky, who had a keen eye for these things, that much of the furniture in the modest-sized entryway was originally from the Victorian era. The floors were made of finely-preserved wood, part of which was covered in a large rug. The walls were covered in a dark red wallpaper with black flowers. Directly in front of Vicky was an elaborate wooden staircase, complete with a polished banister. To her left was a large set of double doors leading into another room. The wall opposite those doors held two more doors leading to other rooms. Between them hung a large oil painting of a tall, pale man with dark, black hair. The man was donned in what Vicky believed to be the traditional wardrobe of a gentleman from the seventeenth or early eighteenth century. 

“Miss Winters,” said an elderly man who had descended from the second floor of the home when  Vicky entered the house, “Ms. Stoddard-Collins will be with you shortly. Would you care for something to drink?”

Vicky looked at the man, attempting to make eye contact and convey a confidence that she did not feel in her heart.  The man’s face was gaunt and because the room was dimly lit, partially covered in shadow. What she could see of him did not appear to be in great health.

“No thank you, Mr...” came Vicky’s response in a semi-whisper. 

“Sorry,” he said to her, “How rude of me not to introduce myself. I’m Roger Collins, Elizabeth’s brother.”

The man motioned to his right where the large double doors stood. Vicky followed him to the doors and entered once he opened them.

“Who is that man in the picture?” she asked him, motioning to the picture on the wall.

“Oh, that old thing?” Roger replied, “He’s a distant relative. When this house was built, all of the art was taken from the original and put into storage here on the estate. Elizabeth has always loved all of the portraits, ever since she was a child. When she took over the house after our parents’ deaths, she wanted to add them all to this house. Unfortunately, the shed they were in allowed a bit too much of the weather to intrude. All of the artwork was destroyed except that one. Peculiar, really.”

“Peculiar, indeed,” Vicky said.

“Please, Ms. Winters, have a seat anywhere in this room. I will summon my sister, presently.” Roger left the room, closing the double doors behind him.

Vicky stood in the massive drawing room and took it in. The room was dimly lit by a fancy chandelier dangling from the center of the ceiling and several lamps placed at small tables arranged strategically around the room. The effect cast interesting shadows in every corner. The floor was wooden, polished extravagantly. There were a couple of old, green, leather couches and chairs in the room as well as a large piano. Each of these items stood atop very old, expensive-looking rugs. The walls were also made of wood paneling with various pieces of art hanging from them. On the wall directly across from the entrance to the room was a very large, elaborate fireplace that was outlined with a decorative, wooden hearth. The aesthetic of this room appeared to be untouched from the time in which the house was built. Vicky was sure the furniture was new, but it was clearly ordered custom to match the style of the rest of the house. The wall pointing to the outside of the house held a massive window. The storm was really picking up, now. Lightning and thunder struck again, illuminating the whole room for a moment before subsiding. 

Vicky chose one of the leather couches facing a small table with a matching chair directly across from it. Perfect for an interview, she thought. After a few minutes that crawled on like hours to Vicky, Ms. Collins Stoddard finally entered the room. 

“Apologies for the wait,” she said in a monotonous voice, “There was a bit of family business to address that ran longer than I had hoped. 

Vicky stood, turning to face the woman, “No problem, at all,” she replied, offering her hand to the matriarch.

Ms. Collins Stoddard walked to the chair opposite her and sat. Vicky wasn’t sure if she had seen her hand or had simply ignored it. Vicky sat back down on the couch, making sure her posture was perfect.

Looking at Ms. Collins Stoddard, Vicky could tell the woman was trying to put forth an air of superiority, but she wasn’t quite pulling it off. Her dark, brown hair, while put up in a bun, had a few strands that indicated it was done in haste. Her midnight blue dress was just slightly disheveled, and her green eyes looked weary. She looked stressed. Vicky was not surprised. The public relations nightmare that was this project had to have been taking its toll on Ms. Collins Stoddard. Daily protests and weekly articles about what Vicky assumed had to be a very difficult decision couldn’t have helped the situation, either. Vicky felt a bit sorry for the woman, but that empathy would quickly disappear as the interview started.

Ms. Collins Stoddard began leafing through the copy of Vicky’s profile that Vicky had mailed ahead of her visit. The woman’s face displayed no emotion as she did. Finally, after taking a look at every sheet of paper in the folder while Vicky waited in silence, Ms. Collins Stoddard finally made eye contact with her and spoke.

“Apologies for not being fully prepared,” she began, “Normally, I would look over your dossier in advance of our meeting, but to be completely honest, I did not fully expect you to come for this interview.”

“Pardon me?” Vicky stammered.

Ms. Collins Stoddard gave the slightest smirk, “Well, it’s just that you must’ve known that you are only getting this interview as a favor to a member of the family. A project like this takes experience and know-how. I don’t believe you to have either of those things. It’s a big responsibility that cannot fail.”

“I see,” was all Vicky could manage to say. Again, thunder cracked loudly outside. Vicky jumped at the sound. Her interviewer did not.

“But, here you are, aren’t you, girl? You should know that yesterday, alone, I interviewed three world-renowned architects itching to get their paws on that house,” Ms. Collins Stoddard continued, “However, I did promise to conduct this interview, and your work does look quite impressive for someone so...young. Therefore, in order to fulfill my familial obligation, I will give you five minutes to tell me why I should even remember that I met you. Why do you think you can do this project? What, if any vision do you have for my ancestral home?” she paused, “If nothing else, consider this a practice for your next interview at some low-rate firm in New York that has time to waste showing you the ropes of being a professional architect.”

Vicky looked down to her hands in her lap for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. If nothing else, she considered, at least the Collins family matriarch was honest. Vicky, however, considered herself to be an overachiever. She was not going to give up and let this opportunity pass her by. In truth, this project was the only thing, at this moment, that she wanted. 

She took a deep breath and looked up. Her eyes met Ms. Collins Stoddard’s. She tried to show determination and grit, but there was no visible response from the person across from her to indicate whether or not she had succeeded. “Very well,” Vicky said calmly, and then she dove in.

For the next five minutes, exactly, Vicky outlined everything she had gathered during her time researching the estate and during her time today in Collinsport. She spoke intently about her initial ideas and plans for a remodel of the original Collinwood house that would turn it into a bustling hotel and tourist attraction while maintaining what made it appealing in the first place: its history. She did not pause. She did not invite Ms. Collins Stoddard to interject. This was her five minutes, and she used every single second of it. She left nothing out because if she had, she knew she would regret it for the rest of her life. She may have been gifted this opportunity, but she was going to make the most of it.

The moment the five minutes ended, the double doors to the drawing-room opened with a creak, and Roger Collins walked through them. Ms. Collins Stoddard tore a scrap of paper off of the corner of Vicky’s resume, wrote something on it, closed the portfolio, and thanked Vicky for her time. She then stood up abruptly and exited the room, handing the scrap of paper to Roger as she walked past him.

Vicky felt tears welling up in her eyes. She had given it everything she had and, apparently, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for the job, and it wasn’t even enough for a response. She stood quickly, eager to leave the house before her emotions got the better of her. If she got to the station soon, she thought she might be able to catch the last train out of town, and if not, she would stay at a local hotel. There was no way she was going to stay the night in this house after that interview. The embarrassment would be too much.

As she began to make her way out of the drawing-room, she passed Roger who was looking at the scrap of paper in his hand. Her presence near his person startled him to attention, and he turned to her, “Where are you going, Ms. Winters?” he asked.

She turned on her heels and looked at him, exasperated. “I’m going to try to catch a train back,” she replied.

“That won’t be necessary,” Roger told her.

“Mr. Collins, I appreciate the opportunity and your family’s hospitality, but...”

Roger stuck the note out to her, “Here,” he said.

She hesitated, confused, then took the piece of paper and read it for herself. There was a dollar sign on it, followed by a number. A large number. A number that was at least twice as big as any she’d expect to get at a firm. 

“What is this?” she asked.

“Your salary,” Roger replied, “I know it’s a tad low, compared to what you may have expected, but we will be providing you room and board here at Collinwood, which will significantly cut your costs. I’m afraid, however, that the offer is non-negotiable.”

Vicky looked down at the number written by Ms. Collins Stoddard’s hand, again. After a moment, determined to keep a professional face, she looked up and replied as calmly as she could, “Mr. Collins, I believe this will suffice.”

“Excellent!” he said, “You begin tomorrow. Planning for this project must be underway at once!”

“But my things,” Vicky stated, “I’ve only brought enough for one night. I need time to gather my belongings to move.”

Roger looked at her incredulously, “Nonsense. Provide me with a list of your personal belongings, your address, and a key, and I will have someone fetch them for you. If you have them at breakfast, we should have the job done by tomorrow evening.”

Thunder and lightning crashed once more, but this time when the bright flash retreated from the room, all of the lamps and the chandelier had gone out. The two were standing in complete darkness.

“Drats,” Roger said.

To be continued...

[awackyphdinadorkable]

A little snippet of a Cherik fic ghosting through my head...

This one keeps going through my mind for some reason, even though it is nowhere near an actual fic at this point. Despite that all, I thought I might share at least the tender, drafty first steps in that direction, because... why not? I just like the mood of it, or rather, the mood it gets me into. *flies away*

There are those days when Erik wished he was back in Paris, in his tiny apartment at the very top of a very shabby building from which he could smell both freshly baked baguettes and fish being delivered for the small food store below every day.

Those were the easy mornings that left his mind blissfully blank – because he didn’t want to think, even less so remember. Those mornings smelled of black café with just a dash of lait. They tasted of croissants with jam. They sounded of the streets waking up below his small balcony where there was only space for a garden chair, a tiny table, and a lonely potted plant that never came to bloom yet didn’t die either. And most importantly, those mornings looked like new beginnings, as the city was painted orange and violet, leaving only the picturesque yet iconic shape of the Eiffel tower in the distance to Erik him yearning for the sensation of that steel.

Now in New York, Erik still has black coffee with just a dash of milk every morning, but the milk doesn’t quite taste like the one he used to buy in Paris. The croissants are positive crap. And when he stands on his balcony, albeit this one is a bit more spacious, there is no smell of fresh bread and fish in the air, just the odor of gasoline and burned rubber rising up in dark clouds, painting even the new beginning of the day in shades of gray. It is those moments that take him to where Erik knows he doesn’t want to return. Ever again.

He scratches his naked torso, feeling a shiver run through him from the cold seeping into his bones. Weather is always miserable around the season, which, Erik will admit, likely suits his overall mood. He supposes it’s more fitting his occupation. In that way, he is merely living up to expectations.

Taking another suck from his cigarette, Erik flicks the stub into the empty flower pot and heads back inside. He lets his eyes briefly dance over the darkened room, wrinkling his nose. Maybe he really should follow the advice he was given and make an effort to make this place a little more personalized. He bought the furniture from the previous tenant in its entirety, only ever threw out the mattress and rearranged some of the pieces because the tenant had no sense of using space whatsoever.

When he rented this place, Erik didn’t much care. His mind was elsewhere entirely, but the apartment looks perhaps even more desolate that the street below his small-albeit-slightly-bigger balcony. However, having spent more time here now, looking at it right at this moment, it has Erik consider a personal touch, if only for the briefest of moments, as this is something Erik never really did and doesn’t really have any intention to start with now.

Most people would buy some flower-patterned pillows, maybe paint at least some of the walls in a brighter color, or hang up a few picture frames, none of which are even up for consideration for Erik. Flower-patterned pillows make him think of Düsseldorf, and he can’t go back there, not even inside his mind. Bright colors tend to make him antsy if he looks at them for too long, reminding him far too much of the darkness residing with him. And picture frames, photographs? Completely out of question.

And so, naked walls it is.

The movement of his wristwatch’s second hands pulls Erik out of his musings. He furrows his eyebrows as he checks the time. Staring at his impersonal apartment took Erik longer than intended. He grabs the wrinkly shirt he never bothers to iron for the occasion to pull over his head before shrugging into his worn, brown leather jacket. He slips into his shoes, ties the laces, and stretches himself once to ease the remains of the chill out of his bones. With keys in hand, Erik flies out the door and sinks into the gray mass awaiting him below.

Of course it rains by the time he makes his way outside.

Of course.

Erik mutters silent curses under his breath as he pulls the collar of his jacket up higher, pondering why he never bought a new umbrella after the last one had a small accident late at night a few months back. Though realization hits Erik with about as much force as the water being pushed out of the puddles as taxis speed past them.

The reason is that Erik doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to remember.

And that is also why his walls are still naked.

It is the reason why nothing changed in his New York apartment ever since he moved in, safe for the arrangement of the furniture.

It is the reason why the mattress is the only thing new in his apartment.

And so, Erik has to walk on without an umbrella, hoping he won’t be completely drenched by the time he reaches the studio. It’s just the last thing he needs on a mediocre morning like this that leaves him yearning for Paris, for his apartment, well aware that he left that all the same way he left his undead plant behind.

When the building comes into sight, Erik finds his hopes most certainly failed, which does not come to him as a surprise, it is the season after all, and hope does not seem to fit him, no matter what certain other people may say. Erik grimaces as he can feel the rain finally seeping its way past the layers of leather onto naked skin, making him wince. He pushes inside, then, leaving gray and rain behind him to deal with later.

Once inside, Erik shrugs out of his soaked jacket and puts it on the hangers he contributed, twirls and swirls of metal, none of which look the same. They made their way all across the Atlantic to here, upon one man’s insistence, who argued, or rather insisted, that throwing away art is “very counterproductive” to their overall cause. The thought never ceases to entertain Erik, since he didn’t believe in a shared cause all the way to New York until it hit him that, yes, he is part of something bigger, a shared cause, whether he wants to or not at times.

Though Erik is still left wondering, more than once, just what that cause may be. Paris took his sense of direction away, which had been sharp as a knife’s edge ever since he left everything behind a metal fence he never wants to cross again in a lifetime. Erik never lacked a sense of purpose for most of his life, but ever since he moved to Paris, almost ran there, cause and purpose became such abstract notions that he finds it hard to believe at times that he used to know so exactly what both meant for him. The cause only ever gained some ominous kind of shape when he walked into the studio for the first time – and found his way there again every day since, not just in Paris but now also here in New York.

He found this most curious group of people back in Paris, or more accurately, the group found him. It was at an exhibition where Erik featured one of his latest sculptures. Needless to mention people were full of praise for his piece of art, which made it hard for Erik not to laugh during the event. The statue was shit, something thrown together, bent out of shape, punched out of it again, to vaguely resemble something avant-garde.

Because once it’s abstract enough, avant-garde enough, no one asks questions anymore, it seems. Then you can get away with almost anything.

Erik accounts part of the lack of critique of that statue to his reputation as a kind of prodigy in the field, a man who never received formal training in the arts and yet crafts metal as though it was natural to him. Which it is, but that is something people either purposely forget about him, which is entirely beside the point of his art, or just begrudgingly accept because of his undeniable talent, which may be only minimally better.  

Back at that exhibition in Paris, there was only one person who voiced his disappointment in Erik’s latest creation, a dashing young man with dark hair and arguably the bluest eyes Erik ever saw in his entire life. He was all quick smiles and easy laughs, the kind of man to charm his way in and out of every conversation he either wished to take part in or leave because he found it uninspiring, Erik could tell right off the bat. And that man always had a comment on the tip of his tongue, he could tell that, too. It was he who invited Erik to join their “little potpourri of similarly minded yet out of mind artists,” arguing that Erik would make a “wonderful” addition to it.

Erik politely told the man no, because he worked on his own, would stay on his own till last, Erik was sure, but the man insisted that Erik at least visited the studio just once to see for himself before giving a definite answer.

“You can’t properly judge something without having seen it. I also had to see that statue in the flesh without any flesh in order to be certain that it was only thrown together for the occasion and thus most certainly is below your acutely high standards.”

Erik was shocked at first, then mildly offended. Just because he called it crap didn’t mean anyone else should or had any right to it. Though the easy smiles and the occasional pat on his back soon made him forget his irritation and instead find a strange solace in at least one person seeing that this statue was below Erik’s high standard.

When the young man kept going on about his favorite pieces of Erik’s collection, anger completely deflated and something rather curious set in the pit of his stomach as he sipped his champagne next to the blue-eyed man who seemingly couldn’t be stopped from complimenting Erik on his craft. Though, perhaps to his even greater shock, that man most accurately identified what the statues meant, what Erik had in mind when he made them, even for those that didn’t have a title indicating what exact direction they were heading, what horrors they were critiquing by twisting knots into barbwire and mimicking tooth fillings made of gold, twisting into a loud metal shriek saying “never again.”

By the end of the evening, Erik had been thoroughly introduced to every member of the Parisian Potpourri, eased into conversations he was no longer accustomed to having, and found himself listening intently to the blue-eyed man’s little game of guessing what the art critiques at the event were thinking. He did so based on the way they looked at the painting and sculptures, or so he said. Though he mostly only did it to entertain the remaining members of the Potpourri, as he continued aping those critics in their pompous way of seeing themselves as the only ones able to see, consume, and understand the art.

“If I ever end up making art only just for the critics, that you must promise me, my friends, just go ahead and shoot me point blank.”

Erik enjoyed the evening more than he thought he would, more than he grew used to ever since he moved to Paris to lose all direction. He remained fairly certain that it was no more than a pleasant evening, though, and that he would move on from it the way he always did, never looking back.

Yet, when he left his small flat in Paris the next morning, it seemed oddly familiar, oddly needed, to head to the studio he’d never been to in his entire life. And for the first time in a long time, he found himself looking forward.

Most of those people came and went over time, befitting the lives of artists, or at the very least, living up to a certain stereotype. The Parisian Potpourri was under constant change, people flying in and out, some joining, others leaving, some coming back. But that was the entire purpose of the studio, to give a room for creativity to unfold without dictating boundaries or setting up rules – and keep low the costs, since such a workshop, in Paris no less, would have been nearly unaffordable for most of them, if not as a shared effort to maintain the studio.

The idea remained part of Erik’s time in Paris until he bid adieu to his apartment above the food market, left to wonder what would become of his potted plant now that someone else would take care of it, or rather, not take care of it because he never watered it or gave it manure to thrive.

In fact, it carried on beyond that day, because the man carrying it with every ounce of himself took the idea of the studio all the way with him to New York, only to open up a new workshop where a potpourri of new people soon flew in and out, as artists do, leaving only three constants within: Erik, the hangers, and…

“Charles! I told you to leave that statue alone. It’s not finished!”

Sometimes Erik wonders how that man is even an actual person. Because he can say with utter surety that he never met anyone like Charles Francis Xavier in his entire life. That man is charismatic to the point that it is near painful. He is likely more intelligent than 99% of world’s population, able to recite most of The Once and Future King from the top of his head even when roused from deep slumber. He is young, agile and lithe, and yet, seems to fancy himself wearing cardigans any gray-haired professor at college would want to call his own, only to walk around in just jeans, no shirt and no shoes whenever he sees fit, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Charles always seems to know what to say and what not to say, and sometimes he says just what is wrong to say on the occasion because it pleases him.

And that man convinced me to come all the way to New York. Damn.  

“You know the allure of covering the object to be adored, Erik! That is the same reason why most people find so much thrill in the act of undressing and not just in the acts that succeed it,” Charles calls out, hands folded in his back, circling around the covered statue like a lion approaching its prey.

“Hands off, I told you often enough,” Erik warns him, though he knows his voice lacks the fight he used to put into it back in Paris. These days, it’s just mild annoyance with Charles’s apparent inability, or rather refusal, to work on some of his antics which tend to drive Erik near mad.

“My, my, aren’t we in a good mood today?” Charles snorts, flashing one of his easy smiles. Always the easy smiles, no matter the occasion, no matter the season, no matter the rain or the bad mood people have around him.

“You know me, Charles, I am always in that kind of mood.”

“It’s the rain, I suppose,” Charles muses, stepping away from Erik’s work to glance out the window.

And that is the other thing with Charles Xavier that makes him the most curious person Erik ever met. The shifts. Erik lacks a better term for it. He reckons a poet in their group may finally come up with a more elaborate and artistic way of expressing it, but up until now, no artist of the word found their way into the studio.

What he noticed over his time together with this most curious man is that Charles can be bubbly and laughing one second but be completely lost the very next. He can be so close to Erik that there is no more than an inch between them and suddenly, he is a thousand miles away. One moment Charles is elaborating on the merits of the notion of l’art pour l’art, the next, he fades away and leaves nothing but a blank expression on his face behind, before going on about whatever it is that seemingly manifested itself inside his head, only for him to know.  

And it is this man Erik followed all the way to New York, away from his small balcony with the curious plant and his morning café with the dash of lait.

Really, damn.

“You know, I like the rain as a motif, but I can’t say I enjoy painting while it rains outside,” Charles ponders, wrinkling his nose as his eyes remain fixed on the scratched, dirty window where veins of water run down it as rain keeps pouring over the glass, pulsing to the beat of a colorless heart.

“How so?” Erik asks.

His fellow artist shrugs. “People are not in a good mood when it rains. Look at yourself.”

“Well, what is there to like about the rain, you tell me? Other than its necessity for wildlife and nature? People are in a terrible mood, as you say. Clothes get drenched, you have to dodge taxis because they will take any pothole there is to leave you even more drenched, and everything is just dark and miserable.”

“But then there is petrichor,” Charles sighs, grinning faintly.

Erik curls his lips into a frown. “Petrichor?”

“The smell of damp earth just after the rain. The smell of a new beginning.” He smiles, but then shifts, turns around abruptly and walks back over to the canvas he put up before Erik even walked into the studio.

Sometimes Erik wonders whether Charles actually moved into the studio without anyone’s realization months ago, but then he remembers the taste of bourbon and the staccato of chess pieces moving over at Charles’s apartment just a few blocks from his own. No, Charles doesn’t live in the studio, though perhaps he really rather would. Erik finds it hard to tell at times.

While his apartment is as impersonal as it can get, Charles spread all of himself in his home, bought entirely new furniture upon his arrival in New York. Though he tends to purchase secondhand since he enjoys “the echo” used objects leave behind when they don’t come straight from the factory. There are some of his small paintings hung up on the walls, a “shameless self-promotion,” as Charles calls it.

He made himself at home in New York, simple as that. And whenever Erik winds up on his doorsteps for a round of late night chess and bourbon, Erik finds it hard to picture Charles anywhere else but in this apartment. There is a way to how Charles navigates through his home, as though he knew ever crevice, every bump in the floor by heart, moving with a kind of self-assurance, a kind of grace that seems particular to only just this man. And sitting in his worn leather armchair, rolled up in one of his cardigans, Erik is led to believe that Charles would rather never leave that place in a lifetime, looking far too cozy, far too comfortable, far too content with the world to ever cross the threshold leading to worlds of gray, taxis, and smog.

At the same time, Charles is normally the first one to come to the studio – and the last one to leave. Erik caught the other man a number of times snoring on makeshift beds made of packs of clay and cloth some of the other artists tend to put on the floors for when they toss color everywhere for abstract paintings. In that way, Charles is always the first person to greet Erik in the morning, and the last to bid him good night, which, Erik will admit, if only just to himself, he finds oddly calming. Yet, it leaves Erik wondering how it comes that Charles seemingly loves being in the apartment, looking so cozy, so at home there, while at the same time seemingly being unable at other times to leave the studio, giving any impression that he lives there, too.

Erik finds himself back in the reality of the studio when his eyes catch movement to his right as Charles picks up the palette with his left hand and dabs the next best brush he can find into the acrylic paint he already applied and started to mix well before Erik arrived.

“One of your commissions or something for yourself?” Erik asks as Charles brings down the brush on the canvas for the first time.

While Erik himself wouldn’t know how to paint even if his life depended on it, he found himself easily fascinated by the way Charles moves the brush across the canvas, how worlds start to grow under the movement of this sometimes impossible man. Because there is a distinct way with which Charles leans into every stroke as though it was a dance to a melody only he can hear inside his head. It is a most intimate kind of dance that leaves Erik questioning at times where the artist ends, the brush begins, and where exactly paint morphs into art.

“Oh, this one is merely to indulge myself, though perhaps I will sell it, if someone is willing to purchase it once it is done. I have a feeling it could turn out really good… despite the really not good mood around here,” Charles says, yet again all easy smiles as he continues his small dance with the brush and the paint.

As always.

Charles became known in the scene as The Clairvoyant, because he has an innate ability to create paintings his commissioners want, crave, in fact. Erik read some of the articles talking about this “art prodigy of the century” after he met him back at the exhibition in Paris. While they were written in different languages, they all shared in one meaning, because they all spoke of a man who can deliver every style from a Renaissance-like paintings all the way to the abstract, leaving even the toughest critics wondering just how this painter manages to create the art his commissioners want to see – and seemingly never failing at the task, not once.

After his research back in his apartment in Paris, Erik was sure that the artist could never live up to the title he was given by art magazines and columns in the back of newspapers. However, Erik had to revise that opinion rather soon – because he became witness and since can confirm that Charles possesses a talent unmatched.

Erik was still getting accustomed to the noise of the studio in Paris when he found out the truth, to people’s chattering and talking about topics he didn’t want to hear about as he struggled his way through the next sculpture bound to leave him unimpressed with his own creation.

An old lady came into the Parisian studio one day, which set forth the process of realization in Charles’s particular ability for Erik. Almost coincidentally, it rained that day, too. She wore her best coat, though it was at least a century old. The gray hair in a tight knot, but with a warm kind of smile withstanding even the nasty weather outside. Erik could tell from her accent that she was from Eastern Europe.

She wanted a painting from Charles, having read about him in the newspapers. A small one, she added shyly, since she couldn’t afford a large canvas by any means. Charles took her aside, charmed her into an easy conversation. Erik grew almost weary at the sight because it left him with the feeling that Charles went in a similar way about him to make him join the studio. By the time the old woman, Alyena, left, Charles was almost instantly up by his easel to set to work.

It was those days Erik was sure Charles didn’t see the inside of his apartment at all. It left him almost worried for the young man because Charles seemed to work without catching a break for more than a couple of minutes before working on the next stroke. Erik could tell that this painting was a matter of heart to Charles because he wouldn’t let anyone in on the process. He locked himself up the way Erik tends to do when he creates, and instructed everyone to leave the small side room alone until he was finished and “ready to return to the world.”

Some days later, Charles welcomed Alyena back to the studio, all the more cheerful when he saw her come in, touched her shoulder for comfort, complimenting her on her lovely coat over and over again as he led her to where he had set up for the reveal. The old woman was visibly nervous, but Charles knew what to say to ease her, the way he always knows. And this time, he said nothing wrong on purpose.

The canvas wrapped with linen certainly did have a particular kind of allure, too, Erik will have to give Charles that much, though the effect only ever set in once everyone got a glimpse at what was underneath.

Charles revealed a most realistic painting of a young, dark-haired girl with ribbons braided into her hair, spinning round and round in sheer joy while holding on to another girl with lighter hair in a tight braid with the same ribbons sitting on top of her head like a crown. And at that sight, Alyena simply started to weep. Erik never saw such a reaction from a commissioner, even less so when the old woman pulled Charles into a fierce hug, asking over and over how he knew, how he could possibly know what Justina looked like as a girl. How he knew that Alyena longed for an image of her childhood friend when she long since forgot the features of Justina’s face.

“But you see her now, don’t you?” was all Charles offered, patting her back soothingly.

“I do, but I don’t know how.”

“And that is the artist’s magic.”

It didn’t surprise Erik that Charles had chosen a way larger canvas than the one the woman had paid for. Neither did it that Charles never made mention of it. The only thing that kept surprising him was the woman’s words to Erik when Charles disappeared for a moment to wrap the canvas for her to take back home. She recounted to him still teary-eyed how Justina was her childhood friend and how they danced at the wedding of one of Justina’s cousins – one last time. The following day, Alyena’s family left, or rather fled from a war about to come, only to learn, years later, that Justina died only a day after they last danced, very likely still with the ribbons in her hair.

“I never had a photograph of her, you see. And my memory is fading faster than me. I always wanted to remember her, though. Because who else will? I never dared to think I’d see her again, but now I do. Right there. She looks just like the last time I saw her. Just like it. It’s like the photograph I never had of her – and so much more.”

That was when Erik understood what people meant when they called Charles Xavier a mindreader, The Clairvoyant of the scene, and it was also the day he accepted that as the only appropriate title for Charles’s way of making art. Because Charles knows what to paint even without the commissioner telling him what exactly he or she is looking for. He just knows somehow, and he knows how to ban it on canvas.

Sometimes Erik finds it a pity, however, because he sees Charles struggle at times, many times in fact, with a painting for a commissioner The Clairvoyant only very silently admits is “not of the kindest nature” or “of a very limited creative mind.” Ever since Erik saw Charles reveal Justina to the old woman, he feels any urge to take Charles’s brushes away when he paints yet another image of a tycoon looking for a pompous self-portrait, putting him in the best light when he likely does nothing but shady business. Because what is Charles, a thoroughbred artist, doing, wasting his precious time and outstanding talent on those tycoons when he could create so many more impossible memories, could paint many more Justinas, making those memories real and last for many more generations to come and adore?

It is those days that Charles shifts away nearly at all times, working late hours, seemingly just to get over with those commissions, to get them out of the studio like trash that needs taking out before it starts to stink. At the same time, Charles seemingly doesn’t find it in himself to refuse a commission, no matter how “unstimulating” he tends to find them – and the commissioners in particular. Charles is seemingly too busy pleasing everyone to ever truly learn to say no.

Erik, by contrast, learned to say no very early on in his life, with absolution in his voice. Right along with “never again.” He doesn’t take commissions. He never creates statues for a certain theme or a particular event. People can purchase his work, but Erik decides who gets them, and he alone settles the price. Some people are irritated by his insistence on it, but Erik won’t have it any other way.

He doesn’t trust anyone with his art other than himself.

He doesn’t trust anyone other than himself, period.

“Oh, by the way?” Charles hums. Erik turns his head, blinking. “Hm?”

“It appears we will be alone for a few weeks,” the dark-haired man informs him, his eyes never leaving the canvas as he continues the easy-going conversation on a rainy day in New York.

“How so?”

“The others are going to this conference of sorts in Milan after all.”

“Thankfully I am keeping out of that,” Erik snorts. “Artists parading themselves and their views on the art is about as interesting as watching paint dry.”

“There is actually something quite stimulating about watching paint dry.”

“Nothing that I can see.”

“I can always show you, Erik.” He smiles. As always.

“I am a sculptor, not a painter.”

“I am a painter and yet I love watching you prep up the metal pieces for your installments,” Charles argues, and Erik knows that to be truth, as often as he tends to usher Charles out of his workshop. “Art enjoys its lack of limitations, does it not?”

“How comes you are not there with them? I bet you’d love to gush about the state of the art while having some Italian vintage,” Erik snorts, the image of their first meeting in the exhibition back in Paris still fresh on his mind.

“Oh no, most of those people are not at all stimulating. Then I rather watch paint dry, or talk to you.”

Erik grimaces at that. “Talking to me is as stimulating to you as is watching paint dry?”

“I love watching paint dry and I love talking to you, so yes.” He shrugs.

“You know, it is these moments that make me question why I ever befriended you.”

Charles chuckles, momentarily stopping his dance. “I know I am irresistible.”

Erik scoffs, though he supposes there is more truth to it than there should be. Because there is something very irresistible to Charles’s person. Erik can see it with nearly any person Charles interacts with, himself included. There is something about him that drives people into his orbit. Like bees attracted to a colorful flower, promising nectar.

There is something intoxicating to Charles’s enthusiasm not just for his own work but that of everyone else. While he will express his views on some Pollocks – which he finds bollocks, all the more enjoying that poor rhyme – and artists whose work he finds “empty” and “devoid of the essential of the art, its meaning or lack thereof,” Charles tends to find something good in almost anything.

He always has hope.

And that is irresistible, something that may or may not have made the decision easier for Erik to leave his balcony and the croissants behind for a shabby apartment in the middle of New York where coffee never tastes quite like it did back in Paris and where his impersonal apartment leaves him frozen in time more often than it should.

“You know, your silence tells me that you tend to agree, which I take as a compliment, Erik.”

“I don’t honor your words with a reply, that’s a big difference.”

“Ah, those talks will certainly take me through the desolation of the empty studio until the others return in a couple of weeks. I thank God that at least you stay by my side, my friend.”

“Someone has to, it appears,” Erik sighs. He shakes his head with a grin before walking into the separate room of the workshop where he can work on iron, tin, gold, and steel without disturbing the finer artists in their daily routines.

“I shall terribly miss you, Erik!” Charles calls out as Erik rolls back the big metal door to slip inside.

“You know where to find me.”

“I always do!”

“And no peeking!”

“I would never! I will be patiently waiting for you once you decide to join me again, my friend. Until then, au revoir.”

As Erik rolls the door back shut, he can hear Charles hum the chanson J’attendrai by Rina Ketty, which has Erik snort while at the same time miss Paris just a little bit less. Charles has a pleasant singing voice and brings him right back to his balcony with the undead plant and the promise of a new beginning shining brightly behind the steel of the Eiffel Tower, with no more than the promise that he will wait.

○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○

“Check, my friend.”

Erik leans back on his arms as he looks at the checkerboard another time, pondering his next steps. Chess grew to be one of his greatest self-indulgences because it is within this game that he feels more direction than he does outside the doors of the studio or within the walls of his impersonal apartment. And thankfully, he found a match in Charles who is always eager for a game, no matter what time of the day.

“I still wonder why you kept that thing,” Erik ponders aloud. “I mean, there is fancier ways to play the king’s game, I’m sure you are aware.”

“But we are in a studio where there is dust and paint and clay flying around on a daily basis. Why would I waste good, polished wood on something I may very well get paint on? This is about the game itself. And thankfully, it would stay the same even if we played it with a bunch of rocks and squares drawn on the ground,” Charles argues. “And anyway, I think the checkerboard has a certain charm to it. I found it abandoned in the back of my drawer when I moved into my apartment in Paris. It reminds me of the good old days.”

“Sometimes, you have to leave those things behind,” Erik mutters.

“And sometimes, you have to keep things to keep alive their memory.”

Erik moves his rook with a frown, making sure to keep his eyes set on the small chessboard instead of Charles’s piercing blue eyes, fearing they may catch just those details Erik is intent on keeping out of everyone’s view. He enjoys playing chess with Charles, did ever since he realized the man was a match to him – and was eager to play whenever both took a break from the art and didn’t yet crave the bitter taste of nicotine to die on their tongues.

What he doesn’t enjoy about it is that very often, Charles talks about things fresh on his mind, things Erik wants to leave abandoned, far away from himself. It makes Erik feel like being caught, and he doesn’t want to be caught, can’t stand the thought of being trapped, the memories of rain and fences too fresh on his mind, no matter how many years passed since then. Because that would lead to admissions about himself, about what he thinks, what he looks like inside, and those admissions are reserved for his art and his art alone. Erik can let them all out there, he can all hide them there, in plain sight. But there is no hiding in plain sight when confronted with Charles Xavier. And sometimes, Erik isn’t sure whether he likes that.

“I really hope they will return from Italy, you know?” Charles contemplates, one hand under his chin, curling his lips into a frown.

Erik wrinkles his nose. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Temptation is strong in that city. A great artistic scene and the Italian sun… Italian food… Italian wine… I can see the appeal… and then of course… the intimacies and inconveniences coming along with it.”

“What now?”

Charles chuckles softly. “You do not believe that any of them will remain celibate throughout the trip to Italy, do you? They all shake it up already here in New York.”

“All of them?” Erik makes a face. “I knew about Emmet and Sally, but…”

“All of them. They just switch around a lot. Emmet and Sally are the only ones who seemingly want to commit to a relationship, even though they both have since explored the possibilities of the number three, if you understand.”

“You know, Charles, there are those things I am not eager to know, and yet, you are the one forcing me to keep them in mind from now on,” Erik huffs, moving his pawn.

Charles removes one of Erik’s pawns. “My sincerest apologies.”

Though both know Charles is by no means sorry. For that, his grin is far too wicked.

“So now you think they will form a community in Italy and just shake it up all day?” Erik questions, which has Charles shrug. “I wouldn’t put it past them, let’s leave it at that.”

“And you didn’t join them? Now I am all the more surprised,” Erik huffs.

While Erik tries his best to keep out of the private affairs of others, he didn’t miss Charles’s seemingly innate ability to charm, sometimes smoothly, sometimes with the grace of a klutz, talking about “groovy mutations” such as brown hair for some reason. Erik can’t tell whether Charles was in a steady relationship ever since he got to know him, though he dares to doubt it since Erik tends to wind up at Charles’s apartment more nights than maybe he should. And he never saw someone there with him, not in Paris, not in New York. There never were strewn around clothes forgotten or someone hiding in the bathroom when Erik made his way inside with the bottle of bourbon. There was always only Charles.

What exactly Charles may be looking for in a relationship? It is a mystery to Erik, too, though he makes sure not to put any effort into learning the truth. After all, that is Charles’s business. It is mere curiosity, Erik tends to think, because a small part of him would like to know what someone as curious as Charles Xavier may seek in a partner. However, despite his way of making people join his orbit, Charles seemingly mastered the skill to keep himself behind a thin layer of fog, leaving Erik always wondering but never quite knowing.

“Oh, you wound me, my friend!” Charles exclaims dramatically, clutching at his shirt. “I am not a man for the quick passions and meaningless couplings. My heart could not take it. I am far too committed to everything I do… and everyone I do.”

“My sincerest apologies.”

Charles smirks at him before looking back at the checkerboard.

“Well, if all of them decide to stay in Italy to follow all aspects of their various passions, we may have to close down the studio,” Erik continues, removing one of Charles’s pawns.

“I would never let that happen, believe me that, my friend,” Charles argues, a kind of sincerity in his voice that has Erik look at him with a grimace. “How would you prevent that anyway? We all share the rent.”

The dark-haired man shrugs. “I have my ways. For that, it is too important for me to maintain the studio. It is the one way creativity can thrive, for me at least.”

“Well, I suppose some may eventually wind up being sated with the gelato and pizza… and the needs of the flesh,” Erik offers, pushing the immediate thought away of when was the last time he satisfied such a need, well aware of the answer, and even more acutely aware of how he doesn’t want to think about it, wants it gone as far as possible, much further than Paris could ever be.

“One can hope,” Charles sighs heavily.

“You have enough of that anyway,” Erik scoffs, far too much to his liking at times, but he grew accustomed to it like he grew used to Charles ghosting through his workshop when he is not supposed to.

“For the both of us most certainly,” Charles laughs, easily, as always. “But you know what?”

“I bet you are about to tell me.”

“I would consider manslaughter for a true French croissant right now. I don’t know what they do with the pastry, but it’s miles away from what we are served here.”

Erik snorts at that. “Tell me about it.”

And just like that, Charles is right up close with him when not long ago, he was a thousand miles away. Those shifts, they are maddening to Erik. And yet, he also grew used to them, no matter how much they irritate him at times. They are constants in his life, too, and oddly so, they create a kind of direction, a drive forward, to the man shifting away.  

“I suppose the French put more love into their food. For them, it is more than a way to satisfy a bodily need. It’s a way of life, really. And a very tasty one,” Charles ponders.

“I can only agree to that,” Erik says, moving his knight.

“The manslaughter or the croissant?”

“Maybe both?”

“Ah,” Charles laughs, always easy, something between incredibly close and far, far away. Erik looks past the painter over to the canvas where the acrylic paint is still drying. “I see you made good progress today.”

Charles looks over his shoulder before flashing Erik the brightest of smiles, reaching all the way up to his eyes. “It went rather quickly, yes. I was surprised myself. And how was it for you?”

“Same as old.” He shrugs.

Charles is one of the few people who know a bit more about Erik’s ongoing struggle with creating statues. Erik wouldn’t want him to know, but Charles noticed his shit work before, which was the reason why hiding seemed rather ridiculous by the end of the day. While Charles didn’t press for details and Erik wasn’t willing to give them either, Charles understood that Erik struggles to finish his statues as of late, which makes it all the more irritating to present them at exhibitions, receiving praise for what he knows to be incomplete without a purpose other than not being able to add the final touch.

Thankfully, Charles was graceful about it since the day they exchanged muttered words of understanding, never making mention of it in front of anyone else, not even alluding to Erik’s struggles with his own art. It isn’t in Charles’s nature, it seems, to purposely embarrass someone or point out the errors of their ways, unless they are born out of malice or ill spirit. He is too kind for that, and too kind to say no.

“Oh well, the worst you can do is put yourself under undue pressure. Art needs room to breathe and grow,” Charles points out to him, his tone so soothing and comforting that Erik feels both the imminent urge to hold it close and let it warm his heart and push it as far away as he can because he knows he needs the pressure, the edge. It got the job done before. It has to again.

“Tell that my landlord,” Erik huffs.

Charles studies him, asking quietly, “Are you in financial trouble yet?”

“No, the last exhibitions paid really good money, so I don’t have to worry for another three months. After that, I may have to see to it that something gets done again. Though even then, I have my savings, so there is nothing to really worry about.”

Erik learned the very hard way that you always have to prepare for the worst. He doesn’t live in excess. He always make sure to have enough in his bank account to get out of the country fast, and start over somewhere else.

Perhaps that is part of the reason why his apartment looks that empty, too. So that he is quick enough to abandon it, if he has to, so that he leaves nothing of himself behind for others to find, for others to see, to miss.

Charles smiles at him, albeit a bit uncertainly. “Good, I wouldn’t want you to be in any trouble, my friend.”

“I always find my way around, Charles.”

“That I know.”

“Check.”

“Ugh!” Charles grunts, leaning his head back. “I shouldn’t have given you that opportunity with the knight.”

“No one asked you to.” Erik can feel a thin smile creeping up his lips.

“I know, but I also know you have me at checkmate in two more rounds, which is disappointing for me because I definitely had a chance there, had I not made the dare.”

Erik cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you want me to go easier on you?”

“Oh, please, never!” Charles insists. “Now pass the sentence, my friend. Let’s not prolong the moment of truth for my poor queen.”

Erik puts the queen away in a swift motion. “Checkmate.”

Charles throws himself to the ground in theatrical fashion, an exasperated sigh falling from his lips as he settles down on the concrete floor. His long fingers play piano on his ribs as he continues huffing.

“Are you seriously pouting now?” Erik teases.

“I am thinking.”

“About how you lost?”

“No, about the Sistine Chapel,” Charles sighs, shifting many, many miles away, all the way to the Vatican, it appears.

Erik makes a face. “What? Why?”

“We don’t have any frescos on the ceiling, though we certainly could have, considering how many able artists we have here who could easily put something up there to personalize all that naked concrete. I mean, look at all that empty space up there!” Charles thinks aloud, his left hand leaving his torso to wave around in the air.

“Isn’t the workshop supposed to be a kind of empty canvas so you are not distracted from your own creations?” Erik questions. He never gave it any thought what the studio looked like. It suited his purposes, whichever those grew to be, and it created a constant, a sense of direction in Erik’s life, to somehow manage his daily routine even when he feels entirely lost in the world.

“But hardly anyone looks at the ceiling while they work, so that shouldn’t really be distracting for anyone,” Charles argues.

“Well, you do.”

“Which is why I keep thinking about it,” Charles sighs. “Maybe it would spark my creativity if there were frescos up there for when I glance up to see nothing but a vastness of gray concrete. And cobwebs… someone should dust up there some time. Ugh.”

“I suppose you can talk to the others about the possibilities of having a Sistine Studio,” Erik offers.

Charles grins at that. “I like the sound of that. Sistine Studio, quite catchy, that, even more so since we are no longer in Paris, which left us with the New York Potpourri, which is not at all as catchy as it was back in the day… Sistine Studio…”

“Do you already have an idea of what you would paint on there?”

“Very much so.”

“Ah.”

“Do you want me to elaborate in more detail or would you rather resume your work?” Charles questions, always easy, yet always mindful. Sometimes too mindful to Erik’s taste, because he finds himself scared of the care, the comfort.

He dared to sink into that again, and it left him without an umbrella even years later.

Erik exhales deeply as he puts the checkerboard away to lie down on his back next to the curious painter he followed from Paris all the way to New York. Charles smirks at him brightly before looking back up again. He stretches out one arm to point it at the areas he wants to see redone in color, likely seeing before his eyes already in painstaking detail how he would want to shape the world, even if the world is only the ceiling of a shabby studio they all pay too much rent for.

“Right there, we could have the scenery of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower, for matters of iconography. After all, it must be recognizable even by those who are not of the fine arts. And on the other end, New York, evidently.”

“Evidently,” Erik chuckles, easing into those moments even though he would rather be much more hesitant, more restrained, but following Charles’s long fingers as they point to the ceiling make him forget about his lack of direction, following, for once, only just those swift movements and the soothing sound of Charles’s voice.

“Perhaps the skyline in the background, with some taxis stuck in traffic and the city lying under a strangely comforting blanket of smog,” Charles continues, painting in thin air already. “It would be a voyage, you see. A tale of the past ebbing into new beginnings. A tale of hope. We could have images of every artist of our little potpourri up there. Oh, and there has to be water.”

Erik frowns at that. “Why?”

“I need some blue.” Charles shrugs, seemingly not feeling any urge to elaborate.

“Ah.”

“And then metal, of course, for you.”

“Much appreciated,” Erik snorts, amused, finding himself somewhat surprised at how much he likes the thought of a piece of himself up there despite the lack of himself in his own apartment. “And what of yourself would you put there other than your own image?”

Erik is irritated when there is no instant reply from Charles, as he would expect. Turning his head slightly to look at the young man beside him, he can see an uncertain frown forming on his red lips, his eyes fluttering.

“Petrichor?” Charles offers at last, only ever adding to Erik’s irritation. “How would you draw that – and even if you can, how is that quintessentially you?”

Until this morning, he didn’t even think about petrichor, which makes it hard for Erik to think that this impression of the senses, in any way, encompasses The Clairvoyant of the scene, the man who seems everything and nothing at the same time, who seems to be always at home and always at the studio, up close and incredibly far away, saying nothing and saying everything, the paradox in Erik’s life managing to give direction by not offering any direction at all.

“The artist is in a constant process of reimagining himself, so perhaps I cannot fix myself in my essence because I keep changing?” Charles puts forth, though his tone tells Erik loud and clear that there is a thinly veiled truth behind the smog swimming up before Charles’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Now we are getting philosophical,” he huffs, somewhat frustrated that he seemingly won’t come any closer to resolving those mysteries, clearing that fog, to see what lies underneath.

Erik sighs, trying to see the journey up there, all the more disappointed for what he knows to be no good reason, but Charles is shifting away again, and he doesn’t like it at all. Because that man knows more about him than most others, and yet, there are a great many things Erik doesn’t know about the constant paradox in his life. He doesn’t know when Charles comes and leaves the studio. He doesn’t know how he creates those paintings. He doesn’t know if Charles had or has a partner and what he would seek in a partner to begin with. And he shall be damned all over if Charles remains right about the allure of the covering, not knowing what is underneath.

“One thing I know for certain, though. There has to be a checkerboard somewhere. That much goes without a doubt.”

○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○

“So you will be leaving?” Charles asks, cleaning his brushes, creating swirls of color in the glass jar of turpentine solution.

“No chance for the rain to stop today,” Erik answers, rolling his shoulders. “And it doesn’t seem to me like any progress is in sight.”

“I am sorry.”

“It’s alright. Maybe tomorrow.”

“One can hope.” Charles smiles at him, not as easy this time, bearing much more meaning than Erik can take at times, because it tells him that, yes, Charles knows, yes, Charles understands, yes, Charles comforts. And he wants none of it while wanting all of it.

“And you?” Erik asks, kicking away invisible stones.

“I am just about to finish up. I just have to clean the brushes before I go. Emmet was raging mad at me when I forgot it last time, even though I will say in my defense that I dutifully replaced them all by the next day.”

“Emmet is… one of a kind.”

“We all are. I like that about us. Being like everyone else? Both impossible and even if it were, entirely boring,” Charles huffs. “Either way, I won’t keep you from heading home.”

Erik just keeps standing there silently. Whenever Charles is about to leave at the same time as him, he always waits, if only to break out of the cycles of his and Charles’s creation for once.

Charles smiles silently at him before continuing his routine of cleaning the brushes, having understood the message, no doubt. When the last brush is safely put away, Charles walks over to the basin to rinse his hands another time to get rid of the smell of turpentine. Once he is done, he mindlessly wipes his hands against his worn, slightly splattered shirt. Erik starts walking to the hangers, then, Charles following right behind.

The woolen cardigan Charles brought quickly covers the stains on his shirt, leaving him to look like a professor more than the eccentric artist Erik saw walk around the studios mere moments ago. Those shifts, they are maddening, but they are also constant, and in that way, a matter of getting used to, Erik reckons.

“Erik, before I forget it!” Charles suddenly calls out, whirling around.

Erik furrows his eyebrows. “What is it?”

Charles lifts his woolen coat off his favorite hanger, to reveal an umbrella underneath.

“Here,” he says, handing Erik the black and white object. “You seem to keep forgetting yours.”

“Oh… thanks,” Erik mutters, his mind making any effort to think of the reason why his old umbrella is gone and why he didn’t buy a new one since.

“It’s nothing,” Charles assures him, though it is not nothing for Erik, and that is about as maddening as Charles’s shifts. Because it should be nothing. It is, for all purposes, no more than a cheap umbrella his friend bought for him after having noticed that Erik kept coming without one in hand, all the while complaining about the rain. And yet, holding it in hand, it feels so much heavier, bearing on so much more meaning than it likely does.

“Alright, I believe it is time for us to head out, yes?” Charles continues as he slips into his woolen coat.

“Right,” Erik agrees, proceeding towards the door, his fingers unable to notice the metal of the knob as he twists it and opens the studio to an even darker shade of gray awaiting the two men outside, thunder rolling in the far distance.

“I wish you a nice day, despite the weather, my friend,” Charles tells him, smiling all easily once more, far too easily. “Let’s hope petrichor soon returns to us.”

“Bye.” Erik waves numbly as Charles crosses the threshold, or rather, jumps over it with the same grace with which he walks through his apartment. Charles’s own blue umbrella reminds Erik of one of those cheap monochromatic photos on canvas so popular in furniture stores where just a single object is left in color.

Erik watches Charles walk away with fast strides, hopping over puddles, making his way through the gray mass of people with the lightness of a feather in the wind. Once he approaches the streetlight, however, Charles, for some reason, closes his blue umbrella. He leans his head back and lets the rain drip on him, soaking his skin.

“Truly one of his kind, that one,” Erik mutters, shaking his head as he turns the key in the lock and starts to walk, now with the umbrella in black and white shielding him from the rain, leaving only the faintest doubt on his mind whether Charles knows he actually doesn't forget his umbrella but keeps staring at it late at night, abandoned in the corner, bent out of shape of memories he wants to leave behind about as much as he yearns for the smell of freshly baked baguette, his small balcony, and the plant that neither died nor ever truly seemed to live.

[cravingcrazewriting]

An Off-Feeling {Treebros}

A/N- Me??? Writing trans Evan whenever possible??? It's more likely than you think.

The Murphy household wasn't exactly paradise. Well, according to what Connor says, at least. That was why he and Evan always settled to stay at his house, as it was more quiet, peaceful, and in general, comfortable.

At first, when Evan brought Connor over for the first time, he felt self conscious about it. He'd never had been ashamed of his house, because he'd only seen it as such. It was where he grew up, spent most of his time at, and hid many things he didn't want Connor to find or see.

Like childhood pictures. Heidi still had pictures hanging from when he was just a little kid, but that was far before he even started transitioning. Evan understood the sentimental value, he really did, it was just inconvenient to turn them around, put them away, and set them back up when he wasn't out to Connor.

Since Heidi wasn't around much, their house was a bit messy. Evan tried not to let stuff build up, but he procrastinated a lot, and sometimes he was just clueless on cleaning and needed to wait for Heidi to help him. His room was somewhat tidy, because he didn't really go out and collect stuff, but he still had more than enough clothes than he knew what to do with.

The final factor however, was the size. Even from outside, it looked huge, much bigger than his own. When he went inside it, the walls rose above him, thick hallways making travel easy and assessable. They had a basement that apparently was filled with workout equipment that Connor apparently used on bad days. Their dining room and kitchen were separated, having a doorway for usage. In the living room, it was filled with furniture Evan knew none of the Murphy's used enough, paintings and family portraits hung proudly on the wall. Outside was a ginormous, magneficent garden, filled with a variety of flowers and plants. Evan loved that garden. The upstairs area had far too many rooms than the Murphy's knew what to do with, as they've said themselves.

So yeah, it was a big house. Evan's just had the ground floor, all connected living room, dining room, and kitchen, with a small bathroom, among with a small set of stairs that lead to his bedroom, Heidi's bedroom, and another bathroom. That was it. That was all they had.

Connor liked his house. He said it was nice to have empty space filled, less space to worry about, and in general the comfortableness it brought. Connor explained that his house felt like a trophy. All it was good for was showing off and filling space.

But with Evan's house, he argued it was like a sovienor. Always bringing back memories from the past to look upon proudly of, to be happy about, and to feel homey. But recently, he admitted he started to feel just a little more comfortable there when things started changing (like when he went on medication, for instance).

And while Connor drove him back home at eleven at night, Evan knew he was just trying to protect him, specifically from whatever nasty fight would break out in that household. After their first fight, Evan explained that he hated fighting, simply because of what happened with his parents. They would always fight, and it put a large dent on both their relationship and friendship. The only time Heidi ever brought up Mark was if he was asking her if he could come down to Colorado to visit. Aside from that, they didn't talk anymore. And with some very strong feelings Evan had been developing for the latter for quite a while, he was not willing to say anything about it, especially with what his parents went through.

So it was a bit of a surprise when Connor asked him if he wanted to sleep over.

"It's just cause no one else will be around," he'd said sheepishly, "so we won't have to worry about my family fighting. Plus we always sleep over at your place, and I just... I want you to be comfortable there, like I am with yours."

At first, Evan didn't make a big deal out of it. It wasn't a big deal, really. It was just change, and even though change was scary, it'd be okay, because it was just Connor, who was sweet and understanding. Connor, who just wanted to have a nice time with him. Their sleepovers were usually nice and chill, so it wouldn't be a big deal, right?

Yeah no, he was wrong.

The second Evan entered Connor's house, duffel bag in hand, he felt his stomach twist and turn for no reason whatsoever. Even though Connor was just talking to him about stuff they could do, like play board games, mess around on his Xbox 1, or just do whatever Evan wanted. Which was nice, and caused a momentarily distraction.

But then he had to bring up sleeping arrangements.

Connor explained that he could either take his bed for the night, or that they could share. Which wasn't something that was uncommon by this point, as they always slept together on Evan's bed, with a respectable pillow wall to block one another off.

Unfortunately, the pillow wall almost always came crashing down.

It was pretty much guaranteed that Evan would find them both huddled up to the center of the bed, varying from their backs pressed against one another's, to Evan finding himself laying half on-top of Connor. Evan still worried about Connor waking up and ruining the moment (he liked watching Connor sleep, because that's when he's the most at peace), but if he did, Connor was groggy along with confused, so he'd just pull Evan closer and fall back asleep.

Still, Evan agreed to sleep with him, because he knew they'd end up cuddling, and in that moment, it didn't sound like a bad idea at all.

Up the set of stairs the duo went, and into Connor's room. It was bigger than Evan's, but usually had clothes scattered on the ground, sketchbooks laid out on his desk, and his laptop laying on his twin sized bed. Only this time, it seemed Connor's small bed had been upgraded to a queen size, and it looked relatively clean. If Evan didn't know any better, he'd say Connor cleaned to impress him.

"Take a seat wherever," Connor shut the door behind Evan. "I was thinking of putting Rocket League on to play."

Ironically, both pairs of the duo had the game. It was one they liked, mainly to laugh at how bad they were at it.

"Sure," Evan tentatively sat on his bed, not wanting to ruffle the sheets.

Despite this, it didn't help the unsettlement Evan had residing in his chest. It was like his stomach and heart was playing tug of war, causing immense discomfort. The fact that Connor was sitting on the ground while playing certainly didn't help, and he didn't really know why. He could easily just slid down and onto the ground to join him, but would that be weird? Would Connor think he didn't like his bed? Would he think he was being too forward?

Yeesh, did Connor freak out this much when he spent the night?

"Hey," Connor hit Evan's knee, but in a weird, affectionate kind of way, to grab his attention. "You want something to eat?"

"Um, like what?" Evan set his controller aside to give him his attention.

"Like ordering out? We can get some Chinese, Dominos, stuff like that," finally, Connor took the opportunity to sit on the bed next to him.

"If it's okay to," Evan feebly said. He didn't want Connor to go out of his way to get food.

Connor gave him this sweet, comforting smile that made Evan remind himself not to do anything stupid, because it left him swooning. "I don't mind ordering stuff. Kinda makes it more fun. We always ordered stuff when we did this at your place."

Evan was tempted to argue that they didn't really have a lot to eat there, anyways, but resisted the urge. "Er— I'm fine with anything."

"Well I better not hear any complaining about what I get," Connor teased him, poking his ribs and hooking an arm around his shoulders.

Although he wouldn't admit it, Evan liked physical contact, especially with Connor, but it was weird, right? Friends weren't supposed to be super cuddly, but yet they were. And yeah, he knew there was the exception where it could be platonic and friendly, but since Evan liked him they couldn't be like that. There was no way he had any sort of chance with Connor.

He flashed a shy smile at him, "I won't. You— you know I'm not p-picky."

"And thank god for that," he shook him slightly, before letting go of him and standing up.

They migrated downstairs and camped out in the living room as they waited for a cheese pizza Connor ordered to arrive. Despite Connor occupying Evan with whatever 'totally not-scary' horror film, Evan still felt uneasy. Maybe it was because of the dramatic jump scares in the movie, or the ever so prominent emptiness the large house brought about.

About halfway through the movie, after the pizza was delivered, and both had eaten a couple of slices, Connor finally noticed Evan's discomfort for the movie.

He could tell the question 'why didn't you tell me you were actually scared?' lingered on his lips, but Connor knew Evan didn't always speak his mind. So, he simply said, "Sorry, I.. I didn't think it'd scare you. Let's find something else."

Connor ended up putting on The Emperor's New Groove, after learning Evan had never seen it. He kept an arm around Evan at all times throughout the movie, making sure he felt safe.

Which well, he didn't. Evan didn't know why, but he didn't feel safe. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a specific reason as to why he was just so uncomfortable. Evan was almost positively sure it wasn't the movie that was causing this. It was just a movie (even if it did make him feel uneasy).

The remaining slices of pizza were stored in the fridge for the next day, where Connor insisted he took it home so he wouldn't have to worry about ordering for a little while.

Sometimes Evan could only wonder how he ended up by Connor Murphy's side. Sometimes he wished for more with him, but that was being greedy, right? Connor already put up with him as it was, and he would not like him like that.

Unfortunately, Evan's discomfort for the house didn't seem to disappear as he'd hoped, but rather kept getting worse and worse. No matter the distractions he had, it always lingered in the back of his mind. It wasn't even a direct thought, but just the feeling of unease, that wouldn't release its grip on Evan. As they played truth or dare, tried to learn various card games, or even just watch tv, the feeling was a relentless toll on Evan. As further as the night progressed, the more Evan wished he could be home in his bed, where he actually felt okay.

Just before Connor was about to shower, he finally addressed the elephant in the room. "You aren't having a good time, are you?"

That wasn't the complete truth, because deep down, yeah, he was having a good time. A great time, actually, even if it didn't seem like it. "No— I... I am."

It was obvious that was not what Connor though, as he turned his head and hugged his arms. "You don't have to lie, you know. I thought we established that."

"No!" Evan was suddenly loud, and it made Connor jump in surprise. "It's not that. I really am having a— a nice time, it's just..."

Connor gazed at him kind of sadly, "... Just what?"

"I don't feel okay. This usually doesn't happen when we're at my house, a-and I feel like I'm gonna vomit, and I don't know what's wrong—" Evan cut himself off, feeling tears prickle in his eyes. No. There was no way he was crying in front of Connor.

But suddenly he was in front of him, cold hands holding onto his sweaty ones in comparison, "Hey hey, it's okay if you're not okay. Maybe... maybe you need a little bit of your house over here?"

Evan shrugged feebly, not knowing what that really meant.

Connor stood, and was grabbing things from his room. He held a notebook, earbuds, and was gather a large, fluffy blanket in his arms. He gently coaxed Evan under the covers, and let him burry himself under them, placing a teddy bear by his side, gently setting the notebook and pencil on his lap, and plugged in his headphones to his phone so a certain playlist would start to play.

"There. No white noise, just you, your poetry, and a cuddly pal to keep you company," Connor smiled sweetly. "I'll be in later. I'm gonna shower, but knock if you need anything."

Surprisingly, all of this helped a lot, despite the persistent worry in his chest. Evan supposed he just needed time to get used to Connor's house, as it was still a big, unknown mystery to him.

And when Connor came in later, asking if he needed to take off his binder, which he responded with a laugh "No, I actually got my top surgery weeks ago", and was left with him demanding answers to how it went, how he was feeling, all of that, he knew he'd make it through the night.

[vrepitsorrynotsorry]

Operation: Operational

Title: Operation: Operational Rating: G Pairing: Eventual Shotor, preHunkxShay discussion Characters: Shiro, Lotor, guest starring Hunk, Shay, Lance, Coran, Nyma, Matt, and unnamed others Author’s Notes: The eventual name of the bakery is terrible. I’m only a little sorry. It came to me as I was writing this, and I really hadn’t thought of anything else.

It was kind of like a reunion of the baking show where they’d met, except Shiro and Lotor both refused to have it recorded for broadcast. Initially, they had only invited a few of the others they had met during filming, but then those few told a few others, and suddenly, they had a larger work crew than they had ever anticipated.

There were some things, like rewiring and appliance installation in the kitchen and some minor carpentry repairs, that they would have to hire professionals to complete, but there was a lot of general cleaning and wall space that needed repainting.

“This flooring is hideous,” Nyma informed them with her usual bluntness. 

“We know,” Shiro agreed, “but that’s something we’ll have to work on replacing later. It’ll be expensive and require us to be shut down for a while, so we want to bring in some profits first.”

In fact, Lotor had offered to purchase new flooring, but Shiro still wasn’t quite comfortable with the amount of money the other man had already put into the project. 

“At least you’re painting over this awful wall color.”

The walls were a burnt orange that wasn’t really all that awful, but Shiro and Lotor both preferred a lighter palette that brightened up the space and made it feel more open. Unfortunately, it was taking an awful lot of coats to eliminate the orange.

Coran twirled one end of his mustache, not noticing he’d gotten some paint in it. “Oh, I don’t know. I find it interesting.” He’d also been fascinated by both the paint and the paint rollers. Shiro hadn’t bothered asking how Alteans did these sorts of things.

All of the non-Earthlings had needed a crash course in painting. Shiro was grateful they had a fairly large human turnout, or it might have been a little overwhelming!

Lotor was currently staring at one wall, head cocked to the side.

“How long does the paint need to dry between coats, again?”

“Lunch break!” Hunk declared, there was a general murmur of agreement, and all eyes turned to their hosts.

“Why is everyone staring at us?” Lotor asked quietly.

“It’s totally human tradition to provide people who help you move and redecorate and stuff with food,” Lance informed him before Shiro had a chance.

“Is that true?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s the tradition of all humans, but yes,” Shiro agreed, “it’s a common practice.”

Lotor shrugged. “Very well, I guess I’ll go pick up some food. Would anyone care to assist?” Hunk and Coran volunteered, and Shay also stepped forward and raised a hand timidly.

“Are you certain you want all the walls in one solid color? I know it’s your bakery, so the final decision is yours, but perhaps we could paint a mural on one wall?”

Lotor and Shiro looked at one another, and Lotor shrugged again. “I don’t see why not,” Shiro told her.

“Why don’t you come with us,” Lotor offered, “and we’ll stop by the hardware store for some more paint colors on our way to get food, and we can discuss what it will look like? We can message Shiro for final approval.”

Shay smiled and followed the other three out the new front door.

“Is it just me,” Lance asked after they were gone, “or does Lotor seem a lot friendlier than he was on the show?” There were several murmurs of agreement.

“I wouldn’t say he was unfriendly before,” Shiro said. “It just takes a little effort to get him to interact.”

“No, I think he’s different. You must be a good influence.”

Shiro shrugged off the comment and began mentally plotting out where furniture would go in the main seating area.

“Shiro’s different, too,” Matt remarked. “A little more confident. I like it. It’s more like I remember him from the Academy.”

Shiro chose not to respond to that, either, but it made him wonder. Was that true? He often looked back at his younger self as rather more irresponsibly confident than reasonably so. He’d certainly done some reckless things that made him cringe now.

Was any of it due to Lotor’s presence? His experiences with the Garrison had certainly opened his eyes to very real consequences of not thinking things through. Perhaps after losing his arm he had swung the other way and become overly cautious and afraid to take any sort of leap of faith. It was certainly true that he felt more comfortable approaching this new business venture with a partner instead of alone.

Although, it wasn’t as though Lotor exuded confidence, either. He was competent in many things, and he certainly stuck to his guns once he’d made a decision, but Shiro was certain Lotor would not have considered opening a bakery on his own if Shiro had not suggested it.

Wasn’t that how partnerships were supposed to be? Two people that could do more together than either could on their own?

He was pulled out of his musings when his phone rang. He answered the video call to reveal Lotor’s concerned face.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not necessarily,” Lotor answered cryptically.

“What’s up?”

“Well, Shay and I were talking about the mural, and I suggested putting it in the reading corner you and I discussed.”

Lotor and Shiro both appreciated a good book, and they decided it would be nice to put a few comfy chairs and some bookcases in one corner.

“That sounds great,” Shiro said. He wasn’t sure where this got problematic. “Are you having trouble coming up with a theme?”

“She liked the idea of a reading corner, but also suggested a children’s corner, and that a bright mural there would be fitting.”

Shiro contemplated this for a moment and nodded. “Yeah, I would be fine with that. Would it bother you?”

Lotor sighed. “I guess I realized on some level that a percentage of the clientele would have offspring, it’s just-”

“Ohmigosh!” Lance hooted from behind Shiro. “Lotor’s afraid of kids!”

“I am not afraid of children,” Lotor protested indignantly. “I am merely wary because I have very little experience in dealing with them. Ancients’ sake, I barely spent any time with them when I was one!”

Shiro had honestly forgotten they weren’t having this conversation in private, and he felt a bit of secondhand embarrassment for Lotor. “We really don’t have to set aside a space for kids specifically, if it makes you uncomfortable, and if we do, you wouldn’t have to go out of your way to interact with them.”

“That’s what Shay said. I suppose I have no serious objections if that plan is acceptable to you.” He still didn’t seem too happy about it, but Lotor wasn’t going to make a big deal of it, so Shiro supposed it couldn’t be that upsetting of an idea to him. “Given that the mural would be themed for the children, the question is: do we want it to be bakery or story themed?”

Shiro thought about it for a few moments. “I think kids might enjoy story references more than pictures of baked goods. Did you have any particular stories in mind?”

“Since the majority of our customers are likely to be human, I was hoping you would have some suggestions.”

Shiro’s mind went suddenly and unhelpfully blank. “Um...”

“I’ve got this,” Hunk’s voice assured from somewhere on Lotor’s end of the conversation. “We can even make it a combination of baked goods and stories.”

“Truly?” Lotor asked. “Are baked goods a frequent subject of children’s stories on Earth?”

“You’d be surprised,” Hunk replied, and then Lotor ended the call with assurances that he would keep Shiro updated.

When they returned with a variety of sandwiches for lunch, Shiro asked about Hunk’s suggestions.

“Why,” Lotor asked drily, “didn’t I know there was such a prevalence of violence and cannibalism in human children’s literature?”

Shiro blinked and had to process that for a moment. “‘Hansel and Gretel’, I’m guessing?”

“And ‘The Gingerbread Man.’”

“I keep telling you,” Hunk argued with a sigh, “that one’s not really cannibalism. He’s a cookie.”

“A sentient cookie, shaped like a small person.”

“Does this mean we still don’t have any mural plans?”

Lotor shrugged. “I have no issue with using these stories, I was just surprised by the content, given how judgmental many humans are about Galra culture.”

“We are pretty good at hypocrisy,” Shiro agreed. “So, is it just those two, or...?”

“There are so many options! I think we’re actually going to have to narrow it down a little.” Hunk began listing stories and counting them off on his fingers. “There’s ‘A Song of Sixpence’, ‘Little Jack Horner’, ‘The Muffin Man’-”

“Ooh!” Lance interjected. “You could put Lotor’s face on him.”

“No,” Lotor disagreed firmly.

Hunk’s face lit up at the suggestion. “Aw, come on! It’s totally fitting. We could put Shiro on a character, too.”

“What?”

“No.”

They finished the main wall painting after another meal and a late night. 

The mural, however, was clearly going to require more planning and time than just flat coats of a single color. Shay spent most of that first evening sketching out several drafts on paper. Over the next several weeks, as she had time to stop by, Shiro and Lotor picked a final design and helped sketch it out on the wall and with some of the less detailed painting in between setting up the rest of the bakery. Several of the others dropped by on occasion to help as well, Hunk especially.

As the artwork approached completion, Shay focussed on the finer details herself. If two of the characters bore some resemblance to the bakery owners and some others were familiar as well, it was at least subtle. Any additional helpers found themselves shooed away from the mural to assist Shiro and Lotor instead.

On this particular occasion, Hunk was helping Shiro arrange tables and chairs while Lotor assembled a storage rack and stocked shelves in the kitchen. It didn’t escape Shiro’s notice that Hunk almost spent more time watching Shay painting than paying attention to the seating arrangements. The older man didn’t say anything, though. If Hunk wanted to talk about it, he would.

Sure enough, while they were catching their breath after hauling in an especially heavy table, Hunk asked, “How do you know when a friend is more than just a friend?”

“I’m not sure there’s any one answer to that for every situation,” Shiro admitted after giving it a little thought. “The fact that you’re asking yourself the question is kind of an indication that the dynamic has changed, but not necessarily how much.”

Hunk arched an eyebrow. “That’s not a very decisive answer.”

Shiro shrugged helplessly. “I’m pretty sure you’re a better interpreter of what you’re feeling than I am.”

“I guess...” After a few moments Hunk let out a little scoff. “Kind of silly of me to come to you with that kind of a question, huh?”

What kind of reaction was that? Shiro took a deep breath and resolved not to be offended. Hunk wasn’t the kind of person who was deliberately mean unless you’d done something to truly get on his bad side, which was pretty difficult to do.

“Because I’m not currently in a relationship?” Shiro asked. It wasn’t like he’d never had a partner, but it had definitely been a while. 

Hunk gave him a long, blank look. “Sure,” he finally responded. “We’ll go with that.”

There was an awkwardly lengthy pause. “I’m going to go check on Lotor,” Shiro announced and left the main room at a speed he hoped didn’t look like a retreat.

He must not have put quite as much thought into schooling his expression because Lotor took one look at him and asked if something was wrong.

“Would you trust me to answer questions about relationships?” Not exactly an explanation, but he blurted the question before he could stop himself.

“More than I trust myself in such a situation. Why?”

“Somebody told me they thought I was a bad choice for it after I apparently answered a question badly.”

“Hunk?” Lotor asked. Shiro’s jaw dropped and Lotor laughed. “It’s a simple enough thing to figure out from the available information. It likely just happened, and the only others here to my knowledge are Hunk and Shay. I may not pick up on emotional cues very well, but even I can see how he looks at her when he thinks no one can see.” 

Shiro smiled back. He felt a lot calmer suddenly. Whether it was putting distance between himself and Hunk or Lotor’s soothing presence, he couldn’t say. “Well, when you explain it like that it does seem obvious.”

“If it’s not going to upset you again, may I ask what he wanted to know?”

“You mean you haven’t already figured that out, too?” Shiro couldn’t help throwing in a little teasing. Lotor just seemed to bring that out in him. “He wanted to know how to tell when a friend was more than just a friend.”

Lotor shrugged. “I would have been of absolutely no help with that one.”

“Not a lot of experience with changing friendship dynamics?”

“Not a lot of experience with friends at all.”

That was a depressing thought. Shiro quickly steered the conversation back from that particular emotional minefield. “At any rate, I told him that asking the question meant the situation had probably changed in some way already, but I couldn’t tell him in what way. He told me that wasn’t helpful and then said he felt silly for asking that kind of question to me.”

“Because you’re not currently involved with anyone?”

“That’s what I thought!” Shiro felt a small amount of vindication that Lotor had assumed the same conclusion, but Lotor had also said he wasn’t great at interpreting emotional things, so maybe he shouldn’t bank too much on that shared perception. “He didn’t act like that was it, though.”

Lotor frowned as he considered the situation further. “Maybe he believes you’re in a similar situation? An ambiguous relationship you haven’t quite defined?”

They stared at each other until it began to feel awkward. Lotor broke first. “I don’t mean to imply that it’s true, it just seems a likely explanation.”

“No, it’s fine,” Shiro assured him. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.” Only, now he didn’t want to think about it. Then he remembered why he’d told Hunk he was coming back here in the first place. The upright pieces of the shelving unit had been assembled and the plastic stops for the bottom shelf had been snapped into place, but the shelves themselves were simply laid out on the floor.

“Do you need some help?”

“Yes,” Lotor readily agreed. “I think I’ll be able to manage after the first one or two shelves are in place, but I can’t seem to manage arranging the first one with only two arms.”

Shiro helped him get the first shelf over all four legs in an amiable silence.

“I think they’re different,” Lotor suddenly declared, seemingly out of nowhere.

“The...shelves?”

Lotor frowned at him, puzzled. “No. Friendly and romantic feelings. After all, those feelings don’t just disappear when you begin to feel more for another, do they? Someone becomes your friend because you feel an affinity with them for whatever reason, and I would expect you would continue to feel those things. I don’t think it’s so much a change of feelings as the addition or perhaps expansion of them. At least, I’d like to think it’s not a zero sum, either/or situation.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Maybe Hunk really should have asked you.”

Lotor brushed off the compliment, but Shiro thought he seemed just a little pleased by it. “My answer isn’t particularly helpful to his case, either. The truth is that he’ll have to work it out on his own.”

“Yeah. I should get back out there.”

Shiro walked back out into the dining area where he was immediately met by an apologetic Hunk.

“I’m so sorry! I’ve been sitting here thinking about how badly that comment came out. You give lots of good advice, really!”

“It’s fine,” Shiro assured him. “You were just frustrated with the situation and not being able to figure it out. I get it.” It was at that point that Shiro realized Shay was no longer in the bakery. 

“Where’s Shay? Did something happen?”

“No,” Hunk explained, “it’s just getting late, and she promised her grandma they could do some cooking together this evening.”

“Did you two, you know, talk?”

“Not yet.” Hunk shrugged. “I like being Shay’s friend. I’m fine being just that for now. There’s no reason to risk making things weird if I’m not even really sure what I’m feeling. Thanks for listening, though.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’m always happy to listen.”

“Same goes for you. You know that, right? If you ever want to talk, I’m happy to listen, too.”

“Thanks.”

They arranged the last table, and Hunk left for the evening as well.

A short time later, Lotor joined Shiro in enjoying the view of the almost completed dining area in the light of the setting sun.

“So,” Shiro asked after a while, “are you ready for this place to open?”

Lotor shrugged. “Yes and no. It will finally be the payoff for a lot of hard work and planning, but up until the point the doors open for business, it almost doesn’t seem real, just a beautiful dream I’ve built up in my mind. I hope it will go well, but I’m a little afraid of the possibility that it might not.”

“I know what you mean.” He wasn’t sure what he’d do with himself any more if the bakery went under. When it had been just a hypothetical fantasy, it was easy enough to tell himself it just couldn’t happen, but now he’d had a taste of what it could be like, and he really didn’t want to lose it. Lotor would probably leave to who knew where, and honestly, Shiro didn’t much like the idea of Lotor disappearing from his life, either. 

“Thanks,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence. 

“For what?”

“For agreeing to do this with me. For everything you’ve put into this already. For being you.”

Lotor gave him a puzzled frown. “Being me? I’m not sure that’s one for which you should be thankful.”

“Believe it or not, being around you when you’re calm relaxes me, too.”

Lotor laughed. “That’s just... What was that delightful earth saying I learned the other day? The swan analogy.” When Shiro raised an eyebrow he explained. “Everything looks serene on the surface, but under the water, it’s all chaos.”

“Guess we’re a couple of swans, then.”

When Keith found out they’d decided on “Swan Bake” as a name, he predictably rolled his eyes, but Shiro and Lotor both liked it.

[writemoment]

Split Between

Writer: Ellie-Mae (Pen Name)

Part 1/2

Summary:  Y/n has never met Bucky and chose not to get involved during Tony and Steve’s fight. With the war ending on bad terms, Y/n decides to reach out to her patriotic friend. When the Ex Winter Soldier comes into the picture, all she can hope for is this to end on better terms.

Pairing: Marvel Bucky x Reader

Warnings/Rated: None, really. Slow beginning to the rest of the story.

Word Count: 1,438

( Reader ) P.O.V.

“God, he’s such a pain in the a-”

“Tony- Shut up,” I interrupt the billionaire complaining. Every single cell inside me feels split at the thought of our group of friends, our little family, being divided over anything. Especially that being a human life. 

His spiked black hair appears as if it’s glued in mid-air, no matter how many times he frustratedly shakes his head. Steve has been declared as a war criminal, which has brought some kind of angry-guilt to Stark as he reflects on the outcome of their disagreement.

I don’t quite like to pick sides, so I feel sympathetic for both parties. Steve was the only one around here that could quench the thirst of my old soul, telling me stories of his youth. It was a great contrast to the genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist with the modern up-to-date technology. 

Nevertheless, I enjoyed their contribution to our daily life as the Avengers. Now all of that is blown away and gone in the New York city breeze. Standing up from my stool at the kitchen island, I excuse myself for previously arranged plans.

Stark knows better than to ask and I’m glad. It’d be extremely hard to explain how I know the whereabouts of our war criminal and that I’m off to visit him. I’m one of the few that stays in contact with Steve. I grab my stuff and wander out of the facility to drive myself to my next location.

It takes me about three hours to make it to the isolated house in which Steve and his ex winter soldier friend occupy. It has been four months since the fight, and I haven’t seen him since. Frankly, I’m sort of nervous about making acquaintance with James Barnes. However, I trust Steve and that relieves some of the anxiety I have towards James.

Pulling the vehicle around the back, I park and take a deep breath before exiting the car. Grass has sprouted through the thin, scattered gravel, but it doesn’t do much to muffle the rough crunch beneath my soles. The house is beautiful, if it weren’t overgrown in vines and the wood weren’t chipping of it’s pale paints. The dark grey shutters compliment the cold, decaying look in such a beautifully tragic sense. 

Stepping up onto the creaking wrap-around porch, I tentatively rap my knuckles against the splintered surface a few times. Faint footsteps near the door but my heart bursts at the familiar, friendly smile that I’m greeted with. “Steve-”

The both of us step forward at the same time, wraping each other in a comforting embrace before he ushers me inside. The interior of the structure is welcoming and home-like, a great difference from the outside. I know that under different circumstances, Steve would keep up with the exterior with the same care as in here. Sadly, his hiding keeps that from being a possibility.

“Y/n, it’s so good to see you again. How have you been?” Rogers asks, smiling as I follow him through the house. We enter the living room and I take a seat on the one couch that’s setting in the corner, Captain America joining beside me. 

Sighing, I chuckle lightly as I wrack my brain for words. “I’m alright. It’s been...hectic. When you were there, everything seemed to have order and now, things seem so different,” I shrug it off, not wanting him to feel bad. “I miss talking to you during breakfast, though.”

Steve nods, looking at the distant wall with a concentrated expression. Down the hall, I hear rummaging and it snaps me back to the realization that we’re not the only ones here. Steve seems to have remembered this as well, since he gazes to the entrance.

Almost spawning from thin air, a man with long, dark hair and a whirring metal arm appears. Steve stands, looking between his two friends. “Hey, Bucky- this is Y/n. She’s a friend from the Avengers.” He introduces.

I spot the scruff of his jaw shift as he clenches it before choosing to nod in my direction. I mumble out a tiny ‘nice to meet you’ before fixing my gaze back onto anything but him. There’s attractive features underneath all the scruff and hair, which I find myself continually observing.

All too soon, Steve excuses himself and leaves Bucky and me to the awkward silence that’s settling thick upon the room. The longer we wait, the more I convince myself that I could literally take a knife and slice into the atmosphere. “So...” His rough voice catches my attention as I sit, shocked, at his attempt at conversation. “If you were with Steve on the Avengers, then where were you during all of this?”

He takes me back with his blunt question and I can detect the hint of irritation in his tone. “I chose to not take sides in the matter. The team is like my family- they’re all I have.”

Bucky scoffs at me and I raise a challenging brow at him, just waiting to see what will fall from his lips. “Basically, you didn’t want to risk losing.”

“Losing what, exactly? Care to explain, Mr.Barnes?”

Sitting up straighter, he rests his metalic hand on his knee as he gestures with his flesh one. “Losing the fight. If you cared, even a little, for Steve, you would have fought with us. The reason is clear, doll.” He tries to dismiss me with a wave of his hand but I ignore it.

“No, that’s nowhere near the reason. You shouldn’t speak of which you do not know.” He tries to argue back, but I speak through it. “As I said before; the team is all I have. You can sit here and judge me all day, but I couldn’t choose between them. I don’t care about being on the losing team if that’s what I believe in, what I choose to fight for. No, I care about losing the ones I love most in this world. Not that I need your opinion to feel validated.”

With that, I stand and push away from the furniture. As I curve around the corner, I feel cold metal wrap around my wrist. Just as his lips part to speak, Steve rounds the corner and walks straight into my body. Stumbling backwards, Bucky’s grip is the only thing that keeps me from tumbling down to the ground.

Steve reaches forward to stablize me, apologizing profusely. “It’s okay, Cap- honestly.” I try and reasssure him. His eyes flicker between his long-time friend and me, causing his brows to wrinkle the space in-between. Everything sounds deathly quiet as I gather myself together and try to calm my breathing.

“Y/n will be staying with us for a few days, Buck. She’ll be in the spare bedroom.” Steve explains, clearly having forgotten to give a heads-up to him. I expect some kind of negative reaction out of the winter soldier, but he just gives a quick nod before dismissing it with his body language.

Swiftly, I follow Steve through to the room I’ll be staying in and smile to myself at the the made bed with a pop of my favorite color. “Thank you, this is great.” He smiles to me before leaving me to unpack. Turning to the bed, I start to put my things into the short dresser beside the bed but my mind gets awfully distracted. Hearing a hesitant knock on my door-frame, I turn to see Bucky Barnes standing there with his flesh hand resting on the back of his neck.

“Hey- Sorry about earlier. You’re right, I was talking out without knowing the circumstances. Forgive me?” His weight shifts as he leans against the entrance, his head lolling back onto the stained wood. The pleading behind the blue of his eyes cause a funny feeling to boil up into my stomach.

Hesitantly at first, I nod but it’s soon followed by a chuckle. His face contorts into a smile and I feel as if I’ve been winded as I lose my breath. “Great! Well, I’ll see you around, doll.” After that, he turns and disappears from my view. Somehow, deep down in my gut, I know that this could end as just as badly as Iron Man vs Captain America.

Yet, I find myself smiling to myself as I think about James Bucky Barnes and his heart-warming smile. I find myself split between being rational or being bound by my attraction. As my heart pounds at the thought, I know that this could end badly.

My heart and my mind disagree as I choose the latter.

Part Two Here

Masterlist Here

A/N: I know it’s not much but I was super busy and didn’t have much time to build the story for it to be a one-shot. So...part two will be a lot more interesting, I promise. This is just something for while I’m gone. Thanks! - Ellie-Mae

Tags: @britishfangirl @jcalpha1

[secretshinigami]

Wammy’s (Haunted) House

Author: @the-real-death-note-victim For:  @hazblogs Pairings/Characters: No pairings, most prominent characters are Mello and Near  Rating/Warnings: Rated G Prompt: Mello and a ghost au (anyone can be the ghost) Author’s notes: There’s some OCs in this, mostly because I couldn’t find any canon characters to fit the roles I needed. Other than that, nothing to say; I hope you enjoy your gift :)

“Come on, he’s not gonna go in! We’re wasting our time out here, waiting for that coward to admit he’s too scared.” One of the teens in the crowd behind Mello called out, aiming it more towards him than the others surrounding them, who were all eager to see his fear and wouldn’t leave until they’d gotten it out of him.

They all stood together on the long gravel driveway of the famous abandoned building that every child in town knew, even if they’d never had the courage to come out themselves to have a look. Wammy’s House, one time home of the LABB murderer, a mansion-like house that had been left to rot after the man had returned to the place and burned the accompanying  schoolhouse down while classes were in session. No one quite remembered what the place had been. Some claimed it was only an orphanage equipped to teach its charges, others said it was a training school for geniuses, and when they wanted to stir up fear the older kids would say that it had been a mental hospital meant to keep the child menaces locked up. No matter what theory one subscribed to about what it had been, everyone growing up in the town was absolutely sure of what it was: haunted.

It was precisely because of this that Mello was standing at the foot of the front staircase now. Two weeks after Halloween and he’d still not managed to escape the taunts of his classmates who had heard the story of how he’d run from the fair’s haunted house attraction before even getting inside. The stories weren’t true, of course, Mello wasn’t scared of anything. It wasn’t his fault that the man taking tickets hadn’t believed him when he said he was 15, and the place had closed before he could come back with his ID. No matter how many times he repeated this, however, the others just said he was making it up out of shame.

Gabriel was the one to suggest he prove his courage somewhere else. Not exactly a friend, Gabriel was always one to encourage his more reckless antics, and the other children had jumped at the opportunity to quiet his protests. They’d arranged the whole thing within minutes; Mello would be sent into Wammy’s for an hour, going as far into the building as he could. All he had been given was a flashlight with fresh batteries, a digital camera with which he would be taking pictures of the inside of the house, and a heavy borrowed coat to keep away the chill while he was exploring the potentially drafty rooms.

“Time’s running out, Mello!” The same teen yelled towards him, “We don’t got all night, just say you’re done and let’s get out of here!” The crowd murmured to each other, clearly agreeing and eager to hear him admit defeat.

They had good reason to be antsy. Mello had stopped where he was five minutes ago, saying he needed time to prepare himself. Which was what he was doing, psyching himself up for the journey ahead. Because when he said he wasn’t afraid of anything, well, that wasn’t exactly true. He wasn’t afraid of most things, horror movies and creepy tales and stupid fake haunted houses. But he was most certainly afraid of real haunted houses.

It wouldn’t, couldn’t, stop him from going in. He wasn’t about to let himself become a laughingstock again. Mello was the toughest kid around, but if he was booted from that place so soon after the last time order would never be restored. So he sat and readied himself and, at the stroke of midnight, as according to his watch’s chime, and with one final look back at the barely lit faces of those there to watch him fail, he marched himself up the steps, took hold of one large heavy handle, and pulled it open. As soon as he let the door go behind him it swung back into place, sealing him in for the next hour, completely alone - he hoped.

Mello paused in the entryway, waiting for his eyes to adjust, then scrambled for the flashlight when it became clear that it wasn’t the transition to the indoors that was making it impossible to see two feet in front of him; it really was that dark. With the brightness it granted him he was able to see why, as he took a few steps further into the house and swept the beam of light around the small foyer.

The windows to either side of the door were nearly entirely covered in heavy curtains, all a deep grey in colour, which he hadn’t seen from outside. In fact, he was sure that the curtains had been white, and they’d looked much thinner, definitely thin enough to let in some of the moonlight. Perhaps there were two layers and he’d just not noticed? He could check, but… The thought of going near the windows was a little worrying. Right now he was protected, if anything was lurking outside he wouldn’t know about it as long as he didn’t go looking for it. And, the kids would probably try to scare him that way, pretend to be ghosts peeking through the glass, right? Right. So he’d stay away from the windows, so he could win this bet, that was definitely the reason.

Turning away from the front of the house, Mello made his way towards an open hallway at the back of the room. Just through the archway was another leading to a wooden staircase. He contemplated going up but dismissed the thought immediately. While he had a quota of rooms to photograph and the upper floor would probably give him more options to get through quickly he wasn’t keen on testing whether the old floorboards would hold his weight.

Instead he took the second option further down the hall, a closed wooden door whose handle was missing. It opened easily when he pushed at it, the hinges creaking from disuse. Shining the light around the room it opened into revealed mostly old, aging furniture. Couches, chairs, and tables seemed to have been pushed aside,  leaving the far side of the room empty. The windows here were covered the same way as in the entrance, save for one which would have been located at the side of the house. That one had only the white curtain, and indeed it was sheer enough as to let in the light of the moon, which illuminated part of the contents of the ‘empty’ floor beneath it. Mello walked towards that space, maneuvering through the tight spaces between pieces of furniture and keeping his flashlight trained ahead of him. The room was large but half the room had been cleared to make room for what had been put there. Which was, for some reason, toys.

The floor in that area was slightly higher, and that seemed to be because it was layered with dominos, dice, and blocks across nearly every inch. Some sections were even more elevated, while the majority was completely flat, at least the ‘ground’ part of it. More materials, mostly legos and other connecting blocks, had been used to make buildings, what looked to be a whole town with houses, shops, and at the center the biggest structure seemed to be a town hall. Toy cars and small figures were positioned along the indistinct roads throughout the scene.

Mello reached down to take one of the people from the closest street, feeling a shiver from a sudden breeze as he touched it, which gave him pause as he realised that until then the room had seemed rather unnaturally warm for being in a supposedly drafty house at the cusp of winter. The toy in his hand distracted him from thinking much further on the matter, however, and he decided it was most likely that a sudden gust of wind had penetrated the walls.

He’s picked up one of the more unusual toys of the bunch. Most of the others were mismatched action figures or very small dolls, while the one in his hand seemed to be some kind of finger puppet, looking to be hand painted, based on the imperfections of the strokes, but well made nonetheless. Though there was some dust he found it looked almost new, still with a bright colour of fresh paint; had someone been setting this up so recently? He couldn’t imagine what the purpose was, or why anyone would want to work so hard in a place people would rarely go. While the toy city wasn’t the prettiest thing it showed an artistic creativity. Mello knew that no one in his class would have the patience, never mind the ability, to work so hard on something like this.

Shifting the puppet to the hand holding his flashlight, he took the camera from his coat pocket. He’d need a picture of the room anyway, and he wanted to be able to show this work to the other children, who would never agree to coming in to see for themselves.

Backing up a few steps to get it all in the frame, he took the first picture with the flashlight pointed towards the city, then another without it when he realised the contrast of the lighting might make it impossible to see properly. Once the camera was done its work he took a final look at the scene before turning his back to it, ready to carefully go back the way he came through the randomly strewn furniture. But first one hand fumbled with the buttons on the camera, flipping to the gallery so he could see the images he’d taken.

He’d been right about the flashlight, the picture he’d taken was hard to look at, looking bleached out in places. When he flipped to the second picture he saw it was much better, the light of the moon enough to illuminate the room without help. Still his eyes caught on a blotch of white on one side of the small screen, in front of the window that let in the light. It seemed more than just a random flare or error, and he squinted to make out the form he saw in the image. It seemed like some sort of… person?

As soon as he realised that the shape seemed to become clearer; a human figure, looking to be dressed in white clothing, a little odd for how pale they were but otherwise normal. Normal was contextual, though, seeing as how it wasn’t normal for there to be anyone else in the haunted house at all, let alone late at night. It wasn’t normal to find such a person in a picture when there hadn’t been any sign of them in the room at the time. And it certainly wasn’t normal to see anyone whose feet stood in midair, who was seemingly floating without receiving any trouble from gravity.

Mello froze in place, then spun on his heel to face back towards the window. His flashlight was lifted as fast as he could possibly do so, hand shakily holding it out to shine where the figure would be. His quick-beating heart slowed when nothing was revealed. Had what he seen been a trick of the light, of the mind? Was his fear getting the better of him? Just as he was about to accept this explanation, and subsequently hightail it out of there without looking back, his thoughts were interrupted by a voice erupting out of nowhere. Or, not nowhere, but his ears must have been playing tricks on him too, because the sound was apparently coming from the vacant space right in front of him.

“Hey!” The voice was somewhere between feminine and childlike, Mello would guess the latter if this was really whoever he’d seen in the picture, based on their stature. He looked about the room wildly, searching for the source, pointedly ignoring the impossibility that it could be coming from thin air. “Give that back!”

“W-What?” He stumbled over the word, eyes still darting around, “W-Where are you? Show yourself!” A thought occurred to him, and he glared out into the room, “Oh, haha, very funny guys. Thought you knew better than to play pranks on me after last time.” ‘Last time’ being an incident that had ended with more than one bloody nose.

No one jumped out of some hiding place at his call though, and neither did he hear any giggling or other telltale signs that he was being watched. Instead he felt only another shiver-inducing coldness sweep through the room, making the curtains tremble. The voice repeated, louder this time, “Give it back!”

Pushing aside the odd feeling he got from speaking to someone - or thing - he couldn’t see, Mello decided the best option was to play along until he could expose whatever this was that was in the room with him. “Give what back?”

A silent pause followed his words, ended by a reply that seemed calmer at his cooperation. “My toy. Give it back.”

Mello’s hand clenched around the small puppet in his hand, still held together with his flashlight. He hadn’t realised it hadn’t been put back; he wasn’t intending to take it with him, but then neither had he really thought to return it. After placing the camera back into the pocket he’d taken in from, he took the toy in his now free hand and held it out. “It’s yours, you can have it.” Expecting to be instructed to leave it he moved to walk forward to replace it where he’d found it, but was stopped short when instead, from out of the beam of light still pointed toward the window, the pale shape from the picture suddenly appeared.

It came out piece by piece, starting with its head, the rest following, naturally. As it moved closer the area of its form which was illuminated shrunk and somehow the darkness gave it visibility, though it was still quite transparent. Mello’s hands shook, making the light bounce and only enforce what he was seeing, as wherever was untouched by the beam jumped into view as the opposite happened when some part of the body was shone upon, becoming invisible as the light moved right through it.

When it had moved itself to stand - float, Mello corrected himself, as he glanced down to see that its feet were indeed not touching the floor as he had initially seen - in front of the shivering boy, the flashlight touched only a small circle across its abdomen. Even the parts that he could see were hard to look at, the edges of the form blurring whenever his eyes strayed from them, with only what he was focused on being distinct. Currently, thing he was focusing on was the hand reach out towards his own, the one that held the puppet tightly. The smaller hand slipped right through his fingers, literally; a touch like ice, it engulfed them with coldness as it formed a tight fist beneath his skin.

In shock at the sight and feeling, and for fear of his hand freezing solid, Mello snatched it back to his chest. The toy didn’t follow, forcing his fingers open as they passed, and as soon as he lost his grip on it, it started to fall. It made it only a few centimeters down, however, before it was stopped; hovering in the air, it jerked in minute movements, pulled back and forth by an invisible force - more invisible than the fist around which it moved, sometimes going through it entirely, but mostly circling around it. When that fist withdrew the toy lagged behind it but followed, stuttering through the air until it was held close to the thing’s chest. It nodded at him before turning around, walking back into the light, where it disappeared again, its presence only shown by the still floating toy that followed its movements. When that toy was carefully placed back with the rest of the model city and released Mello lost all indication of where the thing might be, or if it were even still there.

“Are you… gone?” He asked out into the empty air, half hoping he would receive no answer yet also wary of being left alone without answers as to what had just happened.

He got one answer fairly quickly in the form of a reply to his question, “You’d be able to figure that out yourself if you’d turn that light off.” Slightly embarrassed that he’d not thought to do that himself, he lowered the flashlight from where it had been held aloft and used his thumb to flick the switch at the same time. The room was left in that near-darkness with only the dim moonlight to make it anything but impossible to see two feet in front of him.The place where the thing had ended up was only a few feet further than that, only a step away from where it must have been when returning its puppet to its place.

With the light gone the figure was yet more distinct, more solid than transparent, though it was hard to tell as his eyes were still adjusting to the darkness and its paleness made it only more difficult. It stared at him, not bothering to hide it, so he gave it the same courtesy. A silence that he read as awkward drew out between them for several long seconds, and unwilling to stand in this dark room without something to distract him from thoughts of what it was he was dealing with Mello finally filled it with the first question to present itself to him. “So, um… Are you, like, a ghost?” As soon as the words left his mouth he felt stupid; he’d been trying to ignore the thought, but it was obvious what was in front of him right now.

At first the ghost - ghost, he’d have to get used to thinking of it-, um, them, that way, despite his reluctance to admit it until now - at first the ghost only nodded again, and it seemed as if the silence was going to continue to stretch on. Just as Mello was opening his mouth, probably to say something else stupid, they beat him to it with a question of their own, “Why are you here?”

“Ah, well, y’see,” Mello started, “I had to come in here because of these kids…” He explained to the ghost all that had happened over the last several weeks, up until the last half hour or so he’d spent in the house - had it been that long yet? It somehow seemed longer. He’d only intended to say the bare minimum to get the idea across, but once he started he couldn’t seem to stop. Over the next several minutes he told the entire story, including every instance of teasing he had endured before getting fed up and the details of the challenge that had brought him here. All the while they waited patiently, perhaps listening, though it was hard to tell as they seemed to not want to watch him as he ranted, looking instead at their toys with only the occasional glance at him.

When he’d finished the story they returned their gaze to meet his. They watched him where he stood, breathing a little quicker than usual from the lack of pause he’d had while speaking. A quiet moment overtook them, though Mello felt no need to fill this time with speech as he had the others. Raising a hand to their hair, the ghost seemed to think for the few seconds it took to tangle their fingers through a few locks.

“Those children sound like bullies.” They finally said, “They’ve forced you in here just to prove you have courage that they themselves lack?” They hummed into the air, a soft sound Mello nearly missed, before suddenly moving forward again. If the previous speed they’d taken had been a walk then he supposed they’d basically run to the point in front of him, though he hesitated to call it that when their feet failed to touch the ground or even move much at all in the process. He took a step back at the movement, which had put him nearly nose to nose with them - and that irked him, suddenly, as he realised that he’d be a decent bit taller than them if they didn’t have the advantage of not being confined to gravity.

“I would like to help you.” The words were breathed into his face, coldness brushing at his cheeks from the chilled air that was, somehow, exhaled from the being standing before him.

Once he’d taken a moment to blink the shock from his eyes Mello questioned, “Help with what, exactly?”

“With dealing with them, of course.” Mello ignored the urge to challenge them brought on by the snottiness he heard in their tone.

“Dealing with them how?” That probably wasn’t the best thing to be hearing from a ghost. “You’re not going to… kill them, right?”

The ghost’s mouth twisted, in shock or disgust, and they spat out “No!” immediately. “I’m not a murderer! I meant that I could scare them a little, to get them back for forcing you in here because you were scared.” They disregarded the protests Mello voiced in his own defense, pulling back and circling around him to float towards the entryway. In moments they’d stopped where they were, hesitating, and looked back at him. “That is alright, yes?”

Was it? It wasn’t something he’d thought about - yes, he’d planned to antagonise the other kids for driving him to do this, but he’d had pranks in mind, not anything that would scare them back. Though it would be nice to see them terrified of the very thing they’d tried to use against him… “Depends, what did you have in mind?”

With a tiny upturn of their pale lips, the ghost raised their hand towards him, then paused and blinked at their own gesture. Letting it fall back to their side, they instead nodded towards the door and started making their way across the room, which Mello took as an indication to follow. “I have some friends around here who I’m sure will help, we can have something set up quickly.”

“By friends, you mean more ghosts like you?” It wasn’t surprising that there would be more of them, it just hadn’t occurred to him. How many more were there? Were they watching now, as invisible as this one had been?

“More ghosts, yes. I know a few ghouls, but I don’t suppose they’d be appreciated in something for this.”

“Yeah, probably not… Wait, there are ghouls, too? Like, the little demon things?” He received no answer as the ghost continued on their way, apparently content to leave him behind. Cursing, he struggled to push himself through the piled furniture fast enough to keep up with them.

Luckily, they did wait for him in the hall, so he wasn’t left behind. As he was led further into the house he realised he had yet to introduce himself, and furthermore he didn’t know anything about the ghost other than that that’s what they were. “If we’re going to be doing this together, don’t you think we should know each other’s names?” He questioned. When he received no reply other than a short glance from the other, he continued regardless. “Well, my name’s Mello, if you want to know.”

Again, he got no answer for a long moment, and he was about to accept that this ghost was not at all the talkative type, when he caught a quiet whisper that wasn’t quite loud enough for him to understand. Noticing that he was trying to listen, the ghost cleared their throat (Mello wondered what the use was for someone who didn’t really have a throat, per se), repeating themself just slightly louder. “Near. My name is Near.”

Smiling encouragingly, Mello nodded politely. “Nice to meet you, Near.”

“Likewise.”

Outside, the crowd had grown restless. A large group had already left, citing angry parents, and the rest were nearly ready to go themselves. Only a few were planning to stay until Mello came out, it seemed, while the others were anticipating that he’d run out before the hour was up and they’d have plenty of time to get home. By the time the hour mark had come and gone there was only five left waiting, with instructions to report back on how it went the next day at school.

“How long’s it been now?” Gabriel asked nervously, looking to the one among them who had been put in charge of tracking the time. They pulled out their phone and reported that it was 1:30; half an hour past when Mello was supposed to be back.

“He probably ran out the back.” Morgan, the boy who had been teasing Mello before he went in, hadn’t let up at all. He’d grown quieter the closer to the end of the hour it got, but now he only had more fuel. “We should just go home, there’s no point staying here when he’s long gone by now.”

Gabriel glared at the other boy, and was about to give him a piece of his mind, but one of the girls beat him to it. “Oh, God, what if he’s hurt? Or stuck in there somewhere?” They’d all been trying to keep that out of their minds, but now that it had been said out loud they eyed each other warily. “Do y’think we could get in trouble for sending him in there?” She asked.

Blanching at the thought of being responsible for someone getting injured, Gabriel quickly took charge before the others could convince themselves to take any rash actions. He bundled his coat closer to himself and began climbing the steps to the building, calling over his shoulder for the rest to follow. “We’re not leaving him in there to freeze to death all night if he is hurt. We’ll check around to see if he’s still inside and get him out if he is.”

The group hesitated, and it was Morgan who first spoke for them. “You’re kidding, right? You want us to go into there, what, do you think we’re crazy?”

“Didn’t realise you were scared, Morgan.” Gabriel taunted, “Even Mello got through the door. If he’s a coward, what does that make you?”

Growling, the boy made his way up the steps himself, pushing Gabriel aside when they met. “I’m not a coward!” Pulling the door open, he looked back at the last three kids. “You chickens coming or what?”

Cautiously, the rest followed the two boys, glancing around as if they would find themselves attacked at any moment. They assured each other in whispers that they’d stick together, to ensure they’d be safe against whatever might be hiding inside.

In the darkness of the bedroom Mello had to squint to see, doing his best to avoid knocking anything over as he followed the ghost through the doorway. Apparently the upper floors were still strong, holding his weight with only slight creaking in places from weakness, and he was able to climb the stairs to the place that Near had readied for them.

The room was tiny, with hardly enough space for the bed and dresser that it held, leaving just enough space for him to walk through to the other side. In the center of the house, it had no windows to let in light, and he’s turned off his flashlight so he would be able to see where the ghost was while they moved. This left the only light source a hole in the floor; one board had been partly pried from its place, leaving an opening that lead to the ceiling of the kitchen. It was from here that they planned to watch the spectacle that would occur below.

Together they crouched down, ready to wait patiently to see the fruits of their labours. This entire plan hinged on some of the children coming into the house, and the thought that they might choose not to worried Mello, but he had hope that even if they didn’t care to check on him for his sake they would want to prove his loss of their bet.

In silence they sat, watching and listening for any sign that the others had followed him in. Minutes ticked by, each one passing like an hour in Mello’s mind, and soon his mind was numbed by boredom. His thoughts were soon wandering, and he welcomed the distraction, sure he would be prodded back to reality when it was time.

Near hadn’t been lying at all about his friends; there were apparently quite a few more ghosts ‘living’ in the house. Most of them had never actually been inside the house during their life, but they felt themselves welcome to make it their home in death. All of them were children, the oldest he had met being merely 16. They wouldn’t all be helping, indeed Near had spent a large part of their time downstairs simply spreading the word that there would be living people roaming around so that those who wished to could hide. The ones that were part of this were those that Near claimed he was closest to.

There were only three of them, and one wouldn’t be participating. The young girl was against frightening them, but, foreseeing this, Near had given her a job that would keep her away from the operation. She was an artist, with an interest in almost all media, so she had been given the opportunity to spend the night experimenting with his camera, with the condition that she also capture the rest of the pictures he needed as proof of this night.

Of the other two, Mello would only get to see one in action, but the other’s part had been described to him. The boy would be the one to chase the children into the kitchen from wherever they were found, pushing them to run in fear using a mixture of monster sounds, played from a nearby speaker system and computer which Mello had refrained from asking the origin of, and the highly reflective goggles which he’d worn, which would create shining red orbs in the dark halls that towered some feet above the head of a human. When questioned on how scary this would really be they were assured of the power of good jump scares.

The sudden creak of the door pulled Mello out of his thoughts, and he reflexively crouched down lower at the sound. Beside him Near had done the same, actually sinking slightly into the floor, as if prepared to slip right through to the room below if there were any danger.

Outside was as dim as in, the room remaining as dim as before, but after so long Mello’s eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and so quickly was able to move from his hidden position to peek out over top of the bed. On the other side the door had been cracked open, just enough for a head to push through. The face he saw there was still having difficulty seeing into the blackness that surrounded them, but Mello was able to recognise them instantly, the voice that accompanied it seconds later only confirming what he saw.

“Mello? You in here?” Gabriel called from the door, voice kept at a normal volume that was like shouting in the room that had been so quiet the past long minutes.

Mello held a hand up to indicate to Near not to leave, then pushed himself up to stand fully in sight. The other boy smiled as he caught the movement, but before he could speak again he was admonished in a whisper, “Shh! Keep it down!”

“What for?” He asked just as softly, instantly picking up on the urgency in Mello’s tone. The response he got was a simple wave of the hand, urging him forward. He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with a careful push. Moving closer gave him a glimpse of the space further inside, and he caught sight of the shape of another person on the floor. “Who’ve you got there?”

With such little light Near’s body looked nearly completely solid, and without knowing to look for it the slight transparency was unnoticeable. They waved in greeting, then again he was being beckoned forward by his friend, who then dropped silently to his knees.

When Gabriel had joined them he was met with a finger held over his lips, stopping him from asking more questions in favour of letting Mello ask his own. “Are there any others with you?” A nod, then a finger pointed towards the ground in response to “Upstairs with you? Or down?”

A smirked played on the other’s face as he leaned in close to say his last words. “We set something up for them down there. Keep your mouth shut and you can watch with us.” Nodding quickly, Gabriel settle himself down next to them, a grin of excitement showing off his eagerness at seeing what they had planned.

They only had a few minutes to wait before it began, starting with a shrill shriek that rang through the house. It was followed by several others, and then shouting, hard to decipher due to the walls but clearly an attempt at communication as they were called back and forth.

Soon the group came running through the door into the kitchen. Immediately it slammed behind them, making the smallest boy jump. They learned as soon as they tried to leave that the only other door was stuck closed, and upon trying to turn around found the same of the way they came.

Above them, from the hole in the ceiling, three pairs of eyes took turns peering in to watch them. Giggles were stifled behind hands, each shushing the other every few seconds.

The children below had only enough time to begin to struggle with the door before they were interrupted by a long scrape. It was followed by another, and then the soft click of a lock. The other door crept open on its own as they watched it with wary, frightened eyes.

From the opening stepped the final ghost, the eldest. In each hand he held a knife; the scrapping was heard again as he ran one along the other in a slow drag. Deep red blotches stained his clothes, the area at the bottom of his sleeves still wet enough to drip down his arms. With his back hunched, a crooked smirk, and the slight translucency of his body, the image of an otherworldly being was easy to affect.

Beside him Mello heard a gasp, and though he’d already seen the boy before and knew of the reality it still shook him a little to see it for real.

“More visitors?” The boy drawled, “I suppose you’ll want to join your friend?” One hand reached out, the knife point swinging towards them, landing facing down the nose of the biggest there - Morgan, who let out a strangled whimper, eyes wide.

At that moment the handle of the door from which they’d come finally budged, and it swung open behind them, the boy who’d been clutching it falling backward at the sudden movement. He scrambled to pick himself up, ending up at the tail end of the group as they all ran out, their screams still echoing until they reached the entrance once more; when it closed with a thud all noise from them was cut off, only the barest of sound able to be heard as they raced towards their homes.

From down in the kitchen a clang was heard as the boy that was left behind dropped the knives on the counter. He took a moment to return his posture to its normal, slightly less hunched position, smiling falling from his lips. One hand travelled to his mouth, him taking a moment to lick at the red liquid it was adorned with - strawberry sauce, as he’d informed Mello beforehand - then resting his thumb against his lip. The other raised in salute when Near called a thanks from above.

The other two in the bedroom had dissolved into laughter as soon as the coast was clear, falling back and gasping for air between long periods of giggling and chuckling. Exclamations of “Did you see her face?” and “He screams like a banshee!” abounded, and it took some time before they were able to compose themselves once again, still occasionally snorting at a memory and with wide smiles on their faces. Near hadn’t engaged with them in this foolery, but even they had an upturn of the lips and a sparkle in their eye.

They would have gladly sat there for much longer, basking in the knowledge that they now had a story to tell to any- and everyone they saw when they returned to school, if they weren’t interrupted by Gabriel’s sudden realization of the time. “Shit, it’s so late, my mom’s gonna be furious!” Clambering to his feet and through the door, he took no notice that Mello wasn’t with him until he was well down the hall, and was about to double back when he emerged out of the open door. They met up and continued down to the stairs, Gabriel giving one last look back and asking “Isn’t your friend coming?”

Mello shook his head, not giving any further explanation, and the other boy dropped the matter, not wanting to question where this child he’d never seen had come from and why they weren’t going back. He’d had enough awkward conversations to make him wary of such a subject.

At the door in the foyer stood the young girl Mello had lent his camera to, with it clutched in her hands. At the sight of him she perked up, smiling brightly, and held it out to him. “I got the pictures you wanted, and some really nice ones too!” She beamed at the grateful thanks she got in return, then continued, “Would you please have them developed so I could keep them? Pretty please?”

“Sure thing, Linda,” Mello agreed, “I’ll come back next week with them.”

She cheered, “I’ll tell Near you’ll be back, then!” Bouncing in place, she said her goodbyes to him, not giving him a chance to return the farewell before allowing herself to launch into the air, melting through the ceiling with ease, to the shock of the boy beneath her who had yet to see this before and was left with his mouth gaping, staring up at where she had been.

He was dragged out by his hand, not thinking to protest until they’d reached the bottom of the steps, then pulling back and crying out in shock, “What was that!?”

Mello grabbed him again, this time by the forearm, pulling him along down the gravel drive. “It was just a ghost, don’t be such a wuss.” He scoffed. “Honestly, you guys are scared of everything.”

[writing-creativo]

“Emmerald Clover” aka “I have no inspiration and I feel brain dead”

John Clover had been a jeweller, an artist of some sorts. He had also been a good man, loved and respected by those who knew him. His fortune was as large as his character, and he paid his debt to his country by fighting in a war which ultimately took his life.

His wife, Emmerald Bloom Clover had been not sure what. No one could really tell what it was that she was doing and no one would swear by the pureness of her heart. In fact, it was almost intriguing how she and her husband and had come to be. She was not particularly beautiful nor charming and lived a humble life as a street florist before the marriage.

And so, rumours started emerging. Rumours that Emmerald Bloom, who wasn’t worthy of being a Clover, was a witch, an enchantress. She put John Clover under her spell, so she too could live among the swells, and then made sure he never returned home from battle.

Whether or not John was victim of a wicked woman, the truth is that after his death Emmerald Bloom lived her life as a widow in complete isolation, caring only for her new-born. A secret she had kept to herself only. But that newborn soon became a grown woman, and left the house with the promise of never going back.

Where some see ungratefulness, others would find proof of Emmerald’s wickedness.

But Carol Clover left her mother for a normal, ordinary life in town. In fact, she was so… Typical… That no one could tell she was the offspring of such an aberration. She had a respectful job and a respectful husband and not once made use of the fortune that was hers by birth right.

Clara Hainsworth, born several years later, had therefore never met her grandma. It was as if both her grandparents were dead, except that only one of them was worthy of grief and mourn. She was already fully grown and raised when that illusion was cut by a phone call informing her that her last living relative, Emmerald Bloom, had passed away of old age, found dead by the gardener in the old Clover house.

Clara, like her grandpa, was an artist of some sorts. A painter, fresh out of Art School. And like John, she too was loved and trusted unconditionally by those around her. Aside from the fact that now there was no one around her. That call made it official that she was now not only extremely rich, but also absolutely alone in the world.

She drove to her grandmother’s house, now hers by inheritance, wondering if it was worth it. Going there, to the house of a woman she had never met, only to claim it for herself. Her mother would not approve. But she wasn’t there to tell her that, was she? What else was there to lose?

It took her a while to actually find the old mansion. In its golden days, when John Clover was alive and a wedding was scheduled for the summer, the house was surrounded by flawlessly trimmed bushes that hid the front yard. Now, they grew so high that they hid the whole front, blending the house with the surrounding forest.

However, the wild and unkept look disappeared when she drove through the gates. Clara was mesmerized by the sight.

Rosebushes guided the car to a paved hill next to the fence. From there, she could see the front yard in all its glory. Everything was covered in flowers, some orderly planted and others growing freely and wild. In the middle, between the gates and the front door, there was a lake, covered in green as well.

Clara left the car and went towards the water. She could swear the submerged pebbles were glowing. Not just shining in the sun but glowing by themselves. She stood there hypnotised for a while, watching the fish and the frogs go about their day. And then, as if waking up from a dream, she remembered why she was there.

Over her shoulder, the house stood with glamour. There was only one floor, but its monumental dimension was obvious. The windows were covered by white curtains and it was impossible to catch a glimpse of the inside.

Clara put her hand on her pocket, feeling the keys with her fingers. Somehow, she expected someone to be waiting for her on the inside. But that was impossible, no one was there for her, not anymore.

Opening the door, she was overwhelmed by the smell. Initially, it seemed like a strong odour, but then she realized it was a floral scent. It was as If she was still outdoors, in the garden. And it sure looked like it as well.

Plants of all sorts were hanging from the ceiling or placed in jars across the room. By the outline, it looked like a living room. Or a dining room perhaps. Diagonally, a long wooden table stood in the centre. On each side there were not doors but open entrances to other divisions.

The remaining Clover was told the electricity would be working but nothing happened when she pressed the switch, so she resigned to opening all the windows and keeping an eye open for some candles in case she stayed there until sunset.

As she turned to her right, she found the kitchen, if you could call it that. Once again, the sight was so beautiful, yet peculiar, that it took a second for the eyes to adjust.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of jars and pots, filled with God knows what, laid across the counters, and more of them rested by the window, illuminated by sunlight. The coloured glass shining in the sun left the room dancing in all the shades of the rainbow.

If there was one way to describe it, Clara would say it was the opposite of the home she had grown up in. Chaotic, disorganised, yet beautiful and so magical looking. She felt like a child again. Her stomach jumping with excitement at the idea of exploring an unknown enchanted house.

She crossed the living\dining room once more to get to the other side, to the wing that allowed access to the bedrooms. She checked them out, one by one. Some were bland when compared to the rest of the house, but others were worth entering.

In the middle of the hallway was what she assumed to have been her mother’s bedroom. It was fuller than the other rooms, filled with toys and furniture, all very neatly arranged. On the corner, there was a small bed with pink bedsheets. Above it, the picture of a face she recognized so well. She didn’t want to look at it, but she did go through the wardrobe and drawers. Except for the noticeable old age, everything looked as if a child was still sleeping there and would come home any minute now. But Carol Clover never came back home.

She continued the tour and reached the end of the corridor, going through the last door. Her grandmother’s bedroom.

There were no curtains covering the window and the sun shined in a way it didn’t in the other divisions, making everything feel warm and pure, despite the grotesque shadows. Clara didn’t understand at first, but then she looked to her right, to a cabinet next to the wall. Through its glass doors items of all sorts could be seen.

There were buttons, jewellery boxes, small statues, porcelain figures, sewing kits, and…Skulls. Bird or Squirrel skulls, perhaps, dozens of them lined up on the bottom shelf. They might have caused some disgust but there was some fascination as well. Like her mother’s room, a picture was hanged above the bed.

She had to get on her toes to manage to reach it. And when she did, it was so dusty and the frame so stained that it was practically impossible to see anything. It took some dismantling to catch a glimpse of the image.

Two people were standing against a white background, a couple. Her grandparents, she assumed. The man was tall, and quite good looking in his suit. The woman, however, was an otherworldly vision. She was wearing a long dress, almost completely covered in laces and frills. She wore her hair long, falling on her shoulders, which was unusual for the time. But none of that made her any less beautiful. In fact, she might have been the most beautiful person Clara had ever seen. She wished she could have met her. She wished she could paint her. And that last one she still could.

With an unexplainable desire, she got back on her car, forgetting about the rest of the house, and drove home. She gathered all of her supplies, along with some flashlights and candles, stashing them in the trunk. And then drove back to the Clover house.

It was one of the many times her car was seen going through the gates and it didn’t take long for the rumours to go around. Someone was living in John Clover’s old home. Some were the curious souls who rang the bell, trying to establish contact with the new neighbour. But no one ever answered, although there was light on the windows at night.

New rumours emerged. It was Emmerald Bloom, returned from the dead, who was still living in her husband’s house. Too greedy to let go, even in death. And so, there were no more visitors. In the nearby town, mothers would tell their children that if they didn’t eat their broccoli, Emmerald would come for them at night, back from the dead.

And, painted in oil, colour and frame, she had been resurrected in way.

[xclusivefashionmeetslifestyle]

10 Surprising Wall Decor Ideas For Your Home

If you are looking for some great idea to enhance the beauty of the house and decorate the walls and do not want to lose the budget, then the tips given in this article can help you. Walls form an important part of your house and hence its decoration is the central idea. A theme design on the wall can give your room a royal look. You can make the walls of your house very stylish by applying creative and new ideas. Nowadays everyone uses expensive showpieces or furniture to decorate their home. By the way, everyone wants to decorate the house in a western and unique way, but for this, you do not need to spend much money. You can decorate the walls with the latest wallpaper design to give the house a different look.

Try Large Scale Art

There are a lot of things you can do to give your wall a beautiful look. As you can apply large paintings, you can paint the walls with multiple colors. While a gallery wall will never be dead, outdated, or out of style, the demand for art on a grand scale has expanded to fill your wall. To grab the attention of the visitors in your house, you should try out large-sized photographs on your wall. It could be anything depending on your liking, like your family photograph, photo of your child, or maybe some natural scenic beauty.

Create a Wall Gallery

Creating a wall gallery will not just decorate your house beautiful but you can also cherish the lovely memories of your life and motivate yourself. Wall gallery stands for photos of your or other artistic work on the full wall. A wall gallery can enable you to generate a dramatic impact, and it saves you from having to choose just one end. Remember, when fixing items to create a gallery wall, these pieces together will act as one unit. The focus of the entire display should be at the core level.

Floral Wall Designs

Instead of sticking wallpapers or frames on the wall, you can also paint fluorescent designs on your wall. This adds up a lively look to your hall or room. A flower wall can also assist dual duty if the ceremony and party are organizing at the same venue. And it's not just the eternal flower wall we interest. You have the flower wall function as a photo booth backdrop for a selfie station at the reception.

Fabric Designs

Patterns and colours look stunning when decorated on the walls of your house. You may find many such examples in the classic houses of Europe and North America. Fabric coated walls are poetry to the sophistication of France and England. Fabric walls were quite prevalent in the early 14th century. Such textured walls provide positive vibes to the house owners. Decorating your walls with natural substances such as quartz and timber - or even texture effects paints and wallpapers - will immediately lighten up a room without raising the surface space.

Hanging Mirrors

If you own a small beautiful house, you should go for hanging a mirror on the wall. It keeps the space lighted and bright. You may either attach a big mirror or multiple small mirrors. Why do you need to hang a mirror or picture on the wall? To see if you have drywall or plaster, push a tack on the wall. It goes in easily; if you have drywall. A hanging mirror has a durable frame. Pick a spot to hang the mirror and hold the mirror close to eye level. The best decorative with a massive variety of shapes and sizes available wall mirror you can buy from the market. These mirrors are decorated with decorative frames, the brilliance of tradition to ultra-modern styles from gold to white from all right to multi-facet frames regardless of location and design preferences.  

Paint Yourself

If you are a good painter, you may also paint the walls yourself. It is even amazing when you decorate the walls the way you want and can appreciate your art every day. You may also take the help of an artist if you do not know the painting. If you are painting your room or you can paint the entire studio set. I thought what a perfect time to do that blog, so here you go before we just put some paint on the wall, which I would suggest applying some digital paints on the wall, how you can paint yourself. You can be covered or tapping the wall, so you have all of the tap laid out. You want to make sure that the edges are pressed firmly down. The way paint can seek behind the tape without you realizing that it’s happening and just take your finger or fingernail and press firmly all down the length of the edge of the tape that’s going to line up where you are painting. Show off China Crockery There is no point in hiding the fine China crockery when you have a large wall to display upon. Decorate your walls with it and showcase it to the world. You might think that displaying china crockery on the wall is just an idea for decorating your home or bedroom. You can take that older look and recreate it a bit for today. Here you have used a variety of different plates - different shapes and sizes to create an interesting arrangement that complements the color on the wall. Now talking about the color on the wall, if you have a beautiful frame why not just use that to frame the color on the wall? And there’s your artwork.

Plants on the Wall

Windowsill and balconies are not the only places for your life-giving plants. They can be placed on the walls too. It looks different, peaceful, and calm. This makes your space green and natural. We can talk about the climbers as a great way to plants on the walls, trellises, arches, pergolas, arbours, pillars, etc. There are dense climbers that can be woody as well as herbaceous climbers that gently cover the surface. True climbers take up little ground space, and are excellent choices for smaller, home gardens, whereas wall shrubs require more ground space.

Hang Weaving Art

Weaving arts is quite popular around the world. Weavers design makes wall hang pieces for decorating walls. You may find hundreds of such on the internet. It’s hard to measure exact lengths for hang weaving, so this is more of a general just go with what looks good to you. Same goes for the types of yarn colors, it varies based on what you like or have on hand.

3D Wallpapers

This is trending! 3D wallpapers look realistic and lively. They come in a variety of themes like aqua, underwater sea, forest, waterfall, and many more. There are a whole bunch of options to choose from when it comes to wall decoration for your home from simple wall decor, wall textures, multicolor on the walls. However, there is another option for wall decor that is 3D wallpapers it can beat all the others hands down when it comes to the mindblowing realistic effects, they create these flaws incorporating a combination of multiple translucent layers along with the angle images to achieve the incredible 3D effect look. Get Carports are the leader in the Metal Buildings market.  To offer customers the ideal and high-quality services and products are Get Caports priority. Do not wait for the excellent quality garages or metal carports. Read the full article

[txnystarkimagines]

All Work and No Play

Pairings:Tony Stark X Reader

Requested By: @cajunlizard

Words:2043

Permanent Tag List:@sybil-howlett @palaiasaurus64 @sherlockholmesisbae @redroomproperty@alwaysoutoftheordinary @withouthannah @metaphysicalmisha@andybubblebath @secretninjachild @whatshernamemaria               @ pou-noikiazeis-to-oneiro @alwaysenjoythelifeyoulive@niallandsebastianaremylife @raindancer2004  @v-esperteen  @purpledolphin-f  @sour-kangaroo1998 @princeffreeshgoddessofgreatbooty

Author’s Note: I am not really happy with how this turned out to be. And I think I kinda dragged it a lot. So meh,I decided to post it anyway.

MASTERLIST  | REQUEST HERE | TAG LIST IS OPEN

"Now you hold the brush,put on some paint and stroke."You instructed to the 5 year old boy sitting beside you.

"Yay!"You exclaimed,raising up your hand for a high five."You did it."

Sam's palm slapped against yours,diverting his friend's attention towards him. As they got involved in useless babble,you felt someone tugging at the hem of your shirt. "Melissa sweetie,what is it? How man times have I told you,you always wait for the person to turn to you,you never pull at them.Okay?"You explained to her softly.

"Sorry Ms. Y/N,but there is a man at the door."

You immediately turn towards the play rooms entrance, only to meet Tony Stark,leaning against the door frame. Your eyes widened in shock. What was he doing here? In a pre school?

"Hello, Mr. Stark." You walked over to him.

"Ms. L/N."He nodded at you.

"What brings you here?" You asked him quietly,not wanting the kids to know.

"I am here to talk to you about the Avengers Initiative."

"Does the administration know,that you are here to talk to me when I'm on duty?" You asked.

"Obviously."

"I don't believe you."You snapped. He was Tony Stark,why would he ever take someone's permission to do something. "Wait here while I go and have a talk with them?"

"Kids,"You acknowledged the whole class."I have to speak to Mr. Brown,please behave and carry on with your work."

"Yes Ms. Y/N."All of them chorused.

Your shoulder brushed against his leather jacket,as you moved past him. "Make way!" You snapped.

Technically you knew why he was here. Years of hiding and this new job had put on the radar after only a few months. You were angry. How dare he come to the school where there are kids to talk you about something? The kids were the most important for you and if anything ever happened to them you won't be able to forgive them. He should have waited for your off. You rolled your eyes. There was no way you were going to join his super secret boy band.

After getting to know that the admin had given you the whole day off,and arranged a sub for your class at the persistence of Tony Stark,you were annoyed. As you reached the vicinity of your classroom you hear shouts and laughter from the room. Your heals created loud clicks against the floor as you fastened the pace. Entering the classroom,your jaw dropped in shock. There he was Tony Stark sitting in the middle with the kids all around him. Two sat on his lap, shuffling around with his glasses while he was talking to the other two,probably telling them a funny story due to all the laughter.

"What the hell?"You mumbled under your breath.  "Kids! Stark!"You called for their attention.

"I told you to stay put didn't I?"

"Sorry miss."They exclaimed,moving back to their seats as Tony too sat up.

"Now I won't be here for the day so Miss Sophia from Room B will be taking over. Behave. I don't want to hear any complaints."

Immediately questions filled the room. The children's curiosity and tendencies to want to know everything and anything.

"Are you sick?" "Is he your boyfriend?" "Are you going on a date?" "Are you a secret hero like Iron Man?" "Is he really Iron Man?" You chuckled at the last one,grabbing your coat and purse from the desk.

"Come on kiddos,don't pester your teacher. If you behave I might as well come and visit again."

"No, you won't." Both of you exited the room and cries of cheer echoed around the room. You greeted the sub with on your way out.

Walking down the hall,you were trying to put on the coat when he stopped all of a sudden. He took it from you holding it out for you and you quickly slipped into your arms. "Really? I could that."

"What a time,"He stated dramatically."Being a gentleman gets you nowhere."

"You are no gentleman Stark."You sneered.

"True.Now where to?"

"Oh no,no! Nowhere. We talk right here."

"In the cold,no way woman."He cried out."Your place or mine?"he smirked.

"Mine."You snapped,using your telekinesis to move the car keys out of his palm and into yours. "I drive."

He looked at you with wide eyes."What?" You asked him. "Never seen a woman drive?"You asked him,walking over to the red Audi R8 Spyder that was obviously his.

"Never seen a woman do that."He replied.

"I thought the witch had similar powers. Whats her name Wilma? No Wendy it was,I think."

"Wanda. And no. Her powers are not natural. Yours are." He stated,getting into the passenger side without any protest.

"So what brings you here?" You asked him again,pulling out of the car park and onto the main road.

" I told you. I am here to ask you to join the Avengers."

"And I am telling you there is no way I am going to join that super secret boy band of yours."

"Funny,how years ago I said the same thing to the Director of SHIELD.God it's too early!"He huffed."I can't do this without a drink."

"Well wait then. We are nearly there."You answered,speeding up.

"Make yourself right at home."You told him,hanging your coat and purse on the hanger in the foyer.

"I am making some coffee. You want that or scotch?"

"Coffee.Black."

"Coming right up."

Tony looked around the living room,void of any pictures. It was a small apartment,probably one bedroom,one bath,a living room and a kitchen he guessed.A black leather couch was pushed far up against the wall,with a shelve above it. Opposite to it was an led TV and a fire place below,currently turned on.A white fur rug rested there with a bench on top to sit next to the fire. In the end a floor lamp stood in the corner next to window,covered in sheer white curtain. The floor was black and the walls a light grey. He had to admit though you got a taste.

"Nice place you have here."He complimented as you entered the room with two mugs in hand,with the Avengers on them.

"You have got nicer."You stated handing him the mug.

"Really?"He raised his eyebrows up at you.

"What?! They were on sale."you shrugged.

"So.."You took a seat adjacent to him.

"We need you to join Y/N."

"Who's we?"

"Well me,War Machine, and uh Vision."

"What about the others?"

"We are kind of not together anymore. They are war criminals now."

"I see."

"Look Y/N. I am Tony Stark and I can have whatever I want. But I came down here personally right now to ask you to join because I need you. The world needs you. And I hope you do."

"What does it entail?  Whats in it for me?"

"You get to live in the Avengers Facility,Upstate New York 24/7. Food and clothes,furniture included. You have 320 working days in a year. The rest are off. However global catastrophes don't count. And a hefty sum of money paid to you by yours truly.State and you will get it."He gestured.

"I still don't see whats in it for me."

"You will be paid whatever you want."

"I don't care,not everything is about money. I want to know why you need me. What made Iron Man come to my door step personally?"

"Something big is coming. "He started." Something cruel,all I know its gonna destroy everything we know and love. There is word about a Mad Titan,the most powerful being in the universe. Far more than us. And his eyes are down here on earth. We need all the help we can get it. For the sake of those whom you love,Y/N please."

You considered his offer for a bit. Was it really worth it? You could redeem everything. Clear the red from your ledger.

"I have a deal."You say.

"Ask and it's done."He looked at you.

"I need protection."

"From?"He asks.

"Not from,for.Whatever it is that you speak of,I need protection for Dean."

"Boyfriend?"He smirks at you.

"Son."You stated. His eyes widen in shock.

"You have a son? Wow, you don't look like a mother."

"And what does a mother look like? Anyways I am sure you have read my file."

"Obviously."

"So you also know that there was a time when I was running from HYDRA. I was seven months pregnant at that time. I didn't really see the point of bringing a child into this world. So I went for an abortion."

He sucked in a breath.

"The doctor, a woman surprisingly was gynecologist but didn't have any children with her husband. She was barren. So we made a deal. I told her everything,and she adopted my son. In return, she would tell him who his real mother was when he turned 15. He is 6 now. Joining you would mean that I don't get to see him regularly. And if something happens to me,or this Titan of yours comes,I need to be assured that Dean and his parents will not be harmed. Not a scratch."

"Wow." Tony really didn't see that."You've got yourself a deal." He got up.

"I'll see you on Monday. "

"Nope,you will see me next month. Someone has to wrap up everything here." You answered.

"Ok."He extended his hand towards you for a shake. Instead, you just pulled him in for a hug,rising on your tip toes to reach his neck as you weren't wearing the heels anymore. You pressed a soft kiss against his stubbly cheek.

"It gets better you know."You tell him as you walk him out.

"What?"

"That look in your eyes. I know it well. While it might not seem like it right now but it does get better."

He just smiled at you in return. Soon you could hear the sound of rockets blazing and the Iron Man suit land beside him,opening up to reveal the insides.

"What about your car?"You ask,staring at the way the suit wraps around him. Damn that's sexy,you think.

"Keep it,at least I know you will return."The mask slams shut before his face.

"Ms. L/N." He nods at you.

"Mr. Stark."You nod back,and then he shoots up into the air.