#i used so much orange....... gee i wonder why:)

[im-smart-i-swear]

im sick so i drew my girl nika to cheer myself up,,

#felix net i nika #fnin #my art #she has a tooth gap now!!!! and pimples!!!!! i dont make the rules!!!!!!!1! #her outfit in the first drawing is what she was wearing on the cover of 'orbitalny spisek' btw<3 #ughhhhhh im having Nika Thoughts (tm) AGAIN #im not gonna elaborate rn tho cause i Dont Feel Great #maybe ill ramble about her tomorrow #i love drawing her sleep deprived and tired and pissed and sad<3333333 shes got Problems #sweet jesus i spent so much time on that first drawing........... im never drawing a skirt with a pattern again. #it turned out pretty cool tho i think!! #i used so much orange....... gee i wonder why:) #god i want atumn to come already. i want to wear sweaters and sweatpants and i want to be able to sleep at night without feeling like im in #a fuckin furnace!!!

[shutit-haha]

WolfBakugo pt.3

"You know you never did tell me your name," you took a seat at the table. The stool was to high so your legs dangled over the floor, and the metal backing could use just a bit more support. Ok so it wasn't the comfiest chair. "Why not sit at the other table?" You suggested, wanting to move to the better wooden chairs. (Despite how hard those are going to be.)

"Shut up," he growls, "talk too much." The grumpy blonde shovels food into his mouth, chewing in the silence.

"Was just trying to be polite, and the seats are a little uncomfortable," you mumbled.

"You're wearing my clothes," he gestured to your outfit. Your hair was still damp so it left wet trails on the back of his shirt. "You're eating my food," he gestured to the dish in front of you- already half eaten. "You're staying in my house, in one of my rooms and now you want to decide where we eat."

Well gee mister not anymore, "I never asked to stay with you."

"You were freezing your fucking ass out there!"

"Ok and?"

"Don't be a dumbass," he shoveled more food into his mouth. More silence as the both of you ate.

"Your a good cook," you complimented. A water droplet fell from a strand of baby hair at the bottom of your skull, rolling beneath the color of the black shirt. You shivered.

He noticed.

"Are you done eating as well?" You were standing next to him, shorter due to the tall ass stool. Your hip was pressed up against the table, plate in hand to take to the sink.

"I'll do the dishes," he rose from his place.

"No it's fine, I've already taken a lot from you." You snatched the plate up from him, moving to the sink to clean them. Another shiver from you, just before the water turned on.

"You're cold."

"It's ok."

You placed the dishes in the rack to dry, just as you turned around something slammed into your face. "Hoodie, so you don't freeze your ass." Black and orange with a large graphic on the center of it. "Rooms down the hall and cross from the bathroom." He was already leaving to call it a night. "Go the fuck to sleep."

When morning came you had hoped to sneak out under his radar however he was already up. "Good morning," you smiled from were the hallway bled into the kitchen.

He grunted not even sparing a glance as you as he cooked the eggs. There was an open carton next to the stove, four of the eggs already missing. Freshly cut chives left on a cutting board, accompanied by diced bell peppers and onion. "What are you making," you glanced over at the seasoning he had open. The flavors would be considered bland in your household but you assumed the vegetables were to make up for that.

"Breakfast," he grunted.

"Wonderful conversationalist," you rolled your eyes at his back. "I'll be leaving so.."

"You're not gonna eat."

"You seem like I'm bothering you, leaving just made sense."

"It's to fucking early for talking, I woke up and my room was fucking cold, and now that you're up too the place fuckin' smells like you." He plates an omelet setting it aside and checking whatever is sizzling in the oven.

"I'm sorry, do I stink?" You lifted an arm to smell yourself, you seemed fine.

"Are you a fuckin' idoit? Dumbass," he kissed his teeth. "You have scent everyone does."

"I know that-"

He pointed to the dog tag dangling from his neck, "are the dots connecting?"

"Do I really smell that bad," your brows drooped to make a sad face.

He sighs taking the baking sheet out of the oven, and plating another omelet. "No," more smells mingle in the kitchen. Bacon and quartered potatoes, it's like some sort of Disney breakfast. "Eat and then I'll take you home."

"Thank you," you look down at your food. It's quite beautiful actually, everything is proportionate and none of the flavors are too overpowering. "Bakugo."

He looks up at you, head moving so quickly it startles you. Carmine eyes glare with such an intensity it makes fireworks in your brain.

You swallow, "your tag."

He glances down at the engraved name. Another grunt from the ash blonde, "and you?"

"Oh..."

#katsuki bakugo x reader #wolf bakugou #wolf hybrid #x reader #hybrid au #reader insert

[metamorphosisff]

|One| Friends, How Many of Us Have Them?

“You don’t have to have such a bad attitude.”

The sound of the deep voice speaking in my direction caused me to whip my head around. I was already sweaty and annoyed, having been under the pissy underbelly of the Verrazano bridge picking up trash for the last two hours. The absolute last thing I wanted was a conversation with anyone, let alone one of the supervisors who made sure the derelicts of society like me showed up for their court appointed community service. Xavier was always trying to be nice to everyone and that got on my nerves. No one was nice without ulterior motives, definitely not the cookie cutter type he seemed to be. That’s why when he asked me questions I often waved him off refusing to engage like now. Well not now because I fully intended to give him a piece of my mind for offering unsolicited commentary.

“Gee I wonder what gave that away, the court mandate or this snazzy orange reflective vest I’m sporting,” I hissed, causing the older woman who was nearby to snicker. Her name was Jazz, picked up for soliciting a trucking stop in Hunts Point. Picking up trash was supposed to teach her not to sell pussy and me not to punch people in the face when they pissed me off. We got along well enough, often working side by side in my preferred silence, sometimes falling into conversation when we both felt like it. 

“No, more so how you treat people when they attempt to be friendly,” he said, bypassing the dig.

“Didn’t ask for a friend,” I replied, stabbing a chip bag with my poker to stuff into the trash bag tied to a belt loop.

“You didn’t but everyone can use one or at least, a little kindness their way,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pocket. The clipboard with today’s sign in sheet and all of our court documents wedged underneath was tucked underneath a bulky arm. 

“Take all that kindness, bottle it up, and sell it to someone who gives a fuck,” I said, pairing my words with a smile and head tilt.

He chuckled, giving me a real smile in earnest which confused me. He was supposed to be mad and stomp off, giving into my request to be left alone. Instead he appeared to be amused. “Not gonna lie, that’s the funniest way I’ve been told to fuck off this week. Thanks for the laugh.”

With that he walked off to check on an older white man who was doing more sitting than working. I looked over to my right to see Jazz grinning at me.

“Why are you giving me that look?” I asked, smirking myself. Jazz had a way of making anything funny so I was genuinely interested in what she had to say.

“That man likes you,” she said, her six foot three frame leaning to the side so she could place a hand on her hip. “It’s all in his eyes.”

I take it back. I was no longer interested in what she had to say.

“There must be something in your eyes Jazz,” I said, using the collar of my shirt to wipe up sweat. It was a humid day in June, which meant rain was on the horizon in the midst of all this heat. I prayed to at least be on the train before the storm unfurled. 

“Yeah twenty years in the business of men. Mr. Clipboard wants you,” she said.

“Well I bet people in hell want ice water. We don’t always get what we want,” I replied, stabbing at another piece of trash.

Six weeks down, four more to go until I was free of this punishment. Though this was arguably one of the lowest points of my life, I regretted nothing, and said as much to the judge. That flippant remark tacked on the extra eight weeks to the prosecutors original two which was worked out in a deal from my public defender. It was worth it though, my coworker deserved everything I dished out that day and sometimes, I wished I could do it again. Clearly picking up trash on the side of the road had yet to teach me the lesson it was supposed to.

“Ain’t that the truth child, ain’t that the truth,” Jazz sighed, doing the same.

That was the end of our conversation as we each fell into our own thoughts. Thirty minutes later we were back on the van that brought us out this way and after another forty in the cramped vehicle, we were dumped in Midtown. I bid Jazz a farewell once we entered the subway on 49th, she was taking the D back Uptown while I was taking the F back to Brooklyn. 

The humidity was worse underground and was no better on the crowded train because the AC was barely felt. By the time I made it to York street my shirt was sticking to me. It is almost seven o’clock in the evening but the neighborhood hums with activity. Kids fill the parks while middle aged white women hurried into the condos built across the street from the projects with Wegman tote bags. I had another fifteen minute walk ahead of me before I reached the five story walk up I called home. Before I go inside, I stop at the bodega for some chips, a big red icee, a few rolls of toilet paper, and dish soap. My total is a whopping eight fifty. I had twenty dollars left for my budget this week. My new part time job at a warehouse paid enough to pay the bills, for me to get there, and little else. Once my community service stint was over, I would be back on the grind for a new call center job. I preferred offices over manual labor. Since this misdemeanor would be wiped clean once my community service is finished, it should not take me long to get one with my resume. Until recently, my work history is spotless with no complaints from past employers.

Still, I have to wait and that is a problem. I was just starting to feel like I was getting ahead when this whole thing happened. Shaking my head, I refused to fall into that song and dance with my thoughts again. I reach into my bag and pull out the icee, and focus on using my teeth to tear it open instead. I was turning onto my block when my eyes locked onto a familiar fifth grader hanging around a bunch of teens he had no business being around. His boyish features stood out like a sore thumb.

“PAPI,” I yelled, causing all six heads to snap in my direction.

Everyone in this neighborhood knew I was not one to play with. As soon as they saw me marching closer, they shoved the ten year old in my direction before scattering off on bikes and hoverboards.

The sun kissed brown face I hated to love was scrunched up by the time I made it to him. “You know I don’t give a damn,” I said, in reference to his attitude. “Inside. Ahora.”

“I wasn’t doing nothing’,” he huffed, stomping towards the dilapidated structure that was our building. The bricks out front were loose in several places and the automatic door did not work which resulted in packages being stolen often.

“And you won’t be as long as I have something to do with it,” I said, as we walked side by side to the fourth floor.

His mother, Marissa, was the closest thing I had to family. We had grown up in this building side by side, losing hope, losing family, creating a new one with each other and the little trouble maker beside me, in an effort to restore all of those losses. She worked two jobs meaning that after school Papi had a lot of free time. With the summer coming up we were both nervous about what things he could possibly land himself into. I made a mental note to look for more summer camps to sign him up for. So far I had been waitlisted for the six I had already applied to but if it came down to having to pay, then I’d keep the warehouse part time, and switch to nights so I could work full time during the day. We couldn’t afford to have him taken from us too. 

Fishing his keys out of his pockets, he opened up the door, and stepped inside. “I can handle myself, you know. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I wait for you because unfortunately for us both I love you,” I cracked, causing him to grin.

“I love you too Auntie Mila,” he said.

“Take a shower before you eat,” I instructed. He smelled like outside.

“Okay. ‘Night,” he said, before closing the door.

I nodded my head and proceeded to open my own door. Nothing but silence greets me as I kick off my shoes and turn on the lights. There was a point in time when too many voices filled these walls. Now they barely heard mine. Dropping my bounty from the bodega on the kitchenette counter, I keep going until I reach the bathroom. I empty my pockets in the basket on the counter, dropping my mini wallet, lip gloss, phone, mask and keys into it. I tried not to wear purses to community service because I didn’t want to be robbed on top of having to serve out my punishment. Next, I tossed my braids up in a high bun before undressing and placing my clothes right into the dirty hamper. The hot water on my skin feels great as it works to free me from the sweat and dirt of the day. Grabbing my loofa, I use my favorite body wash to help with that mission before getting out. I couldn’t afford to spend all night underneath the water but the ten minutes I got were enough to help me feel better.

As I slip into my clothes I hear my phone vibrate from the bathroom. Padding back towards that direction, I grab the device from the basket before going back into the kitchen. There was leftover meatloaf and rice waiting to be heated up. I was pulling out the containers while squinting at the somewhat familiar number that texted me. Not drawing any names or faces from the number alone, I finally take the plunge, and open the message. It’s a picture of Jazz and me from earlier, she’s giving me the grin before sharing her theory about Xavier, and it almost looks like I’m smiling back. Except I don’t smile because I refuse to let my lips stretch that far. When I’m done looking over the photo, my eyes drop to the short message underneath it: Everyone needs friends.

I roll my eyes at his corny sentiment before closing the message. It’s obvious he’s plucked my number from the group chat we have to make sure everyone is accounted for when we’re out in some of the rougher areas of the city. Placing my phone down on the counter, I scoop out a portion from each container that wasn’t enough to fill me but enough to make sure I didn’t starve. There were three more days until I got paid again. This would have to last until then. Plopping the plate in the microwave, I drum my fingers as I think about Xavier’s messages. I didn’t get the point he was trying to prove.

Within seconds I had the thread opened up and typed back: So go get some.

It was like he was waiting for my response because his reply came in an instant: I’m trying. Meet me halfway?

If I was a normal girl, his message might seem endearing but I wasn’t. Xavier and I came from two different worlds. I had seen his diplomas in the tiny box he called an office. He had worked out a significant career in social work that extended beyond his day job of baby sitting us. He taught as an adjunct professor at three different colleges in the city. I was the daughter of crack addicts who fought tooth and nail just to make it through the day, not to live but to survive. Anything more than that required too much of me.

Biting down on my lip I wrote back: Try with somebody else.

After that, I muted his notifications so I wouldn’t get alerts and proceeded to eat my dinner in the silence I had become accustomed to. I didn’t need any more noise.

Taglist:

@darqchilddaydreamz  @ljstraightnochaser  @gigafaex @trippyscotch @themakingsofdion @xo-goldengirl   @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @miyuhpapayuh @liv444me @cherrellek @althegreat33 @4ftwonder @ittsstephanieee  @becauseimswagman1  @acrox-the-universe92 @motheroffae @po3ticb3auty @shahanaazsoumah @leahnicole1219  @kenbechillin @razrsharpwhiteteeth @itssokibri @blackerthings @kinginwithbreezy-blog​ @queengodiva619  @rockerchick1138

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#metamorphasisff #black fiction #black romance #zendaya x mjb

[luna-the-bard]

woe, ask game emoticons upon ye🌴💙🎂☕️🤔😓

🌴 PALM TREE — does your oc have a green thumb? do they enjoy gardening?

Skeets likes it more when things are growing on their own and she can come out into the jungle to admire them or steal their fruit, but she does, in fact, have a little bit of a green thumb.

She doesn’t like growing plants, but will begrudgingly do so if she has to, and will make it her mission to give these plants the best care they’ve ever gotten (usually it happens when a friend comes to her in tears about yet another plant she’s killed, and skeets agrees to help nurse it back to health). She’ll talk to the plants (they really like that), she’ll find a sunny spot or set up a UV lamp if there’s not enough light, she’ll build an enclosure and cover the plant with a net to protect it from insects. She has somewhat limited knowledge of how to build things, but she’s handy enough to set something up (or she can always call in a favor). She comes to care quite a lot about whatever plant is in her care.

In conclusion, Skeets is a grumpy-but-secretly-caring [plant] dad.

💙 BLUE HEART — does your oc have any cool/special powers and/or abilities? how are they with magic, if it exists in their world?

Skeets, as most terranians, doesn’t have any supernatural abilities (if you have any affinity for divination or communing with the dead, you usually get an apprenticeship at the temple right away - the Gift is very rare).

She has damn good aim tho.

🎂 BIRTHDAY CAKE — when is your oc's birthday? how old are they? what are their sun, moon, & rising signs (if known)? what about their tarot card, ruling planet, & ruling number (if known)? do they fit the typical traits of these sun, moon, & rising signs?

March 24! <3 that’s when I first drew her.

She’s somewhere in her early 100s, which is equivalent to human early 20s.

Terranians don’t really have astrology or horoscopes, the closest you could get to that is comparing an individual’s personality to an animal or a plant, in which case she would be compared to a twuxen - just as curious and playful in nature. Now wonder she had no problem bonding with her hunting one!

☕️ HOT BEVERAGE — does your oc prefer coffee, tea, hot chocolate, milk, water, or some other drink? how do they like to take this drink (ex. coffee with milk, hot chocolate with whipped cream, a specific kind of tea, etc)?

She prefers iced tea, and she is not allowed to drink coffee as much as Samus can help it (this much caffeine for Skeets has an effect similar to a toddler eating a basket full of candy - an explosion of hyperactivity followed by a rather painful crash, and while Samus doesn’t mind carrying Skeets around while she naps, it’s just not sustainable).

Terran teas are Skeets’s favorite (gee, I wonder why), but she likes trying ones from other places as well, as long as they’re safe for her to consume. She likes hot chocolate with whipped cream as well, although she will usually choose a hot & spicy tea instead (warms you up just as nicely, and adding citrus makes it taste even better). She likes putting diced lime or orange in her teas, as well as terran mint or other herbs that she keeps a stock of on the ship.

🤔 THINKING FACE — what are some of your oc's quirks/mannerisms?

Tail flicks! She often uses her tail in non-verbal communication, but her favorites are flicking it - just because it feels nice - or wrapping her tail around something (or someone🤭) she likes. She usually flicks her tail if she’s excited, but she can also do it to self-regulate when she’s frustrated about something.

😓 DOWNCAST FACE WITH SWEAT — is your oc open-minded or stubborn? are they inquisitive or do they prefer to keep to their bubble of knowledge?

She’s very open-minded and loves learning new things! This is why she’s so good for exploring outer space and collecting data so Te’rra can be more in touch with what’s going on around them (hopefully this can help prevent potential future Space Pirate raids). Skeets has a very inquisitive mind, and she loves going to new places and finding out as much as she can about them. It can be a little bit less romantic when your partner is running around logging information instead of doing more… typical date activities, but Samus is definitely not one to judge (in fact, she finds it endearing). It’s okay, she gets her fair share of kisses once skeets is done writing stuff down :)

The only thing that Skeets is really stubborn about is protecting the ones she loves. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Samus to handle danger (Samus is far more capable than she ever will be); instead, it’s more of a drive to help in any way she can - she just wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if her loved one got hurt when it could’ve been avoided has Skeets been present.

#skeets #luna talks #metroid #oc #fan oc #metroid fan oc #te’rra #original character #ask game #asks open #you don’t have to ask emoji prompts just sayin. if there’s something that interests you #just send it into the ask box #yall know i’m always happy to answer skeets asks #emoji ask game

[sweetface-the-dollbaby]

Fakers, a moral Orel fan-script

Orel: *waking up on the couch, yawning* gee I wonder how grandpa’s doing 

Orel: good morning grandpa! I brought you some orange juice! 

Arthur: thanks Orel…*takes a sip of the juice* *sighs* you know Orel…I don’t have much time left…doctor says I’ve only got about 2 weeks…

Orel: oh…that’s not good…well at least you’ll be with me and dad when you…when you die…

Arthur: it’s alright boy…I ain’t scared of a word

Orel: ok grandpa…

*later* 

Orel: gee Stephanie…my grandpa is dying right now and…I don’t know what to do about it…

Stephanie: well kid, death’s a tricky thing to deal with…there’s really not a lot you can do 

Orel: huh… maybe I should just go for a walk…bye Stephanie…

Stephanie: I’ll see ya’ round kid

Orel: *walking on the sidewalk* 

Joe: oh hey goofy-two-shoes! 

Orel: *sigh* Joe that’s not very nice…my grandpa is dying…

Joe: oh I didn’t know that…my dad is dying too.

Orel: really? That’s awful what happened to him?

Joe: nothing, he just got old and stupid

Orel: Joe! You can’t say that! Don’t you remember honor thy-

Joe: -thy father and mother? No way! My dad’s got nothing honorable about him!

Orel: oh…that makes two of us…what’d he do though?

Joe: you know my mom?

Orel: nurse bendy? Yeah, why?

Joe: …did you know that I’m twelve and she’s only twenty four? 

Orel: *thinking intensely* you- you mean…she was only- ew…maybe there really is nothing honorable about your dad…

Joe: yeah he’s really stupid and nasty…my mom is the only adult in this town who’s actually nice and not a stupid dumb faker like everyone else…

Orel: I guess so…but Stephanie’s really nice! She’s not a faker…I think she and your mom would get along…

Joe: whatever she’s probably not that great 

Orel: well she is! 

Joe: so uh…do you wanna go to my house? My mom is there

Orel: uh…no thanks, I’d rather go to the park! 

Joe: why do you wanna go to the park? It’s not so great! 

Orel: well there’s a little family of centipedes there…and they’re cool!

Joe: Mleh! Centipedes are yucky! I have cupcakes at my house and those are way better than centipedes! 

Orel: well, I guess it’s like reverend putty said: “to each their own!” 

Joe: that’s a stupid quote! We’re going to my house!

*at Joe’s house* 

Orel: wow these cupcakes are pretty good! 

Joe: see I told you! Way better than centipedes!

Orel: I guess so…I’m still pretty upset that my grandpa’s dying though…

Joe: why? He’s not dead yet! If he’s not dead you shouldn’t be sad!

Orel: oh…I’ve never thought of it like that…thanks Joe…

Joe: whatever

Orel: welp…I’m going home now…thanks for the cupcakes!

Joe: ok bye Orel

*later* 

Orel: well…good night grandpa!

Arthur: good night Orel, I’ll see you in the morning…I hope…

Orel: …I…I hope so too… 

*Orel goes to bed and the episode ends*

#moral orel #orel puppington #joe secondopinionson #arthur puppington #not really shipping #lol this is bad #fan script #stephanie putty #nursula bendy

[psalacanthea]

Thanks @oxygenforthewicked for the WiP Wednesday tag!  I’m not writing this week due to Reasons, but I dug this out and I hope it’s amusing.  Texting Thursday?  IDK.  Lol.  A little Darian Tabris x Zevran Arainai x Liana Mahariel (plus baby Adaia)

Arainai/Mahariel/Tabris Family Chat

...

Darian:  So say somebody got rested last night

Darian:  Arrested

Darian:  But they already got bailed out and theres no charges filed 

Darian:  Because someone had proof of 

Darian: Hang on autocorrects not getting it

Darian: Excessive force 

Darian:  The **** Templar’s Office isn’t going to file charges cousin **** threatened to release video of them threatening to curb stomp me when I stopped them beating on um this mage ****

Zevran: Don’t use speech to text.  You always get angry at it. 🖤

Darian:  I’m tired of **** spelling things wrong shut up and listen okay

Darian:  How I get it to make a question

Zevran:  You have to say question mark.

Darian:  They kept me overnight just to scare me **** cowards like I ain’t been in jail before I burned down **** Denerim once

Darian:  Well three blocks of it anyways

Zevran:  Your wife wants me to tell you that she’s going to kill you.

Darian:  **** why’s she just my wife?

Zevran:  My wife would never have a reason to get so angry.  Obviously.  I do not get caught. 

Darian:  That’s not how it works she’s your wife even when she’s mad at me

Zevran:  Did you get video of you fighting them?  I’m assuming that is what happened.

Darian:  Yea I got the whole thing Shianni recorded it

Zevran:  Send it I want to watch. 🗡️

Lia:        NO.

Darian:  Hi bby

Zevran:  That is my cue to open a bottle of wine.

Lia:        You put that video on a physical storage device and delete it off of your phone RIGHT now!  How many times have I lectured you about data security?

Darian:  lol

Lia:       Derry don’t you dare laugh this off.  I’m very serious.  You need backups, you need physical storage, and you need to delete it off your phone.

Darian:  Love you baby

Lia:       What does that have to do with anything?

Darian:  I got **** arrested and this is what you’re worried about it’s just cute as ****

Zevran:  It is extremely cute.

Lia:       Yes it’ll be very cute when the Templars you upset show up at your door, take your phone and destroy it, and beat you to within an inch of your life.  Do you not remember what happened in Amaranthine to Anders?  

Zevran:  No love that doesn’t sound cute.

Lia:        You’re not helping.

Zevran:  Oh.  I was not trying to help.  I am a neutral party in this debate.

Lia:        Data security isn’t something we can be complacent over!

Zevran:  😂😂😂 🖤

Darian:  **** lol

Lia:       Just…send me the video and delete it, please.  I’ll handle it.

Zevran: Hi da

Darian:  Baby girl!  Hi Adaia are you being good for mama and papa?

Zevran:  No

Darian:  Lolol

Lia:        At least your daughter is honest.

Darian:  You gotta try baby girl.   Da will be home soon and then we can cause trouble together

Zevran:  She handed me my phone back and said: I’m too tired for this

Darian:  Gee wonder where she got that from

Zevran:  [image ID: an elven toddler with dark brown curls, golden eyes, and sunglasses on top of her head is dressed in a fuzzy purple bathrobe and Griffey Griffin cartoon character slippers.  She’s holding a wine glass that’s much too large for her, full of pale effervescent liquid.  Her face is painted with garish makeup and a child’s attempt at drawing Vallaslin, and her tiny fingernails have been carefully painted black.]

Darian:  IS THAT FUCKING WINE?

Lia:       …Derry it’s sparkling grape juice.  Baby wine.

Zevran:  Seriously love?

Darian:   Can’t you put it inn one of her little plastic cups or something shell break it

Darian:  We don’t have many good dishes

Lia:        You bought that wine glass from the dollar store.

Zevran:  Did he really think we would give her wine?

Lia:        From a man who spent the night in jail, no less.

Darian:   🤬

Zevran:  😂 

Lia:        Good job successfully changing the subject, Zev.

Zevran:  😏 😏 🖤

Zevran:  Addy wants you to do my nails, too.

Lia:        Do you want black, purple, orange, or holographic sparkles?

Zevran:  Orange with sparkles.  Do you do Orlesian tips?

Darian:   That sounds like a sex thing

Lia:         It really does.

Darian:  GTG babe sweetie I will try not to get arrested again

Darian:  Love

Zevran:  I love you.  Addy loves you too.

Lia:        I love you, please send me the video.  Have Shianni delete it, too.

Darian:  Data security

Zevran:  Data security! 

Lia:       😒

#Tabris x Mahariel x Zevran #zevran arainai #Adaia Tabris #WiP Wednesday #sort of

[kahran042]

Encyclopedia Brown thoughts: book 14

Encyclopedia Brown Sets the Pace

The Case of the Supermarket Shopper:

How come I have a feeling that “playing checkers” is Mr. Quinn’s code for non-S&P approved activities? ;)

Murray Finkelstein? It's nice to know that not just kids have goofy names in Idaville.

Who needs four tubes of toothpaste at once? That alone should put suspicion on Houser.

What kind of supermarket sells brown whisk brooms?

Considering how many downer endings there are in this book, I would have had the painting turn out to be a fake. Or are adults somehow immune to downer endings?

The Case of the Dinosaur Hunter:

Kind of a weird title, seeing as the case is more about towels than dinosaur hunting.

Dinosaur hunting licenses are actually real. Who knew?

Bugs does have a legitimate grievance here, seeing as Garth did knock his towel into the pond.

Machine-washed towels are, indeed, soft and fluffy, which is exactly why I prefer them.

The Case of the Used Firecrackers:

Not much to say about this one. It's yet another "Bugs tries to frame Encyclopedia" case.

The Case of the Ugliest Dog:

Does anyone else have a problem with the top prize in a childrens' dog show being "worst in show"?

IMHO, orange and purple don't clash, but that really all depends on the specific shades in question.

What color is Kate's original skirt that goes with an orange blouse, anyway? I want to say olive or blue.

It's rare for someone who Sally judges to not be guilty. In fact, I think this is the only time.

The Case of Hilbert's Song:

There's a state junior hollering championship? Only in Florida, I guess.

What's the difference between hollering, screeching, screaming, and yelling, or is it just a semantic thing?

Yet another bullshit solution. How many people would know the untrue "fact" that if someone cries a single tear, it will be on the inside corner of the eye?

Was there really a point to Hilbert's song being rejected by the record company? It's not like he'll ever be mentioned again.

The Case of the Crowing Rooster:

Bill Canfield looks much older than eighteen in the illustration for this chapter. Actually, he looks sort of like Richmond from Suikoden II.

Roosters do not crow only at sunrise. I know this because I've found out that people keep chickens just from walking by when their roosters crowed in the middle of the day.

Are hens really smarter than roosters? After all, they're just the male and female of the same species.

The Case of the Bubble Gum Shootout:

When I see the name Cephas, it makes me think of the creepy immortal gravekeeper from Alundra.

What's a "ball of hammered lace"?

The Case of the Boy Juggler:

In which Fangs Liveright's surname changes to Liverright.

Gee, I wonder if Fangs wants to go to Oberlin because that's the school his creator went to?

Was there really any point to having Fangs lose the contest in the end?

The Case of the Practical Jokers:

I find cases involving Lucy Fibbs and her pigs to be pretty dull in general, so I might just pull a @brownencyclopedia here and skim this one.

This is the only mention of Lucy's poodle.

"I don't like practical jokes," Sally said disgustedly virtue-signalled. There, fixed it for you.

#encyclopedia brown #donald j sobol #encyclopedia brown sets the pace

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

How the OP boys would react to you encasing your head in their pecs part 2

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 (wip)

It had been a long day, all you had wanted since you woke up was to go see your boyfriend. But at long last, you and he were together at last.

Sasaki

It was a breezy evening, Sasaki had started drinking on the porch when you had arrived home. You were one of Queen's assistants, and he had been such a diva all day long. He had kept you running around Onigashima pretty much non-stop all day long. Queen would then throw a fit anytime you returned to his workshop because of how long you were gone. Sasaki looked over his shoulder at you and smiled, "welcome home darlin', was wonderin' where you were."

You silently trudged over to him and buried your face into his chest, Sasaki huffed, "bad day?"

You didn't have the energy to response, you just pulled his pecs together, trying to bury your head in them.

Sasaki pulled you into his lap and wrapped his arms around you tightly. "I'll have a servant bring us something to eat in a few minutes."

He was warm, and he smelt good, just being near him like this made all the strain of the day gradually melt away.

Ace

It was two in the morning, and the party for Pops' birthday was still going strong. Everyone was drinking and laughing and having a wonderful time. You, however, were starting to doze off. You were the party planner and host for this event, and you had been up since before the sun rose to put the finishing touches on things. And now, you were starting to doze off in the middle of the party you were supposed to be hosting. Ace was standing in front of you, he noticed how your eyes started to droop, and your unsteady swaying with the undulating of the ship. He smirked to himself and internally cooed at how cute you were.

His musings were interrupted when a wave jerked the ship sharply, and you tumbled into his chest. Ace wrapped an arm around you to prevent you from falling. Marco noticed your stumble, and hollered, "you two okay?"

"ace looked over at Marco and chuckled, "yeah, I think it's their bed time, I'm going to take-"

Ace stopped talking the moment you pushed his pecs against your head and let out a soft moan. His face flushed and he burst into flames from the shoulders up. The rest of the crew laughed as Ace forgot how to breathe.

Izou

You entered your quarters and closed the door behind you, you were exhausted. This week was the week of the crew's annual physical exams. You, Duece, Marco, and the nurses had been up for three days straight performing the exams and filling out the reports. But thankfully that was over and Pops had given the medical staff the rest of the night and tomorrow off, so you could all finally rest, but you were still on call. As you shuffled over to the bed, Izou came out of the connected bathroom. He appeared to be in the middle of his nightly routine. "oh you're back, you look awful."

You smiled over at him, he looked great as always. How he managed to look so flawless was beyond you. "Gee thanks," you chuckled, as he strolled over and pulled you into a hug. Due to your height differences, you ended up face-planted in his warm chest. He smelt like sandalwood and orange blossoms, he must have had an oil bath. Dazed from exhaustion you could only think of how you wanted to be closer to him. You wrapped your arms around his chest, squishing his pecs against your cheeks as you nuzzled him.

Izou yelled, "oi oi oi! I just put moisturizer on there! If I have to reapply it, I will kill you." He gripped the top of your head and pushed you away.

"why must you reject my love?"

"because I'm running low on my moisturizer and you're stealing it! Give it back!" He snapped, scooping what little product you 'stole' off your face and smearing back on his chest.

"you can use my moisturizer if you like, lord knows I haven't had time to use it." You offered.

Izou shook his head and retorted, "hell no, you need it more than I do, now sit down so I can prep you for bed since you're undoubtedly too tired for it ." He gently pushed you down to sit on the bed and went over to the bathroom. Izou came back with a warm washcloth, several products, and a bowl of warm water. He washed your face, hands, and feet with soap and a cleanser, before rubbing his various oils and serums into your skin and applying your moisturizer to your hands, arms, and feet.

Thatch

The battle was over, there had been a scuffle between pops and Shanks. Naturally, you all started fighting as well, and the battle lasted hours, only for both sides to mutually withdraw. You stumbled across the deck to where Thatch was sitting. He looked a little worst for wear, the hair that once was his pompadour now hung limply around his face. Thatch's usually king eyes were sharp and harsh, he looked like a pirate. His shirt was in tatters on his body, so all of his muscles were on display. Thatch had received several cuts that left blood dripping down his right shoulder, his left shoulder, and down the left side of his face. The slash to his temple looked the worst, you knew that it'd turn into a rather nasty scar. Thatch was irately trying to flick his lighter on so he could light up a joint. But the light of the setting sun illuminated him in golden hues that made him look so cool. Fuck you loved the stupid idiot, he was so goddamn pretty.

Thatch was tired and was in no mood to put on his usually cheery face. His gaze narrowed at you as he caught you staring, "you are uninjured?"

You nodded your head and pulled him into a tight hug, nuzzling your head against his chest. Thatch pulled the joint from between his lips and chuckled, "I'm glad to see you too," and he kissed the top of your head. You grinned as you jammed his pecs together and planted a kiss between them. Thatch started laughing at your antics, "Oh sweetheart, you're stupidly cute sometimes. You know that?"

"I do know I'm cute, thank you for reminding me." You mused, giving him a cat-like grin, "now let's get you to Marco to get patched up."

"Nah, he doesn't have time for me, Teach got stabbed again. I'll just have to get this really cute nurse I know to stitch me up." As he said this he wrapped his arms around your waist and pressed his forehead against yours.

You rolled your eyes at his cheesy line, but nonetheless, you smiled and led him to your room where you had a medical kit by his hand.

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#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece sasaki #sasaki #portgas d. ace #fire fist ace #ace #Thatch #one piece thatch #one piece izou #izou #whitebeard pirates #Beast pirates #from the depths of the dragon's hoard #tma original #4/29/22 #no beta we die like men

[yamujiburo]

Jessie and Cassidy reconciliation fanfic thing

I was going through my notes app just now to just clear out some junk and I found something I'd written like a year ago and totally forgot about hahhaha. I don't usually do fanfics but I guess I was in a writing mood that night. I can't remember why I stopped. I either got stuck, didn't know how I wanted it to end or was just having a hard time figuring out like,,,, the arcs and what I wanted the main focus of the story to be. Anyhow, here it is if you wanna read the set up I made for it haha

Jessie, James and Meowth have once again failed to complete a mission and Matori is TIRED of it. She brings it up go Giovanni who tells her not to worry about them. Matori can’t figure out why Giovanni puts up with them and starts digging on possible reasons why Giovanni would keep them around. She decides to go to HR to find answers. There, she meets Wendy.

“Ah– Matori!”

“Pull up records for Jessie, James and–“, Matori notices that Wendy already has Jessie’s files pulled up and gives her a strange look.

“I see you’re already doing your research on Miss Jessie…”

“N-no! Well, yes. It’s just that Jessie has continuously failed almost all missions she’s been assigned! Not to mention she’s singlehandedly almost made the organization go broke. Well, not really but she still owes a lot of money!”

“And the other two?”

“Huh? Oh yeah them, too I guess.”

“I just don’t understand what Giovanni could possible see in them. They’re not good for Team Rocket.”

“Tell me about it, I’ve been trying to get the boss to fire them for years. But he’s got a real soft spot for them apparently. Tch, to think they were the top of their class once.”

“Hmph, I find that hard to believe.”

“I can’t speak for James and Meowth, but Jessie really was a promising recruit. So much so that when she threatened to quit, she somehow manipulated every exec into fulfilling her demands.”

“Threatened to quit?” The gears in Matori’s head began to turn. Sure Giovanni wouldn’t fire the trio, but if they were to quit, there would be nothing he could do.

“Yeah, she had a falling out with her first partner. And instead of being PROFESSIONAL she wined until she got a new one. Then she proceeded to go through like 10 more partners until James came along. If you’ve ever talked to her I’m sure you can tell she’s not the easiest person to work with.”

“Hm. Perhaps it’s time to switch up some teams.”

“C-can you do that? Is that allowed?”

“I could pull some strings.”

“Isn’t that sabotage?” Wendy asks. Matori shoots her a look.

“Call it what you want, but it’s my job to make sure this organization is successful as possible. Getting rid of some problem lackeys will only benefit Team Rocket. If Giovanni won’t do anything about them, then I will.”

“Matori. You are my hero”

“Are there any potential candidates we could temporarily team them up with? Or members they’ve been known to… not get along with?”

A big, Gengar-like smile creeps on Wendy’s face. “I know just the agents.”

_____________________________________________________________

Early in the morning in Jessie and James’ base, they get a call from Matori. Jessie is already annoyed, knowing who’s calling, but she wakes up her team members just in case it was Giovanni.

“A little early don’t you think, Matori?” Matori composes herself and ignores Jessie’s jab.

“Giovanni hasn’t arrived yet, but I have very important news.” Jessie, James and Meowth’s interests are piqued. “Your success rates have been… less than exemplary. But, you have previously shown you are exceptional agents.”

Jessie is taken aback by the, sort of, compliment from Matori. “So what’s the issue?”

“We have reason to believe that, while neither of you are individually the reason for your constant failures, you are incompatible as a team and you are going to be reassigned to different partners, effective immediately.”

James and Meowth look at each other shocked, and the thoughts going through their head were interrupted by their soon to be, not-leader. “WHAT?! You can’t split us up! We–“

“I apologize for the inconvenience. But this is for the benefit of Team Rocket. I do not have time to argue this. It has already been decided and your new partners have been decided. James, you are to return to headquarters where you will meet your new partner and Jessie, you will remain where you are and your new partner will arrive tomorrow.”

“What about, Me-owth?”

Matori pauses. She hadn’t thought about the cat. “You can decide who you wish to go with. Thank you for your time. Best of luck with your new arrangements.”

Matori hangs up. Jessie, James and Meowth stand staring at the screen, solemn. What doe they do now? Years of working together over, just like that.

“UGH THAT LITTLE FOUR EYED BOWL CUT HAIRED FREAK! I’m gonna do something about this! They can’t do this to us!” James gently puts his had on Jessie’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing we can do,”

James packs up, Meowth has decided to go with James. They say their goodbyes. James and Meowth grab the rest of their things and leave. Jessie is left alone with her thoughts.

_____________________________________________________________

Back at headquarters, we see James and Meowth being led by Matori to her office where she says his new partner is waiting. She talks about how this member is in a very similar situation. They walk in and see short, green hair. “BUTCH???”

“Oh no not you guys!”

“If you’re my new partner, that must mean…”

“Oh no,” they all say in unison.

_____________________________________________________________

Jessie still lying in the same place on her bed. Why was she feeling this way? She’d been through so many parters before. Sure she’d been with James and Meowth longer, but she wasn’t one to get attached. Well, not anymore. In the middle of her thought, she hears the elevator to the base coming down. She gets up and makes herself as presentable as possible (over shirt is off, makeup kinda smeared, boots off). Before she can get her shit together, a pair of white boots click, clack in. Jessie looks up, and the flash of orange, blonde seared her eyes.

“CASSIDY?!”

“JESSIE?!”

“No, no, no there has to be some sort of mistake. I can’t be teamed up with you! I hate you!”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“I can’t believe I going to have to work with your ugly ass every day.”

“You’re one to talk. Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Jessie turned to the standup mirror leaning against the wall. She was definitely not looking her best.

“You caught me at a bad time!”

“You sure? I recall you always looking this ratty. I guess it has been a while since I’ve seen you, thank goodness," Cassidy said smugly. Jessie was already pissed off.

“We’re calling Matori RIGHT NOW to fix this.”

“Gee, while you’re looking like that?”

“I DON’T WANNA HEAR IT.” Jessie picked up the communicator, which brandished a large R on the wall. Matori picked up.

“Good afternoon Jessie, are you aware that you’re not in uniform?”

“Cut the crap you clod! You set me up with Cassidy on purpose!”

“Ah I see you’ve met your new partner! Hello, Cassidy.”

“Matori,” Cassidy said with a small bow. Of course Cassidy was trying to stay composed. Just another way to try one-up Jessie.

“We can NOT work together. I demand you put me back on my old team!”

“While I’m not one to disagree with higher ups, Miss Matori, I unfortunately have to side with Jessie on this one. You might not be aware but Jessie and I were partners once in our training days. We simply are not compatible,” Cassidy explained as politely as possible.

“Was there a reason for this, incompatibility? I was looking through your records and it appeared that you two were quite the team back in the day. I had assumed that the executives just wanted two top agents to be on other teams with some less skilled trainees.” Both Cassidy and Jessie blushed.

It was true that Jessie and Cassidy were at the top of their class for quite some time. But the reasons for them being split up were quite… personal.

“Listen, we just can’t work together. Try getting that through that helmet head of yours.”

_____________________________________________________________

~aaaaand this is where i got to~

Anyone wanna finish this for me? /j

I can't remember where I wanted this to go. I think I was gonna have Jessie and Cassidy try to suck it up and work together so they don't lose their jobs. They fight Ash and Goh, trying to get Pikachu as usual and quickly fail because of their bickering. They eventually have a heart to heart, wondering where they went wrong back when they were a team. They say a lot of things that they'd failed to communicate in the past and reconcile.

THEN this is where I kinda got stuck on what I wanted the focus/them to me. There was a version in my head where after they reconcile they like,,, make out and start falling in love again (for those new here, I firmly believe Jessie and Cassidy are bitter exes and had a falling out during their training days). After this their chemistry and communication improve immensely resulting in them succeeding to catch Pikachu. Matori comes to retrieve it but Ash and Goh get it back while it's in Matori's hands (making it her failure). And then I wasn't sure how to end this version. Maybe things going back to normal after Giovanni finds out that Jessie and Cassidy are dating and deems it unprofessional. Jessie, James and Meowth are reunited and Cassidy and Butch are as well. Happy ending were things are as they were but now Cassidy and Jessie are on good terms and still together maybe???

The oooother version was centering the story more around Jessie and her inability to keep her partners/not appreciating them. If I went with this I think I'd start off the story differently with her being a dick to James and Meowth (which she is a lot of the time but this time she crosses a line). After the team switch she finds that she really had been taking her teammates for granted. I think Cassidy and Jessie still have that heart to heart but then it's more about how Jessie hurt Cassidy and Jessie kinda realizes that she's still making the same errors currently. They reconcile buuut the both of them still want their old partners back so they hatch a plan to successfully steal Pikachu but ensure that Ash gets it back when it's in Matori's hands. They request that they be paired up with their old teammates and in exchange, wouldn't tell Giovanni that Matori messed up. Everything goes back to normal the end.

I had too many jumbled ideas and because I don't have the attention span to write for more than a couple hours I just dropped this LOL. Just thought I'd share in case anyone found this remotely interesting or entertaining hehe

#long post #yamushipping

[cuppasunu]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

synopsis: where juyeon loses all his memories after a terrible accident. many years later he’s bound to marry another woman—not knowing their photographer used to be his girlfriend of seven years. will he remember their love?

genre: series (fluff; angst; suggestive)

pairing: lee juyeon x fem. reader

playlist: spotify link

status: completed.

w/c: 1.4K words

once more masterlist

kyu is listening to ... take her to the moon by moira dela torre

[2018]

“So, a spring wedding would probably be perfect for this venue, right y/n?” Juyeon’s fiancée, Sihyeon asks, breaking your trance reminiscing about your memories with Juyeon. 

“I’m sorry, I was distracted.. This is where you’re holding the wedding?” you asked, nearly choking on your water.

“Well, the date isn’t until spring next year so we’re still looking for options. It’s funny how my love actually insisted on the idea of having our engagement shoot to be done in a flower field..” she laughs, but hearing that just digs a deeper wound inside you, realizing this is exactly where Juyeon has taken you on dates. 

Taking a deep breath, you excuse yourself and leave the couple to look around the location. Your eyes cannot peel away from Juyeon’s smile, it looks like it could reach from one ear to the other. 

he looks so happy..

Rushing on your way to the back door, you bump into a person.. maybe two (?) coming from the parking lot. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sor-”

“y/n.”

Hearing that familiar voice, your eyes immediately dart up meeting your old friend, Changmin. You glance past his shoulders—there’s Chanhee and Kevin. That persistent feeling of wanting to run away? Oh, it’s back and it’s even more intense. 

Before you can even move your feet, Changmin grabs a hold of your wrist out to the parking lot, checking if the four of you are out of the couple’s sight. 

“Y/n.. did you meet them already?” Kevin’s genuine concern is present on his face, but you’re not really sure if that’s for you or his dear friend. 

“Did you tell him the truth?” Changmin asks.

“Hold on- I think I need some explanation on my end too! I didn’t know I was meeting him today, much less find out he’s getting married and he doesn’t remember me? What happened? Does he remember you? When did the accident happen?” you finally burst, tears streaming down your face. 

You all stood there in silence, trying to make the situation make sense. Changmin looked like he was going to say something, and his expression seems like he wants to burn you alive. 

“..we should have come earlier..” Chanhee hisses out of frustration, while putting the effort of calming Changmin down.

“We don’t owe you anything, y/n. Not one explanation. Especially when you br- when you left Juyeon.”

His stinging words hurt as if it just slapped you across the face. You chose to keep your mouth shut, knowing how much those words may have been painful, it was equally as accurate. 

“Well, you know most of it. Before the accident, he already got rid of all your pictures, memories, everything.. So when we found out he had amnesia, we all thought it would be better to not remind him of you,” Kevin explained, “It’s better this way, y/n. They’re happy. He’s happy, now. And all those memories he had of you, it doesn’t hurt him anymore..”

but he forgot all our good ones too..

You sink down on the bench, processing the mess you have entered. The concrete was rough as you threw your head, leaning on the wall, “Is it too late to back out now?”

“Honestly, yea. Sihyeon has been raving about your work for months now. She’s been so excited about the thought of working with you but obviously we can’t stop her without raising any questions about your past with Juyeon,” Chanhee replies, “That’s why we were hoping to catch you before they did in case it all went wrong.”

“.. so she doesn’t know either..”

“She doesn’t. So please, keep this up. Until they get married at least. If you leave now, you’re going to have to explain why,” Changmin mutters bitterly, “Can you really live with the thought of hurting Juyeon again when he realizes the past five years of his life has been a lie?” 

You shake your head, coming into terms with everything that’s going to happen. You stood up from your seat, fixing your hair and wiping away your tears.

“How long have they been together?”

“2 years.”

[2008  — flashback]

“Y/n, it’s unfair to be pretty and smart and talented AND be in a relationship..” your best friend, Mina, jokingly complains. 

“And I think it’s time I set you up with one of Juyeon’s friends,” you replied, making the final touches on your hair in front of the mirror, “Hm, what about Kevin? Maybe Changmin?”

“Oh no, I’m not a sorry case! I’m perfectly satisfied being single,” she smiles, “Less distractions too, I have college to think about missy.”

“Who said that I’ll be abandoning my dreams for a relationship?” you protest.

“Alright- alright, I know you know better than that. It has worked for more than a year.. “

“Two years! It’s our second year anniversary today,” telling her as your ears perk up to hear the sound of your doorbell, “He’s here.”

“Now, have fun on your date!” Mina fixes your collar before ushering you out the door.

After waving your goodbye, you made your way to the gate, light on your steps. Juyeon is standing outside, sniffing a small bundle of tulips before hiding it behind his back when he hears you coming. 

“Hi hun, happy second year anniversary!”

Juyeon greets you with a kiss on the forehead before presenting the flowers to you, “Hey babe, happy anniversary.”

“As always, you know which one’s my favorite,” you tell him, beaming at the buds of vibrant orange on your hand.

“It never changes, y/n,” he pokes fun at your reaction, “Actually I switched it up this time. It’s orange instead of the usual pink.”

“Ha ha,” you laugh sarcastically.

While walking to the bus stop, Juyeon tells you that today’s location will be a secret. But judging on the basket he’s holding, it’s not much of a surprise.

“I have an idea~”

“That’s not fair..” he huffs.

“You baby. Okay, I won’t ruin the surprise. I’ll wait when we get there.” 

And as you guessed, he picked the Seoul Forest as your picnic location. Thankfully, on this cool spring day, it’s the perfect balance of sunny but windy weather. He lays down a blanket on the shade and sets the food he brought out of the basket.

“Wow, did you make all of this?” you’re amazed at the variety of snacks he made.

“I really should say Chanhee did all the work and I just ‘helped’ but I’m always trying to impress you so I’ll take the credit,” Juyeon sheepishly grins.

“Oh sure, yes. My chef boyfriend,” you say, pinching his cheek.

Juyeon scrunches his nose upon hearing that—boyfriend. It’s been two years since you gave him that sweet yes to his adorable confession, but he’s not going to get used to hearing you call him your boyfriend anytime soon. Of course you notice the way he gets shy when you do, so in every possible moment, you made sure to call him that. 

“Right- my gifts,” you remember, grabbing your bag for the small box you’ve prepared to give him.

With raised eyebrows, his eyes follow the box you’ve given him. Opening the ribbon that tied it prettily, Juyeon scans through the envelopes that carry the letters you wrote. Inside, there’s also a handkerchief neatly folded at the bottom of the box.

“You can read the letters later,” you mumble, “but quick, look at the handkerchief and check the embroidery.”

He touches the edge of the light blue fabric— L J Y with a tiny arrow right beside it. At the same time, you pulled your own handkerchief to show him where you have stitched your own initials at the same place, but instead had a heart right next to it. 

You look at his expression to gauge his reaction, and Juyeon’s face says it all. You swore he was so close shedding a tear or two, his eyes watering at the brim. Now, that genuinely surprised you; he wasn’t the type of guy that would seem to be easily moved. 

“Do you like it?” you ask him.

“Do I like it? y/n.. I love it,” he sighs, cupping your cheek on his hand, “Thank you.”

You got on your knees to reach over the food and give him a peck on the lips. Feeling his smile pressed against you, he goes back in to kiss you again. It was sweet and tender—the way you would describe your relationship.

The rest of the afternoon went by like a blur, but all it reminds you was that it was a day well spent.

previous : next

a/n: oooh we met the rest of 98z !! why are they so mad that y/n’s back.. hm? gee i wonder why :> anyhow feel free to shoot me any asks of your theories muahahahah. i mean the plot is pretty much all done but i’m curious about what you think heehee

taglist:

@fullsunsays @haylo4ever @fleurseoul @deobi-pabo @amajeekies @lsangyeons @mydaintydaisy @sunwoowuvbot @elcie-chxn​ @zyoumeval​ @autumnleafez​ @nyuwings​ @hae-chans​ @mistresskate101​ @heartyyjeno​ @nanadreamies​ @bacardihs​ @sanniescat​ @gughoul​ @hhjvlogs

please let me know if you would like to be included or taken out <3

#the boys juyeon #the boyz #kdiarynet #deobiblr #juyeon x reader #tbz juyeon #the boyz fluff #the boyz angst #the boyz imagines #the boyz scenarios #the boyz au #the boyz social media au #the boyz juyeon fluff #juyeon au #lee juyeon #juyeon #the boyz new #the boyz kevin #the boyz changmin #the boyz q #the boyz chanhee

[intotherumiverse]

Chapter 2

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: I’m still on my fae bull shit so yee have fun with this  ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: blood, violence, pov changes ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ: @lilsparkyswife​, a brief mention of @katsumiiii​ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.9k 

Yvonne’s Pov

The Summer Court was known for a lot of things. Yes, we did the dirty work for people who didn’t want to be seen doing it. We lied for liars, stole for stealers, and cheated cheaters. But we were big on loyalty. I mean if we couldn’t trust one of our own, who could we trust? But driving back home, knowing what we had to tell Bakugou….

Maybe it was better if we lied.

We found him training. Sweat dripped down his face as more and more holograms blur around him. His muscles tighten in frustration as the holograms look like they are about to win.  Power training was something I always hated. We were already fast and strong, why work yourself to the bone to gain some other ability. But some people did it, Like (Y/n), but others have tried every day to improve themselves to no avail. All of us has given up at some point, Bakugou was just a matter of time.

The hologram knocked his sword out o his hand, and he glances at it as if something miraculous was going to happen. When he realizes nothing is happening, he lets out a grunt of anger.

“He’s rarely happy anymore,” I think to myself. “ Well, it wasn’t unusual, well for Bakugou at least, but his obsession was going a bit too far”

“Good luck with him,” Mina says while Mira walks away.

“If you live we’ll see you in the meeting room. You know where, so don’t die.”

“Gee, Such wonderful friends,” I say back.

. Turning back towards the entrance of the training room, I walk, cleared my throat, and spoke up

“Bakugou?”

All I get is another grunt as a reply, knowing he was somewhat listening. He continued his workout, concentrating on summoning a weapon in his hand.

“Bakubitch!”

He gives me a glare. Well, that got his attention.

“Whatdoyouwant?”

I hated when he was like this, not wanting to listen to anyone else even his friends. Steeling myself, I spit out the ugly truth to him

“(Y/n)gotkidnappedanditwasn’tourfault.”

“What? You said that too fast for me to even hear.”

“(Y/n) got kidnapped-”

“HUH?? HOW’D YOU IDIOTS LET THAT-”

“Will you shut up and let me explain?”

Rolling my eyes I wanted until Bakugou was calm, well calm enough, to begin.

“We had a mission. One assigned to us by the King. Someone from Spring Court wanted someone from Autumn off their back and they had enough money to pay for it. Shit went sideways and long story short, (Y/n) got taken… by Izuku Midoriya.”

I barely had time to doge before the knife was embedded into the target behind me. Such primal behavior, attacking me without warning.

“So you’re telling me… Izuku Midoriya took (Y/n) and you and the rest of the team, just fucking stood there?”

Another knife dodged. He’s making it harder and harder for me not to hit him

“Will you stop using me as target practice long enough so we can get her back?”

“It’s the Autumn Court. Who knows where they took her? She could be halfway to the gates of hell and back before we figure it out.”

Walking over to the target and prying the daggers off of it, I threw them back in rapid succession. He dodged the first one, but the second one scratched his face, leaving a thin line of blood in its wake.

“Next time you throw a knife at me make sure it hit its intended mark”

And with that, I leave the training room.

(Y/n)‘s POV

Being interrogated by the Autumn Court was… It’s an experience, let's just say. They had a lot of ways of making you talk, and once you open your mouth there is no stopping them.

Due to their power, vocals are the thing that they focus heavily on. It’s easy to fall into their trap but easy to evade it if you know what you’re doing. Just don’t say anything. I’ve been doing that for three hours now.

Granted it was hard. They tried everything short of laying hands on me. Ripping my dress, threatening my family and friends, you know the usual. But they couldn’t get me to talk. Then they called the motherfucking prince, who also happens to be the person I wanted dead.

“Just answer the question, doll, and you can go home.” Stupid motherfucker, staring down at me with that condescending smile I think.  The haze of his power swirling around me, deep and smoky. Izuku was powerful, yes. But against me, he was nothing.

Smiling at him, I think to myself ‘You’ll get me to talk when I’m dead and gone’

Tracing his hand on my jawline slowly, like I was glass, brittle and ready to break. He stares deep into my eyes and for a moment, a hint of a second, I see the pain in his eyes. Something indescribable, intangible, but somehow there. And the moment is over. Harshly grabbing my chin, the pain is covered with feral, oddly flat green eyes.

“Tell me. Or else we’ll have to resort to… uglier methods of gaining information from you. And trust me, darling, you won’t like those methods.”

I took the saliva from my own mouth, aimed carefully, and spit on him. It landed directly on his eye.

“You fucking cunt!” He recoils in disgust, wiping his eye fervently. I smile in pride, knowing I got under his skin.

He backs up away from the cell I was in, taking one more look at my triumphant face, before saying to the guards, “Make sure she doesn’t escape.”

I heard his angry footsteps echo, and finally, the silence came.

The guards snicker at the recent events, before one of them saying,

“You’re going to regret that, you know? No one messes with Prince Midoriya and lives to tell the tale.”

“Guess I’ll be the first,” I replied back.

And then I broke the chains.

Izuku’s Pov

Fuck I missed her. She was the part of me that I never knew I needed. She was my blood, my bones, framing me into what I am now. And seeing her now, it made my bones ache, my blood sing. An agonizing, beautiful song. Placing my head into my hands, I bite the insole of my palms.

‘Where did it all go wrong?’ I thought to myself.

Sorting myself out, I walk through the quiet corridors of the Autumnal Palace. The sun shining through the high glass windows, mocking me with its beauty. It seems fit, having such a wonderful day go on outside as I suffer internally. With hastened pace, I make my way towards my personal team.

Stopping in front of the common room, I fix myself, running my hairs through my hair before walking in.

“Oh hey man,” Sero was the first one who saw me, giving a toothy smile “How’d the interrogation go…” he trails off, seeing the scowl on my face.

“So not well” One of Shoji’s many arms pops up and says.

Choosing my words carefully I say “It didn’t go as expected. (Y/n)’s a difficult one.”

Difficult wasn’t even the basis to cover it. She was infuriating, complex, and every time I see her it spurs my heart on erratically. But how could I say that in words?

My team was a good one, personally trained by myself, but sometimes they were a little too bit much.

Ochako pipes up from where she was sitting “Izu, don’t worry. We finally caught (Y/n)! After two and half years no less. All your hard work won’t be for nothing.”

“Yeah, man! This is cause for celebration! We finally caught (Y/n), Summer Court’s deadliest assassin. It’s time to kick back and celebrate-��� At that moment, Ojirio storms in, face in pain as blood soaks his normally white clothes. The look on his face said that something was clearly wrong.

“(Y/n) escaped)”

Cocking my eyebrow I stare at Sero.

“Celebration huh?”

(Y/n)’s Pov

I hated being chased. Everyone talks about the exhilarating feeling of almost not making it but does anyway, but all I feel is annoyed. Turning another corner I hear in the distance. Luckily the guards tattered the ends of my dress, so it was easier to run in it

“Don’t let her escape! We need her alive!”

‘Autumn Court’ I thought to myself ‘One person escapes and they go bat shit crazy. Well, it is me.”

I look around looking for a place to hide out until the guards’ pass. Then looking up I spot...

“A vent. Perfect.” I whisper to myself. Working quickly, I made my way into the ventilation system. I keep myself there, holding my breath until I hear footsteps. It was two of the workers there.

“It’s such a shame,” one says to another. “King Toshinori has never done anything helpful since the Prince had been announced.” The other one shakes their head shamefully.

“I know right? Even since Izuku became prince, he’s nowhere to be seen or heard. It’s like he just placed all the burden on Prince Izuku and moved on with his life.”

Oh? Izuku’s being packed with the burden. I guess Von will find that information useful. Waiting until I couldn’t hear the voices of anyone, I get down from the vents.

“Easy as pie.” I smile at my genius.

“Spread out and find her! She couldn’t have gone far!” I see one the second in command, Ochako Uraraka yells. My smile turns into a grimace at her figure. I’ve never liked her but after the incident three years ago…

I didn’t let myself think of it, rather waited until I couldn’t hear footsteps anymore before dropping out of the vent.

Corridor after corridor, I run the palace. The orange-gold of the palace becoming a blur as I see the doors towards my freedom.

“THERE SHE IS. AFTER HER!” Fuck they found me. I was almost there, just a little more… Then I feel a large object knock into my back.

Giving a little as I went down, I turn quickly. Seeing the familiar hair of…

“(Y/n) don’t do this,” His soft voice rings out, power laced in it even now. “Just come back and we can get you home safely” Gritting my teeth at Izuku, I clench my fist and throw a punch. All the while my other hand summons a small dagger before dipping it in some poison and stabbing Izuku in the thigh.

How dare he. How dare he pretend that he cares, after all, he did to me, to my Court.

“Fuck!” Izuku screams.

Pulling him up by his collar I spit it out.

“Rot in hell.”

In the back, the rest of his team runs, seeing their leader hurt.

Not sticking around, I take off running, getting the doors of the front of the castle.

The night was dark as I fumbled slightly down the stairs of the castle.

‘Shit, shit, shit. I need a place to hide’ I think.

Running towards the car area of the courtyard, I see a black party bus sitting fairly near the gates. Sneaking into the back doors, I sit in the darkness.

“She couldn’t have gone far, split up and search.” I hear the voices agree before splitting off in different directions.

“Well, Well, WELL.” I’m suddenly knocked off my feet, and without another chance to regain my balance, my chin is grabbed. Sharp nails meet my flesh, threatening to make me bleed.

“What should we do with her Dabi?” a feminine voice reaches my ears.

“Drug ‘er. We’ll deal with her when the others come back. Shiggy will know what to do with ‘er”

“Sure.” Something stabbed into my neck and everything goes dark.

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[soulwillower]

long way home • richie tozier

(richie tozier x reader)

requested:  please please please do a richie x reader about long way home by 5sos

warnings: nothing really, some mentions of canonic trauma but its really vague and underaged drinking

i was happy to write this bc it def got me out of my slump! lmk if yall want more fics

(also i loved 5sos so much back when the self titled album came out in like 2014. i was such a huge fan in middle school so this was so nostalgic to write!!) 

[reader + losers are in their first year of college, set around early summer 1995.]

2.9k words

♡

"i don't really know what else to do. we have an hour and a half until we meet everyone." you say, breaking the momentary silence that had fallen upon the car after bev had climbed out the back. you hum, settling back against the passenger seat, head lulling to meet richie's gaze.

 you can't help but smile. he's looking at you - just staring, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. he hums, too, turning his head, arm grabbing the shoulder of your seat as he backs up the car. "i have an idea. let's just go - what?" he asks, smiling with a chuckle as he catches you staring at him.

you blink as you flush, "i don't know. just really missed you." you say with a laugh, shaking your head as memories flood your mind. his face flickers for a second and he shakes his head, hair bouncing slightly in his flattery. "gee, i missed you too. it kinda sucks that we all went to opposite sides of the country." 

you blow air from your lips gently in agreement as richie starts to drive somewhere east. "yeah. not seeing you for six months is, surprisingly, pretty shitty." you say, causing richie to snort. "you could barely handle it." he says, hand shifting gears as he stops at a stop sign. 

you roll your eyes, but you don't tell him the truth: he's right. "let me tell you, when i got the bear last, i sure wanted to forget all about you." you say, kicking your feet up on his dash. 

you and the other losers all split ways after graduation. of course, you all still kept in touch with phone calls, letters, and that of the sort. but you all had found a favorite way to all still feel close together: a toy canvas bear bev found that you all signed and drew on, shipping it around the country and letting it stay with each person for a week. 

you'd all been printing photographs of the bear with yourselves at various places around all your campuses and sending them along with the bear as little post cards. the most recent from richie had the tattooed-bear propped next to him at a party, smirking with the bear in a vulgar position that had made you roll your eyes so hard you almost got a headache.

 that was in april, and you spent the month and a half after that missing richie and your other dumbass friends so much it hurt. 

richie smiles, "oh, yeah. that bear had some fun times with us up in the ol' N-Y-C."  "-don't call it that."  "-anyways, i did miss you guys, i wish you could meet my roommate, charlie, he's a hoot. i almost wanted to stay up there and have you come to me, y'know?"  you nod, all too familiar with that feeling. "yeah, i wanted to do that too. there was some kind of-" you stop, frowning. do you really want to admit this to anyone? will they think it's weird? but then you remember it's richie. "-i don't know, some kind of dread i felt at having to come back here." 

it's quiet for a second, and you think you said something wrong, but richie's knuckles tighten slightly and he nods, "me too. i have...bad feelings from this place. i didn't want to say anything, but- i don't know. i feel like something's..." but the thought seems to swim away from his voice, getting lost in the dredges of his brain.  

and then as if on cue, the old car bumps its way over a speedbump and you cross past old neibolt street near the tracks. 

 a sick shiver runs down your spine as your eyes fall on the long road, fading away and extending as far as your eye can see...almost into a foggy dark haze, the train tracks running parallel making you feel desolate. 

clouds suddenly move to cover the sun in the sky and you feel cold - you feel like something happened here, something important - but you have no idea. it makes you anxious, so you just swallow, saying nothing and instead looking ahead. richie does the same, and his knuckles are pale against the wheel. 

"the only reason i came back was so i could see everyone." you say. it's quiet, but you know richie's agreeing with you. 

the car rumbles on, eventually pulling past your old high school. you perk up, pointing to the glass and laughing. "wow, look at that shithole." 

"swore we'd never go back there, didn't we? when we left?" richie says, amusement lacing his tone. you're clearly both relieved to have changed the subject, and you nod, chewing your lip. "yeah. you know, i know it was really terrible and stuff, but i have some pretty fond memories from that place." 

humming, richie nods and slowly pulls into the parking lot. “remember those days?” he says, “kickin back in the ol’ schoolyard during lunch.” 

you do remember those hot days, richie, bill and bev smoking cigs while you and eddie play a game of marbles or scramble to copy richie’s math homework. ben reading a book, mike eating stan’s sandwich. the heat barreling down on the eight of you... 

he stops the car next to the football field and you snort slightly at its misery in the dying purple and blue of the summer twilight. "remember those bonfires that were always over in the woods right there?" he points a chipped nail towards the dense trees on the other side of the field, and you can see it. 

the crackling of the wood, the orange glow reflecting the light strands of stan’s dark curls. there’s a sea of students from your class and the class above, everyone rowdy with drunken fun. there’s laughter drowned out by the boombox placed on the outskirts, blasting a salt-n-peppa song that has eddie bouncing around with some kids from track. over to the side, you can nearly see bev's lips curl around a note as richie strums on someone else's guitar, putting together some surprisingly pleasant chords while mike throws twigs into the fire, singing softly with richie and bev. 

you can almost smell the smoky hot air from those nights and you remember the odd sensation of feeling invincible back in those days, when your greatest fear was nothing more than coming across your parents when you were too hungover to remember anything the next morning. 

it’s almost melancholic, the realization that you’ll never have those years again. you’ll never have your friend group in the same way as you did in high school, and it was barely over a year ago. it hurts a bit, until you realize you’re here, in the car with richie. 

but still, despite the feeling, you grin. “why did we think it was a good idea to party so close to the school?” 

richie chuckles, “it was safer. for some reason.” 

it makes you smile, "i wonder if those pabst cans are still hidden in all those hollow logs." you muse, a gentle smile splaying over your lips. richie huffs a small laugh at the memory of jorge garcia drunkenly stuffing the empty beer cans quickly into the log when the cops came. 

a car pulls into the vacant lot behind you, and richie takes the liberty of driving away again, still not really sure where you're going. 

the trees roll past, and soon you're passing through the downtown section of derry, causing the two of you to fall silent as your eyes flick up and down the nearly desloate streets. the aladdin passes by quickly and you remember going to see so many films with the others for less than five bucks a pop, richie slipping an arm around your shoulders and whispering in your ear about the weird worker who always gave you the eyes. 

you smile lightly as your eyes fall to look ahead, passing the corner store. you remember how many times you and richie and stan stopped there after classes or during lunch to grab slushes while the workers weren’t looking. you remember the sticky fingers and bright blue tongues. 

then as you stare more at the ugly front of the store, memories from middle school scratch the surface of your brain. "didn't the boys..." you say, perking up as you turn and watch it pass, richie looking at you attentively. "-eyes on the road, rich." you say absent-mindedly, "...didn't they... steal stuff from there? i can't remember why... it was for ben. tissues?" you ask, tilting your head. richie's brows furrow. "i had to stay outside with him, all i remember is bein' pissed i couldn't go in. dunno why, though." he mutters. you hum, sinking back in your seat. 

"crazy, how quickly you forget your childhood." he says quietly. 

the town slowly fades away before your eyes, and its just then that you realize you're going the opposite way from bill's. then it's plain grassland and marshes, dipping into the barrens. your lips twitch and the silence, while pleasant, makes you feel nervous. 

you look to richie, all nervous slowly releasing from your body. 

you feel stupid for thinking it, and you don't dare say it, but there's something really sweet about being in the middle of nowhere with him. 

you feel like driving along this ugly, terrible road on the outskirts of a truly ugly and terrible town with someone as beautiful and captivating as richie is such an important moment; as if the roads along here are a place only you and richie share to yourselves. 

"i kind of like taking the long way home with you." you let slip instead, instantly feeling hot and panicked as the words leave your mouth. "y-you know, because i just really didn't want to- er, i don't like being-" 

as you stutter out some excuses, he leans forward towards the wheel, face turning to you with a smirk. "oh?" he asks. you feel flustered, your hands sweating and heart tingling as you stare at his handsome face. 

"god, sorry." you say, feeling flushed, "i don't know why i keep rambling. it's so awkward." 

"y/n, you could talk about anything." he says with a laugh, and you look at him, trying to ignore the sheer zoo of animals parading around in your stomach and instead escaping this moment with a sarcastic, "even dead squirrels?" 

he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, his hair glinting in the light. "yeah, whatever baby. i just don't wanna be wasting my time alone when i could be here with you. that's what i'm trying to say." 

and the stupid pet name almost makes you snort but you also get butterflies, the words that he's said making you smile so wide you're almost embarrassed. "yeah, well." you say bashfully, "i guess spending my time with you is, like... the best part of coming back home." 

you avoid eye contact, staring out the window as you pass the house of your junior year bio partner. "hey," richie nudges your jaw and you almost jump at the feeling of his cold ring against the warmth of your skin. he speaks softly. "i'd never let you down, you know." he says, mischief in his eyes. you smile against his hand and look at him, his blue eyes warm and inviting and looking like home. 

your eyes fall back towards the windshield and you see a sign up ahead. shifting, you look at richie again to find him still staring. 

he's got such a terrible habit of watching you instead of the road (he has since high school), and that combined with his lead foot (also since high school - wentworth tozier was a menace on the streets) has you conditioned into reminding him of every obstacle that he may run into while driving. 

"stop sign, richie." you mutter, knowing in his ramble he won't notice it (it happened way too many times as high schoolers). he seems to not really hear it, and you say again, "stop sign!"

just before it's too late, the car lurches as he slams the breaks and you just barely hit the white line, your hands bracing yourself against the dashboard. "oh my god." you hiss, shaking your head. richie's laughing. 

"we've been hitting every red light. can't i just have one pass to not stop at one of these things?" richie says. you roll your eyes with a slight head shake. you can't believe him. 

"you'll be the death of me, tozier." you mutter. richie's still laughing quietly and then he takes a big sigh, hand reaching out. you lean forward, hand reaching for the volume knob on the stereo just as richie does the same, and your hands brush by accident. you feel warm and instead of pulling away, his hand covers yours and he gently turns your hands, bringing up the volume of a green day song. it's seemingly just in the background as you watch your hand in richie's, then slowly turning your gaze up to his face. 

he just stares at you as you stare back, wanting so badly to kiss him but wondering if he feels the same. 

"hey." he whispers, quiet for the first time possibly ever. "hey." you respond softly, watching as he comes a bit closer. his hand is still in yours. "i am so happy to be home. with you." he says sincerely, his eyes wide and honest behind his glasses and his smile soft.  your breath catches slightly and you smile, "me too. i always feel like this is the way it's supposed to be. u-us." 

something in richie's eyes change, a light of sort, and then he's leaning into you and you're kissing. 

his hand that isn't in yours falls to softly rub your thigh and you're taking a shuddering breath as your lips touch his. he tastes like mint chapstick and those stupid red-hots he was eating earlier, his lips slightly cold but his tongue warm as he slowly pulls you closer to him. 

your mind almost falls blank as the world melts away, the only thing in your mind is how long you've missed out on this - richie is kind of unexpectedly a fantastic kisser. you pull him closer by his hair as his tongue grazes yours, his thumb tilting your jaw for a better angle. 

but suddenly a horn honks loudly behind you and you both spring apart, your stomach panging with anxiety at the noise.

"shit." you hiss as you remember you're at a stop sign. richie snorts slightly, a smirk on his face despite the blush on his high cheekbones, feet going back to the gas pedal and clutch. his hand leaves your thigh as he drives forward and you clear your throat as the car turns behind you at the intersection, leaving you two back in the middle of nowhere with just you two. 

it's tense for a few minutes, neither of you two really talking and you can tell the tension is going to kill richie, his hand twitching on the shift and his leg bouncing. 

you break the silence after a couple more moments, "did you want to pull over-"  "-yes." he says quickly, car almost swerving as he pulls off the road near the quarry. you laugh and grip the handle of the car as you slide to a stop and he laughs too, the feeling of glee unmatchable. 

you both unclick your seatbelts after gaining a few breaths, and then you're leaning over the console to kiss richie hard enough on the lips that he falls back towards the window. he holds your face with his hands and he laughs a bit into the kiss, teeth grazing your bottom lip before tugging it. "goddamn, you're eager." he mutters into your mouth. 

you smirk, pulling back. "fine, i don't have to kiss you. we have to be at bill's soon, anyways." you say, feigning a fake dismissive voice. 

"wait, no, no. we've still got 20 minutes." richie defends after glancing at the stereo on the dash. his eyebrows raising in a plea. you giggle, leaning towards him and bringing your arm over. he's beaming as your face nears his and he moves to kiss you but you turn your head, instead letting his lips graze your neck as you lean to turn off the headlights.

"tease." richie mutters hotly against the skin of your neck before biting down softly, kissing over the skin. "i thought you said i was eager?" you say with a teasing smile. he hums, "y'know, it's pretty unfair to be teasin' me, toots. i've been eager to kiss you since we were seventeen." he says, and you can't help but smile, pulling him in to a kiss as his hands slide up your thighs and yours tangle in his messy curls.

you pull away slightly, "you want to get in the backseat?" 

taglist:  @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @stenbrozier​  @sft-core @clownsloveyou  @moon-shine-baby​ @trashedfortozier  @daughter-of-the-stars11 @oceandog13​ @chl0bee @kait16xo @upamongthestarss @fiantomartell @beverlyparkerr @beauregard-s @screammin @leighjaenikhowell @cowbellies @deepestofwaters @five-motherfucking-hargreeves @sassy-uris @loverloserrr @hauntingkaspbrak @soph-ec @hockslutter  

© all content belongs to soulwillower 2020. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.

#richie tozier x reader #losers x reader #losers club x reader #bill denbrough x reader #stanley uris x reader #eddie kaspbrak x reader #beverly marsh x reader #mike hanlon x reader #ben hanscom x reader

[beware-of-you-98]

Ice Cream (BAU Family Fluff Fic)

BAU fam getting ice cream on a road trip featuring Hotch being a disgruntled dad, Emily being a rebellious little shit, Derek being an annoying big brother, Spencer just existing (seriously, all he wants is a Dilly Bar for god sake!!), Penelope egging them on, JJ being a sweet baby angel and Rossi being the only sane one in this entire fic

ao3 link

Aaron Hotchner loosely grips the wheel of the SUV, briefly looking in his rear view mirror to check on the rest of the team and ensure they're ready for the nearly two hour drive back to the jet (and to make sure they're buckled because, well, it's the dad in him that wants to check.)

Derek sits directly behind him, buckled up and lounging back comfortably in his seat. His earbuds are in, and no doubt his music is on full blast to drown out the rest of the team crammed into the van.

Penelope sits in behind the passenger's seat on her iPad, a set of thick, chunky headphones plugged into the device. She's buckled, immersed in whatever game she must be playing.

Directly behind her in the very back is JJ, who has her chin resting on her palm as she looks out the window even if the van isn't in motion yet.

Buckled.

Spencer sits in the middle at the very back, his long legs stretched out between Derek and Penelope. He has a thick, worn book in his hand, his finger gliding quickly down the pages as he takes in the words. ("Yes, he really can read that fast," Hotch often has to tell skeptics. "Yes, he can really process all that information. No, he's not a robot.") By the speed the young profiler is reading, Hotch knows that he'll be done with that book by the time they make it to the jet.

Buckled.

Sitting just behind Derek is Emily. She leans her head against a pillow she must have somehow smuggled in the back (Hotch also thinks it's entirely possible JJ gave her travel pillow to Emily, but none of that really matters.) The brunette is struggling to keep her eyes open, will probably be out as soon as the van is in motion.

Not buckled.

"Emily, put your seatbelt on," Hotch reminds her patiently.

Emily grumbles, grouchily reaching behind her. "You put your seatbelt on," she mutters, laying her head back down on the pillow.

Hotch let's the comment slide because he hears the click of her belt buckle.

He turns to briefly check on Rossi, whose sitting beside him in the passenger's seat. He's designated himself as the  map reader, the large square piece of paper folded out on his lap. (Hotch doesn't really think they need a map because they have a GPS right there but whatever. He'll let Dave do what the hell he wants.)

"Everyone ready to go?"

A chorus of "yes" and affirmative hums (and a disgruntled grumble from Emily) is all the motivation Hotch needs to start up the van and head out for the long trip they have to make back to the jet.

The highway is lit up harshly under the bright, unforgiving Arizona sunlight, heatwaves practically radiating from the asphalt. The air conditioning is on full blast in the van, providing semblance of relief from the harsh  and unforgiving heat. The van is sandwiched between the desert landscapes, long, green cacti and orange canyons towering like giants in the sand. Despite the time of day, the flat roads are virtually clear, sparse amount of other vehicles littering the highway.

Spencer looks up from his book after forty-seven minutes of straight reading, using his finger to mark his place. He brings up his other hand, uses the back of it to wipe his eyes as he yawns. He stiffly stretches his limbs, blinking hard as he stares out the bright windshield.

He focuses his attention up ahead on a blue highway guide sign, eyes scanning through the fast food and gas station logos without much thought. His eyes light up, though, when he spots a white square, signature red lip shaped logo stamped in the middle. "Hotch, there's a Dairy Queen at the exit coming up in the next five miles!"

"I saw that," Hotch says with a nod, using a tone much like he would with Jack when his son would bring him something the boy deemed really interesting. It's a tone that suggests the unit chief is listening, but has other things preoccupied on his mind. Probably getting the team to the jet on time.

But Arizona is hot. Unbearably hot. Like, if Spencer didn't consider himself a very logical man of science, he would swear his skin would melt off his bones hot. Even with the air conditioning on full blast, the sun's rays are completely and totally unforgiving and heat up the inside of the van like it's a god damned toaster oven.

A frozen treat from Dairy Queen, honestly, a Dilly Bar, sounded so perfect right now.

Spencer's mouth waters at the thought. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Reid, we're on a schedule," Hotch reminds the young profiler patiently. "We have to be on the jet to go home in a little over an hour and we're making great time."

Spencer can't help but pout a little. "But, Hotch, it's Dairy Queen!"

Derek pops out one of his earbuds. "Did somebody say Dairy Queen? Are we getting ice cream?"

With extreme patience, Hotch replies. "No, Derek, we're not getting ice cream."

"Ice cream?" JJ perks up from the back, lifting her head off her hand.

"I wan' a Blizzard," Emily mumbles with a start, sitting up in her seat and rubbing her eyes with both of her hands.

Hotch sighs, looking at Rossi. "Dave, tell them we can't get ice cream."

Rossi stares down at the map in his hands, flipping it over to read the facts printed on the back about the desert dwelling horned toad. (It shoots blood from its eyes. Gross.) "Why not?"

Hotch scowls, feeling betrayed that the senior profiler wasn't on his side. "Because we have to get to the jet!"

"Actually, if we take a quick five minute ice cream break, get back on the highway and maintain the speed you're going, we would make it back to the jet with ten minutes to spare," Spencer calculates, leaning around to look at the speedometer.

Emily reaches over and ruffles his hair with a sleepy grin. "And that's why we keep you around, wonder boy!"

Penelope slips her headset from her head and hangs it around the back of her neck. "What's going on?"

"Dad's getting us ice cream," Emily fills her in.

"I'm not getting you ice cream!" Hotch declines, sounding a bit more firm. He shoots Emily a glare from the rear view mirror.

She sticks her tongue out at him childishly in response.

Penelope pouts at Hotch's answer. "Why not?"

"Because I said so!"

"Mom, dad won't get us ice cream!" Emily whines in a pathetic tone.

Rossi looks up from his map in surprise when he realizes he is in fact "mom" in this situation. Glancing at the "kids" in the back of the van, he turns to Hotch with a shrug. "You're on your own for this one, Aaron."

"Gee, thanks, Dave," Hotch scowls.

"Wait, now I'm confused," Penelope starts up. "Are we getting ice cream or not?"

"We're not getting ice cream!" Hotch says in a louder tone, trying his best to put on his "chief voice", the one that let's everyone know that what he says goes.

"I just wanted a Dilly Bar," Spencer quietly says, pouting as if Hotch just killed his puppy or something equally as serious occurred.

"A chocolate milkshake sounds so good right now," Derek agrees with a hum. "Come on, Hotch. It's hot as hell out. You're telling me you don't want any ice cream?"

"No."

"I say we take a vote," Emily pipes up rebelliously.

"Emily, no," Hotch says firmly.

Emily ignores him, because of fucking course she does. Pain in the ass. "All in favor of ice cream, say I!"

"Emily Elizabeth Prentiss! Do you realize you are way too old to pull this childish sh—"

"I!" Emily cries out over Hotch's scolding.

"I!" Derek says just as boldly.

"I!" Penelope and Spencer say in softer voices.

JJ stays silent, but shyly raises her hand up in the air.

"Majority rules. We get ice cream," Emily says with a smug smirk.

Rossi raises his hand and draws an invisible checkmark in the air.

Hotch huffs in annoyance.

Unbelievable.

"Unless one of you is bleeding out, we're not stopping," he declares firmly. "And that's not an invitation for you to start, Emily!" he adds, glancing back in the rear view mirror.

Emily frowns, throwing her arms across her chest. "I wasn't even going to do anything!"

"Ooo, princess is in trouble. Princess is in trouble," Derek smirks in a sing song voice.

"Oh, go eat a dick, Derek Morgan!" Emily snaps at him.

His eyes shine gleefully. "Was your nap cut a little too short there, sunshine?"

Emily and Derek continue to bicker, their voices slowly being drowned out by Spencer and Penelope slowly chanting "Dairy Queen! Dairy Queen! Dairy Queen!"

The van screeches to a halt in the middle of the highway.

Emily lurches forward, busting her head off of Derek's seat with an angry cry, Spencer and Penelope nearly choke against their seatbelts, and Derek stumbles, reaching his hands out on the window to steady himself.

JJ has the foresight to brace herself with her palms against the back of Penelope's seat. She leans over Spencer, checking Emily's forehead with a concerned frown.

Emily's breath hitches as her soft fingers brush against her forehead, forgetting for a split second what just happened. JJ's fingers brush against the upper corner of her head, causing her to wince. Ow.

"What the fuck, Hotch?" she starts to demand, holding a hand to her forehead. She closes her mouth immediately, only getting out "Wha-" before she's silenced by Hotch swiveling around in his seat.

The unit chief shoots them a steely glare that even has Derek squirming uncomfortably in his seat.

"All of you, knock it off!" he snaps.

"I didn't do anything," JJ says quietly, eyes wide and innocent.

Hotch ignores her.

"Now, all of you, listen to me!" he continues on in his most stern "dad voice". "We are not stopping for ice cream! If I hear another word about it, we're turning this van around!"

"You made me bust my head!" Emily points out defiantly, pointing to the bruise already starting to form on her head.

"My neck hurts from the seatbelt," Penelope adds with a scowl, rubbing the side of her neck slowly.

"I didn't even do anything!" JJ cries out a bit louder. "Why am I getting yelled at?"

"I'm not sure about the legality of this situation," Spencer points out, rubbing his own neck. "We could be pulled over for being stopped on a highway."

"Enough!" Hotch's voice booms.

The van falls silent again.

"We're not getting ice cream, and that's final!"

They get their ice cream.

Derek happily sips on his chocolate shake, staring in content out the window of the van. Penelope is enjoying her vanilla cone covered in rainbow sprinkles, iPad slotted in the space behind Rossi's seat. In the very back, Emily eats a spoonful of Reese's Blizzard with a satisfied look on her face. JJ quietly but happily eats her own Butterfinger Blizzard. Spencer takes a bite of his Dilly Bar with a satisfying crunch, eyes glowing in delight.

(No one comments when, five minutes later, JJ is eating a Reese's Blizzard and Emily is now enjoying the Butterfinger's Blizzard.)

Hotch bites off the remaining portion of his Buster Bar, cleaning off the wooden stick between his teeth before he throws the trash in a designated garbage bag (thanks, DQ) situated between Rossi and himself. He leans back in his seat with a content sigh, pressing his foot down on the gas. The sun is starting to set and the sky is painted in beautiful colors. 

Most importantly, though, the car is finally fucking silent and he can finally focus on getting them all back to the jet in one piece.

He turns to Rossi, frowning when the older man just smirks back at him. "What?"

"Aren't you glad that the kids got their ice cream?" Rossi asks with another smirk, eyes gleaming in amusement.

Hotch scowls, both hands wrapping around the wheel. "Shut up and drink your Orange Julius, Dave."

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #bau family #bau family fluff #behavioral analysis unit #aaron hotch hotchner #david rossi #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #spencer reid #penelope garcia #derek morgan #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #this is accurate 100% #hotch is going to stroke out #spencer just wants a dilly bar for fucksake #emily calls rossi mom #and he’s just like okay that’s fair #emily is Trouble with a capital T #jj x emily #but briefly #derek tries to be the voice of reason #until he doesn’t #emily encourages penelope to start shit #honestly hotch needs like 10 asprin to deal with these kids #hotch: i didn’t sign up to be a father of six children but here we are i guess

[tabriscadash]

I was asked this on my old blog right as I set about transitioning to this one, so...

The first character I ever fell in love with: for DA:O, dare I say Daveth? What can I say -- I irrationally got incredibly attached to him. otherwise, DEFINITELY Morrigan, and I have crystal clear memories of my first run through Lothering and looking at Morrigan like 😍 the whole time. For DA:2/E, Carver -- unless you count Anders & Justice since I knew of them from Awakening beforehand, in which case probably Justice. For DA:I, it’s a toss-up between Vivienne or Cole -- I technically liked Cole first but SPECIFICALLY in the supporting material (Asunder), and didn’t vibe with him anywhere near as much in the game, AND I got him as a companion after I got Vivienne, so probably Vivienne.

A character that I used to love/like, but now do not: for DA:O, I guess Oghren? I never loved him, but I liked the idea of him because I really liked the dwarves/Orzammar side of DA’s worldbuilding -- but he’s such an unlikeable character that I just.. don’t vibe with him at all. I debate recruiting him every single time now, and I don’t think I ever do his personal quest (in the base game OR Awakening). for DA:2/E, I don’t really have anyone that fits -- but I REALLY wanted to like Merrill and Aveline more than I did, and especially in Aveline’s case, I can’t stand her and genuinely think she’s the unintended, secret Big Bad of the whole game. for DA:I, probably Cole, bc I was really into the idea of a little walking-corpse serial killer animated by a spirit as per the book, but that’s not really the vibe in DA:I, and combined with the somewhat patronising/ableist language and how significantly he is infantilised (including by the fandom) I just got put off him. I do still like him, but not as much.

A ship that I used to love/like, but now do not: for DA:O, I don’t really have one? I guess see my DA:I answer, lol... for DA:2/E, has to be Anders - I don’t think he’s OOC in 2, but I think his writing does so little with him and he feels v. reductive. Where his relationship could be SO interesting and angsty, it instead is written in a really dull and/or cringey way. It would have been nice to see Anders more like the Anders of Awakening near the beginning of the game (rather than random, infrequent and questionably rare snippets), and then see the progression of his relationship with Justice as the game went on -- I want more interesting abominations, PLEASE. for DA:I, listen I cannot express to you HOW EXCITED I was for my planned Lavellan to romance Sera… also I used to be way more tolerant of Cullen x Amell/Surana ships because, like, hey dark ships are fun, right? But since Cullen’s ~wholesome whitewash~ in DA:I, and his fandom clamouring to absolve him of any wrongdoing ever.. it’s boring to me.

My ultimate favourite character™: for DA:O, probably Sten? or Morrigan. They’re both fantastic, and also are significant comfort chars for me. for DA:2/3, honestly, probably my own Hawke -- I feel so hugely proud of her, and can’t imagine I’d enjoy the game anywhere near as much had I not played it as my Hawke. If not her, maybe Sebastian or Carver? for DA:I, I really love Vivienne, as well as Blackwall, and Solas is a great character even if I probably would not say I liked him.

Prettiest character: for DA:O, we all know it’s Zevran. for DA:2/E, I think Aveline -- although her aggressively bland colour-scheme lets her down in a major way (although I respect her dedication to all orange all day every day). There’s just something about her arms -- very Abby from TLOU:2. for DA:I, maybe Josephine? Ser Barris is very pretty, too...

My most hated character: for DA:O, I really didn’t like Alistair, Wynne and Oghren, and of my companions - Oghren is probably my least favourite. He’s vulgar and also profoundly uninteresting. for DA:2/E, it has to be Aveline. There’s just something about ineptitude and a complete, wilful refusal to take accountability for your actions that I can’t stand. It would be okay if it was an intentional character flaw, but the game/narrative treats her like she’s lawful good and it really annoys me. for DA:I, maybe Iron Bull? He was a huge disappointment for me. I also really dislike Sera, Cassandra, and Varric. I’m so sick of Varric - I never want to see him again.

My OTP: for DA:O, I really loved Zevran’s romance -- but I am also very amused by the fact that Leliana got to ‘love’ status with Kallian accidentally, AND I got the ‘love’ glitch for Justice (👀) and Velanna. I do sometimes wonder about an AU where Kallian is forced to make a politically expedient marriage with Nathaniel Howe for diplomatic reasons in order to consolidate her position as Arlessa, and it being an entirely platonic arrangement (it’s not like anyone expects an heir from an infertile Grey Warden) -- and maybe Zev and Nate kiss sometimes, who knows? I also LOVE my Darkspawn Chronicles AU where Kallian and Nelaros are a happy, married couple each hiding their skills with weapons from each other like dumb, cute sweethearts. They shelter Zevran when he fails to kill Alistair and a poly couple evolves. for DA:2/E, I love the IDEA of a Seb romance that isn’t so strictly conditional around the structures that abused him -- he should be allowed to love, chastely or otherwise, but free from the Chantry OR his position as prince/heir. I’d LOVE to actually have a romance with him where you can actually challenge the abuse he’s experienced. for DA:I, Malika doesn’t have a canon romance (although I think when I replay, I’m going to romance Josephine!) but I think Blackwall has an amazing romance. Solas’ is also iconic, it must be said. 

My NOTP: for DA:O, I really dislike Alistair in a shipping capacity; he’s immature and says a lot of misogynistic shit and I don’t think he’s the worst for it, but I don’t really vibe with shipping him, having played the game as a female city elf. for DA:2/E, I wouldn’t say I have one, particularly? although I really dislike Aveline’s relationship with her husband simply because it seems incredibly inappropriate, given that they work together and she has power over him -- and because I dislike her, generally, I don’t feel inclined to do something nice for her. for DA:I, I suppose Sera/Lavellan -- although I’m not AGAINST it, it just really isn’t for me, having attempted it. I also don’t really vibe with Dorian x Iron Bull. Something abt the way the game handled BDSM and their relationship banter specifically I don’t really like.

Favourite episode quest: for DA:O, probs Orzammar/the Deep Roads. I really love the dwarven lore! and, of course, Fort Drakon is really funny, even though it’s not canon in my game iirc. for DA:2/E, maybe the murder mystery with the serial killer, where ultimately Leandra dies? I also really enjoyed all the companion quests. for DA:I, The Descent (just, all of it, lmao) and everything to do with the Avvar. Crestwood also BANGED.

Saddest death: for DA:O, it’s frankly a fucking INJUSTICE that Shianni gets murdered if you make her Bann of the Alienage -- the idea of that happening whilst Kallian is in Amaranthine and unable to protect her :( genuinely very upsetting. I go back and forth on who is made Bann, tbf, so idk how canonical it is: I think maybe Cyrion would get it, but I’m also endeared to Soris holding the position, with Shianni as Hahren. for DA:2/E, Bethany. I wish both twins had had the chance to reach Kirkwall :(. Let Leandra die instead. for DA:I, maybe not the saddest death, but the most memorable for me was that one sleeping dragon in the Hissing Wastes.. leave her alone. Stay out of a womans’ business.

Favourite season game: DA:O!

Least favourite season game: DA:I.

Character that everyone else in the fandom loves, but I hate: for DA:O, Alistair. I cannot deal with his complacency and hypocrisy. for DA:2, I really disliked Merrill but I honestly cannot remember why. DEFINITELY Varric -- I hated how the game forces you to be his best friend, and if you’re low approval, you have to endure these pointless pissy little comments with this little anti-dwarf centrist pissant. After the expedition, I literally have no reason to put up with him, and I NEVER take him out. I hate that he plays the same role in DA:I, too. for DA:I, the Iron Bull was hugely disappointing, and I also really don’t vibe with Cassandra. She just seems very wishy-washy and complacent and hypocritical, and many of her comments about other cultures seem snide for literally no reason other than bigotry. 

My ‘you’re a piece of trash, but you’re still a fave’ fave: for DA:O, lbr probably Sten. Mans is gonna launch a HORRIFYING invasion in the next game iirc and frankly, I’m ok with it. Just wanna see that big bastard again ❤🥵. for DA:2/E, I LOVE Gamlen, ok? for DA:I, I am not sure if I have one.

My ‘beautiful cinnamon roll who deserves better than this’ fave: for DA:O, if any of you so much as LOOK at Velanna wrong, it’s hands. That includes Bioware. I also feel incredibly protective of and sad for Morrigan. for DA:2/E, probably Sebastian -- I feel so sad for him, and so frustrated by the limitations with the game. for DA:I, I’m honestly not sure.. maybe Josephine? I don’t really feel this way about Sera, but I do think she deserves better from the game and its writing, and also from fandom: there are valid criticisms of her, but the hate she gets is not proportional to any valid issues with her -- and gee, I wonder why that is.

My ‘this ship is wrong, nasty, and makes me want to cleanse my soul, but i still love it’ ship: for DA:O, I did use to find Cullen x Surana/Amell intriguing as a dark ship -- I actually hc that Neria Surana is actually Nelaros’ sister, and have dabbled with it as a dark ship. I also am interested in Loghain/Alistair - which each pretends the other is someone else. Alistair is wooby, hate ships are, in general, fun -- so long as we acknowledge that they are, indeed, unhealthy ships. for DA:2/E, I kind of feel like Sebastian romances are, invariably, kind of dark... and, similarly, Anders romances -- especially with certain red Hawkes, The way it ends is, invariably, bordering on fucked up. ALSO Hawkecest is weird and wonderful: GET WITH IT. 

My ‘they’re kind of cute, and I lowkey ship them, but I’m not too invested’ ship: for DA:O, I joked about Velanna x Leliana once and I’ve not been able to stop thinking about it ever since… Velanna x Sigrun is also something that can be so personal. Ariane x Finn is adorable and are paid DUST by Bioware AND fandom. I actually am really into Anora x Nathaniel & NO I will NOT explain myself; it’s a crackship but it’s MY crackship. for DA:2/E, Isabela x Fenris is super cute, but I don’t pay enough attention to them to really have super committed thoughts & feelings on them. for DA:I, Blackwall x Josephine is cute as a background ship; I also think Maryden x Cole is sweet.

#meta #mun

[weasleymalfoypotter]

i hate you (but not really) pt3

draco malfoy x fem!slytherin!potter reader

part 1 here | part 2 here

summary: draco malfoy and harry potters twin sister have hated each other since they met. but in 5th year he comes to find that maybe he doesn’t hate her and the reasons he did end up be the things he loves

word count: 2k

warnings: slight angst, mentions of abuse, use of ‘mudblood’ , fluff at the end, cussing i think

A/N: AHHHH thank you guys for all the love on the first two parts i’m so glad you liked it!! sorry for the slow burn but i promise it picks up in this one. i hope you guys like it and feel free to comment what you think and reblog!

i went to the great hall for breakfast and this time, i decided to tell harry, ron, and hermione what draco said. i usually sit at the gryffindor table with them anyways so it was unusual. as soon as i sat down i spoke before whatever they were talking about distracted me.

“you will never believe what draco said to me last night” harry’s face immediately contorted just by the mention of draco malfoy talking to his sister.

“draco? malfoy? what happened?” ron immediately questioned. i told them the whole encounter word for word. i wish i couldn’t capture their faces.

“he’s a bloody genius” harry stated. i raised my eyebrows at that. “he knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s just trying to mess with you” he said with a mouth full of food.

“that’s exactly what i thought, but it’s still so weird” i looked around the room and saw him sitting at the slytherin table and immediately looked back at my brother. “i would honestly rather go back to trying to jinx each other in the hallways”

“maybe he’s not messing around.” all of our heads turned towards hermione so fast i thought our necks would break. “oh gee don’t give me that look, but think about it. it may only be the second day but usually he takes the first day to make sure all muggleborns know they’re ‘inferior’ i haven’t gotten my yearly first day mudblood comment. maybe he’s not kidding, maybe he’s trying to be...better?” HA okay mione. sure. ron’s voice broke me out of my disbelief

“she’s kind of got a point. let’s wait and see what he does the rest of the week. i’d honestly rather you be subject to flirting than him indoctrinating first years with his blood superiority nonsense.” i slowly nodded in agreement. ron had a point. but it doesn’t make sense. there’s no way that draco actually likes me. i shoved it out of my mind and tried to forget about it.

“listen i’ve got to get to the library before transfiguration so i’ll see you all in hagrids class”

we said our good byes and i continued to walk and think about the book i needed before a voice interrupted me.

“talking about me during breakfast i presume” i recognized his voice instantly and when i turned my head to my left, sure enough. the unmistakable platinum blonde hair and the extra foot he had on me walking step in step with me.

“and what makes you think that?”

“the obscene amount of times i saw you mouthing my name” he spoke with a smile. of course he was enjoying this. “i don’t mind it really, i like knowing y/n potter is thinking about me” merlin if he doesn’t stop looking at me like that.

“i am not thinking about you.” i looked up at him as i said it. man he was really tall. he didn’t say anything. he just smirked. “what makes you think that i’m thinking about you? i assure that i’m not. stop looking at me like that” my eyebrows were furrowed as i spoke.

“headed to the library?” why is he changing the subject? well if i told him, he would probably follow me. but there’s no where else around here that i could pretend to be going to.

“yes i need to get a book before class”

“i’ll come with you” no.

“no” i laughed out. he turned his head to look at me and he stopped. i moved in front of him and looked up, staring straight into his eyes.

“what game are you playing draco?”

“i’m not playing a game”

“we both know that’s a lie. you’ve been weird ever since the train ride. you’ve been...flirting. it’s weird. i know you’re just trying to get under my skin so stop.” maybe i could get some answers here.

“did you ever think maybe i wasn’t playing a game? maybe i actually like you? maybe on the train i realized i don’t hate you as much as we all thought? maybe the fact that you are the only person at this school who has managed to get under my skin is because i like you?” i was at a loss for a response. he’s playing me. there’s no way he’s not. but maybe mione was right. then again, she’s always right.

“why?”

“what?”

“if you like me so much, why? you don’t know me well enough to know that you like me. you don’t know anything about me really. so why?” he scoffed, smirked, ran his hand through his hair and looked back down at me.

“you really think i don’t know anything about you?” i nodded my head and he took a breath before speaking again. “okay how’s this. i know that you absolutely love reading muggle fiction and it only takes you two days to read a 200 page book. i know you drink coffee about 3-5 times a day because you are literally an addict and if you don’t then your poor brother is usually subject to your attitude. i know that you refuse to have orange juice and bacon at the same time during breakfast and godric knows why. i know that when you’re anxious you play with your necklace but only with your left hand and you stare at the ground. i know that before a quidditch game you always take a minute to talk to your dad. i could go on and on which sounds stalkery but believe it or not, i know you.” flabbergasted. i have loved that word since i was four years old and it’s the only way to describe my current state. what the hell? i actually didn’t think it was creepy or stalkery. i thought it was sweet. “i let you think on that.” he probably caught on to the fact that i was flabbergasted and decided to let me process that. honestly i was processing not just what he said but what i felt. what do i feel? i have no idea but it’s not hatred and i thought that was all i could feel for draco malfoy. i stayed there in the hallway after he walked away until i had to get to transfiguration. he would be there.

-

for the next week it was just flirting. he wouldn’t stop flirting with me. he was relentless. i never told harry, ron, and hermione because they would probably murder draco and i would like them not to be expelled. honestly i liked it being my secret. we had enough going on right now anyways. and i’d be lying if i said he wasn’t getting to me. i’d be lying if i said i didn’t look forward to him talking to me. it was always short and i would scoff and smile and walk away. he would never flirt while other people were around but he did start to leave everyone alone. no mudblood comments, no teasing, no tripping in the hallway, no jinx’s, no pranks. he really just let everyone be.

when i got to my dorm on friday night i saw something on my bed. a piece of parchment folded in half.

meet me in the astronomy tower at 8:00

-D.M.

oh boy. what does he want? one part of me has been telling myself that he’s just bored and he’ll be done within the next week. the other part of me stats up at night wondering how i feel about this. do i like draco? i have no idea. i have a million other things to think about too. the entire world thinks that harry and i are wack jobs who just want attention, umbridge is absolutely insane, and i’ve been drained ever since i got to school and i know it’s because of the connection to death eaters. we know that draco malfoy, vincent crabbe, gregory goyle, and theodore nott all are the children of death eaters. they’re all in the same school and house as me so we’re always in the same vicinity. their connection to voldemort isnt enough to make me feel pain, but it is enough to drain me of a lot of my energy. it doesn’t help that i have quidditch, prefect duties, and a full course load with O.W.L.’s this year. so honestly i don’t know if i can be dealing with draco right now. not to mention his connection to his father is one of the reasons i’m exhausted. but i decided to go to the astronomy tower just out of curiosity.

i finally got to the top of the stairs and right on time too. he was already there, standing by the ledge just looking around, hands in his pockets. he turned when he heard my footsteps and smiled when he saw me. he opened his mouth to say something, closed it, took a breath, then began to speak.

“it’s really nice out tonight”

“yeah” i looked around. i had no idea what to talk about, but he did.

“date me” oh merlin

“what?” that escalated rather quickly.

“i said date me. you know that i like you, i know that you feel something for me, i can see it. so date me”

“draco i-“ he cut me off before i could continue

“don’t say you can’t because we both know that isn’t true”

“but i can’t”

“why?” he wasn’t upset or angry or sad. he was calm.

“because draco i have no idea how to trust you. i have no idea how to believe any of this. you have done horrible things over the years. i cant just excuse that. you have called my best friend a mudblood countless times, you’ve bullied my other best friend and his siblings for their family’s finances, you’ve tried to get hagrid fired multiple times, you tried to have buckbeack killed, i could keep going but you get the point.” i looked anywhere but him as i spoke with my voice raised just under a yell. he sighed

“do you really think i wanted to do any of that?” i looked back at him quizzically. “do you really think i believe in all that blood superiority nonsense?”

“what else am i supposed to believe draco?”

“y/n i’ve hated every bit of what i’ve done. i never wanted to do it. i don’t believe in any of that crap. it’s not an excuse but believe me i’ve hated myself for everything that i’ve done to you and your friends and i’ve wanted nothing more since first year to sit down with you four and apologize.” i was looking into his eyes as he spoke. his voice was raised and he was taking a breath. i wanted to believe him, i really did.

“then why did you do it?” he wouldn’t look at me.

“when your father beats you for telling him that the muggleborns you know aren’t bad wizards you start to do whatever he tells you. i did everything he wanted me to. whatever he expected of me, i did it. he knows everything, he knows what i do and don’t do and i’ve been terrified of him for years. so i do what he wants. i hate it but he beat it into me since i was a kid.” i didn’t know what to say. his voice was breaking and his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. but i still don’t know how to believe him.

“how do i believe that. how do i believe what your telling me?” my voice was soft. we looked into the others eyes for a moment before he took off his ring. oh. he closed the space between us, grabbed my hand and put his ring in it.

“that’s how” he still had my hand in his and i was searching his mind. he was telling the truth. for the first time ever i knew draco malfoy. everything i saw wasn’t the draco i thought i knew since first year. he was different. he was real. i turned my head up at him and he looked down at me. our eyes were locked and i reached up, pulled his face to meet mine, and kissed him.

TAGS : @idkmanicantenglish @dracoswhore007 @lordlodge

[t-o-m-hollands]

PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.      

R E A D    P A R T   O N E    H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.  

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.  

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.  

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”    

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.  

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.      

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.        

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?”  he answers politely.    

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.    

“And what can I do for you, madam?”    

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.  

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.    

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”  

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”  

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.  

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”  

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”  

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly.  He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.  

  He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.  

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.  

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.  

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.  

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.  

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”  

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.    

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.  

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!”  She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.    

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.    

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”    

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams.  He looks away,    

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”    

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.    

Ah    

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.    

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.    

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.  

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.  

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.  

  *  

February 12th, 1953  

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.  

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.  

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.  

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.    

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.      

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.  

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.    

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.    

He only has one painting left.  But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.    

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.  

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.  

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”  

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)  

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.  

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.  

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”  

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.  

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”  

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.  

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.  

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.    

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.  

The paintings leaned against the wall.  He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.  

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.  

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.  

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.    

And it hits him then, like a collision.  

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.    

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.  

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.  

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.  

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.    

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”  

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.    

But what choice did he have?  

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.  

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.    

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

*

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.  

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

*    

February 14th, 1953  

Timothée writes a new letter.    

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.    

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way.  Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.  

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.    

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.    

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.      

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.    

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.    

One day at a time.    

Yours,      

Timothée      

*    

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.  

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.      

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.    

*  

1st of Mars, 1953  

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.  

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.  

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet.  He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.      

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.  

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.  

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.  

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.  

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.  

“How- how?”  

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”  

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner.  About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).  

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.  

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.”  she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.  

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.    

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.  

 “Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.  

Nearly.      

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

*

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.  

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.  

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.  

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.  

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.  

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.  

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.  

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.  

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.  

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.  

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.  

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.  

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.    

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.  

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy.  And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.  

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.  

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.  

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”.   “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”    

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.  

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.  

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.  

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.  

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”.  He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.  

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.  

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.  

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.  

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness.  But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt.       “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room.   “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully.  “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought.   And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?”       “In what colour?”       “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”.     The room goes very still for a moment.   “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small.     And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.  

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.  

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back.   “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.”       You stare at him, taken aback.       “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?”       Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you.       “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time.     He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you.       He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this.       “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver.       The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs.  He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you.       He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs.     “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”.       “Yes” you moan.       He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”  

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.    

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words.         You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven.   And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps.   *    After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever.   How do you do something even though it kills you?       “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him.     “For everything?”       “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.”       Because it’s the right thing to do.  

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown.   “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”    

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on.  And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion. 

*  “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.  

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”  

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.  

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.  

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.  

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

*   It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée  stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.  

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.  

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”.   “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.  

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”.  And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?”       You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.”  the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”    

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”    

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.  

“My family”  “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.  

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.  

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.  

Then you leave.   A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England.  Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling. 

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.  

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.    

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.   

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