#interminable sweater

[itsaash]

Pumpkin Spice

@noots-fic-fests thank you for including this prompt so I can take something that happened in my life and turn it into something decidedly better, ha. Enjoy some fluffy, domestic Jily! And I believe sweater weather Harry was born in March? So he'd be 8 months old the next October

Lily had just wanted to make something nice. Sure, sure, the days are long but the years are short. But when you’re in the thick of having a 8 month old people could just fuck right off with that advice. Because the never ending loop of naptime, nursing, introducing solid food, play time, diaper change, and repeat made some days interminably long. And James was an amazing partner and an even better dad, but the season had started up again, and Lily was not in the groove of solo parenting. She was skidding on one wheel on the edge of the groove threatening to fall over at any moment. 

When she was nursing Harry, cuddling his warm body close, she’d sometimes scroll on her phone and cooking videos were some of her favourites. She’d be lulled by the perfectly aesthetic backdrops and clean kitchens. The process of turning a group of ingredients into something new and amazing. Her feed knew her well and alternated between plans and ideas for baby food, and delicious looking snacks and drinks. Being October, pumpkin everything saturated the videos. Bread, muffins, cookies, stew, coffees, all featuring pumpkin. She didn’t have much time or energy for more time in the kitchen after the essentials of baby food and basic meals. But maybe a pumpkin spice syrup was achievable? 

So after forgetting to get canned pumpkin at the next two grocery store runs, Lily finally remembered and was excited to make something for herself. Harry went down for his afternoon nap, and after stepping carefully to sneak out of his room she went into the kitchen to make the syrup.  The can opener, pumpkin, vanilla, and spices were lined up on the counter, and she measured  the sugar into the water for a double batch. She stirred the sugar in with her little purple whisk and watched it dissolve. She checked the recipe again, ok, it needed to reduce for a while. She turned down the heat and went to the bathroom. 

Then went to move the laundry into the dryer. Shit, that was a pile of clean laundry. The clothes got put away, and she tracked down the new box of trash bags for the garbage in the laundry room that she had emptied the lint trap into. May as well take out the other bathroom garbages while she was at it. Weird, this bathroom smelled bad. She looked around, had a diaper fallen behind the trash can or something? There wasn’t an obvious culprit so Lily finished emptying the bins and brought them all downstairs to the main garbage in the kitchen. 

The kitchen was a haze of smoke. 

“What in the ever loving pumpkin fuck of goddamn stupid pumpkin fucking shit…”

A string of incomprehensible curses continued as Lily dropped the trash bags and raced to the stove to turn off the burner. The water had long since evaporated and the sugar was beyond burned with her cute little whisk melted sadly to the side of the smoking pot. The smell hit her senses like a freight train as she put on an oven mitt and carried the pot outside and left it on the porch, slamming the door just a bit on the way back in. She turned the hood fan all the way up and went around opening every window she could get her hands on. Thank god it wasn’t too cold outside yet. 

Lily hardly knew if she should laugh or cry. It smelled truly awful. How had she not realized that smell was a burning smell? How could she have forgotten this one thing she had wanted to do for herself so quickly? And how had the stupid fucking smoke detector not gone off?? Although now in hindsight, with no major harm done, and the smoke already dissipating, she supposed she was glad to not have a baby awoken from a nap by screeching added to this situation. She walked away from the blaring sound of the hood fan and sunk to the floor under an open window on the other side of the house. Which is where she was when James got home. 

“Hey Lils love! I’m home — oh shit wow you’re right there! You scared me,” James said. He came in the door and was startled when he turned to take his shoes off and saw Lily sitting there. He set down his bag and walked over to her and slid his back down the wall. “Why are we sitting on the floor?” he asked softly, nudging her with his shoulder. 

Lily waved her hand vaguely at the house, cheek resting on her bent up knees. “I ruined our house with this awful fucking smell. Can’t you smell it?”

“Well, yeah, but you don’t seem to be panicking, so I figured it’s not an emergency.” He scooched even closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulders and Lily turned to tuck her face into the warmth of his shoulder. “Want to tell me what happened? You ok?”

Lily wasn’t crying, but her voice was thick and she was just so tired. 

“I just wanted to make pumpkin spice syrup. But then I got distracted and immediately forgot about it and it’s such a stupid thing to have done and now it smells so bad.” Her breath hitched at the end and she heaved a breath in. “And my little whisk and the pot are totally ruined.”

James just tightened his grip on her shoulders and hugged her close, let her breathe and be still and cry. 

“It doesn’t smell that bad,” he said, finally. 

“Fuck off, yes it does.”

“Ok, yeah it does.” He took in a theatrical sniff and winced. “That’s what burned sugar smells like? It’s nuclear level.”

“It was even worse 20 minutes ago,” Lily muttered. 

“Want to go cuddle on the furthest couch from the kitchen until Harry wakes up?” 

Lily laughed but nodded, and then moved to the couch in the theater room, which was quite separate from the rest of the house and had a baby monitor in it. James laid on the couch and Lily cuddled into his side, making herself small. James ran his fingers through her hair over and over. 

“You know it’s ok, right Lils? You’re fine, Harry’s fine, the house is fine. It’s ok.”

Lily hummed noncommittally. 

“Ok, but can you tell Loops about it? So that I can tell Sirius how bad sugar can smell? Because, honestly, who would’ve thought.”

James smiled to himself when Lily let out a real laugh and reached for her phone. She texted him, a smile quirking on her face. 

my house smells like sugar. And not the good kind like in cookies. Like the awful burned kind and it’s truly terrible. 

I also need to test my smoke alarms. 

These two things may be related.

Not one minute later her phone was ringing. James laughed and kept running his fingers through her hair as she talked to Remus. She told him the story, after reassuring him they were all fine, and her voice lost some of its tightness as they joked over the lengths they’d go to for a PSL and Remus threatening to come smell it for himself while the smell was “fresh”. She, laughing, said fuck off and good bye, hung up and turned to cuddle into James chest even closer. He smelled like the soap from the rink and like himself and when she breathed in deeply she didn’t smell the sugar at all. 

“I’m sorry I made our house smell terrible.”

“I literally don’t care, Lils. I’m just sorry it didn’t work out how you wanted it to.”

She let his breathing soothe her as his chest rose up and down under her cheek. 

“You can close your eyes if you want, flower. I’ll get Harry when he wakes up and I’ll go out with him and get a grocery store special for dinner.” Lily knew that meant a rotisserie chicken, a truly bizarre combination of the pre-made side dishes, and probably something sweet from the freezer aisle. But it was always perfect. She hugged him tighter and nodded. And she drifted off.

Lily woke later to the sounds of James and Harry coming into the house. James was keeping up a running conversation with Harry, talking to his son like he was much older than his 8 months. Lily stretched under the blanket that James must have laid over her, and the smell hit her nose. She cringed, but tried not to dwell and went to see her boys. 

“Mommy’s awake, Harry, look!” Harry babbled happily and Lily took him from James, kissing all over his face. 

“Did you two go on an adventure?” she said to Harry in an animated voice.

“We sure did,” James replied, picking up bags and heading to the kitchen. “To the wilds of Target. And we totally scored.”

Lily watched as he pulled groceries from the reusable bags like a magician pulling a never ending scarf from a sleeve. First came the expected rotisserie chicken, a container of spinach and artichoke dip, two options of chips, a pre-made spinach salad, and a few other grocery essentials.

“Wow, good choices, Harry!” Lily cooed. “I’ll be breaking into that dip immediately. Hopefully the terrible smell doesn’t ruin all this good food Daddy got us.”

“The power of spinach and artichoke dip can overcome anything,” James reassured her, and moved to take Harry from her. “Can you open up that bag, Lils?” he asked, pointing to one. Lily raised an eyebrow, but went to the bag and looked in. She paused for a long moment before reaching in and pulling out a wicker basket filled with all sorts of treasures. 

“James! What is this?!” she exclaimed as she freed the basket from the bag. 

“It’s a boo box!” James said happily. “You’ve been doing such a good job taking care of Harry when I’ve been on roadies, babe. And I love you so much, you do so much for us, so Harry and I wanted to do a little something for you.” He came over and leaned in to press a soft kiss below her ear and Harry pulled her hair happily.

“Thank you so much,” Lily said thickly. 

“You're welcome,” James said easily. He turned and settled Harry in his high chair, and got some blueberries and a mini cucumber from one of the bags and washed them to pass to Harry for him to gum. 

Lily looked through the basket. There was pumpkin spice syrup, of course there was. She huffed a laugh but was thankful for the easy version of the fall treat. Next she touched the new whisk, red this time, and sent James a small smile still tinged with sadness. There were also smaller bottles of brown sugar cinnamon, apple, and chai syrups. She set those aside and found three of the tubes that have all the ingredients you need for different soups, a foot mask, a lip mask, and finally underneath all of that she pulled out a crew neck sweater. It felt creamy and soft in her hands, with cute fall themed charms all over it. She hugged it to her chest and looked up at James. “James, baby. This is so nice.” James stepped close and took her into his arms, wrapping her in a hug from behind, his chin hooked on top of her head. He reached around her to point at some of the treasures. 

“Lots of syrups to try is fun, right? I’m so going to try that apple one in something. And look how funny that lip mask is. Harry laughed so cutely when I held it over my mouth and pretended to talk with it. Let’s see the sweater on, isn’t it so soft?” he rambled. 

Lily smiled with her eyes prickling as she pulled the sweater over her head. It was a bit oversized, the sleeves hung perfectly so she could scoop the cuff into her hands and feel the softness. James hugged her again, trailing his hands under the sweater to rub her back and feel the softness of the inside of the sweater. 

“I love it James, thank you.” 

“Love you, Lilyflower,” James said and leaned down to press a kiss to her lips. Lily turned and pressed a kiss to Harry’s head, thanking him too. He burbled happily back at her with purple fingers and mouth. James pulled out his phone to take a picture when the doorbell rang. He set his phone down on the counter.

“I’ll get it! But I’m so getting a picture of you in that sweater with Harry when I’m back.” He pointed finger guns at her as he walked a few steps backwards towards the front door.

Lily laughed and watched James’ back as he turned around and walked down the hall to open the front door. Her thoughtful, giving husband. The smell of burnt sugar still undeniably hung in the air, but it was fading. Her guilt was fading too, replaced with love for her family. 

“Hey! Oh wow no way,” she heard James say from the door. 

“Who is it?” she called as she started to put away the soups and syrups into the pantry. 

James didn’t answer and she walked back to the side of the kitchen from where she could see the door. 

“James? Oh!” 

He surprised her, he was right there when she turned the corner, a big box in his hands.  

“No one was at the door when I opened it. They must’ve just delivered the box and left.”

“What is it?” Lily asked.

James placed the soft cardboard box on the counter and opened the lid, revealing 6 of the most beautiful cookies Lily had ever seen. They were huge, fluffy and delicious looking. A chocolate chunk on, one that must be red velvet, one that looked like it might be peanut butter, and more that she could only guess at the flavours, but couldn’t wait to taste them and find out. 

“Oh my god. They’re beautiful. Who are they from? Did you order these too?”

“Nope, not me, oh here’s the card,” James replied. “Awww, they’re from Loops, see.” He passed the card to Lily.

To Lily

I hope these drown out the burned smell!! Congrats getting through the day without a kitchen fire!

Re

Lily laughed. “That little shit.”

“I’m surprised he went with cookies and not some sort of fire extinguishing blanket,” James laughed. 

“Don’t suggest it, or at least 2 will be at our door as fast as he can get them shipped here.”

“Actually, I think that’s kind of genius? I’m going to order one. I’ll send them one too.” He broke off a piece of the chocolate chip cookie and popped it into his mouth as he opened up his phone. “No harm in being prepared.”

Lily could only nod along with that logic, and she reached out and broke an orange cookie apart, and yes, as the taste of pumpkin spice cookie filled her senses, the burned smell finally faded away.

#jily #baby harry #pumpkin spice #cw food #fic-o-ween 2023 #James/Lily #domestic fluff #yes #this is based off me smoking out my kitchen #it smelled bad for days #i did not however get a boo box

[hb-writes]

Tommy Shelby & Clara Shelby

✵ The Walk-In Appointment: May 1909. Clara learns to walk a bit later than her twin, but once she does there’s no stopping her from following her big brother around wherever he goes. 

✵ Tired of the Wait: 1912. When Tommy brings his sisters downtown with him to run an errand and Ada decides to run one of her own, Tommy and Clara both grow tired of waiting on their sister.

✵ Interminable Moonlight: Tommy meets Greta by the cut in the moonlight.

✵ Our Bloody Idiot: 1913. Tommy may very well be a bloody idiot, but Clara still thinks he deserves a piece of cake.

✵ The Horsewoman: 1913. Clara and Finn are ready to start school, but Clara is a bit hesitant. Thankfully, her older brother Tommy knows how to negotiate.

✵ The Devil’s Footsteps: 1913. Tommy’s taken on quite a bit of responsibility in caring for his younger siblings. He never expected that responsibility would require him explaining the inappropriateness of tossing erasers at people. 

✵ For Old and Young Alike: Set in 1913 and 1922. All Clara Shelby wants for Christmas is a little quality time with her favorite people. 

✵ The Road that Leads to Trouble: 1914. The Shelby dinner table is rarely a thing one would call quiet or calm, and it’s no different on the night the family learns their youngest has been kissing boys out on the lane.

✵ Like the Leaves: 1914. In the wake of Greta’s passing, Tommy’s little sister offers him some comfort.

✵ Things They Left Behind - Parts 1-3: 1918. John, Arthur, and Tommy have just returned from France to rediscover the things they’ve left behind: Ada, a set of twins, the business, and a few treasures their youngest sister has been keeping safe for them. *COMPLETED*

✵ The Shelby Inheritance: 1918. When Clara and Finn are being teased at school, Tommy helps them get things sorted.

✵ Thank you. I can take it from here: 1918. Clara Shelby wants to bake her brother a special treat for his birthday but needs a bit of assistance in gathering ingredients.  

✵ Little Lady Blinder Series: 1919. Clara Shelby is a kind girl, a smart girl, a well-behaved little sister in a town full of gangsters and ruffians. With the girl’s raising thus far being such a simple task, the Shelby family is left unprepared for all that accompanies a perfectly respectable little girl growing up and becoming a lady among Peaky Blinders.

✵ The Shelby Women’s Alliance: 1920. Clara navigates the first milestone of puberty on her own in a house full of clueless brothers, keeping it all to herself until Ada comes at the weekend and takes over, managing their brother and formally inducting her sister into the Shelby Woman’s Alliance.

✵ Warmth: 1920. It takes a special sort of person to fall asleep during a birthday party at the pub. Turns out it takes a special kind of person to wake them too.

✵ A Small Comfort: 1921. When Clara’s horse gets sick, Tommy tries to shield her from seeing the worst of it, but Clara has her own plans.

✵ Seeing Stars: 1921. When Finn, Isiah, and Clara get themselves in to trouble with Polly, they’re left in the church to wait on their comeuppance.

✵ Kind Eyes: 1922. Clara finds herself in Tommy’s office, studying a picture on his desk, searching for a resemblance to a mother who looks nothing like her.

✵ Something: 1922. Tommy has sensed a change in the way his youngest sister relates to the boys of Small Heath.

✵ Give Away: 1922. It’s a family day—Arthur and Linda’s wedding day—but rather than celebrating, Arthur’s got Tommy thinking about something he’d never consciously given much thought to—their Clara’s wedding and who would be giving her away.

✵ A Candle in the Darkness: 1923. Clara may be growing older, but she still needs her brother Tommy from time to time.

✵ The Council: 1923. The boy’s reaction to fifteen-year-old Clara Shelby being friends with the Watery Lane boys. 

✵ Close-knit: 1923. It’s Christmas 1923, otherwise known as the year of Clara’s Christmas sweaters.

✵ You’re Not Me: 1924. When Clara’s running herself ragged preparing for an exam, Tommy steps in to reassure her.

✵ You’ve always been naive: 1925. After an epic row, Tommy allows Clara to stay more regularly on Watery Lane with a few conditions, one of which is a mid-week meeting at the Midland Hotel to check in.

✵ My Person: 1925. Clara and Isiah haven’t talked in weeks but after a drunken night filled with a break up and scrapping in Small Heath, Isiah insists on going out to Arrow House to see her. 

✵ Bloody Rotten: 1925ish. Clara’s feeling bloody rotten, but thankfully her brother arrives home just in time to look after her.

✵ A Big, Beautiful Fellow: 1926. Tommy didn’t set out to bribe his sister and win back her good graces, but when the opportunity presents itself…

✵ They Waited for You: 1927. Tommy’s been away in London and Clara tries to bring him home to Arrow House, to be present for his son and daughter, and for her.

✵ Stars in the Sky: 1927. Clara Shelby is feeling overwhelmed with trying to balance university, family, and business responsibilities, but that doesn’t stop her from noticing something is off with her brother. When have her own problems ever stopped her from trying to fix someone else’s?

✵ Gestures of Fairness: 1927. Thomas Shelby isn’t ticklish, at least that’s what a few decades of Clara’s intel says. Charles and Clara test the theory of his god-like ability to remain stoic in the face of writhing fingers. 

✵ Five of Swords: 1929. An evening of tarot cards and forgiveness.

✵ A Little Raven: 1930ish (AU). Lizzie and Clara have a chat about Lizzie’s concerns, for the children she’s raising without much help from their father, the baby growing in her belly, the twins so eager to prove themselves, and the Shelby curse. Clara tries to offer a bit of comfort, but its Tommy coming home early on a Friday that assuages her concerns.

✵ Family Meeting - Modern AU Tommy, Isiah, and Clara

✵ LITTLE LADY BLINDER MASTERLIST ✵

#Peaky Blinders #Peaky Blinders Fanfic #Peaky Blinders Fanfiction #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby Fanfic #Tommy & Clara #Little Lady Blinder #clara shelby #shelby sister #shelby!sister

[kittttycakes]

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Summary: Hob Gadling isn’t obsessed. He isn’t. Not with his flat mate, and not with his flat mate’s…girlfriend? lover? either.

Contents: Morpheus/Hob Gadling/Original Female Character (Grace Talbot), university student AU, past/referenced Morpheus/others, POV Hob Gadling, 2.2k

Notes: Written for “dark academia” for Promptober 2023.

She wasn’t even supposed to be there, Hob told himself. That was why she had crept under his skin and made something of a home for herself there. She wasn’t quite the first thing he thought of when he woke up and the last before he went to sleep, but it was a near thing. No other reason, surely, for her to be on his mind quite so much.

Of course, strictly speaking, he shouldn’t necessarily have been there, either. The university, small, private, and highly exclusive, wouldn’t have opened its doors to the likes of him had he not managed, with no small amount of cunning, to impress the admissions board and secure one of only two scholarships available. That she was the other scholarship student grated on him; that she had gained acceptance to the highly selective history concentration stung, when he had had to fight for his own place. She should have, more properly, been thrown in with the rest of the literature scholars. Instead, she had managed to impress the head of the department and been drawn into the fold at his express request.

He could sit through another interminable lecture, could listen to the sound of her voice when she joined a discussion, all of this, he thought, he could bear. What he could not bear was her presence, unexpected and unannounced, in the rented flat he shared with Morpheus. Morpheus, a fellow student of history, albeit more concerned with the ancient than the modern; Morpheus, whom he had met and fell into an instant connection with, even as they each held such wildly different worldviews and experiences; Morpheus, for whom, he was growing to realize, there was little he would not do.

She was there, in his flat, their flat, making herself tea. Her back was to him as she waited for the kettle, rummaging through the cabinets, finding first a mug and then the teabags. She was wearing the same sweater he had seen Morpheus in the day before.

This was not the first overnight guest that Hob had run into the morning after. For reasons Hob could only guess at, Morpheus appeared to be working his way through the entire cohort, small as it was. He could be patient, he told himself. He would come around. There had been Ian, first, with that smile that never quite reached his eyes. Johanna, who had stolen half of a pack of cigarettes—Hob’s cigarettes, mind—on her way out the door. Jessamy, Lucienne, Matthew, had all stayed for breakfast. And Hob waited, wanted, and watched them all.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thought this would extend to Grace. Perhaps some part of himself had thought that Morpheus would choose him first, and then…Grace turned, and saw him, and barely even flinched.

“Tea?” she asked, as if she had every right to be there, barefoot and bare legged in his flat, their flat, the sleeves of Morpheus’s sweater dwarfing her hands. She smiled at him, as if they were sharing some sort of joke.

Hob was saved from having to answer—the indignity of accepting, the intentional snub of rejecting—by the appearance of Morpheus, his ink blot hair even wilder than usual, tying the belt of his robe as he made his way into the kitchen.

Grace turned towards him, still smiling, and in doing so, the neck of the sweater shifted just enough to reveal the imprint of teeth, low on her neck, just where it met her shoulder. For a moment, it was all Hob could see: the gentle bruising already rising to the surface of her skin, which would undoubtedly turn livid in mere days, but was for the moment beautiful in a way he didn’t care to name. He wanted the same mark on his own neck, made by the same teeth. He wanted to cover that mark with his own, overlapping, a second bruise deeper than the first.

“Hob?” Morpheus was looking at him in that way of his, his head tilted just slightly, a cross between avian and feline. He realized, abruptly, that he had been staring, and in that time, he had been spoken to. Asked a question.

“Sorry, long night. Revising,” he said vaguely, tearing his eyes away. “What was that?”

“I asked if you cared to join us for breakfast.”

Us. There had been no us, no we with the others. Summoning an approximation of a regret he didn’t feel, Hob made what he hoped was a convincing face and said, “Can’t, I need to run to the library to check a source before my first lecture, but I’ll see you there.”

Without waiting for an answer, he retreated to his room to dress for the day, hastily packing his bag and leaving without saying a second goodbye.

-

The earring caught Hob’s eye, not only because there was something familiar about it, but because it contrasted in a way that should have clashed terribly with her hair. The ruby nearest to him, a miniature teardrop, not unlike a drop of blood, dangled from her left ear. It swayed slightly when she turned her head, and seemed to almost trap the light it caught, rather than releasing it. He had seen Morpheus wearing it a week ago, and now there it was, in her ear, with a twin to match in her right.

Hob was struck, suddenly, by the sheer amount of rubies he had seen, of late. Ian’s ludicrous pinky ring, Johanna’s rosary, Lucienne’s pocketwatch chain. And Morpheus’s, of course. Earrings and cuff links and tie pins, all studded with little red stones. He had told Hob once that all of his siblings had been assigned a precious stone and given the matching bits of jewelry from the family collection. To ensure fairness, he had said with a slight curl of the lip. It was hard to see anything fair about his eldest brother’s diamonds and his youngest sister’s topaz.

His mind was wandering. There was no reason to think that these were in any way related. None at all. He could ask, after all. It didn’t have to be Grace.

He caught up to her as she left the lecture hall. “Can I ask you something?”

For a moment, she looked at him, slightly puzzled: had he truly never spoken to her outside of the confines of the classroom, and, once, in the kitchen of the flat? Her expression smoothed into something that was not quite a smile, but that could have very easily been coaxed into one.

“You can ask,” she replied, still walking, but more slowly than she had been before. Something caught her attention, and she looked away. It was easier, when those eyes weren’t on him.

“Those earrings. Where did you get them?”

Hob almost thought he saw her step falter, just for a moment. When she looked back at him, there was something inscrutable behind her eyes, something he could not name but was relieved to find was not pity.

“They were a gift,” she said, one hand reaching up to roll the stone between her fingers. “Not quite my usual style, but I like them so much that I had to make an exception.”

“They’re beautiful,” Hob said with a tight smile, and turned to walk down a diversion in the path. He had no destination in mind, but perhaps a walk would clear his head. Something he desperately needed, if something so small, that name unsaid but hanging between them, bothered him so deeply.

Her hand was on his arm, a warm, soft pressure. She had never touched him before. “Why don’t you come have lunch with me?” she asked. “I was supposed to—well, it doesn’t matter now, but I’d like the company, and maybe you could tell me some more about your paper. It sounded fascinating, from your proposal.”

In spite of himself, he found himself saying yes.

-

Hob wasn’t as drunk as he could have excusably been. He hadn’t drunk quite enough to laugh it off as some kind of joke, or a mistake, the fumbling of hands pulling the nearest warm body close, a mistaken glimpse of someone else. No, he wasn’t drunk enough at all.

Hob, Morpheus, and Grace were walking back to the flat from Jessamy and Lucienne’s, their hosts for the evening. It was an unexpected party; the full moon, Jessamy said, while Lucienne countered with the end of term. The entire group was there, squeezed into their flat, with the lights dim and the music loud. They had come together, the three of them, as they so often did now. Ever since that lunch with Grace, he had been pulled into their orbit, and unwilling to let go. She truly was rather lovely, and it only caused the slightest of pangs when he saw Morpheus kiss her. He had ended, it seemed, with Grace; no others had graced the flat since then, and he was only slightly jealous of it, really, although he wouldn’t have been able to say of whom, if he were honest with himself.

Grace had come to spend more and more time at the flat, and it was assumed that she would spend the night then, her own room too far away and the dormitory curfew long since past. Morpheus let them in, holding the door as they both brushed past him, and Grace immediately set herself to attempting to remove her boots. The combination of the drinks and her cold fingers seemed to conspire against her as she propped herself against the wall.

“Let me,” Hob said, kneeling down before he could think better of it, undoing the laces of her boots with only the slightest amount of fumbling. Morpheus had busied himself with shutting and locking the door, a business which seemed to take somewhat longer than usual. He drew her boots off, allowing her to rest her hand on his shoulder for balance, and when both had been removed and she stood in her stocking feet before him, still half bent with one hand on his shoulder, he smiled up at her, intending, he would later tell himself, to make a joke of it. But her face was so close to his, and all he could see was the gleam of her eyes and the shine of the rubies in her ears, and all he could smell was the sweet scent of her perfume, and all he could feel was the growing warmth of her as the chill seeped away.

Hob cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her. She let out a soft, surprised sound against his lips but did not pull away; instead, she leaned more heavily into him, her hand fisted in his sweater, keeping him where he was. She tasted like wine, dark and red, with an almost metallic sharpness underneath, something familiar that he could not place, but that was not unpleasant. One moment, his lips were on hers, and the next, she had loosened her grip, straightened, letting the light back in.

Morpheus pulled him up, a strength well disguised by his slender frame, and for a moment, he scrambled for the words of an apology that died on his tongue when Morpheus brought his lips to his. All protest died in favor of gripping his arm, likely too hard, although he did not seem to mind, to hold him there. It was everything he had wanted since he’d met him. Did he taste like her, or did she taste like him? It hardly mattered. Morpheus’s lips were still ever so slightly chilled from the air outside, and this was enough to bring him ever closer to sobriety. He truly hadn’t had that much to drink. Not enough to excuse how he needed no persuasion to follow them both into Morpheus’s room, into his bed.

He lost himself, to the press of hands, of lips, of tongues, of teeth.

-

Hob woke the morning after with not even the slightest hint of a hangover. He was sandwiched between them, Grace to his right, Morpheus to his left, and they were both asleep, or feigning it well. He stared at the ceiling, contemplating whether he should stay or go.

“Stay,” Morpheus said, his voice low, near Hob’s ear. “Stay with me. Stay with us.” He shifted back, hand reached for the nightstand, rifling through the contents of the drawer before finding what he wanted. He held it, the weak winter light glinting off of the gold of the band. A ring, and a very old one at that, the ruby barely shaped but somehow all the more fascinating for it.

“I’ve been keeping this for you,” he continued. “A gift, for you, if you will accept it.”

A gift, Hob thought. Like Grace’s earrings. He was surprised to find an utter lack of jealousy when he thought of the others’ gifts. They couldn’t have meant half as much as this. It wasn’t a promise, not exactly, but it had weight behind it, a meaning that he could not know and would not guess.

It fit his finger perfectly, as if it had been meant to sit there all his life. When Grace stirred, she noticed it immediately, taking his hand in hers, turning it this way and that, admiring it, before placing a kiss squarely on it, her eyes looking up at him.

There was so little he would not do for them, he thought. They had him, body and soul.

#morpheus x hob gadling x oc #morpheus x oc #hob gadling x oc #dream of the endless x oc #dream of the endless x hob gadling x oc #oc: grace talbot #promptober 2023 #Ancient Rome is coming! it wants to grow a plot instead of just being pure smut

[veliseraptor]

to do list for tomorrow

edit next redux chapter

write (at least) 200 words in mdzs big bang fic

watch episode 8 of dead friend forever

knit swatch for new sweater

(possibly) start new durge playthrough of bg3

half an hour on the treadmill

not just end up interminably refreshing tumblr

#to do lists #this is my real life

[newyorkcitywater]

because i am interminably nosy: what are you working on? art, writing, crafts, anything, what WIPs do you have goin on? for me it's:

crochet t. rex skull sweater for @holy-anxiety-batman

cloud pattern cardigan using charts from a knitting pattern

knitted blue cardigan using up yarn i got to make for the cloud cardigan ages ago and feel guilty about not using because it's NICE

little green knitted scarf using up yarn from a present for an ex-friend

writing...sigh. phoenix wright ace attorney fanfic

[hvbris]

@omniishambles​ gets a surprise starter for Billy

Ava didn’t like it here. She had never liked it here. The Upside Down haunted her nightmares, like a grotesque and terrifying mirror of Hawkins. But there weren’t many things she wouldn’t do for her friends. Deep down, she just wanted to be useful. She remembered how proud Papa had been, the first time she had managed to teleport here. She still craved it, she craved acceptance, and this was the only way she knew how to get it. 

This was a strange world, alien and yet so familiar. Everything was cold, plunged in the darkness. The atmosphere was damp, as if it was trying to stick to her skin. Even breathing was hard, the little particles of white dust stuck to her throat at each inspiration. They had told her that anything she could see or find could be important, and so she tried her best to keep going, eyes wide open in the obscurity.

After interminable minutes spent walking, fingers nervously tugging on her sweater, Ava finally found something in the shadows, jolting in fear when a sound echoed next to her. Not something. Someone? 

As the silhouette cut through the murkiness, she thought of the monsters, the terrible things hiding in here. But it wasn’t a monster. It was... just a boy. She approached him.

“Billy?”

#there is no pressure to continue this tho!!!!! #i was just v hyped #so i wrote this #SORRY #i blame myself for being a Billy apologist through and through #&(Billy) #Ava (where's my fucking teenage dream?)

[copperhawkthoughts]

Another WIP snip for Wednesday, ft. Essek trying very hard not to think the word “butthole”

Beauregard gathers you all together in a tight huddle, your left arm jostling Jester’s shoulder and your right shoulder pressed into Yasha’s solid bicep. Beauregard closes her eyes and an image appears in your mind of a web of thick veins and arteries all leading deep below the city streets to a chamber like the atrium of a monstrous heart.

She says “imagine we’re there,” and this is the Astral Sea, the realm of manifestation, and this whole city is already a fever dream, so you close your eyes as well and focus on traversing the intervening space.

There is a period of silence and then you hear a revolting noise, like the sucking slurp of slogging through a calf-deep quagmire overlaid with a bubbling rasp like a breath into phlegm-choked lungs. Across the cozy circle from you, over Veth’s head, you see the floor has furled upward and outward like an opening ring of muscle, revealing a hole.

Veth and Fjord turn and approach it, weapons at the ready, but nothing leaps or spews or reaches forth. Fjord sheaths his sword, shrugs at you all, and steps forward, dropping out of sight.

As the others follow him into the orifice you catch movement out of the corner of your eye as Caleb flips his unmarked hand over and then unwinds his scarf and pulls the neck of his heavy wool sweater and his soft linen shirt open, glancing down at his own chest.

You watch him grimace and press a hand over his heart through his layers, looking up to meet your eye. He gives you a small, grim smile and a resigned shrug that hurts to see. You wordlessly usher him after the rest, letting your hand hover just behind the small of his back for a moment as he goes.

Past the lumpy rim of the hole is a tunnel, tall enough for you, though Caduceus, ahead of you, is hunched awkwardly. The walls are cylindrical, shiny, pink, with white striations and a generally moist appearance. It looks the way so much here looks; like it ought to be on the inside of a body, ought never to see the light of day. This whole wretched place is made of viscera and slime and you are glad the timeskip spell took care of your hunger because you aren’t sure you could keep anything down at present.

The intestinal passage you all helped Beauregard will into being presses onward, lightless and arrow-straight. It declines steadily at an angle just slightly steep for sure footing, and several times one of the others loses their balance on the slippery membrane of the floor, skidding a step or two before catching themselves. You float, gratefully.

After an interminable passage the walls of the tunnel widen and begin to show variation, like flashes of memory - bits of smooth marble, sections of paving stone, once a whole thirty-foot stretch of pristine brick - but there are other things, too. Eyes open singly and in pairs to track your progress before closing again; bones and teeth protrude at odd angles. In one place you all have to duck to clear the row of forearm-long fangs sprouting from the tunnel roof.

By that point the tunnel is no longer pitch dark; a faint red glow has begun to penetrate the gloom from far ahead, growing brighter as you draw nearer. The light is strong enough that you think even without darkvision you’d be able to make out your friends’ faces when the tunnel swells up and out, giving way to a massive space - the one you’d seen in Beauregard’s vision, the heart chamber of Cognouza.

The chamber is nearly bare, with a lightly sunken floor that rises up in the centre into a column of sinew and muscle. Attached to that column, integrated into it, is a collection of massive, throbbing orbs, like the clustered eggs of something hideous and amphibian.

As you stare in sick fascination the translucent, jellylike orbs begin to alight one by one, glowing that same hateful crimson, until the chamber is flooded with red light.

#wip snip #wip wednesday #copperhawk writes #essek pov #Cognouza is super yucky #cr fanfic #critical role #the mighty nein #critical role fanfic #shadowgast #eventually

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

Trainwreck (OC fiction) - Part 4

MASTERLIST

3.7 words

>>> Part 5

It was a nightmare. It had to be.

Her throat felt weird, closed up. Joyce wasn’t too sure she would be able to speak. The shame, the embarrassment at having been fooled didn’t leave her. It upset her empty stomach, but she tried her best to show a confident front. She doubted she was successful.

“Flirting never hurt anyone, huh?” Roman said, tilting his head to the left, his big blue eye never once leaving hers. It was the first thing he said after what felt like an interminable silence between them.

They had both decided to skip their next period to talk about what just happened after the blond – Alma – left them alone, Roman had begged Jo to let him explain, and she’d been too dumb-struck to refuse. She followed him inside their building, walking towards a free bench. It was the last place on earth where she wanted to be right now. She felt ready to explode, and the surrounding noise, and hustle, and the stifling heat made it worse. If she was going to cry, she wanted it to be in private, not in the middle of a university hall.

It had been a dangerous game to go and flirt with this boy, because despite his shy acting, Jo knew he wasn't even half as much so as he tried to make her think. He had always met her teasing head on, there was no denying he knew how to talk to girls. God, had had eyes, he knew what he looked like, droopy eyelid or not, he was a catch – and he was aware.

He knew exactly what he was doing to her, and there was no doubt to her that he had done it before - the crippling feeling of being used and thrown aside like a tissue weighed on her small shoulders, and crushed to dust the impression of being special to him.

But the worst thing wasn’t even that she was played by this guy. The worst part was that she felt cheated on, but in reality, she was the other woman. Alma should have been mad, not her.

Had he… done this on purpose? Did he want to humiliate her? Was it a game to him? Did it amuse him to lead her on, knowing it was never going to amount to anything? Jo just didn’t know anymore, she couldn’t think straight with him staring at her so intently.

            Eventually, she realized he had asked her a question. She cleared her throat before speaking.

“Sure, no harm done,” she croaked out pitifully. She smiled as her fingers mindlessly played with the fraying edge of her wool sweater. She wanted to scream. She ground her teeth together and breathed slowly. She might not walk out of here with her heart in one piece, but she would walk out with whatever dignity she had left.

Sounding like she believed what she just said was a lot more difficult than expected. To some extent he was right - flirt was an art to practice at will with whoever consented and played along. But in this particular case, somebody had been hurt and that was her. She hadn’t known the details of their contract, hadn’t realized it was all there would ever be between them.

Finding out about his girlfriend was like being hit by a truck at full speed and then getting stomped over by an angry mob. The feeling was an overall unpleasant one to say the least. Joyce’s eyes were glued to her lap. She could not look up. She could not meet his eyes and keep it together.

“You don't sound convinced,” he noticed, sighing deeply.

“Oh, don’t I?!” she couldn’t help but snap. Good. Better to be angry than sad. She could deal with anger.

He regretted lying, he didn't know what possessed him when he forgot to mention that he already was in a relationship. But to his defense, it genuinely took him aback when a cute girl like her sat down next to him on the train and so straightforwardly hit on him.

“I'm sorry, I should have told you, I just-“ he started, feeling the sudden urge to justify his action but finding none. “Förlåt. I'm just sorry, Jo. I don't know what else to say, scream at me if you want or throw your coffee in my face,” he suggested.

She honestly hated the fact that it made her smile but she couldn't suppress the treacherous grin before it spread her lips. Her coffee was cold, what would be the point in throwing it in his face?

“Don't tempt me, you fool.” She shushed him by a gesture of her hand. “And yeah, it would have been nice to mention that. Would have spared me from looking like an idiot when she came to say hello.”

It was a huge understatement and he was perfectly aware. His smile dropped at the bitterness in her tone. At least he had the decency to be embarrassed of his behavior. Of course, she had blushed too when this all-legs and gorgeous blond-haired girl came up and started kissing him like she wanted to suck out his soul. Jo puked a little in her mouth.

“Jo...” The tips of his fingers brushed over her knuckles and she immediately let go of her sweater and pulled her hand into a fist. He stopped touching her right away. “I was in a bad place that day and you were- you are so nice and easy-going that I just couldn't bring myself to say it, it felt a little too good to be true that the beautiful girl I saw at the train station every week for a year now came and talked to me.”

Sucking in her cheeks, Jo tried very hard not to show that he got to her. If there actually was a manual explaining how to properly apologize to a girl even though you lied about being single and flirted with her for four months, Roman must have read it. A year. That thought gave her vertigo. She hadn’t noticed him up until that day their gazes caught.

“I know I shouldn't have done it and I sincerely regret it. I hope you can forgive me.”

And if there was anything to add, now it was done. For a split second she seriously considered throwing her coffee to his annoying, flawless face. Swallowing down her fit of anger, offered him her most convincing smile and told him she would get there eventually. Being angry at someone because they behaved badly was something but staying mad at them because she was stubborn and hurt in her pride was idiotic. Roman must have had his reasons, she had learned to know him and had come to the conclusion that he was a pretty decent guy. He was only human, and as far as she recalled, she didn't remember asking if he had a girlfriend.

God, she was disgusted by how badly she wanted to forgive him and realize it was all one big misunderstanding. She needed to leave now before she did something she would regret later – really regret, not just write a fucking poem.

“If it's any comfort to you, just know that I'll probably get lectured tonight and most definitely also get punched,” he attempted to joke, rubbing his cheek as if in anticipation, but Jo’s jaw remained tense and the lump in her throat grew two sizes bigger. What kind of spell was she under? “I know you want to punch my teeth out right now - I can see it in your eyes. Please don't look at me like that,” he practically begged, sounding pitiful.

“How am I supposed to look at you Roman?” she asked. It wasn’t rhetorical either, she wanted an answer.

The question was a simple one yet she honestly didn't have a clue. She switched from angry to sad to forgiving and then mad again. Jo needed to leave and have a good night of sleep - or at least a good night of staying awake and staring at the ceiling - to think it through.

“Like before?” he suggested, unconvincingly. He pushed his beanie back and combed his hair with his fingers in unease.

It wasn't every day that he found himself stuck between two girls who both liked him. At least, Jo did like him before finding out about his major screw up. He found himself hoping she still did, even after that. She made him feel so alive, he had forgotten she was also her own person, with her own feelings. Of course this would hurt her, it was inexcusable.

“And how is that?” she asked, an edge of hysteria in her voice. “Like you’re a handsome stranger I finally worked up the courage to talk to? Like I’m looking forward to seeing you every day because I never get tired of your company? Like I’m hoping you’ll ask me out soon?” Her voice cracked a little at the last sentence but she kept a hushed tone. “I can’t Roman, I-“ She closed her mouth, thinking about what she was going to say next. “Just- why didn't you say it? Do you think I would have stopped talking to you?”

“I don't know!” Roman burst out, not knowing what to say that hasn't already been said. “I wish I could take it back, Joyce. I do. If I could make it right, I would do it in a heartbeat. I swear, I never meant to do you dirty.”

“I believe you.” She bit down on her lips. “God, this is so awkward!” She hid her face behind her hands.

She had been flirting with him shamelessly for the past months and now that she knew he was taken and that she looked back on the events, she felt completely and utterly embarrassed of her behavior. No matter how much of a bitch his girlfriend might turn out to be, it was gross of her and inexcusable to hit on some other girl's man.

“It's petty to think that but I do hope she is not as nice as she looks because it would make me feel a lot less guilty if I knew she was a bitch,” Joyce confessed.

Roman couldn't help the smirk stretching his face at her words, his glorious face suddenly lighting up. She cursed herself for looking up right as he looked at her like that. “I won’t venture on this territory,” he admitted. “Come and meet her if you want to judge for yourself.” Jo’s eyes practically popped out of her head and he noticed. “You say you feel guilty,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Well, why don't you meet her and explain that you didn't know?”

Suddenly, the air around them was electrical, almost sizzling with tension. That was the single most awful idea she had ever heard. Yet somehow, she agreed.

*

                Every minute between the moment she agreed to this disastrous idea and the day of had been spent in dread and regret. Joyce’s stomach filled with acid at the sheet thought of spending an entire evening with Roman and Alma. She had no idea what to expect – she only knew they would go for drinks.

            She didn’t usually go out on week-ends since she lived out of town, but apparently if Alma was to believe, the bar they were going to was the greatest in the city. Jo didn’t care one bit what they did or where they went, she just wanted it to end quickly. She was more of a cocktails and pumpkin spiced latte girl, not really a beer and black coffee person. Luckily, the bar provided a large choice of drinks she would choose from.

            She would need alcohol in her blood tonight.

            From the moment they stepped through the door, it was clear to her that Alma was not happy about being here either tonight. Whatever this thing was, it was not her idea of fun. She wondered how Roman had brought up the idea to her, if she’d reacted as badly as she had. If given the chance, Jo would have crawled into a hole and died.

            After an hour of awkward, sparse conversation, she was ready to throw herself under a car. Never in her life, had someone made her feel so inadequate. Compared to Alma, who is just so blond and so beautiful, she felt like the snottiest of brats. Jo didn’t often compare herself to other girls, she was mostly secure with the way she looked, but this was just ridiculous. Was she supposed to compete with Barbie? Alma was tall, and fit, and had big doe eyes.

            Big doe eyes that sparkled and smiled when she looked at Roman, but narrowed at her whenever he had his back turned. Joyce was no dummy, she knew this meeting was happening solely for his sake, that they had both agreed to humor him and not because there was a single chance they’d get along. Hell would probably freeze over before they became friends.

            Jo crossed her legs and closed her sweater over her chest, holding it tight. Their conversation was background noise in her head, she just smiled a little and nodded every now and then to hold up appearances, but she’d get up and out of here as soon as possible. This is the dumbest idea Roman had ever had.

            What did he expect? That she would forgive and forget if it turned out his girlfriend – just thinking the word made her cringe – was a decent person? She could be an angel and Jo would still hate her guts. She was screwing the guy she liked. She was kissing him, quite intimately, right in front of her, in a gross display of ownership. Jo got the message. He was taken, he wasn’t up for grabs and whatever was going on between them had been nothing more than friendship.

            Even that was in jeopardy. Joyce didn’t know how long she could pretend it didn’t affect her. She had let herself fall for a guy that turned out to be unavailable. Would she keep on torturing herself if she knew it was a dead end? She liked talking to Roman, she liked getting lost in his bluest of blue eye. She wanted to see for herself if his lips were as soft as they seemed, and she wanted to gently stroke his face and lightly run her thumb over his bad eye. She wanted to kiss him there and in other places. She wanted him to write more poems about her.

            Looking up at the couple in front of her, Joyce wanted to run away. She had nothing to do here, she was just third-wheeling and wasting a week-end night. Roman glanced her way every now and then to check on her, and she had to work up a tight-lipped smile to show she was doing OK, but she wasn’t. She hated him a little for what he was hid from her and for bringing her here tonight.

            She hated him but she didn’t. She liked him – a lot more than she would have liked in the end. A lot more than she should at this point. The sheer fact that he checked up on her made her heart swell, even if he did it with Alma practically sitting on his lap.

“I’m gonna get us another round,” Roman offered. Joyce didn’t contradict him this time – he had made her come here despite her better judgment, tonight he was paying for her drinks and tomorrow maybe she would make him pay for her shrink appointment. “Same as before?”

            The two girls nodded and smiled as he walked away, only to drop all pretenses as soon as he was out of sight. Joyce was ready to wait in silence for him to come back, not bothering to make conversation to someone who so clearly had nothing nice to say to her, but Alma seemed to have other plans.

“Just so we’re clear, this little game of yours is over,” the beautiful blond said in a clipped tone. “I don’t care what’s going on, but you better nip it in the bud right now.”

            Joyce was an accommodating, amicable person, but she didn’t take too well to being threatened. She sat a little straighter and raised her chin, letting her mouth twist into a snarl.

“Do you think I want to be here? By all means, put an end to this if you so despise my presence. I’m here only because Roman asked me, and I’ll stay until the end – for him.”

            It was bluff – she run at the first chance, and he would hear from her about his stupid ideas – but Alma didn’t know that. She sneered, the hateful expression distorting her otherwise perfect features. It should be illegal to her skin this clear.

“Don’t overplay your hand, Jo,” she spat her name. “You don’t stand a chance.”

            God, she knew that.

“Don’t get too comfortable up on that high horse of yours,” Jo snapped back. “We wouldn’t be here in the first place if I didn’t have a chance. You ever think about why Roman spent more time with me than you in the past few months?”

            Why did he? That was a good question – one that Alma would hopefully take as rhetorical, because she did not have an answer. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part, maybe she was only projecting. Maybe she didn’t want to admit that she had been playing a losing hand from the beginning.

            Alma’s frown smoothed out and the ugliest smile Joyce had ever smile appeared on her lips.

“Oh, boo hoo- poor little Joyce has a crush,” she began, laughing cruelly. “Get over it, bitch. Roman is mine, do you hear me? I say sit, he sits. I say jump, he jumps. Do you think I’ll allow him to keep seeing you?” She snapped her fingers. “Poof, you’re gone. I’ll look at him with big, wet eyes and he’ll apologize, take me against a wall, and delete your number.”

“Yeah, sound like a good, healthy relationship you guys have. Did you also pee on his leg to mark your territory or does Frenching him in front of other girls do the trick?”

            Jo was all bark no bite at this point, but she couldn’t let her win. She had to stand her ground, defend herself. After all, she was a victim in all of this, she hadn’t known Roman was already taken. She looked over at the bar, but it was crowded, Roman wasn’t even in the front yet.

“Don’t look at him for help,” Alma said sharply, raising her tone. “He’ll never return your silly little feelings. Do you know why?”

            Joyce swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Please do tell me.”

            She was confident that whatever Alma was going to say wouldn’t hurt more than her conversation with Roman earlier this week. She had replayed it in her head over and over again, cried over it almost every day. She already felt lower than low, this hateful girl did not know her well-enough to push her buttons. She could spew her poison if she pleased, it wouldn’t reach her.

            Joyce could take it all, she could look this Barbie in the eyes and not bat an eyelash at the venom in her voice. She didn’t have the weapons to hurt her.

But then, something sparked in her eyes.

“The universe took its time on you,” she began, looking Joyce dead in the eye.

            No.

“-crafted you precisely,” Alma continued, her awful smile still stretching her lips.

“Stop.”

“-so you could offer the world something distinct from everyone else,” she kept going on, repeating back Jo’s own words to her.

            She closed her eyes, trying for all the world to tune her out. Praying Roman would return now.

“I’d go on if it wasn’t so pathetic,” Alma said, finally stopping enunciating Joyce’s poem. She leaned back and laughed, sipping the last of her drink.

            Joyce was going to be sick – physically sick. She stood up and grabbed her coat. Alma was still snickering in that horrendous self-satisfied manner when she walked away, making a bee-line for the front door. She never should have come here. She never should have talked to Roman. This is what she got for getting her hopes up.

“Wow! Where are you going?” Roman exclaimed when she almost bumped into him, nearly spilling the glasses he was holding.

            Joyce stopped in her tracks just long enough to really, truly look into Roman’s soulful eyes one last time.

“Jag är ledsen,” she said in a clumsy attempt to speak Swedish. The way his face lit up and fell almost simultaneously broke her heart. “I tried, but I can’t do this. I have to leave.”

            She elbowed past him and walked to the door. He didn’t try to stop her, but before she left, she turned around, and saw him standing over their table, visibly angry, and shouting over the music.

“What did you say to her?!”

*

            Roman didn’t even care what Alma said, he just left her there, with all three of their drinks and went back outside to see if he could catch up with Joyce, but she was already out of sight. Angry with himself and at the world, he kicked into a road sign, sending a shockwave through his leg.

“Helvete!” he cursed, gritting his teeth at the pain in his foot.

            He’d realized from the moment they arrived here that tonight had been a huge mistake – and it was his fault too, neither of the girls would have agreed to come if not for him. He had messed up big time now.

            He pulled out his phone and tried to call Jo.

“C’mon, answer your phone,” he whispered, listening to the tone ring.

            She didn’t pick up. He tried again, also to no avail.

“You must be kidding,” came Alma’s voice behind him. “Did you seriously just leave me alone in there to run after that bitch?” She made it sound like he was the bad guy here.

“You made her run away,” he accused her. “I don’t even care what kind of lies you told her to make her leave, I can’t look at you right now. You should go home.”

            Jaw hanging open in astonishment, Alma watched him stomp away without another word.

#writing is hard #alyssa talks #bill skarsgård

[verduresapiens]

interminal

gives him a sweater. with a unicorn on it. 🤗🌈

He gives Jean an absolutely withering look. But, shockingly, he actually puts it on. Holy shit.

#Interminal #unicorn sweater.....

[vriendenboekjes]

Rain Diary

By Li-Young Lee

It’s not a host of heaven this morning but my mother’s voice from another room which wakens me. A sweet tune she hums to accompany the human task of making the bed calls me back to this body. Mother, what did you dream? Where were you last night that even the storm didn’t waken you? Even as I came to your room, closed the windows, and kissed you, you slept.

Night passed with interminable rain. Now, birds call from the eaves again in their thousand voices of China and Japan. Where did the rain go? Across the fields? Out to sea? Straight down to my father in his boat, with a lamp. Last night I found the red book the world lost, the one which contains the address of the rain, all the names of the beloved dead, and how and where they can be reached. But shadows fell across those pages and a wind blew them away. Where does the rain go? Where are my dead?

By now, my father’s hair has grown past his shoulders. What name would he answer to, this father of sleepless nights and stories of camps where his spit turned to blood? Father of the thousand-mile-sadness, the rocking ship, and the melancholy of trains. Father of fatigue and the bitter bowl, whom I asked once, Where are we going? My question could have been, In what country will your pillow finally come to rest and the rain call you home? His answer would have been the same, my father of this America and a divided tongue. As a boy I lay quietly beside while he napped. I was practicing to lie down by his grave, father beneath the grass collecting the myriad waves of rain in buckets and cans, the way we did in Pittsburgh in 1964. I remember his poverty, winters and the trials by rain. I remember holes in the ceiling, his face leaning into his own hands. I remember my father of rain.

I looked for you in your shoes. I found nothing and the rain. I tried your shirts, your pants, called your sweaters mine, but a dead man’s things are no one’s, and this house screams out for you. I searched the hours, perforated by rain. I looked in the milk, the salt, cold water, and found the rain. I looked in the billowing curtains, they were haunted with the rain. Mother curled around it and slept. She dreamed she wandered, calling your name, and you turned to her with no teeth. She sought you in her cupped hands, but nothing followed the names of God, and after Amen, the rain. I want the rain to follow me, to mark me with a stripe down my chest and belly, to darken my skin, and blacken my hair. I want to be broken, to be eaten by the anonymous mouths, to be eroded like minutes and seconds, to be reduced to water and a little light. I want to rise, the doors of the rain to open, I will enter, rain alive among my fingers, embroidered on my tongue, and brilliant in my eyes, I want to carry it in my shirt pocket, devote my life to the discovery of its secret, the one blessing it whispers.

Rain falls and does not break. Neither does it stop, but just pulls up the gangplank and is gone. It stands before me, beside me, lies down beneath me. How shall I praise it? Rain knocks at my door and I open. No one is there, and the rain marching in place. A rain has begun. It is not the rain that murmured all night at my window, not the downpour I ran from in a field, nor the storm which frightened me at sea. It is moving toward me all my life. Perhaps I shall know it. Perhaps it is my father, arriving on legs of rain, arriving, this dream, the rain, my father.

#words #li young lee #SUCH a beautiful poem you all have to look at it #curation

[thevampirearcher-md]

6 + 27 please!

Hello, anon, and thank you very much for this combo. This is, I believe, my first time writing mlm Rosenali so just, it's hopefully decent ✨

❄️ & reunions

Rosé’s palms were sweaty despite the biting cold. A wave of polar, far-below freezing air had hit New York with a vengeance for the past week, making people shiver in subway stations and huddle tightly in their coats on the streets. Even if there was no shielding themselves from the wind outside, families cuddled under soft blankets, holding onto each other with tingling fingers, warming themselves from the inside with warm beverages.

Rosé has felt the bite of the cold, the wind whipping his cheeks, the beginning stages of frostbite nipping at his toes through two layers of socks and ice form on his lashes. What he hasn’t felt was the warmth of coming home to someone to cuddle under a fost blanket, another body to infuse warmth into his own. Sure, his phone would get almost burning hot during their interminable late night, post show FaceTimes, but that wasn’t the same.

It was during one of those nights, when their heads had both hit their respective pillows, who knows how many cities and states apart, that he had just bitten the bullet and asked Denali to come spend Christmas with him. Denali’s soft smile had brightened when he accepted and he fell asleep feeling considerably warmer than he had in days.

Not the same could be said about this moment, sitting on a bench in the drafty main room of Grand Central Terminal, bundled in the heaviest woolen coat he could find, drawing it as close to himself as possible to maintain the slightest bit of warmth. His breath warmed the inside of his scarf as he peered over it to the platform exits.

Almost time. Almost the time when Denali would come out of the doors with his floppy black hair and his dimpled smile and make everything better. Or hopefully warmer.

Time always seemed to stay still when Rosé had to stay still. The arms on the majestic clock in the middle of Grand Central seemed to be stuck in place, as if frozen, never getting any closer to striking eleven. Rosé’s hands shivered, his nose ran, his patience wavered, but it was all worth it. It was all worth the moment when he’d come to him.

In the movies, the doors open and there’s the moment of suspense, the will-he-won’t-he and then the protagonist will step through, the center figure in a sea of faceless and nameless other people. In reality, it’s never like that, the doors open and people flood through without giving time for a suspense filled heartbeat, for a dramatic intake of breath. New York is fast-paced, it doesn’t allow for that.

There’s businessmen returning home, making straight beelines for the taxi tracks, people who know where they’re going and can’t wait to get there, there’s students coming back home, meeting clusters of family gathered close to the doors, there’s couples strolling in hand in hand, excited to be in the city for the holidays. And, then, at the end of it all, is Denali, wearing his long coat unbuttoned to show his Christmas sweater, dragging two gigantic suitcases behind him, looking around the train station.

Rosé would run to him, embrace him, sweep him off his feet, but he’s almost halfway to being an ice statue and his joints are surely too stiff to do that. So, he settles for getting up and taking a few steps in Denali direction, arms in his pockets, nose still buried in his scarf. It’s not a problem, Denali’s pace quickens as soon as he sees him, slamming into him almost hard enough to knock him off balance.

He’s warm, wrapping his arms around Rosé’s waist and squeezing him hard to his chest, burying his nose in Rosé’s scarf and laughing. “Hi, baby,” he unsticks his shivering hand from his pockets to stick them inside of Denali’s open coat, wrapping them around the scratchy surface of his sweater and resting them on the small of his back.

“Hi,” Denali responds in his baby voice. “You’re cold,” he laughs, his face still hidden by the thick scarf.

“Well, baby, I turned into Frosty waiting for your train to show up,” he answers and Denali tries to pull away from their embrace, but Rosé’s fingers lock up. “Uh-huh, you’re my only source of warmth right now,” he pulls tighter.

“I wanted to look at you,” Denali pouts, lifting his face.

“Plenty of time for that later, if I don’t freeze to death,” Rosé mumbles, making the other boy laugh.

“You poor, poor thing,” Denali mumbles, nuzzling his cheek until the scarf is low enough for him to connect their lips.

This feeling - of Denali kissing him, soft and sweet and heartwarming, or passionate, or any other way for that matter - is a feeling that Rosé feels like he will never be able to replace. The contact of Denali’s soft lips and warm breath on his cheek makes a warmth spread through his being, starting from his very center, slowly crawling through his veins like warm caramel sauce and it’s more than any amount of hot, alcoholic-or-not beverages have been able to accomplish for weeks.

“Now, are you warm enough to go?” Denali asks, breaking away and gripping his suitcases. Rosé nods, showing him the way to the main entrance, where the taxis have probably already replenished after the surge of businessmen had dried it up.

As soon as the door is pushed open, Denali squeals. Fat, coin-sized snowflakes have started falling down upon New York, dazing everyone on the street, making them stop in their tracks to watch. The thermometer across the street shows that the temperature has finally risen above zero. It’s the first time in days when Rosé has seen that kind of number on outside thermometers.

“It’s snowing,” Denali says excitedly.

“Yes, baby, it is,” Rosé confirms, smiling, shaking the snowflakes already gathered on Denali’s hair.

“How far would it be to walk to your place?” Denali asks, his eyes widening, doe-like and pleading. Despite the cold in his bones and his still stiff limbs, Rosé considers it. Even if he catches a cold by tomorrow morning, he will now have someone to warm him up.

“Pretty far,” he informs. It would take them at least an hour, at a good healthy pace, not taking into consideration Denali’s two gigantic suitcases that would incomodate New York foot traffic.

“And would ‘pretty far’ happen to go through Central Park? In the snow?”

Rosé smirks. “It definitely could,” he answers. “You wanna walk?”

Denali nods, snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes, hair, to the collar of his camel coat, but looking as excited as a child to see the snow fall upon New York at night. Rosé can’t help the tug of his heart, even if he was frozen solid, he still would find a way to make all of Denali’s wishes come true. He kisses him again, just a small peck on his lips, and grabs one of the suitcases. “Let’s go, baby,” he swings one of his arms upon Denali’s shoulders and they begin their long trek up through Manhattan.

#rosenali #fic prompt #omgheyrose #denali foxx #denali coming to ny from the holiday tour #that's the vibe for this #hopefully it's cute enough

[kittttycakes]

Hello!!

How are you doing? Thank you for all the reblogging of quality Sandman content btw, it’s always such a joy to look through.

Have you heard of or read the Daevabad trilogy by S.A. Chakraborty? I have actually had time to read for pleasure and binged the whole trilogy over the last fortnight. I have many thoughts but I seem to have missed the peak of that fandom by a good year or two and it makes me so sad that that is a thing.

Can I ask a sneaky OT3 question? How do you see Hob/Grace/Morpheus spending the Christmas/New Year period? Any traditions they’d follow or activities they’d get up to?

Hello!!

It’s always so good to hear from you, I hope you’re been doing well and that life has been treating you nicely!

I have heard of this series and it’s been on my TBR for absolute ages, it very much sounds like my thing and something that I would really enjoy, plus I love a good thick fantasy novel. I’m going to be looking for my next up after I finish my current read, so. I did just go and put a hold on the first book through Libby (first in line, woo!). Fandom can move so fast, and I’ve definitely come in late to my own share of fandoms. The only consolation is that you get to look through all of the very cool things that people made and wrote about it!

You can always ask an OT3 question, and I have many thoughts on this one! First, there’s always an interminable faculty and staff holiday party that neither Hob nor Grace mind going to all that much, no matter what they say about it. Someday, before they have to move from the university, they do convince Morpheus to come with them as a +1, and spend the evening thoroughly confusing a number of people about the exact nature of their relationship.

I think Hob likes to do a little party close to the holidays at the Inn, where everyone is welcome to stop by, and there’s lovely mulled wine and spiced cider and lots of holiday treats. It’s meant for anyone who might not have a place to go to celebrate, because god knows Hob knows what that’s like, and he gets a bit of a kick out of playing host. Some students always end up coming by, some of his neighbors, some regulars, and Hob has a wonderful time talking with all of them. Grace is always there, but Morpheus sometimes sits this one out. Matthew, however, often ends up perched in the rafters, or strategically moving mistletoe to cause mischief.

I think they will usually visit Grace’s mother for at least part of the day on Christmas, as long as they can, and Morpheus does eventually come along. (No one’s mother has ever liked him before, this is a new and novel experience for him. She knits him a sweater. He gets emotional about it, pretends he isn’t emotional about it, and refuses to take it off all day.)

They do alternate a bit for New Years each year. Sometimes they go out (much more Hob’s thing), and sometimes they stay in (more Morpheus and often Grace’s speed as well). If they stay in, they have a lovely dinner and dessert, and plenty of champagne. I think Hob likes to do at least one New Year’s tradition for good luck each year (a different one every year, because he’s trying to see if he’s luckier one year than the next), so all three of them end up squished under the dining table, eating twelve grapes, at least once. (Most memorable, of course, is the year they try out the wearing red underwear superstition. It makes you lucky! And protects you from witches! And surprisingly, does not clash with Grace’s hair, because the matching set Morpheus helped her settle on to surprise Hob was a huge hit.)

Most of all, very cheesily, they like being together. They like the opportunity to curl up in front of a nice fire (Morpheus’s hands are always so cold, /someone/ has to warm them up), to steal each other’s sweaters (mostly Grace, unrepentant sweater thief that she is), and to slow down a bit as the year winds down.

(In other news, the chapter continues to chug along, the end is firmly in sight with 9.5k done, and as soon as I wrap it up it will be posted for all to enjoy!)

#anon <3

[you-moveme-kurt]

Glee «When the ball drop» Part II

Diciembre de 2038

.-Creo que si la temperatura sube cuando la manilla va hacia acá… bajará, si la muevo hacia el otro lado… —dijo Rachel frente al regulador del termostato que tenía en el cuarto que su amigo le había asignado en el departamento, Jesse, ella y su hija Barbra habían pedido alojamiento de improviso por la demora que había surgido en la reparación de su propio departamento en el Flatiron. -¿Qué haces?... —preguntó Jesse saliendo del baño. -Quiero regular esto… hace mucho calor… —dijo la chica haciéndose un moño alto usando una porción de su propio cabello como improvisada vincha, acto seguido, se abrió un poco el cuello tortuga de su sweater y se echó aire con una mano—  ¿no crees?... —agregó tomando una revista para echarse más viento. -La verdad es que estoy bien… —contestó su esposo abriendo el pequeño bolso que habían llevado, sacó una camiseta y comenzó a cambiarse— lo que sí puedo decirte, es que tengo mucha hambre… —agregó mientras se desabotonaba la camisa— ¿Kurt dijo algo sobre que comiéramos lo que quisiéramos? -Lo dijo… —contestó Rachel buscando una muda para ella. -Entonces… ¿qué tal si bajamos a la cocina y tomamos en cuenta esa sugerencia?… tengo el presentimiento que hay cosas muy deliciosas en esta casa… —añadió saboreándose de antemano. -Las hay, si sabes dónde buscarlas.. —dijo Rachel haciendo un gesto engreído. -¿Vamos? -Claro… pero primero deja que me cambie, tengo la sensación que llevo puesta esta ropa hace meses…—agregó poniendo cara de asco. -Ok, yo bajaré mientras tanto… -Ok… ¿Jesse? -¿Que? -¿Puedo preguntarte algo? -Por supuesto… —respondió su esposo devolviéndose en sus pasos.

-¿No tienes curiosidad sobre lo que hice con Noah? —preguntó mientras buscaba una camiseta en particular. -No… ¿debería? -No… es decir… si… no se… -¿Qué? -No se, es decir… se que todo lo de Finn siempre te ha puesto… —Rachel empuño sus manos como queriendo gesticular la actitud de alguien con desespero o algo, Jesse sonrió y se sentó en la cama— por eso quería contarte… -Que considerada… pero… la verdad es que al principio de lo nuestro… el que sería el ¿tercer principio?...—Jesse empequeñeció los ojos como pensando en cuántas veces en su vida había iniciado algo con Rachel, su esposa fue esta vez la que soltó una risa mientras se quitaba el sweater cuello alto— en fin… confieso que antes me ponía así.. —agrego imitando el gesto de desespero— pero ahora ya no, confío en ti… si es que se puede hablar de confianza en un asunto así… ya sabes, cuando una de las partes ya… no existe... -Se puede… y gracias… —dijo Rachel tomándole la cara para besarlo— y sin ofender su memoria, juro que ya estoy un poco harta de ser la viuda de Lima…—agregó abriendo su manos. -Y yo… bajaré entonces… -Un segundo… que bajo contigo… —dijo mientras se quitaba las pantimedias, los zapatos de tacón y la falda y los reemplazaba por un pantalón de ejercicio amplio y cómodo.

-Creí que dijiste que les habías dicho que vinieran a comer algo… —dijo Blaine llegando a la cocina por la escalera de servicio inmediatamente detrás de su esposo. -Es lo que les dije… pero seguramente se están cambiando de ropa, después de todo vienen viajando hace como 80 horas… —respondió Kurt blanqueando los ojos—¿tenemos que darles?, ¿verdad?... —pregunto abriendo el refrigerador— con esta gripe interminable, no he tenido tiempo de ir de compras. -Por supuesto que tenemos… siempre tenemos… —respondió Blaine abriendo uno de los gabinetes para sacar una caja de galletas— ¿ves? -¿Oreos? -¿Qué?... a todos les gustan… —dijo mirando el envase tamaño familiar—  si no, recurrimos al delivery como siempre… -¡Ah!… aprovechando las ventajas de vivir en New York… amo cuando haces eso… —dijo Kurt moviendo sus cejas. -¿Papás?... ¿son ustedes acaso?... —pregunto Noah mientras bajaba junto a  «Desmond» la escalera un peldaño a la vez. -Claro que somos nosotros bebé… ¿y tú?... ¿no estabas aprendiendo sobre planetas y demases?... —preguntó de vuelta Kurt subiendo para tomarle la mano y así evitar cualquier accidente. -Si, pero ya encontré lo que buscaba… -¿Es verdad eso hijo?... —agregó Blaine acercándose también para ir a su encuentro. -Si, la tía Rachel Berry me ayudó… esta aquí… con el tío Jesse St James y Barbra St James Berry, ¿lo sabían?... -Lo sabemos bebé… cuidado… —dijo Kurt al llegar al final de la escalera, Blaine abrió los brazos y el pequeño dio un pequeño salto para terminar en sus brazos— ¿le hablaste del tío Finn? -Si… por eso me ayudó, busco la «epstrella»y la vi… -¿Estrella?... —murmuró Blaine mirando a  su esposo. .-Creo y se refiere a la estrella que le regaló Finn en navidad… ¿te acuerdas de ese año que te conté que le pidió un millón de cosas en una lista?… -Claro… —dijo mientras mecía a su hijo como aun fuera un bebé, Noah disfrutaba de aquello con la cabeza en el hombro de su Papá. -Pues ese año Finn le regaló «una estrella»… —explicó Kurt blanqueando los ojos y haciendo el gesto de comillas con sus dedos cuando mencionaba lo de la estrella. -La tía Rachel Berry dijo que tenía un papel que «epsplicaba» todo al «respepsto»… -Pue si ella lo dice debe ser verdad hijo… ¿necesitas algo?... —pregunto Blaine dándole un par de besos en la frente. -Quería agua…   -Enseguida bebé… —dijo Kurt adelantándose para sacar un vaso y llenarlo con agua del grifo— aquí tienes  cariño… —agregó dejándolo sobre la mesa, Blaine le dio una vuelta y un par de «mordiscos» en el cuello antes de dejarlo instalado en la silla que usaba siempre, Noah río de manera diminuta como él— con calma bebé… —advirtió su Papá al ver que el pequeño quería tomarse todo al seco— ahora cuéntanos… ¿ya terminaste con lo de ver estrellas? —quiso saber Kurt sentándose en la silla de junto. -Un poco… ¿por que? -Porque en… 30 minutos más… pediremos la cena… así es que si tienes algo importante que aún no concluyes, te sugiero que lo hagas ahora bebé… —explicó Kurt mirando la hora en el reloj de pared cuando mencionaba lo de los 30 minutos. -Si… —dijo el pequeño haciendo ademán de beberse el agua, tomar a «Desmond» y bajarse de la silla todo al mismo tiempo. -Con calma bebe… —repitió Kurt sonriendo. -¿Escuche mal?, ¿o Kurt Hummel-Anderson le está pidiendo calma a alguien?... —dijo Rachel llegando a la cocina junto a su esposo. -Escuchaste muy bien linda… —dijo el aludido sonriendo a  los recién llegados— ¿esta todo bien?, disculpen si hay algún desorden, pero no esperábamos visitas hasta la semana de las festividades… -¡Ay Kurt!, todo esta perfecto… ¿cierto Jesse? -Así es… creo y la única falla es que a mi no me tocó chocolate en la mesa de noche… —dijo este haciéndose el ofendido. -Pero eso lo podemos solucionar en este instante… —se adelantó en decir Blaine levantándose para  buscar algo en uno de los gabinetes. -¿Barbra esta durmiendo?... —quiso saber Kurt echando un ojo a  su esposo para que no fuera a sacar los chocolates de más calidad. -Si, creo y el viaje de como 5 días en avión la agoto mas que a nadie… -¿Estuviste 5 días en un avión tía Rachel Berry?... —pregunto Noah abriendo sus ojos al máximo. -Algo asi Noah, ¡fue un viaje super extra largo!… —exclamó Rachel echando su cabeza hacia atrás como cansada al máximo. -Cinco días… —murmuró el pequeño mientras se retiraba  de vuelta su cuarto, sin poder creer lo que acaba de escuchar, todos sonrieron al unísono -Y… ¿qué tal Dubai?... —pregunto Blaine sentándose nuevamente a la mesa con una caja de bombones, la abrió y la puso en medio, Kurt miró con satisfacción que no eran los que él escondía detrás de los alimentos enlatados. -Excelente… —respondió Rachel tomando dos chocolates de inmediato— tienen que ir, en especial tu Kurt porque te juro que hay lujo hasta en las veredas… -¿Tan superficial soy para ti Rachel?... —pregunto de vuelta Kurt acercando su silla a la que ocupaba su esposo, se echo hacia atrás y acomodo su espalda en el pecho de él en vez de en su propio asiento. -Obvio… -¡Oye!... —exclamo lanzándole el papel del chocolate que acababa de desenvolver y había puesto en la boca de su esposo. -Lo que digo es que es una ciudad soñada, creerán que perdió glamour luego del boom de los autos eléctricos, pero no, todo sigue como hace tres décadas atrás, en lo lujoso me refiero. -¿Pudieron conocer todo? —pregunto Blaine mascando. -Casi, aunque estuvimos contactándonos con algunas compañías de teatro, si bien el rubro esta un poco sub valorado, los shows que se hacen en los hoteles son magníficos, en todo sentido… —dijo Jesse haciendo el gesto de dinero con dos de sus dedos. -Genial… y hablando de shows… mi esposo aquí tuvo una importante reunión y adivinen en que shows estará… una pista, son los más importantes de New York y del deporte.. -¡Una nueva puesta en escena de «Carrie» en el Madison Square Garden!…—se adelantó en decir Rachel como si dijera el comentario más acertado de la vida. -Si Rachel eso es exactamente lo que sucederá… -¿En serio? -Creo y esta bromeando contigo cariño… —dijo Jesse dándole un beso en el hombro. -¿Que?, ¡uy!... —exclamó Rachel empuñando sus manos, luego se vengó lanzándole de vuelta el papel del chocolate— ¿qué es entonces? -Pues el show de medio tiempo del Super Bowl y el del Time Square la noche de año nuevo… —contó Kurt como cantando,  presumiendo  del éxito de su esposo, Blaine  sonrió y lo abrazó por la cintura.. -Vaya… felicidades Blaine… —dijo Jesse alzando uno de sus pulgares. -Gracias.. -Te felicito Blaine… pero… ¿el Time Square dijiste? -Así es… -¿Qué hay del año nuevo y el beso cuando la caiga la bola?, es más, ¿no has preparado esta fiesta hace como 11 meses?... —dijo Rachel frunciendo el ceño. -Asi es, pero siempre se puede ir a celebrar en la 45th… -¿Es serio?... —replicó Rachel agudizando su mueca de sorpresa. -Por supuesto, además estamos a 10 minutos… podemos volver en cualquier momento y la fiesta estará aquí -Vaya… -¿Qué? —preguntó Kurt comenzando a alzar su ceja inquisidora. -Nada, es decir… siempre es raro verte renunciar a algo por otra persona… en la secundaria no te vi hacerlo nunca… -¿Disculpa? -Kurt… vamos… solo basta recordar lo de West Side Story y todo lo que hiciste para que Blaine… -Ok… —interrumpió Kurt levantándose— ordenare la cena… pero primero iré a ver a  mi hijo, ya saben es tan curioso por el espacio y las estrellas que seguro y se quiere subir a la azotea… permiso… —dijo retirándose para dejar a  todos con la charla inconclusa.

#Kaline #escenas borradas glee #blaine y kurt #glee #klaine fanfiction

[timelordthirteen]

Desperate Souls 3/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit

Summary: A broke and heartbroken Belle French comes to an agreement with Mr. Gold to do a little modeling, just for him, in exchange for the money she desperately needs, but it isn’t long before they both realize they’ve made a deal they didn’t understand. Based on this prompt.

Chapter Summary: The first evening at Gold's goes unexpectedly for Belle.

Notes: And here we go... ;) This got very long which I guess is what I get for trying to cram too much in. Chapter 4 is in progress. This is what Belle wears. And yes I have images for everything.

[AO3]

Belle spent the next week trying not to think about her deal with Gold.

Every time she looked out the library window at the pawn shop, or saw him walking down the street, she could feel her ears burning and a flush creep up her neck. Monday, she picked up the money for the ring, such as it was, and nothing had been said on the matter, except to agree on seven o’clock as the time she should arrive at his house. It was said almost as an afterthought, after the sales receipt had been written out and the cash was in her hand. She was so focused on the existence of their agreement at all, that she hadn’t given any thought to the fact that she didn’t know when she was supposed to show up.

Wednesday morning they were both in Granny’s diner at the same time getting coffee. He said good morning to her as he went to leave, very nonchalantly, very I am not paying you to model your lingerie for me, and she completely mishandled the change Ruby was giving her, spilling half of it into her purse and the other half on the floor. Of course he was out the door by the time the last quarter fell.

But now the day was here, and she couldn’t ignore the inevitable anymore.

She closed the library at five, and went up to her apartment to shower. The new shelving had arrived for the children’s section resulting in her spending much of the day crouching down on the dusty floor reorganizing everything. It was tiring work, but satisfying, and she couldn’t wait to unveil all the updates that had been done since the section was closed a couple of months ago. Her excitement for that was , unfortunately, tempered by what was about to occur as soon as she realized what time it was.

Belle didn’t know how one should dress for such a thing. Since she hoped the whole event would be just a quick in and out, she opted for a comfortable navy sweater dress and a pair of leggings, which she thought would be fairly easy and quick to take off and put back on. As soon as the idea of taking off her clothes hit her, her stomach dropped to the bottom of her black ankle boots.

Fuck.

She closed her eyes and took a slow breath, in and out. The sick feeling faded, but she started to wonder if she should even go through with it. Gold was paying a substantial amount of money, and on paper it seemed simple: show up, put on some fancy underwear, get paid, and go home. Except every single part of that sounded like exactly what a prostitute did. While she was fully supportive of sex work from a feminist perspective, it was absolutely not something she wanted to do herself.

Yet she felt like she was about to, in a way, and it made her wonder what was in it for Gold. She didn’t really know that much about it, apart from the fact that he was rich and everyone thought he was a jerk to varying degrees. Her limited interactions with him had always been very cordial, and while he seemed a bit eccentric and reserved, he was also intelligent and sharply funny. The first time she’d met him, right before she’d interviewed for the position at the library, he’d made her laugh. Five minutes later, when she found out he was part of the town council’s hiring committee, she’d been terrified that she was already out of the running. He didn’t ask her a single question, yet at the end everyone had looked at him as if he alone held the deciding vote.

Congratulations, Miss French.

That was all he’d said, and it was done; she was hired. The whole thing had been surreal, and now somehow her current situation made it even more so. Had he set his sights on her back then? Had he been waiting the past four years for a moment when she would need something from him to do - what? None of it made any sense.

Sighing, Belle checked herself one last time in the mirror on the back of her bedroom door, and then picked up her purse. It was time to do the brave thing.

Gold’s house was on a dead end lane not far from the library.

Everyone knew which one was his, the pink Victorian with the wide front porch that sat between two stately trees on a small bump of a hill. It seemed set apart from all the other houses, both because of the wide, deep lot in which it was built, and because of the almost ominous way it loomed over the other homes. It seemed to project its owner’s presence, and Belle shivered.

She carefully picked her way up the front sidewalk, her hands clenched into fists inside her coat pockets as she wondered what piece he had picked for her to wear. There were a couple of items she’d special ordered that were more on the risque side of the spectrum, things that were more personal to her, things that she liked for herself, not just to wear for someone else. Faced with the prospect of wearing them for Gold, she felt strange, as if a part of her might be exposed in a way that had nothing to do with how much of her bare skin was showing.

She paused at the door, repeating her mantra to do the brave thing, before she raised her hand and knocked. Her arrival was earlier than they’d discussed, only a few minutes after six, but she couldn’t sit in her apartment another second. Hopefully Gold wouldn't mind her desire to get things over with as quick as possible.

The delay before Gold opened the door felt interminable, but then a warm glow was spilling onto the porch, and she caught a whiff of something that made her inhale sharply. The scent was rich and familiar. It made her mouth water, and it took her a moment to realize it was the smell of food cooking.

“Miss French,” Gold said, breathlessly. He looked down at her and frowned. “You’re early.”

Belle forced a smile and shrugged. “Sorry, I was just sitting around at home and thought...why not just get it over with?”

His expression changed in a way she couldn’t read, but then he stepped back and held open the door. “Please, come in.”

The foyer was high and surprisingly bright, with a large, wrought iron chandelier that looked like something that belonged in the Middle Ages. In front of her was a short hallway that appeared to lead to the kitchen from which the aforementioned delicious smell was emanating. To the left was a sitting room, and to the right was the staircase, and while he was busy shutting the door behind her, she was busy...staring.

“May I take your coat?” Gold’s voice startled her, and she spun around to find him looking at her curiously.

She swallowed and nodded, and then handed it over, watching as he hung it on a set of hooks inside the door. Then he turned to her with a faint smile and his hands folded over the handle of his cane. Abruptly, she noticed that he was without his usual suit jacket, and instead was in just a checked dress shirt with a solid color tie. It was disarmingly casual.

“I was just making some dinner,” he said. “Since you’re early, I suppose you can join me, if you like.”

Belle blinked. Dinner. Dinner was so...normal. Dinner was a thing she did on dates before she let someone see her in her underwear, which was not what this was. But at the very mention of food, the scent wafted in from the kitchen once more, and she realized how hungry she was. She hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch, which she barely picked at anyway as her nerves about tonight grew and grew.

“Uh, yeah, o-okay,” she managed.

At that, Gold’s lips curved a bit more, and he motioned with a hand in the direction of the kitchen. She turned and walked ahead of him, her hand tight on her purse strap, as if she expected him to attack her or hit her over the head with something at a moment’s notice. It was ridiculous, she knew that, but the situation was ridiculous, and clearly her nerves were still getting the better of her.

The kitchen was quite well appointed and large, with a wide gas stove top set in an island with three bar stools at one end. Delicate pendants hung over the span of dark granite, an old fashioned style with those bare filament bulbs and a dark metal finish around the top. Her eyes darted around the space as Gold went to work at the stove. There was a pot of something bubbling away, and when he removed the lid, the room flooded with the scent. She let out a sound that was half contented hum, half moan at the enticing aroma, as she leaned forward over the edge of the counter.

He gave the contents of the pot a stir, and then retrieved two plates from a cabinet along with silverware from a nearby drawer. In a matter of a minute or two, he had dished up two servings of some sort of stew over a pile of fluffy mashed potatoes. She could see bits of beef, carrot, and pearl onions in a fragrant gravy, and her stomach rumbled loudly.

Gold glanced at her, eyebrows lifted. “The dining room is through there, if you’d like to have a seat,” he said, with a nod towards a room off the kitchen. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Without a word, she picked up her plate and utensils, and made her way through into the dining room. It was a long, narrow space that connected back around to the sitting room at the front of the house. There was a sizable table in the center with a total of six chairs, and an old fireplace on the outside wall that had been retrofitted with a gas insert. It was giving off a soothing heat, and she sighed as she came around the table. She set her plate down and leaned her elbows on the table, resting her head on her folded hands, breathing slow and deep as the fire warmed her back.

“Alright?”

Belle looked up and then straightened, nodding as Gold came into the room, his plate in his free hand, and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. “Yeah,” she said. “Fine.”

He returned to the kitchen to fetch two glasses, and came back a moment later to take the seat directly across from her. “Drink?”

She nodded dazedly, though whether that was because of lack of food, or because it was entirely too surreal that she was having dinner with Mr. Gold, in his house, which he himself had cooked, she couldn’t say.

“Beef burgundy,” he said as he popped the cork from the bottle and poured some wine into each glass. “Seemed like the thing for a cold winter night.”

“So you’re Julia Child?” She said it without thinking, and for a second she was worried he wouldn’t find it funny, but then he grinned crookedly.

“Hardly. But I think I do well enough.”

A half hour or so later, Belle would have to say that Gold did more than well enough. The best meal she’d had in ages, it was altogether warm and earthy, with beef so tender that it fell apart under the weight of her fork. The potatoes were the perfect thing to hold all the delicious bits of vegetables together, and scoop up the gravy which was made rich with red wine and bits of bacon. She set her fork down with a light clatter against the plate, and tossed back the last swallow of wine in her glass, which she was quite certain was a brand and vintage that cost at least half a day’s pay.

The thing that surprised her the most, aside from the delightful explosion of garlic with every bite of mushroom, was that they’d managed to fill the silence with something resembling actual conversation. It was mostly about food and cooking, something about which Gold seemed quite passionate and opinionated, but it flowed well, and for a time she forgot that this wasn’t a dinner between acquaintances. It was a business transaction, and too soon the food and wine were gone, and she started anticipating having to keep up her end of things.

She helped Gold clear the table, but he shooed her from the kitchen before long, sending her to the study. The room had double french doors at the entrance, a high ceiling, and a stone fireplace that would have matched well with the chandelier in the foyer in a fourteenth century castle. A rush of warmth washed over her as she opened the doors, and she smiled as she looked around. Flanking either side of the fireplace were floor to ceiling bookshelves, that contained all manner of books and collections, as well a small, but well stocked, wet bar. There was a large mahogany desk at one end of the room where a bank of windows looked out onto the backyard, and at the other was a wide china cabinet with even more little treasures.

Two high back upholstered chairs sat to either side of the fireplace, with a large rectangular ottoman in tufted leather that seemed to take the place of a standard coffee table. There was a sofa as well, facing the hearth, that matched the ottoman. The walls were wallpapered, but framed art of all kinds, hung on every one of them, and above the fireplace mantle was an appropriately sized television. A professional designer would probably find it an eclectic mess, but Belle thought it was cozy and charming, exactly the sort of room that one wanted to relax in while the wind howled and the snow fell.

She was just about to peruse Gold’s collection of books when he appeared in the doorway. “It’s after seven.”

His expression was more subdued than when they were eating, and she swallowed hard, feeling the abrupt shift in the tone of the evening.

“Right,” she said, willing her stomach not to give up the food she’d just consumed. “Where should I -?”

“There’s a powder room through there, just before you get to the kitchen,” he replied. “You’ll find what you need in there.”

And there it was.

The facade that had been in place during their meal had lifted, and Gold was back to being Gold. Standing with his hands folded on his cane and with his suit jacket in place, he was, as always, impeccable and imperceptible. She couldn’t pretend this was anything else but what it was, and the uncomfortable knot in her throat returned as she passed by him.

The half bath was located under the stairs, and though a wall somewhere had been adjusted to accommodate it, the slant of the ceiling made it feel smaller than it was. The odd shadows cast by the sconces over the sink, and the way the toilet was tucked into an angled niche, made it feel like a cell in a dungeon.

Belle stepped inside, closed the door, and froze. Hanging on a brass hook on the back of the door was the black chemise she’d brandished in his shop. It was fairly tame as such things went, being plain black silk with lace trim adorning the edge of the bust and hem. The most tantalizing thing about it was the spaghetti straps, and some of her anxiety was alleviated by the fact that he had chosen the least revealing thing in the collection. Of course that meant there were plenty of scandalous items left to embarrass her.

There was a set of metal shelves to the left of the pedestal sink, containing a basket of extra toilet paper, and a bottle of hand soap. She set her purse down on one of the free shelves at the bottom, and then sat down on the closed lid of the toilet to take her boots off. Midway through unzipping the first one, it dawned on her that she didn’t have anything to wear on her feet. Of course on her honeymoon that wasn’t such a big deal, though a few items she’d planned to pair with some sexy heels. She sat for a long moment contemplating what to do, and finally shook her head. Bare feet would have to do, and if Gold didn’t like it, well that was his problem. He was getting what he paid for and no more.

As Belle pulled her sweater dress up over her head, she wondered if she should have asked him for a contract. But that would have meant a paper trail that said she was selling her lingerie clad body to Gold. Proof was the last thing she needed, though she supposed he could be planning to take pictures of her or something equally damning. There were rumors that he’d blackmailed the former mayor, but it was so many years ago now that no one really knew for sure.

She stripped off the rest of her clothes and hastily folded them before setting them on the shelf next to her purse. Then she removed the chemise from the hanger and slipped it over her head, the cool silk skimming down her bare body and making her shiver. After a moment’s hesitation, she firmly decided she was keeping her panties on for this one. They weren’t visible through the material of the chemise, and were a similar black with lace trim style.

Turning to the door, she caught her reflection in the brass framed mirror above the sink, and paused. The chemise wasn’t form fitting or clingy, but like most things made of silk and lace it didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Still, it wasn’t that much more revealing than her favorite blue sundress as far as cut and material went.

And yet it was.

It was an undergarment she had purchased for the sole purpose of wearing it as a preamble to sex. It was a statement, an invitation.

Belle forced her eyes away from the mirror and took a breath as she opened the powder room door. The hallway was chilly, and she shivered again as her bare feet made contact with the cold wood floor. She was grateful that the study was so warm, and wondering if he’d planned it so, starting a fire and closing the doors to keep the heat in. It was strangely thoughtful, which was as incongruous with what she knew about Mr. Gold as much as the fact that he’d served her dinner.

Shaking her head, she made herself step forward and then around the corner, heading back down the short hallway. The faint draft from the front door brushed across her, raising goosebumps on her arms, legs, and - elsewhere. She stopped just before the threshold of the study and looked down to see the front of the chemise doing nothing to hide her pebbled nipples. With a roll of her eyes, she pushed open one of the french doors, and stepped into the room.

Gold was seated in one of the chairs, facing the door, and Belle could feel his eyes on her as soon as she came into view. She tried not to look at him as she made her way around the end of the sofa, but when she reached the ottoman, it became almost impossible. Her eyes lifted and met his, and for a long moment she felt frozen in place.

The side of her that was near to the fire was quite warm, but the other side was still chilled from the hallway. She felt another tingle of goosebumps across her skin, and clenched her jaw to keep from looking down at herself lest she draw his attention to the obvious.

Gold’s eyes were dark, his features shadowed by the glow of the fireplace, but she knew instinctively that his gaze was traveling up and down her body, taking in every inch of her. He was reclined casually, right leg crossed over the left, and his elbows on the arms of the chair as she stood just a few feet in front of him. The handle of his cane glinted in the low light, and she had the absurd impression that this might be what meeting the Devil was like.

“Mr. Gold?” she said quietly.

He shifted in his seat and let his eyes bore straight into hers for a long moment before he raised a hand and made a circular motion with one long finger. “Turn around.”

She suppressed a shiver at the low, soft tone of his voice, and the way it made his accent heavier. Slowly, she pivoted on her heel, shifting her feet until she had turned in a complete circle. When she faced him again, his expression had changed slightly, his lips parted as he breathed out a whispered lovely. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to hear it, so she said nothing.

Then he licked at his bottom lip and then gave her a small smile. “Would you pour me a drink?”

Belle blinked, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

“Scotch,” he added, indicating the area to the right of the fireplace that she’d noticed earlier. “Neat.”

“Yeah,” she finally managed, “sure.”

She turned and moved to the bar, where she found a short, cut crystal glass and a tall bottle with a name she recognized. It was probably from one of the locked boxes wine and liquor stores usually kept the expensive brands in, the brands where if you had to ask how much the bottle cost you probably couldn’t afford it. Of course Gold was a scotch man. Neat suit, neat scotch, and her lips twitched in odd amusement as she poured the drink.

A heady, earthy scent wafted up from the glass as she picked it up and carried over to where Gold was sitting. She walked by the ottoman and came to stand at the arm of the chair where there was a small side table. He lifted his hand, and she placed the glass in it, but as he lowered it back to the arm of the chair, his knuckles just barely brushed the black silk covering her thigh.

She stepped back quickly, her breath catching and her eyes going wide, but his face betrayed nothing. It was as if he hadn’t noticed, much less done it intentionally, and she exhaled in relief.

“Thank you, Miss French.” He took a small sip of the scotch, his gaze fixed on her over the rim of the glass, and then set the drink down. “Would you like one?”

Belle shook her head. “No thanks.”

“Very well then.”

His words felt final, and when he looked away from her, she knew her task was done. There was something strange about it, dismissive, and it left her unsettled. She hurried back to the powder room, and changed back into her sweater dress and leggings. She was overly warm by the time she was done, and blew a breath upwards at her forehead, ruffling her hair. Unsure of what to do with the chemise, she put it back on the hanger and left it on the back of the door. They hadn’t discussed whether she should take the lingerie back or not. If she kept it, she planned to throw it all in the dumpster with the rest of the remnants of her relationship with Garrett, but what use would it be to Gold?

That was a line of thinking she didn’t want to pursue.

When she came out of the bathroom, Gold was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear music coming from the direction of the study. She went to retrieve her coat, and when she turned around to put it on, there he was, with a yellow mailing envelope in his free hand. He waited while she put her coat and gloves on, and then handed her the envelope. It was a noticeable thickness to the contents, and her heart rate increased as she felt the rectangular shape of what was inside. He’d paid her in cash, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever held that much money at one time.

“I thought it was best not to have a paper trail” he said, once again folding his hands over his cane. “I assure you it’s all there.”

She gave him a brief nod before she tucked it in her purse. “I believe you.”

One of his eyebrows lifted at that, but he otherwise remained passive as he pulled open the front door. “Good night, Miss French.”

“Good night, Mr. Gold.”

She stepped out onto the porch, the chilly air a welcome relief on her face, but then he leaned out to add, “Do be on time next week.”

She nodded again, and then turned away, hurrying down the steps before he had closed the door. Nothing he’d done was impolite or disrespectful, and indeed she had to admit that the majority of the evening was actually quite pleasant, if also a touch awkward. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on her. There was a crawling sensation on her skin that made her itch, and all she wanted was to get home and take another shower.

Gold sighed and walked back into the study, leaning heavily on his cane.

He had immediately shed his suit jacket and tie after closing the front door, leaving them draped over the end of the banister to be taken upstairs when he went to bed. Reaching up, he popped the top two buttons on his dress shirt, but he still felt like he couldn’t breathe. The scotch wasn’t helping as it usually did, but he picked up the glass and took a large swallow before dropping down into the chair.

His eyes closed as he leaned back, conjuring the image of Belle French standing in his room in a silky black slip. The length had been demure, the lace no more than a pretty adornment, but it still affected him more than he anticipated. She was as lovely as he knew she would be, and clearly nervous.

Opening his eyes, he sighed again and stared into the fire.

Of course she was anxious about the situation, he was taking advantage of her, having her parade around wearing next to nothing while he watched like a lecherous bastard. It was perhaps the most selfish and base thing he’d ever done, but the moment when she’d looked at him, covered in soft silk and lace, half curious and half afraid, he’d felt a rush of excitement unlike anything he’d felt in years. It was delight and desire and depravity all in one. He shifted in his seat as the sensation washed over him again. When it was over, it would be final. He knew she would likely never speak to him again, but for this short time, one night a week, for as long as her collection of unmentionables lasted, she was his.

The fire snapped loudly, shaking him from his fantasy. He took up his cane and stood abruptly, deciding to forgo a second drink in favor of a cold shower and an early bedtime.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #belle x mr. gold #my rumbelle fic #fic #desperate souls #lemon fic

[d-d-disgusting]

(I was just reminded of this, but I’d been meaning to make something like it for a while. Making a post here to keep track of items received from other muses!

Not all of these will exist in the same continuity necessarily, but it’ll help keep track of things! If your muse has gifted Vincent with something in the past, please feel free to remind me! I’m gonna see if I can dig up some older posts soon if possible. For now just going to add some recent things!)

Rough inventory of given items

- Yellow and Black striped Furby (Millie @ boriiqua)  

-  Drawing of self + Blanket  (Hollis @ Shiningsilverarmor)

- Blue labradorite palmstone with flowers and vines carved into it (Mari @ Marriweather)

- Honey dipper carved to look like a pinecone (Jean @ interminal)

- Tiny glass siamese cat (Teddy @ bleedinghearth)

- A Rock.  ( Airin @ Airxn)

- Scarf with a turquoise and brown plaid pattern (Maxime @ deathwxtch)

- Crude wood carved Vulture (Vorel @ ceruleanscarred)

A pot which allows the plants in it to sing to their owner to show them their health, mood, and status (Bor @ an-ordinary-roach)

Soft wool sweater with a simple forest design (Grey and green) (Niki @ miss-niki-draculesti)

#inventory #OOC

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

I Can’t Lose You

Raven's entire world had gone lopsided. Her brain was awash in a flurry of fog. Blurred hazes of chromatic color were the blue-black skyscrapers spanned around them. With eternally lit windows and reflective panels mirroring the starless sky, usually they loomed above, though this moment, they were situated sideways. Just as sudden, strength righted her. A masked man placed her back on the ground, allowing her weight to settle back onto her feet.

Bare feet.

The roughness of the cold, damp cement impressed little upon the naked soles. It had gone unnoticed, there were more precedent matters, namely the multitude of thoughts coursing through Raven's mind.

He edged back, giving her breath, once releasing her from a holding within walls of solid musculature. And Raven, too should have backed off. Thanked him and gone through the access door to the roof to recapture the little remnants of her Saturday night.

No.

Instead, she tugged at the fuzzy cobalt fabric covering her torso and folded her arms around herself. The stretched sweater drooped off a milk white shoulder to expose it to the evening chill. Dark tendrils danced along behind her, whirling in time with the vigilante's cape, both as black as the surrounding night. "Batman..." Raven rapsed. Nearly startled at the sound of her own voice intruding upon the silence. "Really, I..." Her hoarse voice died in her throat.

"Don't mention it." The deep voice came in calm. Indifferently, he added, "it's part of the job."

Raven cleared her throat. "This has to be the dozenth time you've saved me..." An exaggeration, but it was approaching it. "This has to be some kind of a record, even for you..."

"Oh?" She could swear she saw one corner of the solid line of his lips twitch. "If you're counting so diligently, I'll think you're beginning to get sick of me."

"No... The opposite... But this proclivity of yours." She continued. Hope crept into her voice in all the ways she wished it wouldn't. It couldn't. "The rescuing me...?"

"Rescuing you?" Batman observed her in his practiced fashion. Concentrating, calculating. Though, not cold. "I won't say... I mind saving you - I don't."

"Why is that, exactly...?"

"Why?" He repeated tonelessly. Standing on the cornices on the roof, surveying the city briefly, before returning his focus to her.

"Why would you save me?" Her hair whipped wildly in the breeze.

"It's what I do." Batman answered. A standard, obvious response to her question. "You're a civilian. Of course I would help you." The masked man continued nonchalantly. "I'd do it for each and every one of those people out there in their homes tonight, or any of the people down there walking on the streets of Gotham."

"Yes... I believe that. We certainly all do..." Batman's very existence, regardless of who had recently taken up the mantle, had proved this time after time. That aside, this was a real chance to talk to him when adrenaline wasn't pumping high, as he carried her out of the throes of danger. "But... The way you put yourself on the line for me, it's different."

A jaw hardened. Dangerously. The shape of those shielded eyes narrowed to slits under the cowl. But, this brand of intimidation wouldn't work on her. The way it did others.

"I've told you." He said sternly. "Drop it."

"No, this time I won't." Raven argued. It bordered on petulance. Up until now, she hadn't questioned him. But tonight she had certainly earned that right. "I need to know."

"Please, drop it."

Please? Raven froze for a moment.

Batman said please.

"Batman, you can't ask me to." She bit her lip. But took another step. "This break in happened because a villain took notice of our..." A pause, to choose the next words carefully. "Friendship and tracked me down." She saw him swallow in consternation. "I don't care about being targeted - I can handle myself. But... I should know why." Indigo orbs flitted back and forth, Raven searched his hidden face for any sign. "How do you always know where and when to show up whenever I'm in danger?"

Silent steps drew Batman nearer to where Raven stood.

"If something happened to you..." His shadowed face watched her. "And I wasn't there..." His fingers clenched and released. "I can't...lose you - alright?" He managed gruffly.

"What...?" She steeled herself. Her white knuckles gripped the brick shed on the roof of the building, barely stopping herself from falling to her feet. She saw his left hand twitch, hesitating to reach for her. Funny, they were those same hands that never hesitated to catch Raven whenever she fell. But now... "I don't understand..." She glanced away.

Patiently, he spoke. "Raven."

"There... And you..." Raven stuttered. "My name... You knew it when we met... The way you talk to me. Like I should know you - like you know me..." The loud thumping of her heart, Raven was certain he could hear.

Batman didn't respond. And he didn't answer the question that threatened to slip from her tongue.

"There is a strong possibility that this is all coincidence." She inhaled deeply. "And I am reading into things I shouldn't question... But, I think it's more." Once more, Raven could sense his need to retreat. "Please - don't." She stood on her toes. Her hands reached up for his cowl. To touch. "Please..." Quickly, the black gloves snatched them like binding cuffs around pale wrists.

"Don't."

Those hooded eyes flashed forbiddingly. Raven flinched at the iced chill of his inflection. In heed to others, she had heard him speak this way. In warnings or admonishment, but never to her. Which meant, this was a touch too far. "I'm sorry..." A breach, despite the vulnerability... Bare feet. Baring truth. Soul bared.

The wind billowed through his black cape interminably, but he did not leave.

"Close your eyes."

Batman ordered and Raven obeyed. The vigilante reached forward to clasp his hands over her own. Raven's hands laid under his. A scarlet blush washed over her face. Then goosebumps arose, that had nothing to do with the breeze. Gloved hands clutched her own and placed them to his face. His bare face. With smooth, warm skin. No, it was nothing at all like the cold and serious demeanor the world saw. Batman wasn't just an idea, or a brooding hero. Under leather and kevlar, he was a man. And he was showing her.

Raven ventured out from his grasp.

Brushing temples. A firm forehead. A brow relaxed under her touch.

Bangs led up to smooth, longish hair. Pieces were creased and flattened by the cowl. It was messy, but soft.

Gently over to eyelids. Covering eyes with colors and depths unknown to her.

Slowly descending.

To cheeks - hard planes with stubble.

Skimming over full, velvety lips.

Down to a chiseled chin.

All the while, the erratic thumping in her chest escalated. The smell of his skin uncloaked as his body drew nearer. Woodsy, smoke mingled with the earthy, salt water of sweat. Then, the sensation of shadow falling over her face. He bound her wrists locked in one fist. Licked his lips - audibly enough. So, she knew she was meant to hear. And with her close to him as she had never been.

He lowered his face to hers.

Those lips ghosted over her own. A mouth moving slow, exploring for mere seconds, before turning tight. A hand on her waist, his tongue nudged, and he nipped, pressing in for an unappeasable taste. With firmness and heat intense. The unyielding, quavering kiss edged lighter and softer. To a trailing trace. Then, to whisps. Breath. Breeze. A flap of a cape in a rush of wind. Seconds passed, and she knew.

She would open her eyes.

And he would be gone.

#robrae #dickrae #nightrae #robraeweek2020 #robraeweek #i can't lose you #me #writing #teen titans #also batman au I've been dying to do!!!! #Dick grayson batman #Sorry this is late!!!! #Really wanted to do Dick as Batman... #Hope this is alright #robrae2020 #robin and raven #raven roth #dick grayson